Read Online The Flag of Freedom by Seth Hunter - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Seth Hunter
Ads: Link
children, or even priests of the Church of Rome, and that he respectfully declined to take any further part in the action.
He regretted the impulse almost as soon as the letter was despatched.
It was wildly out of character. He had been long enough in the service to know that if there was one thing worse than an official protest, it was an official protest on a matter of principle.
But it was too late.
By way of reply came a sergeant of Marines and four men with an order for Captain Peakeâs immediate arrest and his detention upon the Rock of Gibraltar until such time as arrangements could be made for his court martial, lest the honour of his country be further tarnished by his continued association with the loyal subjects of King George.
Chapter Three
The Castle of Blood
T he port of Tripoli baked in the heat of the afternoon sun. All along the waterfront, nothing stirred. Flea-bitten curs sprawled comatose in the shadows. The flags drooped limply from the mastheads of the corsair galleys moored in the harbour. Even the flies were moribund.
And Spiridion Foresti lay in a darkened room in the English Consulâs house, dreaming of Ithaca. Spiridion was, in fact, a native of Zante, one of the neighbouring islands of the Ionian Archipelago, but Ithaca was the home of his latest paramour whose affections he sorely missed. It was also, according to legend, the island of Ulysses, and Spiridion had been wondering, just before he dropped off, if the victor of Troy had been happy when he finally arrived home. Or had he missed his adventures, his siren voices, even his monsters? In his dreams Spiridion saw theold warrior â or it might have been himself â sitting under a tamarind tree in the cool of the evening with his favourite dog at his feet, drinking wine from a glass that was at least half-full and watching a distant ship approaching from the sea. He was, he thought, content â but there was a stirring of hope in his breast that the ship might bring change or challenge.
Spiridion was roused from this idyll by a sudden loud explosion, the preliminary to a series of explosions, which he quickly identified as gunfire. This was not infrequent in Tripoli. It was usually no more significant than some minor celebration, such as the birth of another child to one of the Pashaâs wives, or the death of one of his many enemies, or the anniversary of some massacre or other atrocity perpetrated by either himself or one of his ancestors. What was not usual was to embark on such jollification in the afternoon, when most people were asleep. Spiridion lay for a moment thinking about it. But the continuing gunfire and the clamour of the seagulls making it impossible to continue this process, let alone to resume his slumbers, he threw a loose-fitting robe over his Persian
pajamas
, snatched up his spyglass, and hurried up the stairs to the roof.
The British Consulate was on the waterfront in the merchant neighbourhood of Zenghet-el-Yehud, close by the Marine Gate, and from its flat rooftop, shaded by canvas awnings, he was able to look out over most of the city and across the natural harbour which had established Tripoli as one of the great ports of antiquity. It had flourished under Phoenicians, Romans, Byzantines and Arabs alike, but its importance had diminished over thelong years of Ottoman rule, and of late, in Spiridionâs opinion, it had become little more than a nest of pirates and a den of thieves. But it was home to some 30,000 souls of various ethnicity and denomination â Turks, Moors, Sephardic Jews, Moriscos, even a few Christians â most of whom found some means of profiting from its pariah status. Also, some several thousand Christian and Negro slaves who profited not at all.
As soon as he stepped onto the roof, Spiridion detected the source of the disturbance, though he had already fingered the obvious suspect. It was the castle. Or to be more precise, the battery of 18-pounders on the
He regretted the impulse almost as soon as the letter was despatched.
It was wildly out of character. He had been long enough in the service to know that if there was one thing worse than an official protest, it was an official protest on a matter of principle.
But it was too late.
By way of reply came a sergeant of Marines and four men with an order for Captain Peakeâs immediate arrest and his detention upon the Rock of Gibraltar until such time as arrangements could be made for his court martial, lest the honour of his country be further tarnished by his continued association with the loyal subjects of King George.
Chapter Three
The Castle of Blood
T he port of Tripoli baked in the heat of the afternoon sun. All along the waterfront, nothing stirred. Flea-bitten curs sprawled comatose in the shadows. The flags drooped limply from the mastheads of the corsair galleys moored in the harbour. Even the flies were moribund.
And Spiridion Foresti lay in a darkened room in the English Consulâs house, dreaming of Ithaca. Spiridion was, in fact, a native of Zante, one of the neighbouring islands of the Ionian Archipelago, but Ithaca was the home of his latest paramour whose affections he sorely missed. It was also, according to legend, the island of Ulysses, and Spiridion had been wondering, just before he dropped off, if the victor of Troy had been happy when he finally arrived home. Or had he missed his adventures, his siren voices, even his monsters? In his dreams Spiridion saw theold warrior â or it might have been himself â sitting under a tamarind tree in the cool of the evening with his favourite dog at his feet, drinking wine from a glass that was at least half-full and watching a distant ship approaching from the sea. He was, he thought, content â but there was a stirring of hope in his breast that the ship might bring change or challenge.
Spiridion was roused from this idyll by a sudden loud explosion, the preliminary to a series of explosions, which he quickly identified as gunfire. This was not infrequent in Tripoli. It was usually no more significant than some minor celebration, such as the birth of another child to one of the Pashaâs wives, or the death of one of his many enemies, or the anniversary of some massacre or other atrocity perpetrated by either himself or one of his ancestors. What was not usual was to embark on such jollification in the afternoon, when most people were asleep. Spiridion lay for a moment thinking about it. But the continuing gunfire and the clamour of the seagulls making it impossible to continue this process, let alone to resume his slumbers, he threw a loose-fitting robe over his Persian
pajamas
, snatched up his spyglass, and hurried up the stairs to the roof.
The British Consulate was on the waterfront in the merchant neighbourhood of Zenghet-el-Yehud, close by the Marine Gate, and from its flat rooftop, shaded by canvas awnings, he was able to look out over most of the city and across the natural harbour which had established Tripoli as one of the great ports of antiquity. It had flourished under Phoenicians, Romans, Byzantines and Arabs alike, but its importance had diminished over thelong years of Ottoman rule, and of late, in Spiridionâs opinion, it had become little more than a nest of pirates and a den of thieves. But it was home to some 30,000 souls of various ethnicity and denomination â Turks, Moors, Sephardic Jews, Moriscos, even a few Christians â most of whom found some means of profiting from its pariah status. Also, some several thousand Christian and Negro slaves who profited not at all.
As soon as he stepped onto the roof, Spiridion detected the source of the disturbance, though he had already fingered the obvious suspect. It was the castle. Or to be more precise, the battery of 18-pounders on the
Similar Books
