Chapter Three
Chapter Three
T
he
first
rays
of
sunlight streamed through the windows, waking Rowena to the day she would leave Saed’s house. The day before, the Englishman had left her alone in the room; the door locked against her leaving. No one had come except one boy to leave her some food at midday. When Mr. Sutton had come back to the room, he had said nothing except that they would leave in the morning.
Now Rowena jumped out of her makeshift bed and looked about the room. The giant bed was empty.
Panic rose in her throat, but it quickly dissipated at the noise coming from the bath. Realizing she was holding her breath, she let the air out slowly and finished folding the blanket. A smile dared to creep across her lips as the sun pressed its way up beyond the horizon. Today was her last day here. She was leaving half free. For a moment, the urge to hug herself and scream with joy overcame Rowena, but years of being held in slavery soon rebuked her for believing too soon.
“England,” she whispered to herself in English, and cringed. The word was foreign to her ears. After five years of only Berber, Arabic and a little French, Rowena wasn’t certain she would ever get her English back properly.
“Are you ready?”
Rowena turned around to face the man she was now unable to see as anything other than the one who was taking her away from slavery.
“Take some food, if you wish,” he said, pointing to the tray from the night before. “We won’t be stopping to eat for a few hours. There are clean clothes, along with a headscarf, here for you. I will meet you in the courtyard in fifteen minutes. Don’t be late.”
“Yes, Master.”
Once the door shut behind Sutton, Rowena scrambled to stuff food into two different bags: one for her and one for Selma. If she ran quickly, she could be in the slave quarters and back to the courtyard in well under fifteen minutes.
The day had already begun for many in the slave quarters, but Rowena found Selma still there, slowly wrapping a scarf around her hair. She stood when Rowena entered the tent, a strange look washing over her face. They stood separated by several beds, looking at each other, knowing it would be the last time they ever saw each other. Desperate sadness overwhelmed Rowena as she approached her adopted mother.
“I am leaving, Mother. Saed has given me to the Englishman.”
Selma nodded. She kept her face stoic, but sadness flashed in her eyes.
“I wish I could take you with me,” Rowena told her, practically admitting to her hope that the Englishman would set her free.
Selma took Rowena’s hand in her own and squeezed it. “I hope he is kind to you,” she said. “But you leave me behind, in your past. I am here with my son and husband.”
Time was running out. Rowena must leave the slave quarters now, but something kept her staring at the woman who had taken the place of a nurturer to her during the last three years. Selma’s eyes glistened, as though she herself were holding back tears. At the sight, Rowena threw herself towards Selma and enveloped her in a hug.
“Oh, Mother,” she whispered, allowing her agony to show.
Selma squeezed Rowena tightly for a second, then pushed her gently away.
“Goodbye, Fatia,” she said, her voice deep with sorrow, and then turned away.
Rowena ran out as fast as she could. She couldn’t let her guilt keep her from her only chance at escaping.
The first day of the journey passed quickly. Fatia had kept the pace well enough, but fell asleep the moment she lay down. Christophe ignored José’s quips about her uselessness and endured his friend’s ridicule when he covered her with both blankets, leaving himself with nothing.
Without the protection of a tent, it was the early morning cold that woke him more than Fatia stirring close by. He watched her make coffee over the fire embers before greeting her softly. A beautiful pink covered her cheeks, though she said nothing.
The moment was ruined when José awoke.
“Let’s go,” he growled as he marched off to the privy hole. “We can be at the site by late afternoon.”
“No coffee, José?” Christophe asked on his return. “Fatia went to the trouble to make some.”
José grabbed the mug, grumbling, as Fatia set about giving each of the camels their grain for the morning. Christophe said nothing, knowing anything he said would be used against her. José had decided not to like Fatia, and his mind wouldn’t be changed with any amount of words.
“I will be over there,” José declared, indicating no place in particular with a wave of his hand. “Call me when you are ready to go.”
Christophe raised his brows at the pink sky, showing the early hour to José, but his business partner only gritted his teeth harder and marched away. Fatia appeared out of nowhere with more coffee and a bowl of bread, cheese, and mutton. She marched behind José, careful to leave the things on a large, fallen tree without saying a word. It was difficult for Christophe not to voice his exasperation when José pointedly ignored Fatia, picking up the food only after she left.
“Sit down,” he told her, as they both approached the fire. She obeyed, but when he gathered the breakfast he noticed there was only one other bowl of food. “Aren’t you hungry?”
Fatia showed him the bag of two-day-old food she had, as though to say she deserved no more. Christophe’s frustration got the best of him, showing in a deep exhalation. “Take some of mine.”
“No, Master,” Fatia answered.
Christophe breathed slowly through his nose before turning his eyes on the rising sun. Over the last few days he had come to accept that he was taking her to Melilla, where she would automatically become a free woman. A good final solution to the problematic situation he found himself in. What he hadn’t considered until now was his responsibility to her once she was free. The way she continued to respond to him, he was starting to wonder if freeing a human from slavery was a bit like sending a domesticated animal back into the wild. The realization that it might take longer than this journey for her to adapt to freedom began to grow alarmingly large within him.
“It is not so easy, is it, Sutton?” José asked. His voice was void of any jest as they saddled the horses together after breakfast. “My sister, she was taken a long time ago. My father tried to buy her back, as his family did for him.”
“Where is she now?”
José looked far out into the distance. “She was married and wouldn’t come back. So, what do you plan to do with her? Will you take an Algerian slave with you to England?”
“I don’t think she is Algerian.”
José shrugged, his momentary compassion gone. “Many slaves around here were once from Europe. The Berber pirates are no longer raiding the European port towns, but they do capture the occasional boat. There are many Europeans or half-breeds living in Morocco and Algeria as well. Or perhaps she was sold by her family.”
Christophe’s stomach flipped. He glanced back at the strange girl, absently petting her camel’s leg as though in love with the beast. José was right. The Barbary slave trade had been around for centuries now, with the Berber pirates taking European ships captive and turning all those aboard into slaves in North Africa. The lifespan of a Berber slave was less than ten years if he was kept working on the boat. If they were sold on the slave market, any number of things could happen to them. Some countries, like Spain, organized themselves to pay ransoms and get their people back home. England, though, had a habit of quickly forgetting about its captured people—especially since historically it was poor people living near the coast who were most affected. God forbid the genteel and aristocrats look after their poor countrymen.
Christophe frowned as the caravan set out. Fatia’s pretty face was sun-tanned, and her eyes held no more joy of youth, if ever they had, but otherwise she seemed quite young. He remembered the European songs she had sung and her beautiful voice. The Latin songs had been sung without an accent, the words precise and without mistakes. With her pure voice that seemed ready for the opera house, the only explanation could be that she had not been born a slave.
He licked his wind-chapped lips as his horse moved forward, guiding the camels along. The girl might not have been born a slave, but she had been one long enough for the institution to break her.
Christophe stole glances at Fatia throughout the day, but the time passed without a word spoken. She kept her gaze set straight ahead as she walked alongside the camels. When she developed a slight limp, Christophe almost changed places with her. But he knew better than to walk into Omar’s camp with a female slave riding on his own horse. Omar wouldn’t steal from him, but showing weakness of any sort could bring disaster with Omar’s men. Already Christophe was taking a serious risk with so much cargo. If at least two-thirds of the goods made it to England, he would make more in their sales than the whole Parliament made in a year. Still, with the French invading further south and the Algerian people fighting back, he could end up losing his life here in this foreign land. Even before the French had invaded, it had taken a brave man to come here, where trust in Europeans was low.
Looking out into the strange desert spotted with palm trees and ragged, sharp bushes, the familiar heaviness settled in Christophe’s chest. He had hoped the sand of Algeria would scrub away the pain of his regret, but it seemed to only uncover it, leaving it vulnerable to the wind. Each time the wind whistled through the trees, sounding just like Dolores’ screams of pain, his heart stilled, reminding him vividly that the cry of a baby had never followed hers.
“I’m going to take care of some business,” José said.
Before Christophe could say a word, José jumped onto his horse and galloped away. Setting his memories aside, Christophe dismounted and took the leads of the camels. It took much more effort than it was worth to cajole the beasts closer to Fatia, but when he finally did, Christophe was greeted with a low, beautiful melody. As his shadow covered her, she stopped humming and looked away.
During his time working in North Africa, Christophe had seen people treat their slaves worse than animals. There was much cruelty in the world, he knew, but most of it came from people who thought themselves to be better than others. He couldn’t understand how, if no one could choose where they were born, one could be so cruel as to believe themselves better than someone born a few seas over, or even a few streets away.
A whistle in the distance drew their attention. Fatia dropped several paces behind him as José and another man appeared atop their horses. Christophe dropped the reins for Fatia to pick up before jogging towards the men.
“Peace be with you, my brother,” he called out.
Omar dismounted and grasped Christophe’s broad shoulders in his weathered hands. “Peace be with you, my brother!” he laughed. “It has been so long!”
He kissed Christophe’s cheeks, then signaled to a man on another black stallion to take his horse before he wrapped his arm around Christophe’s shoulders and laughed again. “How are you, my friend? I have not seen you in a long time.”
“Two years is not so long, brother,” Christophe said with an answering laugh. “I am well, Omar. Very well.”
Omar dipped his head, the weight of his turban bringing his whole torso forward.
“You seem different. Possibly sadder?” he said with narrowed eyes. “You had decided to marry when you last left us. She did not accept?”
Christophe jerked his head back slightly. The usual haunting ache again drenched him.
“She passed on, brother,” was all he felt able to say.
“I am sorry to hear it,” Omar said, clapping Christophe on the back twice. “Some women get into our hearts.”
Dolores had never had his heart, but Christophe didn’t wish to discuss her with Omar.
“And your cousin, Albert? I enjoyed his humor when he came with you long ago.”
Once again, his heart stilled.
“Also passed on, brother,” he said. Albert and he had come to North Africa together to set up business and traveled through the desert and its towns with Omar for almost a year before going on to Spain to connect their business with the continent. “How is your family doing, Omar? Your wife and sons?” Christophe added, keeping his face clear of emotion with great effort.
“They are well,” Omar said, his chest puffing with pride. “My oldest is almost a man now. I think the next time we meet, he will be with us. That is a lot of cargo, my brother.” His eyes were serious. “Much more than you took the last time. And this time there is a blockade. It is even more dangerous than usual.”
“Few would attempt to steal from you, Omar.”
“You flatter me, Christophe, but things have changed a bit since the blockade. Many are angry at the French and want to alienate Algeria from any European grasp. They blockade us when it is they who owe us money!”
“I admit that I do not understand their behavior.”
“Typical Englishman. I am sorry, my brother, we will not speak more of the politics tonight. Tonight, we will celebrate!”
Christophe paused for a moment and glanced behind to where Fatia and the camels awaited instructions. Omar’s man held his master’s reins while openly gaping at Fatia. Omar also looked, his curiosity piqued.
“You are taking a slave back with you this time?” José snorted and swore in Spanish. “Perhaps you are looking for a wife here in Algeria? You do not like those white English ladies? Yes—I think I once said you were best suited for one of our beautiful women.”
Christophe smiled wryly. “A gift from Saed for saving his boy from drowning.”
“I heard rumors of your heroic rescue, but I heard nothing about the prize. It is starting to make sense, then.” Omar winked at José.
“What does?” asked José.
“An old friend is working with me. He offered his services just yesterday.”
“Who?”
“Yacine,” Omar said.
Christophe drew back from the conversation, saying nothing. Yacine never offered anything for free, at least not in Christophe’s experience. Something had been set in motion, and he would need to find out what.
With grim determination, he threw himself back onto his horse and signaled Omar and Fatia to follow him into camp.