Skylark (42 page)

The seed for this story came while I was writing
Winter Fire,
my most recent Malloren book, set in 1763. The heroine of
Winter Fire
is a naval captain’s daughter and has spent time traveling with him. Now and then people will mention that Miss Smith “fought Barbary pirates.”

Of course I did some research about this but I wasn’t planning on using it again-—until I set to write Stephen’s book and realized I was in the autumn of 1816.

The newspaper item at the start of
Skylark
is my invention, but there was excitement and furor in the fall of 1816 over the liberation of the Christian slaves of Barbary. Since my tentative storyline already required the return of a lost heir—bingo!

Barbary was the old name for the states of the north coast of Africa—Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia, and Tripoli—that had been notorious for centuries for piracy. The corsairs, as their maritime pirates were called, hunted down ships for cargo, but especially for slaves.

The harsh lands of North Africa required a lot of cheap labor, but the corsairs’ religion, Islam, forbade the use of Muslim slaves. As they were close to Christian Europe, the solution was obvious, and as well as raiding shipping, the corsairs raided the shores, scooping up young, healthy workers.

In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries they raided more widely, even pouncing on the shores of Britain, but improved navies put an end to that. By the early nineteenth century the Barbary states limited themselves to attacking crippled ships and the coasts of the weakest Mediterranean countries. In fact, by then most of their wealth came from ransoms and from protection money.

Most countries paid the Barbary pirates to leave their shipping alone, including Britain and the United States. For example, in 1812, Portugal paid over a million Spanish dollars for release of Portuguese slaves held by the corsairs and for immunity. The latter was guaranteed by an annual payment of twenty-four thousand dollars.

However, in 1815, the United States was the first to realize the weakness of the Barbary states and turned the tables. They refused to pay protection money and sent a fleet with a demand for the return of all American slaves and property. They were victorious.

There were not many American slaves, however, and the countries who had lost the most people to the corsairs had no naval power to use. It was Britain, Europe’s naval champion, who was called upon to continue the fight.

The Annual Register for 1816 says: “It has long been a topic of reproach, which foreigners have brought against the boasted maritime supremacy of England, that the piratical states of Barbary have been suffered to exercise their ferocious ravages upon the inferior powers navigating the Mediterranean Sea, without any attempt on the part of the mistress of the ocean to control them, and to reduce them within the limits prescribed by the laws of civilized nations.”

You have to admire such a long but coherent sentence, don’t you? The writer goes on to point out that competition with the upstart America was one of the motives for action. There were others, however. The end of the war meant that Britain had time, a war-trained navy without much to do, and a leadership position to cement.

In late 1815 Britain sent Lord Exmouth to begin negotiations, backed by the threat of force, on behalf of some of the smaller and more vulnerable powers such as Sicily and Sardinia.

Tunis and Tripoli were “persuaded” to abolish Christian slavery and release all their captives, but diplomacy went out the window in April 1816 when a Tunisian corsair raided Sardinia. Not only did this violate the agreement, but Caroline, Princess of Wales—yes, the estranged wife of the Regent—happened to be there and only just escaped.

With British guns trained on Tunis, the dey of that country signed a treaty totally abolishing Christian slavery. Tripoli followed suit. Exmouth and the navy moved on to the toughest nut—Algeria.

The dey of Algiers resisted, and as mentioned in
Skylark
, treated the British consul and his family, and some naval officers sent to aid them, badly. This was an affront that could not be tolerated, and battle commenced on August 27, 1816.

The city of Algiers could not hold out for long, and soon the dey had to surrender and sign a treaty that ended Christian slavery in Algeria and released all those then held as well as repaid recent security monies. There were 1,642 slaves, most of them Italian.

The number of British is uncertain. Some sources say none, some up to eighteen. I failed to find any account of a returning British slave, which makes me think that none is the correct number, but for the purposes of this story I chose to go with a few, even though it doesn’t affect the situation Henry Gardeyne found himself in.

As Stephen says, the Battle of Algiers was not particularly popular in Britain because the slaves were nearly all peasants from southern Europe, and Catholic to boot, and the cost, especially in casualties, was quite high. However, a victory is a victory, and when it was presented as Britain liberating the downtrodden that everyone else had abandoned, it went down well enough.

Is Henry and Des’s story likely?

It is certainly possible.

Young male captives did become sex slaves, so a male harem is likely, and conditions there would be luxurious to an English farm lad.

As for Henry, slaves were used for everything from the hardest labor in the salt mines to housework. Generally constrained by an iron ring on their right ankle and a heavy dangling chain, some slaves were allowed to move about the area and even to run small businesses on the side. Some ran taverns for other slaves, even though devout Muslims do not consume alcohol.

In a strange way it was a tolerant society, and some slaves who earned enough from their enterprises to buy their freedom chose to stay. Don’t forget that conditions at home were harsh for many, as Stephen points out when telling Laura that some soldiers in the army in India tried to get transported to Australia in hope of a better life.

The Christian slaves in Barbary had their own hospital and even chapel. They were not persecuted for their Christian religion, but if they chose to convert they were automatically set free. It was, however, slavery. Some slaves were kept in harsh conditions and worked to death, and the punishments for disobedience and especially for attempting escape were cruel.

So that is the background which I found waiting for me as I began to discover this story, and it created a fascinating story for Henry and Des as well as Stephen and Laura. I hope you enjoyed it. If you want to catch up on the other Rogues stories, and my other novels, please check the page before this author’s note.

I also write romance novels set in the 1760s, centered on a family called the Mallorens. The titles are:

I have written a few medieval romances:

Now for something different. In February 2004, I had a science fiction romance novella,
The Trouble with Heroes,
published in a trade paperback collection called
Irresistible Forces
. This will be published in smaller paperback early in 2005.

There is more about all my books on my Web page,
www.jobev.com
.

I enjoy hearing from readers. You can write to me c/o The Rotrosen Agency, 318 East 51st Street, New York, NY 10022, in which case I appreciate an SASE, or you can e-mail me at [email protected]. Ask to be put on my e-mail list.

All best wishes,

 

Jo

Glorious spring sunshine beamed through the open curtains, and the raised window let in courting birdsong. Nearby, people chattered amidst their busy lives, and wheels rattled as a horse and cart hurried down the back lane. The golden light danced on the silky, disheveled hair and ravaged classic features of a young man lolling in the faded armchair beside the window. It glinted off half-lowered lashes, and golden stubble that suggested a night without sleep or orderly waking, and dug deep into a jagged scar down one cheek that told of more dangerous adventures in the past.

His legs, in breeches and well-worn boots, stretched before him, and a half-full wineglass tilted in his lax, long-fingered hand.

On a round table by his elbow stood a decanter with an inch or so of pale amber wine, and a plain, practical pistol.

He raised the glass and sipped, seeming intent on the small garden outside the window, but in fact Lord Vandeimen’s gaze was directed at nothing close or visible. He looked at the past, both recent and far, and with increasing, slightly fretful curiosity, at the future.

Switching the glass to his left hand, he placed two fingers on the cold metal of the pistol barrel. His father’s pistol, used for the same purpose nearly a year before.

So easy.

So quick.

So why was he waiting?

Hamlet had had something to say about that.

In his case, he decided, he was pausing to enjoy this particularly fine wine. After all, he’d spent nearly all his last coins on it. He must be careful not to drift away under its influence and waste this moment of resolution. One bottle hadn’t put him under the table since he was a lad, though.

So long ago, those days of wicked youthful adventures. Was it really less than ten years since he’d been a carefree youth, running wild on the Sussex Downs with Con and Hawk?

No, not carefree. Even children and youths have cares. But blessedly free of the weightier burdens of life.

The three Georges. The triumvirate.

His drifting mind settled on the day they’d tired of having the same patriotic name and rechristened themselves. Hawk Hawkinville. Van Vandeimen. It should have been Somer Somerford, but Con had balked at such a effete name. He’d taken a variation of his second name, Connaught. Con.

Con, Hawk, and Van. They’d grown up like brothers, almost like triplets. Back in those days they’d not imagined a time when they’d be so apart, but Van was glad the other two weren’t here now. With luck, they’d hear of his death when it was history, the pain of it numbed. They hadn’t seen each other since Waterloo.

Con had returned home directly after the battle, but Hawk and Van had lingered awhile. Hawk was still with the army, tidying up Europe. Van had been in England for six months, but he’d carefully avoided his home and old friends.

He drained the glass and refilled it, his hand reassuringly steady. It was strange that Con hadn’t hunted him down. Any other time, that would have worried him, but not now. If Con didn’t care, that was good.

No friends. No family.

Once, in another life, there had been so much more. When he’d left at sixteen to join his regiment, mother, father, and two sisters had waved farewell. Ten years later, all were shades. Did they watch him now? If so, what did their ghostly voices cry? Wouldn’t they want him to join them?

“Don’t protest to me, old man,” he said to his ghostly father. “You took the same way out when you were left alone. And what have I—? Oh, devil take it!” he snapped, slamming down the glass and seizing the pistol. “When I start talking to ghosts, it’s time.”

Impelled by some mythical urge, he picked up the glass and poured the remaining wine to stream and puddle on the waxed floor. “An offering to the gods,” he said. “May they be merciful.”

Then he put the long barrel cold into his mouth and with a final breath and a prayer squeezed the trigger.

The click was loud, but a click didn’t kill. He pulled the gun out and stared at it with wild exasperation. A flick showed him the problem. The flint on the old-fashioned pistol had worn and slipped sideways.

“Shoddy work, Van,” he muttered, hands trembling now, desperately trying to think whether he had a fresh flint anywhere in his rooms. If he had to go out and find one, the moment might pass. He might try again to pull his life out of the pit.

He knew he didn’t have a fresh flint, so he poked out the old one, sweat chilling his brow and his nape, and tried to fix it so it would work. He’d drunk enough to make him clumsy. “Plague and tarnation, and hell, and damnation, and—”

“Stop!”

He looked up, dazed, to see a figure standing in his doorway, draped in white, crowned in white, hand outstretched, looking like a stern Byzantine angel . . .

Smooth oval face, long nose, firm lips.

A woman.

She swept forward to grip the pistol barrel. “You must not.”

That’s the beginning of a novella called “The Demon’s Mistress,” which was first published in 2001 in the collection
In Praise of Younger Men
. It’s also the beginning of the book
Three Heroes
, which brings together this story and the sequels,
The Dragon’s Bride
and
The Devil’s Heiress
in a unique volume that will be published in June 2004.