‘I’m sorry, Dan,’ he said. ‘I’m really sorry. It seems that there is nothing we can do to get out of here. We’ll stay until we rot. No one is going to lift a finger to help us.’
But to his surprise, Dan answered calmly, ‘Then we ourselves will lift a finger.’
Hector looked at his friend in puzzlement. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that we will turn Turk. It doesn’t take much. All you have to do is raise a finger to the sky in the presence of two witnesses who are good Muslims, and acknowledge that Allah is the true God and Muhammad is his prophet. That’s all there is to it . . . and of course you have to be cut.’
‘Cut?’
‘Yes, someone with a knife trims back the skin on your manhood, as a sign that you have converted.’
Despite himself, Hector looked queasy.
‘Well, why not?’ Dan went on. ‘Once you have become a rinigato – become a Muslim – you have a much better chance of finding proper work that takes you out of the bagnio, and it is forbidden to send you to serve in the galleys. You may think that life is hard when working in the quarries, but it is nothing compared to being chained alongside three or four other prisoners and hauling on the handle of a 30-foot-long oar. It’s late summer now, and soon all the galleys are coming back to harbour. But come the spring, every able-bodied man in the bagnio risks being sent to the oar benches.’
Hector thought for a moment. ‘Is there no other way to get out of here? How about the gunpowder man? He’s at liberty and he remains a Christian.’
Dan shook his head. ‘No. The gunpowder man came to Algiers of his own free will. He can stay a Christian. It’s not the same for us. That’s the usanza.’
‘Aren’t you worried about becoming a Mussulman?’
Dan shrugged. ‘As I told you, the Miskito believe in many gods and spirits. And so do the Turks, though they say there is only one God. My master who owns the masserie is a Mussulman but he still believes in what he calls djinns and efrit, the wicked spirits who might snatch him away or do him harm. So I can acknowledge Allah as the one God and still believe in the spirits whom my people have always respected.’
‘Dan, it’s easier for you to take this step than it is for me. My mother, if I ever see her again, will be heartbroken.’
‘Maybe your mother would understand. Hector, listen to me. If you want to search for your sister, you have to get out of the bagnio. There’s nothing you can do to find her or help her while you are confined here. If you become a rinigato, at least you can make enquiries among those who have taken the turban. Maybe they have heard what happened to her. Besides, if you are worried about turning Turk, you can always wear a cross secretly. That’s what some of the other rinigatos do, because they are afraid that their own God will ignore them after they die.’
‘All right,’ announced Hector. He had come to his decision. At times Dan seemed so much more level-headed, more confident than himself, even though there was little difference in their ages. ‘I’ll go through with this, but only if you do the same.’
‘Of course,’ said Dan. ‘We are in this together.’
NINE
TWO MEN STOOD in the late evening sunshine watching the English third-rate weigh anchor and then work clear of the Algiers mole.
Down by the harbour Consul Martin was feeling homesick, regretting that he had declined the invitation to accompany Abercrombie back to England. Martin had excused himself, saying that he had pressing commercial matters to attend to in Algiers, but the truth was that he did not relish spending the six-week voyage in close company with the glum commissioner and Newland the self-conceited mercer. The final details of Newland’s ransom had been settled smoothly. Abercrombie had brought with him a down payment of ten per cent of the sum the Algerines demanded for the mercer’s release. Newland’s business associates in London had advanced the cash, and a professional ransom broker in Naples was standing surety for the rest. The balance was to be transferred when the cloth merchant reached home safely. The speed of this commercial transaction had underscored the cumbersome progress of the government redemption plan which had eventually allowed only three dozen English captives to depart. Not one of the Irish had been redeemed. The commissioner had made it clear, after the unsatisfactory interview with Hector Lynch, that he did not wish to encounter any more of the young man’s countrymen. So Martin had given up trying to locate them in the bagnios.
No one would ever hear of these unfortunates again, the consul thought to himself as he turned to walk back up the hill to his residence, his despondency only tempered by relief that he was finally rid of the tiresome Newland.
The other figure watching the warship stand out to sea also felt mildly relieved. When Captain of Galleys Turgut Reis had heard that the English prisoners in Algiers were to be ransomed, he had bribed the Dey’s secretary to remove the name of the English sailor-slave, Dunton, from his list. Dunton had proved to be a clever boat builder, and Turgut calculated that Dunton was worth much more than his purchase price if he continued to work in the Arsenal, particularly as the shipmaster there had finally found sufficiently lengthy timber to repair Izzet Darya. Turgut was all too aware that he had to have his galley ready for the start of the new cruising season in three months’ time if he was to escape from his financial difficulties. Anything which speeded up her repairs was a priority, particularly the services of a skilled shipwright.
Looking down from his roof garden, Turgut was glad that his little stratagem had succeeded. He even took pen and paper to draw a rough sketch of the departing English third rate for future reference. It was quite possible that one day Izzet Darya might encounter the vessel during a corso, and previously the captain had found it difficult to tell whether the sailing ships of the unbelievers were fitted out for peace or war. To his eye they all had much the same lines and sail plans whether they were carrying rich cargoes or a broadside of cannon. How unlike his beloved Izzet Darya, he thought to himself. No one could mistake the galley’s long, menacing hull for a plump trading vessel. Izzet was a platform for fighting men, not a tub filled with merchandise. He held up the completed sketch for the ink to dry in the faint breeze, and once again he reassured himself that he had been right not to switch to using a sailing vessel for the corso. There was something discreditable about the way those tall ships fought from a distance, gun to gun. Their opponents were no more than tiny figures in the distance. Far better to do battle honourably, hand to hand, and look your adversary in the eye. That was his personal usanza.
A discreet cough broke into the captain’s thoughts. A servant had appeared on the roof garden, carrying a note. It had just been handed in, the man said, by a slave from the bagnio. Unfolding the paper, Turgut saw that the penmanship was neat and regular, the letters well formed as if prepared by a professional letter writer. Turgut’s long experience in reading foreign charts meant that he was familiar with the crabbed script of the unbelievers, and he found no difficulty in deciphering the sentences written in the lingua franca. The author of the note stated that he wished to profess his belief in Allah and humbly asked the reis to give his consent to a ceremony of conversion. For a moment Turgut was puzzled. Then he recalled that a slave had to have his master’s permission before adopting Islam. Turgut frowned. The note was unsigned. He wondered which of his slaves wanted to convert to the True Faith. Turgut presumed that the messenger had taken advantage of the rest period at sunset when the bagnio gates still stood open, and run up the hill to make the delivery. ‘Where is the man who brought this?’ he asked.