Tim Severin - Corsair

Hector thought furiously as he tried to find another thread that might lead him to locating Hakim Reis. ‘That powder he sells to the Emperor. Where does he get it?’

‘I’d say he has good contacts on the Spanish coast. There are plenty of small bays and inlets where you can meet up with people willing to sell war material to the highest bidder, and never mind where the guns and powder finish up.’

‘But you said that was French-made gunpowder. How would he obtain that?’

‘Gunpowder’s a valuable commodity. It could have changed hands several times, passed from smuggler to smuggler until it reaches someone like Hakim Reis who has a ready market for it.’

‘And you have no idea who any of these smugglers might be, and whether they know where to find him?’

The gun founder looked at Hector searchingly. ‘Why so keen to meet Hakim Reis?’

‘He may be able to help me locate a member of my family – my sister. She was also taken captive, and I’ve heard nothing of her since. I promised myself I would find her.’

Allen pondered for a moment, and when he spoke his tone was sympathetic. ‘I wish I could help you. I’ve known Hakim since the early days when he used to come in with shoddy muskets to sell. I did ask him on one occasion whether he could get me a further delivery of best powder, and he said he’d consult with someone he called Tisonne, or maybe he said Tison, I can’t remember exactly. But he never mentioned the name again, and I’ve never heard of it, not in these parts anyhow. And if Tisonne or Tison is a professional smuggler, it could be his cover name, not his real one. Then he’ll be even more difficult to locate than Hakim himself.’

Hector and the gun founder had arrived back in the armoury where they found Dan examining a musket from the display. ‘What do you think of it?’ asked Allen.

‘This is exactly the sort of gun we have at home among my people. I hadn’t expected to find one here. The weapon must be at least fifty years old. It still uses the old-fashioned matchlock,’ observed the Miskito.

‘Indeed it does. Have you worked with guns?’

‘Back home, and for a brief period in the workshops of King Louis’s Galley Corps in Marseilles.’

The gun founder gave a grunt of satisfaction. ‘You’ve just talked yourself into a job. Rather than helping me concoct exploding bombs, it will be more use if you could supervise these English lads here in the armoury. Show them how to repair the older weapons. Your French friend and the silent bugger can help you. Meanwhile Hector can assist me in providing Moulay with his castle smasher.’

‘Perhaps I could start by interviewing the other survivors from the galley,’ suggested Hector. ‘They should reach Meknes in the next few days, and I could ask them for more information. They might cooperate if they think it will help obtain their early release. Moulay has already appointed me as the go-between to arrange their ransom.’

‘That’s just the sort of quirky idea that would entertain the Emperor,’ Allen agreed. ‘Our friend Diaz will be able to tell us when the prisoners from the galley arrive and where they will be held. He stops by here most evenings as he and his cronies are fond of my brandy.’

IN THE END it was several more days before Diaz reported that comite Piecourt and the other captives from the St Gerassimus had arrived in Meknes. They had been added to the palace labour force, and were being held in the cells built into the arches under the causeway leading to the royal stables. The following evening when all slaves would have returned from their work, Hector set off to find his former masters. Walking along the line of twenty-four arches, he caught sight of the unmistakable figure of Yakup, the rowing master. The renegade Turk was squatting against one of the stone pillars supporting the roadway above. He was stripped to the waist and had tilted his head back against the stonework. The distinctive fork-tailed cross branded on his forehead was clearly visible. As Hector approached, two men emerged from the archway, deep in conversation. One was a tall, ascetic-looking figure and Hector did not recognise him. The other had a pale skin and close-cropped sandy hair. It was Piecourt. Both were dressed in the loose tunic and cotton pantaloons worn by slaves. ‘Good evening, comite, I would like a word with you,’ said Hector quietly. Startled, Piecourt broke off his conversation and swung round towards him. As he did so, the slanting rays of the evening sun fell square on his companion’s face and Hector saw that his otherwise handsome features were marred by a scattering of small dark blue spots spread across his right cheek from just below his eye to the jaw line. ‘Who are you?’ asked Piecourt. A moment later the light of recognition dawned in his eyes. ‘You are from the galley, aren’t you? Middle oarsman, bench three, port side.’

‘That’s correct, comite,’ said Hector. ‘But I am now in the employment of the gun founder to His Majesty Moulay Ismail.’

Piecourt’s mouth twisted in a sardonic smile. ‘Come to think of it, we’ve already met your bench companion, the brown man. He interviewed us when we were first captured. So more than one of my dogs have survived. What do you want?’

‘I need to interview the technician who looked after the mortar on St Gerassimus , also her captain and anyone else who can provide information about the gun.’

Piecourt was expressionless. ‘Then you will be disappointed. The technician and the captain are not here. After the galley foundered, the captain took the two ship’s boats and headed west along the coast, to seek help. The technician went with him.’

‘Is there anyone who could provide me with any information about the gun? It would help your case. The Emperor is disposed to look kindly on anyone who is cooperative.’

‘That is not enough reason for me or anyone else to help the infidel. On the contrary, you would be doing yourself a great favour, if you would send word to Algiers, to Iphrahim Cohen the Jewish ransom broker. Once he learns that we are being held here, he will arrange our release. As I already told your brown friend, you could earn yourself a handsome reward. Later you and your friends from bench three might even receive a royal pardon from His Majesty King Louis. I have friends who can arrange such things.’

‘It is too late for that, Piecourt. Moulay Ismail has already given orders for your ransom. I am to advise and consult with his own ransom broker, here in Meknes.’

The comite still seemed unperturbed. ‘We are not worth very much. There are only myself and the sous comites and a number of common sailors. The officers left in the boats. I repeat: the sooner you get word to Algiers, the more you will benefit.’

There was something about Piecourt’s manner which made Hector suspicious. The comite was hiding something.

‘I’ll take a moment to look around your cell,’ he said.

Piecourt shrugged. ‘You don’t need my permission.’

Stepping inside the cell, Hector was immediately brought back to his days in the Algiers bagnio. The far end of the archway had been blocked off with a wall of bricks, and the near entrance could be closed at night with double doors. The result was a narrow, high room where the only light and air came in through two small windows high up in the far wall. Looking about him, Hector was impressed with the cleanliness of the cell. The occupants were keeping it swept and there was no sign of rubbish. Everything was neatly in its place. It was evident that discipline among the occupants was very good. For their sleeping arrangements the Frenchmen had rigged up a series of bunks from lengths of timber and matting. Due to the height of the cell, these bunks extended upwards for four tiers, and the topmost could only be reached by climbing a ladder. Several of the beds were now occupied by men relaxing after their day’s work, while a group of another half a dozen were playing cards on a home-made table placed on the ground between the tiers. Among the card players were two sous comites who had been subordinate to Piecourt, and a sail handler who had worked on the rambade. They glanced at Hector incuriously before returning to their game. It occurred to him that the ship’s officers and freemen had known no more about galeriens toiling in the waist of the vessel than the latter had known about the occupants of the poop deck. And Piecourt had been right, there was no sign of the technician who could have answered questions about the mortar and its bombs.