Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Hard wood cut into Richard’s back when he came to.
He could not feel his hands, bound as they were behind some sort of post. He had no idea where he was or how long he had been there.
His keepers had left him tied and gagged in a dim space that smelled of fish and bilge water.
They had left his smallclothes, but they were little protection from the cold.
Gratitude for the looseness of his gag didn’t outweigh his other discomforts. No pain came close to fear for Lily. What did they do to her?
Frantic attempts to pull at his bindings resulted only in greater shoulder pain and a banged head.
Where the hell am I and how long have I been here? An hour? Four perhaps? Lily, dear God where are you?
Something soft and clawed ran over his lap and scuffled to the left. I have company in this hell, four footed, and cunning. He fought back nausea, bent his knees, and slid his feet close to his body. How long before they gnaw at my toes?
An inhuman moan emanated from the gloom to the left.
No rat that. Richard stared into the shadows, allowing his eyes to adjust. Not so inhuman.
Black eyes glared back at him; Volkov slumped against a similar post ten feet away, face bloodied and swollen.
His eyes glowed, though. Hatred glowed in those eyes like red coals.
While Richard watched, blood dripped down Volkov’s face, across his bare chest and onto the rough loin cloth that was his only clothing.
Do rats smell blood? I hope he keeps them busy so they don’t come for me.
He knew from the bobbing—and the horrific smell—that they had been carried to a ship.
He sensed movement; they were under sail.
The ship moved slowly which meant they had not yet reached the open sea.
By now they may have cleared the city and crossed the Sea of Marmia that lay below Constantinople.
He suspected they were passing through the Dardenelles to the Mediterranean.
Escape from a ship should be easy in that narrow passage. Hadn’t Byron famously swum across?
He shook with bitter laughter. Escape would be easy? If he managed to undo his bonds, find Lily, and get to the deck without being captured, he still had the problem of swimming to shore with a pregnant woman in tow.
How long before Liston or Sahin Pasha figure out what happened?
Rescue seemed almost as unlikely as escape. Even if the Ottomans knew to follow or cared to, the ship, if it was a Barbary corsair, would be fast.
Richard’s only satisfaction lay in the sight of the Russian beaten, bloody, and bound. At least Volkov couldn’t do further harm.
Richard couldn’t measure the time that passed before he felt the ship gain speed.
Volkov had slumped, asleep or unconscious, and Richard himself had almost nodded off when footsteps on the stairs to the hold put him on alert.
The man who entered no longer wore black, but his scarred face made Richard’s guts churn.
Dressed in loose brown trouser and wide-sleeved shirt, Scarface wore the long tunic characteristic of North Africa. He had a lethal-looking curved sword in a red sash and his dagger in his hand, the weapon Richard last saw pointed at Lily.
If this animal harmed Lily, he will pay; I will see to it.
He cut Richard’s bonds and aimed the knife at his neck. “You come now,” he said in passible English.
Richard pulled out the gag; his tongue and throat felt like old leather. Temptation to attack the man surged. One thought kept it in check. Not until you find Lily. Richard did as he was told. He crawled up the stairs and limped across the deck. Wind whipped at his bared skin.
They had reached the open Mediterranean and picked up speed. He noted they sailed on a small frigate or perhaps a corvette, probably captured from the Portuguese or the Americans twenty or more years ago. Small but impressive. At least it isn’t a galley.
His keeper prodded him forward toward the captain’s cabin situated aft. The cabin, stripped of decoration and hard used, had the sparest of furnishings.
“Welcome, English,” a deeper voice said.
The speaker sat at the broad table built into the deck, the captain’s desk with its myriad map drawers.
Broken handles and gashed wood spoke to this one’s long life.
Richard recognized him as the leader of their captors.
The man clearly captained this ship. Richard lunged toward him; the point of a sword stopped him.
“Where is Lily?” he demanded, his voice a harsh squawk. “Where is my wife?”
“Wife?” the man arched a dark brow. “Your woman dresses for the Sultan’s Seraglio and you call her wife?”
Richard opened his mouth to speak again, but this time the words grated in his throat and died there.
The captain gestured, and Richard’s keeper handed him a water skin. He swallowed deep and choked. Rum! Both pirates laughed.
“I am Rais Hamidou. You have heard of me?” the captain spoke in impeccable English. Rais. Richard recognized that word. Leader. Chief. Captain.
“Rais Hamidou is dead. Steven Decatur killed him at Cape Gata.”
A roar of laughter greeted this pronouncement.
Richard realized three or four more pirates had crowded into the cabin to watch this exchange.
He inclined his head and raked his memory; the image of his desk with its dozens of reports on Mediterranean shipping didn’t help much.
Legends clung to the name Hamidou, but they obscured the question of whether the deeds were true or those of any one man.
Perhaps a Hamidou rises from the ashes like a Phoenix when one is killed.
“I am acquainted with the name,” Richard said.
He took a slower swallow of rum to soothe his throat and survey the room.
“Where is my wife?” he repeated with as much diplomatic aplomb as he could muster in his current state.
“Secured below.”
Relief swept through Richard. Lily is alive.
“She is an innocent.”
“An innocent?” Hamidou smirked.
“She is my wife,” Richard countered; his eyes dared the man to disbelieve. “I demand to see her.”
Shrewd eyes considered Richard’s defiance. Hamidou flicked a gesture, and one of the men bolted out the door.
“She is not untouched,” Hamidou said. “That will impact her value to some in the slave market in Tunis, but her fiery hair and her obvious fertility may prove an asset. The hair will certainly please. We shall see.”
The thought poleaxed Richard.
“Volkov owed us much,” Hamidou went on. “We will recoup our losses.”
These men intended Lily for the slave markets. Knowing felt far worse than guessing. The trade flourished for centuries. The American invasion of Tripoli and Exmouth’s bombardment of Algiers had contained the trade but never stamped it out.
Before Richard could respond, the door opened and Hamidou’s man returned. He pulled Lily behind him, her hands bound. The man pulled her with a rope like a dog. Frightened green eyes bore into his over a silken gag. Scarface’s sword kept Richard in place.
“She should bring much, this one, with or without the baby. The child is yours?” Hamidou asked.
“Yes,” Richard rasped. He racked his brain for an argument the man would accept. Only one would work. “Whatever you think she’s worth, I can pay you more.”
“You?” the man roared with laughter, looking Richard in his ragged smalls and bruises.
“I am Richard Hayden,” he rose up and stiffened his aching spine.
Hamidou raised an eyebrow. Unimpressed. “The Marquess of Glenaire.” More interest. “Heir to the Duke of Sudbury.” I have his attention.
“Whatever you think she is worth, my government will pay more.” He prayed that was true.
If Castlereagh balked and his father wouldn’t, Chadbourn would see it done.
“Interesting, but not certain,” Hamidou answered. “I know the traders in Tunis and Algiers. I don’t know you.”
But you’ve heard of me. I’d swear to it.
“What do you have to lose by waiting?” He forced his eyes to stay on Hamidou and not Lily.
The man appeared to ponder his words. “Perhaps I will wait with the woman and sell you. You are worth almost as much as the woman, my lord Glenaire, though not, I think, as much as Volkov owes us. The galleys are hungry for strong backs. Your strength is not first rate, but it will improve over time, and it will amuse them to have ‘my lord’ to pull their oars.”
He felt sick. If I’m lost in the galleys, it will take years to find me. What will happen to Lily and the baby then?
“If I wait,” Hamidou mused, “she will deliver. If her baby lives, I can sell him also.”
A wail, wrung from the depths, escaped Lily’s gagged mouth.
Hamidou rubbed his chin and ignored Lily’s moan of protest. “What shall I do with you?”
The pirate looked amused. Does he really have to consider it or is he torturing me? Richard had nothing else to say, nothing else to offer. He had played his last card.
“I will consider your proposal,” the man said at last. “In meantime, you will be fed as will your … Wife, did you say? We must care for our merchandise. Volkov owed us much. You will make up for it and more, one way or another.”
Rough hands shoved Lily back into the wooden closet that had been her cell for hours. They removed neither bond nor gag.
Raucous laughter accompanied their forced march from the captain’s quarters. Hamidou’s quarters. Richard had called him Hamidou, the beast who would sell her baby. She gagged as her rising gorge threatened to choke her.
Two of the captors, who stunk of bilge and unwashed bodies, shoved Richard into the closet to lie in a heap at her feet. Her heart leapt. Do they mean to leave us together? The men grinned like fools from the doorway.