Voyage of Slaves

Then he saw it. A pale, cold patch of light, far off, illuminating the Flying Dutchman. The doomed vessel appeared in the apparently calm main, its tattered sails billowing and flapping. Still on an endless voyage, captained by the wraith of Vanderdecken, crewed by lost souls. Ned whimpered in his sleep, breaking the spell, and the boy knew what his dog’s dream was. He was yearning after the puppy, Amico. All his disdain for the little dog had been only bravado. Ben smiled, smoothing his friend’s back lightly. When he looked again, the phantom ship had disappeared. He lay back and sought sleep. However, it was a long time coming—a sight of the Flying Dutchman, no matter how far off, was always a precursor of ill fortune lurking ahead.

27

AL MISURATA BROUGHT A CHART OUT onto the deck. Sheltered from the blustery breeze in the lee of the stairs leading to the afterdeck, he outlined the route to Ghigno.

“Soon the city of Venice will be visible on our port side. That is our marker. Set a course eastward, for Piran, here!” He was marking the chart with his finger when Augusto Rizzoli’s voice rang out from behind.

“Take us to the women, signore, or you are a dead man!”

The pirate and his aide turned to see the male members of the troupe confronting them. Otto headed the group, holding the blunderbuss levelled at both men.

Ghigno’s face twisted into a contemptuous sneer. “What do you propose to do with that rusty old fossil?” He gave a sharp whistle. Within moments the troupe were surrounded by guards, their long jezzails primed and ready.

Otto stood his ground, drawing back the weapon’s hammer. “Mein Herr, this gun is old and rusty, but it has a loud bark, and a fatal bite. I can take you and your master out with one blast!”

Al Misurata held up both hands, speaking reasonably. “Then we would all die. The moment you pull the trigger, my men will fire also. What would we all have gained by such a foolish act?”

Signore Rizzoli repeated his demand. “Take us to the women. We do not wish to see death and bloodshed, only to be reunited with my wife and our other two friends. But Otto will fire if he has to!”

Al Misurata did not seem unduly disturbed. “Then I concede to your wishes. Follow me, please.”

The entire assembly moved awkwardly to the midship hold, the guards trying to keep the troupe hemmed in, and Otto still menacing both pirate and Corsair with his ancient firearm. On reaching the stable cabin, Al Misurata ordered the guard to open the door, which he did. Before anybody could even guess at his intent, Al Misurata strode inside, grabbed the closest woman—La Lindi—and held her in front of him. Ducking his head so that he was at shoulder level with the snake charmer, the pirate called out, “Ghigno, tell one of the guards to shoot her in the skull unless the German surrenders his gun!”

Otto was loathe to release the blunderbuss. Signore Rizzoli placed his hand on the big man’s arm. “Please, my friend, give up your gun. These are wicked and godless men, they will kill La Lindi. Do as he says or she will die!”

The strongman relaxed his hold on the blunderbuss. Ghigno took it gingerly from him. Al Misurata let go of La Lindi and strode out of the cabin. “There are your women, now get in there with them, or I will order my men to fire on them!”

The troupe were left with no choice—they filed dejectedly into the cabin. Al Misurata smiled. “Pigeons should never try to defy hawks. Signore, you will all stay together until we reach our destination. It will not be long, I assure you.” He signalled to the guard, who slammed the door and locked it. As they went back upstairs, a cry rang out from the lookout.

“Land ho off the port bow! Land ho!”

There was a gloomy silence in the cabin below decks. The awful finality of their plight had finally come home to the Rizzoli Troupe. Short of a miracle, their fate was sealed now. Their last slim chance had gone with the loss of the gun—ancient and rusty as it was, the weapon had come to symbolise their hope of freedom.

They sat quietly, each with his, or her, own thoughts. Mamma and her brothers-in-law, Buffo and Mummo, still looked to Augusto Rizzoli; the plump little showman had always been their source of inspiration, it was he who made most of the troupe’s decisions. But even he was stuck for any solution, the glum expression on his normally cheerful face telling its own story. La Lindi attended to the python Mwaga, her face like an Egyptian carving in black jet, impassive and resigned.

Otto sat flexing his huge hands, making each knuckle pop loudly in turn. The big strongman’s jaw tightened as he muttered, “Ach, that Misurata and the scar-faced one, they are the scum of the seas. I can do nothing against their guards, they are too well armed. We are lost, mein friends, there is nothing left for us to do!”