The Rosetta Key (19 page)

“Ethan, how are we going to turn your glass disks long enough to power this huge contraption?” Miriam asked. “We need an army of grinders.”

“Not an army, but a broader back and a dimmer mind.” I meant Big Ned.

Ever since I had stepped ashore in Acre I’d been contemplating my reunion with the hulking, cranky sailor. He had to be paid back for his treachery at the Jerusalem gate, and yet he remained a dangerous giant still resentful about his gambling losses. The key was not to blunder into him when I was at a disadvantage, so I carefully planned my lesson. I learned he’d heard of my miraculous reappearance and boasted he still owed me a tussle, once I left the protection of my woman’s skirts. When I was informed he’d been assigned to help hurriedly patch the moat masonry at the base on Acre’s key tower, I appeared to give a hand from the sallyport above.

A wall is strongest without cracks for cannonballs to pry at, so that’s why Smith and Phelipeaux wanted repairs made. It was a bold job, British marksmen traded sniper fire with French sharpshooters in their trenches while a few volunteers, including Ned, labored outside the walls below in the dark. Despite my problems with Ned and Tom, I’d come to admire the flinty determination of the English crew, a working man’s porridge of the poor and illiterate who had little of the idealism of the French volunteers but a dogged loyalty to crown and country. Ned had that same starch. As muskets flashed and banged in the dark — how I missed my rifle! — baskets of stone, mortar, and water were lowered to the repair crew while they chipped, scraped, and fitted. Near dawn they finally scrambled back up a rope ladder like scurrying monkeys, bullets pinging, my arm giving each a hand inside. Finally there was only Ned below. He gave the ladder a good tug.

The look on his face when his escape route came loose and rattled down to make a heap at his feet was priceless. There’s something to be said for revenge.

I leaned out. “Not fun to be locked out, is it, Ned?”

His head flamed like a red onion when he recognized me fifty feet above. “So you’ve dared come out of the pasha’s palace, Yankee tinkerer! I thought you wouldn’t come within a hundred miles of honest British seamen after the lesson I taught you at Jerusalem! And now you plan to leave me in this moat and let the French do your work for you?” He cupped his hands and shouted. “He’s a coward, he is!”

“Oh, no,” I countered. “I just want you to get a taste of your own base treachery, and see if you’re man enough to face me honestly, instead of slamming gates in my face or hiding in a ship’s bilge.”

His eyes bulged as if pumped full of steam. “Face you honestly! By God, I’ll rip you limb from limb, you cheat, if you ever have the pluck to stand toe to toe like a man!”

“It’s a bully’s way to rely on size, Big Ned,” I called down. “Fight me fairly, sword to sword like gentlemen do, and I’ll teach you a real lesson.”

“Bloody thunder, indeed I will! I’ll fight you with pistols, marlinspikes, cudgels, daggers, or cannon fire!”

“I said swords.”

“Let me up then! If I can’t strangle you, I’ll cleave you in two!”

So with our duel set to my satisfaction I lowered a rope, hoisted the ladder back up, and got Ned back into Acre just before the dawn light would make him a target.

“I just showed you more mercy than you showed me,” I lectured as he glowered, dusting mortar from his clothes.

“And I’m about to return the mercy you showed at cards. Let’s cross blades and be done with our business once and for all! I wouldn’t let you buy your way out now if you had money to pay me back ten times!”

“I’ll meet you in the palace gardens. Do you want rapier, saber, or cutlass?”

“Cutlass, by God! Something to cut through bone! And I’ll bring my bullyboys to watch you bleed!” He glared at the other men who were enjoying our exchange. “Nobody crosses Big Ned.”

M
y willingness to duel such an animal came from thinking a few cards ahead. Franklin was always an inspiration, and while working at Jericho’s new forge I mused how the sage of Philadelphia might use ingenuity instead of brawn. Then I set to work.

Ned’s sabotage was simple. I disassembled the cloth-and-wood handle from his cutlass, bolted on a copper replacement, roughened the handle to let my opponent take firm hold, and polished the entire assembly. Metal is conductive.

Mine was more complicated. I hollowed its haft, lined it with lead, doubled its wrapping for my own added insulation, and — just before my opponent arrived — held its butt end against a stout wire leading from the cranking machine I had built to generate a frictional charge. I was spinning away, storing electricity in the steel of my weapon, when my opponent appeared in the courtyard.

Ned squinted. “What’s that then, you bloody Yankee tinkerer?”

“Magic,” I said.

“Hey, I wants a fair fight now!”

“And you shall get it, blade to blade. Your muscle to my brain. Nothing fairer than that, eh?”

“Ethan, he’ll split you like a bolt of wood,” Jericho warned, as I’d coached. “This is madness. You stand no chance against Big Ned.”

“Honor requires that we cross blades,” I recited with equally rehearsed resignation, “no matter what his skill and size.” I suppose it’s not sporting to lead on a bull, but what matador doesn’t wave a cape?

I gave some minutes for a crowd of assembled sailors to bet against me — I covered them all, with a loan from the metallurgist, figuring I might as well make a profit from all this bother — and then took a fencing stance on the garden path where we’d duel. I liked to think the harem girls were watching from above, and I knew Djezzar was. “On guard, you big bully!” I cried. “If I lose I’ll give you every shilling, but if you lose, then you’re beholden to me!”

“If you lose, I’ll
take
what I’m owed from the steaks and chops I’ll have turned you into!” The crowd roared at this wit and Ned preened. Then he charged and swung.

I parried.

I wish I could report there was some gallant and expert swordplay as I deftly countered his brute force with athletic skill. Instead, as steel touched steel, there was simply a blaze of sparks and a sharp report like a gunshot that made the spectators cry and jump. Our blades merely touched, yet Ned flew backward as if he’d been kicked by a mule. His cutlass went flying, narrowly missing one of his shipmates, and he crashed down like Goliath and lay there, eyes rolled back in his head. The sword stung in my own hand, but I’d been insulated from the worst of the jolt. The air had a burning smell.

Was he dead?

I touched him with my sword tip. He jerked like one of Galvani’s frogs.

The crowd was utterly silent, in awe.

Finally Ned shuddered, blinked, and cringed. “Don’t touch me!”

“You shouldn’t test your betters, Ned.”

“Blimey, what did you do?”

“Magic,” I said again. I pointed my sword at the others. “I won at cards fairly, and won this duel. Now. Who else wants to challenge me?”

They backed off as if I had leprosy. A boatswain hurriedly tossed me the purse of bets he’d held. God bless the foolish gambling instincts of British sailors.

Ned woozily sat up. “No one’s ever bested me before. Not even my pappy, not once I got to be eight or nine and could thrash him.”

“Will you respect me finally?”

He waggled his head to clear it. “I’m beholden, you said. You’ve got strange powers, guv’nor. I see that now. You always survive, no matter what side you’re on.”

“I just use my brain, Ned. If you’d ally with me, I’d teach you to do the same.”

“Aye. I wants to serve
with
you, not fight.” Clumsily, he struggled to his feet and swayed. I could imagine the unearthly tingling he still felt. Electricity hurts. “You others, you listen to me,” he croaked.

“Don’t cross the American. And if you do, you have to deal with me. We’s partners, we is.” He gave me a hug, like a giant ape.

“Don’t touch the sword, man!”

“Oh yes.” He stepped hastily away.

“Now, I need your help making more magic, but this time against the French. I need a fellow who can crank my apparatus like the devil himself. Can you do that, Ned?”

“If you don’t touch me.”

“No, we’re even,” I confirmed. “Now we can be friends.”

T
here was an odd lull as the French burrowed like ants toward the walls of Acre, putting their remaining cannon in place. They dug and we waited, with that sluggish fatalism that wears down the besieged. It was Holy Week, so in the spirit of the holidays, Smith and Bonaparte agreed to a prisoner exchange, trading back the men taken in raids and skirmishing. Djezzar paced his walls like a restless cat, muttering about the damnation of Christians and all infidels, and then sat in a great chair on the corner tower to motivate his soldiers by glaring with his fierce eye. I labored on my electrical scheme, but it was difficult to get Jericho’s help because the Butcher, Smith, and Phelipeaux kept sending down a steady stream of armory requests. In close combat on the ramparts, with little time to reload, steel would be as important as gunpowder.

The strain was showing. The metallurgist’s somewhat cherubic face had grown tauter, his eyes shadowed. The French guns banged around the clock, he seldom saw daylight, and he was uneasy about my growing closeness to Miriam. And yet he was the kind of man who couldn’t refuse anyone, nor allow a lapse in quality. He worked even when Miriam and I collapsed in opposite corners of the armory, in fitful, exhausted sleep.

Thus the ironmonger awakened us in the predawn darkness of March 28 when the tattoo of the French guns accelerated, signaling an impending attack. Even deep in Djezzar’s cellar, the beams overhead trembled from the bombardment. Dust filtered down. The quaking made sparks fly up from the forge.

“The French are testing our defenses,” I guessed groggily. “Keep your sister down here. You’re both more valuable as metallurgists than targets.”

“And you?”

“It’s not ready yet, but I’m going to see how my chain might be used!”

It was four in the morning, the stairs and ramps lit by torches. I was swept up in a tide of Turkish soldiers and British sailors mounting the walls, everyone cursing in their own language. At the parapet the bombardment was a rolling thunder, punctuated by the occasional crash as a cannonball hit the wall, or a shriek as one sailed overhead. There were stabs of light on the French line, marking where their cannons were.

Smith was there, a weird smile on his lips, pacing behind a contingent of Royal Marines. Phelipeaux was racing madly up and down the walls, using a garbled mixture of French, English, Arabic, and anxious hand gestures to direct the city’s cannon. At the same time signal lanterns were being hoisted on the corner tower to elicit naval support.

I looked into the gloom but couldn’t see the enemy troops. I borrowed a musket and fired to where I guessed they might be, in hopes of drawing answering pinpricks of light, but the French were too disciplined. So I followed Phelipeaux to the tower. It was trembling like a tree being chopped at.

Now our own cannon were beginning to bark back, their flashes interrupting the steady drum of French fire, but also giving the enemy artillerists a reference for aiming. Shot began flying higher, and then there was a bang as a cannonball clipped the wall’s crenellation and rock fragments spewed like the pieces of a grenade. A Turkish cannon was dismounted and flopped over, blinded men screaming.

“What can I do?” I asked Phelipeaux, trying to contain the natural shake in my voice. The whole business hurt my ears. The walls and moat tended to echo and amplify the crashes, and there was that acrid, intoxicating stench of burnt powder.

“Get Djezzar. He’s the only man his men are more frightened of than Napoleon.”

I was grateful for an excuse to run back to the palace, and almost collided with Haim Farhi in the pasha’s chambers.

“We need your master to help stiffen his soldiers!”

“He can’t be disturbed. He’s in the harem.”

By Casanova’s trousers, the ruler could rut at a time like this? But then a door opened on a stairway leading upward and the Butcher appeared, shirtless, bearded, his eyes bright, a cross between a satyr and the prophet Elijah. Two pistols had been stuffed into his sash and he held an old Prussian saber. A slave brought a rusty coat of medieval mail and a felt undershirt. Before he closed the door behind, I could hear the excited chattering and weeping of the women.

“Phelipeaux needs you,” I said unnecessarily.

“Now the Franks will come close enough that I can kill them,” he promised.

The first pale light was silhouetting Napoleon’s observatory hill when we returned to the tower. British ships had moved close inshore in Acre Bay, I saw, but their fire couldn’t reach the assault column. Now I could make out a mass of men in shallow trenches below, like a great dark centipede. Many were carrying ladders.

“They’ve made a breach in the tower just above the moat,” Phelipeaux reported. “It’s not big, but if they get inside the Turks will bolt. There’ve been too many rumors about what happened at Jaffa. Our Ottomans are too nervous to fight and too frightened to surrender.”

I leaned over the edge to look at the black pit of the dry moat far below. The French could get into it easily enough, but could they get out? “Use a barrel of gunpowder,” I suggested. “Or half a barrel, and the rest nails and ball. Drop it on them when they try the breach.”

The royalist colonel grinned. “Ah, my bloodthirsty
Américain.
You have a warrior’s instincts! We will light the way for the Corsican!”

“Napoleon!”
Djezzar roared, climbing to stand on his observatory chair so that he was visible as a flag. “Try this Mameluke now! I will fuck you like I just fucked my wives!” Bullets whizzed by, miraculously not hitting him. “Yes, fan me like my women!”

We dragged him down. “If you’re killed, all is lost,” Phelipeaux lectured.

The Butcher spat. “That is what I think of their marksmanship.” His mail shirt swung at the hem as he strutted from side to side of the tower, making sure his soldiers stood fast. “Don’t think my eye isn’t upon you!”