the welcome evening breeze as they sat on the back step of the wagon, exchanging thoughts. At first Ned had been slightly huffy about not being told of an escape attempt. He regained his composure, however, not being able to stay silent for any great length of time.
“Er, this plan of yours, tell me more about it. I’m with you of course, just say the word, mate!”
Ben glanced at the armed riders surrounding them. “We’ll have to watch for a chance. Not now, but when the right opportunity presents itself. I know you’re with me, Ned, I wouldn’t dream of making a move without you.”
The black Labrador settled his chin on his friend’s knee. “Maybe just before we sail would be a good time. If we could slip away unnoticed, it’d be too late for old Al Miserable to turn the ship around and search for us.”
Ben dismissed the idea. “That would leave the whole of the Mediterranean Sea between us and the troupe. How could we help them then?”
Ned’s tongue lolled out to one side of his mouth. “Silly me, I never thought of that. So, go on, what’s the plan, O Mysterious Benno?”
Ben still had no formulated idea. “I’m not sure, Ned, but if we do try an escape, it’ll be at either Malta or Sicily, before we reach Slovenija.”
The Labrador gave a startled wuff. “What’s all this about Malta and Sicily, mate? First I’ve heard about us going to either place.”
Ben explained. “I overheard two of the guards talking. One of them hadn’t made the trip before, but the other was an old hand. He said the voyage is always made in two stages. Al Misurata goes ashore to meet with his agents while the ship takes on fresh supplies. Usually they put in to Valletta in Malta, but sometimes they visit Siracusa in Sicily. It all depends on how Al Misurata feels. Nobody knows until he tells the helmsman to alter course. Either place would be suitable for us to make the break, because I’ll wager there’s lots of ships go to Slovenija and Italy from Malta or Sicily.”
Night fell over the desert. A three-quarter moon illuminated the dunes eerily, casting pale light and deep shadow on both sides of the caravan trail. Mamma opened the half-door of the wagon.
“Come on in, you two, get a bite to eat and some rest.”
There was not much room inside, but it was a cosy, lantern-lit atmosphere. Ben and Ned sat between Serafina and Otto, sharing some flat bread and fruit. Buffo and Mummo began to sing. They had good voices, and could harmonise cleverly, without the aid of instrumental accompaniment. Both men were from Vicenza, like their brother Augusto and his wife. They sang a local ballad extolling the virtues of home.
“Soft as the breath of angels, breezes drift o’er my land, grape-laden vines entwining, await the harvester’s hand.
Sweet as the kiss of sunlight, gently caressed by the rain,
O vale of my home, Vicenza, when will I see thee again?
“O bella mamma mia, I hear the bells ring clear, the chapel of Santa Vicenza, calls to her children dear.
Echoes from snowy mountains, cross pastures of peaceful green, to the poor wand’ring exiles, my children, where have you been?”
The cart trundled on into the star-strewn desert night. One by one its occupants dropped into slumber, lulled by the gentle, jogging motion of its spell.
It was almost dawn when Bomba banged on the door of the wagon, haranguing them. “Come on, out with the lot of you. We’ve got to get this cart loaded on board, move yourselves!”
Serafina hurried to the door. “Listen, can you hear the waves? Ben, Ned, let’s go and see the big ship!”
The Sea Djinn was truly a massive and curious-looking vessel. Al Misurata and Ghigno had stripped the superstructure from a captured Spanish galleon, and rigged it to suit their purpose. From the stern, right through the midships, four large masts had each been fitted with a large triangular sail, like a yacht or a dhow. On the forecastle deck was another mast, rigged with
“Er, this plan of yours, tell me more about it. I’m with you of course, just say the word, mate!”
Ben glanced at the armed riders surrounding them. “We’ll have to watch for a chance. Not now, but when the right opportunity presents itself. I know you’re with me, Ned, I wouldn’t dream of making a move without you.”
The black Labrador settled his chin on his friend’s knee. “Maybe just before we sail would be a good time. If we could slip away unnoticed, it’d be too late for old Al Miserable to turn the ship around and search for us.”
Ben dismissed the idea. “That would leave the whole of the Mediterranean Sea between us and the troupe. How could we help them then?”
Ned’s tongue lolled out to one side of his mouth. “Silly me, I never thought of that. So, go on, what’s the plan, O Mysterious Benno?”
Ben still had no formulated idea. “I’m not sure, Ned, but if we do try an escape, it’ll be at either Malta or Sicily, before we reach Slovenija.”
The Labrador gave a startled wuff. “What’s all this about Malta and Sicily, mate? First I’ve heard about us going to either place.”
Ben explained. “I overheard two of the guards talking. One of them hadn’t made the trip before, but the other was an old hand. He said the voyage is always made in two stages. Al Misurata goes ashore to meet with his agents while the ship takes on fresh supplies. Usually they put in to Valletta in Malta, but sometimes they visit Siracusa in Sicily. It all depends on how Al Misurata feels. Nobody knows until he tells the helmsman to alter course. Either place would be suitable for us to make the break, because I’ll wager there’s lots of ships go to Slovenija and Italy from Malta or Sicily.”
Night fell over the desert. A three-quarter moon illuminated the dunes eerily, casting pale light and deep shadow on both sides of the caravan trail. Mamma opened the half-door of the wagon.
“Come on in, you two, get a bite to eat and some rest.”
There was not much room inside, but it was a cosy, lantern-lit atmosphere. Ben and Ned sat between Serafina and Otto, sharing some flat bread and fruit. Buffo and Mummo began to sing. They had good voices, and could harmonise cleverly, without the aid of instrumental accompaniment. Both men were from Vicenza, like their brother Augusto and his wife. They sang a local ballad extolling the virtues of home.
“Soft as the breath of angels, breezes drift o’er my land, grape-laden vines entwining, await the harvester’s hand.
Sweet as the kiss of sunlight, gently caressed by the rain,
O vale of my home, Vicenza, when will I see thee again?
“O bella mamma mia, I hear the bells ring clear, the chapel of Santa Vicenza, calls to her children dear.
Echoes from snowy mountains, cross pastures of peaceful green, to the poor wand’ring exiles, my children, where have you been?”
The cart trundled on into the star-strewn desert night. One by one its occupants dropped into slumber, lulled by the gentle, jogging motion of its spell.
It was almost dawn when Bomba banged on the door of the wagon, haranguing them. “Come on, out with the lot of you. We’ve got to get this cart loaded on board, move yourselves!”
Serafina hurried to the door. “Listen, can you hear the waves? Ben, Ned, let’s go and see the big ship!”
The Sea Djinn was truly a massive and curious-looking vessel. Al Misurata and Ghigno had stripped the superstructure from a captured Spanish galleon, and rigged it to suit their purpose. From the stern, right through the midships, four large masts had each been fitted with a large triangular sail, like a yacht or a dhow. On the forecastle deck was another mast, rigged with
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