home of Iain Frobisher in the borderlands, the servants, fearing for their families and their lives, fled. Mary Frobisher was left alone with her twelve-year-old son, William, and her month-old baby daughter, Alice. Two of her sons had been killed on Culloden Field; her husband, Iain Frobisher, was a prisoner of the English.
The house stood high upon a promontory overlooking the village below. When dusk came there was a stirring in the valley. Scarlet-coated men moved among the cottages. They came with their torches to burn and to kill. Mary heard musket fire, then screams. They would soon set their sights on Rosslea.
Mary was prepared. Gathering what was left of her family and the few possessions she could carry, her money and jewels sewn into the seams of her cloak and gown, she was quickly away to the cover of the trees.
When darkness shrouded the land, the glow of fire from Rosslea lit up the sky. It was a blazing inferno, feeding greedily on the precious treasures it housed, the flames penetrating high into the night sky. Biting back her tears, Mary turned away. Now was not the time to show weakness.
Numb with shock and driven by fear, carrying Alice wrapped in a plaid and urging William on, familiar with the terrain having lived in these parts all of her life, she followed the drovers’ roads over the border. She managed to reach the west coast and cross to Ireland. From there she took ship for France, joining others who had fled persecution after Culloden.
It was in Paris where she learned of the death of her husband. Mourning three members of her beloved family, Mary managed to make a life for those who were left.
Ten years later—
somewhere off the coast of North Africa
Lieutenant Ewen Tremain could not be sure whether it was the scratching of a rat—a faint, irregular rasping, made audible only by the intense, muffled silence of the night, coming from somewhere between the oak bulwark that divided the cabins and narrow passageways of his Majesty’s ship the Defiance—or another soft, furtive sound that had awakened him.
It was scarcely more than a gentle lapping of water against the hull—or could it be the splash of oars? Surely not. It must have been the rat that had awakened him, he thought, relaxing with a small sigh. It was absurd that such a small thing should have dragged him out of sleep and into such tense and absolute wakefulness. His nerves must be getting the better of him. Or perhaps it was the ship, becalmed for four days, that had something to do with it.
He tossed and turned restlessly, but he was unable to go back to sleep—that faint rasping sound frayed at his nerves. Slowly, very slowly, a peculiar sense of unease stole into the small cabin—a feeling of urgency and disquiet that was almost a tangible thing. It seemed to creep nearer and to stand at the side of him, whispering, prompting, prodding his tired brain into wakefulness.
Rolling off his bunk, he shrugged himself into his clothes and went up on to the deck, deserted except for the man keeping lookout for any corsair vessels. Standing by the rail, he gazed into the darkness. A sea mist hung low in the air, veiling the ship in a damp, diaphanous shroud. The night and the brooding silence seemed to take a stealthy step closer and breathe a lurking menace about the isolated ship. There was something out there that clamoured with a wordless persistence for attention. Ewen’s tired brain shrugged off its lethargy and was all at once alert and clear.
Suddenly, for the first time in days, there was a breeze, a faint uneasy breath of wind that sighed and whispered among the rigging and ruffled the canvas.
A bleary-eyed Captain Milton appeared beside him, rubbing his stubbled chin. ‘The wind’s getting up, Mr Tremain. Come dawn we’ll be underway.’
Ewen remained silent, straining his ears. The splash of oars became more distinct. Suddenly, out of the mist a dark, sinister shape emerged, closely followed by another two ships, the oars manned by galley slaves. When the flag on the mainmasts became clear—a human skull on a dark background—it became apparent that the mysterious ships had not come in friendship. Ewen stared, held in the grip of a sudden, sickening premonition of disaster as he considered the evil fate which, in the shape of two great white-winged ships, had come out of the mist to menace them.
Unless some unexpected turn of events occurred, their chance of escaping seemed slender. To be captured by Islamic Barbary corsairs, who treated their captives with ruthless savagery, or to die in circumstances too horrible to contemplate, was a terrifying thing indeed.
Returning to Britain from West Africa, it was the summer of 1756, when Ewen Tremain, along with Captain Milton and the crew of the Defiance, was captured by Barbary corsairs and taken in chains to the great slave market in Sale in Morocco. Poked and prodded and put through his paces, he was sold at auction to the highest bidder, a tyrannical brother of the Sultan.
Resourceful, resilient and quick-thinking, Ewen was soon selected for special treatment. As a personal slave of his master, while dreaming of his home, his family and freedom, he witnessed at first hand the barbaric splendour of the Moroccan Court, as well as experiencing daily terror.
When his master was absent from the palace for six weeks, his circumstances changed for the worse when his eyes lighted on a Moorish girl named Etta. Cruel, savage, passionate and beautiful, with tigerish green-and-gold eyes, decked in gold and pearls, she was his master’s favourite concubine. It was whispered that more than one handsome, well-muscled slave had entered her apartment by night through a secret door to satisfy her sexual appetite, their corpses later found washed up on the shore.
Handsome, haughty and virile, and unable to see any way out of his prison, except for the grave, Ewen was unable to resist Etta. Twining her slender arms about his neck and using all her witchery to captivate him, she made him her pliant, willing slave. Their clandestine meetings were made with great risk and their lovemaking did not lack passion. She was a bright and beautiful beacon in Ewen’s dark and miserable world. He found a kind of happiness when he was in the arms of this infidel concubine who seemed to have cast a spell on him and in whose body he found the forgetfulness he craved.
A chivalrous and honest man, who would later deplore the fact that he had kept such a large streak of naiveté in his make-up, Ewen found it hard to grasp the guile behind the soft smiles, or fond words, especially when they came from the mouth of this exotic concubine.
He believed Etta loved him, but how purring and persuasive and soothing that voice of hers could be. He could not have guessed for a moment what weight of treachery it concealed. When his master returned to the palace and summoned Etta, she went to him willingly, happy that her position as number one concubine would resume. Since Ewen did not appeal to her heart or her feelings, she felt strong. The smile and caressing voice she bestowed on him when passing could not cancel out the hard, calculating expression of her eyes, or her betrayal when she denounced him to her master, accusing him of lusting after her even after she had spurned him.
Ewen saw what she did, heard her denounce him. He hung there, his eyes blinded by a scalding rush of tears. When he straightened at last, the tears were gone. What had come to take their place was rage at his own weakness.
And so she condemned him.
He was to be given one hundred lashes, and, if he survived, he would be consigned to the galleys and chained to an oar for the remainder of his life.
Ewen had thought himself indestructible. But what man of flesh and blood could hope to prevail against these barbarians? At first he had hoped against all hope and reason that he would emerge from his servitude miraculously safe and sound. But now he realised that there would be no miracle—until the galley was sunk by a British man-of-war off the coast of Spain.
Ewen
