Barbary Slave by Gardner Fox - Chapter 06

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 6

The Burak swung lazily on her great anchor chains. Her three masts hung stripped of sails, the spars and rigging lifting like skeletal fingers from the deck, where men worked with swabs and rags to clean her planks and bulwarks against the coming voyage.

Yussuf pasha sat on a low, cushioned stool before the striped deck tent that had been raised on the quarter-deck for his own personal use. With a scimitar between his spread thighs, he leaned, forward, hands on knees, dark eyes roving the main deck, studying the rippling back muscles of the slaves polishing the brass barrels of the carronades, moving to the Kuroghler natives whose practiced hands were expertly coiling rigging ropes for storage in the bilge below.

In the days of Dragut reis and Horuk Barbarossa, the Barbary corsairs had sailed the Mediterranean in swift galleys, their oar-banks manned by chained slaves. With the coming of sailing ships, the corsairs discovered that they were outdistanced in speed and gun power by ships built at Bristol and Marseilles. With the aid of Flemish and French shipbuilders, lured to North Africa by gold, the corsairs had answered back with barquentines and brigs that could run with any wind.

The forests of Sherdil were stripped to make towering masts and yards up to one hundred feet across to support the weight of their sails. Long low ships were turned out, fitted with twenty-four pounders or brass eighteen pounders. Brigs and brigantines, together with big, three-masted bartuentines, came down off the stays to fly the star and cresent banners of the corsairs.

The Burak was a sleek barquentine. She lay low in the water, her lines shaped to slice the blue Mediterranean waves. More than eighty cannon of varying sizes-from the big thirty-two pounders on the lower gun deck to the carronades on the roundhouse—spoked their gleaming muzzles over-side.

Yussuf pasha told himself this was a good vessel. Had not a lamb been slaughtered across its prow by a holy man, to symbolize the infidel blood her men and guns would shed? The shopkeepers and armadores of Tripoli had hung their presents for the slaves and crewmen from yards and rigging when she first set out to scavenge the inland sea. In accordance with old custom, had not more gifts come on the launching day, and after that the feasting? Now the Burak was his flagship, and Yussuf Caramanli saw to it that she remained the finest and the strongest of his entire fleet.

The sun was warm overhead. It made a man drowsy, and brought to mind the comforts of the selamlik, with iced rose sherbet poured into silver goblets by pretty slave girls. The pasha stood and stretched, and beckoned his aga to his side.

“Sit you here, Jibril. Keep your eyes on the men. See that the ship is ready for departure by dawn. Work them by lamplight when it gets dark, if necessary.”

The aga, who commanded the soldiers on the barquentine, nodded grimly. The Burak was hidden here in the shoals of this harbor off Tagiura, with a projecting spit of towering cliff sheltering her from the sea. A ship could be lighted here, and the American blockaders would be none the wiser.

“It shall be done, Highness,” he promised. Yussuf pasha went over-side and was rowed ashore in a pinnace. As he neared the stretch of white sands he saw the armless figure of Yuvaz waiting by the edge of the water. Sight of his brother's old retainer made him remember the men who had sought his life in the carpeted privacy of his palace rooms. Yussuf scowled. For a moment he wondered if Yuvaz could have been at the bottom of that little affair. Impatient with his own imaginings, the pasha shrugged. Next he would be suspecting the infidel, Stephen Fletcher, himself

Yuvaz came to meet him as the longboat grounded its keel in the sand. Yussuf did not enjoy the sight of the Armless One. No man really likes a constant reminder of his own ignoble deeds, but Yussuf suffered him to live because Yuvaz' helplessness symbolized the similar helplessness of Hamet, his brother.

Yussuf Caramanli scowled blackly and continued walking between the clumps of esparto grass. His stride made Yuvaz Scurry to keep pace with him.

“Well, Yuvaz?”

“A greeting, master of Tripoli. A greeting and a warning.”

“Against whom?” Yuvaz caught the sudden note of terror in the pasha's voice. The armless man knew Yussuf would throw him to the dungeon hooks if he suspected that he could learn anything by doing so.

So Yuvaz groveled as his knees bent. He rubbed his face across the sandy boots of the Caramanli. “Nothing yet, Highness. A few words I overheard the other night, spoken by the bodyguard of the bash-kedin, fair Marlani herself. He spoke with the Americano woman, Eve Doremus. He told her he would escape from Tripoli and take her with him.” Yussuf pasha stared down at the bent back before him. Then with a roar of rage he lifted his heavy boot of yellow Nioroccan leather and sent it thudding hard into Yuvaz’ unprotected ribs.

“Son of a foul mother scum of street gutters! Now I know your lying tongue was bred by the master of all liars, Shaitan himself. I offered the nasrany Stefan his freedom weeks ago. He refused it! Escape? What need has he of escape? He can walk out by way of the desert gate or the road to Tunis any time he wants!”

Yuvaz shuddered. He had not known of this development. Fletcher had said nothing, being tight-lipped by nature, and Marlani Chamiprak and Yussuf pasha did not consider it worthy of mention. Beads of sweat crawled out on Yuvaz' brow as that boot slammed home against him. In his eagerness to protect himself from suspicion he had erred! He trembled.

“Whelp of whores!” panted the pasha in his relief. He lashed out again with his foot. “Should I have my executioners put red-hot rods in your eyes? Sharp needles to your ears? Blind and deafen you, so that you would be less than a mole crawling in the ground?”

"No, master! Gracious father of all pity and understanding! Forgive me!”

Yussuf Caramanli towered above the prostrate, trembling Yuvaz. His smile was cruel as he stared downward. “Say prayers to Allah that I leave on a sea journey, armless one! Otherwise I would have time to take your case under consideration. I might decide on the torturers, after all. You breed trouble and intrigue with your lies and false accusations! Did not the nasrany save my life, when he might have let me die? He is a man of honor, even if he is an infidel!” Still shaking with fury, Yussuf turned and walked away, kicking up sand puffs with his yellow boots. Behind him, Yuvaz trembled uncontrollably. This had been a close one. Everything he had planned was ruined Now the pasha would never believe him, even if he were to go to him with his story of the real escape!

“Inshallah,” he moaned, rubbing his face in the sand. “My tongue is a miserable traitor to my body!"

A thought came to him, and his spasmodic shiverings ceased. He knelt back on the sand, looking after Yussuf Caramanli. Slowly, his loose, thick lips twitched into a grin. There was a way to save his skin, by the black stone of Mecca! A way in which to prove his innocence and his loyalty, and thus save his flesh from the torturers. All he had to do was procure those horses for the nasrany Stefan, help him in his escape from Tripoli—then betray him at the last moment!

He would go to Yussuf pasha when their plans were complete. The Caramanli would send a file of horsemen to the appointed meeting place, and find the Christian dogs about to flee. Hail! Praise be to Allah! Then the pasha would talk no more of torture in the same breath that he cursed the name of Yuvaz the Armless!

As he came up from the Tagiura shore, Yussuf Caramanli found his mind occupied with the thoughts stirred up by Yuvaz the Armless. It just might be the armless one spoke a little truth, mixed in with his lies, as a kitchen cook mixes in bits of salt with the barley and water. The nasrany could have refused his own freedom, so that he could take Eve Doremus with him. That sounded reasonable enough. Yussuf shrugged. Then let them go. Giving up an infidel woman was no great loss. Especially one of those proud Americanos who, if a man so much as touched her ankle, would as soon as not slip a knife into her bosom—or worse, into the ribs of the man who sought to caress her.

Let Stefan take her with him, if he wanted. It was little enough payment he could make the man, in return for saving the pasha's life.

Yussuf studied the great double walls of Tripoli. There were stones in those walls that had been there for uncounted centuries, back as far as the olden times, when the city had been called Oea by the Phoenicians who founded it, and by the Egyptians who came trading here. In those days it had joined Septis Magna and Sabrata to form the three cities, from which it took its name. Then, great catapults and mangonels had stood on the white walls, instead of brass and iron cannons.

Yussuf straightened in the saddle so abruptly that his Berber mare danced sideways, nervously. Those cannon! The infidel, Stephen Fletcher, knew where each saker stood, and the emplacement of every forty pounder and Fletcher was a United States marine!

Let him escape, and he would bring word of those gun emplacements to the Americans! He would draw them a diagram of the castello's defenses. The nasrany was no fool. If he were to reach the American fleet after escaping from the palace, he would be worth two frigates to them!

Then Yussuf pasha Smiled and relaxed in his high Arab saddle. There was a way to prevent the American from leaving Tripoli and taking his mine of information with him.

Marlani Chamiprak stalked back and forth in the selamlik, her nostrils flaring with anger as her voice grew shrill and grating. Clad in loose muslin trousers, she stalked around the room, waving her slim bare arms indignantly.

“On a sea trip? Me, your bash-kedin? I never heard of such a thing!”

“It is a rare occurrence,” admitted Yussuf wryly. “Still, it has been done before, by kaputans and reis madly in love with a wife or with a slave woman.”

He lay relaxed on the great wide divan, loosely clothed against the heat, his dark eyes following Marlani. He enjoyed these displays of temper in his favorite, for as anger flamed in her, calmness grew in him.

“I’ve told you my reasons. It is suspected that the nasrany means to flee with the Americano girl.”

“You heard him reject your offer of freedom!”

"True words. But it just could be that he's acting a part, to kill any suspicions we might have of him.”

She shrugged contemptuously. “You give him credit for being a very kadi for subtlety!”

“I take no chances. But to demonstrate that I am as subtle as he, I'm going to take you with me. He will go along as your bodyguard. You will take the American woman as your body servant, so you can keep your eye on her, to make sure she plans no treachery. Mustafa reis will come too, as second in command. He will make certain, never fear, that Stefan Fletcher will play no tricks on us’.

“The whole thing is ridiculous," she said flatly. “I die of suffocation, cooped up in the deck tent.”

Yussuf laughed. “The salt air will be good for you. You'll have all the roundhouse deck to stroll.”

“I may be killed! I suppose you would like that?”

“All I plan to attack are merchantment!"

“And the Americano fleet? What are you supposing they will do when you come sailing out onto the inland sea?”

His hand gestured lazily. “I do not fear them. They have big ships. I have fast ones, I will outrun them if they sight us.”

Marlani Chamiprak relaxed slowly, as the thought came to her that she would have the big blond nasrany at her side during the coming voyage. It might have been worse. Yussuf could have left him behind, in one of the dark dungeons with a chain fastened to his ankle. As it was, she would have him always beside her, to lessen the monotony of the sea journey. Her heart thudded excitedly as she wondered if she would have a chance, in the shelter or the deck tent, to savor the American's kisses. It would add a flavor to them, knowing that Yussuf was on the ship and that if he saw them together, he would make them die an especially horrible death.

Eve Doremus was fretful. For the fifth time in the last ten minutes, she stared at her reflection in the ancient mirror of polished silver hanging on the wall of the little room. Her glossy black hair hung loose and long, spilling across her naked shoulders and down her back. A thin golden fillet was thrust into her hair, a jeweled pendant dangling low on her forehead.

She wore a jacket and clinging trousers of black lace, through which her white skin showed like snow dappled with dark shadows. The kalfa girls had rubbed perfume, sweet and heady, into her hair and over her flesh. A dozen golden necklaces hung between her high, firmly molded breasts. Her feet were bare, but her toes had been tinted as red as her fingernails.

A thick flood of hunger enveloped her, filling her with a pleasant excitement. She could not even sit down with this restlessness working in her veins. She held her palms flat to her flushing cheeks, and tried not to think what her aunts in Boston would say if they could see her now. But strangely enough, she felt no shame.

She was no longer an austere New Englander, but a slave girl in a Barbary harem, Eve tossed her head, haughtily. A slave girl! Well, then she would behave like one. The morals that might have done for Boston had no place here. For more than three weeks now, she had shared this room with Stephen Fletcher. Night after night, she had lain sleepless as he crept in to roll up in a barracan on the floor. More than once she had been tempted to reach out and beckon him to the low couch where she lay alone.

Eve turned a little, hands on hips, regarding her reflection. She thought she had never looked so attractive. Surely she was just as tempting to the big marine as that desert hellcat, Marlani Chamiprak! Blushing furiously, she shrugged back the black lace jacket so that it hung from her elbows, revealing the fullness of her bared white breasts. Was a brown African woman more desirable?

She was so lost in herself that she didn't hear the door latch lift or the door swing inward. Fletcher stood there, staring at her reflection in the mirror. For long moments they gazed at each other in the polished silver. Feeling the blood rising from her throat to her cheeks, Eve slowly shrugged the lace vest up over her shoulders. Fletcher's shining eyes, full of worship and desire, told her all she wanted to know.

She moved toward the low bed, her heart pounding madly, knowing that if he came toward her now, she would turn and fling herself into his arms, as wild as any dark-skinned harem girl!

“Eve!”

That choked cry held her motionless. She heard him run across the room to her; her skin was afire where he touched her to clasp her hard against him. Her eyes closed tight, and her lips parted as she leaned her head back against his shoulder.

"Stephen, I—I'm shameless! I don't know—what's come over me!”

“Don’t talk! Not now!”

He turned her slowly and Eve felt the world spinning under her bare feet. Then the breath was going out of her as his strong, hard arms locked her in against him and his lips were on hers, drawing the life

from her and replacing it with a sweet white flame that burned and burned.

When his mouth left hers to caress her throat, she uttered wordless sounds, smiling faintly, rubbing her chin against his cheek. Laughing softly, she tilted her face away from him and whispered, “Am I as lovely as Marlani? Do you want me as much as you want her?”

His only reply was to crush her to him again, his mouth once again seeking hers. All the while her body was being slowly transformed into a bright, living flame. Then, suddenly, she was being lifted and carried across the room and, finally, lowered to cool silken cushions.

“Stephen,” she whispered imploringly as she drew him warmly beside her.