"I am going to tear off that fucking, filching fart's head and shit in his skull! Just see if I don't!"

I had never yet seen Jack roused to such a passion.  He was an even-tempered man, by and large, but the sight of Soloman Jones had stirred his blood.  He paced up and down the crowded room the men of La Ruse had been quartered in and swore in an almost incomprehensible stream of vile oaths.

After witnessing Jones' punishment, we had been taken up to the next level of the house and placed into a room that had once been a broad space of handsome proportions, illuminated by wide Arabesque windows, or mashrabiyas, that overlooked the dusty street below.

Now it was a sweltering oven of humanity.  Pallets had been stacked four high and tied together, forming sleeping platforms for the men that filled the room.  There was some space between these shelves but it was barely wide enough for one man to navigate the gangways created.  The broken fretwork of the mashrabiyas let in some air and little light so men in the bagnio compensated by spending some of the little money they had on smoky tapers that lit their gloomy spaces.  It was a great wonder that the whole place had not yet been consumed by some mighty conflagration.

Our space gradually filled with men and the stink of the galleys – the sour sweat, piss and human odure that caked rags and bodies alike.  Of course, we were only the first draft from La Ruse, the remainder of the slaves joined us through the day.  Every group that arrived at the bagnio was met by the little fat man and treated to a demonstration of the falaka on some other unfortunate inmate  every bit as violent as Jones' experience.  Abu Ibn Ibrahim, our gaoler,was most conscientious in not sparing the rod.   In point of fact he was possessed of a wealth of malefactors who required his determined attention.

Despite Abu and the Africans, the bagnio was a strangely free place. We had the liberty of the house, apart from certain areas where our gaolers were quartered themselves.  Save for the main doors to the street,there were few locks.  A guard was kept but it was hardly visible since the prisoners policed themselves. So long as we remained within the precincts of the bagnio, and so long as we did not cross Abu, we could expect little trouble.  If a man escaped, his remaining shipmates suffered for his part.  Talk of escape endangered one to chastisement from one's fellows.  Where would a man escape to anyway?  A European slave would find no succour in Salé, nor the environs around it.  A Morrocan could expect only death on recapture since he had little ransom value.  'Twas a highly efficient arrangement.

That is not to say that we were entirely free from molestation.  The crews of different corsairs reflected their own captains' petty rivalries.   This we would find out later but on our first day in the bagnio, we were too exhausted from our cruise to do more than lie on the old straw of our palettes and sleep.

Save Jack, who stormed about as if the Devil had left a coal in what was left of his soiled breeches.  Ire had restored him.  I, on the other hand, and Ramsbottom, who had silently rejoined the fold with mute acceptance of Jack's superiority, lay on our sides and goaded poor Jack into further outbursts.   Our sport was not pretty but it was all we had in us.

"Come now, Jack," said I, with a smirk that my father would have whipped me for wearing, "it cannot be a bad thing to make the acquaintance of an old shipmate.  'Twill be enlightening to hear Mr Jones's tale of his sojourn."

"P-p-perhaps it w-would be a fine thing to have an officer with us again, J-Jack?"  Ramsbottom opined. "S-Solly Jones'll know a way out of this sh-shit-hole, you can be sure of that."

"SollyJones would know how to get out of Old Nick's arsehole but I wouldn't trust him to take us too! We'd still be left in the shit." He thrust a grimy hand through his matted hair and spat on the floor.   "He's a bad 'un, through and through!"

"Well I could have told you that."  I smiled at Jack and poked him in the chest with a finger.  "After all, the man's a pirate."

"And a mean b-b-bastard who likes the sound of his own voice, like you,"muttered Ramsbottom.

Jack spun round at that and advanced on the youth.   Ramsbottom scuttled back into the dim recesses of his palette but he could not resist the sinewy arm that shot forward and grabbed his jaw, twisting the boy's face so that he could not avoid Jack's piercing stare.

"And you would know a mean bastard, Jonah?" he snarled.

"Jonah!"  I was amazed.  "His name's Jonah?"  How a man could take to sea with such an ill-fated name struck me as most foolhardy.  Sailors are such superstitious creatures that had the name his father called him been known, Ramsbottom would have had his throat cut and been tossed overboard.  No taint of ill-fortune was ever to be suffered on an English ship, that much I had learned from my time below decks.

"Yes his name's Jonah, though Morgan kept it quiet on account of him being such a delightful young gentleman."  A trickle of blood wept from beneath one of Jack's broken fingernails and cut a scarlet trail down Ramsbottom's cheek.  Jack grimaced with distaste.  "You're the slimiest little gobshite I've ever served with. You're no sailorman, and definitely no man, just a nasty little tyke who has no place at sea.  No sailor could respect a man with such an accursed name.  My luck's been shit since you hooked up with me.  I don't know why we've put up with you these months gone. I should have scragged you that night in Tangier!"  His hand dipped into his breeches and when he removed it, a dull glint betrayed the blade that he then pressed to the boy's neck.  "I may just now."

A circle of silence spread beyond the tableau before me as our companions became aware of what was going on.  Men crowded in from every side to gaze upon the sweating, straining pair as they clung fast to each other.  Jack's arms were as steady as the Betsy running before the wind, resistant to every attempt by Ramsbottom to unhitch them, whose own nails lay open furrows on his tormentor's wrists.

I cannot deny that I had no love for Ramsbottom and a few months past,I would have been happy to have seen him hung in chains.   It is the way of things though that familiarity with even the most contemptible fellow renders his faults less obnoxious when adversity throws even worse examples of humanity at one.   Truthfully, Ramsbottom was bound for the gibbet but he was nothing but a minnow compared to Morgan,Jones, Governor Cholmeley, The Sultan or any Captain who could force men to bend to the oar as de Croix did.  There are bastards and then there are bastards.  A footpad or a thug brings misery to only a few,but Morgan could set a town to mourning, Moulay Ismail an entire realm.

But then sometimes the thug can surprise you too.   Jonah Ramsbottom did that day.  Red faced, tears streaming from his eyes, the boy's resistance suddenly collapsed.  "Well, go on then! I've made my peace. It's not as if we're ever getting out of here!"   He somehow sobbed through Jack's iron grip.  "When will I go over the side? The next voyage or the one after that? You might as well s-stick me with that b-blade.   It would be quicker than the f-fucking oar and at least I wouldn't have to s-spend any more time listening to you!"

Fora moment, my heart leapt with the prospect of a world without Ramsbottom.   There would be few to mourn him.

"Will he kill him, Matthew?" Hassan whispered to me.

I turned to my right and was shocked at the eager expression on the Moroccan youth's face.  Here was a creature hungry for blood.  It stilled forever my own sanguineous want for an end to Ramsbottom's membership of our company.  Sickened at the sight of so many persecuted men waiting for one of their own to inflict misery on one another, I resolved to render aid unto the woeful youth.

"Jack,let him go,"  I said with more conviction than I felt.  "It's not him you want to kill.  If it wasn't for Morgan and Solomon Jones then we would not be rotting here.   Don't dull your blade on this one's neck. Keep it keen for the work ahead."

Fora moment I thought Jack would ignore me.   I could sense that everyone around us was holding their breath.   In moments such as that, in my experience, it is surprising what you notice.  The beads of perspiration that gathered at the base of Jack's quivering back; the tear in Ramsbottom's ear where an earring had presumably been torn away in some past brawl; a dead cockroach as long as my thumb that lay still beneath the pallet opposite me; the stink of Hassan'sill-breath that passed across me like a miasma; the distant shouts of other inmates in other parts of the bagnio, coupled with the slamming of doors and cruel laughter at some unknown jest.

At last he relented.  Slowly he relaxed and withdrew the blade, backing off the pallet to stand above the unfortunate Ramsbottom, who collapsed like a deflating bladder, sobbing, burying his head in his arms.

"Aye,Matthew, you're right. I've no need to blunt this steel on the likes of him."   Jack slid the small knife back into his rags, then wiped the blood off his forearms on handfuls of straw from Ramsbottom's pallet.  "Let him rot at the oar just like the rest of us.   I see no need to pay him the favour and release him from his servitude and leave us to remain.  Let the bastard live."  He paused for a moment and continued to stare at the boy before adding, "For now."

Hassan,released a rush of breath that sounded very much like a disappointed sigh.   "He is cruel, that Jack. Very cruel to deny us some sport.  I would like to have seen more of the whoreson's blood."

I  began to berate Hassan for his unchristian attitude before I realized the futility of doing so.  What was the point?  We were all caged, whipped dogs, whimpering at our masters and snarling at each other.   Without the oar before us, our fragile brotherhood could not last in the bagnio.  Jack would not be the only one to have a concealed blade, but he might be the only one who would stay his hand.   It was much later that Jack told me how he had concealed his knife and pressed upon me the knowledge that if a man needs to conceal anything from prying eyes, there is always one place he can resort to.  An experienced man, familiar with lock-ups around England, would have known this.  A foolish man, such as myself, did not.

This became apparent over the next few days.  When not performing duties for the authorities in Salé, the galley slaves of the bagnio fought a battle no less fierce than a sea action.   It was a strife that the untutored eye did not perceive,and the skirmishes were not always bloody.

Each crew attempted to attain a dominant position over the others.  This could take the form of threats, pushes and jeering in the communal areas of the bagnio.  We men of La Ruse learnt not to attend to our bodily functions alone, nor to fetch water or rations without some guard.   To move in small groups, to watch your mate's back, was vital if you wanted to avoid being scragged and pushed into the latrines.

The reason for this was quite simple.  The dominant crew kept the others in line and prevented more serious outbreaks of violence because we were all too intent on surviving our fellows' attentions, rather than consider our position at the hands of our gaolers.

The senior crew also had the pick of the daily duties.  The best of these was sailmaking under the watchful eyes of their bosuns and armed abid, who would bring carts of sailcloth to open spaces nearby, where the men would be gathered under the shade of tall palms, making or repairing, sewing or cutting the coarse canvas to make up suits for every weather.

The worst job?  Breaking rocks at the quarry for Salé's wharves and sea defences, or even ballast for new ships that were even now having their keels laid down on the hard.   It fell to the men of La Ruse, the newest crew, to perform that duty.  At least, being at the bottom of the pile, we were spared much of the violence that the other crews inflicted upon one another.  Most of the time.

I was kept busy.  My limited medical knowledge bought me the same safety as Jack's knife.  Contusions, lacerations, bites, ripped ears,torn nostrils and broken teeth were presented to me with regularity by their unfortunate bearers once my sea-going trade was known.   Because of the state of the rivalries between crews, my business boomed and my safety was secured.   I did not wear the bruises, nor the hollow eyes, that Jonah Ramsbottom did by the end of the first week.  His remarkable talent for upsetting his peers brought him perilously close to his maker but somehow the abyss did not claim him.  Hassan I saw little of, except for when he would appear with a grin and a hunk of bread, eager to share, yet secretive about how he came about it.

It was perhaps a week after we had entered the bagnio that that my rediscovery of the apprenticeship at Doctor MacPhail's knee afforded an unforeseen opportunity.  

Escape from Pharoah's bonds.

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