Duty and Duplicity; Book 5 of Poacher's Progress
Chapter 26: Poet and Peasant

Copyright© 2017 by Jack Green

Historical Sex Story: Chapter 26: Poet and Peasant - It is said that travel broadens the mind, and Jack Greenaway enjoys a plethora of new experiences during his visit to Europe, ranging from the sublime to the terrifying. However, three factors drive Jack's peregrination through the continent. One is his quest for his disappeared sister. Another is investigating the whereabouts of Eloise de la Zouche, the woman responsible for the deaths of Jack's wife and children. The third, and most exacting, is the machinations of the British government.

Caution: This Historical Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Consensual   Heterosexual   Historical   Military   Violence  

With a day fixed for Byron’s termination I could now alert Captain Caracciolo, so next morning I rode to Mpampakoulia to apprise the good captain of our departure time.

“Be ready to leave here in three days’ time, Captain. I will board during the day with our baggage, but Captain Keane will not arrive until midnight, maybe later. We’ll cast off as soon as he is on board.”

“In the middle of the night? The passage from the harbour to the open sea is tricky at the best of times, even in daylight.” Caracciolo said.

“Then you have three days to familiarise yourself with the topography before a night passage, Captain.”
I left him scratching his head and frowning, and made my way back to Missolonghi.

It was just as well I had taken note of Gardoloni’s advice regarding being armed when travelling.
I had ridden about three miles from Mpampakoulia when I heard shouting, and the sound of blade against blade coming from my left. A line of cypress trees obscured any sight of what was happening, so, first checking both of my pistols were loaded and primed, I urged my mount through the screening foliage.

In a small clearing, a figure in flowing white robes was stood backed up against a broad tree trunk, swinging a scimitar and fending off four men armed with cudgels and long knives. It was a short and one-sided conflict, and as I watched the white robed figure had the sword struck, broken, from his hand, before being felled.
The men, who I assumed were Greeks but could have been Albanians, then started to rip the clothing off the slight figure on the ground, and I realised they intended sodomizing their groggy victim.

I should not have interfered. It was none of my business, and I had Byron’s boxing to worry about. However, I was enraged at the actions of the men, and drew a pistol from the saddle holster before spurring my horse into the clearing.
One man turned at my approach. He spoke, in what I assumed Greek, and his tone of voice was threatening, as was him drawing a pistol from his waist belt. I already had a primed and cocked pistol in my hand, and blew a hole in his chest. After holstering the pistol I drew my broadsword and charged.

There is something feral and atavistic about riding down a group of men when you are mounted, and armed with a sword. It brings out the worst of our basic instincts, and my bloodlust urged me to kill, maim, and terrify, those lesser mortals beneath my feet, or rather beneath my horse’s hooves.
I swung my sword backhanded at a running man on my right, and caught him where his neck met his shoulder. Down he tumbled in a welter of blood and screaming. My horse was not a cavalry trained mount, and shied away from the body, nearly unseating me.
Regaining my balance I ran my sword through a brute of a man who had fearlessly, but foolishly, attempted to hamstring the horse. His falling body wrenched the sword from my hand, and I cursed not having slipped the strap of the sword’s hilt over my wrist before embarking on this quixotic venture.
I dismounted to retrieve my sword, and as I withdrew the blade from the man’s belly a shot sounded.

At first I thought one of the Greeks had fired at me, but when I turned I saw the figure in the white robes standing ten yards from me, a smoking pistol in his hand. He had taken the weapon from the fellow I had shot and had then fired at the one attacker remaining on his feet, who was making off as fast as his legs could carry him.
Unfortunately, it was his leg that received the shot, and he now lay writhing on the ground.
The white robed figure dropped the pistol, and from under his robe produced a curved knife. I tightened my grip on my broadsword, ready for his attack, but instead he slit the throat of the man he had shot, and then severed the man’s penis and stuffed it into his mouth -- the shot man’s mouth, not his own.

I stood transfixed at this barbarity. The figure in white merely grinned at my distaste, and then served the other three Greeks in a similar manner.
It was not just the savagery of the act that shocked me, but that it was committed by someone little more than a youth.
He had come from his grisly work and now stood before me. I judged him no more than fifteen years of age. His complexion was light brown in colour, although a darker hue than Greek or Albanian. His thin, hooked, nose and his high cheek bones informed me he was not of those races.
He replaced his curved knife in a sheath at his waist and made a graceful gesture, touching first his forehead and then his chest before giving a slight bow.

“Salaam alaykum. Ismi Sayeed bin Ghandou. Baaraka Allahu fik.
He said, his voice that of a young boy.
Naturally, I did not understand one word of what he had said.

“I do not speak Turkish.” I said, slowly, clearly, and distinctly, in English. Not that I thought for one moment I would be understood.

“That was not Turkish, sir, but Arabic. I am Egyptian, and my name is Sayeed bin Ghandou.”
He smiled, showing dazzling white teeth, and I saw amusement on his face as he noted the amazement on mine.
“I was fortunate to have had an English slave teach me your language. But please, tell me who have I the honour of addressing?”

My reply was more explicit than how I would normally respond.
However, the young man had an air about him that demanded precision and formality.

“I am Colonel Elijah John Greenaway of His Britannic Majesty’s Sixty Ninth Regiment of Foot. And what do you mean by you having an English slave?”

“The man was captured at Rasheed in eleven eighty five and given to my father. The man’s infidel name was Thomas Mckay, but he converted to Islam and became Yusuf El Mekky. Men with red hair are honoured in Islam, and Yusuf’s hair is the red of a flaming torch. He has since been released from slavery and is now a respected family retainer.”

I was completely bemused by what I had heard. A man captured at a battle in 1185 was still alive? How could that be. A redheaded man named Joseph Mackay would seem to be Scottish, but where was Rasheed?
Once again the young man, Sayeed bin Ghandou, saw my puzzlement and gave an explanation.

“Our calendar is some six hundred years behind the Christian, Colonel, and the town of Rasheed is known to Europeans as Rosetta.”
That made sense. The battle of Rosetta was in 1807. The 78th Foot, a regiment of Highlanders, had two companies of men killed or captured at the battle.

“What are you doing here? Are there more Ottoman troops about? Who were those men who attacked you? Are you alone... ?”

Sayeed laughed. “Please slow down, Colonel, I can only answer one question at a time. To begin with those men who attacked me are, were, Albanian irregulars, deserters from the Ottoman army. There are no more Ottoman troops nearby, other than scum like them.” He pointed at the dead, mutilated, bodies of his attackers. “As for my reason to be here, and alone; I wanted to see how Missolonghi was able to survive two sieges...”

“The Ottomans would send a young boy as a spy... ?”

“No one ordered me here, Colonel. I have been staying at Antirrio with my father, who was sent to Greece by Muhammad Ali Basha to find out why his uncle, Mustapha Pasha, failed to capture Missolonghi.”

“Who is Muhammad Ali Basha?”

“He is an Albanian, the ruler of Egypt under the Ottomans, and a man who wishes to be the ruler in his own right.”

“And have you discovered the reason for Mustapha Pasha’s failure to capture the town?”

He nodded “I believe so. Like most Albanians Mustapha Pasha thinks only to attack directly at an enemy. He neglected to reconnoitre and gauge the strength of the earthen walls the Greeks had constructed, thus his artillery was unequal to the task of blowing breaches in it. Also, the three islands guarding the entrance to the lagoon are vital in the town’s defence. They must be occupied by a besieging force, not only to bring fire to bear on the town from seawards, but to throttle supplies to the town. Given the artillery and ships I would have captured the place within six weeks.”

“You have been observing Missolonghi for some time?”

“I spent three days in a most uncomfortable, but excellent, observation position. I have sketched the area and its defences, and, with Allah’s help, will return to Antirrio and hand over all my information to my father, and before you ask, no, he does not know where I have been. He has been incapacitated by fever, and I took it as my duty to him to complete the task set him.”
He gave me a calculating look, as if measuring me up.
“Of course, you may prevent me from doing my duty. Our people are at war.”

“As far as I am aware there is no state of war between the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, and the Ottoman Empire, and anyway I do not make war on...” I was about to say ‘children’, but knew Sayeed would take that as an insult, so instead concluded with, “civilians. I will not stop you leaving, nor will I inform anyone of our meeting, or of what was discussed.”
I certainly did not want anyone poking about in the vicinity to discover ‘Bonaventure’, and then ask awkward questions.

“I am in your debt, Colonel Elijah John Greenaway. I hope one day I am able to repay you.” He took the sheath with the curved knife from his waistband.
“This khanjar belonged to my revered grandfather. I would be honoured if you accept it as a small measure of my gratitude.”

I took the weapon from his hand, admiring the workmanship, and the intricately engraved blade and handle.

“You will be defenceless without it, Sayeed. I cannot let you travel to Antirrio unarmed.”
I handed him one of the horse pistols from the saddle holsters on my horse, with several charges of powder, and the ball to go with them.
He gave a smile of gratitude, and then laid his cheek against mine.

“Shukran Jazilan, Colonel Elijah John Greenaway. Ma’assalama.
He turned and then gave a piercing whistle. For a moment nothing happened, and then a magnificent golden coloured horse, with a white mane and tail, came trotting through the bushes It came to a halt in front of Sayeed, who stroked its muzzle with obvious affection.
“This is Desert Storm, my pride and joy. Is he not a beautiful animal?”
I could do nothing but agree.
With an acrobatic leap, Sayeed mounted the stallion, gave me a wave, and then cantered away out of sight.
I was alone, with four dead, mutilated, Albanians, and the knife that had done the deed.

On my return to Missolonghi I sought our Callum, who had been engaged in a long and passionate farewell with Ariadne. She was leaving next day to visit her sick mother in Crete, and although her absence was detrimental to Callum’s love life, she would not now be a witness when he crept from his bed to box Byron.
I told him of my meeting with the Egyptian, and showed him the knife Sayeed bin Ghandou had gifted me.

“This is a family heirloom, Jack. See how the patina on the handle tells of its age. You must have done him a huge service for him to hand over such a prize.”

“Well, saving him from being buggered probably qualifies.”

Callum laughed. “Aye, a man would prefer death rather than such a dishonourable humiliation.”

We again went over the plan to relocate Byron. I wanted no slip ups or mistakes due to lack of planning and forethought.
Callum had already made up a quantity of the sleeping draught and put it in a phial, now stowed safely in his jacket pocket.
For the past two days he had been wearing my Gucci made boots -- the pair with the hidden pocket in the top of the left boot and the concealed knife. As luck would have it his feet were almost the same shape and size as mine, and Callum avowed the Gucci boots were the most comfortable pair he had ever worn, even if not made for his feet, and was eager to obtain a pair for himself.

The plan was for Callum to visit the kitchen area on the afternoon of the boxing. He had routinely paid visits to Ariadne during the several weeks we had been at Missolonghi, and the guards at the gate, and the staff in the kitchen, were used to him calling in. With Ariadne absent it would be assumed Callum was seeking another bed companion, and as he had already flirted with several other kitchen maids, it would not be unusual to see him in the kitchen.
Once there he would tip the potion into the cooking pot of Byron’s Souliote Companions dinner.

The evening meal was delivered at about seven in the evening, and Callum calculated the potion would take full effect three hours after ingestion.
He had often helped Ariadne deliver the heavy iron cauldron to Byron’s tent, and could quite easily slip the sleeping draught during the transshipment if no other opportunity presented itself in the kitchen.
About eleven of the same evening he would return to the palisaded enclosure, bearing a letter from me to Byron’s secretary Pietro Gamba, who was a well-known insomniac, and him receiving a late night visit would not be remarkable.
Callum would be searched for weapons by Souliotes, but not Byron’s Companions, at the entrance to the Pavilion, where the knife concealed in his boot top would go undetected. After delivering the letter Callum would enter Byron’s bed chamber, passing the drugged Companion guards, and slit the throat of an equally somnolent Byron, leaving the knife next to Byron’s bed companion. The boxing completed Callum would then take a horse from the unguarded horse lines and make best speed to Mpampakoulia.

“The Greeks will soon realise Byron’s Companions were drugged, and as you have been seen in the kitchen, have helped deliver the evening meal, and then paid a late night visit to Pietro Gamba, you will be a suspect, Callum.”

“They will have no solid proof, and I will be long gone.”

“I agree, but if the knife left behind at the scene of the crime has markings of where it was manufactured, ie Livorno, it would not take long for the Greeks to put two and two together and suspect I was also involved in the plot to kill Byron. This could cause a diplomatic incident, and the Relocation Bureau prides itself on its anonymity, and not leaving any clues linking untimely deaths to H.M Government.”
I picked up the khanjar Sayeed had given me.
“But this knife gives me an idea. After boxing Byron retain the killing knife. We will leave this obviously Turkish knife where it will soon be discovered. Blame for the murder will then fall on the Ottomans, disregarding any other suspects.”

Callum nodded his head in agreement, but before he could reply one of Byron’s Souliote Companions came into the room.
I was about to berate the man for his lack of respect in not knocking and asking permission to enter, but something in his manner stayed me.
He spoke, in heavily accented but understandable English.

“His Excellency wishes to speak to you. Be at his tent in an hour.”

His message delivered he turned on his heel and marched off.
His curtness, and incivility, gave the impression I was in bad odour with Byron. Did he somehow have wind of the plot to assassinate him? Would I be arrested on arriving at Byron’s tent?
I racked my brains as to how our plan could have been discovered. Only Callum and I had the full facts, although if there was a spy in the Relocation Bureau Byron could have been forewarned he was to be boxed, and Ariadne might have gossiped to her fellow kitchen maids about Callum’s activity with plants.
When I told Callum of my fears he dismissed them out of hand.

“If there were any suspicion of us being assassins we would already be under arrest, and probably tortured. Ariadne believes the potions I make are love philtres. In fact I did concoct several batches of an aphrodisiac that she sold to her friends. The results of which were highly efficacious, I’m glad to report.”

“Even so, I think we should prepare for the worst. Move our belongings to Mpampakoulia, and return to Missolonghi after having them loaded on Bonaventure. If I have been arrested then go back to Mpampakoulia immediately, and have Captain Caracciolo put you ashore at Genoa. From there make your way to our embassy in Milan and report my failure.”

He nodded and left, although I sensed he thought me over reacting to what could merely be an invitation to talk with Byron delivered by a Souliote Companion who, believing himself superior to all other men, had behaved in such an arrogant and high handed manner.

An hour later as requested, ordered, I presented myself at the guardroom of the palisaded compound, then handed over my knife on entry as normal.
As no one seized and bound me I probably had reacted over much to the ill-mannered delivery of the invitation.
I was almost at the entrance to Byron’s tent when he appeared, accompanied by three of his Companions.

“Today I fancied a walk outside the confines of the compound, if you do not mind, Greenaway?”
I acquiesced, and we left the enclosure, making our way towards a knoll, some fifty feet high, about two furlongs away from the compound.
“The Turks had their artillery sited on that mound,” Byron said, pointing towards the knoll.”Fortunately their guns were not powerful enough to breach the earth wall, although the inhabitants of Missolonghi, and their habitations, suffered greatly from the daily cannonade.”
During the walk towards the hillock Byron revealed his reason for my invitation.

“At times I find the constant discussion and arguments with my companions too much to bear. I have to guard every word I utter, unless one or another takes offence. My listeners weigh everything I say for bias. If they think I have favoured one faction above another then the so-called injured party withdraws from discussion until I beg them to return. With you I can speak freely, and of subjects other than Turks, and food supplies, and payment of wages, and whose regiment should be on the right of the line, and all manner of stupid and inconsequential things.”
By now we had reached the foot of the mound, and Byron motioned the three Souliote Companions to remain at the bottom while he and I climbed to the summit.
“You know, Greenaway, I believe Souliotes are the descendants of the Spartans,” he said as we reached the top. “One day I will publish a paper on my theory.”

A table and chairs had been set up on the former artillery position, from where the view over the lagoon was magnificent.
However, the odour emanating from a small stream at the foot of the mound was not so magnificent. The waterway was little more than an open sewer, and I wondered at Byron, with the heightened sensibilities of a poet, had not registered the stench.
It soon became apparent why Byron’s senses were not at peak condition.
The man was well in his cups, and if not actually drunk then only a glass away. I was surprised, as I knew Byron to be an abstemious sort of man when it came to alcohol and food.
I had noticed his swaying and rolling gait as we walked from the compound, but thought it due to his clubfoot. In truth, one soon forgot he had a misshapen foot when alongside him, as his gait was that of a mariner, although today he had walked more like a drunken sailor.

 
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