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a perverse pride. They couldn t tame you, could they? I thought
as much. Higgins, he said.
As Higgins pistol nudged him in the back, Nesim stiffened
comically. Explain his position to him, if you please, John said.
I believe he has misunderstood my terms.
In the end it was far easier than John had feared. Clasping
Nesim in a brotherly embrace that kept the concealed pistol
pressed meaningfully into his spine, Higgins dumb eloquence
proved persuasive.
Out through the graveyard, I think, John instructed, lifting
the long robe from Naftali s shoulders and wrapping it around
Donwell to conceal him. There, he looks like just another dead
slave. Nothing to worry about. Kelly, Naftali, you carry him.
Dion, scout ahead. If the pistol in his back is not argument
enough, I will also cover Nesim. Please tell him that if he opens
his mouth, even to breathe, I will shoot.
Donwell made a terribly convincing corpse as they walked
out of the pens as unchallenged as they had entered. Tension
crushed John s back and shoulders as he waited for an outcry
that did not come. A smell of cinnamon and sweat drifted from
Nesim, whose cheek glimmered wet in the moonlight.
The tension wound to a pitch as they passed the pit where the
city s dogs dug and fought over bones. Sordid little monuments
topped with spat out date stones loomed, crumbling, in the night,
and still silence followed them. As they crossed to the parks and
silent, cube-like mausoleums of the well-to-do, shadows moved
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44 FALSE COLORS
as vagrants laying in the well-tended doorways scrambled out of
their way. Despite the lack of pursuit, fear, primeval and irra-
tional, made John s spine tingle cold in the sweltering night.
The locked gate of the city wall yielded to a crowbar. He shut
it behind them with sweaty hands and led the rescue party on its
long, burdened walk back to the cove, the threat of discovery
padding behind like a hunting lion.
They left Nesim on the beach, fingering a small bag of gold
and looking like a man who feels a change of career coming on.
Then, dawn rising on their left, they sailed out for two hours,
until half way to Tizi Ouzou, it seemed a glass showed the
off-white triangles of the Meteor s sails coming to meet them.
Sunrise s bright citrine light danced on the water. Armitage s
face, for once open as he reveled in being left in charge, looked
over as they hailed.
A rope here! shouted John, making it fast under Donwell s
arms to pull him on board. As he did so, Donwell stirred, leaning
into him, gingerly settling his swollen face on John s shoulder.
Captain? His small whisper, dry and cracked as picked
bone, plucked at John s heart.
You re safe now, Lieutenant. A wave of pity and strange ten-
derness washed over him. Then he stirred himself, made the rope
fast with a hitch, and signaled for the crew on deck to pull the man
on board. By the time he had run up the side himself, they had low-
ered Donwell down into the main hatch, and all he saw was the lace
on Mrs. Harper s bonnet, white as the spray, disappearing after him.
John straightened up, looked at the grim faces that sur-
rounded him, and grinned. The expression spread, until finally
the ship s crew put him in mind of a pool of piranhas gently hold-
ing station as they watched the descent of an unwary foot.
We will bend on the red sails, he said. And then you may
clear for action.
By the following night all was ready. At the rim of the world the
sinking moon extinguished itself in the sea, and in the starlight the
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ALEX BEECROFT 45
Meteor s black painted hull and ochre sails were all but invisible.
Brass guns lurked without a gleam under a fresh coat of brown
paint. The mortars, uncovered, squatted like gargoyles peering
over her prow, their great black mouths gaping. Standing next to
them, the men of the Ordnance Corps deigned to smile, gloating
over their bombs.
Only the bow wave caught the occasional glimmer, dimly
shimmering as the Meteor forged her silent way into the vast
bowl of the harbor of Algiers.
Map in one hand, the other on the compass binnacle, John
whispered his instructions to the helm. Ship s boys raced on
soundless bare feet to relay commands to the captains of the
main and mizzen masts.
Prepare to heave to. Helm a lee. Back the main sail. Boat
crews, row out the spring anchors.
Groaning, the braces of the masts so tight a little rain of dew
squeezed out of them, the Meteor slowed, turned up into the
wind and stopped, holding her position, balanced between the
backward push of her backed mainsail and the forward thrust of
the other sails. Like a dancer balanced and still on the tip of one
foot, it was a poised, precarious stillness ready to swing back into
motion at any moment.
First to one side, then the other, the boat crews slid the
spring anchors gently into the water. John felt them take the
deck beneath his feet shuddered slightly then firmed, losing its
easy responsiveness to the waves. Fixed now on the one point in
the harbor where, in theory, the cannons of the shore batteries
could not reach, the Meteor waited.
Theory is a fine thing, John thought, surveying the vessels at
rest within range, now to put it to the test. He slid his spyglass
closed with a metallic rasp like the sound of a sword being
drawn. The heels of his shoes rapped like pistol shots in the si-
lence as he walked the length of the deck to the mortars.
Sir? said Sergeant Richardson, a dark bulk quivering with
keenness beside his beloved weaponry.
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46 FALSE COLORS
The galleys must go first. After that anything fast enough to
follow us. We only have a few moments. Make them count.
Aye, aye sir!
Richardson directed his crew with a low muttering. The
bomb clanked against the mortar, and the dull thud of the ram-
mer sounded apologetic, as if it cleared its throat in church. The
slow-match glinted like a mad red eye. Richardson sighted along
the barrel. Winch her two points to leeward.
The capstan rumbled. Winched towards one anchor, away
from the other, the whole ship turned there being no other
way to aim the weapon and Fire! bellowed Richardson, full
throated, even as the slow match descended on the touch-hole.
A moment s fizzling, a hollow whoom! deep enough to steal the
breath from John s lungs, make all the bones in his body trem-
ble, and with a shattering roar the first bomb exploded among
the moored galleys. The second mortar roared and spat as the
first team wormed and sponged; raking out and quenching any
smoldering wadding that might remain to set off the next charge
too early.
Lights kindled on every vessel lining the shoreline. John
could almost hear the running feet and shouting in the fort, and
then the shore batteries erupted in red tongues of flame and
twelve-pound shot pocked the dark water an inch before the
windward side. Satisfaction gleamed as pretty as gold in John s
heart as he realized his calculation had been true. The shore bat-
teries could not quite reach the Meteor here. He had perhaps
five minutes before the ships at anchor could man their guns
and become a threat. But he could do a great deal of damage in
five minutes. Roaring splendid destruction saw galleys bursting
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