Chapter 18
THE SUN HADN’T risen when the guards entered the compound and began roughly waking up the prisoners.
Xavier was awake. He had not been able to do more than doze last night in spite of his exhaustion. Alexandra’s betrayal had haunted him.
And with it, the question why.
He lay motionless now, eyes open, listening to the Turkish soldiers snapping out commands. Several of the Turks nudged various captives with their booted feet. More than a few men received full-fledged kicks and cried out in protest and pain.
Xavier lay on a hard straw mat in the crowded courtyard, like everyone else—except for those fortunate few who had the means with which to pay off Kadar and ‘rent’ cubbyhole rooms or the right to sleep on the terrace above them.
He rose cautiously to his feet in time to see Timmy kicked viciously in the shoulder.
The boy had been sleeping; he cried out.
The Turk, a small man with crooked teeth, met Xavier’s gaze and grinned.
Xavier straightened, eyeing the scimitar that the Turk held loosely in his hand.
He had to fight the violent urge to attack the janissary; but he would quickly be beaten to a pulp, and in the end no one would gain.
Had he not told his men to resist all provocation?
He had an example to set, no matter how difficult it might be.
The Turk laughed and turned his back on Xavier.
Xavier moved to Timmy, who was holding his shoulder, his blue eyes filled with tears of humiliation and pain. Xavier laid his palm gently on the boy’s back. “Are you all right, lad?” he asked softly.
Timmy nodded, but his eyes were bewildered. “Them bastards like to be mean. I did nothing. I hate ‘em!”
“Yes, they do like to be mean,” Xavier agreed.
Behind Timmy, he could see the arches at the far end of the bagnio, and the night sky beyond that.
Stars still winked from the inky blue-blackness, which melted into the dark, rippling sea.
The prisoners were mumbling now, mostly complaints.
Not only were Xavier’s thirty-five crew members present, but about a hundred other slaves of various European nationalities.
The compound was overcrowded and unpleasant.
Tubbs came up to Xavier and Timmy, holding out a small loaf of bread and a small wooden bowl that contained a few spoonfuls of red wine vinegar. “Breakfast,” he said bitterly.
Xavier glanced from the meager meal to the soldiers distributing the morning’s fare.
And each and every slave would be expected to work a full day on such rations.
Most of the captives were seriously emaciated.
Many had vacant eyes. It was insane, inhumane.
He had to free his men. Soon. But first the Pearl must be destroyed.
Everyone ate their bread and vinegar quickly, silently. Xavier gave half of his loaf to Timmy, regretting now that he had shared the Frenchman’s bowl of soup last night. He felt guilty for having had the single morsel of lamb and the three spoonfuls of vegetables and the half cup of broth.
Kadar stepped out of the vaulted tunnel.
His glance roamed the men and settled abruptly on Xavier.
Xavier could not read the large man’s dark eyes.
For a moment they stared impassively at one another, and then Kadar turned to his soldiers, nodding.
The soldiers stepped forward, brandishing whips without using them.
“Tout le monde! Everyone! Saree! Delwatee!”
Xavier moved forward with Timmy and Tubbs, all of the slaves herded together tightly and pushed forward into the tunnel.
No one spoke. Occasionally a whip cracked and a laggard cried out.
Xavier moved closer to Timmy, shielding him with his body.
In unspoken agreement, Tubbs closed ranks on the boy’s other side.
Outside, the sky was still dark, but it was turning gray now and lightening.
Streaks of pink cut across the horizon. The slaves were marched through the dozing city and then through one of the city gates.
Xavier’s bare feet were callused, but not sufficiently, and the road was stony and pitted with sharp shells.
The soles of his feet quickly became bruised and cut.
He ignored it, but grimly noticed that Timmy was already limping, as were many of his crew.
His thoughts drifted in the silence of the dawn. Alexandra Thornton. Jebal’s second wife. Had Jebal sent her to him to seduce him, perhaps to entice him to turn Turk? Or to ferret out information?
A whip cracked. Someone cried out.
Xavier turned instinctively. A tall, thin slave had fallen behind the group, and Xavier turned now just in time to see the laggard receive another whiplash on his bare, sun-blackened back. The man fell to his knees. A soldier moved forward to whip him again.
Xavier left Timmy, moving quickly backward.
He heard a soldier on his periphery shouting at him, but he ignored it.
The slave, a pitiful wreck of skin and bones, was on all fours.
“Don’t whip him,” Xavier called out to the soldier who stood behind the slave and was raising his whip.
And then, from behind, he heard the harsh crack of a lash, and an instant later it burned across his bare back. Xavier grunted.
Another whip cracked, pain seared across Xavier’s shoulders, and this time he was driven abruptly to his knees. Gravel, dirt, and shells dug into his bones.
“Stop it, stop it!” he heard Timmy screaming shrilly.
Xavier was but a few yards from the slave who remained on his hands and knees, apparently without the strength or will to get up and go on.
Their gazes met. The slave was a Spaniard of indeterminate years, perhaps middle-aged, and he regarded Xavier blankly.
Thick white hair fell into his unfocused, hopeless eyes. “I’ll help you,” Xavier said.
The Spaniard stared at Xavier as if he hadn’t heard him—as if he didn’t even see him.
Xavier pushed himself to his feet. The effort hurt his back, but he refrained from crying out. He half turned and then regretted it as he heard the whip again. Before he could duck, the lash razor-cut his shoulder and his cheek. Xavier inhaled sharply, biting the inside of his own cheek.
Kadar came forward. “Get back with the others.”
Xavier straightened, not touching his face, which was bleeding. “He cannot make it. He is too weak to walk, much less work. He needs a doctor urgently.”
Kadar stared at him, his black eyes unblinking. “Get back with the others.” His tone was far calmer than before.
“If you won’t send him to a doctor,” Xavier said, knowing Kadar would not, “let me help him. I will carry him the rest of the way.”
“He is going to die. Leave him. We can replace him immediately. Get back with the others.”
“I want to help him,” Xavier said quietly—firmly.
This time, Kadar was silent.
Xavier turned to go to the slave, who remained on all fours. He heard the whip and tensed, but was unprepared nevertheless for the searing pain as his back was flayed yet again. Xavier knew that this time Kadar had delivered the blow himself, and he did not look back. He walked unsteadily forward.
The whip hissed and seared the skin off of his back again.
Xavier jerked, willing himself not to fall. It felt as if the whip had cut deeply into his flesh like a finely honed knife. He heard Timmy scream, the sound soblike.
Xavier inhaled, trembling, but stepped forward. The whip cracked, louder now, and this time the force of the lash and the brutal, burning pain sent Xavier to his knees. For a moment he could not move, blinded by both his tears and the pain.
“Cap’n, Cap’n,” Timmy wept.
When his eyes had stopped tearing, when his vision had cleared, Xavier turned his head to look over his shoulder.
Kadar regarded him as dispassionately as before.
If Kadar’s intent was to be cruel, Xavier could not discern it.
Slowly Xavier pushed himself upright. Tensing his entire body for another agonizing blow from the whip.
No whiplash sounded, or came.
His heart pounding wildly from the unpalatable combination of fear, dread, and determination, Xavier bent down for the Spaniard. “Let me help you,” he said softly.
The slave stared at him now, and where before his eyes had been blank and lifeless, now they were wide, astonished.
Xavier put his hand under the man’s armpit and lifted him upright. The slave was so weak that he collapsed against Xavier, and he almost fell over. His entire back was on fire, burning hellishly. Every movement exacerbated his agony.
He turned, half carrying the Spaniard. Kadar watched him, but did not wield the whip.
As Xavier and the slave hobbled toward the tightly grouped captives, Tubbs came forward, quickly reaching for the Spaniard from the other side.
Still no whips cracked as they joined the group of watching, waiting slaves.
“You shouldn’t,” the Spaniard whispered as the entire mass of humanity was pushed and propelled forward. Someone moaned. Whips sounded, flicked at their legs, driving the captives on.
“I am dying. I want to die,” the Spaniard said.
Xavier looked at the Spaniard, the injustice of life in Barbary overwhelming him, infuriating him. “You will not die,” he said.
The Spaniard closed his eyes in utter, abject weariness. “I am too tired to live.”
“Nonsense,” Xavier snapped.
Then, whisper-soft, the Spaniard said, “Thank you.”
He sagged a little in Xavier’s grip. Xavier realized that he had fallen asleep while walking. His gaze met Tubbs’s. His first mate’s expression was grim.