Voyage of Slaves Page 2

  “Ben! Ben! Answer me, are you alright?”

  2

  TWO DAYS LATER. TOKRA, A SETTLEMENT OFF THE COAST OF LIBYA, NOT FAR FROM BENGHAZI.

  BEN GAGGED AND CHOKED AS HE TRIED to gulp down water from the gourd that Nassar was holding to his mouth. The man judged that his captive had drunk enough. He struck at the boy’s hands with a cane, loosening them from the gourd. Without a word, he shouldered the water carrier and hurried out of the mean hovel, securing the door from outside. It was a stable, or a pen for animals of some kind. Ben was shackled by his left ankle to an iron ring in the wall. He crawled as far as the short chain would allow, not quite reaching the door, but able to see through a rift between the wooden slats.

  Outside was a fat woman clad in dark robes, cooking fish over a fire. Ben’s stomach grumbled as he sniffed the odour of food. Nassar set the gourd down and sat beside the woman as Mahmud came to join them. Mahmud stirred a pot of maize meal porridge which was resting close to the flames, enquiring of Nassar, “Did you give the infidel something to eat?”

  His companion snorted. “I gave him enough water to keep life in him. Let Bomba feed him once he is off our hands.”

  The woman turned the sizzling fish on its spit, nodding. “Aye, there is barely enough for us to eat.”

  Nassar kicked her half-heartedly. “Keep your mouth out of this and attend to our meal!” Taking a shallow earthen bowl, he slopped maize meal into it. “Here, take this to him, Mahmud. He must live. Bomba is not permitted to buy dead flesh.

  Ben shuffled back from the door as Mahmud entered. He placed the bowl alongside the boy, uttering a single word. “Eat!”

  Ben dipped his fingers in, scooping the mush into his mouth. He looked up at Mahmud. “You are going to sell me. To whom?”

  Mahmud brushed a fly from his eyebrow. “Where did you learn to speak our tongue?”

  The towheaded boy shrugged. “I don’t remember. You have no right to sell another human being.”

  Mahmud walked away, turning in the doorway. “One more word from you, spawn of a chattering parrot, and I will cast you back into the sea as I did your dog!”

  Mention of Ned cast Ben back into unhappy despair. Hungry though he was, he kicked the food aside and sat there with tears welling in his eyes. All the mental messages he had sent out to his dog since regaining consciousness were to no avail. Ned had not answered.

  Ben began to call upon the only other being he knew, the angel who had guided all his and his faithful hound’s wanderings. He strove in thought to reach his guardian. “Please hear me, O Messenger of the Lord, Ned is my only friend in this world. Let me know, where is he, does my dog still live?” The boy lay back amid the straw-strewn sand and fell into a weary slumber.

  Gradually a soft, golden light filtered through his mind, followed by a gentle voice from afar. “Do not shed tears for the creature who lives, ye will meet again. Save thy tears for the fall of the Dark Angel!”

  The dream faded, and Ben slept on, not knowing or caring who the Dark Angel could be. Without Ned at his side, the boy felt a huge, leaden weight of loneliness within him. Ned was everything to Ben, friend, confidant, comforter and constant companion. No mere human being could take the place of his faithful Labrador. They had been together through many years, and countless adventures, across oceans, seas and continents. Surviving perils and enduring hard times, sharing the happiness and laughter of good and peaceful days, twin hearts, bonded by mutual respect and affection.

  The hot dawn light of another dusty day seeped through the door slats. Ben was wakened by the braying of mules and the creak of cart wheels. Mahmud and Nassar unbarred the door. Unlocking the boy’s leg shackle, they hustled him out into the sunlight. Not far from the woman’s cooking fire stood a big wagon, with four mules harnessed to it. The conveyance was like a solid wooden shack on wheels.

  From a door at the rear of the wagon a man emerged. He was a tall, well-built fellow, but running to fat; a broad, leather belt supported his loose, baggy pantaloons. He also wore a short, sleeveless bolero jacket, and a close-fitting skullcap. In one hand he carried a supple quirt, made of cane and bound with plaited strips of leather. Nassar and Mahmud approached him respectfully. He stared at Ben, addressing the pair without looking at them.

  “So, is this little bag of bones all you have for me?”

  Mahmud was the spokesman of the two. He clasped his hands and bowed his head slightly. “The boy is a blue-eyed infidel, valuable merchandise, Bomba, my friend. He would bring a good price on the block at Tripoli!”

  Bomba’s substantial stomach quivered as he gave a snort. “Hah! This worthless camel’s offal, have you no others to show me but him, you sons of the misbegotten?”

  However, Mahmud could see that Bomba was interested in the boy, otherwise he would not be scrutinising him so keenly. He replied in an offended manner.

  “Bomba my friend, why do you insult us thus? Here, look!” Still holding the chain and leg manacle, he swung it at Ben’s ankles. The boy jumped smartly, avoiding the chain. Mahmud spread his arms, as though justified.

  “See, my friend, he is swift and healthy. Take a look at him for yourself!”

  Bomba seized Ben’s arm in a powerful grip, pushing the captive’s chin upward with his quirt. “Let me see your teeth, infidel brat!”

  Ben tried to pull away from the slave trader, but the big man growled warningly, “Be still, little sand flea, or I will snap your arm like a twig. Show your teeth!”

  Drawing back his lips, Ben snarled out, unafraid, “You have no right to take a free man into slavery!”

  Bomba exerted more force on his victim’s arm, laughing. “He speaks our language, boldly, too? Listen to Bomba, O mouse of misfortune. The life of an obedient slave can be good, but the life of an insolent one is always painful and short. Mahmud, I will take this one!” Bomba took a purse from his belt and shook out a number of thin gold coins into Mahmud’s outstretched palm.

  The Arab looked witheringly at the woefully small pile. “You insult me, my friend. I have thrown more than this into the bowl of a beggar who sits in Benghazi marketplace!”

  Bomba scoffed. “Then be a little more careful with thy charity to beggars. That is my price, take it or leave it!”

  Nassar piped up indignantly. “But the infidel boy will fetch ten, nay, twenty times that amount on the block in Tripoli!”

  Bomba tapped the Arab’s chest with his quirt. “But this one is not going to the block. Al Misurata is taking him, and others, as cargo aboard the Sea Djinn.”

  Mahmud made a signed gesture with his index and little finger, to ward off evil. His voice was hushed with awe. “Al Misurata!”

  Bomba nodded. “Aye, the very same. If you have any complaints about the price I paid you, then ye are free to take the matter up with him.”

  Mahmud backed off, bowing as he went. “We have no complaints. It is always a pleasure doing business with thee, my friend.”

  The big man narrowed his eyes contemptuously. “Snake of the dunes, ye are no friend of mine!”

  Lifting Ben by one arm, he flung him inside the wagon and locked the door. Climbing up onto the driving seat, he nodded at the old man holding the reins. “Get me away from this fleabound doorway to Eblis!”2

  As the wagon trundled off, the woman tending the fire remarked, almost to herself, “So, it was Al Misurata’s coin that bought the boy.”

  Mahmud kicked her away from the fire. “Silence, O brainless one, forget ye ever heard that name!”

  3

  ON THE SHORES OF SEBKHAT TAWORGA, SOUTHEAST OF THE TOWN OF MISURATA.

  HERR OTTO KASSEL ROSE DRIPPING from the sea. Wiggling the water from one ear with a fingertip, the huge man strode ashore. Whenever he got the opportunity, Otto was fond of an early morning dip. One hour’s swim in the dawn Mediterranean waters was a real pleasure to the giant German strongman. Since his midteens, Otto had been a professional exhibitor of his prodigious strength; it was an occupation which had taken
him to many lands. Brushing beads of salt water from his huge shaven head, he commenced some daily exercises. Flexing massive muscles, he bent, jerked, stretched and arched. Otto took great care of his magnificent physique, he was scrupulous about hygiene, and rigorous in training.

  Donning a robe, he sat on a duneside. From his pocket, he brought forth a polished silver snuff box. In it was a small comb and scissors, plus some special wax pomade for his moustache. Using the inner side of the lid as a mirror he combed his upper lip growth meticulously, snipping off any stray hairs. He anointed the moustache with pomade, twirling both ends until they stood out like two miniature spikes. The big fellow smiled with satisfaction. Now he was ready to face the day.

  Then he saw the dog.

  It was a good-sized beast, lying flat on one side in the sand, apparently dead. Otto studied it from where he sat, some ten yards away. The strongman was kind and compassionate to animals. Poor creature, what had brought it to this? It was rake thin, and heavily coated from head to tail in sand, which had dried to a crust under the searing heat. A few gulls landed and began circling the pitiful carcass. One hopped boldly forward and pecked at the dog’s flank. To Otto’s amazement, the dog tried to raise its head and issued a faint growl. The strongman leaped up and ran forward waving his arms, chasing the predatory birds away.

  Crouching beside the dog, Otto reached out a ham-like hand, patting it gently. Thick matted sand fell away; at first he had supposed the dog was light brown, but beneath the sand the dog’s coat was black, it was a black Labrador. Otto had once owned a large black dog, when he was a boy back in Germany. He had called it Bundi. He used the name now as he stroked the dog.

  “Hello, Bundi, where did you come from, boy?”

  The dog whined feebly, lids flickering as it tried to open its eyes. Otto licked the corner of his robe, screwing it into a twirl. With this he probed gently, rooting away the coagulated debris of sand and moisture from the dog’s eyelids. He spoke reassuringly as he worked. “Trust me now, Bundi, I’ll get you back to the cart and fix you up properly. I’m not going to hurt you, boy, be still while I carry you.”

  The Travelling Rizzoli Troupe were preparing breakfast in the shade of their cart. It was garishly painted in bright green, blue, red and gold, with a canvas awning depicting bulbous-limbed people performing impossible feats of bodily contortions. They numbered nine in all, including Otto; a python called Mwaga; and Poppea, the old, white mare who pulled the cart.

  Signore Augusto Rizzoli was the owner and leader of the troupe. A small, tubby travelling showman, he possessed numerous talents, which included a shrewd business brain and a resounding tenor voice. His wife, Rosa, known to all simply as Mamma, was general handywoman, seamstress, cook and confidante, ever ready to help or assist the others. Signore Rizzoli’s two brothers were the clowns. Their names were Beppino and Vincenzo, but they also answered to their stage names, Buffo and Mummo. They were two happy-go-lucky fellows, pleased to let their elder brother deal with everyday troupe business, whilst they laughed and joked their way through life.

  The final two, La Lindi and Serafina, were native Africans from Mozambique. Both had totally unpronounceable names, so Mamma Rizzoli had chosen new titles for them. Signore Rizzoli had spotted them entertaining in the bazaar of a small Tanganyikan place called Lindi. Recognizing talent, he had hired them on the spot. They agreed readily. Life for two black ladies playing the markets and bazaars of the African coast, with nobody to protect them against slavers, was risky. Better to travel in company, with a safe place in the wagon, and no worries about providing food for themselves. Mamma Rizzoli christened the older lady La Lindi, after the place where they had met. The younger one, who was in her midteens, was a strikingly beautiful girl, tall, slim and gracious, with large, almond-shaped eyes which radiated tranquility. Mamma called her Serafina because she liked the name so much.

  Serafina and La Lindi were not related. They had fallen together by chance whilst crossing the border into Tanganyika, fleeing Mozambique slavers. La Lindi was a dancer who could fascinate onlookers as she danced with Mwaga, her python. Serafina sang and played a variety of musical instruments for the dances.

  All in all, the Travelling Rizzoli Troupe was a motley collection, four Italians, a German and two Africans.

  Augusto Rizzoli was busy brewing some aromatic Turkish coffee for breakfast. Mamma was tending to her bread-making, and Mummo, who enjoyed cooking, was stirring a concoction of peppers, tomatoes and eggs. Buffo was readying Poppea’s nosebag when he spied the strongman arriving, carrying the limp form of the dog. He called out jokingly, “Otto, you caught a dogfish, is it still alive?”

  The troupe gathered around as Otto laid the black Labrador on the wagon step. La Lindi inspected it, she checked the sand-coated tongue, slobbering loosely out of the creature’s mouth, then lifted one of the eyelids to view the dully glazed eyeball. Holding her face close to its muzzle, she sniffed, then shook her head.

  “He will be dead before the setting of the sun, I think.”

  Otto protested. “But you could be wrong, Fräulein.3 Bundi is alive still, and where there is life there is hope!”

  Mamma patted the big man’s shoulder sympathetically. “You must trust La Lindi’s judgement, Herr Kassel, she knows about animals.”

  Serafina stroked the dog’s head tenderly, obviously saddened by La Lindi’s pronouncement. “He’s a good dog, I feel it, we can’t let him die. Signore Rizzoli, let me and Otto care for him, we’ll get him better. Please?”

  Augusto Rizzoli had the final word in any troupe decisions. However, he could not resist Serafina’s plea. “Do what you can for the poor beast, bella ragazza.4 Even if he does die, he will do it in comfort among friends. He looks as if he has suffered greatly.”

  Otto dipped a ladle into the water cask which hung on the wagon’s side.

  “You get some fresh water into him, little one, I’ll clean him up. Mummo, beat one of those eggs up, but don’t cook it. Maybe Bundi will like some.”

  Ned (for it was he) vaguely saw a pretty black girl pouring water into his mouth. It was the coolest, sweetest water he had ever tasted. He gulped at it with what little strength he could muster, licking at the girl’s hand as he did. Without warning he heaved, vomiting an alarming amount of water back. The strongman nodded approvingly.

  “Good boy, Bundi, get all that seawater out of your gut! Leave him a moment, Serafina, let him recover a little before you give him more. What do you think now, Fräulein Lindi?”

  The enigmatic dancer raised her eyebrows. “I think your dog is a stubborn beast, he hangs onto life with a strong grip. You could be right, Otto, there is hope. But he will need much care.”

  Ned did not hear this last remark. He had lapsed into a semiconscious sleep, his mind was blank. He could remember nothing, not his former life, or Ben, nothing. However, a spectre was haunting his troubled dreams, coming at him through a sudden nightmare of icy, storm-tossed seas. It was Vanderdecken, beckoning from the storm-battered deck of the Flying Dutchman. Triumph shone from the captain’s ghastly blood-rimmed eyes. He roared at Ned above the shrieking gale. “Now you are mine, dog, come to me. Where is your master?”

  Serafina was washing and combing the matted dirt from the dog’s coat. She patted him reassuringly as he shivered and moaned. “Poor Bundi, are you having bad dreams? There now, be calm, you are with friends. Hush now, hush!”

  Gradually the shivers and moans subsided as Ned slid back into the deep well of dreamless sleep.

  4

  ONE WEEK LATER. A HOUSE ON THE NORTHERN POINT OF THE GULF OF SIRTE. JUST OUTSIDE OF THE TOWN OF MISURATA.

  BEN, AND THE OTHER THREE WHOM Bomba had picked up on his journey, blinked against the midmorning sun as they emerged from the wagon. All four were shackled together by their ankles. There was an Egyptian boy, about two years older than Ben, whose name was Omar. The other two were about the same age as Ben: a Cretan girl called Lucia, and a boy who claimed to be Sardinian, his n
ame was Sandro. The wagon had pulled into a courtyard, with high walls and a barred gate. This was guarded by rough-looking men, four of them, wearing burnooses and armed with long jezzails5 and scimitars. Throughout the journey, Bomba had fed them with maize porridge and water. They had quickly learned to be obedient and silent, scarcely daring to speak with one another.

  Now the four captives gazed around the area, a veritable oasis of water and greenery in the wasteland of Libyan desert outside. Date palms and fig trees, interspersed with gnarled olive trees, bordered the flowered walks and well-groomed lawns. Tiny ornamental bridges crossed a moat filled with clear, placid water. Upon the moated island stood a large, well-appointed house, three floors high, with broad, open windows and a flat, low-walled roof patrolled by more guards.

  Bomba slapped his riding quirt against a palm to gain their attention. “Listen now, you little bazaar rats. I am going into the big house yonder, but I’ll be back.” He tossed the manacle key to one of the guards. “See they are cleaned up for my return, make them presentable to your master!”

  The guard spoke little. After loosing their shackles, he pointed to the moat. “You boys, over there, get in and wash yourselves.” He called over the bridge, “Jasmina, see to this girl!” A stern-faced woman, clad in black robes, emerged from a side door of the house. She beckoned at the girl, Lucia, with a stick she carried, shouting orders in Arabic at her. The girl looked at her blankly until Ben spoke to her in her own language.

  “She is telling you to come around the other side of the house, out of sight from the men and us boys. You are to wash yourself in the water.”

  Lucia bowed slightly to Ben, thanking him, then went to follow the woman.

  The water was glorious, still and cool. Ben flung himself in. Pulling off his meagre clothing, he scrubbed at his dust-caked skin with handfuls of sand from the bottom of the moat, which was no more than three feet deep. Omar and Sandro followed his example.