Believe or Die (15 page)

“All old folk by the look,” observed Doggett. “Where’s all the others?”

Hitch, who had gone on a little down towards the strand, appeared around a bend and hailed the troop forward. As they cantered through the village, Mead noted that it had been stripped bare of anything useful, all else, including the little boats that provided the community’s livelihood, had been destroyed. Hitch directed Mead’s attention towards the sea. There were two vessels of a shape and design totally unknown to him that were slowly, almost insolently, disappearing into the mist.

“Barbary pirates,” commented Ringle. “Salee men I shouldn’t wonder.”

“Corsairs?” said Mead, “Here?”

Ringle shrugged and spat.

“Them vermin are everywhere Captain. They’ve got lareier since the War, all us lot being too busy elsewhere to stop ‘em like. An’ of course none of our ships can catch the fiends anyway. They haven’t raided this far north for a while as far as I know, but they’re back now by the look!”

“But what are they after? There’s nothing here!” cried Mead.

“People Sir. They deals in slaves. White men if they look useful, white women and children whatever they look like an’ the younger the better. And God help their souls, it looks like they got a tidy haul here!”

Poulton rode up alongside Corporal Tasker, Bowman’s successor, and passed him something. Tasker stared at it for a while then handed it to Mead.

“Looks like they got something else an’ all Sir,” he remarked.

Mead peered down at the cloth in his hand. It was Pitkin’s kerchief, instantly recognisable by the intricate stitching so painstakingly done by Joanna Croft.

A stab of anguish passed through Richard almost as tangible as that of a blade. Instantly it transformed into grief as Mary Thornhill came unbidden once more into his thoughts. Then the hatred set in anew and he glared out to sea at the now almost invisible xebecs.

“Feeling cheated Captain?” asked Tasker. He may have been a comrade of Bowman’s, but Mead disliked the man intensely.

“I dearly wanted to send that man to Hell!” hissed the Captain.

“Don’t you fret none Sir. Them Barbary bastards have him now. He IS in Hell!”

Stripped naked and chained in irons, Pitkin and his fellow captives mentally sank into the abyss of total despair. For several days they received no sustenance other than a few olives and a sip of oil or vinegar. After what seemed an eternity, the xebecs crossed the bar at Sale, furled their huge black lateen sails, and arrived under the blinding sun of North Africa. Then began their lives as slaves. A large iron ring was riveted around an ankle and attached to that was a long tethering chain. By this means they were paraded through the town showered by abuse and excrement by the locals until they reached something called the Matomores. These proved to be underground cells each of which held twenty or so slaves. The only light and ventilation came from a small grating high above, which also provided the only way into or out of the dungeon, and that by means of a lowered rope. Course rush matting covered the floor and it was liberally covered in mould, full of verminous creatures and stinking enough to choke a man. ‘Man’ because the women and small children had been dragged away into some other nightmare. For a week or more, though it was hard to measure the passing of the days with any accuracy, the prisoners lay in this fetid tomb. Nourishment consisted of a meagre daily allowance of bread and water, both items of which contained a variety of living things. Every day or so, jailors would, by grunt and gesture, order one of the men to climb the lowered rope to the surface. If, despite their fear and weakness, they succeeded, they would receive a comparatively wholesome meal. What it was actually composed of was anyone’s guess, but to a hungry mortal, the fact that it stayed down was enough. If a man was unable to ascend the rope, he stayed where he fell and was never summoned again.

Successful climbers, Pitkin among them, were redeposited into a separate Matomore to await their fate. It occurred to Pitkin that they were being assessed for worth and fattened for market. Then one sunrise, an actual ladder of sorts was lowered into the cell and they were ordered up to the surface. Then, like cattle, they were herded to the south of the town urged on with whips and kicks. Once there, they were manacled to stone blocks worn smooth with much use. After some hours of cowering in the sun, the men were dragged, one by one, before an eager crowd where they were made to jump, run, or lift heavy weights. A line of apparent dignitaries sat under awnings and observed with what Pitkin took to be a professional interest. Soon it was his turn and he appeared to have success to some degree, because he now became the object of some vociferous debate. Through sweat-stinging eyes, he realised he was being haggled over. It was just like a cattle market at home, only here, HE was the animal! Three prospective bidders left the shelter of their ornate canopies and came over to poke fingers in his mouth and check his teeth. Much more emphasis was placed on his teeth than on his muscles, his limbs, or indeed, any other part of his anatomy. This puzzled Wil, and then he worked it out. If you have no teeth, then you can’t eat properly. If you can’t eat properly, you can’t be good for much work. If you can’t work, you are of no use. The bidders returned to their shade and continued haggling. At length, some kind of deal was evidently struck. Pitkin and around forty other unfortunates were re-chained into a column and, with a strong escort of mounted warriors, they were marched north to a place someone in the escort called Larache.

It was a long, hot march, made worse by the searing heat on their bare feet and the sharp nature of the stoney ground. On reaching the town, they were greeted by a hostile mob of Moors who pelted them with sticks and stones, some pushing forward to strike or kick the hated Christians. Pitkin tried to withdraw into himself. Were these people actually ‘Moors’? In England, anyone with a black face was a ‘Moor’, but a fellow sufferer advised him that the Moors were but one tribe in this enormous land. Whoever they were, the escort did little to stop the mob. After all, these slaves were not followers of the Prophet and were therefore of no consequence. Only when a particularly vocal man rushed forward with sword raised did the mounted warriors react and the man fell back with two spears through his chest. Apparently there were limits, particularly when the Master’s investment was concerned.

With goads and spear butts the prisoners were driven through a gateway and onto a large ornate square. There, they were formed into a line. Hungry, desperately thirsty, scared and filthy, they stood in the sun for three hours. Anyone who collapsed was beaten and the men either side ordered to hold him up. Trying to mentally detach himself from the ongoing agony, Pitkin attempted to study his surroundings. Escape was clearly impossible; the priority now was just to stay alive for the present. Through an open gateway to the east he could see what appeared to be an orchard in the distance. A man to his right had begun gibbering with fear, his sanity close to breaking. In an effort to avoid taking the same mental route, Pitkin again tried to concentrate on his present site of woe. So then, if there was land on three sides, then the sea must be to the west. He mentally congratulated himself on this calculation then started looking again with a soldier’s eyes. The walls appeared stout. They were certainly high and were surrounded by a very considerable ditch. What looked like gun emplacements were under construction all around. A great deal of building work then, done by whom? That didn’t involve a lot of working out! A group of figures, made indistinct by the heat, emerged from a doorway some distance away and the slaves were immediately flung to the ground. The guards themselves followed suit, prostrating themselves with all eyes to the ground. One of the prisoners, known by Will to have injured his back in the earlier trials, attempted to raise himself a little to ease his discomfort. The approaching grandees had just arrived as the unfortunate man did so and the movement must have been noted. Instantly, two huge black bodyguards sprang from their positions either side of the dignitaries, seized the man, and hauled him upright. The man screamed and struggled in both pain and terror. The impassive
Black-a-Moors
bowed towards a stout little man in a large and much feathered turban at the centre of the group. This worthy merely flicked his fingers dismissively. One of the Moors pushed the cowering slave away while the other, in one swift and seamless motion, drew a huge sword. The enormous weapon, which Pitkin latter learned to be called a ‘tulwar’, swung in a glittering arc and decapitated the man with blinding speed and precision. The head rolled away, the body remained upright for a moment, then crumpled to the ground. The bodyguards resumed their positions either side of the elaborately turbaned one who smiled to a tall man at his side. A few words were uttered, then ‘Big Turban”, as Wil had mentally christened the man, departed with his retinue leaving the tall man bowing deeply hand on chest. Once ‘Big Turban’ had departed the square, the tall man turned his attention to the slaves before him. He barked an order at the guards and the prisoners were hauled to their feet, chains rattling. All eyes traversed to the headless corpse now being examined by a couple of curious mangy dogs. Many of the slaves had pissed or defecated themselves as a result of the incident. Some had vomited. Wil merely glanced at the cadaver, having seen copious amounts of death before, and then turned his attention back to the tall man. Pitkin had no knowledge of Moorish fashion, but this man’s clothing, plain though it looked, spoke of wealth. So too did the scimitar at his side and the broach in his turban. The man’s skin was dark, but his beard was almost golden, and when he spoke, Wil was astonished to find it was in English. Heavily accented, but English nonetheless.

“When you are in the presence of your master, may the Prophet preserve him, you will prostate yourselves and avert your eyes. You will do so immediately for you are not worthy to look upon him. Consider that headless offal yonder and remember this for shortly the Sultan will reappear. Do not anger him. Do not embarrass me.”

As if on cue, a clattering echoed through yet another of the courtyard’s seemingly countless archways and a chariot appeared. The tall man barked something unintelligible and bowed. The slaves needed no prompting and threw themselves to the ground, as did their guards. All eyes were on the ground. Pitkin studied the sweat dripping from his face and nose. Then he examined a colony of ants. But it was no good, he had to have a peek and strained his eyes upwards as much as he dared.

A host of mounted warriors, black as pitch and clothed in the most lavish attire Wil had ever imagined, let alone seen, led the procession. Behind them came ‘Big Turban’ riding in a huge chariot and covered from the sun by an enormous parasol. The chariot was being driven by two naked women and it was pulled by thirty or so slaves. Bringing up the rear was another mounted host of extraordinary colour and bristling with all manner of weaponry. The cavalcade disappeared from view and Wil discreetly turned his attention back to the ants only to find a soft leather boot in the way. How had it got there? He hadn’t heard a sound! Hesitantly, he ventured a tentative look upwards. There stood the tall man. He frowned at Pitkin before shaking his head and saying,

“You do not listen well Englishman.”

Then he bellowed over his shoulder, “Bastinado!”

Rough hands grabbed Pitkin. He was yanked up and disconnected from the chains linking him to his fellow slaves then dragged across the square. He was almost launched up onto a wooden frame and suspended upside down, neck and shoulders barely touching the ground. His ankles were tightly bound together and a huge
Black-a-Moor
arrived hefting a long wooden baton. The Moor grinned at Pitkin and measured for a swing that would connect the baton exactly with the soles of Wil’s feet. The tall man nodded to the Moor and passed some instruction. Then he knelt next to the trembling Pitkin’s head and said,

“That was Arabic for 50,” he explained. “I think you will remember it, it is your first lesson after all. So, pay attention Englishman.”

Then the pain began.

Months have passed. Wil Pitkin recovered from his agonising beating and joined a labour gang working on a new belt of defences around Lararache. Much work was also being done on its nearby harbour where a stout new breakwater and lengthy moles were taking shape. Elsewhere, a never-ending stream of pitiful slaves came from their audience with ‘Big Turban’or Sultan as he actually titled himself, just as Wil had done. They came, they worked, they died. Pitkin had always disliked seeing animals maltreated yet now he was clearly rated as inferior to the lowliest of asses and was infinitely more expendable than they. But apart from the slaves, the town was also bustling with craftsmen employed to turn the Sultan’s residences into dreams made tangible; glittering testaments to the wondrous architecture of Islam. Under the vicious direction of the overseers, Pitkin and a thousand others, torn from all over Europe, laboured fifteen hours a day under the broiling sun. Being unskilled at any facet of building work whatsoever, Pitkin was used as either a beast of burden, or for the mixing of the copious amounts of lime mortar required.

Some of the unfortunates toiling alongside him tried to use prayer to ease their sufferings, at least to take their minds off the agony for a moment or two. For his part, Pitkin was convinced that God had deserted them, himself in particular. For months and months, just how many he could not calculate any more, he had prayed and yearned for release from this interminable hardship yet none had been forthcoming. Little by little he felt his inner fire, his very life force, ebbing away. Despair crept into its place. Death was surely preferable to endless suffering such as this. Or was it? No sooner had this notion formed in his mind than one of the Sultan’s periodical ‘amusements’ took place. The slaves were roused from their slumber and driven by whips through the early morning to witness the punishment of certain Christians who had caused offence. The unfortunates were a mixed bag of Portuguese, French and Spanish, along with some fishermen from the far colonies in the Americas taken at sea by the far roving Sale Corsairs. What crimes, either real or imagined, these men had committed in the eyes of the Sultan, Pitkin never discovered. Their punishments though, those he would never forget! Various dignitaries were assembled, as was a huge crowd of locals, all eager for the show to begin. At length, the Sultan appeared in his customary chariot hauled by its customary slaves. All fell on their faces and ‘Big Turban’ ascended a dais and made himself comfortable. A huge bowl of cooled liquid sherbet was laid before him and he sipped contentedly as the entertainment commenced.