Gloriana's Torch

by Patricia Finney

  ‘Down,’ he said to them gently, and they all, even the peasant, collapsed, under the bench and lay there limply. Once more he walked between them with his waterskin. He felt mildly sorry for them, because he remembered very well how bad the first few days were. It had been no different for him when he was a young man captured by Christian pirates from Malta and put to one of their oars. The first day you thought you would die; the second day you wondered why you hadn’t; the third day you were no longer sure whether you were alive or not, and by the fourth day, either things stopped getting worse or you did indeed die.

  And one more thing to do, a special trick he had learned from an old Christian galley-slave on his second voyage. He had his own special barrel of cheap aqua vitae that he used for it, and a metal helmet with the padding taken out to use for a bowl. He filled the bowl with aqua vitae and hopped down into the oarpit again, not caring that some of the other Padrons who didn’t know him were staring at him again. He was the best, they could learn from him.

  The tall young man lay on his back still gasping like a fish. Suleiman told him to sit up, open his hands. Obviously he had done some manual work, despite his weakness, his hands weren’t too bad but Suleiman had him put them in the aqua vitae for a few heartbeats. The black was not too bad, the soldier was bleeding a little on his palms, the peasant had no problems at all, the other black was bleeding too and the poor clerk … Well, he wasn’t going to last so it probably didn’t matter, but both his hands were blistered and bleeding, particularly across the palms.

  ‘Put your hands in the spirit, clerk,’ Suleiman said. The clerk hesitated, not looking up, his face slack with exhaustion. ‘Yes, it will be like fire, but it will help in the long run.’ He wasn’t sure why he was being so gentle with the clerk, perhaps because the clerk had made the rope fast even when he could hardly stand, perhaps because he was probably going to die soon. The clerk did what he was told and shuddered and sweated with the pain of it. But he didn’t say anything, which impressed Suleiman against his will, and he waited until Suleiman said he could take them out.

  They rested the slaves while the galleas went back to her anchorage in Lisbon harbour by the power of wind, lurching and rolling in the water. She wasn’t really a very happy kind of animal, thought Suleiman: she was very hard to row and also, it seemed, to sail. The galleas San Lorenzo was neither a horse nor a donkey, but a mule, poor creature, and just as difficult and bad-tempered.

  The new movement of the ship caused more chaos because about half the slaves were trying to be sick on their empty stomachs, spitting and hawking and groaning. The gutters were full and the smell was making others puke so the Señor of the Benches asked the Captain of the Oardeck to send up to the main deck asking for pumps to be rigged. After a certain amount of fumbling, the pumps were ready and water started flowing in through the hatchways and grills. Some of the slaves moaned as the cold seawater hit them, others tried to move nearer the water to cool off and gradually the foul gutters cleared down to the gallery.

  Suleiman hopped onto the bench and went down to the end where the clerk was now sitting under the oar, his back against one of the bench supports, eyes shut.

  ‘Wake up,’ said Suleiman, nudging with his foot. When the clerk climbed wearily to his feet, Suleiman got the sweeper from its hook, made the movements he wanted, gave it to him.

  Blankly, the clerk swept the sewage overboard through the scuppers let into the gallery, his nostrils flaring as he worked. Interestingly he was the only one on the bench who had not been sick and nor was he now, so his stomach was clearly stronger than he was. When he finished, Suleiman showed him where to stow the sweeper. The clerk looked up the stepped bench at the other men who were grinning with relief that they weren’t the ones who had to do that job, shrugged and slipped down to sit with his back against the bench. His hands had started bleeding again.

  Next, after the rations were given out, Suleiman brought them food – quite a feast: black bread, olives, sausage, Manchegan cheese that was only a few years old, vineleaves full of rice. Most of them ate ravenously, except the clerk who looked at what was in his hands and then shut his eyes again.

  Did he have a fever? Suleiman went back and reached over to feel his head. The clerk flinched. Suleiman stood on his bare toes.

  ‘Are you sick, clerk?’

  The clerk had a breathy, whispery voice of a kind Suleiman had heard before; this one must have been in the hands of the Holy Office for a while.

  ‘No, Padron.’

  ‘Why not eat?’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘You must be. You worked today.’

  The clerk shook his head, shut his eyes. The black beside him was watching with interest. Suleiman leaned over the clerk, thinking he was probably wasting his time but that he must do what he did because he was the best.

  ‘Listen, clerk, I am your Padron, you are like my own son. You say you are not hungry. I say you must eat. There is nothing wrong with the food, it is not rotten, there is plenty of it. So eat it.’

  ‘I’ll have it, Padron,’ said one of the others, the peasant who had already finished his.

  ‘Anyone who steals food from another man will get my fist in his teeth,’ snarled Suleiman, shutting the fool up. Later on in the voyage they would certainly fight over food, you couldn’t stop them, but there was no need while there was plenty around.

  ‘Will you beat me if I don’t eat?’ asked the clerk, not sounding fearful but as if he was merely trying to find out the facts of the matter.

  ‘Of course I will,’ said Suleiman genially. ‘But first I’ll tie your hands to the bench and stuff the food down your neck. So why not eat?’

  ‘Yes, Padron,’ said the clerk stonily and started fumbling the food into his mouth, spitting olive pits. Suleiman brought the waterskin along again, and they passed the horn cup docilely between them. Most of them lay down again afterwards and shut their eyes.

  He let them sleep rather than getting them up again to grease the blade of the oar, because they could do it in the morning. After all, they would have the next day and the day after to practise rowing again. He decided to open a book on which was going to die first, the tall young man or the clerk.

  Over the next few days they settled the men in, shook out the weaklings. The other Padrons who had bet on the tall young man to die first had taken their money and tobacco. Suleiman too made money on it. Unfortunately he had needed to kill one of the men on his other bench for trying to seduce the one next to him, who happened to be the beautiful boy Suleiman himself had his eye on, only the boy had squealed in the night. This would make Suleiman’s plans for the pretty boy more difficult to achieve because Don Hugo de Moncada had sent down to know what had caused the trouble and the Captain of the Oardeck had later made a little speech about impurity and its consequences. Full of savage rage, Suleiman had called up the blacksmith to release the man from his bench, hung him upside-down from the hatchway and beaten him to death.

  They brought in a replacement out of the hold, a lash-scarred old hand in the galleys, who had been sentenced to ten years for heresy and never released. So that was an improvement.

  * * *

  Swirling patterns of clouds decorate the planet with paradigms of complexity. Out on the Atlantic, a vast storm-system is forming, unwatched by any satellites save the Moon. If we ride a seagull, we can swoop down into Lisbon harbour from a still blue sky to see a vast procession of people, sweating in the warm day, playing solemn, aggressive music of pipes and drums, paced with a stern Latin chant of monks. The crowds cheer and weep and cross themselves as the magnificent embroidered banner passes them. It was blessed by the Pope for his Crusade against heresy, it is sacred. The banner slowly flaps its way above the sweating young priests carrying it, down to the quayside where the flagship of the Invincible, the Blessed Armada is moored. Horses clatter, flags flutter, women and children cheer their noble menfolk in their crustacean helmets and breastplates, marching down to
embark for the great Crusade against the evil English.

  Most of the thousands of soldiers are already aboard the ships scattered at anchor all over the inner pool, scoffing precious supplies at a terrifying rate. This Armada is an Enterprise that creaks right from the start, the uttermost effort of a newly-wealthy nation to crush and absorb a smaller one. A very heavily leveraged hostile takeover bid, you might say.

  Incense billows, more prayers fly up into the sky, bothering the scrap-hunting seagulls not at all. The ceremonies are glittering, beautiful, endless. Here comes the Admiral on a white horse, the Duke of Medina Sidonia, appointed only a few months ago to sort out the unholy administrative mess left by the late great Admiral Santa Cruz. Now he must turn by God’s grace from a capable and conscientious administrator into a dashing leader of men. Small, sallow, with a constant anxious frown, he still has the invincible dignity of a true Spanish grandee as he dismounts from his horse and kneels reverently to kiss the crusading flag.

  A few words, audible only by those nearest to him, he walks up the gangplank with his attendants, lurches a little at the tiny heel of the ship, and stands to wave at the cheering crowds while the gangplank is winched up and stowed, the mooring ropes unhooked. Four longboats, rowed by professionals, take the strain and the great galleon San Martin – 1,000 tons burthen, 48 guns, carrying 300 soldiers and 177 sailors, flagship of the entire Armada – moves away from the shore. Guns fire from the fort, the people cheer, flags flutter, the rest of the fleet follow her slowly.

  From the roof of the harbour master’s building, a clerk releases four pigeons into the blue.

  * * *

  Suleiman had expected the clerk to die on the fourth day. They had rowed most of the afternoon, their first day fully at sea, beyond any harbour’s protection, heading north up the coast of Portugal. Several times Suleiman had had to touch him up with the whip for letting go. When the order came to draw up the oars at last, the clerk had not seemed to hear, and when the Padron came down the bench to find out what was happening, he had been standing there with the rope in his hands, looking as if he had killed someone. Blood covered his hands to the wrists. Since all the slaves had wide raw patches on their palms by then, no matter what their trade had been, it wasn’t surprising.

  Suleiman took the rope from him, hauled up, made fast. The clerk nearly lost his head as the oar came thundering in and didn’t seem particularly concerned by it. On the order ‘Down,’ he collapsed bonelessly, as if he was a puppet whose strings had been cut. Nor did he stir when Suleiman kicked him. Suleiman was about to order up the blacksmith to take the leg irons off so they could slip the clerk out through the oar hole and get someone stronger in his place, when the man muttered something in a language Suleiman did not know.

  ‘What was that?’ he demanded, squatting down with one hand braced on the bench. The black sitting next to the clerk sidled away from him, looking frightened. The clerk was curled underneath the bench, hardly breathing. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said, I am not dead yet, Padron.’

  ‘You said something different.’

  ‘I spoke in English.’

  ‘Ah?’ Suleiman was interested. He had had a couple of English galley slaves in his time, and they were as crazy as everyone said they were. One had even tried to kill him. Nearly succeeded too. ‘Why do you speak English?’

  ‘I was born in England, Padron.’

  ‘Do they have galleys there?’

  It was a very strange conversation, the clerk was lying where he had collapsed but whispering quite coherently.

  There was a pause, the clerk blinked his pale brown eyes. ‘One or two, I think. But the seas around England are too heavy for galleys, the weather is too bad.’ His breathy voice was almost inaudible. ‘They have many sailing ships.’

  England was where they were sailing to, somewhere vaguely in the north. Suleiman still wasn’t that interested.

  ‘Are you going to die tonight, clerk?’

  The man shrugged a bruised shoulder.

  ‘If you can, eh?’

  With enormous effort, the clerk lifted himself up on his elbow, reached down to scratch the chafed place under his ankle ring. ‘So you can win all your bets, Padron?’ he said. ‘No.’

  Suleiman laughed. The clerk lay down again on the stinking planks, one arm under his head, his hands still oozing. Suleiman sloshed aqua vitae on them on general principle and left him to rest.

  That night as they sailed northwards, the storm hit them like a beast leaping out of the sky, putting the ship almost on her side with the onset.

  Suleiman was on his feet before he was properly awake, roaring at everyone to wake, get their bums moving, lashing the sleepy ones with his whip. The oarports had not been properly battened down and the sea was coming in; the oars weren’t lashed up tight enough and they swayed enormously above their heads. The Captain of the Oardeck slept up in one of the poop cabins, away from the stink, the Señor of the Oardeck had found a place somewhere else, Don Hugo de Moncada was probably even now being woken and in the meantime, unless somebody took action, the galleas would sink. Which would be bad for the officers and sailors and certain death for the slaves.

  The other Padrons were looking at him to tell them what to do, because of course, he was the best. Suleiman jumped up to the walkway, found the drum by touch and beat a tattoo on it.

  ‘Listen!’ he roared. ‘End men, shut the oarport hatches, batten them shut. NOW!’

  The waves washed in again, the ship was turning sideways, then up again, then sideways deeper, scooping up more water with each roll so that the oarpits were knee deep already. Some of the slaves were groaning and crying and flailing about in the water to pull uselessly on their chains. Stupid fools.

  ‘SHUT THE OARPORTS!’ he roared again, and then once more in Turkish for good measure. They hadn’t practised it. Suleiman was trying to light the lantern of the watchlight swinging over the drum and as the flame took, he heard one slam. When there was light, he saw two hundred and fifty-one bald men staring at him, and one of them was next to his closed oarport and in the middle of fitting the batten across. It was the clerk.

  ‘Do as the clerk did!’ he shouted. ‘End men, shut the ports.’ Most of them were looking up at the swinging creaking oars, some were still pulling at their chains. Two of the Padrons made a break for the companionway, obviously forgetting that the hatch was locked shut at night. Suleiman flicked both of them with his whip.

  ‘I’m not running,’ he said to them. ‘Why are you?’

  To the rowers he added, ‘Nobody leaves. Never mind the oars, if more water gets in, we all die anyway. Shut the ports.’

  At last they were doing it, there were more slams. The ship scooped again, this time, less water came in. Suleiman ran down his bench, and starting with the aftmost ports, he ran along the gallery by the oarports, checking they were battened shut properly, helping the ones who were still too bewildered to act. Pretty-arse nearly trapped his fingers, but after another few minutes, there was no more water coming in by the ports. Just as well, because it was up to thigh-height by then, with puke from those who had lost their suppers and worse floating in it. But it was starting to run out of the scuppers as San Lorenzo heaved herself up and tilted again under the vicious lashing of the wind.

  The sailors had to get her head down, run before the wind, there was simply no other option. Suleiman looked again at the oars, thought the slings and ropes would probably hold for the moment and roared again, ‘Down! Everyone under the benches until the ship is better-trimmed.’ Most of the slaves frowned at him with puzzlement. ‘Until I say.’

  Enough water had drained out again that they could squat with their chins out of the water under the benches, which would give them a little protection from the wildly swinging herringbone of oars. They did as he said and then watched as Suleiman roared at the other Padrons to help him with the sweeps.

  He hated being so high up, hated climbing among the ropes and swinging
timber, but if he didn’t do it, nobody else would dare. He sucked in his stomach, growled and forced himself to climb up the ropes. Two of the younger ones climbed up after him and helped to steady them as the stronger Padrons hauled the slings up tight under the roof, pulled the lines up hard until the whole mass creaked to and fro but did not rock so wildly.

  By that time the ship was aft on to the wind, flying before it and rolling with the choppy waves of Biscay. They had just got the oars sorted out and most of the water had drained away when one of the oardeck guns broke loose from its lashing and crashed slowly across the deck into one of the benches. Two men were crushed screaming under its weight and as the ship heeled again, the gun rumbled inexorably across to the other bench and the men who were going to be crushed could only pull madly on their ankle rings to try and get away. There was another crash, a shrieking, blood spurting.

  The ship rolled again and the gun went with it, past Suleiman’s own bench on its deadly zigzag course – except all the rowers of Suleiman’s bench were standing on the bench by then, and the gun rolled harmlessly past.

  ‘Onto the benches,’ bellowed Suleiman, cutting one of the nets free. He waited for the moment when the gun was still against the wood of the gallery, then ran forward with the net and threw it over the gun. He thrust the ropes into the men’s hands, ordered some to pull, others to hold steady.

  He and two of the other Padrons got the gun tied down where it had landed and made safe against the gallery. Then Suleiman went from gun to gun adding ropes, tricing up tight, making fast. There were a ridiculous number of guns, very big ones, stern chasers mostly, forty- or fifty-pounders. Two between each bank of four or five oars. Whatever for? he wondered briefly, then put it down to the congenital madness of the Señors.

  He told the men to sweep out the water, quick as they could, and they obeyed, occasionally falling when they tried to steady themselves against the heel of the ship and got caught by an ankle chain.