Voyage of Slaves

The breeze halted for an instant, then it renewed; the sail slacked momentarily, then bellied forward. Under the sudden pressure, the rope’s last strands parted, and the huge sail came toppling down. It came with such a flapping and rattling of rigging that it caught the attention of every man on deck. Cracking like a whiplash end, the severed rope flew upward. Jumping through the eye of the pulley block, it snaked out and down, following the confusion of sailcloth, spar and rigging. The entire thing crashed clumsily over the bowside and began sinking into the sea.

The steersman quickly lashed the wheel steady and ran for’ard, roaring, “Foresail down! Foresail down! All hands to the fo’c’sle deck!”

The Sea Djinn began yawing in an arc to port as crewmen leapt up the fo’c’sle steps to help rescue the big foresail. Ben and Ned crouched behind a capstan on the stern deck, watching the whole thing. They saw Ghigno and Al Misurata, both still holding glasses of wine, staggering out to stand not five paces from where they lay hidden. The pirate peered blearily toward the bows.

“What’s going on up there?”

Ghigno groaned. “Looks like the foresail has broken loose!”

Al Misurata knocked the glass from the Corsair’s hand. “Well, don’t stand there, get up for’ard and see they fix it back right. And tell someone to drop the anchor, we don’t want that sail trapped under our bows. Hurry!” He watched Ghigno dash off, then shuddered as the keen breeze pierced his silken garments. Draining the goblet, he flung it into the sea and stormed back inside to the warmth of his cabin.

Ned’s paw nudged Ben. “Time to abandon ship—let’s go swimming, mate!”

They hit the water with a splash which went unnoticed in the confusion at the vessel’s other end. Ben felt himself plummeting downward into Stygian blackness with bubbles rushing by his ears. Then there was silence as he hung suspended, fathoms down in the sea’s cold, dark realms. Scenes of the Flying Dutchman, wallowing in the icy ocean off Tierra del Fuego, flashed through his mind. Screaming men, frostbitten faces, tattered rigging and groaning timbers stricken by mountainous waves. Vanderdecken lashed to the wheel as he shook clenched fists at the storm-bruised skies, damning his crew, cursing the ship and bellowing oaths at heaven, at the very Lord who had made him.

Then Ned’s urgent call cut through it all. “Ben, where are you, mate? Ben!”

Dragged back from his horrific memories, the boy struck upward for the surface, his legs and arms moving like pistons. He surfaced, gasping for air, to find himself facing the black Labrador, who was treading water alongside the rudder at the Sea Djinn’s stern. Grabbing on to a line hanging from some rope fenders, Ben allowed Ned to cling to his shoulders. They hung there, regaining breath and listening to the voices from on deck.

“Ahmed, hook that rope. Have you got it? Ali, Razul, help him. Now all together. Pull!”

It sounded like Ghigno giving the orders. Then they heard Bomba. “Look at the end of this rope—it’s been cut!”

There was a brief silence, followed by Ghigno shouting. “Where’s that brat and his hound? Where are they?”

This was followed by the sounds of running feet.

Ben sent Ned a thought. “I never allowed for this, they’re searching for us. We’d better stay put under here, they’d spot us if we tried swimming out into the open.”

Ned’s reply registered in his mind. “It’s cold here, but I’ll stick it out with you, mate. We’ll probably have to wait an hour or two, though.”

Now they heard Bomba’s voice again. “They’re not in the cabins, I’ve searched!”

Serafina’s plaintive call cut through Ben like a knife. “Ben, where are you? Ben! Ned! What have you done with them?”

Ghigno’s irate snarl followed her plea. “Done? We haven’t done anything, girl. See this mess, this whole sail, that broken spar and all that tangled rigging my crew are trying to salvage from the water? Well, they did this, I’m sure of it! I’ll skin them alive when I catch them! Go on, get back to your cabins, all of you!”

Placing Serafina behind him, Otto faced the angry Corsair. “We will stay here on deck, to make sure nothing happens to the boy and his dog!”

Ghigno sneered at the strongman. “You’ll do as I say, you big ox, unless you want to stop here and argue with musket balls. Guards!”

Al Misurata’s men hurried for’ard, carrying their long rifles.

Signore Rizzoli cautioned his troupe, “Do as he says, friends, we cannot argue with armed men!”

Treading water beneath the stern, Ben and Ned heard the alleyway door slam as the guards locked the Rizzoli Troupe away.