Blood and Oak- Wolves Will Eat Read online

  “My paps used to say,” Buford began, “‘your feet can always find another mile when the porch is in sight.’”

  Kaitlin licked the stew from her lips, tasting the salt of tears. She still wanted to cry, but then she felt the spirit of the Red Hart envelope her—a mighty stag of the forest and the symbol of her family. A measure of her strength returned.

  “Keep your feet, Miss Kaitlin. The porch is in sight.”

  Kaitlin nodded and wiped her nose. She took several gulps of goat’s milk from her pewter flagon. As if only to herself, she repeated, “The porch is in sight.”

  The thief and the mountain man finished their meal in silence.

  Chapter 15

  The Lake Fort

  Underground Sewers

  Sunday, September 11th, 1803

  Day 2, Near Dawn

  “What if we go back up to the courtyard?” asked Melisande Dufort, sloshing through the sewer stream. “We could get to Sully that way.”

  “It won’t work,” said Kaitlin. She was following her father, Ethan, and Melisande through the ancient Roman sewer. Declan’s lantern provided the only light. “If the guards haven’t noticed you’re missing from the cages, they soon will. Any minute, the castle will be crawling with them. And it’s almost dawn. We have to get to the boat and get across the lake while it’s still dark.”

  “We can’t just leave Sully behind!” Melisande picked up a rock and sent it skipping off the brick wall.

  Ethan jumped out of the path of the ricochet. “Eh! Watch it Melly!”

  “Sorry, Fiddles.” Melisande was feeling more than frustration. She was pissed. Sully had lied to her face. Ditched her. Took off to fight the whole Djedid army alone. All his dumb lectures about friends sticking together, and when it came down to it, he treated her like a child. She got the same from her hen-pecking sister Dominique. It made Melisande sick. “Damnit, Sully, you pigheaded ass. If you survive this, I’m gonna kill you! Fiddles, we have to go back.”

  “There’s nothing we can do, Melly.” Ethan didn’t bother to look back. “John’s made his choice. The best we can hope for is that he’ll make it to Carthage. We’ll wait as long as we can.”

  “That daft boy!” groused Declan. “Always the stubborn one. He was only five when he’d sneak off to climb the ratlines. Time after time I tanned his hide, and always I’d find him at it again.”

  “So that’s it?” Melisande complained. “We’re just leaving him behind?”

  “No, lass,” said Declan. “You, Auldon, and Katie are leaving him behind. Once you’re safely ashore at the ruins, I’ll go back for my daft son. I didn’t survive five years of Barbary Slavery to lose my children again. You’re all young, with lives to live.”

  “No offense, Papa Sully, but you can barely walk.”

  “There’s life in these bones yet.”

  “If you’re going back, you’re not going alone. Ain’t that right, Lil Red?”

  There was no reply.

  “C’mon, Lil Red, tell your papa.” Melisande looked over her shoulder. “We can’t let him…” She trailed off. “Lil Red?”

  Ethan turned around. Declan held up his lantern. There was only darkness behind them.

  Kaitlin was gone.

  ###

  The Lake Fort

  Powder Magazine

  Sunday, September 11th, 1803

  Day 2, Near Dawn

  A spool trundled in John Sullivan’s hands. He walked backwards among the barrels in the powder magazine, laying a slow-burning fuse as he went. The casks were stacked three high and two deep. The walls were racked to the ceiling with muskets, scimitars, polearms, dirks, pistols, and hatchets. There were shelves of grape shot by the bag, chain shot hanging on hooks, and round shot stacked in pyramids. The cord trailed over the bodies of two Djedid guards, blood spreading from their wounds. John had surprised them with his sword and dagger only minutes ago.

  He held up the lantern, examining his work in the dust-filled lamplight. A fuse meandered for twenty feet before splitting off into five smaller ones. Each line forked toward a different barrel. Satisfied, John poured a pile of gunpowder on the end of the cord. He held the flintlock of his unloaded pistol to the primer and pulled the trigger. There was a flash of sparks and the slow-burning fuse glowed to life. It would take several minutes for it to burn down.

  John hurried to the west door, which opened onto the fort battlements. He picked up three muskets leaning against the wall and slung them over his shoulder. His rapier, Ace, and dagger, Spade, hung on his hip. His powder horn and a half dozen grenades hung beneath the small of his back. Three pistols were stuck through the bandolier on his chest. An extra dirk was sheathed in his boot. John considered dressing up as a Djedid in order to camouflage himself. Instead, he now thrust his arms into his brass-buttoned midshipman coat. He was done hiding. Done running. Deserter or not, if he was about to die, he would die an officer of the United States Navy.

  Funny, thought John as he pressed an ear to the powder magazine door. When did I stop thinking of myself as an Irishman? When did I become a Philadelphian? An American? The indistinct chatter of two soldiers approached in the hallway beyond. John rubbed the smarting rope burn on his wrist. He pulled the key ring from his coat pocket, taken off the dead guards, and eased the door open a crack. When the guards’ footsteps were passing the open door, John stepped behind a stack of barrels and tossed a broken brick against the weapon racks. The chatter stopped, and the two guards stepped inside the powder magazine to investigate. John waited as they walked by the stack of barrels where he hid.

  The soldiers unslung the rifle straps from their shoulders and cocked their weapons. They exchanged a few short words as they searched about. John quietly stepped out behind them. They stopped when they saw their two comrades lying dead in an aisle.

  Spade stabbed through the first soldier’s red jacket with ease. He made an airless gasp as the dagger slid into his lungs. His companion whirled around. John sliced the second guard’s throat open. Air burbled out of the man’s open esophagus, dribbling a pink foam down his clean-shaven chin. Both guards collapsed at John’s feet. They would never again to enjoy a meal, share a triumph with their mates, or lay with a sweetheart—instead, they would bleed and suffocate in a musty storeroom. Their just reward for what they took from Kaitlin—and what they tried to take from his friends. From him.

  “That’s right, fuckers,” John said as he watched them gulp for breath. “Your brothers are next.”

  John drew his sword and went to the end of the western hall. He peered around the corner. A Djedid guard was approaching in the next corridor, a drum-shaped canteen pressed to his lips. John lunged the five paces between them and drove the point of his rapier straight through the guard’s ribs. The soldier spluttered water and dropped the canteen. In his last few seconds of life, he tried to pull his pistol. John grabbed the flint, preventing the hammer from striking, and pinned the soldier against the wall. Torchlight flickered in drooping eyes as the man breathed his last.

  Hoisting the corpse over his shoulders, John headed for a door ten strides down the hall. His sore foot and wrist throbbed. The stitched wound across his back burned under the body’s weight. But John trudged on, sweat soaking through his shirt, and used his key in the door. He stole into a small room with a spiral staircase, closing the door just as two more guards entered the corridor. He stashed the dead guard and ascended the steps, coughing into the crook of his arm. His lungs weren’t yet recovered from his bout of pneumonia.

  In a few minutes, none of that would matter.

  ###

  The Lake Fort

  Great Hall

  Sunday, September 11th, 1803

  Day 2, Near Dawn

  Varlick Naim dug his bare feet into an ancient rug. He looked along the columns of the Great Hall, which held up grand arches under a high ceiling. A mezzanine extended from the back wall. Gregorian choirs and minstrels once sang from its pews—long ago, when the castle belon
ged to Crusaders. Above this, a circular window of stained glass formed a kaleidoscope of purple, green, and blue. Tinted moonlight illuminated a ring of Arabic letters. Naim pondered their meaning.

  There is no god but God. Muhammad is the messenger of God.

  Perhaps it was no time to meditate on matters of faith. Isitan had only informed him a few minutes ago of a prisoner escape. Two guards were found unconscious in the courtyard. Dufort and Auldon were missing from the slave pens. Sullivan and his father were missing from their dungeon cell, with their guards bound and gagged in their place. The Janissaries were keeping the Nizam-I Djedid preoccupied, so Isitan couldn’t mount a proper search until they left. Perhaps Naim should have been worked into a furor. But in trying times, he preferred contemplation. He would be rid of the bey’s minister and Janissaries soon enough.

  After all, Naim’s greatest weapon had always been patience.

  “Sidi Naim.” Yussef Sapatapa strode through the main double-doors. Two columns of Janissaries followed him in from the battlements. A breeze whipped up the dust collecting in the castle’s crevices. “I come on the authority of the Bey of Tunis. You promised me an audience hours ago. This delay is an insult! What’s more, two of my Janissaries lie dead.”

  Naim clasped his hands behind his back. His eyes traced up to a stonework stalactite. “Perhaps if your men had proper discipline…”

  “It was your Djedid that fired the cannon!”

  “A misfire, I assure you.” Naim faced Sapatapa. The silks and oiled skin of the bey’s lover gleamed in the torchlight—a living monument to Hammuda’s excess. Naim took a step forward, his height casting a shadow over the minister. “My apologies. Your wounded will have the care of my physician.”

  “To Hell with your physician!” said Sapatapa, nostrils flaring. His bitter orange perfume was nauseating. “Where is the Wolf of Tunis? The bey’s flagship has been away on your errands for weeks. Your Nizam-I Djedid have taken over his fort. You have ignored repeated summons to the palace, forcing me to travel here at great inconvenience. Hammuda Bey demands an explanation.”

  Naim slipped a scroll from his kaftan and proffered it to Sapatapa.

  The minister snatched the scroll and tore it open, sighing as he read.

  “My apologies for the delay in your reception, Minister,” said Naim. “I was occupied with a pressing matter. As the sultan’s chronicle will attest, the Wolf of Tunis is needed on important business of the Empire. Your warship is in capable hands with Re’is Hamit. It shall return to you soon with Sultan Selim’s gratitude.”

  The minister crumpled the paper. “This is ridiculous. After two years, I am to believe Sultan Selim still allows your use of this fort, his troops, and the bey’s flagship for reasons of ‘secret imperial business?’ How do I know this is truly the sultan’s word?”

  Naim’s eyes narrowed. “I am his chronicler. I am his word.”

  ###

  John emerged onto an orchestral mezzanine below a vaulted ceiling. Rows of pews fanned out toward a balcony rail above the Great Hall, which lay at the heart of the castle. Its pillars held up a ceiling three stories high, and John could only imagine that it had once been a throne room, banquet hall, and church all in one. Up here, on the high balcony, musicians must have played. It was the perfect vantage point.

  Hearing voices on the floor below, John crouched low and crept over the pews. He nestled himself beside the conductor’s dais. A bronze grating allowed him a view through the thick bulwark of the balcony rail. Between the metal slats, he could make out the bey’s foreign minister and a retinue of a dozen Janissaries. John recognized the garishly dressed lover of Bey Hammuda from five years ago when John stood in the palace as a fifteen-year-old slave. Varlick Naim towered over the slender waif, a dozen of his Djedid watching silently between the pillars. Minister Sapatapa squawked angry demands while Naim listened with hands folded under his kaftan.

  John didn’t need a word of Arabic to know what they were talking about—the bey probably wanted his ship back and Naim gone. As John thumbed the hammer back on his musket, he prepared to grant that wish.

  ###

  “So be it, Chronicler,” said Sapatapa. “If you are the sultan’s word, then I see no alternative but to demand you deliver the message to the bey himself. Hammuda has run out of patience. He demands you attend an audience at his palace and justify your continued presence, or else vacate the city. If you refuse, I am authorized to—”

  “As you wish.” Naim bowed low. “It will be done.”

  Sapatapa’s mouth worked for a moment. “It will? I mean, it will!”

  “Sultan Selim is very pleased with Bey Hammuda’s generous gifts of tribute. He appreciates the bey’s hospitality. With greatest respect, minister, this fort stood abandoned for nearly a century before my arrival. I chose this island to avoid any encumbrance to you and your subjects. My lookouts have informed me they spotted the lantern signals of the Wolf of Tunis only hours ago. It is on the lake as we speak, and when it docks, I will offload the sultan’s supplies and sail the vessel to your Janissary harbor. I will attend an audience with the bey, whereupon I will transfer a bountiful gift, announce the completion of my mission, and withdraw the Nizam-I Djedid from the city.”

  “Why…” stammered Sapatapa. “Very good. I look forward the Wolf’s arrival.”

  Naim gave a warm smile. “You won’t have to wait long.”

  ###

  John laid three pistols in a row at his feet. He laid the muskets between the pews on his right. There were six Janissaries and four Djedid in the Great Hall below, plus Isitan, Sapatapa, and Naim. If every shot were true, he could kill Naim and the better armed soldiers before they knew what hit them. With a little luck, he’d fight his way out of the castle before the powder magazine blew. If he could get across the lake to the city, he could slip into the bey’s palace and try his hand at regicide. Admittedly, it was a long shot. But if he could at least take Naim and half a dozen Barbary bastards, that would be enough for John Sullivan. He pressed the first rifle to his shoulder, his right eye looking down the barrel at Naim.

  The Chronicler gave a few polite-sounding words and a humble bow. Minister Sapatapa appeared placated and marched out of the hall with his Janissaries. The fuse would catch any minute. John felt his heart beating in his jugular. This was his moment. He cocked the hammer of his musket all the way back. His finger slid onto the trigger. He took a breath. He squeezed.

  “John,” a girl whispered. A delicate finger landed between the flint and the pan.

  John’s hand leapt away from the trigger. He looked left, astonished to find himself face-to-face with Kaitlin. His sister had alighted beside him quiet as a feather. She looked so familiar, but her whisky-brown eyes were sharper and the freckles on her nose fainter. Under her cloak, she wore a gold-trimmed blue kaftan. At her waist, she wore a belt of strange tools. Her expression was calm, resolute—no longer the timid gaze of a little girl.

  “Katie,” whispered John. “What the Hell are you doing here? How did you get through the locked cell?”

  “I re-keyed that lock a month ago.” Kaitlin’s voice was soft as the wind. “You really think I couldn’t pick it?”

  “It doesn’t matter. You’ve got to get out of here now! It isn’t safe.”

  “John, you’re outnumbered and surrounded. Don’t do this.”

  The minster and the Janissaries had gone now. A fit, confident soldier stepped from the shadows of the columns to exchange a few words with the Chronicler. John recognized Commander Isitan, the man who helped Naim take him prisoner at Red Mortar Redoubt. He was the leader of the Nizam-I Djedid and Naim’s right-hand man.

  “I’ve rigged this place to blow,” insisted John. “And when I take this shot, all Hell will break loose. Now get going, before I miss my chance.”

  ###

  It took all of Varlick Naim’s patience to listen to his twenty-nine-year-old pupil give a lecture. But listening was still his sharpest talent.
/>   “We’ve played this game too long, Sidi Naim,” said Commander Isitan under his breath. “You asked of Sultan Selim an indulgence none would dare ask—the help of his new army to seek justice for your son. That was a year ago. The sultan’s letters are becoming impatient. Bey Hammuda is growing suspicious. The Janissaries are drawing plans to evict us from this fort. Your blood feud with Sullivan may ignite a civil war.”

  “I have read the sultan’s messages,” Naim replied evenly. “I have assured him of the safe return of his Nizam-I Djedid. By the time he receives my missive, we will be sailing home. Patience, Isitan. Soon, this will all be done.”

  Isitan sighed, his hand working at the ivory hilt of his sword. “How? The prisoners have escaped. I can’t mount a search until the Janissaries are gone. We cannot show weakness.”

  “It’s an island. They can’t go far. In a few moments, the bey’s yacht will leave our docks. When it does, deploy your men. I know you’ll find the fugitives.”

  “Bey Hammuda isn’t stupid. He knows you’re here on borrowed time. The moment Minister Sapatapa tells him of our skirmish at the docks, he’ll write to Istanbul. We won’t be able to cow Hammuda into submission much longer.”

  “Leave the bey to me.” Despite Naim’s fondness for Isitan, rage rose in his stomach like bile. It wouldn’t do to lose his temper in front of the Djedid, who were fiercely loyal to their commander. Naim laid a fatherly hand on the younger man’s epaulette. “I trust you, Isitan. I have trained you, taught you, guided you as I would my own son. You’re the finest soldier I know. You will find Sullivan, and when you do, there will be no more games. I will take my revenge and have done with this city. We shall see the teaming wharves of Istanbul soon.”