Corsair

by Tim Severin

  ‘If you’re not a slave, what are you here for?’

  The man laughed without mirth, and turned his face to one side, exposing his cheek. ‘See here.’ Beneath the grime Hector could just make out the letters GAL marked in the skin. ‘Know what that means?’

  ‘I can guess,’ Hector answered.

  ‘That’s how I was branded three years ago. I was a galerien, a convict galley oarsman. But I was too slippery for them, and managed to get myself a pardon. Paid a clever lawyer to say that there had been a case of mistaken identity and there were plenty of other vagabonds and rogues called Jacques Bourdon – and they had taken up the wrong one. But it took him so long to get my case heard that I had already been marked for galley service by the time my pardon came through. And the lawyer had cost me all the money I had, so I had to go back to my old trade when I returned to Paris. That was the only way to stay alive.’

  ‘Your old trade?’

  Jacques Bourdon shot out his right hand, and for a moment Hector thought the convict was going to hit him. But Bourdon only raised his thumb. Burned into the soft flesh between thumb and forefinger was the letter V. ‘Don’t often see someone with two brands, do you?’ he boasted. ‘That one stands for voleur. I’m a thief, and a good one too. Started by nicking things when I was a youngster, and didn’t get properly caught until I was in my teens when I stole a pair of candlesticks from a church. That’s how I got my first brand. But I wouldn’t do anything so obvious as church robbing now. I pick pockets and locks. It’s less risky, and I wouldn’t have been caught the second time if a jealous rat had not informed on me.’

  ‘What about all those others?’ asked Hector. ‘What have they done that they find themselves here?’

  ‘I didn’t bother to ask. But you can be sure that they’re the usual riff-raff. There’ll be swindlers and murderers and thieves like me. Some won’t have paid their debts, and others have committed perjury. Probably some smugglers, too. Rascals caught moving contraband tobacco or avoiding the salt tax. Then there are the deserters from the army. Like you, they’re lucky not to have been hung or shot. And naturally every last one of them will swear that they are innocent of the crimes for which they have been found guilty and sent here. A few might even be telling the truth.’

  Hector was silent. It seemed to him that this prison was the sink of injustice. Then he said, ‘But surely, if you were able to get a pardon, the innocent ones could do the same.’

  The pickpocket regarded him sardonically. ‘Yes, if they have enough money hidden away or someone on the outside who can help. But once inside here, the chances of getting out are almost nil. Deserters and renegades like yourself are condemned for life, and even if by some miracle their cases come up for review, the Galley Corps has often lost track of its own oarsmen and can’t locate them.’

  Hector recalled the clerk who had just written down their details in the ledger. ‘But surely it’s all recorded in the official files.’

  Bourdon laughed outright. ‘The clerks couldn’t care less whether their book entries are correct. Half the time they know they are being told lies, and so they scribble down what pleases them. If a man gives a false name, that’s accepted. And if he lies about the reason why he is sent to the galleys, then that’s all right too. And if the entrant stays silent before the clerk, or he’s too frightened and confused to answer why he’s been condemned, or he doesn’t even know the charge against him, do you know what the clerks write down then? They note down that he has been condemned to the galleys and add “without saying why”. Goodbye to any hope of redemption.’

  ‘I find that difficult to believe.’ Hector’s spirits were sinking even further. ‘Everyone knows why they are here, or at least has some idea of the reason?’

  ‘Listen to me, Irishman,’ said the pickpocket, seizing Hector by the arm. ‘There were people who walked with me all the way from Paris who had not the least inkling why they were in chains. Maybe an unknown enemy had reported them to the authorities. All it takes is an accusation planted in the right quarters and accompanied by a juicy bribe. Then there’s a show trial at which you have to prove your innocence when you are already presumed to be guilty. And heaven help you if you are a Protestant and you are answering to a Catholic judge. Being a Protestant is getting dangerous in France.’

  THIRTEEN

  NEXT MORNING Hector awoke from a fitful sleep to hear his name being shouted aloud. A guard was banging on the open cell door and calling out that he and Dan were to make themselves ready for an interview with the commissaire of the Arsenal. As he got to his feet, Hector was surprised to hear Bourdon call out impudently, ‘What about me?’ In answer, the guard opened the door, walked across the room and struck him hard across the mouth. Undeterred, the pickpocket asked, ‘So who’s the commissaire now? Another of Brodart’s friends?’ The guard scowled as he turned on his heel and the pickpocket called out to his retreating back, ‘Whoever it is, tell him that Jacques Bourdon’s a man with whom he can do a little business!’

  ‘What did you do that for?’ Hector asked. ‘It only made him angry.’

  The pickpocket shot Hector a quizzical glance. ‘I don’t suppose you even know who Brodart is,’ he said.

  Hector shook his head.

  ‘Jean Brodart is our lord and master. He’s Intendant of Galleys and chief administrator of the Galley Corps, appointed by Minister Colbert himself. He’s also one of the most corrupt men in the kingdom. Brodart and his cronies are skimming every livre that King Louis pays out for his precious Galley Corps. They’re up to every trick, whether putting non-existent workers on the payroll, demanding kickbacks from suppliers, selling off surplus stores, writing up fraudulent bills of lading. Believe me, compared to the Intendant and his gang, the swindlers and fraudsters on the chain were innocent lambs. Wait and see, my message will get through. Brodart’s underlings can’t resist even the smallest crumb.’

  When the guard returned half an hour later it was to escort Hector and Dan back to the administration building and up a staircase to the first floor until they arrived before a door guarded by a sentry in a blue uniform with white crossbelts. Their escort knocked, and they were shown into a large room lit by tall windows which gave a view across the city.

  ‘I understand you are latecomers with the consignment from Livorno,’ began the commissaire, who had been standing looking out towards the distant roof tops. Commissaire Batiste was a pear-shaped man, badly shaved, and with several expensive rings glittering on his puffy fingers. ‘I have a note here saying that you are to be assigned to the galley St Gerassimus. That is very irregular, particularly because the St Gerassimus has not yet joined the fleet, though she is expected shortly. Do you have any idea why you are singled out for special treatment?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Hector answered. ‘No one has told us anything.’

  ‘The Arsenal is going to need every able-bodied man that can be found so I have decided that you will be held here pending the arrival of the St Gerassimus, and put to work. Later her captain can explain matters more fully.’ He scribbled something on a piece of paper and, turning towards the guard, said, ‘They are to be enrolled under premier comite Gasnier. Go and find Gasnier, wherever he is, and deliver them in person, and get his signature on this paper as a receipt. And tell the comite that he’s to train them to be productive.’

  They returned to the ground floor and, escorted by the guard, began to make their way through the Arsenal, searching for the comite. The place was an immense, sprawling maze of warehouses, magazines, depots and armouries, so their quest took them first to an iron foundry where anchors and chains and metal fittings were being forged, then to a vast draughty shed where sails were spread on the floor or hung from beams to be cut and sewn. Next was a ropewalk in which teams of men were twisting huge ropes and cables, then several woodworking galleries where mast makers and carpenters were shaving and straightening spars and oars, and finally a melting shop where half-naked labourers toiled over the huge pots that
bubbled with boiling pitch and tar. Finally they reached a series of long, low, barn-like structures. The smell of rotting seaweed and the sight of ships’ masts protruding over the perimeter wall told Hector that this side of the Arsenal bordered directly on the harbour. Their escort took them through a side door and, all at once, they were looking down on the skeleton of a galley which lay in dry dock. Two dozen men armed with mallets were swarming over the vessel, busily knocking her to pieces. ‘Comite Gasnier!’ the guard called out over the din of the hammers. A paunchy bald man, dressed in scuffed work clothes, was standing at the edge of the dry dock, supervising the work. He waited for a moment, to satisfy himself about some detail, then came over to speak to them.

  ‘New recruits for you, comite,’ said the escort respectfully. ‘The commissaire says that you are to make something useful out of them.’

  Gasnier looked at Hector and Dan thoughtfully. Hector had the impression of a solid, sensible man. The comite’s calm gaze took in their manacles. ‘Right then, leave them with me,’ he answered, then turned back to his duties, leaving the two prisoners standing where they were.

  It was almost another hour before Gasnier paid them a second glance when, after shouting something to an underling who seemed to be his foreman, he came over to the two prisoners and announced, ‘I don’t want to know what you did to get yourselves here, only what you can do for me in the future. First let me say that if you behave yourselves, I’ll treat you fair. But if you give any trouble, you’ll discover what a hard man I can be. This is the moment for you to tell me what you think you are good at. Speak up!’

  Hector stumbled over his words as he answered. ‘I was a clerk on a galley for a few weeks,’ he said. ‘And my friend here was with the musketeers.’

  ‘A musketeer, eh?’ The comite looked at Dan. ‘He doesn’t speak French, does he?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Well, that’s no harm. He doesn’t need to speak the language if he’s got clever hands. Can he mend guns?’

  ‘I believe so, sir.’

  ‘What about you? A clerk, you say.’

  ‘Yes sir. I was responsible for keeping track of stores.’

  ‘Any good at it?’

  ‘My master seemed satisfied.’

  ‘Well if you’re going to be a storekeeper here, you need to keep an extra sharp lookout. All sorts of things go missing. See that galley down there?’ the comite nodded towards the dry dock where the men were keeping up an incessant thumping and banging with their mallets. ‘Notice anything unusual?’

  Hector stared down at the workers. The men were busily breaking down the galley, carrying away the timbers and setting them on one side in neat piles. Most of the workers were wearing what seemed to be a prison uniform of a parti-coloured jacket of dark red and brown worn over heavy canvas trousers. The legs of the trousers were also in different colours, one brown and one buff. All of the men wore bonnet-like caps, but some were dark blue and others were scarlet. He guessed that these marked a different status between the prisoners, and was about to comment when he noticed something else. The planks, frames and beams that were being stacked up were freshly cut. The workers were taking to bits a galley that had never been put to sea. He said as much to the comite.

  ‘That’s right,’ confirmed Gasnier. ‘That’s what they’re doing,’ but he did not explain further. He only beckoned to an assistant and instructed him to take Dan to the armoury and leave him there in charge of the chief armourer for assessment as a gunsmith. Then, addressing Hector again, he said, ‘You report to the head storekeeper. He’ll tell you what to do. You’ll find him in the main depot over by the sail loft.’

  THAT EVENING Hector and Dan met when work at the Arsenal finished for the day and they were shown to their dormitory.

  ‘I never imagined there were so many muskets in all the world,’ Dan told his friend. ‘There are ten thousand of them stored in the Arsenal – four galleries lined with rack after rack of guns, and they all have to be checked and cleaned and repaired as necessary. I’m to be one of forty gunsmiths employed in that task.’

  ‘Will you be able to manage?’ Hector asked.

  The Miskito nodded confidently. ‘I passed my test. The head armourer handed me a musket and used sign language to ask me what was wrong with it. I pointed to a dangerous crack in the barrel which would burst one day, and I mimed the sort of injury the explosion would do to the man who fired it. He would lose an eye or be scarred for life.’

  Dan stretched luxuriously, extending his arms above his head.

  ‘As soon as I passed my test, an armourer removed my wrist and ankle chains and only left the ankle ring in place. He told me that I will be handling gunpowder from time to time, and the less metal I have about me, the less chance there is of a spark setting off an explosion.’

  ‘Wish the head storekeeper would do the same for me,’ commented Hector. ‘Wrist fetters are a real handicap when it comes to handling a pen.’

  He was about to continue when a voice behind him said, ‘I told you that the commissaire would snap up the least crumb.’ Hector turned to see Jacques Bourdon standing in the doorway, a smug look on his branded face. ‘It only goes to prove the old saying that appetite comes with eating,’ the pickpocket added as he sauntered into the room.

  ‘You mean you managed to bribe the commissaire?’

  ‘It didn’t take much, just two small silver coins.’

  ‘And where did you get the money?’

  ‘And wouldn’t I have been stupid not to make a few advance arrangements when I heard I was to be taken south from Paris with the chain? I sent my lass on ahead to Marseilles with the cash from my last robbery. I couldn’t hide it on me because I knew those swine of argousins would strip and rob us on the way down here. So she was waiting at the Arsenal gate for one last embrace and it was the sweetest kiss she ever gave me. A mouthful of silver.’

  The pickpocket sat down on a bench. ‘It seems I’ve also managed to get myself assigned to that missing galley of yours. What’s her name? St Gerassimus, though who was Gerassimus, or what he did to deserve his sainthood, I’ve no idea. But the rumour is that the galley’s to receive the pick of the new Turkish slaves in from Livorno, and that’s good news. Turks make the best oarsmen, as anyone in the Galley Corps will tell you, and if your fate is to be a galley oarsman there’s no better place on the bench than alongside a great big strapping Turk. Which reminds me,’ the pickpocket nodded towards Dan, ‘you said your friend here isn’t a Turk, then why’s he wearing that ring, and no chains?’

  ‘He’s working in the armoury,’ Hector explained. ‘It’s to avoid accidents.’

  Bourdon appeared unconvinced. ‘Tell him not to get any fancy ideas about running away, now that his legs are free. He looks enough of a foreigner, with that long ugly face and brown skin, to be mistaken for a Turk.

  Thinking back, Hector recalled that few of the men he had seen dismantling the galley had been wearing chains.

  ‘That’s how you’ll recognise the Turks among the other galley men,’ Bourdon continued, ‘Turks don’t wear leg chains or even wrist fetters when on shore.’ He leaned back against the wall, clearly pleased to be showing off his superior knowledge. ‘They only wear an ankle ring. The authorities know that the Turks will very seldom try to escape, because where would they go? They would find it very hard to get aboard any ship to take them home, and here in France who would take them in? So there’s no point in keeping them chained up, except on a galley at sea for fear they mutiny and take over the vessel. And even a mutiny is unlikely. The funny thing about the Turks is that they’ll settle down to whatever job is given them. They’ll work as hard on a Christian galley as on one of their own religion, and often you’ll get better treatment from the Turk on the galley bench beside you than from your Christian neighbour at your other elbow.’

  ‘Surely a Turk will try to escape if an easy opportunity presents itself,’ said Hector doubtfully.

  ‘If that happens, th
e good people of Marseilles enjoy a spot of fun,’ answered Bourdon. ‘There’s a fat reward to anyone who brings him in to the authorities, so the local folk organise search groups and pass the word to be on the lookout for a foreign-looking cove. When they locate their quarry, they chase him, just like running down a hare or stag.’

  ‘And when they catch him?’

  ‘They bring him back to the argousin-major, and collect their reward.’

  ‘And the Turk?’

  ‘He doesn’t run away a second time. His ears and nose are cut off, and from that moment onward he is kept chained to the bench, and not allowed to go ashore.’

  HECTOR HAD BEEN only a fortnight in his job as a storekeeper’s assistant when he came to appreciate the truth of Bourdon’s claim that the management of the Arsenal was riddled with graft. He was standing at the iron-bound gates of the powder magazine, making a tally of the gunpowder kegs arriving from an inbound galley, when he noted something strange. There was a strict rule in the Galley Corps that whenever a vessel returned to port she sent ahead her ship’s boat loaded with all her kegs of powder. These were placed in the Arsenal’s thick-walled powder magazine for safe storage because some years earlier a fully armed galley had blown up in harbour, either by accident or sabotage, and there had been heavy loss of life. Hector had issued gunpowder to the same galley just two days previously, and now he observed that while the number of barrels he received back was the same as had been given out, several of the markings on the kegs were different. Since his days in the stone quarry of Algiers he had made a habit of noting down the different markings on the kegs, and when he checked with the head storekeeper his suspicions deepened. ‘Our gunpowder comes from all over France,’ the storekeeper told him blandly. ‘It depends on the contractors. They’re all small producers because there are no large gunpowder factories, and naturally each maker has his own marks. Just write down the number of barrels returned, and leave the list with me.’