Tom Swan and the Siege of Belgrade: Volume Six

by Christian Cameron

  On the far bank – Swan’s bank – the Turkish fort was overshadowed by a small village and a wooded hill. Swan hoped that Maestro Capalitti’s guns were there somewhere.

  At eight hundred paces, the falconets on the lead arms of the deep ‘V’ spoke – two high-pitched ‘cracks’ from either flank. Their oarsmen bit deep after the recoil was absorbed, and began rowing to keep their station, trying to keep their bows downstream and maintain their place.

  The second pair of ships came forward and fired. This time, the current had taken Swan close enough to see the fall of the shot. One ball splashed very short. The second ricocheted off the water, skipping like a stone thrown by a small boy, and vanished downstream.

  The V was so deep that there were almost three hundred paces of open water between Swan and the lead ships. He leaned over the bow, and a dozen other men pressed against his back.

  The third pair reached their range and fired. Both balls fell short.

  The fourth pair fired late – very late. Their captains had elected to get closer, observing perhaps the fall of the shot, and they closed to five hundred paces, passing the first three pairs.

  The falcons on both ships, throwing three-pound iron balls, struck home. The Turkish fleet, at five hundred paces, was a large target, filling the Danube and packed with men, and when the port-side gunboat’s ball hit, a scream came up, as if the ship itself cried out. The starboard-side ship had a larger gun, and the ball fell short, skipped, and struck one of the smaller river galleys just above the waterline.

  A breeze sprang up. It was the first breeze of the day – it seemed, of the week – and it rose behind the crusaders and flowed downstream.

  Now the first gunboats to fire were edging downstream to catch the fourth pair. And the Turkish archers were lofting shafts, looking for the range, but their lightest, best arrows could not reach four hundred paces into a breeze – not even with siper and majra, the Turkish devices that allowed them to shoot super-light, short darts with very heavy bows.

  The firing of the Christian boats was becoming general. The Christian formation began to collapse, as Swan had suspected it would.

  The demi-culverin aboard Hunyadi’s ship spoke. It had a roar very different from the crack of the falconets, and a tongue of flame like a dragon’s licked across the water and the sulphur-smoke rolled on the breeze, writhing forward on the surface of the water and obscuring the target and the fall of the shot.

  Swan looked up at the hillside above the Turkish fort on the north bank and wondered …

  ‘Clear away!’ Ladislav roared. All the spectators in the bow cleared the great gun, and Clemente, full of importance, moved men back and then knelt on the deck with a large parchment cylinder clutched in his arms.

  Swan imitated the Bohemians, who took off their helmets and covered their ears as Ladislav placed the portfire against the touch-hole.

  The whole ship rang. And sprang back a full pace or perhaps more.

  The gun snapped inboard against the ropes that the carpenters had rigged, and stopped. Ladislav bent to look at something and shouted in Czech, and two men came up with hammers and heavy iron spikes.

  Swan pushed forward.

  ‘She cracks the carriage,’ Ladislav shouted. ‘Rope!’

  After the Bohemians had nailed the great fissure in the oak carriage closed, they wrapped the gun carriage and the barrel in what seemed like a mile of heavy rope while the other ships fired and Swan cursed. And sweated. The day was hot and the night promised to be just as hot.

  He was shocked when he raised his head to see how far the current had borne them downstream. He looked up just as the first Turkish flight of arrows reached them. One – a tiny dart with a bone tip – barely had the weight and force to stick in the bow-rail, but Swan got the message. He had faced Turkish archery before.

  ‘Helmets on!’ he shouted. ‘Look alive, there! We’re in long bowshot.’

  Men scrambled for their helmets as the first Turkish volleys of arrows struck. Galled by the cannon fire and angry at their own losses, the Turks poured arrows into their foes as soon as they had the range – or perhaps a little before. Swan had seldom seen such a torrent of arrows, which literally darkened the late afternoon sky. It was eerie, with the Turkish guns firing in the background – Belgrade afire on its rock.

  And now, at last, the Italian master gunner stripped the covers off his guns. Swan was drinking water as Ladislav got a second round out of the great gun, when he saw movement on the hillside, and suddenly three guns fired – big guns.

  The Italian knew his business. All three struck their target, nor was the range so very long. A whole gabion flew up in the air – a section of hastily built earthwork collapsed …

  Two more guns, set at a clever angle, fired into the new breach. One missed – its ball flew out over the river and almost sank the English gunboat. But the second shattered a Turkish work party set on repairing the damage and widened the breach by a yard or two.

  Swan picked up his rotella – a round steel shield for close combat. He’d used one before, and he knew it to be the very best protection in a boarding fight. And despite his admonitions to Hunyadi that they should hang back and pound the Turks with cannon, the little Christian fleet was drifting, pushed by breeze and current, and the oarsmen were too interested in watching the fall of shot. Part of Swan’s port-side arm was still in formation, but the whole starboard side was a single line – even a tangle. Several of the gunboats had fallen afoul of each other and stopped firing.

  But nor were the Turks having it all their own way. At two hundred paces, the carnage of the Christian guns – even the light falconets – was shocking – one of the big Turkish galleys appeared to be bleeding, with blood running out of the fore and aft scupper holes that were supposed to shed seawater in a storm, and towards the south bank, one little galley had already sunk, with only its brave crescent pennant showing above the water.

  The voivode of Hungary’s cannon were pounding the southern Turkish fort, and the Italian gunner had all six of his guns firing as fast as their crews could load them – every three minutes, it appeared to Swan.

  As he watched, another Turkish ship – this one right in the centre – began to sink.

  One of the port-side gunboats was full of dead men, as it had passed alone into the zone where Turkish archery was most dangerous, inside a hundred paces.

  The great gun forward fired again and everyone in the forecastle cheered. Swan stepped up, pushing past other armoured men, and saw the Turkish ‘great galley’ almost dead ahead with her bow knocked to pieces, like a man who’d taken a pommel strike in the mouth and lost all his teeth, and there was so much blood that he could see it eighty paces away.

  That ball – a six- or nine-pounder from Ladislav’s great gun – must have passed the length of the Turkish galley. He didn’t want to imagine the havoc one perfectly placed ball could wreak.

  He put a hand on Clemente’s shoulder. ‘Gauntlets,’ he said. ‘Tell the captain – to lay us aboard that big Turkish galley.’

  Clemente handed his powder to one of Ladislav’s men and ran. He returned after what seemed like an age.

  ‘He said something about teaching his mother to suck something.’ Clemente grinned. ‘He’ll put you aboard, right enough, and here’re your gauntlets.’

  An arrow struck Clemente’s head. He had his helmet on, and it only made a dent, but the boy went down flat on the deck.

  Swan quite cheerfully had a sailor take him below. He’d left Clemente most of his ready money. The boy would have to live to spend it, and now he would.

  He looked out. The sun was setting – the red rim had touched the western horizon, and the clouds of powder smoke writhed in ill-scented red-pink light. The Christian guns were firing faster now – the volleys of Turkish arrows seemed less dense, and it occurred to Swan that the Turkish archers had started their rapid fire too early and, now that they might have been decisive, there were too few remaining arrows.


  Or the guns were gutting them.

  He grabbed Ladislav’s shoulder.

  ‘Fuck off!’ the Hussite yelled.

  ‘How long till you fire?’ Swan roared.

  ‘I’ll fire as we touch!’ Ladislav yelled. ‘Now fuck off!’

  Swan backed away, waved at the shining steel figures all around him. The bow of the big German ships might come up as high as the Turkish bulwarks. It was hard to judge, even here, thirty paces away. The Turkish line was suddenly on them and the air full of arrows – two slammed into Swan’s helmet and more – too many to count – into his rotella. Ladislav took one in the arm – one of his men took one in the throat and died across the muzzle of the gun, and a third Hussite dragged him clear.

  Off to the south, on the starboard side, there were screams. Allahu Akbar!

  Deus Veult!

  Szent István! Győzelem!

  Von Nymanus flipped his sallet back on his head and sucked in a breath of air. ‘Hunyadi has boarded,’ he said.

  ‘Our turn now,’ Swan shouted. ‘Brace!’

  With the wind and current behind them, the heavy German ship fell like a cavalry charge into the bows of the damaged Turkish galley. His face vivid, his muscles outlined in the red light, Ladislav looked like a daemon from hell – or an ancient war-god – as his portfire whipped through a long, fanciful arc.

  The two ships ground together. The muzzle of the cannon pressed against the sharply sloped side of the Turkish ship, and the portfire came down.

  Fifty arrows struck around Swan – too many to count –and he was knocked back a step, and then …

  The gun roared. The ball blasted through the Turkish bulwark, collecting an orbit of debris and oak splinters which swept down the deck at ankle height as the janissary archers drew back their bows or lowered their spears.

  Swan ran forward. He was alone – unafraid in the moment – and he leapt on to the recoiled gun and ran down the hot bronze barrel and vaulted …

  Only one sabaton found footing in the blood-slick debris of the Turkish ship. He fell forward, his poorly armoured backside shown to the enemy – and then rolled forward over his rotella and came up on his knees, his left shoulder screaming in pain but his sword up. A heavy, hafted blade carved the air over his head and Swan used his legs to power him – rose to his feet and thrust with his sword. His point skidded off plate on to chain, the point burst the links, and his man was dead – should have been dead, but he was still screaming, and still fighting.

  Just for a moment, Swan was in shock. But his reflexes saved him – he let go of his sword and got his rotella up, edge on into the pole-arm, and then passed forward, his empty right hand closing on the haft. It was a heavy spear, and he slammed his rotella edge into the dying man’s face, crushing his nose and all the frontal bones, and ripped the spear free with the strength of blind panic.

  There were men pushing against his back, men falling against him, and he was standing on a corpse, he was reasonably sure. A heavy blow validated his choice to wear leg armour – someone’s halberd did not sever his leg, or even break it. He had the spear overarm, and he used it, plunging it down like some classical hero into the faces and shoulders of the men he faced – disciplined janissaries with heavily corded round shields embroidered in silk. His rotella was pinned by something, and for three horrible heartbeats he defended himself one-handed with a spear while someone he could not see tried to drag him to the deck by his injured left shoulder and his rotella.

  And then the rotella came free. He took blows on his backplate, breastplate, thigh armour and helmet almost simultaneously, and he was all but blind, but he got the rotella up, edge out as he’d been taught by the Order on Rhodos, and in the moment – the flash of vision, no conscious thought – he threw the spear.

  And then he used his gauntlet as a weapon, wrestling bigger men for the possession of their pole-arms until Will Kendal put a spear through them. One man he grabbed by the throat – and fell forward on top of him.

  And then he was lying on a blood-soaked deck, and everything …

  Happened …

  Very …

  Slowly …

  He felt the impact of a man atop him. He tried to move his left arm, but there was a foot – just visible – on his rotella.

  The Turk atop him had his right wrist. Swan could just see him.

  His breath came fast.

  The man was big – and heavy. Swan’s breastplate and backplate gave him room to live, or the breath would have been crushed out of him. He rolled – left, right – and used his armoured knees. One of them scored – his opponent coughed.

  But he got his dagger into Swan’s eye slit.

  But Swan’s Bohemian armourer was a cunning smith, and there were edges even inside the edges – the top lip of the armet projected a hair’s breadth above the bottom lip of the visor for just this reason. The dagger caught for a second …

  Swan’s steel knee came up again, full force.

  The dagger slipped into the visor like a key going into a lock. It bit into the bridge of his nose between his eyes.

  He screamed – and in wild terror, his right hand ripped free of his adversary’s left, and his steel-clad fingers ripped across his opponent’s unarmored face.

  Swan didn’t see Will Kendal wrap his sword around the Turkish officer’s neck from behind and cut his throat. He only felt the blood.

  But there was plenty of blood to match it inside his helmet.

  Nothing but the desire to survive got him to his feet – still aware that he had taken a death wound, but moving, unwilling to let go – knee up, a blow to his helmet from a scimitar too fine and light to dent the heavy steel – another knee under him and up to his feet, his right shoulder afire, his rotella like lead.

  He got his right hand on to the grip of his rotella, raised it, and pushed. Wielding it like a battering ram of steel, he thrust the shield into the Turks, and screamed his defiance at them, and at death. He couldn’t really see – his faceplate was full of blood, and he assumed one of his eyes was gone.

  Behind him, Di Silva’s voice roared ‘Il Capitano!’ and there was a rush down the galley’s central gangway. He felt the pressure against his back, and also felt repeated blows at his armoured legs.

  A hackbut cracked close by, and the blow to his shield knocked him back. Something held him – he struck out, and the Spanish knight’s voice caressed him.

  ‘Stay here, milord. Stay, stay …’

  He couldn’t see – only colours, shapes, at the edge of his vision – the left eye was gone. Someone was pinning his arms.

  ‘Stay, Cap’n,’ Kendal’s voice said. ‘We’ve cleared her. She’s sinking anyways. Come on, Cap’n,’ as if he was a child.

  There was fighting – steel on steel – all around them.

  He went with Kendal a few steps, and was pushed down on to a rowing bench.

  ‘Get his helmet off,’ Ser Columbino said in Italian. ‘Mother of the risen Christ, look at the blood.’

  Swan felt the back of his armet open – felt the cool wash of air on his face and the stickiness of the new blood too.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Kendal said in English.

  ‘Madre mio,’ said Di Silva.

  But John Bigelow had seen a hundred fights or more and he pulled Swan’s head back and began to pour a canteen of water on him. Swan almost cried at the pain – and the relief.

  Someone grabbed the bridge of his nose and pinched so hard he screamed again.

  Then Bigelow stuck his thumb into Swan’s left eye.

  Suddenly Swan could see. Not very well – but he could see.

  ‘Christ on the cross of Calvary,’ Kendal said. ‘John Bigelow—’

  ‘Saw it in Calais once,’ Bigelow said with eminent satisfaction. ‘Blood sticks the eye closed. Jesus wept, sire, you look like shit but you ain’t dead.’

  Swan fought the urge to faint. It was too late to faint, but he could tell he’d lost blood and the pain from his eye – his n
ose …

  ‘Your eye’s cut, that’s the truth,’ Bigelow admitted. ‘Bastard’s dirk snapped on your helmet and he never got it home.’

  ‘You saved my life, Will Kendal,’ Swan said.

  Kendal beamed.

  Swan took a deep breath, amazed – amazed! To be alive.

  ‘Bandage the eye,’ Swan said.

  ‘No,’ Ser Columbino said. ‘No – I am no Paduan doctor, but if you bandage the eye, it crusts again very fast, and maybe you lose it. Keep it open if you can.’

  Swan’s injured eye was pouring tears every time he tried to open it – but Columbino’s voice had absolute assurance.

  ‘What’s happening?’ he said.

  ‘Ser Orietto and the Malatesti have cleared the galley,’ Ser Columbino said. ‘I should go.’

  ‘I’ll go too,’ said Swan.

  ‘Like hell,’ Will Kendal said.

  ‘Will, the boat is sinking!’ Swan said.

  Kendal grunted. He hated to admit anything, but he sighed. ‘That it is,’ he said.

  ‘Cut the chain,’ Swan ordered. Three of the English archers set about it with their lead-head mauls and axes, even as their gunboat, lying just off the nearest Turkish ship, fired at the range of ten feet.

  Bigelow tapped Swan on the shoulder. ‘We only left four men to row and the gun crew,’ he said.

  Swan was seeing better. The left eye – it would track with the other one, and then there would be intense pain. It wasn’t seeing much beyond light or its lack.

  Swan had to have it closed, no matter how much Columbino knew. He got it bound with his neck scarf, and the sweat-salt from the scarf bit into the eye and the wound in his nose like caustic lye. But in a minute, he was on his feet again, clambering about the German ship even as the Turkish galley went down.