Martin looked questioningly at the interpreter.
‘The people landed by Hakim Reis,’ the Greek murmured. ‘Their status, you will recall, is undetermined.’
The commissioner was waiting for Martin to explain. ‘What is all this about?’ he enquired acidly.
‘Hakim Reis is a well-known corsair,’ began Martin.
‘I know, I know,’ interrupted Abercrombie. ‘He was the man who took the mercer, Newland. His London agent has been pestering the ministry for weeks, and I have brought with me the first instalment of the money for his ransom. This matter need not detain us.’
‘There were other prisoners taken by Hakim,’ the consul explained. ‘I put their names on a separate register and sent a copy to London.’
Abercrombie searched among his papers. ‘I have no record of this,’ he said peevishly.
‘Should we not interview them while we are here?’ suggested Martin.
‘Very well. But let us not waste any more time.’
The Greek nodded to the guard waiting at the door, and he ushered in a man whom Martin instantly recognised. It was the intelligent-looking youth who had caught his attention on the dock. He was leaner and more tanned, but there was no mistaking his black hair and his alert expression.
‘Your name?’ snapped the commissioner, obviously impatient with the additional interview.
‘Lynch, sir. Hector Lynch.’
‘Your place of birth?’
‘The county of Cork, sir.’
‘That’s in Ireland is it not?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Abercrombie looked down at the paper on the table before him. ‘I do not see your name on this inventory. Your parents and family? Have they made any attempt to contact the authorities in London?’
‘My father is dead, sir. And my mother may not know what happened to me. She could have moved back to live with her own people.’
The commissioner raised his head and regarded the young man with mistrust. ‘Her own people? Who are they?’
‘Her family are from Spain.
‘From Spain?’ Suspicion had crept into the commissioner’s voice. ‘She is a Papist?’
‘Yes, sir. My mother is of the Catholic faith, my father was Protestant.’
Abercrombie pursed his lips. It was obvious to Consul Martin that the English envoy was now hostile to the young man. His line of questioning soon confirmed his antagonism.
‘Your deceased father, was he born in Ireland?’
‘He was, sir.’
‘And had his family lived there for several generations?’
‘That is right.’
Commissioner Abercrombie gave a small dry cough. ‘Then I regret, Mr Lynch, that your case falls outside my remit. The treaty between His Majesty’s government and the authorities in Algiers regarding the redemption of prisoners, covers only those of His Majesty’s subjects born or living in England, Scotland and Wales. There is no mention of Ireland in the text. It would therefore be improper of me to approve disbursement of funds outside the terms of my authority.’
Consul Martin saw a look of disbelief cross the young Irishman’s face, followed by one of stubbornness. Lynch remained standing in front of the desk. The commissioner mistook his attitude for incomprehension.
‘It means, Mr Lynch, that I am unable to authorise payment from the funds at my disposal in order to effect your release or that of others of his Majesty’s Irish subjects. Doubtless that matter can be considered on my return to London. I shall draw attention to this omission, and it is to be hoped that the Council will amend the relevant clauses within the treaty. Until then the matter is out of my hands.’
Martin had been expecting the young Irishman to react with disappointment, even anger. But to his surprise the young man only glanced down at the Dey’s list and asked, ‘With your honour’s permission, are there any women captives on your list?’
Irritably, the commissioner turned the sheet of paper face down and replied, ‘That is none of your affair.’
‘I ask because my sister, Elizabeth, was also taken captive at the same time as myself, and I have had no news of what has happened to her.’
Consul Martin, seeing that the commissioner was not going to answer the question, intervened. ‘We have interviewed all the women prisoners currently in Algiers. There are only five of them, and all their ransom values have been agreed. There was no mention of any Elizabeth.’ Only then did the consul see the light of hope fade from the young Irishman’s eyes.
‘That will be all, Mr Lynch. You may go,’ said the commissioner curtly.
‘I have a favour to ask,’ said the young man. He was still standing his ground.
‘You try my patience,’ said Abercrombie. He was getting angry.
But the Irishman was not to be put off. ‘There is a prisoner here in the bagnio who was taken by the Algerines while travelling to London with a message for the King. In all conscience, he should be considered for ransom. He is waiting outside.’
‘This is as presumptuous as it is preposterous . . .’ began Abercrombie, his voice sour with disbelief. And again the consul thought he should intervene.
‘Where is he from, this message bearer?’ he asked.
‘From the Caribees, sir.’
Consul Martin glanced at the commissioner. Like everyone else engaged in commerce, he knew that the political influence of the West Indian merchants in London was very strong. Anything to do with the Caribees was a matter to be handled carefully. The commissioner clearly had the same reaction so Martin decided that it was best to be prudent. ‘On your way out, please be so good as to tell this person to come in.’
As the young Irishman turned and walked towards the door, the consul found himself wondering if perhaps the authorities in London had been right all along, and that it was kinder never to encourage a prisoner’s hopes, even for a moment. Martin tried to imagine how he himself would react if he had been repudiated so brusquely by the country he had expected to protect him. He very much doubted that he would have mustered the same dignity and self-restraint shown by the young man as he left the room. The consul hoped that the next interview would not turn out to be equally as shameful.
HECTOR LOITERED in the bagnio courtyard as he waited for his friend to emerge from his interview. Deliberately he ignored the black disappointment of his own interrogation as he wondered how Dan was faring.
It was no more than five minutes before his friend reappeared, his expression unreadable. ‘The man in the dark clothes did not believe me,’ said Dan tonelessly. ‘He asked to see a copy of my message for the King. I answered that the Miskito have no writing. We speak our messages, even the most important ones.’
‘What did he say to that?’ asked Hector.
‘He told me that he needed proper evidence, something written on paper, that I was telling the truth. The man sitting beside him was more friendly. He said that he had heard of my people, the Miskito, and that they had helped the English. He even suggested to his companion that because the Miskito asked to be considered as subjects of the King, then my name might be added to the list of those who would be ransomed.’
‘And the other man did not agree?’
‘He answered that he would apply the same rules as he had followed in your case, and that, in addition, the treaty with Algiers only concerned English subjects taken from ships flying the English flag. I had already told him that the corsairs had taken me out of a Spanish ship, so it seems I could not be included on the ransom list.’
Hector looked down at the worn paving slabs of the courtyard. For the very first time in his captivity he despaired. He was crushed by the thought of spending year after year in the bagnio.