Corsair hl-1

by Tim Severin

  It was no more than five minutes before his friend reappeared, his expression unreadable. ‘The man in the dark clothes did not believe me,’ said Dan tonelessly. ‘He asked to see a copy of my message for the King. I answered that the Miskito have no writing. We speak our messages, even the most important ones.’

  ‘What did he say to that?’ asked Hector.

  ‘He told me that he needed proper evidence, something written on paper, that I was telling the truth. The man sitting beside him was more friendly. He said that he had heard of my people, the Miskito, and that they had helped the English. He even suggested to his companion that because the Miskito asked to be considered as subjects of the King, then my name might be added to the list of those who would be ransomed.’

  ‘And the other man did not agree?’

  ‘He answered that he would apply the same rules as he had followed in your case, and that, in addition, the treaty with Algiers only concerned English subjects taken from ships flying the English flag. I had already told him that the corsairs had taken me out of a Spanish ship, so it seems I could not be included on the ransom list.’

  Hector looked down at the worn paving slabs of the courtyard. For the very first time in his captivity he despaired. He was crushed by the thought of spending year after year in the bagnio.

  ‘I’m sorry, Dan,’ he said. ‘I’m really sorry. It seems that there is nothing we can do to get out of here. We’ll stay until we rot. No one is going to lift a finger to help us.’

  But to his surprise, Dan answered calmly, ‘Then we ourselves will lift a finger.’

  Hector looked at his friend in puzzlement. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that we will turn Turk. It doesn’t take much. All you have to do is raise a finger to the sky in the presence of two witnesses who are good Muslims, and acknowledge that Allah is the true God and Muhammad is his prophet. That’s all there is to it . . . and of course you have to be cut.’

  ‘Cut?’

  ‘Yes, someone with a knife trims back the skin on your manhood, as a sign that you have converted.’

  Despite himself, Hector looked queasy.

  ‘Well, why not?’ Dan went on. ‘Once you have become a rinigato – become a Muslim – you have a much better chance of finding proper work that takes you out of the bagnio, and it is forbidden to send you to serve in the galleys. You may think that life is hard when working in the quarries, but it is nothing compared to being chained alongside three or four other prisoners and hauling on the handle of a 30-foot-long oar. It’s late summer now, and soon all the galleys are coming back to harbour. But come the spring, every able-bodied man in the bagnio risks being sent to the oar benches.’

  Hector thought for a moment. ‘Is there no other way to get out of here? How about the gunpowder man? He’s at liberty and he remains a Christian.’

  Dan shook his head. ‘No. The gunpowder man came to Algiers of his own free will. He can stay a Christian. It’s not the same for us. That’s the usanza.’

  ‘Aren’t you worried about becoming a Mussulman?’

  Dan shrugged. ‘As I told you, the Miskito believe in many gods and spirits. And so do the Turks, though they say there is only one God. My master who owns the masserie is a Mussulman but he still believes in what he calls djinns and efrit, the wicked spirits who might snatch him away or do him harm. So I can acknowledge Allah as the one God and still believe in the spirits whom my people have always respected.’

  ‘Dan, it’s easier for you to take this step than it is for me. My mother, if I ever see her again, will be heartbroken.’

  ‘Maybe your mother would understand. Hector, listen to me. If you want to search for your sister, you have to get out of the bagnio. There’s nothing you can do to find her or help her while you are confined here. If you become a rinigato, at least you can make enquiries among those who have taken the turban. Maybe they have heard what happened to her. Besides, if you are worried about turning Turk, you can always wear a cross secretly. That’s what some of the other rinigatos do, because they are afraid that their own God will ignore them after they die.’

  ‘All right,’ announced Hector. He had come to his decision. At times Dan seemed so much more level-headed, more confident than himself, even though there was little difference in their ages. ‘I’ll go through with this, but only if you do the same.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Dan. ‘We are in this together.’

  NINE

  TWO MEN STOOD in the late evening sunshine watching the English third-rate weigh anchor and then work clear of the Algiers mole.

  Down by the harbour Consul Martin was feeling homesick, regretting that he had declined the invitation to accompany Abercrombie back to England. Martin had excused himself, saying that he had pressing commercial matters to attend to in Algiers, but the truth was that he did not relish spending the six-week voyage in close company with the glum commissioner and Newland the self-conceited mercer. The final details of Newland’s ransom had been settled smoothly. Abercrombie had brought with him a down payment of ten per cent of the sum the Algerines demanded for the mercer’s release. Newland’s business associates in London had advanced the cash, and a professional ransom broker in Naples was standing surety for the rest. The balance was to be transferred when the cloth merchant reached home safely. The speed of this commercial transaction had underscored the cumbersome progress of the government redemption plan which had eventually allowed only three dozen English captives to depart. Not one of the Irish had been redeemed. The commissioner had made it clear, after the unsatisfactory interview with Hector Lynch, that he did not wish to encounter any more of the young man’s countrymen. So Martin had given up trying to locate them in the bagnios.

  No one would ever hear of these unfortunates again, the consul thought to himself as he turned to walk back up the hill to his residence, his despondency only tempered by relief that he was finally rid of the tiresome Newland.

  The other figure watching the warship stand out to sea also felt mildly relieved. When Captain of Galleys Turgut Reis had heard that the English prisoners in Algiers were to be ransomed, he had bribed the Dey’s secretary to remove the name of the English sailor-slave, Dunton, from his list. Dunton had proved to be a clever boat builder, and Turgut calculated that Dunton was worth much more than his purchase price if he continued to work in the Arsenal, particularly as the shipmaster there had finally found sufficiently lengthy timber to repair Izzet Darya. Turgut was all too aware that he had to have his galley ready for the start of the new cruising season in three months’ time if he was to escape from his financial difficulties. Anything which speeded up her repairs was a priority, particularly the services of a skilled shipwright.

  Looking down from his roof garden, Turgut was glad that his little stratagem had succeeded. He even took pen and paper to draw a rough sketch of the departing English third rate for future reference. It was quite possible that one day Izzet Darya might encounter the vessel during a corso, and previously the captain had found it difficult to tell whether the sailing ships of the unbelievers were fitted out for peace or war. To his eye they all had much the same lines and sail plans whether they were carrying rich cargoes or a broadside of cannon. How unlike his beloved Izzet Darya, he thought to himself. No one could mistake the galley’s long, menacing hull for a plump trading vessel. Izzet was a platform for fighting men, not a tub filled with merchandise. He held up the completed sketch for the ink to dry in the faint breeze, and once again he reassured himself that he had been right not to switch to using a sailing vessel for the corso. There was something discreditable about the way those tall ships fought from a distance, gun to gun. Their opponents were no more than tiny figures in the distance. Far better to do battle honourably, hand to hand, and look your adversary in the eye. That was his personal usanza.

  A discreet cough broke into the captain’s thoughts. A servant had appeared on the roof garden, carrying a note. It had just been handed in, the man said, by a slave
from the bagnio. Unfolding the paper, Turgut saw that the penmanship was neat and regular, the letters well formed as if prepared by a professional letter writer. Turgut’s long experience in reading foreign charts meant that he was familiar with the crabbed script of the unbelievers, and he found no difficulty in deciphering the sentences written in the lingua franca. The author of the note stated that he wished to profess his belief in Allah and humbly asked the reis to give his consent to a ceremony of conversion. For a moment Turgut was puzzled. Then he recalled that a slave had to have his master’s permission before adopting Islam. Turgut frowned. The note was unsigned. He wondered which of his slaves wanted to convert to the True Faith. Turgut presumed that the messenger had taken advantage of the rest period at sunset when the bagnio gates still stood open, and run up the hill to make the delivery. ‘Where is the man who brought this?’ he asked.

  ‘He is waiting in the street,’ the servant replied.

  ‘Send him up,’ he said. ‘I’ll hear what he has to say.’

  A few moments later, the messenger appeared, and Turgut saw it was the young man whom he had loaned to the city treasurer.

  ‘Who is responsible for this?’ he asked, holding up the paper.

  ‘I am, effendi. I wish to become a Mussulman.’

  ‘And who wrote it for you?’

  ‘No one, effendi. I wrote it myself.’

  Turgut thought back to the day he had purchased the young man at auction. He remembered wondering even then whether the alert-looking young man might one day be a useful addition to his household, useful for his brains rather than his brawn. Had it not been for the malevolence of that greedy city treasurer he would have already found a more suitable use for this literate youngster. It occurred to Turgut that now he had a way to outwit the khaznadji. He would approve the young man’s conversion, and then inform the treasurer that the young man would soon be a good Muslim and therefore should live in a household where the Faith was respected. That should shame the khaznadji into returning the slave to Turgut’s custody.

  ‘I am pleased that you have decided to say the shahadah. You have my consent,’ Turgut said. ‘You must remind me of your name so that I may inform the Guardian Pasha and arrange for the ceremony to take place here in this house. I will provide the witnesses.’

  ‘My name is Hector Lynch, effendi.’ Hector gave the reis a frank look. ‘Would his excellency be so benevolent as to sponsor the same ceremony for my friend also? He too wishes to profess the Faith.’

  Turgut was about to turn down the request when Hector went on, ‘My friend has no fellow countrymen in the bagnio. He is a stranger from a distant land, far to the west across the ocean sea.’

  Turgut stroked his beard, his curiosity aroused. An image from his ancestor’s map came to mind – the chart of the western ocean, its far shore decorated with pictures of curious-looking animals and cryptic descriptions. Perhaps here was an opportunity to unravel some of these mysteries.

  ‘I will talk with him. Return with him at this time tomorrow, and I will decide.’

  THE FOLLOWING EVENING Hector brought Dan to the captain’s mansion, both men wearing their cleanest clothes. After a short wait, they were shown up to Turgut’s library. It was an airy, spacious room, its ceiling painted with interlocking geometrical patterns of red, green and black, cabinets and shelves lining the walls. They stood respectfully in front of the captain, who regarded them gravely.

  ‘Peace be upon you,’ he began.

  ‘And upon you also be peace,’ they chorused dutifully.

  ‘Your companion tells me that you also wish to say the shahadah. Is that so?’ the captain asked Dan.

  ‘Your excellency, that is correct.’

  ‘Have you told this to your master?’

  ‘Not yet, sir.’ Dan paused. ‘If your excellency would be so generous as to buy me, the cost would be reasonable.’

  ‘And why is that?’

  ‘I was recently in trouble. But it was a mistake.’

  ‘Whether you were in trouble justly or unjustly does not concern me. It is more important that you are useful to me,’ said Turgut. He pointed to his bookstand. His ancestor’s map of the western ocean was on display. ‘Look there, and tell me if you see anything which you recognise.’

  Dan stared at the map and, after a short interval, shook his head. ‘No, your excellency. There is nothing. If it please your excellency, I do not know how to read.’

  ‘You don’t recognise any of those little pictures and drawings?’

  Dan again shook his head, and Turgut was disappointed.

  ‘Well at least you are honest. Can you think of any reason why I should buy you?’ he asked.

  Dan was at a loss, and there was an awkward silence until Hector spoke up.

  ‘Effendi, my friend is highly skilled with ropes and rope-work,’ he said. ‘He would be very useful in the Arsenal.’

  Turgut turned his gaze on Hector, his brown eyes troubled. So even the slaves in the bagnio, he thought to himself, knew about his desperate need to get Izzet Darya ready for the corso. It was humiliating, yet he had to admire the quick wits of the young man.

  ‘Very well,’ he agreed. ‘I shall discuss the matter with your master. If he quotes a satisfactory price, then I may decide on the purchase and you will be informed.’

  As Dan and Hector hurried back down the hill to the bagnio, Dan asked, ‘Your idea that I was a rope worker, and could help in the Arsenal. What made you think of it?’

  ‘My first day in the bagnio,’ said Hector. ‘There was no spare bed in the dormitory and you offered to make me a hammock. You said that the Miskito made them when they went out on hunting trips, so it seemed logical that you could handle ropes, make knots and all that sort of thing.’

  WITH THE GRUDGING agreement of the khaznadji, Hector was removed from beylik duties and reassigned to live and work in Turgut’s household. He arrived there on a chilly winter morning, his meagre belongings wrapped in a blanket. The steward, himself a French slave, showed him to the room at the rear of the building which he would share with the other staff. ‘You’ll find the captain is a fair master,’ the steward confided as they skirted the mansion’s central courtyard with its trellises of flowers and vines and a large fountain splashing in the centre. ‘He’s a bit behind the times in his ideas as he’s spent most of his time away in Constantinople in the Sultan’s court. But if you serve him faithfully, he’ll look after you well.’

  ‘What about his family. Are they here?’ asked Hector.

  ‘Both his wives are,’ said the Frenchman. ‘But you won’t see much of them. The reis keeps an old-fashioned establishment, and the women’s quarters are separate. They occupy most of the second floor. You’ll find a guard on duty at the door, so you’re not likely to blunder in on them. As for children, the reis has none. It’s his great regret. I’ll introduce you to the other servants later, but right now you are due to start your first day’s work. The captain is already with his books and charts. You’re to help in his library.’

  The reis glanced up from the parchment he was reading as Hector was shown in and, after greeting him courteously, waved towards an untidy pile of papers on a low table and said, ‘Tell me what you make of them.’

  Hector knew he was being set some sort of test. He began to sift carefully through the documents. Within moments he had identified them as pages torn from ships’ logbooks. Most were in Spanish, but some were written in French or Italian, while others were in Dutch. A few were in languages he did not know but he could guess their content because shipmasters of every nationality seemed to be concerned with the same topics – wind, weather, landfalls, customs dues and lading. He said as much to Turgut, who seemed well satisfied with his answer.

  ‘Good. Next I want you to check whether they contain any useful information, the sort of details that could be included in a map or written into a guidebook to instruct pilots.’

  It took Hector the rest of the day to sort through the paperwork. He
set aside those pages which were useless, and classified the remainder according to the areas they described. ‘I’ve made a list of all the ports mentioned, and assigned a colour to each port,’ he reported to Turgut. ‘I’ve attached the appropriate coloured thread to every page where that port is mentioned.’

  Turgut walked over to a large cedar wood chest in one corner of the room and lifted the lid. ‘In here I keep the notes and observations which I have compiled during half a lifetime of voyaging. They are in no sort of order. I will want you to find a way of checking the information contained in them against the details in the ships’ logs, and then work out which is more likely to be correct. To do that, you will first have to learn to read my writing, which is often untidy as it was done on shipboard, and the script is Ottoman.’

  ‘I will do my best, effendi,’ offered Hector. ‘In the bagnio a Syrian Christian, who was taken prisoner in the Levant, showed me a little of the Arab way of writing. With practice, I should be able to carry out your wishes.’

  ‘Excellent!’ said Turgut, whose enthusiasm to update the Kitab-i Bahriye was increasing with every task he loaded on his new scrivano. ‘I will arrange a tutor for you, a learned man of my acquaintance. He will give you some lessons in the formal elements of our calligraphy, and it would do no harm if you also began to acquire some Turkish from him as well. Lingua franca is all very well for basic communication, but there will be times when it is necessary to discuss the finer points of navigation and map preparation. This library is where you will work every day from now on, except Friday of course. I will give instructions to my steward that your midday meals are to be brought up here. That way you will not waste time.’

  IN THE DAYS that followed, Hector discovered he enjoyed the tasks set for him. He relished the challenge of deciphering faded or incomplete notes scribbled down by unknown shipmasters, then arranging the snippets of information into a coherent form which – the Captain told him – one day might take on the shape of a map or chart. He learned to read his master’s writing, even though the captain had the disconcerting habit of using both the flamboyant diwani script of the court and more ordinary workaday lettering in the same sentence. Within a fortnight Hector also understood enough spoken Turkish to follow the captain as his master worried his way through the jumble of information accumulated in his archives over the years. At random Turgut would select a document from the chest and read it out, often hesitating as he tried to remember what exactly he had meant to record so many years ago. It was Hector’s job to correlate that information with the material he had already extracted from the logbooks of the shipmasters. As the days passed and Hector showed more and more of his ability, Turgut Reis gradually slipped into the habit of treating him more like a talented nephew than a possession he had bought at auction.