Corsair

by Tim Severin

  Again the thud of a cannon, and the splash of a cannonball, this time closer to the galley. ‘Good shooting,’ commented Dunton. ‘Those are not amateur gunners.’

  ‘Why don’t we fire back?’ enquired Hector.

  ‘No point,’ came the reply. ‘Our iron gun hasn’t the range, and besides it will hamper the oarsmen if we have to load and train the weapon. We’ll just have to take our medicine for the next few minutes. Run the gauntlet of those stern chasers until we are close enough to open fire ourselves. Better yet, get alongside and board her.’

  ‘FORTSA! FORTSA! Row Hard! Row Hard!’ the galley’s overseers were cheering on their men, and Izzet Darya surged forward, steadily closing the gap.

  A double thud as, one after the other, the two stern chasers of the sailing ship fired at the approaching corsairs. This time a cannonball threw up a burst of spray which drenched the port-side oarsmen.

  A closer explosion as Izzet Darya’s own gun answered. Hector felt the galley tremble beneath his feet. But the shot fell short.

  ‘Watch out! She’s coming round!’ cried Dunton. Hector looked forward over the heads of the straining oarsmen. Where before the sailing ship had presented her tall stern to the galleys, now he could begin to see along her quarter as slowly she began to turn. Out to one side he saw her boats. Their crews were rowing frantically, the towlines taut. ‘They’re pulling her to bring her into position so she can use her main armament,’ said Dunton. He sounded worried. Izzet Darya’s pilot had seen the danger, and called out to the helmsmen to try to stay directly astern of their prey.

  Another twenty oar strokes, as 160 men in teams of five strained at each huge oar handle, and then their opponent began to open fire with her main deck guns. There was no broadside, just an irregular series of loud reports as each gunner found he could bring the advancing corsair vessels into his sights. Dunton was counting, ‘five . . . six . . . seven.’ He paused as the cannon shots ceased. ‘Thank Christ for that!’ he muttered. ‘Seven, maybe eight cannon a side. She’s an armed merchantman. We should be able to cope with that.’ His sigh of relief was cut short as another cannon fired, then another, and another. Looking ahead, Hector saw that the sailing ship was almost entirely obscured in a great cloud of gun smoke billowing around her. ‘Oh shit!’ blurted Dunton. ‘Twenty guns a side, maybe more. She’s a ship of war, a fourth-rate at least.’

  There was a bellow of rage from the aga. The Turk was staring off to the side, at the accompanying corsair brigantine. One entire side of the brigantine’s oars had stopped, the blades poised level with the sea. For a moment Hector thought that perhaps a cannonball had struck and damaged the ship. But then in a sudden moment of silence he distinctly heard the cry, ‘Siya! Siya! Back! Back!’ and the oars began to move again, but this time in reverse. Inexorably, the brigantine began to turn, swinging away from Izzet Darya in a tight arc, as the smaller ship altered course, away from the fight. ‘Cowards! May you rot in hell!’ The aga was brick red with anger, roaring and raging as the brigantine completed her turn. She was fleeing from the scene, abandoning the attack, and putting as much distance as possible between herself and the cannon fire. ‘Seems they were counting cannon shots as well,’ said Dunton bitterly.

  Turgut Reis stepped forward to the rail that divided the stern deck from the lines of benches where his crew were still labouring their oars. Many of the rowers were beginning to show signs of exhaustion, others were wild-eyed with fear. ‘My children!’ he called out. ‘We press on! Now there is all the more plunder for us. Allah will protect us! Soon we will be alongside. Fifty gold pieces to the first man who climbs aboard.’

  There was a rattle of musket fire from the bow platform. Hector saw that the janissaries had begun shooting, aiming forward over the low breastwork that surrounded the bow platform. He wondered whether their target was really within range or whether the odjaks were firing their muskets to vent their frustration. He could not see Dan.

  Suddenly there was an appalling crash and the galley quivered from stem to stern. A cannonball had struck the vessel, but for a moment Hector could not identify any damage. Then he saw the gaping hole on the port side, where the shot had torn away the outrigger support for the forward oars. He heard screams of pain and fear, then remembered that this was where the slave oarsmen had been placed, chained to the oar benches. Izzet Darya’s iron cannon fired, and a neat round hole suddenly appeared in one of the stranger’s limp sails.

  ‘They’re firing too high, stupid bastards,’ said Dunton. ‘We can’t take much more of this. We’ve got to get closer.’

  Another crash, and this time the cannonball cut a bloody path through the rowers on the starboard oar benches. The rhythm of the oar strokes faltered. Hector felt the galley slow down. ‘Avanti! Avanti! Forward! Forward!’ yelled the overseers, and this time they were lashing even the volunteer oarsmen. Hector could detect that the crew was very close to panic. ‘Ya Allah! Ya Allah! Ya Allah!’ The rowers tried to take up the cadence of their work again, but the galley was partially crippled. Hector was reminded of a many-legged insect which struggles onward even when a third of its legs has been torn away. He looked forward, trying to see what was happening to Dan, and could not see his friend. Astonishingly, he saw that the janissaries were utterly unperturbed. He witnessed one of the odjaks set down his musket, calmly relight his long pipe, then pick up the musket again before taking aim.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Dunton gasped, dismay in his voice. Hector looked round, trying to see what had alarmed the sailor. The enemy ship was less than a couple of hundred yards away now, every detail clearly visible. In a few moments Izzet Darya could close the gap, and then her boarding party would get in action. Soon the fight must be over.

  Then he knew what had unnerved Dunton. The long pennant which hung from the stranger’s masthead was stirring. Hector could make out its colours, red and white. And the gun smoke which had shrouded the tall hull was drifting clear in wisps. The calm had ended, and a light breeze had sprung up. Even as he watched, Hector saw the great sails begin to flap and lift as they filled with the wind, and slowly the sailing ship began to move through the water. Even as the crippled corsair galley desperately tried to close the gap, the great ship began inexorably to slide out of reach.

  ‘Fortsa! Fortsa!’ The overseers were in a frenzy, demanding a final effort from the oarsmen. But the oarsmen were nearly collapsing. Hector, his nostrils filled with the smell of gunpowder, heard their sobs of exhaustion and effort. Several of the men were merely going through the motions of rowing, trying to keep time with their comrades. Here and there Hector saw a rower give up the effort, and slump to the deck.

  Another crash, and this time a cannonball smashed a bloody track through the oar benches, body parts flying into the air. The fervour and discipline of the oarsmen began to disintegrate, as more and more of them realised that their efforts were useless.

  Izzet Darya could not catch the sailing vessel. Several teams of oarsmen stopped rowing, releasing their grip on the oars and sitting down on the benches, their bare chests heaving as they gasped for breath. The motion of the corsair galley slowed to a crawl as their prey steadily drew farther and farther away.

  Dunton was shouting at one of the Turkish petty officers. Hector guessed the Turk was the caravana in charge of sail handling. ‘Leva! Leva!’ Dunton was bawling, waving his arms frantically. ‘Hoist sail! Hoist sail!’ But there was no response. The Turk seemed at a loss, unable to act. It was the captain himself who responded. Moving to a position where the oarsmen could see him clearly, he called out, ‘Well done, my children! You have given of your best. Now is the time to make best use of the wind that comes also from Allah. We will become falcons!’ He had raised his right arm in a gesture of encouragement when, shockingly, he was struck by a hail of metal. One moment he was standing on the aft deck, and the next instant his body had been flung backward and he was just a lifeless heap on the deck, his white gown like a rumpled shroud. Nor had his officers escaped
unscathed. The pilot was clutching at his face, blood seeping between his fingers, and the aga was staring down, numbed, at a mangled foot. ‘Oh Lord be our Protector!’ groaned Dunton. ‘Perrier guns. They’re going to finish us off.’

  Hector tore his gaze away from the sight of the dead reis and looked towards the big sailing ship. The crew were brailing up the sails, slowing their vessel now that she was at a safe distance from the crippled galley and could manoeuvre. Even as he watched he saw activity on the high stern deck. Men were clustering around the light swivel cannon mounted along the rail, the perrier guns which could send hails of small shot and sweep a deck clear of men.

  ‘Leva! Leva!’ Again Dunton was roaring and gesticulating. He leapt up on to the main spar and frantically began unlacing the sail ties. Farther forward, the braver and more experienced sailors on the crew were hastily uncoiling the main halyard where it had been stowed, and laying it out along the catwalk. Those overseers still on their feet began to push and shove men into position where they could begin to raise the sail. A tall, thin Algerine with a wild look in his eye began to chant a work song, and incredibly some sense of order and discipline returned as perhaps a score of those not wounded began to haul on the great rope and the massive mainyard slowly began to rise.

  The spar was dangling some ten feet in the air when there came another crash of cannon, the loudest yet. This time it was not the irregular thump and report of individual guns, but the ragged roar of a broadside. At point blank range the warship’s gunners could not miss. The broadside struck the stationary galley amidships, and broke her back. Men and oars were flung into the water. The bow and stern both tilted upward as the mid section of the venerable hull began to sink under water. The sea rushed in on the benches and Hector heard the desperate screams of the slave rowers still chained to their benches and unable to escape. The stern deck slanted under his feet, and sick at heart he watched Turgut’s corpse slip down and come to rest against the rail, itself already half under water.

  Shocked and dazed, he grasped at a splintered post. Then, as the stern section began to roll over, he was washed into the sea.

  As he came back to the surface, he realised that something had changed. The sounds of firing had nearly stopped, though the air was still thick with gun smoke. He coughed and choked. Something nudged against his shoulder, and he clutched at it blindly. He found he was grasping the canopy from the galley’s stern deck. Air had been trapped within the cloth so that it had risen to the surface, and was bobbing, half submerged. Steadying himself with one hand on the makeshift raft, Hector looked around.

  The captain’s bloody death had distracted him from thinking about Dan’s fate, but now he scanned the mess of flotsam and wreckage, trying to spot his friend. The bow section of the galley was almost gone below the surface, and he saw only the heads of a few strangers nearby. Dan had disappeared. Closer to hand he glimpsed a face that was familiar. Thirty yards away was Dunton. He was clinging to a small piece of floating wood which was insufficient to keep him afloat. Every few seconds Dunton would submerge, coming back to the surface with panic in his face. ‘Here! Here! Swim over here!’ Hector called out. Dunton heard him, and twisted round to face him. Again he half-disappeared and was spitting water as he came back to the surface. ‘I can’t!’ he gasped. ‘I cannot swim!’

  Hector had learned to swim during his summers on the Irish coast and now he slid into the water and struck out for the English sailor. ‘Here, hang on to me,’ he gasped as he reached Dunton. ‘I’ll tow you back.’

  Dunton was floundering desperately. ‘It won’t work. That slave ring on my ankle pulls me down.’

  ‘Come on!’ snarled Hector. ‘Hold on round my neck. You can do it!’

  With a sudden lunge Dunton abandoned the sinking flotsam and grabbed on to his rescuer. Hector clenched his teeth and began to swim, trying to regain the raft. The effort was enormous. However hard he swam, he was making little headway. Dunton was a dead weight on his back, pulling him down. Hector took great mouthfuls of air and knew that his strength would soon ebb away. He swallowed a mouthful of seawater, gagged, and for a moment he thought that he too would drown. Squeezing his eyelids shut to clear his eyes of the salt water he looked ahead, trying to judge how far he had come. He was still not halfway to the makeshift raft. ‘I said you could not make it,’ whispered Dunton behind his ear, and then – miraculously – the sailor’s grip relaxed and Hector found himself swimming free. He glanced over his shoulder and had a last glimpse of Dunton as he slipped under the water.

  Even without the English sailor on his back, Hector was at his last gasp when finally he reached out and touched the floating canopy. Pulling himself up on its slippery wet surface, he lay there panting. Dimly he was aware of other survivors from the disaster who approached the raft. Once or twice he felt the canopy shift beneath him as they too heaved themselves on to its surface. He lay with his eyes closed, utterly spent and still in shock from seeing the captain meet his death. The captain had bought him in the same way as a farmer buys a promising colt at auction, yet Hector could only remember Turgut’s kindness, his compassion, and the words of encouragement when his protégé had faced his sunnet – ‘Don’t be afraid. It happens at once, and is a wonderful thing as Allah has wished. Praise be to God.’ Hector hoped that the same was true for the manner of Turgut’s death.

  Abruptly a hand was seizing the collar of his loose shirt, and he found himself dragged off the canopy, then hauled bruisingly over the edge of a small boat, and dumped into its bilges. A voice said in English, ‘We’ve got another of the bastards.’ Someone knelt on him painfully and tied his wrists behind his back. A short while later he was pulled to his feet and then half lifted and half thrown up the side of a ship where he found himself on a steady, dry deck. Swaying with exhaustion, he kept his eyes down and watched the salt water trickle out of his clothes and make a wavering line across the planks. He felt wretched.

  ‘Ti! Moristo? Mauro? Turco?’ a voice was asking aggressively. Someone was trying to establish his nationality, speaking in rusty lingua franca and standing so close that he could smell the interrogator’s foul breath. But Hector felt too tired to answer. ‘He’s not wearing an ankle ring. Must have been one of the crew,’ claimed another voice gruffly. Someone was fingering the qibla still hanging from its thong around his neck. ‘Look at this,’ said the first voice. ‘He’s an Allah worshipper all right. Saw this when I was in the bagnio at Tunis.’

  Hector raised his head and found himself looking into the hostile face of a common sailor. A jagged scar running from the corner of his mouth to his right ear gave him a brutish look. Behind him stood a short, badly shaved man wearing a wig and dressed in clothing which had once been of fine quality but was now shabby and stained with grease spots. Hector took him to be a ship’s officer.

  ‘My name is Hector Lynch,’ he said, addressing the officer. ‘I am from Ireland.’

  ‘A Papist turned Mussulman, that’s droll!’ mocked the officer. ‘A bucket that has dipped twice into the sink of iniquity.’

  ‘My father was a Protestant,’ began Hector wearily, but his reply was cut short by the officer’s retort. ‘You’re a renegade and turncoat, whatever stripe of faith you were before. To be serving with Barbary pirates means you deserve to hang. But as you are worth more alive than dead, you will be kept in chains until we reach port. Then you will wish you had gone to the bottom of the sea along with your thieving friends.’

  Hector was about to ask the ship’s destination when the sound of a hammer on iron distracted him. A little distance behind the officer, the ship’s blacksmith was striking off the ankle ring of a starved-looking galley slave who must have been rescued from the wreck of Izzet Darya. Standing next in line, awaiting his turn and dressed only in a loincloth, was Dan. The Miskito, Hector recalled, had been wearing his slave ring when he had joined the corso, and Turgut Reis had not ordered it to be removed. Clearly the warship’s crew had mistaken Dan for a slave they had
liberated from the corsairs. Deliberately Hector forced himself to look away. Any sign that he knew Dan would betray his friend.

  ‘Take the renegade and put him with his fellow blackguards!’ ordered the officer, and Hector found himself pushed across the deck to join a group of bedraggled survivors from the galley; among them were several odjaks. As he stood waiting to be led away to the prison hold, Hector heard a cheer go up. The starved-looking man had been freed from his slave ring, and several of the warship’s crew were gathering round to slap him on the back and congratulate him on his liberty. As Hector watched, Dan stepped forward impassively and placed his foot on the blacksmith’s anvil. A few sharp blows and the blacksmith had knocked out the rivets from the ring, and again a cheer went up. But this time, the congratulations were cut short as the starved-looking man suddenly turned and, snatching at Dan’s loincloth, whipped it away so that the Miskito stood naked. Pointing at Dan’s circumcised penis, his accuser screamed, ‘Rinigato! Rinigato!’ and gave a vindictive whoop of triumph.

  TWELVE

  CHEVALIER ADRIEN CHABRILLAN, Knight Grand Cross of the Order of St Stephen, was thoroughly satisfied with his day’s purchase. Through his agent, Jedediah Crespino of the well-known Tuscan banking family, he had just acquired thirty prime slaves for galley service. The slaves had appeared on the Livorno market unexpectedly and Jedediah had snapped them up. An English warship, the Portland, had sunk a large Algerine corsair off Sardinia, and pulled a number of her crew from the water. Naturally the Portland’s captain wanted to profit from his victory so he had landed his captives at what was the biggest slave market in the Christian Mediterranean, with the possible exception of Malta. Tall and aristocratic, Chevalier Chabrillan was a familiar figure in Livorno. Always immaculately dressed in the red uniform of the Order, he had a reputation as something of a dandy. Indeed observers had been known to remark that such a renowned galley captain had no need to take so much trouble with his appearance, always powdering his cheeks and parading the latest fashion in periwigs and buckled shoes. His celebrity as a warrior for the Faith, they said, was already sufficient to make him stand out. Chabrillan, they agreed, was a true heir to the days when the Duke of Florence had been able to send two dozen galleys under the flag of St Stephen to confound the Turk. And when the Grand Magistry had announced that it could no longer afford to equip and man such a large fleet, the Chevalier had offered to meet the costs of keeping his own vessel in commission, and had obtained permission to cruise in company with the vessels of the Order of St John of Malta. So his frequent appearances in Livorno were usually to buy and sell slaves or to negotiate the disposal of prizes.