For Love of Country (19 page)

“No, sir,” he said. “I assure you, I would give Monsieur Logie the same reply.”

Whatever de Kercy saw in Richard's eyes convinced him. “
Eh bien.
As you wish,
capitaine
. I must accept your
décision
. And I will do what I can for you. Tomorrow, if you wish, I will accompany you to the palace. Protocol is very important here. I can help you with that, at least.”

“I would be honored, Monsieur de Kercy.”

“
Eh bien
.” He turned back toward the entry port and the small boat awaiting him. “
Adieu, Capitaine
Cutler.
À demain.
Until tomorrow.”

Richard stepped in front of him. “Before you go, Monsieur de Kercy, may I ask you to show me where the Americans are being held?”

“
Certainement, monsieur. Le prison est là,
” he pointed, “near the gate you see. It is called Admiralty Gate. It is also called the Gate de Jihad. On the other side of the wall is the prison—
vraiment,
there are
trois
. . . three,
prisons,
one in back of the other, in the area we French call
la marine.
” He indicated the same low-lying roof that Richard had noticed that morning.

“Thank you,” Richard said. He stared at the building, oblivious to Kercy's grunts and mild oaths as he battled his way down the short rope ladder leading into the tender.

 

AS NIGHTFALL CREPT across the unruffled waters of the bay toward the bare-soiled Sahel Hills rising off to westward, cooler, more refreshing breezes wafted through the open windows of
Falcon
's stern cabin where Richard, Agreen, Lamont, and Dr. Brooke had gathered for supper. Their mood was somber. No one said much simply because there wasn't much to say. Lawrence Brooke did try to inject a note of optimism when he said, “Tomorrow, Captain, you will see Caleb. And we will know the condition of
Eagle
's crew.”

“I pray that is so,” Richard replied, and said no more on the subject. After so many months of planning and posturing and preparation, of
conniving and cajoling, of soldiering through the depths of anxiety, here they were at last in Algiers, in all likelihood within hailing distance of those they had come to rescue. Today was Wednesday. By Friday, God willing, they would be bound for France and the medical facilities at Toulon.

Even the normally chatty Abel Whiton went about his business in silence as he served and cleared away the dishes of a routinely simple meal of salt beef, hardtack, and the few carrots, cabbages, and apples that remained from the stores loaded aboard at Gibraltar. As soon as propriety allowed, Dr. Brooke excused himself from the table, to be followed shortly by Lamont. Agreen remained seated.

“Anything I can do for you, Richard?” he asked when they were alone.

Richard forced a smile. “I appreciate your asking, Agee, but really, no, there isn't. Get some rest. We have a long day tomorrow.”

Agreen hesitated a moment. When Richard met his gaze with silence, he said, “Well, since it appears you won't be requirin' my wit and charm this evenin', I reckon I'll mosey along. Good night, Richard.” He scraped back his chair, rose to his feet.

“Agee?”

“Yes?” Agreen looked down. In the feeble light of four flickering candles he thought he glimpsed dampness in Richard's eyes.

“Before you leave, Agee,” Richard said, his voice quavering a little as he looked up from where he was sitting, “I need to tell you what it has meant to me to have you on board this cruise. I don't mean to embarrass you, but I need to say this. I would have been hard-pressed to do any of this without you. Just knowing that you were here whenever I needed you has meant more to me than I can express. I also want you to know what I hope has long been obvious to you—that you will always be more than just a friend to me. You're my brother, Agee, as much a brother to me as Will or Caleb. And whoever finally succeeds in sweettalking you into dropping anchor—and I hope and pray that someone will be Lizzy, because I know how well you'd treat her—is going to be one hell of a lucky woman.”

Agreen stood stock still. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down once, twice. His mouth opened, but no words came out. At length he half-whispered, “Thank you, Richard. Thank you for sayin' that. It means everything t' me. You know the feeling's mutual.” He forced a smile and in a louder voice more like his own said, “As to what I've done on
this cruise, in case you've forgotten, Captain, that's my job. Why you're payin' me so damn much money t'
do
my job, I haven't a clue.”

Richard burst out laughing. “Get the hell out of here, Lieutenant,” he said, waving him away.

“Aye, aye, Captain.” Agreen saluted, performed a military aboutface, and left the cabin.

Eight

Algiers, September 1788

R
ICHARD WAS UP BEFORE the change of watch at 6:00, shaving in front of the small, round mirror nailed on the wall of his sleeping cuddy and washing himself as best he could in a pint of water brought up from the hold the previous evening. By the time Whiton knocked on his door with a round of coffee, Richard was dressed in his Continental Navy uniform of white knee-breeches, white cotton stockings, dress blue uniform coat with silk neck stock to match, and black leather shoes with polished silver buckles—an ensemble that fit him just as well as it had when he had last worn it after the Battle of Yorktown years ago. Left off, purposely, was the traditional cotton waistcoat. Algiers was too hot for that. Otherwise he looked every thread the American naval attaché acting on behalf of his government—except that, Richard reflected glumly, his country had neither a navy nor a consulate nor a viable government for which to act.

At 10:30 he met Agreen and Chatfield by the larboard entry port. The rest of the crew was present as well—Pratt, Tremaine, Howland, Gardner, Blakely, all of them save for those on station by the oars in the bluff-bowed captain's gig, swung out from its place of storage between the fore and main masts and waiting to ferry Richard to shore. They had all come to see their captain off.

“It's time, Richard,” Agreen said. He pointed ashore at the great double doors of the entry gate swinging open. A troop of men emerged onto the narrow strip of stone between the water's edge and the east-facing
wall of the city. Kercy and his small entourage walked among what looked to be four janissaries dressed in collarless buttoned-up vests, cassocks with short sleeves, white turbans, and red leather slippers. Each of the Turkish soldiers carried a wide-bladed scimitar lashed to his waist by a wide red sash, and each gripped a six-foot, iron-tipped lance.

“
Enfin
,
mes enfants
,
allons-y,
” Richard responded with forced good humor. His jibe targeting Kercy, ashore and out of earshot, drew gentle laughter from the crew and cut the tension. He gestured to Chatfield to go down into the gig. “
Falcon
is yours, Agee. Remember: no one comes aboard in my absence.”

“Understood,” Agreen confirmed, realizing, as did Richard, that if it came to that, there was nothing he or anyone else could do to prevent a swarm of Arabs from coming aboard and doing whatever they wanted. “Good luck, Richard.”

Each man saluted the other and turned away.

 

THE WALK FROM the jetty up to the royal palace took twenty minutes. It was not far, but the climb was steep, and Kercy was panting so loudly with the effort that eventually even small talk became impossible. The party had to pause now and then to allow him to catch his breath. That suited Richard, for he needed time to consider his surroundings, to think. Once through the Gate of Jihad, he had scanned the prison area to his right, straining to make out who and what he could within a jumbled array of one-story, flat-roofed buildings that largely blocked his view. Every man he saw was wearing the traditional Arab headdress and
haik
or
burnoose
tied with a silk belt.

As they walked on, his gaze took in a spider's web of winding streets so narrow that a normal-sized man with arms outstretched could touch the buildings on either side. Snaking off in eccentric directions, these streets formed an exotic white-stoned labyrinth whose exit would have been impossible for the uninitiated to discover were it not for the royal palace looming high above them, as much a guidepost for travelers within the city as was the lighthouse for mariners out in the bay. Occasionally Richard made some comment to Kercy or silently indicated a building to Chatfield, something for him to take note of and sketch later on the tablet he had brought with him. But mostly each man kept his own counsel as they waded single-file upstream against a flow of exotic humanity that readily gave way to foreigners in company with armed palace guards.

What Richard observed along the route was beyond anything his imagination had predicted. On many streets in these depths of Algiers were individual bazaars, or
souks,
where merchants hawked their inventories of black olives and beeswax, leather hides and wooden sculptures, coffee and salt and beans, jewelry and silks of various colors and designs, each commodity and its traders grouped together in a designated area, apparently to ensure a competitive market. From within cozy nooks of bakeries and coffeehouses flowed the animated chatter of patrons debating the affairs of the day along with alluring scents that helped to mitigate, just a little, the constant and sometimes overpowering stench of fresh animal dung, coffee beans roasting in frying pans over open fires, and the gut-wrenching stink of freshly tanned animal hides.

The men, on foot or riding on mules, were richly attired. As for the women, it was impossible to tell; their long black
burkhas
and veils covered all but their eyes—eyes careful to avoid any sign of interest in the foreign men approaching them. Here and there, within makeshift stalls containing rich displays of medicinal powders and liquids, were what had to be physicians dressed in flowing white
djellabas
dispensing advice and medicines to those in need, their services apparently free of charge since coins never seemed to change hands. Smooth-domed mosques were everywhere, some of immense size with magnificent marble archways in Moorish tradition, each mosque designed in the round to ensure that every worshipper inside held equal status in the eyes of Allah. Near each mosque was a one-story alabaster
madrasa
where dark-haired schoolboys strolled outdoors in discussion with teachers or played with a ball near circular marble fountains splashing cool water.

As they approached the Dar al-Imara, the grounds of the royal palace, the din and reek so prevalent in the lower part of the city gradually abated. Here abided a different world, one centered on a broad rectangular area about the size of the Common in Boston, size being about the only basis of comparison. The residences along its periphery were more stately and ornate than any the party had seen so far, most of them two-story affairs constructed in spotless white brick and marble with decorative wrought-iron balconies set under front-facing windows. Gracing the quadrangle were numerous courtyards with fruit orchards and scented plots as well cultivated as any English garden. The few men they saw were walking with purpose from what Richard presumed was one administrative building to another, or into the palace itself,
positioned in the geometric center of the quadrangle, its huge towering stone façade standing as testament to Man's rule on earth.

Piracy does have its benefits, Richard mused as he absorbed such majesty and opulence in a desert land that otherwise had little to enrich it.

Shy of the main doors of the palace, within a courtyard rife with blossoming flowers and the heady scent of honeysuckle, Kercy called a halt to collect both his thoughts and his breath. “
Vous êtes prêt, capitaine
?” he asked. Then, remembering himself, “You are ready, Captain?”

“I am,” Richard replied, with more conviction than he felt at that moment.

“
Bon. Alors,
when we go inside, I will review with you the protocol of the court. We have”—he consulted his waistcoat watch—“
vingt minutes
—twenty minutes—before the audience with the dey. As I have told you, protocol of the court is not difficult. But it is very important. If you do not follow exactly the rules, you will insult the dey, and that,
mon ami,
you do not want to do. As for the rest,” he added with a smile and a slight shrug, “that is up to you.”

“I understand,” Richard said.

At 11:00 the door to the audience chamber opened and a goldenrobed court official summoned them deeper into the palace. Kercy led the way. At the doorway to the innermost region he paused between two towering, scimitar-wielding Turkish guards. Bowing more from the neck than the waist, he announced to the court, in French, the arrival of Richard Cutler from the United States of America in the company of his aide-de-camp, Peter Chatfield. With an imperious movement, Kercy turned to his right and held out his arm toward Richard, as a circus barker might do when introducing the next act.

It was Richard's cue to enter, and he did so stiffly, replicating the consul's bow as best he could while his eyes flicked about the chamber. He saw five men in what was, surprisingly, a sparsely furnished sanctuary. Four of them stood, ranged on either side of a fifth man who was seated in a substantial though largely unadorned wooden chair with a high back that seemed, to Richard, hardly the seat of royalty. The proportions of the man in relation to his throne created an incongruous image. Although dressed in ornate turban and rich silk robes, Mohammed bin Osman was scrawny and of insignificant height, while his heavy wooden throne was tall and gracefully curved. He might have been mistaken for a child were it not for his thick black eyebrows and chest-length black beard, which was tied off in a number of tight, separate
strands embellished with tiny beads of various colors. To allow his feet to touch an ornately decorated stool set on the marble floor, he had to sit slightly forward with his elbows on the armrests, giving the impression that if he were ever to lose his temper he would spring forward from his seat of power to personally smite the offender. From somewhere within the vast chamber—Richard could not determine where—came the soft, wistful melodies of an oud.