Barbary Slave by Gardner Fox - Chapter 05

1955 Genre: Historical Fiction / Swashbuckling Pirates

SOLD INTO SLAVERY! It was unthinkable that innocent Eve Doremus of Boston would be forced to parade her naked beauty in a Barbary Coast slave mart. Or that the blond giant who guarded the Sultan's female chattels would be a U.S. Marine lieutenant. Yet anything was possible in exotic, violent, 19th Century Tripoli.

Amid the love-making, intrigues and tortures of the Pasha's pagan court, Eve and her marine—Stephen Fletcher—fell in love. But their romance was destined to face every temptation and peril as they loved and battled their way to freedom.

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CHAPTER 5

The Berber girl was dancing in the Olive Tree Tavern,

her brown feet pounding the flagstone floor and twisting to her intricate steps through tiny pools of spilled wine, as Fletcher came through the open door. He stood a moment, savoring the scene, smelling the heavy Turkish tobacco, its fumes laying a blue pall across the big room, listening to the tambourine that the dancing girl thudded across her knuckles as she whirled, then lifted to shake until the tiny round jingles rattled madly.

His shoulder pushed a path through the crowd of homesick Greeks and woman-less Spaniards and Italians, until he reached the American table. His friends were hunched forward, staring at the girl with feverish eyes. She was a pretty thing, with slim legs bared below her whirling skirt, with only copper armlets on above her middle. A twist of chained coins was wrapped about her head, dangling down over her ears and shining in contrast to the deep brown of her hair.

Fletcher caught Nicolo Gritti by an elbow as he wedged his way through the hard-breathing men. “You’ll drive them crazy, letting her dance like this! Most of these men haven't seen a woman this close for over a year!”

The Italian innkeeper grinned and winked. “Berber girls are in town this night, effendi. More than one of them will dance here. It's a favorite place for them. The slaves are more generous with the alaik money than the masters with their gold. Stop worrying! Stop worrying!”

Avison looked up as Fletcher slid onto the bench beside him. His even white teeth showed in a grin, the scar on his cheek hidden in shadows cast by the overhanging lamp. His elbow dug hard into Fletcher's ribs in welcomes.

“I got a nice, plump girl picked out, Lieutenant. She danced just before this one. There are lots of others coming. Pick out one and enjoy yourself!”

“No time. Listen to me!”

Avison reluctantly tore his attention from the body of the Berber girl, whose rhythmic contortions were growing more savage at every crash of her anklets.

Fletcher spoke swiftly. In the three weeks since Yussuf had made him a free man, he had prowled the narrow, twisting streets of Tripoli, studying the great double walls that ringed it in. On sunny afternoons, when the pasha went to Sabratha or to Zletin, he walked the wide white stretch of sand, staring out at the blue waters of the harbor, counting the number of corsair ships and noting their armament. Hidden by thick clumps of esparto grass, he made quick, deft sketches of the barquentines and brigs that swung at their anchor chains in the road-stead.

“I have the sketches hidden in my bed,” he told Avison, whose head was tilted close to Fletcher's lips, even as his eyes again followed the convolutions of the dancing girl. “The commodore would give much to get them!”

“How can we get them to Barron?”

“There's a new slave in the palace, a Frenchman. He told me Hamet Caramanli is joining forces with an American army setting out from Cairo! It's going to come by way of Tobruk and Derna to Tripoli itself. While that army is attacking by land, the fleet will sail into the harbor and bombard the castle."

Avison turned his full attention to Fletcher. Excitedly, he leaned forward. “Go on, Steve!”

“I don't know too many details about it. Only what the Frenchman knew. My thought is this: to slip out of Tripoli some dark night and go east, toward Egypt. With any luck at all, we can contact the American forces and join up with them.” He hesitated, then went on. “There's a girl in the palace, an American named Eve Doremus. We can't leave her here. She'll have to come with us.”

Avison frowned. “She may not be able to keep up."

“I’ll carry her, then. But I won't go without her.”

“No," Avison muttered softly. “I wouldn't leave an American dog behind in this place after we break out, much less a girl! When do we go, and how?”

A great roar rose from the tables around them as the supple Berber girl bowed low, collapsing gracefully on the stone floor. Then she was gone, and in her place stood another girl.

Under cover of that animal cry, Fletcher said, “Nobody guards the desert gate that leads onto the road to Tagiura. One week from tonight, we'll meet on the road to the gate, near the cemetery. It's only a few steps from there to the gate. Before anyone sees us, we'll be gone. I’ll arrange to have horses waiting for us, if I can.”

“I’ll tell the others and have them spread the word. We'll get everybody but Captain Bainbridge himself out of here!' said Avison.

“There's no chance of taking him?" Avison Smiled grimly. “They're holding him for ransom.”

“They won't hurt him, then. All right. When I have further word, I'll come again to the tavern.”

Fletcher stood up. The new Berber dancing girl was removing her skirt, and not a man noticed Fletcher as he slipped backward through the jostling crowd, to glide through the doorway and out into the street.

A black shadow moved in the moonlight, at the corner of the street. A man who had been watching the tavern doorway turned and ran with scurrying strides—a man with no arms on his body.

As Fletcher came through the narrow passageway into the palace courtyard, staring red eyes in a dark bearded face came out of the darkness at him. Fletcher put a hand to the curved dagger he wore always at his belt, in the fashion of the Moslems. The hissing voice of Yuvaz the Armless interrupted his draw.

“Saida! Peace between us, nasrany! I—like you—am a victim of Yussuf Caramanli!”

Fletcher studied the man, seeing the dark face and its untrimmed beard, the wild, reddened eyes that were never still but glancing always from corner to corner, into those places where the shadows were blackest. The loose, pendulous lips worked continually. Furtiveness and suspicion, hate and caution lived in this man by day and by night.

“I followed you to the Olive Tree Tavern. I have followed you before. Tonight I slipped in after you, and saw you speak with the other Americanos.”

“Why tell me? Don't you know I could put this blade into your heart before you could cry out? Without arms, how could you defend yourself?”

Yuvaz showed black teeth in a grin. His head came forward on hunched shoulders. “No need to kill the man who'd help you! I know a few words of your tongue. Before Yussuf deposed Hamet, I was Hamet's most trusted counselor. That's why Yussuf keeps me alive like this, to let him see how helpless his brother has become. I've become a symbol to him.

“But never mind me. It's you I want to talk about. I heard you say 'escape' and 'horses.' You can never get enough horses in Tripoli for the number of Americanos who will want to go with you.”

The Marine frowned. “I’d hoped to buy them one or two at a time. But why so much interest in what I do?”

“I want to help you.” The man wriggled his long body in his eagerness. “Don’t you see? If I could spite Yussuf in this and free men like yourself and those other Americano sailors and marines, who might strike back at Yussuf Caramanli—hah! I'd be laying the way for Hamet to return.” Yuvaz paused, and Fletcher could see his red eyes glowing in the dark. “For my boon from Hamet, for helping you put him back on the throne, I'd ask only one thing! Yussuf himself. Yussuf, and a slave with arms and hands to do what I tell him—" Yuvaz giggled. “Can you imagine the tortures I’ve dreamed up for the usurper? Eh? It's all I think of, day and night—tortures and more tortures. Each day a different kind! Each night before I fall asleep, I add new twists_more subtle ways of making Yussuf suffer!”

The night wind of the Mediterranean was cold and damp. Fletcher didn't know, whether he shivered from the wind or the mad words he was hearing. He said harshly, "Then you'll get me horses?”

The big head of the armless man nodded. “Horses, and food and water. Weapons, too. A sword or pistol for every man, with a few rifles. And ammunition. I have friends in Tripoli. Don't think Yussuf counts every corsair captain in the city as his friend. Hamet left many good men behind him, men who would do much to see him come back. Well? Well?”

“What can I say? I'd be a fool not to take your offer.” Yuvaz stared across the majolica tiles of the courtyard. He studied the splashing fountain and the palms that swayed high overhead in the wind. As if reassured, he looked again at the American.

“We must not be seen together. You make your plans. I will have the horses and weapons for you.” The hour was late. There was no need for more words between them. Fletcher grinned and clapped a hand to the Arab's shoulder. Then he was gone in his long, loose stride, toward the stone stair that would bring him to the upper gallery.

Behind him, Yuvaz the Armless shrank back into the darker shadows. He stood a long time, motionless. His mind raced from thought to thought, balancing, rejecting. It could be done, what he promised the Americano. It would be a good way to strike at Yussuf Caramanli. He heard gossip in the taverns—there was talk that Hamet was joining forces with the Americanos. If this big nasrany were to join him with two score sailors and marines, they would help bring Yussuf down into his hands.

On the other hand, if he did not go through with his promise, but betrayed this blond Stefan Fletcher to Yussuf pasha, he would allay any suspicions the younger Caramanli might have as to his trustworthiness. Bill-ah! He knew only too well that Yussuf Caramanli was turning the palace inside out to find the man or woman who let in the killers three weeks ago. If only that Americano had not interfered, or had been a little less spectacular with the scimitar!

Yuvaz sighed. A man cannot have everything. He sidled away from the inner courtyard wall. When the torturers came to question him, if they did, he would be ready for them. He would prove his loyalty to Yussuf—and so be permitted the run of the palace as before, to scheme and connive for the deposition of the pasha—by exposing this Stefan Fletcher and his plans for escape.

Yuvaz giggled quietly. No matter what happened, he could not lose. Either Yussuf Caramanli or the Americano would lose. Yuvaz preferred it would be Yussuf, but he would let the dice in the palm of destiny decide.

Eve Doremus was huddled on his little bed, wrapped in a thin gray barracan, as Fletcher came through the doorway. Lazily she turned her head and stared at him. For three weeks now she had been here when he came back to his room in the early hours of the morning. He had grown used to the sight of her, to her long, brooding silences, during which her blue eyes never left his face.

He wondered what she did while he was on duty in the seraglio, or marching beside the swaying palanquin in which Marlani Chamiprak took the air of Tripoli. Once he had looked up from the courtyard and seen her leaning against a mullion, staring out at the vast expanse of the Mediterranean. Another time he had come face to face with her suddenly in one of the underground passageways. He never asked questions; he respected her privacy, and tried to treat her as he might a sister come to visit him.

Now he sensed a new mood in her. She stretched a little, and smiled. “I’m getting fat, loafing like this, with absolutely nothing to do.”

He realized that she wanted to talk, to chatter idly and at length about little things, the way she might with one of her aunts. He supposed this was her greatest need, the desire for female companionship. He sat gingerly on the edge of the low bed and smiled.

“You don't eat a thing. Except a little fruit, now and then.”

She made a face and giggled. “Or some of that barley paste they call zammita. It tastes like my Aunt Tildy's hasty pudding. Not sweet enough, not moist enough. Always just a little bit sour.”

Her blue eyes grew cloudy, “Poor Aunt Tildy! If she could see me now, she’d die of heartbreak—if she didn’t die of shame first. Her Eve, slave girl to a slave!” She sighed, but there was no bitterness in her. Fletcher suspected glumly that she was enjoying her martyrdom. “Especially to such a slave!”

She smiled wanly. “Oh, I've heard the rumors about you and that woman you profess to despise. She's heels over poll in love with you, isn't she? That Tuareg girl—Shellah, her name is, isn't it?—told me all about it. Seems you've made some sort of deal with her, to protect me.”

The first gray of dawn was seeping into the room. In its pale light, Fletcher flushed. Instantly her hand was on his wrist, gripping it tightly. Her fingers were warm and soft. “Please,” she whispered. “Please don't misunderstand me. I don't know how to put all this into words. You've no idea how long I’ve thought about what you're doing for me. It's just that I've always been so mixed up, but now—” She licked her dry lips and sat up. “Sometimes I want to meet that hussy in a dark passageway and go to work on her with my fingernails. Other times I want to take a stick to your shoulders. Mostly, I just cry.”

She could tell he had no idea of what she was talking about, or why she was telling him all this. Amusement struggled with the momentary vexation in her. Aunt Tildy had said that men were irksome creatures, more than once.

“You’re upset and worried,” he soothed her. “That's just it, I ought to be,” she said dryly, “but somehow I don't feel really worried any more—not worried, only—“

How does a woman tell a man she loves him? she asked herself. Especially a woman who has been brought up most properly, in strait-laced Boston, by two maiden aunts. That wanton baggage Marlani could show off her flesh to him, but Eve must observe the rules of decorum, even if she was his slave.

And so, to take her mind off herself, she began to talk about Boston, making him see the tall ships off Long Wharf, riding at anchor as they swung to the tide swells; taking him on her walks down King Street, past the old church. She took him skating on the ponds in wintertime, but only in the early hours of the dawn, when there were few people on the ice. He sat with her for hours as she pored over her textbooks or sat fascinated with a tattered copy of Richardson's Pamela.

Slowly, as he listened, Fletcher realized what a lonely child Eve Doremus had been. He didn't need to hear any more about the pets she kept, or the hours she spent alone in the big kitchen, learning how to cook truffles and bake berry pastries. With this new understanding came a sudden tenderness. He put his hand on hers, and squeezed her fingers gently. The contact stirred him deeply, and he felt a warmth spread slowly inside him.

“Ships and the sea,” he said slowly. “It seems they're tied up together in our lives. I used to watch the packets myself, when they came sailing up the Potomac with their sails fat and the rigging snapping so loud I could hear it up on the hill where I lay. And the Tripolines captured the Philadelphia as they took you off the Boston lady.”

He went on to talk of the plantation manse where he had been born. It had been a big house, with unexpected little rooms tucked under slanting roofs or below staircases. With a wooden sword that a slave carved for him out of a length of cypress shingle, he hid been Captain Kidd or Blackbeard or John Paul Jones. A chair and an old walnut lowboy became his galleon or his frigate. He had two younger sisters, but they looked with scorn on his games. Loneliness had been no stranger to him.

Later, when he could sit a horse, he rode with his father across the wooded acres beyond the tobacco fields, or journeyed by post coach to the Baltimore works to stare in awed amazement as the molten metal was poured into its molds. All that property would be his one day. By his twelfth year, it was time for him to learn what his responsibilities were to be.

He laughed a little ruefully. "There was still too much of Captain Kidd and Captain Jones in my blood, I guess. All I could think of was the sea. Despairing, my father wrote to Benjamin Stoddert, the Secretary of the Navy. He secured me a post as midshipman on the Constellation, under Captain Truxton.“

Fletcher had begun as a midshipman, but the sea was not in his blood as much as he liked to think. When the post was offered, he snapped at a commission in the marine corps, recently re-created by an Act of Congress. Service with Truxton on the Constellation, including the naval fights with the Insurgent and the Vengeance during the short naval war with France; a transfer to the Adams, and then time on the Philadelphia completed his tour of duty. His service had put its brand on him, without his knowing it. His straight carriage and the efficient, unemotional manner he assumed in emergencies reflected his training as a marine officer.

Eve sighed and squirmed deeper into the cushions. For the first time in her life, she wanted to be taken into a man's arms and kissed breathless, to hear him whisper that he adored her, that he needed her as a necessary part of her life. But her own training—as a ladylike young Bostonian, showed, too, and she contented herself with gripping fletcher's hand, and staring into his eyes, as he talked until at last she fell asleep.