Voyage of Slaves

Ben flicked a tawny-coloured lick of hair from his eyes. “Oh, I imagine I could manage a bite.”

The patriarch chuckled. “You’ve got a good imagination. We’d best hurry before those two clean it all up!”

Next morning the wind had changed, though it was still a bright, blustery day. The Sea Djinn had to tack and veer to come offshore of Cape Passero. Ghigno and Bomba took a ship’s boat and rowed ashore, to where the six wrecking boats had been hauled up beyond the tideline. As he waded hurriedly through the surf, Ghigno was already sensing that something was amiss. Making his way to a collection of rickety hovels, the scar-faced Corsair strode into the first one. A stick-like old woman was tending a small fire, over which an iron cauldron was simmering.

With his eyes smarting from the smoky atmosphere, Ghigno crouched by the old woman and made enquiries. “Where is my cousin Marlanese?”

The crone uttered one word. “Morte!”³⁰

The Corsair’s jaw tightened. Apart from that he showed no emotion, but continued his interrogation. “And the rest, where are they?”

The old woman nodded in the direction of the other shacks. “Some are in the big hut, others have gone back to their villages.”

Ghigno thrust his face close to hers. “What happened?”

She shrugged. “I was not there, ask them.”

Ghigno stood swiftly. “I will!”

There were about a score of men in the largest dwelling, lounging around a fire and passing jugs of red wine back and forth. They were holding a murmured conversation, which ceased the moment that Ghigno walked in. A sullen silence prevailed. Then one big, rough-looking villain stood up to face the intruder.

Ghigno spoke, almost casually. “I have just heard the padre is dead. Who killed him?”

The rough-looking man drew a long knife from his belt and ran it through his scruffy red beard, as if grooming it. His tone was bold and challenging. “Marlanese is dead, let that be an end to it!”

In the enclosed space, the musket report sounded like a small cannon. The redbeard collapsed beside the fire, with a hole between his eyes and a shocked look on his face. Ghigno coolly blew down the musket barrel as he drew another one, already cocked and loaded, from the back of his sash. His voice still casual, he spoke as he placed the gun against the forehead of the man sitting nearest to him. “How do they call you?”

The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed visibly as he answered. “Beppino of Montalto. I have a wife and four children, signore. . . .”

Ghigno cut him short. “If you wish to see them again then answer me truly, Beppino. How was my cousin slain?”

Beppino closed his eyes tight as the musket pressed hard against his brow. “It was the old one, the master of the White Ram. We were not told that it was heavily armed. They saw us coming up on the vessel, the old capitano ordered your cousin not to come further. Marlanese would not listen, so the old one shot him with a fire arrow. They fired cannon at us, that ship carries many cannon. We were forced to retreat, or they would have blasted us out of the sea, signore. We were not told they were fighters with a heavily armed ship.”

Bomba had been holding the boat in the surf. He watched Ghigno climb in. “What happened, did you fire that shot?”

The scar made the Corsair’s face wrinkle wickedly as he hissed at Bomba, “What business is it of yours? Get me back to the ship!”

Al Misurata listened to Ghigno’s report. He sat in silence for a moment, then nodded, showing neither disappointment nor temper. He strode out on deck, followed by Ghigno, to whom he issued rapid orders. “Put on all sail, head into deeper water, but keep the coast in sight. Steer a course for the Italian mainland, and post lookouts. Let me know the moment that ship is sighted. Get those performers off the deck and back into their accommodation!”

As they were being herded back into their cabin, Serafina, who had caught Al Misurata’s orders, confided to Mamma, “We’re not landing at all in Sicily, we’re going to Italy. I heard Al Misurata saying so.”

Mamma raised her eyes thankfully. “I’m grateful for it. This idea of making a break and escaping, I’ve never liked it. There’s too many of them, some of us could be hurt, or even killed.”

Her husband shook his head. “If we make a landfall in Italy, we must still try to escape. Right, Otto?”

The strongman had taken the blunderbuss from its hiding place. He continued working on it.

“Ja, right, mein Herr. I would sooner be dead than live as the slave of another. Escape is our only hope!”

La Lindi watched the big German oiling the trigger mechanism. “That goes for me also!”

Mummo nudged Buffo. “What would you sooner be, a slave or a dead man?”

Buffo scratched his head, as if thinking hard. “Well, I wouldn’t mind being a slave, as long as I was sold to a young, pretty woman. But on the other hand, being dead might have some advantages. Dead men don’t have to get up early, or work, or feel hungry. Yowch!”