Mlavic got to his feet and paced before the clutch of terrified women, ogling them. He snatched out a wee young lass, all black hair and wide eyes, not over fifteen, dragging her by the wrist back to the logs and pawing her. The pirates cheered his choice, and then a mate began to work the crowd, encouraging them to bid on the first girl to be hauled out, stripped down to her chemise and pinioned to display her charms. Most of the prisoners were poor coastal folk, attired in local garb like Turks, or in something similar to what the girls at Corfu had worn. The old, the ill-favoured and the unpleasing the pirates just booed down and murdered, their throats cut, and left to bleed to death, expiring with blood-sobs and gurgling screams as they sank to the earth.
"Savink de European ladies for lasd," Kolodzcy spat, turning his head to see Mlavic peeling the peasant blouse off his choice, putting a rough hand under her skirts. She sat numb, too scared to wail, on Mlavic's lap, tears coursing down her cheeks, hiccoughing in fear. "For de richer mates vit bigger share in prize."
Lewrie looked at the poor girl, who was pleading with her eyes as Mlavic brusquely toyed with her small breasts, forcing her to take a deep draught of brandy, then wrenching her lips to his. Lewrie could do nothing to aid her, not with a knife at his back.
He turned to look at the other prisoners instead. One was waving? One hand cautiously waving, all but snapping her fingers to get their attention? And surreptitiously rising a-tip-toe, looking desperate.
She wore all black as if in mourning, a plain, unadorned gown of conservative style, not too flounced out bell-shaped by underskirting. She'd worn a Venetian bauto, but had lowered it to her shoulders so it draped long and low. To hide…! Lewrie gasped.
Pressed into her skirts and half smothered, almost fully draped by the bauto, was a child, a boy who couldn't be more than four or five, Alan guessed. A boy breeched, stockinged and shod like his own sons!
She waved once more, then cupped her hand as if to draw him to her, fanning at herself insistently, daring to work from the rear of the huddling, wailing pack of women to the left-front, where she'd be in greater danger of being chosen for auction next. Her brown eyes flared open in misery, in pleading, almost looking like she curtsied for a moment before rising, a silent leaping plea for aid.
Lewrie mimed the guards at his back, lifting his hands in helplessness. Frustrated, she dared shout something at him, in a language he didn't understand, before the guard nearest to her shoved her back in line.
"What'd she say, Kolodzcy?" he demanded, never taking his eyes off her. Now the guard and the bidding pirates noticed her, her long, fine chestnut-roan hair and almond-shaped eyes…!
"Demotic Greek… island accent," Kolodzcy remarked, infuriatingly calmly. "She ist from Zante, in die Ionians, dherefore Venetian. She begs for help. Poor lady." He sighed, stone-faced.
"Goddammit!" Lewrie groaned, slamming a fist onto his knee to vent his powerlessness. "You leave that'un alone, ya bastard!" Alan shouted at the guard, who was just about to fondle her, draw back that bauto to see her figure… and expose her child! He got to his feet; tried to, before Mirko laid a hand on his shoulder to drag him back.
"English, my God!" the woman cried, her mouth agape in shock. "Royal Navy? My husband was English… Bristol! I am Theoni Kavaras Connor. Royal Navy… for God's sake-help me!"
CHAPTER 5
"Mlavic, you black-hearted sonofabitch!" Lewrie snarled at him, turning to face him and grabbing his arm. "She's English. British, do ya hear? Maybe the Venetians're too puny to hunt you down for murderin' and rapin' their people, but you can wager yer last penny England won't wring their hands and let you get away scot-free. There'll be a bloody fleet out for you, same as they did for Bligh's mutineers."
"Is Greek," Mlavic dismissed, leaving off gnawing on his girl's teats. "I hear Greek."
"You can hear English, too, you simpleton, do you get the dung out yer ears!" Lewrie railed, daring to rise off the log. This time, when Mirko tried to drag him down, he turned, glared at him, and jabbed a warning finger at him. "Who was your husband, Mistress Connor?" he shouted over his shoulder to her. "Tell this fool plain."
"Patrick Connor, of Bristol!" she shot back. "He and his father were in the currant trade, with the English House on Zante. We were married six years ago, when his father Sean retired to England."
"Husband dead, she still Greek," Mlavic quibbled, though with the beginnings of a worried look on his face. "Greeks dirty people."
"Makes no matter, fool," Lewrie thundered. "Wife of a British subject becomes British. You may be lawless, but that's King's Law."
Mlavic dumped his girl to the ground, tossing her away like he might a fruit-rind as he rose. He snarled a question to Mrs. Connor in Demotic Greek. Lewrie saw her tremble, look away furtively, licking her lips before she answered.
"Catholic," Kolodzcy groaned, despairing. "Vas married in husbant's faith. Deat'-sentence."
Connor, aye, Lewrie winced, Patrick Connor, surely Irish in the beginning. Which does Mlavic hate worse, Greek Orthodox or Catholic?
"Bad as Croat… Catholic, pooh!" Mlavic spat. He strode across to take a closer look at her, while his terrified girl tried to flee. She didn't get far; two of the guards snagged her and carried her kicking and wailing into the darkness beyond the firelight.
Mistress Connor shivered as Mlavic circled her slowly, stood her ground and determined to play-up brave, though her mouth and chin worked in sudden fear or loathing. He leaned close to blow in her ear, making her shy away, stroked back her hair to admire her neck, taunting her with a crooning sing-song in Serbo-Croat.
"What's he sayin'?" Lewrie rasped, getting frantic.
"… rich man's whore," Kolodzcy mercilessly supplied. "A Greek whore who leafs de Orthodox Church to wed rich, turn stinkink Catholic. Rich, soft-skinned, faithless traitor whore. Ach, nein!Scheisse!"
Mlavic seized her right wrist to drag her away, back to his seat on the logs, his little black-haired Bosnian victim quite forgotten in the light of this finer choice, sure he was going to take vengeance on a three-in-one. But he drew back the bauto to discover the child!
He roared with surprise and sudden delight, grabbing the young lad by the scruff of the neck and parting mother and son, though she screamed and tore at him, hauling the boy aloft to shake before his pirates like a filthy rag. And laughing fit to bust!
"Hands off, damn you!" Lewrie barked, so loud he stilled that rabble s heathen howls for a moment. "You put that English boy down… you get your filthy hands off an English lady!"
"You make me? Or what you do, pooh! I have power, you no. I take her." Mlavic spat. "Be fucking English… lady, ahahaha!"
Do something! she mutely pleaded.
Like what? Alan wondered.
"They're for sale, ain't they, Mlavic?" he shouted of a sudden, feeling something nigh to inspiration. "She's for sale? Her, and her boy? That's what you dragged these women down for, wasn't it? Offer 'em up for a good knock-down price? Well, I'll buy 'em. Didn't you offer to let me bid on a woman a little while ago?"
"Da," Mlavic allowed cagily. "Other woman. This, I keep."
"Selfish bastard!" Lewrie cried. "Kolodzcy, help me here, put it to 'em. Leader gets first choice free, hey? What're the rules of the house after that, though? Mlavic gets first pick, then they're all up for grabs? He's had his first pick. Now he should bid, same as everybody else. Else he's a selfish bastard… a cheap, greedy bastard!"