The Pirate's Revenge (2 page)

‘So did we,' Miller reminded him.

‘We'll vote on it,' said Jem.

‘As I see it, there are three options —' I began.

‘Our Father, deliver us from her options,' begged Moggia. ‘Let's just vote, quickly, before she talks us out of it.'

‘Then I vote we take the cargo and let the
Corfu
and its passengers sail on,' said Miller, crossing his arms.

Moggia drew himself up as tall as he could. ‘I vote we take the ship and everything on it.'

Captain Caruana interrupted. ‘I have another idea.'

‘Who asked you?' said Miller and Moggia together.

‘It looks to me as if you don't have enough men to sail my ship, nor enough room for all my cargo.'

‘We can manage,' said Jem.

‘I suggest that you let my men sail
Corfu
to Santa Lucia, leave the ladies in the safety of the English garrison, and come back to meet you,' said Captain Caruana. ‘Take whatever cargo you can carry. You are welcome to it, if you take it back to Malta where it belongs. Your friend is right, food is very precious. With two ships, we can carry many sacks of grain.'

‘You will join us?' asked Jem.

‘If you are smuggling food to our people, we will join you.' The little captain was smiling broadly, anticipating adventure and revenge against the army that had invaded his islands. ‘I can meet you in Sicily in three weeks.'

‘We will have our own revolution!' shouted Ricardo. ‘But this time, it will be against the French.'

‘It's already happening,' said Captain Caruana. ‘Our people will rise up. Every day the French proclaim a new law and a whole book of regulations. Every day they commit some sacrilege. They have taken our icons from the cathedrals to melt down the silver.'

Francesco gasped. ‘How can they think of such a thing?'

Even Moggia looked shocked. ‘God will strike them dead,' he said.

‘He hasn't yet,' said the captain. ‘They have ransacked the Cathedral of San Paulo and not a murmur yet from the Heavens.'

‘Then we must act instead,' said Ricardo. He brandished his cutlass. ‘That will be a fight! No more
skulking around the ocean like rats. We will be free men, fighting a noble battle.'

Even I could tell he had one eye on the ladies as he spoke. I hoped they were listening. He was starting to sound a little like Carlo.

‘You forget, Ricardo,' Miller teased, ‘we're only doing this for the gold.'

‘Pah!' spat Ricardo. ‘I've had enough of that. It means nothing, and anyway we are hopeless.'

‘I stand with my brother,' Francesco announced. ‘A free Malta, that is worth fighting for.'

‘Free Roma!' Moggia shouted. ‘We will liberate all of Europe.'

He ran to the woman with the sad eyes and kneeled before her, proffering the fan across one arm, as if it were a dagger. She took it with a grateful smile.

‘God's teeth,' Miller sighed.

‘Is your crew always like this?' asked Captain Caruana.

‘No,' I said, ‘sometimes we are really crazy.'

From the sea, the islands of Malta looked as they always had: peaceful and almost deserted, except for dried-out fishing villages tucked into hidden coves. In one such cove, Hussein Reis would be waiting for us, as arranged — if he was still alive.

The
Mermaid
skirted the rock-strewn coastline slowly. Three men were aloft, on the lookout for French ships or threats from inland, while the Vella brothers stood in the bow, carefully guiding us through the waters they knew so well.

Very slowly, we cruised into a deserted bay. The brothers whispered to each other and to Jem, who stood ready to shout orders to the man at the tiller. I crouched out on the bowsprit, with the azure water rushing below me, and peered towards the shore. Jem had promised Hussein we would return to take him off the island, or report for further orders, if he was willing to pay. I squinted against the glare of the water, straining to catch a glimpse of that familiar, yet strange, man. But there was no sign of anyone waiting for us. There was nobody there at all. Apart from the cries of the gulls, there was no noise, no sign of life.

We came about and dropped anchor, bow pointed out to sea. Jem made the sails ready for a fast departure, just in case. It was a shallow bay, the sandy sea floor visible beneath us through the clear waters. No French frigate could follow us in here, but they could easily trap us inside if we weren't quick enough or the wind turned.

‘Perhaps we should post lookouts on the headland?' I suggested.

Jem nodded. Five men clambered into the jolly boat and struck out for shore, four rowing and one in the bow with a blunderbuss at the ready. None of us was taking any chances.

Two of the boys climbed the cliff and crouched down to watch for danger. The others stayed by the boat, waiting. I didn't envy them. If an attack came from the sea, they would have to scatter inland and fend for themselves. If it came from the land, they would row like hell to catch the
Mermaid
before she raced for safety. They all had their muskets primed now.

We didn't have long to wait. A lonely figure appeared at one end of the beach and walked slowly towards the jolly boat. He must have been watching, concealed and waiting. Even at this distance, I could see it was Hussein, and although I couldn't see him clearly, I knew he was wounded. He joined our men by the boat and they got ready to bring him out to the ship.

A single musket shot echoed around the bay. Those of us left on the ship crowded along the rails, peering to see who was attacking. A puff of smoke hovered
above the cluster of men on the beach. The boys were struggling to shove the boat off the sand and into the shallows. Someone broke away from the group and scampered over rocks near the headland.

‘What in Hades is he doing?' said Jem. ‘There must be a sharpshooter firing at them. Come back to the ship, fast!' he called, but the shore party was too far away to hear.

A lone figure on the beach seemed to be looking for something lost among the rock pools. At last he bent down, then stood upright to wave at us. With his other hand, he held something aloft.

Jem squinted through the telescope.

‘It's a bloody rabbit,' he exclaimed. ‘Here's us trying to land in secret, and Francesco goes hunting.'

‘Hoorah!' shouted Ricardo from his post in the tops. ‘Tonight we eat
fenkata
.'

‘One blessed rabbit's not going to feed many of us,' Miller grumbled. ‘No matter how long you stew it.'

‘You leave it to me,' I assured him. ‘I'm used to making very small meals go a long way.'

We watched the boat row back towards the ship. Hussein was slumped in the stern.

‘Ready to make sail,' Jem called, and all at once the splashing of the boat's oars was drowned out by the thumping of bare feet on the
Mermaid
's deck and the creaking of the capstan. The boat and the anchor were brought up at the same time. I was helping haul on the sheets at the time, and didn't see Hussein come aboard.

Once we were well out to sea, and the men started to relax a little, I went in search of him. He was slouched
in the only chair on board, at the chart table in my cabin. He didn't look up when I knocked.

‘Do you need anything?' I asked.

‘Water, that's all. Maybe some tea.'

‘You're hurt.'

‘Not much. It looks worse than it is.'

‘I have bandages and rum in the chest,' I said, starting to rummage. ‘I'm a surgeon as well as a navigator, you know,' I lied. I'd never had to sew up a wound, but I'd watched Cookie in my days on board
Gisella
, and it seemed simple enough.

His lips parted in a thin smile. ‘I'm sure you are, but I'll be fine. I just need to sleep.'

I looked more closely at him. There was a fine gash across one ear, a blackened shot-hole through one side of his robes, and dried blood on his hands.

‘Listen to me,' I said, gruffly. ‘I can bandage you up now or you can wait until the rot sets in and I have to amputate. Which will it be?'

He breathed deeply and painfully. ‘I don't think you can amputate ribs.'

‘I'll think of a way, if you don't do what you're told,' I said.

‘But Lily …'

‘Don't tell me you're shy. I live on a pirate ship, for God's sake. I've seen everything.'

At last he nodded. ‘I need to wash first. I'm covered in blood. And I need to shave.'

Brasher brought hot water and soap, and a bowl of my best chicken broth. I left them to it, waiting outside until Hussein was ready. He might be an Irishman by birth, but he was a convert to Islam
now, after all, and perhaps he held some deep belief about being clean and shaven. It made no difference to me. Most of the men on the
Mermaid
didn't wash for weeks on end. I was used to the stink.

When I was called in at last, he sat bare-chested on the chair, his face scraped pink and clean and his skin still damp. The musket-shot in his side was not deep, but the ball had grazed his ribcage. I mopped away the dried blood along the edges of the wound and prodded to see if any gunpowder or debris was lurking inside. Perhaps a bone was cracked. I hoped there was nothing more fragile damaged inside him, but he seemed sound enough, if weak.

Brasher offered him a swig of rum before I started to stitch. Hussein took the cup gratefully.

‘I thought Muslims didn't take alcohol,' I teased.

‘Allah will forgive me, just this once,' he said.

He held his breath. I gazed into his face, and he nodded. He was ready. Brasher pushed the two ragged edges of skin together over the squishy flesh, and blotted away the blood. I quickly threaded the finest needle I could find and began to ease it through the folds of torn skin. Hussein's breathing was steady, his eyes staring at the cabin door, as if we were operating on someone else. He was either very brave or in so much pain that a little needle prick made no difference at all.

Nobody had ever told me what to do, so I used the blanket stitch my mother had taught me so long ago. It had never come undone before, so I guessed it was safe enough to use on people. I hoped Hussein couldn't see that my fingers were trembling and my
forehead was as sweaty as his. Once the bandage was tied tight, we both began to breathe a little easier.

‘There,' I said, admiring my handiwork, ‘you'll be right as rain in a day or so.'

But his head was drooping, and it took all our strength to lift him clumsily into my hammock, cover him with blankets, and leave him there to sleep and heal — or die.

While Hussein slept, Jem and I made plans for delivering the cargo we'd taken from
Corfu
. Grain was always in short supply on Malta, and we were sure we could sell it through the usual smuggler villages on the island of Gozo. The Vella brothers, as always, were on hand to offer advice.

‘We have an uncle in Rabat,' said Ricardo. ‘He will take every last drop of oil and grain, and for a good price, too.'

‘No, no,' Francesco disagreed. ‘Uncle Roberto is too old. He hasn't been in the business for ten years.'

‘Then the Camilleri cousins will help,' suggested Ricardo. ‘They are very famous in all the villages, such important men that they have their own seat in the chapel.'

‘Rubbish!' Francesco scoffed. ‘The younger cousin is cross-eyed, and the older one a drunk.' He smirked. ‘Mind you, their youngest sister is very pretty.'

‘Are there bays where smugglers come and go in safety?' I asked. ‘We could send a boat to scout around for someone who will take delivery.'

Jem agreed. ‘I'm not sailing in circles waiting for every branch of your family to sort something out.'

The brothers both shouted at once.

‘We have famous smugglers in our family, many generations of great men,' said Ricardo.

‘Great pirates, too,' Francesco cried. ‘We know everyone in every village. We can take you ashore and sell every scrap of your precious cargo within two hours.'

‘One hour,' said Ricardo, ‘and at double the price.'

Jem and I swapped glances. ‘Let's wait until Hussein can tell us about the situation,' I suggested. ‘If there are villages still resisting the French, we can head there and hope to find a friendly face.'

But Hussein slept for two days and two nights. From time to time, I sneaked in to check on him, swabbed his sweaty forehead, and made sure the wound was not bleeding too much. I took away his robes, then washed and carefully mended the torn linen. He slept on, oblivious, muttering sometimes. He called my name once, while I sat at the table working at the charts, but by the time I reached his side he was deep inside his own dreams.

On the third day, we decided we could wait no longer, and turned the
Mermaid
for the coast. By now we had been at sea for weeks, and our own supplies were running low. Skirting around the shipping lanes had kept us well out of sight of land, but it also meant our water casks were nearly empty and the hen coop deserted.

I was sitting with Moggia, fishing from the rails. There seemed to be no fish either. Moggia was still wearing the finery he had seized from
Corfu
. A red silk blouse, still ruffled but now missing its laces, lay open at the throat to reveal a glimpse of grubby skin
and hairy chest. He had swapped the heavy gold ring he usually wore in one earlobe for a ruby that nestled into his skin and glowed in the daylight. A wide black belt held up a pair of trousers of such delicate linen that I suspected they were actually some sort of ladies' underwear, but he'd been so grumpy lately that none of us liked to mention it. The clothes wouldn't last long anyway, with all the rowing and hauling we had to do, and soon enough he'd be back in his blue canvas breeches and dirty white shirt.

At last, Hussein came on deck for the first time. He was pale and thin, his eyes unaccustomed to the harsh light of noon.

‘What's our course?' he asked.

‘We're circling back to the east of Gozo.'

‘Good.' Hussein walked slowly aft, towards Jem and Miller, who were standing by the tiller. Moggia and I dragged in our lines and followed. Ricardo and Francesco appeared, as if at a signal, and ran to join us. Even Brasher limped over to listen.

‘So we have to dodge the French on land and sea?' Jem was asking.

‘While avoiding spies and collaborators?' said Miller.

Hussein nodded.

‘For very little money?' said Jem.

‘That's right.'

Miller and Jem laughed. Even Hussein smiled weakly. ‘Not much of a job for pirates, I know, but it's all I can offer you.'

Jem looked around at the rest of us. ‘Hussein would like us to ship food into Malta.'

We must have all grinned stupidly. Miller winked at me.

‘Are you joking?' he said.

‘I'm not,' said Hussein. ‘My means are limited, but I'm asking you to help.'

‘What do we need to do?' Miller asked.

‘It's simple. I will supply the funds. You contact my trader in Sicily, buy whatever you can, and bring it back to our friends in Malta. I'll pay you ten per cent on delivery.'

‘That will be …' Miller did a quick calculation, ‘twenty English pounds, in pieces of eight, if you don't mind.'

‘How can you tell that?' asked Hussein. ‘You haven't bought anything yet.'

‘We don't need to,' said Jem. He led Hussein over to the hatch and threw it open. Hussein peered down into the hold at the sacks of grain from
Corfu
. We watched as his expression changed from annoyance to understanding to amusement.

‘I won't ask,' he said.

‘All in an honest day's work,' I assured him. He laughed out loud.

‘I would like to ask one thing,' said Moggia.

Jem sighed. ‘What is it now?'

‘If we're risking our ship and our crew to ferry food,' Moggia said in a serious tone, ‘why don't we make it worth our while and run in some weapons?'

‘At last,' shouted Ricardo, ‘an adventure worthy of the
Mermaid
.'

‘Our mother will be so proud,' said Francesco.

‘First things first,' said Hussein. ‘Let's get this lot
unloaded, and then you can go in search of weapons. Bonaparte has already left Malta to invade God knows where, but he has left a strong garrison. Soon the English will arrive and blockade the shipping lanes. They'll try to starve out the French, but it is the Maltese who will suffer. Food is the greatest need.'

He sat down on the edge of the hatchway, holding the wound in his side. Brasher offered him a water flagon.

‘Take it easy, lad,' Brasher murmured.

‘Thank you, I will.' Hussein looked up at Jem. ‘This is what I need you to do. I'll return to the islands tonight. You will deliver the cargo to a friend near Dingli. You'll remember him, Lily — Ebenezer Black.'

I remembered him well: his snarling face, a mocking voice that still sounded in my head:
Now you do the bidding of the man who killed your father …