Blood and Oak, Issue 2
When his sister is kidnapped and sold into slavery by Barbary Pirates, a daring young Navy officer embarks on a suicidal quest for rescue and revenge.
Chapter 7
The Port of Tunis, Barbary Coast
Monday, July 30th, 1798
5 Years Ago
For weeks, John and the other slaves slept, ate, and shit in the hold of the Dolorous Fénnid. All the while, tiny bugs crawled over his skin, through his hair, and into every crevice. He scratched the bites until they bled. Rats brushed against him in the pitch darkness. He could rarely sleep, and time was impossible to tell. But nothing was worse than the hunger.
Once a day, a crewman would bring down a bucket of rusk biscuits doused with water and vinegar. The man would silently hand out one piece to each slave, never talking to them, never looking at them. John always offered half of his biscuit to Kaitlin, but she always said no. When the hunger pangs didn’t overpower him, he would insist. When they did, he would devour every crumb and weevil, hating himself for his weakness.
When Re’is Naim’s crew finally dragged John and the other slaves out of the hold, John drank in the sun and sea air, thinking his prayers were answered. But then the pirates shackled a four-foot chain to each slave’s ankle, which dragged like an anchor. Using the bilge pumps, they hosed the stench off their prisoners and loaded them onto a flat barge. They rowed them across a lake stinking of rotten eggs. John looked down at the rusty water and shuddered—if he went overboard, the chain would drag him straight to the bottom. The limestone buildings and minarets of Tunis rose from the harbor to the foothills. On the eastern shore, yellow pillars and arches crumbled in the desert—all that remained of ancient Carthage. A cormorant perched on a piling and spread its velvety black wings. It peered at John through a single ruby eye.
When the barges reached the docks, the crew herded the slaves up winding streets, through angry crowds hurling epithets and rotten food. The miles-long march in the hot sun ended in the throne room of the bey’s palace. Three corsair captains stood before Bey Hammuda, ruler of Tunis, and presented a total of fifty-one captured slaves. They were mostly bedraggled men, with a handful of women, boys, and girls. All thirsty, sunburned, and exhausted.
Prussian blue tiles blanketed the marble walls of the palace. Elegant spiraling letters gleamed on the columns. The Janissary soldiers stood like pillars around the room, muskets propped on their shoulders, scimitars sheathed at their belts.
The bey gloated in the Turk language, smiling proudly from his plush couch. His silk cloak and turban were studded with jewels of every kind. He clutched his beard as he examined his shackled prizes. He exchanged a few words with Re’is Naim and the other captains.
“Yussef,” said the bey to a lavishly dressed young man beside his throne. He uttered a few words John couldn’t catch.
The young man said in English, “Hammuda Bey has made his first selections.” Yussef looked more like a trophy than a minister, dressed in iridescent gossamer, jeweled rings, and golden arm circlets. His slender muscles gleamed with oil. He walked the line of slaves, picking one of every six.
Those selected were immediately dragged away, among them Patrick, the boatswain’s son. Any that resisted caught a blow from the Janissaries.
Hammuda looked at the Wandering Hart captives and asked a question.
Looking in Declan’s direction, Yussef said in English, “Hammuda Bey asks which of you was the captain of the captured vessel.”
Declan cleared his throat. He licked his peeling lips. “I—I was the captain of the captured ship.”
Hammuda asked another question. Again, Yussef translated. “‘The man you serve, is he of noble birth? How many ships does he own?’”
“No, Your Highness. I was the owner of the Wandering Hart, and four other vessels.”
The bey spoke again, and laughter broke out among the pirates and soldiers.
Yussef translated, grinning with amusement. “‘You own a fleet, yet you sail with your woman? Are you a fool?’”
Declan fumbled for words. He looked at Nora, and their eyes reached for each other as if from opposite sides of a chasm.
“‘Do you hold noble title?’” the bey continued through his translator.
“No, I do not,” admitted Declan.
“‘Your family—how wealthy are they?’”
“They are…of modest means, but I can sell my ships and my properties. My brother can send you tribute.”
“‘Why do you sail with your woman?’”
“I…We sailed as a family because the sea…” Declan’s eyes settled on the floor, gazing into an abyss only he could see. “It was our dream.”
The bey knit his brows at Yussef, waiting for the translation. When he heard it, his face lit up.
“‘Perhaps you should have dreamt of gardening,’” said the bey.
Another round of laughter.
“‘You, your urchin pup, and your woman’” the bey continued, “‘I grant to my loyal re’is, Ilyas Naim for his glorious victory in the name of God.’”
“Thank you, Hammuda Bey!” said Naim with a bow. “You honor me.”
Hammuda looked at Kaitlin. “‘The girl I take for my seraglio. I will offer her at eight thousand piasters.’”
The soldiers moved towards Kaitlin.
“Wait,” Nora pleaded. “Please, let me go with her. She doesn’t understand…”
“Mama!” Kaitlin cried as the guards pulled her out of Nora’s arms. “Mama! I want to stay with you. Da!”
John started forward, ready to strangle the soldiers with his own chain, but a hulking hand seized his shoulder. The point of a blade twisted against his back. He felt hot breath on his ear. It was Hamit, the pirate Janissary that had killed Isaac.
Hamit whispered, “Do it, boy. Give me a reason to kill you. You’ll die faster than your brother.”
John ground his teeth. He wanted to murder Hamit. He wanted to strangle Yussef. Bludgeon the garish, gloating bey—anything to protect his sister. But he was afraid. He was unable to act, unable to think. He watched Kaitlin sob and plead as they took her away.
“A shame,” said Hamit as he released John.
The bey dismissed the audience, and John could hear the distant cries of his sister echoing through the palace.
###
“Oi, she’s a pretty wench!”
“Come here, cherry, darling!”
“She must have been lovely on her wedding night.”
Soldiers led Declan, Nora, and John down a long corridor. Catcalls and unwashed bodies overwhelmed John’s senses. Slaves taunted them in a dozen different languages. Pillars and iron bars divided the enclosures of the bagno—the Tunisian slave pens. Filthy hands reached for Nora, a finger occasionally managing to brush her arm.
They can’t put her in with them! John panicked.
At the north end of the bagno, they came to a cell with solid walls and a wide, barred gate. The soldiers flung it open and thrust each of the Sullivans inside. When the gate screeched shut, John glanced around. Nothing but the same sand-colored brick walls and a bare floor.
After the three of them paced the dungeon room quietly for a moment, Declan spoke. “Are you all right, Nora?” He reached out to console his wife.
She stepped back, a hand over her mouth. “Don’t you touch me. I don’t want comfort. Not while our baby is in danger. I want a plan to save her, to escape.”
“A plan?” Declan shook his head as if bewildered.
“To get our daughter out of that harem!” Nora snapped.
“I’ll get word to my brother as soon as I can, and I’ll go to the English embassy. I’ll seek help from the Trinitarians. Whatever it takes.”
“Begging? Charity?” cried Nora. “Katie is a slave in a harem! My God, Declan, what are they doing to her? What is he doing to her? To our baby?” Nora’s composure cracked, and she began to cry.
“I know!” shouted Declan. “God, don’t you think I know? It’s all I can fucking think about. For Christ’s sake, Nora!”
John felt a surge of adrenalin. “Mam’s right, Da. We can’t abandon Katie. We need to fight.”
Declan shot an index finger at them. “No! Don’t even think it, and keep your bloody voices down. You think you’re the first slaves to dream of escape? They’d love to beat a lesson into a troublemaker, and I won’t give them a reason to hurt either of you.”
“You should listen to your husband,” said an aged voice.
John, Declan, and Nora turned around. A white-bearded African stood at the bars of their cell. He wore a long, sleeveless tunic. His skin was stretched thin over sinewy muscles. He unlocked the gate and stepped inside.
“The bagno is easy to escape,” said the man. “But the Janissaries patrol the streets at night. Slaves are easy to spot. Even if you made it to the harbor, how would you steal a barge? And if a barge got you across the lake, what ship could you board? Any ships not going al corso have their spars and sails stored under lock and key. To say nothing of sneaking into a bey’s seraglio to steal his prized possession. Not a good plan.”
Nora fell to her knees. “Please, sir, it was a slip of the tongue. Please, we beg your forgiveness.”
The man waved his hand. “Rise, rise. Do not kneel to me. You may indulge in your little fantasy. I might care if it had the slightest chance of success.”
“Who are you?” Declan asked.
“My name is Ibrahim. I am the guardian bachi of this bagno, a broker in the bastedan, and like you, a slave.”
“Please,” Nora implored. “Can you help my daughter?”
“Your daughter is in the safest place she could be, for the moment.”
The Sullivans stared at Ibrahim, puzzled.
Ibrahim chuckled under his breath. “I see you have not been in Tunis long. Hammuda Bey has no interest in your daughter—or any daughter. His foreign minister, Yussef Sapatapa, is his lover.”
“His lover?” echoed Nora.
“He’s a…lover of…?” puzzled Declan.
“Men,” Ibrahim added helpfully. “The bey wants to sell or ransom the girl. Your daughter’s virtue is intact, for the moment.”
Declan collapsed to the floor, head in hands. Nora sighed, her hand on her heart. John closed his eyes.
“‘Our dream,’” said John, quoting Declan.
“What?” Declan said.
“‘Our dream.’ That’s what you said to the bey, Da. ‘The sea was our dream.’ But it was never Katie’s dream, was it? It was your dream. Kaitlin always hated the sea. It frightened her. Your dream killed Isaac, and it destroyed Katie’s life.” John’s voice cracked with anger. Tears brimmed in his eyes.
Declan stared at John with hurt in his eyes, as if his son had stabbed him.
“John,” Nora said, trying to calm him.
“It’s your fault!” John shouted, the tears falling now. “You lied. You gave up the ship, and you’re giving up again. You’ve killed my brother. You’ve made my sister a slave!”
“John,” Nora chided. “This isn’t your father’s fault.”
“It is!” cried John. He took a step toward his father. “You should have fought.”
“John, stop!” Nora gasped.
“Listen to me,” said Ibrahim to all of them. “This will be the hardest night of your life. I have been where you are. I’ve known despair you can’t imagine. It will get worse. Then, in time, it will get better. You will come to accept this fate.” Ibrahim fetched a bundle outside the cell door and tossed it to Declan. “Blankets and provisions, but I will expect repayment. For now, lie down. Rest. Tomorrow, you begin earning your keep.”
“Thank you,” Declan said numbly.
After Ibrahim was gone, Nora took John’s arm and led him to a corner of the cell. “Here, love,” she said. “Sit down.”
John obeyed, surrendering to his exhausted body. Nora sat with him, holding him close. John had not slept on his mother’s shoulder in more years than he could remember. But feeling her warmth, her soft touch, her strength, he dropped all pretense of adulthood. He leaned against her, his eyes drooping.
“It’s all right, my handsome man of the sea.” She lay a hand on his head.
John couldn’t understand where she found the strength. All around the prison, there were odd sounds—banging, thudding, and clattering. Occasionally, a voice would shout or cry out. Always John could hear the pitiful, quiet sobbing of a solitary voice. Whether man or a woman, child or adult, he didn’t know. He was so afraid—for Katie, for Nora, for himself, for his brother’s immortal soul. But in this moment, Nora shined on him like the beacon of a lighthouse.
“I’m the one,” John murmured, another tear running off his chin.
“What, love?” Nora said.
“I told Katie the Lion would protect her.”
Declan looked over at John. “The ‘Lion?’”
“I told her everything would be all right.” John’s eyes slipped closed. “I’m the liar.”
Cover Artwork by Pablo Fernandez
Chapter 8
Mrs. McClintock’s Water Street Lodging
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Friday, July 1st, 1803
Present Day
Dominique Aubert’s left cheek throbbed. Her yellow dress was soaked and splashed with mud. Threads of hair clung to her face. She stood hugging herself on the porch of Mrs. McClintock’s Water Street Lodging. The rain dribbled on her through the ragged awning.
Mrs. McClintock opened the door. She was a stout old woman with white curly hair. At the sight of Dominique, she touched her chest. She said in her Scottish accent, “Dominique, love. Are you all right?”
“Can I come in?”
“O’ course, dearie.” Mrs. McClintock gently took Dominique’s arm and ushered her in. “You’ll take ill, standing out in the rain like that.”
The warmth of Mrs. McClintock’s parlor poured over Dominique. A pair of older gentlemen sat by the fire, smoking their pipes. A trio of young men played a game of dice at the table. They all looked in Dominique’s direction. She was used to carnal looks from men—that was nothing new—but recently, she noticed something different in their eyes.
Before Aubert, when she dressed like a frontiersman, it felt like swatting away dogs begging for scraps. Men looked at anything feminine with rabid hunger when they were weeks away from the nearest fort. After Aubert reconnected her with French culture, however, something changed. He filled her wardrobe with tailored dresses, corrected her lost accent, imported fine cosmetics from Marseille, and introduced her to ladies with impeccable etiquette. When the last frontier mud was gone, men continued to lust for her with one crucial difference. Now they tried to hide it.
Mrs. McClintock gently touched Dominque’s left cheek. “Oh, what happened here?”
Dominique looked at her but didn’t answer.
Realization came into Mrs. McClintock’s eyes. “This way, love.” She wrapped an arm around Dominique and showed her into the kitchen.
Dominique could smell the thyme, marjoram, and garlic Mrs. McClintock used in her roasted chicken supper. The cooking hearth cast flickering shadows. The five branches of a candelabrum lit up the bench in the center. Flour covered the table. A roll of biscuit dough sat next to a jar of honeysuckle jam. Dominique leaned on the edge. She didn’t speak.
After a moment, Mabel asked, “You walked all the way here in the rain?”
Dominique nodded. It hadn’t occurred to her how long of a walk it actually was. She felt carried through the streets like driftwood in a stream.
“What happened, love?”
“Nothing, I just…I just needed to see a friend.”
Mrs. McClintock laid a hand on Dominique’s. “You’ve come to the right place.”
Dominique smiled weakly. Rain pattered on the roof. The dying fire crackled.
“Well, then, let me find you some dry clothes. You can stay in my room tonight.”
Before Mrs. McClintock could walk away, Dominique said, “Richard didn’t take his loss well.”
“Oh?”
“He had a bottle of brandy at brag. After the game, he had another.”
“I see,” said Mabel quietly.
“We…argued.”
“What about?”
“It was my fault.”
“What was?”
“John Sullivan. He wanted a seat at the brag game, and I talked Richard into letting him join. Serves me right. That’s how it is with Sully—you always think he means it when he asks for ‘one last favor.’ He completely humiliated Richard in front of his friends. Richard thinks I conspired against him.”
“Men and their bloody gambling—they can never leave their dicks off the card table.”
Dominique chuckled, even though she was holding back tears. She wondered why she hadn’t come to visit Mrs. McClintock in so long.
The boarding house proprietor caressed Dominique’s cheek. “Dominique, did he do this?”
Dominique felt a jet of pain and shuddered. “I’m fine, Mabel. I’m not afraid of my husband. I’ve dealt with far worse on the frontier.”
“This isn’t the frontier. This is your home. This is the man who took an oath to care for you.”
“And he does. In every way imaginable. He sacrifices his own reputation to protect Melisande and Grey Feather. If he went after the Laffites’ smuggling enterprise, Pierre Laffite would retaliate against my brother and sister. He’s given me back the life that was stolen from me. Reminded me where I come from. He didn’t deserve what happened tonight.” Dominique trailed off.
Mrs. McClintock gently squeezed Dominique’s shoulder. “Dearie, you’ve nothing to feel ashamed of. He was beaten at cards, not pissed on in a pillory.”
As they stood in silence, Dominique noticed the basin sitting on the table for the first time. Looking closely in the dim light, she realized the water was murky. A rag with red splotches lay next to a bloody stitching needle. “What’s this? Was someone hurt?”
Mrs. McClintock sighed. “Aye. Come. Let’s get you dry and into a nightgown.”
Dominique followed Mrs. McClintock upstairs to her bedroom. Neither of them spoke as Dominique shed her dress and donned dry clothes. She sat at the vanity and let Mrs. McClintock clean her face with a damp cloth. The lady of the boarding house hummed an old Scottish lullaby as she brushed Dominique’s hair.
Several minutes later, Dominique stood in the doorway of the small attic room where John Sullivan slept. He lay in a hammock strung between the beams of the A-frame roof. Rain drizzled down a small circular window above him. The space was more like a closet than a room. Barely enough room was left for John’s coat, satchel, and a bottle of rum in the corner. Two candlestick nubs and a pewter cup sat on the floor below him.
John tossed in his sleep. “Katie…no… Katie…” he whimpered.
“I found him in the street,” said Mrs. McClintock from behind Dominique. “Someone beat the shite out of him. Robbed him.”
“No…Don’t touch her…” John moaned.
Dominique walked over to him. His hair was matted with sweat. His right eye looked as red and swollen as a strawberry. Mabel had sewn three stitches into his left eyebrow. A clump of blood bubbled in his nostril. The blanket had slipped below his navel. Purple and green bruises marred his chest. The muscles of his waist convulsed in his delirium. “How long has he been like this?” Dominique asked.
“Hours. He keeps calling out that name. ‘Katie.’”
“His little sister.”
“Funny. I read the pamphlet many times. She was never mentioned in his ordeal. And he never talks about her.”
“The Barbary Pirates took her as a slave with his family, but he left her out of the published account.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. He was very drunk the night he told me. He rarely speaks of her.”
Dominique ran a finger along his prickly stubble to the slight dimple below his lips. Sweat beaded on his muscular body. The memory of a summer night flashed in her mind. The two of them sitting on a rickety fisherman’s jetty, dipping toes in the water. Fireflies over the pond. Whispering reeds. A symphony of singing frogs. The breeze cooling the mist on their faces. The taste of tobacco and blackberries as she kissed him. Their hearts beating against one another.
“I’ll give you some time alone,” Mrs. McClintock said.
Dominique pulled her hand away from John. “No, Mabel, that’s all right. I’m feeling rather tired. I think I’d like to go to bed if that’s all right.”
“Of course. Go on. I’ll look after him a while longer.”
Dominique stood up and turned towards the door.
“Dom…” John murmured.
Dominique stopped and looked over her shoulder. For a moment, she thought he woke up, but his eyes were closed. He continued tossing and turning. Before she could leave the room, Mrs. McClintock took her hand.
“Sweet dreams, love.”
Dominique hesitated. Like a sheet of ice on a frozen shore, the hurt within her broke loose. Her chin quivered. She tried to stop the tears, but they spilled out anyway. She submerged into Mrs. McClintock’s arms.
“Oh, you’re all right, dearie,” Mrs. McClintock soothed. She stroked Dominique’s back like a mother comforting a daughter. “It’s going to be all right.”
Chapter 9
Mrs. McClintock’s Water Street Lodging
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Saturday, July 2nd, 1803
The scent awoke him. John pried his crusted eyes open. In the darkness, only the drops on the window announced the rain. A lightning strike of pain followed every movement of his ribs. How long had he slept? Horses clip-clopped in the street outside, suggesting early evening. But Laffite’s attack had come near midnight. John realized he had slept through a whole night and the following day. After a few tender stretches, he half climbed, half fell out of his hammock. As he crawled to his feet, groaning in pain, he inhaled. It was her scent. Like orchids. Had Dominique been here? He shook his head. She had a life now and better things to do than call at a seedy boarding house.
A few minutes later, John limped off Mrs. McClintock’s porch onto Water Street. In the summer heat, rain like bathwater came down in sheets. John turned south, clutching his side. After sloshing through the mud for half a mile, his muscles warmed up and he could walk upright. After another half-mile, he sensed someone watching him. Following. He spun around. An empty street. Rain steaming on the lampposts. Was that a shadow on Second Street? No. He decided it was the swaying of a poplar and limped on.
By the time John stood outside the door of the Sawduster Tavern, he was soaked. He approached the uneven glass window by the door. He looked in on the silhouettes rippling through the light. An Irishman was an unusual traveler here. Built entirely by Philadelphian Negroes, this public house provided members of their community a welcome place to find news, work opportunities, and leisure. The Sawduster’s proximity to the waterfront made it a popular haunt for African sailors, shipbuilders, and dockworkers. A fiddle warbled a somber melody. The instrument was a Norwegian Hardanger fiddle—rare in the Americas. No one played it more beautifully than Ethan Auldon.
A fife joined the fiddle. Then a pair of hands patting a kettledrum. Ethan sang the melody:
Down yonder green valley, where streamlets meander,
When twilight is fading I pensively rove
Or at the bright noontide in solitude wander,
Amid the dark shades of the lonely ash grove;
There was a time when John couldn’t fall asleep unless his mother sang The Lonely Ash Grove to him. As he got older, he stopped asking for her lullabies. On a lark, she would offer to sing, and he would say no. It didn’t occur to him that she might lament her boy no longer needed her songs.
That changed on John’s first night alone in Philadelphia. After his escape from Barbary slavery, he found himself soaked and shivering on a night much like tonight. Crouched under an alley doorway, he sang it to himself over and over. Even now, he would have given anything to hear his mother sing it again.
Down yonder green valley, where streamlets meander,
When twilight is fading I pensively rove
Or at the bright noontide in solitude wander,
Amid the dark shades of the lonely ash grove;
John entered the taproom, greeted by the aroma of spilled ale and buttered rum pudding. Sage and rosemary dried over a crackling hearth. Spreads of chicken and dumplings, fresh bread, and cabbage with onions covered the tables. Mothers fed toddlers on their knees, groups of children huddled over games, and young lovers courted on the dance floor. As John edged around the crowd for a view of the players, he ducked under low wooden beams.
There was a man on the drum, a man on the fife, and Ethan Auldon on the Hardanger fiddle. They played next to the red brick mantle in the northwest corner. Ethan’s bow glided over the Norwegian instrument. Its unique resonating strings richened the sound, reminding John of the folk music he heard as a boy. A man of eighteen, Ethan had chiseled cheekbones and dark stubble around his chin. His brows knit fiercely over his eyes. His vocals filled every corner of the room. He had the attention of more than a few young women.
My lips smile no more, my heart loses its lightness;
No dream of the future my spirit can cheer.
I only can brood on the past and its brightness
The dear ones I long for again gather here.
A strange calm fell over the room. Children ceased their frolicking. Sailors forgot their drinks. The barmaid mopped the same spot over and over.
The ash grove, the ash grove, again is my home.
The fife fell quiet. The drumbeat stopped. The last draw of Ethan’s bow faded. Ethan smiled with big cinnamon eyes. Applause roared through the room. John stared, still lost in the nostalgia of the song. The pain had subsided as John listened to the music, but now he felt it scraping again like a blade.
“Beautiful, lads,” shouted a young man at the bar. “But let’s have a jig!”
“Aye!” cried another. “Play Jenny’s Lucky Penny!”
“The Summer Step!” said another.
The drummer and fife player smiled, drinking in the cheers. But Ethan walked towards the crowd and handed his Hardanger and bow to an older man.
John felt something strike his leg. He spun to find a little boy—eight or nine—had slapped him. The boy looked up at John, eyes wide, then darted off. There were more than a few curious glances in John’s direction. He thought he caught a woman around his age staring at him—the barmaid—but when he looked over she busied herself with collecting a tray of cups.
John grew anxious. The Auldons had taken him in a long time ago, but that was the past. He might as well be interrupting a family at dinner to sell snake oil. He turned back for the door.
“John!” Ethan called out. “John Sullivan!”
Considering how they last parted, John thought about stealing away while he could. Instead, he turned around. Ethan pushed through the crowd towards him.
Ethan stopped short. He looked at John slack-jawed. “John. What happened?”
For some reason, John smiled sheepishly. “Ethan—oh. Just a little trouble on the road. Nothing I couldn’t handle.” He reached out for a handshake.
But to John’s surprise, Ethan pulled him into an embrace, wet clothes and all. “On your feet again. I knew you would be. It’s good to see you again, mate.”
After so long on the frontier, so many years removed from his family, Ethan’s arms felt like a brother’s. Like a soothing balm. A moment longer and John feared he would break down. He drew away, grasping for composure. “Aye. I’ve missed you, mate. Playing as beautifully as ever. I knew you would be.”
The two were drawing a few curious looks—it had been a while since John set foot in the Sawduster Tavern. Ethan said, “There, the table in the corner. Let’s get you some food and get you dry.”
Twenty minutes later, John sat near the hearth, both hands around a flagon of ale. The Sawduster’s pudding bubbled in a pot. The warmth of the embers chased the last moisture from John’s hair. He wore one of Ethan’s cotton shirts and a pair of his breeches—both a bit long on him. The lateness of the evening cleared out most of the families. A few clusters of patrons drank ale or played cards.
“Here, dear,” said the barmaid. She laid a gentle hand on his back and slid a heaping bowl of dumplings in front of him. A hunk of bread soaked in the gravy. “There’s more where that came from.”
It was more hospitality than John deserved after so long away, but his growling stomach disagreed. “Thank you, very kindly.”
She handed him a poultice. The pungent scent of mint and lavender tingled in his nose. “This will help with the swelling. Hold it here.” She pressed it to John’s temple.
John flinched at the pain. The young woman looked familiar—probably a member of Ethan’s church, St. Thomas. As he reached for the poultice, their hands met. It had been a long time since he felt the touch of a beautiful woman. Their eyes came together. He felt a flutter of mutual allure. They exchanged a tentative smile. The firelight set her amber eyes aglow. “Thank you. It helps.”
“You’re welcome, John.” Her hand slipped away. She walked toward the bar before John could ask her name.
A small paper pouch landed on the table by John’s bowl. “Compliments of the house,” said Ethan as he sat down across from his friend. “But you ought to give up the stuff. Can’t be good for the humors.”
“You ought to give up hounding me,” John teased. He unfolded the pouch and inhaled the tobacco’s hickory scent. “Can’t be good for your humor.”
“Blackens the teeth. Puts off the ladies.”
“Whiskey cleans them. And I prefer ladies who chew.”
“And smoke. Smuggle. Steal. Swing war clubs.” Ethan grinned.
John grinned back. He used his bread to scoop up a big mouthful of stew.
For a moment, Ethan watched him eat. “I was wondering when you’d come by.” As if to answer the question in John’s eyes, Ethan said, “Mother still has tea with Mrs. McClintock on Thursdays. No secret survives those meetings.”
John’s chewing slowed a moment. What could he say? That he thought Ethan would never forgive him for backing out of their plan to join the Navy? That if Ethan knew the whole truth about the Tindalls, he’d never forgive him? He bit off a large chunk of bread and shrugged his shoulders.
“You don’t need to stay at Mrs. McClintock’s,” said Ethan. “You’ll always have a home here.”
“I might have come by sooner,” John smacked around a mouthful of bread, “but I thought you’d be off fighting the Barbary Pirates by now.”
“I could say the same of you.”
John didn’t answer. Instead, he sopped up the last bits in his bowl.
Ethan looked ruefully at the fire. “Dr. Cowdery of the Philadelphia was impressed by my medical knowledge. All those years of study with the Bartons and doctoring folks around here… I guess I picked up some skill. He offered me a berth as a surgeon’s mate.”
“Surgeon’s mate?” John smiled. “Ethan, that’s great.”
Ethan snorted. “Yeah, grand. Until Captain Bainbridge said he’d never hear of a Negro apprenticing to a surgeon on his ship. Wasn’t ‘proper’ he said.”
“Ethan…I’m sorry. Bainbridge is a fool.”
“I knew it was too much to hope. Dr. Cowdery’s been slipping me books and teaching me what he can—at least until the Philadelphia leaves dry dock. He says he may get the captain to change his mind. It’s a kind lie.”
They drank in silence for a moment.
When he had a good wad of tobacco in his lip, John spoke again. “I came to say goodbye, Ethan.”
“You walked a long way in the rain to say goodbye.”
“Some things won’t keep till morning.”
“Where are you going?”
“Ireland. First thing tomorrow, I’ll declare my mother lost at sea. Most of my inheritance will go to pay off a ruthless smuggler and pirate, and what’s left will go to my corrupt uncle’s political schemes. And I will never see these shores or my family again.”
“It’s not like you to give up so easily.”
John spat a joyless laugh. “I don’t dare imagine giving up with difficulty.”
“Is there no other way?”
“I’ve lost everything, Ethan. Pierre Laffite has left me no choice. I either give my uncle what he wants, and pay Laffite off, or I betray Comandante Pavia just to keep a small inheritance. I can’t do that to Pavia. Not after all he’s done for me. And for you.”
“Aye,” Ethan agreed. “Can’t say I like that idea. But either way, you don’t have to leave Philadelphia. You can stay with the Auldons until you’re back on your feet.”
John shook his head. “Your family gave me a home, and I squandered it. I don’t deserve your kindness.”
“Bullshit. Of course you do. You took a bullet from Clyde Tindall. Saved me from Whitlock. I’ll be buying you ales for a while. And anyway, kindness is ours to give.”
“It was nothing you haven’t done for me. You don’t owe me anything.”
“I owe you everything.”
John felt a stab of guilt in his stomach. He wanted to come clean. Tell Ethan the rest of what happened. Instead, he drowned it in another gulp of ale.
“Tripoli is still at war with the United States,” Ethan continued. “What the Barbary Pirates did to your family—it’s been going on for centuries. We could enlist like we planned. Fight slavery side by side.”
“Always the revolutionary, eh? Sorry, Ethan, but there’s no fighting the way the world is. Men like Laffite, Whitlock, Tindall, Bey Hammuda—they’ll always exist. Joining the Navy won’t change that.”
“You’re wrong, John. My father lived to see the Gradual Abolition Act. The day is coming when there will be no slaves in the Commonwealth. The world is changing. We must carry the truth that ‘all men are created equal’ in our hearts. It’s a truth we must all fight for.”
“But you said Bainbridge wouldn’t make you surgeon’s mate. And I lost my midshipman’s berth when I got wounded. What would we do?”
“Swab decks. Trim the mains’ls. Man the guns. What we can. Forget our old berths—call this a re-berth!”
John smiled in spite of himself. “It’s a fine idea. And there’s no man I’d rather swab decks with. But I never wanted to go to war. I wanted to save my family.”
Ethan stared into his own tankard. “Yeah. ‘A fine idea.’ I suppose too much has changed.”
The drummer stumbled out of the crowd and leaned on Ethan. “Come on, Auldon,” he said, spitting and blustering. “One more song. A good one this time!”
Ethan laughed and shoved him away. “Christ, Bridges. Keep that breath away from candles. Go on, now. I’m visiting with an old friend.”
John stood up. “I was about to leave. I don’t want to keep you.”
Bridges crowed with delight. “Good. I was tired of all that Irish wailing.” He hurried off to his drum.
“I suppose there’s no changing your mind.” Ethan came around the table to meet John. “I shall miss you, my friend.”
“And I you, mate.” They shook hands. “Thank you. For everything.”
It felt as though there was so much more to say. Ethan nodded and took his Hardanger from the next table. The fiddle came to life with a pleasant tune. John watched for a moment, then turned toward the fire. He pulled Pavia’s kerchief out of his pocket. He examined the castle crest on a field of red. He could use it, with Godfried’s nose, to find Pavia’s secret cache. To betray a mentor and at least keep a little inheritance. John looked through waves of heat rising off coals. No. He wouldn’t destroy a good man just to keep a forlorn hope alive. His hand hovered over the fire, ready to let it burn.
“My baby can’t say no to you, can he?” said a woman’s voice.
John pulled his hand back, startled. He looked to his left as Grace Auldon, Ethan’s mother, came alongside him. She stood still and upright as a marble statue. She watched her son’s performance with a serene smile. A few spots of gray dotted her hair, mostly covered by a shawl. She looked at John, her tea-colored eyes filled with firelight. While John fumbled for a polite response, Mrs. Auldon continued, “Something tells me you have that effect on a lot of people.”
“Mrs. Auldon, I…I never meant to bring trouble on Ethan.”
“What we mean is so rarely what we do.”
They both looked at the fire. Ethan’s bow see-sawed a flurry of graceful notes. The patrons clapped along.
“I overheard something about returning to Ireland?” asked Mrs. Auldon.
“Yes. I came to say my farewells.”
“Good. Your mother would be relieved. She would want you to give up revenge. To be free.”
“How do you know that?” asked John.
Mrs. Auldon looked into the hearth as if seeing the past in the flames. “My son was a slave to the Tindalls. For three weeks. The longest three weeks of my life. I prayed every night. First, I asked for his safe return. Then I pleaded. Then begged. And then I bargained. ‘Let my son be free, and let me take his place in hell.’ That is a mother’s love for her son. Something you can never know.” She looked at John with a wry smile. “Of course, you brought Ethan back. For that, I owe you a debt.”
John shook his head. “Mrs. Auldon, I know you and I have never seen eye to eye. But you took me in all the same. If anyone owes a debt, it’s me. Perhaps the best way I can repay it is to leave before I cause any more trouble.”
“Mr. Sullivan, I know there’s more to Ethan’s ordeal than you’re telling, but I want you to know—it doesn’t matter. Not to me.”
A chill shuddered through John’s aching ribs. “What?” But he knew damn well what she was talking about.
“Whatever wrong you may have done,” she continued, “whatever guilt you’re carrying, I release you. Go back to Ireland with a clear conscience. Marry some pretty Irish girl and have darling Irish babies. Live a long, happy, peaceful life. With family. And good friends. Forget you ever heard of the Barbary Pirates or Philadelphia.” Mrs. Auldon looked at John with a haunted expression. Like a woman who had seen a ghost, but knew no one would believe her.
A cold bead of sweat slipped down John’s temple. He felt his soul laid bare. As if he could hide no truth from her. “I aim to. Just as I told Ethan. What else would I do?”
“All the same, Mr. Sullivan, heed my advice: Go, and don’t ever look back.”
“Why?”
“Because if you do,” she continued, her eyes fixed on his, “the past will draw you like a moth to a candle. Revenge will lure you into the fire.”
The song came to an end. Mrs. Auldon’s foreboding vanished behind a smile. She joined the uproar of applause and disappeared into the crowd. John stood there, speechless. It was a lot of nonsense of course. Damned if John believed a word. So why then, he wondered, were his hands shaking?
Ethan Auldon. Artwork by Pablo Fernandez
Chapter 10
The Streets of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Saturday, July 2nd, 1803
John tried to keep under eves as he edged along the street, but each time he passed under the sky, water penetrated his borrowed shirt like musket fire. He had gone a block from the Sawduster when he heard the footsteps. Since Laffite’s ambush, John had resolved not to be taken unawares again. The stranger followed about ten paces behind—probably since the tavern, or before. John pretended not to notice. Without any weapons, he would need the advantage of surprise. He turned a corner into an alley.
As he crouched behind a barrel, he watched the stranger peer around the corner. A hunched figure in a patchwork slicker and oilskin hat eclipsed the flickering light of the streetlamp. Water ran off long snarls of gray beard. The man shuffled as if timid.
John sprang at him. He charged into the man and pinned him against the alley wall. He pressed his forearm against the man’s throat. The smell of piss and stale whiskey stung his nose. He wound his free arm for a punch.
“Wait, John, please,” rasped the man. One eye trembled with fear, the other was an empty socket.
John blinked, taken aback. He searched the man’s face but didn’t recognize him. “Who are you? Tell Laffite he’ll get his money when—”
“I don’t know this Laffite, I swear,” he wheezed. “I have a…message… Please.”
“Liar!” John pressed harder.
“I can…prove it.”
John felt at the man’s belt. Not finding any weapons, he pushed off him. “Who are you?”
“James Gilroy,” said the man, coughing. “I mean you no harm. A message—that’s all I have. A message for John Sullivan. You are he, are you not?”
“How do you know my name?”
“I’ve been looking for you in Philadelphia these six months. Asking after you everywhere I could. Like you, I was a slave on the Barbary Coast. I come with a message from your sister, Kaitlin Sullivan.”
The animal stirred under John’s skin. He took a step forward. “My sister? What game are you playing?”
Gilroy threw up his hands. “No, I swear. I was given proof.” He retrieved something from his pocket and held his hand under the light of the street lamp. On his palm lay a silver piece. “I was told it meant something to you.”
John’s mouth fell open. The world surrounding the silver coin became muted, distant. As though he were peering through a keyhole. The coin was stamped with the seal of the Spanish throne. A crest stamped with a cross. In two opposing corners of the cross, there should have been two lions, and in the other two corners castles. But one lion was missing. Over the years, a crack had snaked around the lone lion, marooning him. “The Islanded Lion.”
John snatched the coin. “Where did you get this?”
“As I said, I was a slave. In Algiers. A renowned thief calling himself ‘the Silver Hand’ saw to my escape and freedom. In return, he asked of me an errand. He said to go to Pennsylvania, in America. To find a man of your description named John Sullivan. I was to relay to you a letter, on behalf of a Kaitlin Sullivan. He said the coin would prove the truth of my words.”
John felt suddenly short of breath. As if the rain were drowning him. He had given this coin to his sister five years ago. He told her it was “magic.” Only she would have known its significance. His voice broke as he said, “A letter?”
“Aye.” Gilroy’s one eye glistened like a muddy pool. There was anguish in it, an anguish that couldn’t be faked. The anguish of one who has witnessed cruelty and changed forever as a result. He pulled a leather envelope from his coat and produced a folded paper. “He bade me deliver it safe to you. The price for my freedom. I gave my oath.”
John reached out slowly as if afraid his touch might dissolve the paper. He took it from Gilroy’s grasp and read.
My brother John,
Mam and I have been reunited on the Barbary Coast. We have learned of your escape to America. We think you must want to try for our rescue, and though we dream of freedom, we beg you: Never come back here, for the danger is too great.
We hope that you are happy and well in the Colonies. Mam bid me keep our location secret and bid me further to say: While we hope to meet you again on the shores of this life, know that our family shall be whole on the tranquil waters of the Eternal Sea.
All our love,
Your sister, Kaitlin, and mother, Nora.
John staggered back a step. He blinked back tears he hadn’t even felt welling up. He folded the letter and stuffed it in his pocket. “When did you receive this message?”
“One year and six months ago.”
“Where are they?”
“I don’t know, I swear. The Silver Hand didn’t tell me, and I never spoke to them. He said they feared you would return to the Barbary Coast. Attempt rescue. By the look of it, they were right.”
The man started to walk away, but John darted into his path. “Wait! There must be something.”
“It’s a fool’s errand, lad. I wouldn’t want to be a woman in Barbary slavery.”
“This Silver Hand,” snapped John, causing Gilroy to shudder, “where can I find him?”
Gilroy’s eyes searched crazily. “Wait, I know! Chester Ryland. A lieutenant on the frigate George Washington.”
“What of him?”
“When the Silver Hand broke me out of the bagno, he brought me to Lieutenant Ryland. Ryland gave me a place on the George Washington’s crew. That’s how I got here. Ryland and the thief seemed to know each other. It looked as though Ryland were repaying a favor.”
“Chester Ryland? Where can I find him?”
“I saw him in port last week. I overheard a midshipman from the USS Philadelphia call him ‘Lieutenant.’ It must be his new posting. That’s all I know. I swear that’s all I know.”
John thought about demanding more. But that damn eye. In that terrified gaze, John could see the despair of loss. The torment of the cane. A wound in the soul that could never heal. A look Gilroy might see in John’s eyes at this very moment. He couldn’t bear to wring any more out of the man, so he nodded.
Gilroy tottered past John. He stopped in the street. “Lad.”
John looked over his shoulder at Gilroy. Lamplight quivered in the vagrant sailor’s single eye.
“Don’t go back.” And with that, the stranger disappeared into the night.