numerous that they could not fit in their own boat all at once.”
Miro rubbed his chin. “What you say is true, Thomas. But, operationally speaking, we are beggars, not choosers. So, Harry, would you be kind enough to ask Aurelio to come in here for a chat? And please bring the radioman to the inn, I need him to set up his equipment and establish contact with Ambassador Nichols as quickly as possible. I have some questions for one of her staff…”
The eager jabbering that had first arisen when Aurelio went back out to his gathered crew and announced the offer of employment fell suddenly silent.
“And that,” speculated Miro, “indicates that Aurelio has just informed them of our stipulation that none of them will step on inhabited land again until we return to Italy.”
North drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “With any luck, that requirement will chase some of them away. There are too many of them-more than we can use, Estuban.”
Miro looked at the Englishman with raised eyebrows. “I seem to recall you being the one calling for more personnel.”
“Blast it, yes, but with a suitable increase in hull space, as well. Look at them, Estuban; they’ll be packed tighter than rats in the bilge. We’ve no use for all of them.”
But Miro smiled. “At this moment, perhaps not. But as you say, we need both more crew and more ships. The crew materialized first; we must not fail to add them to our resources while we may. And at least it relieves the problem of losing so many of combat personnel to mundane tasks. These Piombinese will furnish the hands and backs that shall bear all the burdens of seamanship, lading, and night watches.”
North scowled at the milling Piombinesi, who seemed more somber now, but whose numbers had not decreased at all. “True enough, but as you are fond of pointing out, we have a very limited budget, and those”-he nodded at the fishermen-“are an awful lot of new mouths to feed and palms to pay. And while it may seem like serendipity to find this much crew, they’ll bleed us dry while we try to add another hull to our resources. Which may prove a far more difficult lack to remedy.”
Harry smiled, lopsidedly. “Yeah, there is that, isn’t there?”
A respectful tapping on the doorjamb announced Aurelio’s reapproach. He leaned into the common room, hat in hand. “Signori?”
“Yes, Aurelio?”
“The men, they come to a decision. All will go.”
“No surprise, there,” muttered North.
“Excellent,” Miro said, loud enough to obscure Thomas’ sotto voce grumpiness, “Tell the men we shall set sail for Piombino itself.”
Aurelio looked baffled. “Why there, Signor Miro?”
“We need to acquire another boat, and given your contacts in-”
Aurelio shook his head. “No, Signor, this is no good idea. Piombino’s boats are all working for the Spanish, or have been taken by them.”
“Taken?”
“ Si. Well, the Spanish, he say he ‘bought’ the boat. But if a man give you a few coins and take your boat without asking, has he ‘bought’ it? What would you say the Spanish is doing, when he do this?”
North affected a hoarse, throaty voice and a semi-Sicilian accent: “To quote yuh Godfaddah, I’d say dat he is making you an offer you cannot refuse.”
Harry snickered. Miro guessed that North was imitating some up-time media icon-probably from an up-time gangster movie-but understood no more than that.
Aurelio understood the general import clearly enough, however. “ Si. The one Piombinese who refused the offer got a sword through his belly. So, no sailing to Piombino. No ships for you there, and too many Spanish. Besides, the trip, it is more dangerous, now.”
“Dangerous now? Why?”
Aurelio’s brows darkened. “Pirates,” he spat. “An Algerine.”
North rolled his eyes. “Well, we get the full gamut here, don’t we? From Spanish highway robbery to Moorish high seas brigandry. I can see why people come to the Italian coast for vacations.”
Miro hardly noticed the Englishman’s sarcasm. “What kind of ship is she, Aurelio? How is she working?”
“She is a xebec, Signor Miro, and a big one. A crew of seventy, at least. And she is trouble for everyone because she is not working much at all, anymore.” Aurelio spread his hands. “The Algerians, they like hunting big ships, big prizes. Merchants mostly. But now, with Borja in Rome, and supply convoys going back and forth to Barcelona-”
Miro nodded. “Of course. The Spanish have impounded all the local shipping, and keep it in convoy. Madrid has probably hired some privateers, as well, working at piracy suppression.”
“ Si. So the Algerine, she has to stay farther north than she would like, and must hunt for smaller prey.” Aurelio looked resentful. “She even hunts for the smallest fishing boats, now. Whatever she can find.”
“And where has this xebec been sighted?”
Aurelio shrugged. “All around the Tuscan archipelago: Elba, Pianosa, Monte Cristo-”
Miro turned to North and Lefferts. “You see? Providence provides.”
“No,” said North.
“Colonel North, how can you, of all persons, complain?” Miro met his scowl with a cheery smile. “You challenged serendipity to provide us with a ship to hold our too-numerous seamen, and here it is, furnished by the hand of Fate, or God-whichever suits your philosophy. Indeed, one of your Christian priests might counsel you to accept this Algerine xebec as proving the truth of their exhortation ‘ask, and ye shall receive.’”
North grimaced. “Hmph. Now I am only interested in proving the truth of the one religious axiom that pertains to trading volleys with pirates.”
“And what axiom is that?”
“That, verily, it is better to give than to receive. Pass me that wine, damn you; I need a drink.”
Donald Ohde, the team’s unofficial radio operator, popped his head back in the door. “I’ve got the embassy standing by on the radio, Don Estuban. Don Ruy himself is on the line, wondering what you need.”
Miro rose. “Did you tell him that we are bound for Mallorca?”
“Yep.”
Miro smiled. “Then I will ask my Catalan friend what he might know about a most significant fortification on the island, the one known as the Castell de Bellver…”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Captain Castro y Papas knew that Senor Dolor was approaching him from behind, but not because he could hear the man’s boots on the deck. Dolor was, fittingly, as quiet as death, but the sailors working the sails and rigging hushed at his approach. As they always did. Some made warding signs when they thought he wasn’t looking. Castro y Papas was quite sure that Dolor saw it all, and more besides.
“Captain,” said the smaller man as he came to stand beside Don Vincente at the rail.
“Senor,” Castro y Papas acknowledged with as flat a tone as he could manage.
If Dolor noticed, or cared, that the response was markedly unwelcoming, he gave no sign of it. “Have your duties ever brought you to Mallorca before?”
Don Vincente shook his head.
“A pleasant island,” commented Dolor, “and Palma is a handsome city.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” Castro y Papas lied. He had been admiring the view as their frigata rode the north Saharan wind known as the Llebeig into Palma’s broad bay. Flanked by eastern beaches on the right, and scrub-covered uplands on the left, their entry brought them abreast of Fort San Carlos, still under construction. Before them lay Palma itself, walls mounting up into an impressive skyline. The immense Gothic cathedral on the east offered its flank squarely to the bay, and pointed toward the rambling Almudaina palace that straddled the midpoint of the walls. The western end of the city seemed to slope down and away from that edifice, which mixed Arab, Spanish, and modern architectural elements into an aesthetic whole that, defying all logic, pleased the eye.
