“Permission to join you on the quarterdeck, sir.” When Harkness waved him forward, Falconer climbed the stairs to where Reginald Langston had now joined them.
“We are entering alien territories, sir,” Falconer said gently. “I would suggest we seek allies in every quarter possible.”
Harkness glanced at Reginald. But the owner was clearly not intending to offer any opinion. “What do you advise?” the captain asked, looking Falconer full in the face.
The American ship’s longboat covered the distance in half an hour. The waves were steep and the wind fresh, such that they arrived at the British vessel fully drenched. Falconer and Bivens climbed the rope ladder, saluted first the foredeck and then the ship’s colors, and requested a private word with the skipper.
A middy led them to the captain’s day cabin. This being both a smaller frigate and a warship, the quarters were not nearly as large or ornate as upon the Langston vessel. A good deal of the day cabin was also taken up by twin eighteen-pounders, the numbers denoting the size of shot the cannons fired.
Captain Clovis was a stubby, barrel-chested man with a beard that spilled over his navy uniform jacket. He accepted their salutes with a nod, invited them to sit, and directed his steward to serve coffee. While the mate bustled about, Clovis said, “You’re sailing one of those newfangled clippers.”
“Aye, sir,” Bivens replied.
“British made?”
“Boston.”
“I hear they are fast.”
“Chesapeake headwaters to Portsmouth docks in seventeen days and three hours, sir.”
That news turned the steward around. Clovis was a proud man, bearing as he did the imprint of the British navy. He tried but did not fully succeed in hiding his astonishment. “Not much to her abeam, not much at all. What’s your armaments? Twenty guns?”
“Sixteen, sir.”
“Not but sixteen, is it?” The captain sniffed. “Fourteen amidships, one in the forecastle and a single stern chaser, why, that would scarcely disturb an infant at rest.”
“We merchants prefer to leave the fighting to your good selves,” Bivens said politely.
“Nice to hear a merchant acknowledge our place upon the waters. Why, many’s the time I’ve been snubbed by you Yankee merchants. Snubbed!”
Bivens cast a glance at Falconer. “Indeed, sir. Not good judgment on their part, I would say.”
“Drink your coffee, man. It’ll go stone cold on you.” Clovis was clearly mollified by their attitude. “Now then. What brings you on board my vessel?”
At a nod from the lieutenant, Falconer said, “Might I ask, sir. Are you part of the Gibraltar squadron?”
“That depends on who’s doing the asking.”
“John Falconer is a senior official within the Langston merchant empire,” Bivens replied. “Reginald Langston, the owner, is on board.”
“I’ve heard nothing but good things about yon Langston and his vessels,” Clovis said, settling further into his chair.
Falconer pulled the oilskin pouch from beneath his coat and used his napkin to dry off the exterior. He then untied the strap and removed the folded documents. “We carry official requests from the French and Spanish ambassadors to the Court of Saint James for all possible assistance. And another from the Admiralty.”
Clovis inspected them carefully. When he lifted his chin, his tone had become less guarded still. “What do you seek?”
“Counsel and allies, Captain.” Swiftly Falconer recounted their mission.
When he finished, Clovis rose from his chair and stumped to the rear windows. He released the bottom latch and used the rope pulley to winch it open. The salt air was fresh and tangy. “The pirate La Rue has taken to calling himself an admiral now. Ali Saleem has given him control over the entire pirate fleet.”
“You know him?”
“Know of him, sir. Never met him personally. If we had, he’d not be sailing these waters ever again. Of that I can assure you most confidently.”
Falconer chose his words carefully. “The war against the French is over…the Mediterranean is open waters.”
“The northern sea is free and open,” Clovis corrected, addressing his words to the stern waters. “The south is a political quagmire. Do you wish to know why we permit this man to prey upon the helpless? Well, then, I shall tell you. Because we have no choice, sir. Because we are
ordered
to leave him be, by the same powers that signed your document! The French and the Spanish and the Whitehall officials tie the Admiralty’s hands!”
Clovis began stumping back and forth between their chairs and the stern windows. Even seated, Falconer was almost at eye level with the skipper. “Ali Saleem is a prince,” Clovis went on. “Not any made-up title. A genuine prince of the desert realm. La Rue is his most trusted deputy. Ali Saleem has entered into a treaty with both the French and the Spanish, who by all accounts are well paid for this patronage. In return, La Rue is free to inflict his suffering upon the innocent. So long, I might add, as he is not caught in international waters. Five times I have chased him, sir. Five times! At least I have caught sight of his vessel and given chase—whether or not he was on board I cannot say for certain. Each time he has slipped into one of his harbors, where I am ordered not to enter.”
Falconer glanced at Bivens and took a breath. “I would like to tell you of our plans.”
As Falconer spoke, Clovis returned to his seat, fixing a glare at Falconer that might have melted a lesser man. When Falconer finished, Clovis continued his fierce inspection. But when he finally spoke, it was to say, “I should like nothing better than to come to your aid and join you in your quest.”
Captain Harkness had never had occasion to visit Marseilles. Falconer had been there once and Bivens three times. Together they inked out a crude map, mainly the port area and the old town. Though Reginald Langston had never reason to call on his company’s new offices, he had read enough reports to offer some aid, at least in regard to the upper-class market areas where neither sailor had set foot. Captain Harkness used the largest paper on board for his map—the reverse side of the South Seas anchorages. The map became the centerpiece for their final dinners on board. They plotted with the care of a small frigate entering enemy waters. With meaningful looks from Falconer, they kept their discussions veiled until Matt had gone off to bed.
Amelia Henning was repeatedly invited to dine with them. Each time she begged permission to take her meals in the solitude of her cabin. The final night before their arrival in Marseilles, however, Harkness turned to his first lieutenant over coffee. “Ask the lady to join us, Bivens.”
The young officer rose from his chair. “Aye, sir.”
“If she declines, insist. As gently as possible, mind. But make it clear we need her presence this time.”
Bivens saluted and departed. Harkness turned to Falconer and said, “You showed an uncommon way of communicating with the lady, sir. I would rather you handled this.”
“If you wish.”
Harkness nodded. “You know what’s to be done.”
The woman obviously did not argue, for they waited scarcely three minutes before Amelia Henning appeared. The officers rose as one, and Harkness stepped forward to greet her. “Thank you for attending us, Mrs. Henning.”
“You are welcome. Your man made it sound urgent.”
“Indeed so. You should find that chair comfortable. Will you take coffee?” Harkness waited for his officers to resume their places, then motioned to Falconer.
The lady was seated between Reginald Langston and the first lieutenant. She was dressed in the same threadbare garments, but at least they had been washed as properly as shipboard life allowed. Her wayward hair was controlled somewhat by a pair of tortoiseshell combs. The blisters which had marked her face were healing. Falconer found himself reducing his earlier estimate of her age by a decade, down possibly to her late twenties. Were it not for the internal wounds she carried, Falconer realized, Amelia Henning would be a remarkably attractive woman.
“We arrive in Marseilles with the dawn,” Falconer told her. “Our preparations are nearing completion. We must discuss your role.”
Her chin lifted into a fiercely stubborn line. “I shall remain with the ship’s company and retrieve my daughter.”
Falconer possessed a voice that could reach the highest watch in a storm. Now, however, he spoke so gently his breath did not disturb the candles anchoring the map’s near side. “The ship’s company shall not proceed further than the African coast, madam.”
She blanched. “What—what do you mean?”
“I cannot say for certain what will happen. Everything we hope to do depends upon what we discover in Marseilles. For the moment, we feel our tactics are as sound as we can make them. We move forward with stealth and determination. Which means limiting the number of people who will enter into harm’s way. Who will require protection.”
Amelia Henning was reduced to a trembling form. “You are asking me to trust you with my daughter’s life.”
“Madam, you have no choice. None of us do.” Reginald Langston spoke as gently as Falconer. “I too have been reduced to the role of observer. These men are fighters. They have traversed such waters before. You and I know nothing of it.”
“But I have been there.”
“To take you would risk everything,” Harkness said. “Would you have other lives on your conscience?”
Reginald went on, “I have fought and I have begged and I have searched my way through almost a year of sleepless worry. Now I must trust in these men, heroes all. Men I am certain God has brought together as an answer to my and my wife’s fervent prayers. I suggest, madam, you do the same.”
Harkness added, “We carry in our holds the gold the pirates have demanded. We shall insist upon your daughter’s release before handing over the first payment, even before we seek the release of Reginald’s son.”
The woman studied the candlelight for a time, then asked Falconer, “What of you?”
“I shall become the shadow.” He waited long enough to be certain she would object no further. Then he asked, “What can you tell us of La Rue’s hideout?”
“It is no hideout, sir. It is an entire harbor city. The port of Tunis, it is called nowadays. Tunis proper lies some ten miles inland from the African coast. Ali Saleem rules his fiefdom from there. La Rue controls the port from his castle.”
“Describe it please, if you will.”
“A fortress from beyond time. It was old when the Romans arrived. The Phoenicians named the town Carthage, and they wrested this very same fortress from a barbarian race whose name no one remembers.”
The table was so still even the candle flames stopped trembling. The ship creaked and rocked upon steady seas. Inside the cuddy, however, the assembly remained locked upon the woman and her softly spoken words.
“The castle,” Falconer gently prodded.
“There are no windows in any chamber I entered. Just arrow slits. It is a man-made cave with walls two paces thick. Rock and iron and doom. The dungeons are endless. My daughter…”
Falconer raised one finger, offering her something to help refocus upon the matters at hand. “What do you remember of your time in Carthage?”
“Everything of what I saw.”
“And please, what did you see?”
“The slave yards. The castle’s entry chambers. The dungeons.”
“The port,” Falconer said. “Did you catch even a glimpse?”
Amelia Henning was silent so long they assumed she was imprisoned by her memories. Then she murmured, “Ports, plural.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I recall seeing two ports. Is that possible?”
“Not only possible, ma’am.” Harkness spoke in a voice that sounded over loud. “It is a standard harbor of old. One small port within a larger, separated by a second breakwater. This gives greater shelter from storms. From intruders.”
She shrugged away this information. “Two ports,” she repeated, more certain now. “The slave yards were a stonelined arena west of the ports. The slavers lived in a small tower between the inner and outer harbor.”
“Slavers, ma’am? Not soldiers?”
“Soldiers, slavers—I saw no one in uniform. I only know the men who controlled the slave yards went there to sleep and eat.”
Falconer shared a glance with the officers. A harbor keep holding slavers meant the city was so comfortable and seemingly safe its security might be lax. He asked, “Anything else you might be able to describe for us?”
She frowned into the candlelight. “There was a market on the port’s other side. Camels, spices, food. And taverns. I saw the merchants there.” She was quiet for a time, then, “I don’t believe I recall anything further.”
Falconer leaned forward. The map crinkled beneath his elbows. He shifted the candles to one side and waited until Amelia Henning met his gaze. He waited longer still, until he saw the question register in her wounded eyes.
“My son has told us that your daughter Catherine is known by all who love her as Kitty. Is that correct?”
Her nod, though scarcely a tremble, was enough to dislodge a tear.
“We must have something that will help us to recognize her. No matter what she might be wearing.”
The unspoken rose into the shadows and clustered about them, looming reminders of the woman’s greatest fears. She required a long moment to reply. “She has a birthmark.”
“Where?”
“On her left shoulder. The size of your thumbprint. It is purple and shaped like a ripe plum with the stem pointed downward.”
Falconer leaned back. Harkness met his eye and nodded approval. Falconer felt the woman’s sorrow like a stone set upon his own heart. “Madam, I shall do everything in my power to bring your daughter home.”
“I suggest we close upon a moment of prayer,” Harkness said. “Mr. Langston, will you do us the honor?”
After Amelia Henning said her good-nights, the others remained in the cuddy until well after midnight. As tired as he was, when Falconer finally lay in his bunk he found he could not sleep. His restless impatience brought back memories of other sleepless nights, other dangers he had met with ferocity and an utter absence of faith. He tried to pray, mainly to reassure himself that he was a different man now, but the silent words seemed to fall like pebbles to the creaking floor. Falconer quietly left his bunk, made sure Matt was asleep, slipped into his clothes, and walked up on deck.