‘Is there anyone who could provide me with any information about the gun? It would help your case. The Emperor is disposed to look kindly on anyone who is cooperative.’
‘That is not enough reason for me or anyone else to help the infidel. On the contrary, you would be doing yourself a great favour, if you would send word to Algiers, to Iphrahim Cohen the Jewish ransom broker. Once he learns that we are being held here, he will arrange our release. As I already told your brown friend, you could earn yourself a handsome reward. Later you and your friends from bench three might even receive a royal pardon from His Majesty King Louis. I have friends who can arrange such things.’
‘It is too late for that, Piecourt. Moulay Ismail has already given orders for your ransom. I am to advise and consult with his own ransom broker, here in Meknes.’
The comite still seemed unperturbed. ‘We are not worth very much. There are only myself and the sous comites and a number of common sailors. The officers left in the boats. I repeat: the sooner you get word to Algiers, the more you will benefit.’
There was something about Piecourt’s manner which made Hector suspicious. The comite was hiding something.
‘I’ll take a moment to look around your cell,’ he said.
Piecourt shrugged. ‘You don’t need my permission.’
Stepping inside the cell, Hector was immediately brought back to his days in the Algiers bagnio. The far end of the archway had been blocked off with a wall of bricks, and the near entrance could be closed at night with double doors. The result was a narrow, high room where the only light and air came in through two small windows high up in the far wall. Looking about him, Hector was impressed with the cleanliness of the cell. The occupants were keeping it swept and there was no sign of rubbish. Everything was neatly in its place. It was evident that discipline among the occupants was very good. For their sleeping arrangements the Frenchmen had rigged up a series of bunks from lengths of timber and matting. Due to the height of the cell, these bunks extended upwards for four tiers, and the topmost could only be reached by climbing a ladder. Several of the beds were now occupied by men relaxing after their day’s work, while a group of another half a dozen were playing cards on a home-made table placed on the ground between the tiers. Among the card players were two sous comites who had been subordinate to Piecourt, and a sail handler who had worked on the rambade. They glanced at Hector incuriously before returning to their game. It occurred to him that the ship’s officers and freemen had known no more about galeriens toiling in the waist of the vessel than the latter had known about the occupants of the poop deck. And Piecourt had been right, there was no sign of the technician who could have answered questions about the mortar and its bombs.
As he left the cell, Hector saw that Piecourt had now deliberately placed himself so he could ignore his visitor. He was seated next to the rowing master and also leaning back against the pillar of the arch. The two of them had their eyes closed as they basked in the sun waiting for the time when the prisoners had to return to their cells and be locked in for the night. Their colleague with the speckled cheek was nowhere to be seen.
Walking back through the gathering darkness, Hector was troubled. There was something he had failed to notice during his visit to the prisoners. Piecourt had been too cool, too composed. It was almost as if, by his nonchalant indifference, he was trying to distract Hector’s attention.
He voiced his disquiet to Dan the following day. They were in the armoury where the Miskito was carefully examining the long barrel of an old-fashioned musket. At a work bench nearby Jacques Bourdon was dismantling the weapon’s obsolete firing mechanism. ‘Piecourt’s hiding something,’ said Hector, ‘or at least he was not telling me the truth.’
‘Hardly surprising,’ Dan replied. ‘In the bagnio, if you remember, it was wise to say as little as possible to strangers or anyone in authority in case you got yourself or a friend into trouble.’
‘But this was more than that. Piecourt deliberately discouraged any conversation with me. I have a suspicion that he knows one of the prisoners can supply information about the mortar but didn’t want me to identify who the man is.’
‘And you are sure the technician wasn’t there?’
‘Definitely. I had a good look round and couldn’t see him anywhere, though I did recognise one of the men who normally worked on the rambade.’
‘I doubt that the sailor would know very much,’ said Dan. He was holding the musket barrel up to the light so he could squint down inside the barrel. ‘If you remember, the regular rambade crew was terrified that the mortar would burst, or a bomb explode while still on deck. So they kept well clear when the gun was being tested.’ He picked up a small file and scraped at a rust mark on the musket barrel, then put the musket barrel on one side, and called out to Bourdon, ‘No need to fix that lock, Jacques. This gun’s so rotten that it would blow up the face of the man who used it. Get one of the lads to give it a polish and put it back in the rack so it looks good on display if Moulay comes round on an inspection. But make sure that it doesn’t get issued for active service. I’m condemning it.’
‘That’s one of the guns I got from Hakim Reis, back in the old days,’ commented Allen. The gun founder had just come out of his office on his way to the foundry where the new brass culverin was being chipped out of its mould. ‘Those muskets were made specially for the export market. Shoddy, cheap stuff.’ Turning to Hector, he asked whether he had come back with any more information about the galley mortar. When Hector admitted that he suspected the French comite of the St Gerassimus was holding something back, Allen suggested a new approach. ‘Why don’t you go to speak with Joseph Maimaran, Moulay’s ransom agent? He’s very clever. See if he can devise a way of putting some pressure on the comite to make him talk. I know Joseph quite well as I obtain all my brandy and spirits from the Jews because they have the monopoly on distillation. I’ll send one of the English lads with you, and he’ll bring you to Maimaran’s house. It’s in the Jewish quarter, of course, so you’ll need to explain your business to the guards at the gate.’
THE MELLAH, the Jewish quarter, lay deep within a maze of narrow streets to the rear of the palace compound, and the young lad who guided Hector took gruesome delight in explaining that its name meant ‘the place of salt’ because Jewish butchers were obliged to pickle the heads of traitors before the heads were nailed up on the city gates. The youth also managed to get himself lost, and it was only by following a stranger dressed in a Jew’s black skull cap and cloak who was walking bare foot – the boy explained that the Jews had to go shoeless by Moulay’s order – that they finally came to the gateway in the wall enclosing the Jewish enclave. Here Hector and his guide were allowed to pass after handing over a small bribe.
Joseph Maimaran’s house lay at the end of a narrow alley and had a modest unpainted door set so deep in the surrounding wall that it was easily overlooked. The humble appearance of the building was as unassuming as its owner who greeted his visitor warily. Maimaran was at least sixty years old, and possessed one of the saddest faces Hector had ever seen. There were deep shadows under his doleful eyes, and the small mouth beneath the prominent nose was permanently downturned and despondent. Hector had to remind himself that Joseph Maimaran, according to Allen, was one of the richest men in Morocco. His wealth had helped bring Moulay to power and he was acknowledged leader of the Jewish community. This meant he had to tread a delicate path. Often, when Moulay needed money, Maimaran was expected to extract it from his fellow Jews, and he could not ask for the return of any loan to the Emperor. If he did so, he risked suffering at the hands of the Black Guard.