“Ransoms?” Ortho echoed. Was that a way home? Was it possible to be ransomed? He had money.
“Aye, ransoms,” said Puddicombe. “You can thank your God on bended knees, young man, you ain’t nothin’ but a poor fisher lad with no money at your back, see what I mean?”
“No, I don’t—why?”
“Why—’cos the more they tortured you the more you’d squeal and the more your family would pay to get you out of it, y’understan’? There was a dozen fat Mynheer merchants took on that Indiaman, and if they poor souls knew what they’re going through they’d take the first chance overboard—sharks is a sweet death to what these heathen serve you. I’ve seen some of it in Algiers city—see what I mean? Understan’?”
Ortho did not answer; he had suddenly realized that he had never told Eli where the money was hidden—over seven hundred pounds—and how was he ever going to tell him now? He lay back on the bales and abandoned himself to unprofitable regrets.
Mr. Puddicombe, getting no response to his chatter, cracked his finger joints, his method of whiling away the time. The afternoon wore on, wore out. At sundown they were given a pittance of dry bread and stale water. Later on a man came down, knocked Ortho’s shackles off and signed him to follow.
“You’re to be questioned,” the ex-slave whispered. “Be careful now, y’understan’?”
The Moors were at their evening meal, squatting, tight-packed round big pots, dipping for morsels with their bare hands, gobbling and gabbling. The galley was between decks, a brick structure built athwart-ship. As Ortho passed he caught a glimpse of the interior. It was a blaze of light from the fires before which a couple of negroes toiled, stripped to the waist, stirring up steaming caldrons; the sweat glistened like varnish on their muscular bodies.
His guide led him to the upper deck. The night breeze blew in his face, deliciously chill after the foul air below. He filled his lungs with draughts of it. On the port quarter tossed a galaxy of twinkling lights—the admiral and the third ship. Below in their rat-run holds were scores of people in no better plight than himself, Ortho reflected, in some cases worse, for many of the Dutchmen were wounded. A merry world!
His guide ran up the quarter-deck ladder. The officer of the watch, a dark silhouette lounging against a swivel mounted on the poop, snapped out a challenge in Arabic to which the guide replied. He opened the door of the poop cabin and thrust Ortho within.