Voyage of Slaves

Ned bounded around them, wagging his tail as he contacted Ben. “Well, thank goodness you two are happy again. Hurry up with that breakfast, please, there’s a poor, starving dog aboard.”

The infectious laughter had Buffo up cavorting about the deck. A wide grin split the clown’s face as he danced around Ben and Serafina, strewing petals from an imaginary basket of flowers.

“The young lovers are joyfully reunited once again! I hear harps and violins, birds twittering and fish leaping gaily from the sea! No longer is my heart broken!” He tripped, and would have tumbled over the for’ard rail.

Luckily, Otto was nearby and hauled him back by the seat of his trousers. “Ach, your silly neck will be broken if you prance about like that much more. Sit still now, Herr Buffo!”

After breakfast Serafina went off to visit Poppea, whilst Ben and Ned sat on the fo’c’sle steps, discussing their escape. Ben watched Ghigno, Bomba and three crewmen, who were obviously meant to feature in their murderous plans.

“They’re watching our every move, Ned, it’s going to be hard for us to slip away unnoticed.”

The black Labrador began grooming himself. “We’ll just have to distract their attention when the time comes. Surely we can think of something.”

Ben kept the men under observation as he replied. “That’s a good idea, mate, create a diversion. But how?”

The dog raised a paw to scratch the back of his ear. “Patience, m’boy, let me think!”

Scarcely an hour later, a lookout with a spyglass cried out from the main topmast, “Land ahoy off the starboard peak!”

The two friends went up into the prow. Ben shaded his eyes, peering ahead at the grey smudge on the horizon. He felt the Sea Djinn shift as the steersman took her bow on to the island of Malta.

“If we want to stay alive we’d better think of something fast, Ned!”

BOOK TWO

A DANGEROUS FREEDOM

14

NINETY-THREE KILOMETRES SOUTH OF SICILY. THE ISLAND OF MALTA.

A STIFF BREEZE WAFTED THE SEA Djinn into maltese waters late that evening. The darkened waves, slightly choppy, reflected waterfront tavern lights. Other ships showed stern and bow lights as they lay at anchor or stood moored to the quay in the harbour of Valletta. As sometimes happens, the night temperature had dropped, leaving the air rather chilled. The Rizzoli Troupe stopped in their cabins, but Ben and Ned stayed up on the fo’c’sle deck. Serafina brought them extra blankets. No sooner had she delivered them and gone back inside, than the boy and his dog went into action. Ben knew they were being watched by their enemies, so he took extra care whilst rigging the diversion which he and Ned had planned.

Standing with his back against the foremast, Ben felt behind his back until he touched the stout length of hempen rope which ran up the rear of the mast to a pulley right at the top. There the rope was secured to the long mainspar of the huge sail billowing out over the vessel’s bow. The sail could be raised or lowered only by this line. Ben felt the curving iron cleats around which the remainder of it was wound. It would take fully seven or eight sailors to hoist or lower the big sail on this rope.

Whilst Ned kept watch at the top of the fo’c’sle steps, Ben began sawing at the tough cord with a sharp knife, which his dog had taken from the galley. Making as little movement as possible, the boy tried to appear as if he was merely leaning against the mast, though behind his back he was pushing the blade back and forth across the thick rope. Ned sent him an enquiry.

“How’s it going back there, mate, having any trouble?”

Ben tried not to grimace as he exerted pressure on the blade. “The hard part is trying to keep my body still. But this rope’s as tight as a fiddle string, so it’s cutting through pretty well. Won’t be long now. When I cough, get ready to move.”

Gripping the knife hard, Ben continued sawing away, feeling the bushy fibres brushing against his wrists as the rope began to part. On the other side of the mast the big red sail towered over the fo’c’sle deck, straining against the breeze, as taut as a drumskin. Ben heard the rope creak drily. This was what he had been waiting for! Stowing the knife in the back of his belt, he coughed aloud, moving away from the mast.

Ned turned and barked defiantly at him, then bounded off down the steps. Ben ran to the top of the steps, calling angrily, “Stay, Ned, stay!”

The black Labrador nipped at a passing sailor and ran down the lower deck barking. Ben came running down the steps after him, shouting commands.

“I said stay! Stop right there, Ned! D’you hear me?”

Gaining the steps to the stern deck, the dog raced up them and poked his head between the gallery rails, barking and snarling disobediently.

Crewmen left off their tasks, laughing at the infidel boy as he yelled at his dog.

“Come back here now! Bad dog, come here, Ned!”