Here came Dominique, lumped into a group coming topside. From his position in the front row of prisoners, Jacques managed a reassuring nod to her before she was shoved into line not far to his left. Her eyes, he could tell, were swollen.
Trying to calm himself, Jacques surveyed the cargo strewn
haphazardly around the mizzenmast: indigo, silk, damask, and
velvet. Spices and exotic wine bottles piled near the bow. Many vessels had been plundered by the corsairs and probably many prisoners sold into slavery.
Jacques’ breaths clustered sort and shallow. He reined back his maudlin thoughts and forced his mind into quick service. He saw no loose weapons in sight. He wondered how he might bargain for one.
And from whom? He considered that his card playing might
somehow rescue Dominique, Petrine, and himself. Or later, could he possibly persuade Carlo Brose to cut his bindings, to release him from his hammock prison below deck?
The masts and rigging quaked as a gust of wind billowed the canvases. While spume shot over the bowsprit and onto the deck, Jacques stared angrily at the manacles on his wrists.
I’ll first rid myself
of these
. His body shivered uncontrollably while the sprays of
seawater continued their drenching. Maybe it would cleanse him; he’d soiled his breeches several times in the ship’s hold.
From the corner of his eye, Jacques spied a red embroidered waistcoat; his mind fumed when he realized the primo lieutenant stood across the deck.
A pair of corsairs positioned themselves in front of Jacques; the two twisted his manacles until his palms turned upward.
Jacques winced. He knew the Turks would learn much from the prisoners’ hands: If a man had no calluses, he was a blue blood. If
there were telltale ink stains to see, the corsairs would know the
prisoner was literate and bring a higher ransom.
Who would think these soft hands would determine my fate?
It seemed to Jacques his body had never ached with such pain.
My future, though, is not the same as these other prisoners. I’m already ransomed
. He flinched.
But a month or a lifetime with the Turk will be worse than a coffin
.
The corsairs continued down the line of prisoners. Examining hands took time— time for Jacques to peek at Dominique. She was haggard, fragile. What would he not give to turn back the clock?
A voice whispered from somewhere just behind Jacques. Carlo Brose.
“The man conferring with your lieutenant—the thickset fellow cloaked in the frayed burnoose—he’s the
rais
, you see. He made a name for himself by capturing and plundering a papal galley. Since then he’s vanquished everything on the horizon while fighting his jihad, his holy war, for Allah. The sexton, on the rais’s orders, calls these Muslims to holy prayer to Allah six times a day. Anyhow, from what the crew says, this captain, this rais, makes up for his short stature with enormous ferocity. To me it also seems the rais has a talent for leadership. To me—”
Suddenly, the man about whom Brose spoke threw off his
burnoose and strode forward, facing the three rows of prisoners.
“Happiness belongs to those who honor Allah and also fear him,” he shouted. The crew standing behind the captain clapped
raucously.
“Years ago I turned my back on a false religion. I encourage you to do likewise. You shall be blessed by Allah; this I promise.”
Speaks a little like a Venetian
, thought Jacques.
And with brimming confidence
.
The sails overhead snapped loudly in the breeze as another
buffeting spray rained down.
The rais motioned to the captives. “There’s one of you who is
ready to join my Algerines, my crew. I am Piccinio Rais, and I
welcome this man.”
A pack of Algerines scurried toward the line of prisoners, unshackled Jacques, and led him forward.
At once, Jacques saw his chance. He instantly plunged himself to one knee before the rais—which placed him nearly face-to-face with the short captain.
Jacques felt the points of two Algerine knives at his back.
“Piccinio Rais,” Jacques cried without moving a muscle. “Your reputation on the seas is a great one. I’m pleased to be aboard your ship and in the grace of Allah. Is it true I’ve been ransomed by a fine and loyal Algerine?”
The rais made a quick sign, and the Algerine corsairs lowered their daggers.
The man understands my words. And his cunning tells him to be content until I have my say
.
Piccinio Rais stepped forward, placed his fingertips on Jacques’ head, made an emphatic gesture with his opposite hand, then with a flick of his fingers motioned the primo lieutenant forward. The lieutenant, dark mustache bristling, complied—leering at Jacques.
Jacques sprang to his feet. He felt two daggers press deeper at his shoulder blades, and—although immediately forced back to his knees—he shouted in a booming voice.
“I’m a free man. I’m not to be purchased like a cheap sow. If this corsair chooses to ransom me—if he wants me—let him fight me for my freedom.”
There was silence from all on deck.
The rais held his dagger at the ready.
Sails again ruffled in the wind until another commotion—the rattling of manacles—brought attention to a slight figure who thrust her body apart from the line of captives.
No one on deck was more shocked than Jacques. His mind
raced. What? Had she lost her senses?
“This corsair wants the prisoner?” Dominique nodded toward
the primo lieutenant. Her brows knit in a furor. “I say I want the
prisoner. Whose prayers shall Allah answer?”
The Algerines taunted, some clapped.
Dominique continued, shrill anger in her clear-born voice. A
handful of prisoners—encouraged by her passion—rattled their
manacles in support.
This was not overlooked by Piccinio Rais, who, Jacques saw, seemed enthused by Dominique’s display of bravada.
“If this mustached swine wants the prisoner, let him win the prisoner,” she shouted full throat. “I mean for this ugly pig to fight me. Whoever draws first blood wins the prisoner.”
Jacques’ heart crashed through his chest. “She must not fight,” he screamed toward the mob of corsairs. “She can be ransomed. Ransomed. You’ll get riches for her!”
A multitude of voices roared across deck.
The rais thrust his dagger into the sunlight for all to see, then whipped the blade to Jacques’ throat.
The bold move had its effect. All hushed.
The rais, reducing his eyes to slits, surveyed the prisoners, Dominique, the lieutenant, and his corsairs. “Let it be known I
command this ship,” he cried. “And I propose to slice the prisoner in two. A half for each party.” When he met the moist eyes of his kneeling prisoner, he paused before removing the dagger from Jacques’ throat.
He marched to Dominique, striding a proud circle around her. “Let it be understood that this fair-haired woman—she has the heart of a lion. But for this suffering prisoner,” the rais pointed to Jacques, “this woman has the heart of a girl. Allah esteems such a spirit.”
Piccinio Rais now motioned toward his lieutenant. “This Algerine, too, has a fortitude Allah admires. I have witnessed him in battle. He’s daring, he’s strong.” The rais spoke to the sky above. “Which of these two shall Allah deem worthy to carry the day?”
A fiery voice delivered itself from the crowd. “Let them draw first blood.”
The crew erupted in a clamor.
The rais raised his dagger for silence. “It’s true, we corsairs pride ourselves on our independence. In this world we take our bearings, make our rules and sail our own course. This is why we allow the woman prisoner to speak her heart. This is why my brethren shall vote theirs.”
The corsairs hastily retired to the stern of the ship, leaving
several Algerines to guard the shackled prisoners. Jacques was manacled, then jostled back into line. He glanced toward Dominique, who was being shoved back into her place with the others.
Afternoon came while the corsairs deliberated. Soon the warm sun and breeze had its way: two men abreast of Jacques passed out on their feet, crumpling to the deck. A violent jerk of the ears from their captor was enough to bring each prisoner stirringly awake.
After a long interval, the rais returned with his crew.
“It is decided. This corsair,” shouted Piccinio Rais as he pointed to his lieutenant, “and that woman,” he said, pointing to Dominique, “shall fight.”
The crew lauded the decision with whistles and clapping.
The rais took an ominous tone. “My brethren have altered one condition of the combat. The fight will not end with first blood. The
fight will end with death. The living combatant shall own that
prisoner.” He indicated Jacques with a nod of his head.
Jacques’ knees buckled. He summoned his strength to speak, but it was the rais who spoke first.
“Either fighter may withdraw from this combat, and Allah will
place no shame on either. I await your choice.”
Dominique was the first to step forward. “I fight.”
“No!” Jacques screamed. “No!”
The cries that arose from corsairs and prisoners alike drowned his further screams.
Jacques’ back grew taut as a tree.
The lieutenant—opposite Dominique—advanced. In his native tongue—most likely Berber—he turned and shouted to the crew. He was met with jeers.
He addressed his captain, who then wheeled and faced
Dominique and the prisoners.
“The corsair offers you the choice of weapons: knife, pistol, sword”—the captain turned to the crew—“or belaying pin.” He was favored with hoots from his men.
Dominique did not flinch. “Smallsword,” she said. “You will
kindly retrieve my belongings and the belongings of your prisoner, where you will find a case of smallswords. Two smallswords.” She thrust her manacled hands toward the lieutenant. “That ship swine shall have one of them.”
“Stop,” cried Jacques. “Wait. I have treasure. I have a map to treasure.”
“No, Jacques, no,” Dominique cried.
“Here. Here in the back of my shirt. Piccinio Rais, look for yourself.”
The rais advanced toward Jacques. “Treasure?” he said. He
promptly ripped Jacques’ ragged shirt from his body, and out fell Fragonard’s scroll. A corsair fetched the furled parchment and handed it to Piccinio Rais, who unrolled it and studied it momentarily. He sidled next to Jacques and spoke coolly. “These Algerines must search you better next time, fellow.” He threw a glance to the primo lieutenant and gave a yelping laugh.
A thousand fears tumbled in Jacques’ heart, but he could find no words for them; the best he could do was keep from squirming before the captain.
Piccinio Rais tucked the scroll in his breeches and marched to the
center of the deck, where he motioned to Dominique, then the
lieutenant.
“Smallsword,” he commanded. “To the death.”
“No,” Jacques cried as several corsairs grabbed him by the
shoulders.
His struggle was of no use, and he knew the outcome inevitable.
She’ll die. And I’ll be a minion of the Turk.
WHEN PICCINIO RAIS LOWERED HIS HAND
to his side,
Jacques was quickly carted to the ship’s mast, hoisted up, and lashed to the spar several meters above the deck. The spar rope tightly squeezed his arms and upper body, leaving his feet to dangle loosely. He felt as if a vulture prodded his insides. His whole lifetime he’d practiced a chivalry that demanded he defend the damsel. Dominique now defended him. He stared down at the adventuress.
After she’s gone, I’ll find a way to kill the primo lieutenant
.
A contingent of Barbary corsairs ran below decks and minutes later crowded topside, attired in fine garments.
Salt to the wound! Jacques struggled against his rope bindings.
Do these cutthroats think they attend a wedding? Dressed in their
dandified, plundered clothes. A killing should not be a cause for such celebration
.
Blazing sun now washed the ship’s deck. When the breeze
stilled, the rais ordered sentinels posted on the mast high above Jacques. He knew no rescue would come. The Muslim captain was too shrewd to be taken at sea like a floating turtle.
To further the bizarre atmosphere, Piccinio Rais gave orders to a host of Turks, who soon came back with kettledrums, oboes, bugles, and cymbals.
These heathens play for sieges, battles, boardings, but why would …
Sweat rolled from Jacques’ forehead as he realized the
answer.
None of us has ever seen a woman—Muslim, Christian, or
pagan—fight a duel. To bloody death
.
As soon as the Turkish band raised a strange and heinous
overture, Jacques wanted to stop his ears. The rais was doing everything in his power to make the odious contest a memorable affair and thus promote his fame.
While the tumult continued, Dominique and the primo
lieutenant
were conducted to positions opposite one another on deck. The
frenzied mob, bundling into a human ring around the duelists, matched the tempestuous martial music.
Jacques studied Dominique’s face below. Her assurance was still present. She stood bravely, keenly sighting her enemy. As for the lieutenant—he held a very small sword in his huge hand.
It feels too light to him,
Jacques thought
. He’s used to a far bigger weapon
.
While Jacques’ eyes ranged, his heart ached at the spectacle below him.
Among the onlookers, he spied Carlo Brose propped weakly
against a barrel, knotting his stringy hair.
A painful, poxy death will be too good for him
.
All hushed. The circle of corsairs spread wide as Piccinio Rais
stepped to center deck. His eyes gleaming, he cried out a short
speech before situating himself prominently on deck stairs above the scene, then with a grandiloquent gesture, initiated the duel to the death.