Chapter 1: Paris

The next morning A’isha joins us as usual, but she surprises me by not asking for another story from my previous adventures. She seems strangely subdued after reading the story I wrote yesterday. Apparently my five years spent as one of Inspecteur Georges Lebranleur’s Parisian mistresses doesn’t interest A’isha or her brother. I can guess why, given what she told me about Georges’ father, Louis Lebranleur, and his unsavoury association with both A’isha and Hassan. Besides, my time in Paris isn’t a particularly interesting tale unless you like stories with plenty of fucking in one of the most romantic cities in the world. Oh! You do? Well, when I’ve finished whatever task A’isha wants me to perform I’ll tell you the highlights.

“Follow me, Zakiyah,” commands A’isha, addressing me by the false name given to me on arrival here to disguise my real identity. She promptly hands me a djellaba to wear. We are obviously going outside of the harem.

This is the first time I’ve been outside of the harem since I and the other 31 captive women arrived at Wadi Halaf. A’isha takes me into the building where her brother, Hassan, supposedly conducts business. I’ve only previously caught glimpses of Hassan and I’ve never spoken to him directly. I follow A’isha’s example and remove my shoes as we enter. She leads me along a wide corridor until we reach a large room where five men are sat on large cushions in a semi-circle. I recognise the man in the centre as Hassan and the man next to him might be the man who came aboard the Humphrey when we arrived in Salé. Unsurprisingly, the others are strangers to me.

“Brother. Uncle. Cousins. Greetings,” says A’isha to each man in turn. She receives a nod from each man in response.

Her greeting confirms my suspicion that the older man sat to the left of Hassan is his uncle Rashid who purchased the thirty-two “Dickey-Wickey girls” from the wretched Captain Dickey and Doctor Nathaniel Wickliffe. We aren’t invited to sit down and the pair of us are left standing facing Hassan.

“This is Jacqueline de Belleville,” says Hassan to the other men before turning to me. I notice he doesn’t bother using my false name. “Tell me Jacqueline, what do you know of an English admiral called Lord Exmouth?”

“Umm, His given name is Edward Pellew. He was one of England’s best navy captains during the recent wars against Napoleon Bonaparte,” I reply. “More recently he was promoted to admiral and elevated to the peerage for services to King George’s navy. Last year he commanded the English fleet which destroyed the fortifications at Algiers and freed numerous European slaves.”

“Is it true that his successful attack on Algiers was, in part, due to intelligence gained by an English spy in Paris?” asks one of Hassan’s cousins. “And is it true that you were that spy?”

“What makes you say that?” I ask, sensing a trap. “I lived in Paris for six years until recently, but only as the mistress of a government official.”

“Hmm. Yes. One of Inspecteur Georges Lebranleur’s numerous mistresses, if I’m not mistaken,” continues the cousin. “The same Georges Lebranleur whose father Louis was the French ambassador to the Algerian court at the time.”

“I’m not going to admit to anything,” I reply defensively.

“Ah! Don’t be concerned, Jacqueline,” says Hassan. “We aren’t trying to trap you into a confession. It’s just that both Lord Exmouth and Louis Lebranleur will be guests at the upcoming festivities where you and your friends will be providing entertainment. We wanted to establish whether your inclusion in the entertainment is going to cause a problem.”

“Not for me it won’t. But I think you should be more concerned about the potential problem of having Edward Pellew and Louis Lebranleur within arms reach of each other,” I reply, accepting Hassan’s reassurance for the time being. “The English attack on Algiers probably wrecked Louis Lebranleur’s profitable trade in European slaves.”

Although the treaty ending the American war against the Barbary States some years earlier had officially banned all trade in European slaves, in reality it did little more than make it less public. The very presence of thirty two captive European women in this fortress only proves that the trade still exists. City states such as Algiers had openly flouted the treaty. Only once the war against Napoleon was finally won, and English navy no longer relied on Algiers for supplies, did the English take any action to bring the rogue state into line.

The men talk among themselves for a few minutes. They switch from English to Arabic, so I can only understand one or two words. A short while later, I’m escorted back to the harem and put to work doing a stack of laundry with Dorothy and Abigail. At least I’m not sent to the larger laundry across the compound where I suspect many of the other captives are working in sweltering heat.

We’ve quickly learned that washing the variety of bedding and clothing in the cramped harem laundry is a task best done while naked. It’s far easier to get into the cistern with the laundry and work from within than lean over the cistern sides and try to scrub from there. A few weeks ago Dorothy and Abigail would probably have baulked at doing so much as showing a bare ankle in the company of someone else. But trying to do the laundry while clothed in only asking for soggy clothes. We aren’t allocated much in the way of spare clothing, so if your clothes get wet and uncomfortable, then tough luck.

“So A’isha has decided you’ve written enough about your life,” comments Dorothy when she sees I’m about to join them.

“Apparently so,” I reply. “She and Hassan don’t seem bothered about my time in Paris.”

“Paris ... oooh ... I hear it’s a beautiful city,” says Abigail. “My grandmother spent some time there before the revolution. Now Bonaparte has been overthrown, I had hoped I would get to see it.”

“It’s worth a visit,” I reply. “When you get released you’ll surely get the opportunity.”

As the daughters of English aristocracy, both Dorothy and Abigail can expect their ransoms to be paid before too long. Not so for me. Nobody is going to pay a bent farthing for my release. Well, apart from the English admiralty who have posted a reward for my capture so I can stand trial in England. But their reward isn’t enough to tempt Hassan to sell me to them. At least, not yet.

“So tell us how you got to Paris in the middle of a war, and what you did there,” says Dorothy. “And we want all the juicy bits as well.”