Blood and Oak, Issue 3
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 11
The City Bastedan
The Port of Tunis
Thursday, October 28th, 1798
5 Years Ago
Ibrahim swatted John with a cedar cane. “Again.”
John glared at him, his calf smarting. Ibrahim waited, looking at John expectantly. The old slave broker mopped sweat from his forehead. Declan’s letters home, petitions to the embassy, and pleas for charity had come to little. Uncle Peter hadn’t replied, and they only had enough money to bribe Ibrahim for a better outcome at the slave market. John practiced hobbling again.
Swat! John recoiled from another strike.
“Show me again!” commanded Ibrahim. He spoke in Lingua Franca, the odd mix of Arabic, Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese used between masters and slaves in Tunis. Having visited ports all over Europe, John picked up the slave language quickly.
John continued rehearsing his limp in the shady corner of the bastedan. Behind rows of horseshoe-arches and marble columns, brokers could ready their property for display. John’s eyes drifted out over the square. The ocher walls of slave pens, shops, and neighboring tenements surrounded the hub of commerce. Narrow alleys meandered between the buildings. Beyond the nearby rooftops, slender minarets with graceful pointed domes stabbed into the sky. A crier on a raised wooden dais solicited bids for kneeling captives. Heat shimmered over the white-pink pavement.
The swat-swat of Ibrahim’s cane brought John back to attention. This time, he resisted the reflex to jump. He gimped backwards.
“Good, Johnny,” Declan said, relieved. “Good lad.”
“He’s ready,” agreed Ibrahim. “Your son will appear crippled and look unappealing for hard labor. But I can’t promise him a generous master.”
“Thank you, Master Ibrahim,” said Declan, “for what you’re doing.”
“Do not thank me. This is not charity—your piasters bought my help.”
“You have my thanks all the same.”
Ibrahim waved dismissively. He coughed and spat phlegm.
“Nora,” said Declan. “You remember your story?”
In the back corner, Nora sat against the wall. Her arms encircled her knees. She stared vacantly at her own shadow.
Declan went to her side and dropped to one knee. He took her hand, looking at the pale stripe where her wedding ring had been. “Nora,” he coaxed. “My love.”
Nora didn’t look at her husband.
“Please, dear. This is important. We haven’t much time.”
John had never seen his mother so despondent. Her spirit of adventure had always driven the family over the next horizon. Her wonder had always inspired them to explore. Since the bey had taken Kaitlin, that fire had cooled, smoldered, and suffocated. To make her appear older, Declan and Ibrahim had smeared dirt on her face, kept her hair tangled, and reduced her rations. But the emptiness in her eyes had done far more than their efforts.
“Mam, please,” John said.
Nora looked at John for a moment. She murmured by rote, “I’m forty-nine. My child-bearing days ended two years ago. I am an excellent cook.”
John hoped the buyers would believe the lie. His mother only turned thirty-six last April. Even gaunt and filthy, her skin was smooth, her sienna hair reflecting the sun. But they wouldn’t see her radiant smile. They wouldn’t hear her musical laugh. Desolation would hide her youth.
“Good,” observed Ibrahim. “It’s time.”
Ibrahim led John, Declan, and Nora into the square. The three-foot, thirty-pound length of chain John had been dragging behind him for weeks felt heavier than ever. The iron quickly heated in the sun. The hard edges rubbed his right ankle raw. He marched with his mother, father, and dozens of other slaves in a melancholy parade. Auctioneers fanned themselves and occasionally lashed their offerings with canes or whips. In a row of curtained stalls in the southeast corner, customers gawked at the slave women in privacy. Merchant stalls sold cheap roughspun clothes, a dry grain called bulgur, and second-hand tools—provisions for slaves. They even peddled refreshments for the buyers: figs, dates, thick black coffee, and tobacco for pipes.
A few buyers looked over Ibrahim’s slaves, asked questions, and moved on. A few showed interest in John. They forced open his mouth and looked at his teeth. They ordered him to strip naked. They slapped his abdomen, thighs, and buttocks. It was a humiliating march, but the worst wasn’t long in coming. Barely half an hour had passed when a tall, muscular soldier showed interest in Nora.
“Ibrahim,” said the man. He was a Janissary judging by his saber and pistol, felt jacket, and gold spoon on his hat. “Where have you been hiding this lovely creature?”
John felt his rage uncoiling as he recognized the man grabbing Nora’s chin. It was the Janissary commander that had killed Isaac on the Wandering Hart. Nora’s eyes were downcast as Hamit scrutinized her face. John wanted to strangle the soldier with his ankle chain.
“Hamit,” replied Ibrahim. “I am at your service. This one is barren, but a perfect house servant. Eleven hundred piasters. Your wife will love her.”
The Janissary laughed. “This is another of your games, isn’t it? You wouldn’t be double dealing with your master’s property, would you? Selling them low to lenient masters, then pocketing a bribe?”
Ibrahim’s iron gaze didn’t falter. “You wouldn’t be questioning my honor as a businessman and loyal servant, would you? A shameful ploy to get a better price?”
“Never!” said Hamit, feigning outrage. “But I will pay the asking price and throw in a bonus for you personally—larger than any a slave could pay. After I’ve had a chance for inspection and if she is of the quality I suspect.”
Ibrahim considered a moment. “Done.”
“What?” cried Declan.
“No!” John shouted. He started forward, but Ibrahim swatted his legs out from under him. The slave merchant brought the cane down on John’s back, knocking him to his stomach, and raised for it another strike.
Nora touched Ibrahim’s arm. Her expression froze the old man in place. She eased the truncheon down and moved in front of John.
“Awake, John,” Nora said softly. For a moment, a distant spark of that fire rekindled. She knelt and touched a hand to his face.
“Mother?” John said, the fight draining out of him. A tear ran down his cheek.
“My sweet boy,” she said.
The Janissary Hamit closed a hand on her arm and led her away.
“Mother,” John called after her, his eyes filling with tears. “I love you. I’ll find a way to free you, I swear.”
“Nora!” Declan said, his voice breaking up. “My love.”
On her way to the private stalls, Nora stole one last look back. She smiled at John and Declan as though admiring a painting. “My handsome men of the sea.”
They watched in powerless despair as Nora and the Janissary disappeared behind a curtain.
Hours later, the spires and minarets cast long afternoon shadows across the bastedan. Most of the slaves had been sold, including Declan. The buyer who purchased John’s father needed skilled laborers for the shipyards, and Declan fetched a sizable price. Ibrahim allowed barely a moment for Declan to say his goodbyes.
“John, son, I…” Declan embraced John with tears in his eyes. “I…want you to know, son…”
John looked at Declan, but the words he had intended for his father stuck in his throat.
“That’s enough,” the portly buyer said, pulling Declan away by the chain.
“John,” Declan said as his new master took him away. “I love you. Forgive me, John. Forgive me.”
The auctions had come to a close and the sun nearly set when John finally met his own buyer. Ibrahim had been leading him around the square for hours. John had been trying not to think of water or food or the shade. Most of all, he tried not to think of Declan or Nora or Kaitlin.
“Sorry I’m late, Ibrahim,” said a man in Lingua Franca. John recognized the pirate Ilyas Naim, the young man who took command after Isaac slew Re’is Raakaan.
“Re’is Naim,” said Ibrahim deferentially. “I was beginning to lose patience.”
“I was delayed on business.” Naim looked at John. “He has not been sold?”
“I agreed to hold him as long as I could, and so I have.”
John looked at them both, puzzled. What had they arranged? John had thought the purpose of his ruse was to avoid a brutal fate—not to be part of a secret deal.
“Good. Eight fifty then, as agreed.”
“Done!” said Ibrahim. He accepted a purse of money from Naim, smiling as he felt its weight. “A pleasure doing business with you.” Ibrahim bowed and walked out of the bastedan square, looking relieved to be done for the day.
Naim watched Ibrahim go, then regarded John for a moment. At length, he said, “I wish I could thank your brother—he rid me of a dangerous rival and made me a captain. Your ship, the Wandering Hart, is now my ship, the Bosphorus Crescent.”
“I wish Isaac were here too,” said John, thinking to himself, So he could kill every last one of you.
“A shame,” said Naim. “He fought bravely. He died a noble death.”
John was surprised at Naim’s condolences. Does he admire Isaac? John wondered. He said, “Thank you, Re’is.”
“Ibrahim tells me your father taught you well. That you’re an able navigator.”
“I’m an excellent navigator.”
“And not lacking for confidence,” smiled Naim. “Good. You will come aboard my ship as a personal servant. In reality, you will be my teacher. You will tell no one of your real purpose, and your knowledge will swiftly make me a rich man.”
I’ll send you to hell! John screamed in his mind. But what he said was, “You’re a re’is. What could I have to teach you?”
Naim considered a moment. “I will tell you this once, and then we will never speak of it again. It was Raakaan who navigated our course and planned our raids. He loved sailing and fighting but hated the men. So he left the leadership of the crew to me. They are happy I’m captain. Despite my popularity, it was only a few months ago that I went to sea.”
“You’re a good cutthroat—but a bad seaman. You better not let them find out.”
For all his education and pleasant demeanor, Naim took a menacing step forward. “Listen very carefully, slave. Obey me and you will have a life of comfort unknown to most in your position. I’ll even allow you a small share of the prizes and you may buy your freedom in time. But cross me, and you’ll suffer. I will find your father, your mother, and your sister, and see them cast into a pit of despair. As you put it, I am a very ‘good cutthroat.’”
John swallowed hard. “Yes, Re’is.”
“Now, will you serve me faithfully? And teach me all that I require?”
“Yes, Re’is.”
“Good,” said Naim, slipping back into a pleasant tone. “Now, before we go, one more thing.”
“Aye, Re’is?”
“I will hear you say it.”
Sweat beaded on John’s forehead. He felt nauseous. He knew exactly what Naim wanted, but he couldn’t bear the thought. “What, Re’is?”
“What all slaves must say. I will hear it.”
John looked across the square to the private stalls. The curtains were open, the buyers and human chattel gone. There was no sign of his mother. As he scanned the other slaves awaiting the next stage of their social death, he couldn’t find his father. He looked back at Naim.
“Aye. Master.”
William Allan (1782-1850) - The Slave Market, Constantinople - NG 2400 - National Galleries of Scotland
Chapter 12
The Piping Plover Inn
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Sunday, July 3rd, 1803
Present Day
Dew melted off daffodils in the morning sun. Leaves cast a patchwork of shadows. Behind the Piping Plover, a brown and white-dappled mare crunched a bushel of grass. She pricked her ears toward John, staring intently for a moment, then went back to grazing. A scarecrow wearing a tattered British redcoat stood watch over a garden of gourds, carrots, and potatoes. Sparrows sang in an ancient walnut tree. Other taverns, barns, and houses lined the square patch of land.
“John Sullivan.” Captain Richard Aubert approached from the back door of the Plover.
“Captain Aubert,” John replied.
“You’ve transgressed with my wife.” His stride continued unbroken, directly towards John.
John’s face flushed with heat. He and Dominique had parted ways well before her marriage to Aubert. There had been temptation, but no infidelity. Still, John felt as though Aubert could see through him, could see his desire for her. Sweat pooled under his arms. “I beg your pardon?”
Aubert walked past John to four white painted chairs and a table beneath the walnut tree. He took a seat and crossed his leg. “You enlisted her aid to interrupt my morning chess game. You’ve some goddamn bollocks to show your face here.”
An African woman dressed in a cotton dress and apron approached. She set a candlestick and a saucer with a steaming cup on the table. “Your coffee, sir,” she said.
Aubert took up the candle and puffed his pipe to life. He acknowledged the servant with a perfunctory grunt, and she returned to the tavern. “I told Dominique you could bugger yourself,” continued the captain.
The knot in John’s stomach tightened. His odds looked worse all the time. He took the seat to Aubert’s left.
“But then she reminded me that it was an honest beat,” Aubert went on. “She also reminded me that without you, she might never have given up crime in favor of our matrimony. So there it is, Sullivan. You have until I finish my coffee.”
It might be wise to stroke Aubert’s ego before launching into details. Or perhaps attribute Aubert’s brag defeat to John’s good luck and let an adversary save face. But Richard Aubert came from a noble French family—refugees from the revolutionary guillotine. In his eyes, John was a peasant. His compliments would irritate more than flatter.
“The Allegheny,” said John, coming right to the point. “She belongs at sea, in the Mediterranean. You should be with the fleet, winning renown against the Barbary Pirates. Instead, you’re chasing common smugglers up and down the coast.”
“I’m fighting the enemies of our nation,” Aubert said by rote. “There is no greater honor.”
“And yet, I have your attention.”
“Aren’t you very clever,” said Aubert with a wry smile. “For a callow Irish beggar.”
“We have a common enemy, Captain. Pierre Laffite. He’s bribed customs officials. Sold stolen goods in Philadelphia’s shops. Taken over smuggling throughout the city. And to keep you cooperative, he’s threatened retaliation against your wife, her sister, and her brother. A captain who finally puts an end to him will be the toast of the Navy. Such a captain would have the gratitude of Commandant Pritchett and his good friend, Navy Secretary Smith. Such a captain could have any posting he wants.”
Aubert narrowed his eyes at John, chewing on his pipe. “A fine statement of the obvious. But Laffite could be moving his goods through any number of coves and inlets on the Delaware. I could patrol the river with a dozen ships and never find the one. You don’t know where to find him, or you would’ve said as much.”
“No. But if we work together, there’s a way.”
Aubert snorted and set down his cup. He stood and smoothed his spotless silk waistcoat. “Please. You and your friends are a perfidious rabble. There is nothing I require from such villainy.” The exiled French noble emptied his pipe, ground the last embers of tobacco with his toe, and set off for the Plover.
John came to his feet. “Captain, this is a chance for both of us to get back to sea. Don’t let it slip through your fingers.”
“I don’t want to see you at my door again,” said Aubert, not looking back.
John’s mind raced. If he lost Aubert, he lost his only play against Laffite. He lost his last chance to find his family. “I’ve known your wife.”
Aubert spun around. His eyes narrowed to slits. “What the fuck did you just say?”
“For much longer than you.”
Now Aubert was storming back towards John.
John didn’t move. “She admires men that fight. She thinks she’s happy now, but ‘captain of the card table’ won’t satisfy her for long. She’ll grow restless.”
“You insolent rascal! I’ll fetch my saber and cut you to bloody rags.”
“Do it, if you think I’m wrong.” John stood his ground as Aubert seethed. “But I know what you really want: to put Laffite in irons, set sail on the Allegheny, and prove you’re worthy of her.”
Aubert reached a hand up as if to seize John’s neck, but instead curled it into a fist and let it drop. His eyes drifted as he considered. “How could it be done?”
“Martin Jameson. The merchant at your brag table—he’s Laffite’s fence. He sells stolen and smuggled goods throughout the city for Jean and Pierre Laffite. He also likes to gamble. He takes on debt with very dangerous creditors. His loss at your table on Friday was a large one. Seize his warehouse of illegal goods, and he’ll be in a corner.”
“Don’t be obtuse. He’ll just pay a fine and go about his business. Meanwhile, I’ll have made an enemy of every official the Laffites have bribed.”
“It won’t matter—we’re not after Jameson. As the only man allowed in Laffite’s counting-house, he knows where the loot is stashed. A year ago, when I was working for them, I saw Jameson steal a stack of bills and alter the ledger so no one would notice. Seize Jameson’s goods, and he’ll have no choice but to steal from Laffite to pay his debt. A friend of mine will follow Jameson to Laffite’s hideout, then report the location to you and your Marines.”
“And I put an end to all of them.”
John replied with a nod.
“And what’s your part in this?”
“Laffite expects me to settle my debt to him tomorrow night, or else. I’ll keep him distracted while you lead your Marines to his cache. Then you haul in the Creole scourge of Philadelphia, remove a parasite from the treasury, and set course for Tripoli with Secretary Smith’s gratitude.”
“That is if Laffite hasn’t slit your throat.”
“Ideally, yes.”
The mare sputtered and pissed loudly in the dirt.
“What do you expect in return?” Aubert wanted to know.
“Not much. A small share of the prize money. A midshipman’s berth on the Philadelphia. From what I hear, your good word would go a long way with Captain Bainbridge.”
“I detest that man!”
“Aye, but he admires men of high station, and you’ll have the commandant and the secretary behind you.”
“Risking your life to purchase austerity at sea? Hardly sound business acumen.”
“And yet, a bargain for you.”
Aubert regarded John with a smirk. As if, for the first time, he recognized a competitor in the game of court intrigue. “Aye. A bargain that could go badly for me in any number of ways.”
“Men like us have never been afraid to gamble.”
Aubert offered the slightest tilt of his chin. “Perhaps not.”
“One more thing. I have a friend. His name is Ethan Auldon. Bainbridge denied him a berth as surgeon’s mate because he’s black.”
“So?”
“Convince Bainbridge to change his mind.”
The captain curled his lip as if puzzling over a strange foreign custom. “Are you serious?”
John ground his teeth. “That is my price, Captain.”
“I underestimated you, Sullivan. The revolutionary attitudes of this country suit you. Your facility for subterfuge far exceeds that of the common rabble.” Aubert fastened a few loose buttons at his collar. “If a courier needed to find me, he might look at the Blue Anchor Tavern tomorrow night.” Without another word, he walked away and disappeared into the Plover.
John let go a heavy sigh. The mare whinnied and scratched herself against a tree. He set off towards the street. As he passed the stack of firewood outside the kitchen, he noticed Dominique in the corner of his vision.
“You’ve ‘known me?’” she said.
John pivoted. Dominique was leaning against the stack. A corncob pipe hung from the side of her mouth.
John shrugged. “I just needed to get his attention. Don’t think too much of it.”
“I don’t.”
The heat of the evening left a mist of perspiration on Dominique’s cleavage. John’s eyes traced up the curve of her waist. He wasn’t used to seeing her in a corset. And there was that beautiful ponytail again. He felt his breath quicken. “How long were you listening?”
“Long enough to know you’re going to pull Grey and Melisande into another dangerous game.”
“I’ll leave Melly out of it.”
Dominique scoffed and rolled her eyes. She took a deep drag.
“Dom, this isn’t a game. This isn’t some selfish racket. The Laffite brothers have ruined our lives. I have a plan to fight back.”
“You never learn, do you?”
John edged close to her, muttering under his breath, “And you do? Marrying this French stuffed-shirt? Just so you can play at being some aristocrat? It won’t change who you are.”
Dominique poked a finger in John’s chest. “At least I’m trying to build a life. A future. Here you are again, doing what you always do. Scheming, smuggling, gambling, fighting—always for me, you say. Or my brother. Or Melly. Or Ethan. Or Katie. But it’s for you—only for you—because you love the chaos. All you’ll do is stir up more trouble, and we’ll pay the price.”
John growled in frustration, looking at his feet. He thought for a moment, and began again, “I know what this looks like, but it’s different this time. I’m going to make things better for all of us. I promise.”
“I know you believe that. You always do.”
John edged even closer. He caught the sweet, acrid smell of tobacco on her breath. His heartbeat rose as he felt her body close to his. “You used to trust me.”
“My mistake.”
They fell quiet. John could see the pulse in her tender neck. A flush in her cheeks. He breathed in her scent. Like an orchid after the rain. He reached up and gently tugged the pipe out of her lips. “Your husband hates your smoking. I thought you promised to give it up.”
He could see her breath quickening as she replied, “I only slip out for a pipe once in a while.”
John moved closer. He studied the little mole above her lip. The tiny dimple in her chin. She didn’t pull away. “Sounds like you’re breaking a vow.”
She lifted her face closer. “Some are harder to keep than others,” she murmured.
John leaned in for a kiss. She closed her eyes. Before their lips could touch, she pulled away. John stood back and closed a hand over his mouth.
Avoiding his eyes, Dominique said, “Get going, Sully. Do what you’re going to do. Then you can be done with this city and out of our lives.”
John sighed. She wouldn’t look at him. He offered a nod of resignation. “Aye. Goodbye, Dominique.”
“Goodbye.”
As he headed towards the street, he thought he heard her add, “…John.”
Cover Artwork by Pablo Fernandez. Title Design by Kerem Beyit.
Chapter 13
The Sawduster Tavern
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Monday, July 4th, 1803
“He said he’d be here, right?” Sullivan asked again. The next time he asked, Melisande worried she might pull her raven-head war club on him.
“He’ll be here!” she groaned, sitting on a barrel in the Sawduster’s brewhouse. A sludge of malted barley bubbled in a copper kettle at the center of the room. The bitter scent of hops mingled with maple-sweet steam. She loosened another shirt button in the heat. Humidity pooled under her arms. There was barely enough room for Sully to move among the casks of beer, but still he paced, often knocking his head on the hand-carved ladles hanging from the ceiling.
“I know what you need, ole Sully.” Melisande rummaged through her black bandolier bag. It had been a gift from Maman Fawn, her Iroquois mother, years ago. Maman died of the pox years ago. When Melisande missed her the most, one look at the blue beadwork flowers and she would feel Maman Fawn’s spirit close by. She pulled out a green onion-shaped bottle and yanked the cork with her teeth. It plucked free with a merry squeak. She took a long pull and offered the bottle to Sullivan.
Melisande’s favorite Irish rogue looked doubtful.
“Don’t be rude, now, Sully,” said Melisande. “It’s better than my old recipe.”
Sullivan took a sip. He turned beet red as he swallowed, then exploded into a fit of coughing.
Melisande grinned. “That’s the way, my lovely.”
“Christ, Melly, what is this bilge?”
“Beggin’ your pardon, m’lord, but nothin’ you’d pour out of fancy crystal.”
“A chamber pot, perhaps…” Sullivan touched the chipped rim of the bottle to his lips for a smaller sip.
Melisande shrugged. “I was in prison. Where else would I brew it?”
Sullivan paused. He looked down the bottleneck, then again at Melisande.
“Only a jest, Sully,” Melisande said with a wink. “Drink it long enough, and there’s no other kind you’ll want.”
Sullivan furrowed his brows as if arriving at an epiphany. “Not unlike you.”
Melisande laughed and sprung off the barrel. She snatched the bottle for another swig. “I don’t get it. How can you be so sure Jameson will steal from Laffite? And today?”
“Simple. Laffite sets sail for New Orleans tonight. First, he’ll load cargo and collect the money in his counting-house. Jameson knows this, and he’ll have to move fast.”
Melisande punched Sullivan in the arm. “You clever fox. So while you’re meeting the frog, I’ll be keeping to the shadows and watching your back.”
“No. I have to go alone. I’ll give him a location for the Basques, and he’ll set sail. If he were to spot you, it would be all over.”
“But what if the frog kills you once he has what he wants?”
Sullivan took the bottle and forced down another eye-watering gulp. It looked to Melisande like buying time for an answer. “Laffite thinks of himself as a gentleman. If he believes me, he’ll keep his end of the bargain. Besides, I can take care of myself.”
“What aren’t you telling me, Sully?”
His eyes darted away and he took another sip.
A hollow metal bang sounded from the back wall. To the casual observer, it would have appeared to be nothing more than the kettle expanding with heat. But to Melisande and Sully, it was a secret knock. Sullivan went to the columns of barrels stacked three high, end-on-end, near the source of the sound. He reached to the cask farthest back and lowest to the ground, then turned the metal tap near its bottom. There was a satisfying click, and four columns shifted. Sully tugged, and the barrels slid over the stone floor on hidden wheels. A false patch of wall came away with them, revealing a small passage between the brewhouse and the tavern.
Ethan Auldon stepped out, dirt smudges clinging to his sweat. He and Sully clasped hands.
“Ethan,” smiled Sullivan. “Any trouble?”
“No trouble. No one saw him enter the city.”
Sullivan let go a sigh of relief. “Thank you for doing this, mate. I know this isn’t what your father had in mind. If there were another way…”
“My father built this tunnel to free families from slavery,” said Ethan, with more than a hint of pride. “If it helps you free yours, then I’d say it’s just what he had in mind. Besides, I owed you one.”
The young man that followed Ethan was a member of the Tuscarora Nation of the Haudenosaunee—the Iroquois, as settlers called them. Melisande’s heart swelled with both affection and guilt at the sight of her brother, Grey Feather. He wore a twilight blue tunic and buckskin leggings with the intricate beadwork of a sachem’s son. His head was shaved and painted black but for a feather-laced braid falling down his back. Papa Grey Fox’s antler-hilted knife was sheathed on his chest. After four months in debtor’s prison, Melisande wanted nothing more than to throw her arms around him. But she and Dominique were also the reason he lived in exile.
“Grey Feather,” said Sullivan, extending his hand.
“John Sullivan.” The Tuscarora warrior hesitated a moment, then shook hands.
“I can’t thank you enough for helping me.”
“I’m not helping you. I’m helping my sisters.”
A tense silence passed between the two men.
“Grey, I don’t think Sully likes our longhouse brew,” Melisande said, pretending to be casual.
“He doesn’t have a Kautanohakau stomach,” said Grey Feather. He looked sternly at her. “White settlers should keep to their perfumed punch.”
Melisande risked a smile. “I missed you, Grey.”
For a moment, it looked as if her brother’s frown might not break. That he might start a lecture. But then, amusement tugged at his eyes. “I missed you too, Little Crow.”
Melisande felt tears welling. She’d have died before letting them fall. So she chuckled and threw an arm around his muscular shoulders. “You boys aren’t smelling any prettier in this heat. Let’s go in for a drink.”
A few minutes later, Melisande, Sully, and Grey Feather stood around a table in the deserted taproom of the Sawduster. Chairs stood on tables. Cold ash dusted the hearth. Musical instruments hung on the wall over the stage. The doors were locked, the curtains drawn. There would be Independence Day festivities later, but for now, Ethan had the place closed. Sully outlined the last few details of his plan to bring down Laffite.
Ethan closed the valve on a beer cask behind the bar. He placed four flagons on a tray, foam running over the rims, and brought them to the table. “On the house,” he said cheerfully.
“For me, Fiddles?” said Melisande. She was never one to turn down free booze. “I always liked you.”
“Very kind of you to say, Melisande,” said Ethan. He furrowed his brow seriously. “Tell me, do you know anyone’s true name?”
Melisande batted her eyes. “My names are always true.”
Ethan sighed in defeat.
“Thanks, mate,” Sullivan said to Ethan after a long draught, a bit of suds on his upper lip. “Now then, we’re agreed?”
Grey Feather ran an oiled cloth over the head of his tomahawk as he spoke. “In an hour, Dominique’s husband will seize Martin Jameson’s Third Street Warehouse. The fat trader will run to Laffite’s hideout to steal from his counting-house. I will follow him there, then double back to the Blue Anchor Tavern and bring the white soldiers.”
“While I distract our quarry,” said Sullivan.
“Very fine, Sully, very fine,” declared Melisande. She sat on the tabletop and crossed one leg over the other. She leaned back like a Siren sunning herself on a shoal. “And while Grey leads a bunch of noisy soldiers with muskets, I glide silently along behind them, keeping to the brush. Your finest plan yet.”
“On any other day, you’d be right,” said Sullivan. “But Laffite is having you followed, which is why I need you in the city, at the Cat and Queen. I need you to keep his thugs occupied and far from Grey.”
“Wait at Kitty’s? While you have all the fun? Sully, you’d waste my talents!”
“Sullivan is right,” insisted Grey. “Stay at the cat tavern.”
Now Melisande was pissed. Typical dumb boys. Always leaving the girls out so they could play Chief Prick Hero. “This was Dominique’s doing. She made you promise, didn’t she?”
Sully scratched the back of his head for a moment, then admitted, “She wanted you kept out of this.”
“I knew it! My sister doesn’t get to stick her prissy little nose in my business. Did she ever take my advice when she married that poncy asshole?”
“Melly, your sister is only looking after you. Pierre Laffite is dangerous, and he knows you’re in the city. This isn’t because I don’t trust you—it’s for the good of the plan.”
“And what if you and Grey get into trouble? What if you need help? I don’t need you looking after me. It’s the other way around.”
“Do this? For me?” Sully made his bright, wheat-colored eyes pout at her. Like he always did when he wanted something.
Melisande glared at wood shavings on the floor. She’d be damned if he got a smile out of her. “Fine,” she muttered.
Sullivan nodded, grinning like an idiot. “Thank you.”
“Yeah, sure. Hairy sheep-shagging…” Insults trailed off under her breath.
“Grey Feather,” said Sullivan. “I don’t know how I can repay you.”
“Simple,” replied Grey. “When it’s done, repay me by leaving this city and my sisters’ lives. For good.”
“Aye. That’s the best deal I’m getting these days.”
Melisande snorted.
“Right, then,” Sullivan said. “See you tonight.”
“I’ll walk you out,” said Ethan.
Ethan unlocked the back door. Melisande watched him and Sully step outside. When the door closed, she said in Iroquois, “So when do we leave, Grey?”
It was a bold statement. She knew Grey Feather wanted her to stay. He could give the order, but they both knew she would follow him anyway. So it had been since Melisande was six years old. And while he was a better fighter, she was a better tracker. After a long sigh, he said in Iroquois, “Soon, Little Crow. Be ready.”
Chapter 14
The Bosphorus Crescent, formerly the Wandering Hart
The Mediterranean Sea
Friday, January 4th, 1799
Four and a Half Years Ago
John poured vinegar into a slender bottle. He uncorked a cask of the ship’s sour, stinking water and added some to the bottle. Next, he took a wedge of rusk from a pile on the table, poured a little of the mixture onto the biscuit, and added it to a wooden bucket. He worked in the quiet of what used to be the Wandering Hart’s galley. Now, it was the place where he prepared slave rations. When he had the bucket filled with rusk, he started down to the lower deck as he did every night.
He passed the rows of hammocks filled with Turks, Jews, renegade Europeans, Janissaries, and enslaved crew snoring and farting. Some played dice or cards in the corners. No one spoke to him, and that’s how he liked it.
John opened the hatch to the Bosphorus Crescent’s hold. The fumes of sewage and vomit hit him like a hot belch. He lit a lantern and climbed down. There were sounds of coughing, groans, and occasional weeping. Twenty-four captives chained to the hull, looking up at him. He didn’t look at them. He never did. He shuffled from prisoner to prisoner, handing one rusk biscuit to each.
“Thank you, lad,” said an older man. The pirates had taken him off his fishing boat, a mile from a Sicilian village.
“Please, signore,” said a middle-aged woman. She was taken with her daughter while gathering muscles on the shores of Malta. She didn’t accept the ration. Instead, she tugged at his shirt. “Dove? My…Daniela, dove—where? I have not seen. Days. Not seen for days. Per favore, signore.”
Her daughter, an eleven-year-old girl, had been locked in the first mate’s quarters since their capture. John didn’t think about that. If he did, he might think about Kaitlin, and he never thought about Kaitlin. John pulled away from the woman’s grasp. He thrust the biscuit into her hand. She failed to grip it and it fell into the murky water. He moved on.
“Please, signore,” said the woman again. “Mia Daniela. Where?”
John ignored her and finished his rounds. Later, as John was putting away the bucket and vinegar, a crewman told him to report to the captain’s cabin. The re’is wanted to see him. He did as ordered, and when he entered the cabin, he found Ilyas Naim dining alone at his table.
The pirate captain was cutting into baked chicken and sipping red wine. The dishes once belonged to Nora. John’s eyes drifted towards the dark stern windows. In his mind, he saw Mother and Father’s upholstered chairs looking out to sea. He saw them sitting there, watching the sunset, their hands joined. To their right, he saw Kaitlin digging for a doll in her cedar toy chest. Isaac was setting down his chart and compass and taking up his lute. John’s grown brother struggled on a few chords, but it sounded beautiful anyway.
“You wanted to see me, Re’is?” said John.
“Sullivan,” said Naim more cheerfully than usual. “Good.”
The imagined sunlight faded from the windows. The ghost of John’s family vanished. Isaac’s musical notes soured and died away. John looked across the table at his master.
Naim dabbed a napkin across his thickening mustache and beard. “I have something for you.” When John said nothing, his master slid a brass key across the table.
John looked at the key, frowned, then looked back at Naim. Is he testing me? John thought, panicking. Have I forgotten a task he assigned me? My God, what can I tell him? “Forgive me, Re’is, I don’t understand.”
Naim sighed impatiently. “Do you not remember?”
John’s panic was only worsening. Hopefully his punishment would be bastinadoes on his feet, rather than lashes. “Please, forgive me, Re’is, I don’t…”
“John,” Naim sighed. “You asked for this. Two weeks ago.”
“A key?”
“You asked me if I would consider removing your irons. I said no.” Naim circled around the table. “But this voyage has been an incredible success. The crew is happy, the hold is full, and my investors will be pleased. I’m going to be a wealthy man, due in no small part to you. So, I have changed my mind. You no longer need to drag that chain with you everywhere you go.”
John picked up the key. He turned it over in his hand.
“Well?” Naim said. “Are you going to stand there?”
Dreamily, John knelt down. He slid the key into the iron ring around his ankle. He turned it, felt a click, and saw the shackle come apart. His foot came free, feeling like a foreign object grafted onto his body. As though it was too light to be his own. With the manacle gone, the air cooled his tender skin. He took a few lopsided steps, trying to remember how to walk without it.
“Well, how do you feel?” Naim asked.
“I feel…It feels good. Thank you, Re’is.”
“Don’t thank me yet. There’s more.” Naim reached for a small wooden box on the table. He presented it to John. “Go on.”
John began to wonder if this was some kind of trick. Such generosity didn’t feel possible. He fumbled with the copper latch and opened the lid. He fought back tears.
His mother’s silver watch. He touched it, not believing it was real. He flipped open the hunter case. He read the inscription inside. His hands trembled.
Naim broke into a warm smile. “I know how fond you were of her. And I know how much the inscription means to you. A fitting memento. I want you to have it.”
John looked at Naim. “Thank you, Re’is. This is…I don’t have the words.”
“You are welcome, John.” He stepped back to his chair. “And I told you before—when we’re in private, call me Ilyas.” As an afterthought, he pointed at John and said, “But only in private.”
Naim took a sip of wine. “I’ve left word with the quartermaster to give you a full seaman’s share of the spoils. Keep up this pace, and you might be free in a few years. Come, let’s celebrate. I’ll pour you some wine.”
John felt a bittersweet nostalgia. He had never been thanked so directly by Re’is Naim. At the very edges of his being, he could feel the touch of personhood. As if he was at the bow of the Wandering Hart again, the day after the storm; when he was still Irish, still free, still a friend, a son, and a brother.
He wanted the feeling gone.
“Thank you, Re’is. Am I dismissed?”
Naim frowned. “If you like.” He propped his elbows on the table. “I had hoped you might stay for a while, like you used to.”
“Then I will, Re’is.”
Naim’s smile slipped away. He took a sip of wine. “No, that won’t be necessary. You may go.”
John went to the door. Before stepping out, he asked, “Would you like me to check our course before I retire?”
Naim shook his head. “You did an hour ago.”
“Right.”
“Is everything all right, John? You’ve been very quiet the last few days.”
“Yes, I’m fine. Tired, that’s all. It won’t affect my duties.”
“I wasn’t worried about your duties. I was worried about you.”
“I’m sorry to have worried you, Re’is.” John almost left right then, but for some reason, he said, “Re’is, may I ask a question?”
“You may.”
“When did I tell you about the inscription on the watch? I can’t recall.”
Naim’s eyes searched his memory. “I don’t recall either. It must have been over wine one night.”
John smiled. “Of course, must have been.”
Naim smiled back. “Sleep well, John. Peace be upon you.”
“And upon you, peace, Ilyas.”
John left the cabin and walked to the bow of the Bosphorus Crescent. He stood on the exact spot where he had been the day of the attack, with Kaitlin standing beside him. He looked down to where their noble red stag once reared over the sea. In its place was a figurehead of Sultan Mehmet Han II, conqueror of Constantinople. John held up his mother’s watch like a moon above the starlit waves. He would never be free. He knew he would never see his mother, father, or sister again. John held the watch out over the waves, and he let the chain begin to slip from his grasp.
That’s when John saw the breaker. His fist tightened on the watch chain. He leaned forward, squinting into the darkness. He saw surf shimmering in the moonlight. Waves were crashing against a reef, dead ahead.
John spun around to warn the officer of the watch. There might be time to alter course or heave-to before impact. He got two steps before he stopped. John looked around. The lookouts in the crosstrees were calm. A couple Janissaries walked the deck. None of them had seen the danger. An idea occurred to John.
He was moving again, but this time calmly. He headed below decks as casually as if he were delivering the rusk and vinegar. He lit a lantern and climbed down into the hold. The slaves all looked at him in surprise, no doubt confused why he would be visiting again so soon. John found Naim’s key in his pocket and used it to unlock a prisoner’s shackles.
“Listen carefully,” John said to the captives. “Get yourselves free, then hide on the deck above. Wait for a few minutes, then get above decks as fast as you can. There won’t be much time.”
“But the pirates…”
“What’s happening? What are you doing?”
“How long do we wait?”
John handed the key to the first freed captive, who in turn unlocked the next. “Just do it,” John commanded. “You’ll know when to move. This is the best chance I can give you.” He ignored their hail of questions and climbed back up.
A moment later, John stood at the bow once again. He looked out over the water, squinting. At first, he didn’t see anything. He felt a nervous panic at the thought he might have imagined the reef. But then a spray of foam caught the light. With the Bosphorus Crescent—no! With the Wandering Hart making seven knots, a reef that size would gut her from stem to stern. She would strike the rocks within ten minutes. Sink within five. He leaned on the rail, looking out to the horizon. A cold smile spread across John’s face.
###
John Sullivan woke up coughing on water. His lungs burned as he gasped for air. Cool sand drained through his fingers. He heard the sound of chuckling surf and crying gulls. He pushed up on all fours. Water rushed around him. The wave tried to wash him backward, but he dug in.
“Are you all right, son?” A voice boomed above. The words were English, but in a hard, blunt accent.
John felt a shadow over him and looked up. A man in white trousers and worn boots towered against the noon sun. He had short, black hair and a long beard.
“I said, are you all right?” the man repeated.
John looked around. A beautiful beach snaked through craggy inland cliffs. Low growing scrub speckled the dunes. Broken bits of wood and scraps of rope danced in the breakers. “What happened? Where am I?”
“Shipwrecked, it would appear. You’re in Sicily, near the town of Palermo. What’s your name, son?”
“John. John Sullivan.”
“I’m Captain Mooney of the Calypso. My crew spotted you here. You’re the only survivor we found.”
“Captain, you said?”
“Aye. Out of Philadelphia.” The captain offered a hand.
John accepted Mooney’s grip. The captain hauled John up like a toddler. “What city is that?” John asked.
Mooney scoffed. “Philadelphia, Pennsylvania,” he proclaimed in a proud baritone. “Capital of the United States of America.”
“United States?” John parroted. He recalled stories of the Yankee rebellion across the Atlantic. Beyond that, he knew little of the place.
“Aye. We’re setting sail for home presently.”
John cast another look around. There were a few scraps of wood littering the beach, but otherwise no sign of the Wandering Hart. John looked at Captain Mooney. “I’m a skilled hand at the mast. Might I trade work for passage?”
Mooney smiled. “We’re not headed to Ireland, lad, but I could get you as far as Lisbon.”
John realized the captain had recognized his accent. Until this moment, the thought of Ireland hadn’t even entered his mind. “No. Philadelphia will be fine.”
Mooney’s eyes narrowed. “Are you sure? Wouldn’t you rather go home, wherever that might be?”
John’s eyes drifted out to sea. He imagined the wreck of the Wandering Hart on the ocean floor, resting in cold darkness.
“I don’t have a home.”
Chapter 15
Church Creek Mill
Outside Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Monday, July 4th, 1803
Present Day
The full moon hung low and orange, like a bruise in the night sky. Cicadas buzzed the counterpoint to a symphony of croaking frogs. Fifteen smugglers rowed a small boat against the lazy current of Church Creek. Fifteen men spitting tobacco over the side and scratching beards with filthy hands. A sleepy mist broke apart in their wake. All around them, silhouettes of ash and hickory leaves blotted out the landscape beyond.
As the boat came around a bend, the narrow Delaware tributary opened up into a large millpond. A twin of the moon brooded in the glassy surface. On the far side, a three-story mill rose out of the mist like an apparition. Light in its windows filtered through a ghostly shroud. The gabled roof appeared to drift against the stars. At the foot of the mill, below a fifteen-foot cliff, a dock extended into the water. A dozen men with torches lined its edges. At the end stood a dark figure in a tall hat, sipping a churchwarden pipe.
John sat near the bow, feeling the eyes of Laffite’s henchmen on his back. The moment John showed up at Martin Jameson’s warehouse, they gave him no choice but to come along. There was nothing to do but sit and chew his tobacco. All was in motion. Triumph or fail, live or die, John’s days in Philadelphia were done.
The rowers shouldered their oars as the boat coasted toward the dock. John caught the bow, stepped out, and tied it to the cleat. Pierre Laffite waited a few feet away, patiently rolling a coin down his knuckles. As the other smugglers disembarked, John turned and faced the French pirate. His men were sweating through shirts and kerchiefs in the summer heat. Martin Jameson stood a few paces behind his employer, mopping a soaked cravat across his forehead. Laffite, by contrast, looked like a courtier missing from a ball in his long black jacket and crimson waistcoat.
“It seems my men owe me a handsome little sum,” said Laffite. “They all bet you would not show.”
“I considered alternatives.”
“Running? It’s not like you, John.” Laffite lit a spill from Jameson’s lantern and touched the burning stick to his pipe. As he puffed the tobacco to life, he said, “I take it you have something for me?”
“Fernando Pavia keeps a small stash a few miles downriver. The site is owned by local Spaniards—friends of the family. They expect one more drop tomorrow. If you want to make your move, it has to be tonight.”
“And how do I know this information is good?”
“Godfried.”
“Come again?” Laffite said, the pipe pinched in his teeth.
“Godfried. My landlady’s Irish sheepdog.”
Laffite plucked the pipe from his mouth. “Your landlady’s sheepdog.”
“Godfried has an exceptional nose.” John pulled Fernando Pavia’s kerchief—the one he’d found in the road—from his pocket. “All I needed was Pavia’s scent. Godfried did the rest. Remarkable animals, dogs.”
Laffite looked at the rag, then back at John. He broke into a grin. “Very good, John. I must say, I’m pleased. When my men finish loading the boats, we will board the Penelope. I expect you to guide us to the Basque’s anchorage without incident; otherwise, it will go badly for you.”
“And you won’t get the location a moment before.”
Laffite chuckled. “I like this side of you, John. Though I’m hurt you find me so untrustworthy.”
“I don’t trust any man wearing that much velvet.” John spit tobacco juice on the dock.
“I think this country is having an un-civilizing influence on you, my friend. Of course, how civilized are the Irish to begin with?”
The group of smugglers laughed—Jameson the loudest.
“Very well,” said Laffite. He swept a hand toward the mill like a gracious host welcoming a guest. “Come along then, John. We are in for a long night.”
John stepped forward, and the two men started down the dock shoulder to shoulder. For a moment, they walked in silence.
Then Laffite said, “With your love of brag and whist, I imagine you would be fond of poque. Very popular with my countrymen in Bordeaux. Have you played?”
“Never heard of it.”
“Really? I’m surprised, given your penchant. For my part, I never liked cards.”
“Is that a fact?” John replied flatly.
“Backgammon—now there is a real game.”
They reached the end of the dock where, on John’s right, a hook dangled over a large platform. John’s eyes wandered up to the rope’s source high above. On the highest floor of the mill, an enclosed jetty projected over the creek like a castle turret. Through the open trap door in the bottom, he could make out the block and tackle used to haul up loads on the hook. The two men passed the platform by. They started up three flights of stairs zig-zagging to the top of the embankment.
“Never liked dice games,” said John.
“Pity. They say it was played by the ancient Pharaohs of Egypt. I used to play in Cap Francais with a favorite business client of mine. A very wealthy planter, Monsieur Claude Gabauriau. As ruthless a player as he was a businessman. We would sip sherry and discuss philosophy under the shade of a lime tree in the square. A fine way to pass a hot day in the West Indies.”
“How wonderful,” John said, raising his voice over splashing water. Directly beside the stairs, the mill’s wheel rotated forty feet in the air. Drops from the paddles alighted on his face.
“Oh, yes,” Laffite agreed cheerfully. “He thought of his slaves as his wards and tried always to treat them with boundless generosity. I once asked him if he ever worried about his ‘wards’ joining the uprising. ‘S’il vous plait, mon ami!’ he once told me. ‘To call this a rebellion is so much melodrama! Dogs may escape a leash, but that hardly makes them conquerors.’ His favorite house slave was standing right there when he said it—what was his name—Michel? Mathis?”
Laffite and John came to the top of the stairwell. John could hear the creaking and clunking of the mill’s machinery. Fog swirled through the lamplight of the ground-floor windows.
“‘Look how finely dressed and well-mannered my Mathis is!’ he’d say. ‘But for the kindness of white men, he’d still be wearing rags and dancing around fires in the jungle.’” Laffite gesticulated dramatically. He quoted in a deep, pontificating voice. “‘Once these rebels get a taste of life outside our care, they will tire of their tantrums and come running home.’”
Laffite chuckled to himself. He and John came to the large double doors on the east side of the mill. To their right, the conical roof of the grain silo pointed towards the North Star.
Laffite stopped short of entering. “The last day I was in Cap-Francais, I was ordering the crew of the Penelope to cast off while a mob of rebels overran the last soldiers. But Gabauriau—the fool would not board.”
Curious in spite of himself, John asked, “What was he doing?”
“As the Penelope was drifting out to sea, Gabauriau was screaming at Mathis and the mob behind him. ‘How dare you! After all I’ve done for you! Get back to the house at once!’ He drew his sword and charged. The last thing I saw in Saint-Domingue was Mathis beating the brains out of my favorite backgammon player.”
John dug through his tobacco pouch. He pressed a pinch of leaves under his lip. He looked at Laffite as he kneaded the tobacco with his tongue.
Laffite put his hand on the doorknob but didn’t turn it. “You see, John, in the end, he couldn’t accept his cause was lost.”
John stared at Laffite a moment, forgetting to spit.
A smile crept into Laffite’s eyes. “We could all learn a lesson from Monsieur Gabauriau.”
Laffite gave a push, and the double doors swung inward. A clockwork of clicking gears, rotating shafts, and connecting sprockets crowded a factory floor. Dozens of sconces—the candles enclosed by glass so as not to ignite the grain dust—filled the space with light. John saw no sign of Captain Aubert and the Marines, but it was early yet.
“Samson, Renaud,” Laffite nodded at the two men. “Get started, if you please.”
Jameson fidgeted with his cufflinks. He paced erratically, beads of sweat forming on his face. “I trust all is in order then, Mr. Laffite? You received my shipment last night?”
“Oui, Monsieur Jameson.” Laffite wrapped the words around his pipe stem. “All is accounted for, ready to be loaded.”
“No trouble, then?”
“Trouble? Certainly not. The imports are sold, the exports ready to be loaded, the count whole. The Basques will soon be removed.”
John felt a pit in his stomach. By now, Jameson had swiped the funds he needed from Laffite’s counting-house. Grey had to be on the way with Aubert and the Marines. But what’s keeping them? John worried to himself.
Laffite barked orders for his crew to start moving crates to the docks. John couldn’t help searching the nooks and crannies for signs of a Marine ambush. On the south wall, the water wheel shaft cranked a series of cogs, connecting belts, and gears. A line of six millstones on the south side of the ground floor spun beneath hoppers. Crushed grain spilled down chutes into stone basins ten feet across. A narrow mezzanine ran along all four walls. A catwalk cut east to west across the middle of the room. Machinery, workbenches, and stacked barrels of grist cluttered the north side. Ropes and pulleys dangled from the third floor like vines in a jungle. There were no workers—probably dismissed by the band of criminals graciously renting the space.
“Where shall I start?” John said to Laffite, gesturing to the crates of illegal goods stashed throughout the building. Casks of liquor, clothing, tobacco. Ingots of copper and steel. Weapons of every kind. All free of tariffs and excise taxes. Ten paces away, John recognized two hilts sticking out of an open barrel. His weapons, Ace and Spade.
Laffite tilted his head. “Au contraire. Allow me to start by thanking you, John.”
“Spare me, Laffite. I take no pleasure in betraying the Basques.”
“No,” Laffite smiled. “For this.”
In a single motion, Laffite pulled his pistol, cocked the hammer, and raised it in John’s direction. He fired.
Smoke exploded from the barrel with an ear-splitting crack. John looked to his right. A neat red button of blood oozed from Jameson’s forehead. A jet of brain matter fanned out on the floor behind him. For one brief second, Jameson’s corpse remained standing in wide-eyed surprise, then dropped.
As his crew pulled pistols on John, Laffite added, “I always wondered if he was shorting me. But you settled that matter, didn’t you?”
“Laffite,” John said. “What are you doing? We have a deal.”
“No, John, we had a deal. And had you kept your end, I would have been happy to let you go. But you conspired to double-cross me.”
A cacophony rose from the granary door as it scraped open. John looked to the source of the sound. The bony sailor Renaud and his muscular counterpart Samson led two prisoners out of the silo: Melisande and Grey Feather. Ropes bound their hands behind their backs. Blood trickled from Melisande’s swollen lip. Violet blotches darkened her jaw. Grey Feather’s right eye had nearly swollen shut; blood crusted over the other. Melisande looked at her adversaries like an angry badger; Grey assessed them calmly. Blood drained from John’s face.
“Come on, you buggers!” spat Renaud as he dragged Melisande. She jerked and kicked.
Two men seized John and pulled him to one of the columns supporting the catwalk. Wrenching his arms behind him, they bound his hands to the thick beam with cords of rope. Renaud and Samson tied Melisande and Grey Feather to adjacent columns.
“Your little plan almost worked,” Laffite said, shaking his head. “My men weren’t watching Jameson or the savage. And your little squaw easily lost my clumsy oafs.” Laffite sneered askance at Francois. Then he sashayed toward Melisande, celebrating with a titter. “Ah, but you never saw my man Nichols blending into the crowd, slinking through the trees. He’s half-Indian—or didn’t you know, Mam’selle Dufort?”
“You’re done, frog!” Melisande spat. “Sully’s a bad enemy to have.”
“Really, my dear?” replied Laffite. “Then why is he the one tied up?”
“You can still have the location of the Basques, Laffite,” said John. “Just let them go.”
“It’s too late for that, John. Captain Aubert won’t be joining us tonight, but I’ll keep his wife’s pets hostage all the same.”
Francois flashed a yellow grin at Melisande. “Before the night’s done, I daresay we can teach this one to like the menfolk.”
Melisande’s eyes turned feral. “Before the night’s done, I’ll have your guts.”
Francois took a step forward. “Is that right?”
“Careful,” Grey Feather said. “She means it.”
Francois glared at the Iroquois prisoner and drew his knife.
“Francois,” interrupted Laffite. “Your boorishness is beneath the reputation of the Brothers Laffite. Now get to work.”
“Mr. Laffite, sir,” said a tan, skinny man with dark mutton-chops. He approached Laffite out of breath.
“Yes, Nichols,” Laffite said, still leering at John.
“Whitlock’s on his fastest horse. He should arrive with the bounty by dawn.”
“Do you hear that, John?” Laffite nodded toward Grey Feather and Melisande. “Those two will give me Aubert. Aubert will give me the Basques. And the Tindalls will give me a small fortune for you.” His eyes became distant as if he were slipping into a pleasant daydream. “This night could only improve if a Parisian courtesan tickled mon cul.”
John’s face twisted into an expression somewhere between curiosity and disgust.
Laffite smiled and sauntered out of the mill. His men dispersed, quickly falling into a line of workers hauling crates, barrels, and sacks out to the dock.
“I never should have trusted you,” Grey Feather said to John. “This is your fault.”
“I made Melisande swear to keep out of this!” John spat back.
“You knew damn well she would follow. You used her.”
“I am trying to help her. Help all of us.”
Melisande slumped into a sigh. “All right, all right, you can stop whining like a pair of nannies who spilled the governess’ tea,” she said, slipping into a poor English accent. “This one’s on me, ok? I didn’t think Laffite was smart enough to hire a Seneca tracker.”
“No, the fault is mine, Little Crow,” said Grey Feather. “I should have known it was too easy to lose the others.”
“We’ll kick Laffite in the bullocks, yet. Sully’s already got a new plan. Sully’s always got a plan. Isn’t that right, Sully?” She looked over at John, worry creeping into her voice. “Sully, what’s the plan?”
“I’m sorry, Melly,” John said. “Nothing yet.”
For a moment, none of them spoke.
Then John added, “But we still have until dawn, and we’re not giving up.”
Melisande lit up. “Right! Let’s try those ropes.”
In silence, the three fumbled at their knots while Laffite’s crew began their long night of work.