‘No, shtop! Shomething’sh got my foot.’
Jean widened the hole a little to look. Da Costa’s left leg was pinned by the main beam and, by its angle, he could see the foot was undoubtedly broken underneath it.
‘Leave him, Haakon. We’ll need some help.’
It was not long in coming for de la Vallerie was urging Corbeau to clear the mess. Only half his crew were rowing at the moment and he needed to put some distance between him and the galleys, which were already coming about.
Soldiers descended, lifting the debris out of the way, hurling what was obviously beyond repair over the side. Some of their number had been in the rigging and lay now among the dead and dying. The lookout would never have to face his punishment for it had come to him much quicker in a long fall to the deck.
As swiftly as they could work, the tangle of cloth, sail and heavy wood was cleared away. When they came to lift the beam off Da Costa it took ten soldiers plus the strength of Jean, Haakon and Januc to achieve it. The old man let out a scream and fainted. He was dumped on the central gangway along with eleven more of the crippled; the dead were simply tipped over the side. Spare oars were produced to replace those broken by the impact. Within minutes, the Perseus was once more pulling through the water.
They were ahead of the galleys by maybe a quarter of a league, but de la Vallerie could see that the enemy had now come about and the wind that had so favoured him in the recent manoeuvre was now fully behind the corsairs. He could also see that the two undamaged galleys were leaving their crippled sister in their wake.
What mischance, thought the captain, strangely calm. My brilliance defeated by a lucky shot. With the wind behind us in our own sail we could have outrun them: without it … In a short chase the light Perseus could easily beat the bulkier Arab galleys, just on oar power. But the enemy had double the men to replace tired oarsmen at their posts, and every soldier on their ship could also row. His own were too proud to have learnt and too inept to be taught now.
No, he sighed. This contest cannot last long.
As if to echo his thoughts there was a boom of the forward cannon on the smaller of the pursuing galleys. The shot dropped well short and drew ironic cheers from his crew, but he knew that the Arabs were merely checking the distance. They wouldn’t fire their cannon unless necessary. They wouldn’t want to damage their prize.
Down on the bench, Jean and Haakon were rowing hard, driven by the double beat of the drum and the crack and whistle of the bullwhip above them. But Januc, it seemed, was rowing hardest of all. Anyone who knew the lie of his ‘Christianity’ would have found his efforts hard to believe. Anyone who had overheard his nightly prayers or, like Jean, seen the light in his eyes when the corsairs were first sighted.
But all hope had turned to dust in his mouth, crushed as surely as Da Costa’s foot. And it had taken just a moment, when he saw second banner flapping on the main galley’s mast. Above it was the inevitable red and gold flag with the crescent of Islam, a sight to cheer any of the Prophet’s faith; below, however, was an end to all hope, unless he could pull the Perseus out of range by his own efforts.
The second banner was the captain’s personal one. It was a hissing serpent picked out in silver on a cloth of purple. It was the emblem of Hakim i Sabbah, slave master, brutal killer, rapist, torturer – and Januc’s sworn and most personal blood enemy. He had slain one of Hakim’s swarm of brothers in a quarrel over a woman in Tunis five years before. There was no redemption for Januc under the banner of the silver serpent. Only an agonising death that would make Ake’s, still swinging upside down at the aftdeck, look like charity.
On that deck, the captain was giving his orders. ‘Corbeau, on my command, we’re turning the ship around. We’ll let them get close, close, and then hold them even closer. My guess is they’ll try to sweep wide and catch us between them so, Ganton, take out the mast of the second galley, delay their joining of the fray. Augustin, get all your arquebusiers to save their volley till we are joined to the big ship. They will grapple us, but we will let them board and set up our killing ground here. Is that clear?’
The three men looked nervously at each other. Corbeau said, ‘Captain, the odds—’
‘Are four to one by my calculation. Reduced to two to one if we take and defeat the big ship before the other can join. Good Christian odds, for we have God on our side. Remember, we are fighting the heathen.’
A heathen shot plunged into the water not fifty yards aft, raising a plume of water.
‘Nearly time. On my command, Corbeau.’
They were about to be dismissed when Augustin spoke, just controlling a voice near cracking. ‘And the rowers?’
De la Vallerie raised the pomander to his nose, inhaled a waft of pot-pourri, and considered. The Muslims he could discount for obvious reasons, but that still left ten volunteers who could be armed and forty prisoners who might not wish to swap Christan chains for infidel ones. Starved, weakened and whipped as they had been, they could provide little more than a shield for his soldiers, a way to absorb the first volley of arrows. An armed shield could be useful, though. It changed the odds slightly in his favour.
Glancing back, he saw that he still had a few moments, so he said, ‘I will speak to them. Corbeau, single time, if you please.’
He descended to the gangway as the rowers eased up on their oars. Immediately another plume of water was raised, this time to starboard. The heathen were now in range.
‘Volunteers, you shall shortly be given weapons to aid in our glorious fight and certain victory. But I speak now to the prisoners, with your tufts of hair, you whose hideous crimes have condemned you to your just sentences. Would you like to make amends for your sinful acts? Do you wish to be slaves of Islam, or do you wish to bear arms in glorious crusade against Christ’s enemies?’
A silence greeted these questions as each man considered the prospect. If they hid under their benches during the fight there was a good chance they would survive, for rowers were the commodity on which the galleys thrived, slaves the mainstay of trade. Whichever side won would need hands on oars.
It was Jean who gave voice to the obvious question. ‘And what’s in it for us?’
There were mutters of assent from up and down the benches. De la Vallerie tried to focus on the area where the voice had come from.
‘You would not become slaves under the crescent. Is not that enough?’
Jean stood up. ‘A slave is a slave, no matter the flag at the masthead and, from what I’ve been told, a Turkish oar feels no different to the hand than a Christian one.’
There were more murmurs of agreement. Yet another plume of water, this time to port, emphasised the necessity for speed in these negotiations. If there’d been time, de la Vallerie would have taken this man out and killed him on the spot for daring even to address a captain of France. Instead, he just smiled. He was thinking of the odds.
‘But, dear countryman, didn’t I say? Fight well, help us gain the inevitable victory, and you will be freed as soon as we return to a French port.’
Jean had heard the minor nobility of France cajole, whine, bargain and beg on scaffolds the length and breadth of the kingdom, just before he took their heads off their shoulders. He knew a lie when he heard one. He also knew that in a fight, if he was going to be a slave, he would rather be a slave in arms.
‘In that case, dear countryman, I am at your service.’
A cheer echoed him, and de la Vallerie smiled, for he knew he had decreased the odds a little in his favour and at a cost he would never have to pay. Even if, by the mercy of God, they were victorious, most of this rabble would not survive. And a bargain with a slave was no bargain at all.
‘Issue them weapons,’ he said to Augustin as he made his way back to the foredeck. ‘You will find more in my cabin.’
While the Muslims and Ake’s tribesmen remained the sole and half-hearted means of propelling the ship, the others’ chains were slipped and the armoury disgorged in
to their hands a variety of weaponry: swords, cudgels, cutlasses and halberds, rusted and misshapen in the main but which the prisoners and freemen still grabbed eagerly.
‘By the balls of a bishop,’ Jean sighed, and moved forward, reaching out his hand as if greeting an old friend. Which, in fact, he was. ‘Mine, I think,’ he said, and the man who had seized it looked just once into Jean’s eyes and let go of the strange square-headed sword with a resentful curse.
The man who held Haakon’s axe was not so prudent, but the dispute over ownership ended swiftly with the big Norwegian’s hands on a Spanish throat and a quick squeeze.
‘Ah, my beautiful, have you missed me?’ Haakon was kissing the blade again and again. He turned to Jean, shaking it in the air. ‘My friend, life is once more sweet.’
‘Sweet, and probably very short. If the Fugger were here, I don’t think he’d give us very good odds. Stay close, and we’ll watch each other’s backs.’
There was one other person he wanted beside him in what was to come, and he quickly sought Januc out. He found him slashing the air with a scimitar. Ducking, he said, ‘Keep that away from my head. Once in a life is enough for a taste of the crescent cut.’
Januc laughed and lowered the curving blade.
‘I need to ask you something, Januc.’
‘Well?’
In a low voice, Jean continued. ‘I know you were – are – a janissary.’
‘So?’
‘So our pursuers are of the same faith as you – no, don’t deny it, I know why you have chosen to pretend otherwise. You told our captors you were a Croatian, stolen as a child, an unwilling convert to Mohammed. Am I right? You get the better rations and kept your hair.’ He pointed at the tuft on the younger man’s head.
Januc’s gaze was steady. ‘And you are wondering whose side in the fight I will be on.’
‘Something like that. I told you, I do not relish another taste of the scimitar. Especially from behind me.’
Januc glanced back, saw how much closer the galleys had got. He sought out the figure swathed in black robes standing beneath the serpent’s forked tongue. They were close enough now that he could see Hakim, waving, shouting, urging his rowers to greater effort for the glory of Allah. He smiled.
‘I have prayed for rescue by my Muslim brethren, it is true. But the man who hates me more than any other in this world is the leader of those who pursue us. This is beyond faith. This is blood feud. And Allah has willed it that either he or I must die this day.’
It was the Frenchman’s turn to smile. ‘Then I think we veterans of Mohacz should stick together. I would be honoured to fight by your side.’
‘And I by yours.’
As they gripped each other’s forearms, Haakon ran up. ‘Now then, my friends,’ he said, ‘you’ll have to leave your lovemaking till later. In case you hadn’t noticed, we’ve a fight on our hands.’
The huge Norseman was shaking with the excitement. He threw the axe high up in the air, clapped them both hard on the back, and caught the weapon as it fell.
‘Haakon,’ Jean spluttered, ‘we will in all likelihood be dead before this day is out.’
‘I know,’ yelled the Viking. ‘Isn’t it wonderful? If only Fenrir were here.’
Further comment was cut off by the cry ‘To oar! To oar!’ Placing their weapons beside them, the three seized the huge oaken beam and, on command, began to row at triple time. Hated though Big Nose was, his earlier action had impressed them all. If he could give them any temporary advantage in the forthcoming battle, they would take it happily.
He was preparing to do just that. The enemy were a bare three hundred paces astern now, preparing to pass him on either side and trap him in the pincer between them. If they succeeded in that, the Perseus, and more importantly its captain, were doomed.
‘Now is the time, Corbeau,’ he called down.
‘Port! Reverse oars. Starboard, row!’
It was a manoeuvre known as the Drowning Stop, because it could turn the boat on its side if executed wrongly. And the Perseus, lurching to a halt that caused all its timbers to shriek under the strain, spun around from its middle and seemed for one ghastly second to be about to roll all the port-side rowers, including Jean, Haakon and Januc, into the sea. The Norseman, closest to the gunwales, even dipped his hand into the liquid and splashed his face before the ship righted itself, the port side came up and they were facing the onrushing Arab galleys, the smaller of which seemed to be directly before them.
As Corbeau called again for triple time on both sides, Ganton needed no prompting from his captain. He yelled at his gun crew, ‘Shift to port! Far enough, you dogs! Now back a foot! Enough!’ He wrenched at the adjusting gear, uttered a swift prayer to the Virgin, and touched the taper to the hole.
Once more the Perseus bucked along its length from the recoil; once more the smoke rolled in a dense cloud across the deck. When it cleared, Jean was one of many to give a cheer for the shot had taken out the main mast of the smaller galley, its black crescent banner, rigging and spars even now falling on the oarsmen, causing the ship to slew to the side.
Above the cheering, all heard the renewed call to row. The Silver Serpent galley had straight away changed its course and was sweeping down upon them. The black robed figure could be heard now, shouting commands at his men, above the shrill war cries of North African trumpets. There were maybe two minutes before they would be joined.
‘Musicians!’ cried de la Vallerie, striding towards the foredeck. ‘Strike me up galliard!’
And when the music of that dance, banned by half the royal courts of Europe for its scandalous sensuality, blared out across the deck of His Majesty’s good ship Perseus, its captain put one hand to an armoured hip and began to caper.
‘Oh, sweet Mother.’ Haakon shook his head. ‘He’s mad as well as ugly.’
‘But he can sail,’ said Jean, for even as Big Nose executed his nimble steps it was not the only dance he was involved in. He was yelling commands at all around him, trying to take the enemy head-on, to hole the bigger galley at the waterline with his iron ram. Hakim i Sabbah, wanting the prize of the Perseus as much as the victory, was trying to take him side-on for the grapple. Like two wrestlers they bore warily down upon each other, trimming and shifting with oar and sail.
‘Listen,’ said Januc, turning urgently to his two companions as they rose and fell, ‘there are three things you will need to know to have any chance of surviving a fight on a galley.’
Jean leant in. ‘And they are?’
‘One: as soon as we come alongside they will lay down a barrage of arrows on our decks. They are firing from above, but they know that the soldiers’ armour will mostly protect them. As they will have seen us armed, they will be aiming for us. So until they board us, stay under the benches. And keep your arses tucked in.’
Haakon looked sceptically at the small bench. He was a big man.
‘Two: wait till you hear our second volley before you come out. My guess is Big Nose will shoot half his soldiers on the grapple and half when the enemy board. You don’t want to take an arquebus ball from your own side.’
‘Good,’ grunted Haakon. ‘And the third?’
Januc’s attention had been taken by something on the foredeck, clutched in the captain’s hand.
‘What?’ he said, half-mindedly.
‘Three. You said there were three things we would need to know.’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said the distracted janissary, ‘three.’
And quite suddenly he abandoned the oar, dodged the flailing whip of a cursing Corbeau and ran for the foredeck. Arrows were already beginning to fly towards the Perseus, but the arquebusiers held their fire. Two rowers in front and one to the side of Jean leapt up, plucking at feathered shafts jutting from their necks.
They were maybe two hundred paces from the enemy and closing fast when Januc gained the captain’s side. De la Vallerie had ceased his dance.
‘Captain,’ Januc said, p
ointing at the Turkish bow, ‘let me try.’
De la Vallerie looked at the naked prisoner before him, at the tuft of jet-black hair on his scalp.
‘It’s mine, prisoner.’ The nasal voice was petulant. ‘Why should I give it to you?’
‘Because I can kill their gunner. Isn’t that what you are trying to do?’
It was. The bow of the janissary, however – animal sinew wound around a core of maple with a hand grip of bone – was not like the light weapons de la Vallerie had hunted with back in Bordeaux. Despite all his practice, despite the desire, he’d never mastered it. He’d already sent an arrow towards the rear of the galley where he saw the enemy gunner crouched over his basilisk, a cannon filled with deadly packets of small sharp metal that could devastate his soldiers at close range, and he had already witnessed their gunner’s accuracy. If this one could be killed, it would certainly increase the odds in his favour.
De la Vallerie didn’t like standing this close to prisoners and he raised the pomander to his face. Yet over it, something in the grey eyes, some certainty therein, held his own. Experience taught him that battles were won or lost on instinctive decisions. Instinct now made him hand over the bow. He then turned his attention back to the forthcoming collision.
They were a hundred and fifty paces away. At fifty, Januc would have to make his shot, and he would get just that one chance, for the gunner, having made his final calculations, would only raise his head again to fire. Januc swiftly unstrung the bow, re-tied the loop, placed it between his feet and pulled the shaft down to notch the string. Much better, he thought, testing the increased tension. They were maybe eighty yards apart when he selected the best of the arrows, with the smaller flight required for shorter distances and a narrow tapered head of iron. One to punch through a deer’s head at fifty paces, as he had done so many times after hours of stalking in the hills around Izmir.
The cry to ship oars came first from the Arab deck, swiftly echoed by Corbeau. Both sea birds were wingless now, propelled by the last lung-busting pulls, hurtling towards each other. Hakim had won the battle of skills, for the collision was going to happen amidships, not head-on, and Ganton’s crew had not managed to reload for a final shot in time. The old gunner sprinted for his own basilisk, primed and loaded on the aftdeck.
The French Executioner Page 18
