“Damn their eyes!” yelled Harissa. She focused her attention on the man-of-war’s rigging. As soon as the air fell away, the Invincible would rotate through the water to spread the wind across her sails, regain speed, and bring a fresh bank of cannons to bear. “Stand by...” The Invincible’s sails flattened. “Now! Starboard oars down!” She turned the wheel to mirror the Invincible’s tack. With oars in the water for added resistance, they completed the turn first. “Fire!”
Fuses were lit and cannons thundered. Kidd’s nostrils were filled with acrid smoke from spent gunpowder. All shots missed, save a solitary cannonball that punctured the Spanish warship in the rear tower a dozen feet above the waterline. It was a commendable shot, but one that would never threaten to sink the mighty warship.
The Invincible returned a volley while the Masala struggled to straighten course. This time her gunners had found the length of the shot, striking the galley in three places. The first cannonball smashed through the forecastle, another cracked the keelson, and one uncanny shot collected a sailor in the rigging, an experienced Topman named Squill. His body was scattered to the sea, but his blood forever stained the bundled sails.
“Ach!” cried Harissa as if she had been hit by the cannonball herself. “They’ve taken one of our family!” She returned the spyglass to her eye. “And still she comes at us like a demon.” She bowed her head in grief.
Kidd steadied himself against the mainmast. If the Masala was sunk, he didn’t fancy his gauntlets would help him to float when he tired of treading water. He hadn’t come this far only to be sent to a watery grave. He ripped off his coat, removed the scroll-case, his purse, and the vial of snake poison. He thrust them into Flint’s hands. “Take good care of these,” he growled, “and don’t drink from the gourd. It's poison, not brandy.”
He took the rope used to lower the rowboat into the water and pulled until the small vessel was suspended above the deck. He gripped the oarlock with his spare hand, hauled the boat backwards, and let go. The boat swung free, cleared the gunwale, and fell into the sea. He leapt after it.
As Kidd sailed through the air, arms and legs flapping, he heard Flint shout after him, “What the hell are you doing? I’m supposed to be the mad one!” He plunged head first into the ocean. The water was cold, but he felt it most when it penetrated his gauntlets. It was a cool kiss on his mutilated flesh, a rare and pleasurable sensation, but one that held dire consequences if he indulged for too long. Rust would leave him a cripple, and Vllen was a very long way away. He kicked his legs to get his head above water, coughing and spluttering as he spat the sea-brine from his mouth.
The rowing boat bobbed a dozen feet away. A few good strokes took him to it and he climbed aboard, gathering the mooring line after him. He took an oar in each hand and steadied the small boat while he searched for the Invincible in the swell. The warship sailed hard to port, her cannons inside their bays, reloading for another volley.
Kidd paddled furiously, setting the small rowing boat in the Invincible’s zigzagging path. He hoped he would be lost amongst the bobbing barrels and crates. The Invincible continued to sail away from him and he thought he had made a terrible mistake. Even Flint would not be able to convince Harissa to set back for a man overboard, and a simple bodyguard at that.
The Invincible’s sails flapped and hung loose before catching a new current of air. They snapped taut and she surged forward.
Kidd wrestled with every wave as the storm thickened around him. He was pelted with heavy raindrops and a bitter wind stung his skin. Still, the roar of the ocean was not enough to muffle the sound of the Invincible’s cannons.
Then the mighty warship was on top of him, and he felt small against the stout hull. It creaked and groaned, grappling with the ocean. Kidd stowed the oars, lay still and allowed his rowing boat to drift onwards amidst the Masala’s jettisoned cargo.
The sound of the storm gave way to flapping sails and men shouting in the rigging. Just below the bowsprit Kidd saw a terrible Spanish warrior peering down at him. His heart pounded at the thought he’d been spotted, but the warrior stared at him with leaden eyes. It was only the figurehead.
He gathered the mooring line and grappling hook, swallowed hard and gripped the coils loosely in his left hand. The tiny boat rocked perilously in the water. He balanced on spread legs and spun the hook through the air, building up momentum for a throw.
The Invincible surged onwards, the power of its wake nearly knocking him into the sea. He let the hook fly. It sailed skyward and seemed to hang for an eternity. Kidd thought he had missed entirely, but the rope snapped taut, snagged on the upper walkway. He was yanked from the rowing boat and became one with the warship.
He sighted the opening created by the Masala’s cannonball and began to pull himself upwards hand over hand. The Invincible’s hull was too slick for his boots to gain any traction, so he inched up the rope with the strength of his arms alone. The strain grew in intensity as he climbed higher. He felt like he was holding onto an enormous enraged beast.
Suddenly the Invincible lost speed and Kidd was hurled against the hull. He locked his fingers onto the rope, gasped for air, and held on grimly while his head cleared. With several strong arm pulls, he reached the breach and pulled himself aboard. The climb had been exhausting, but he forced himself to stand. There was no time to rest.
He paused only to check for the Masala ahead in the storm. The gap has closed further despite the efforts of the galley’s oarsmen. She now wore several more pock marks in her hull.
Kidd turned his attention to the cabin. It was small and sparsely decorated. Its occupant had yet to fill his shelves with curios from his travels. A solitary painting hung lopsided on the wall depicting the Invincible’s unveiling. Aside from the Masala’s cannonball, which rested against the wall opposite the hole it had made, the cabin housed a sturdy, but finely crafted writing desk. It was littered with writing paper, feather quills, and an inkhorn that had since spilled. A half-written letter took Kidd’s interest.
Mighty Emperor,
I am delighted to report the age-long quest for The Tears of our Lord Jesus Christ is progressing favourably. I have received reliable information as to the location of this great prize.
However, the Catholic Church has the advantage. Pope Paul may be weak and his coffers empty after overspending on grandiose restorations, but by some chance he has engaged the services of the English mercenary, Iron William Kidd.
Despite the efforts of our new allies, the Warriors of God, William Kidd evaded us in Corsica. The Warriors of God suspect he has found the key, although they do not yet know what form it takes.
Regardless, we are making pursuit, and you have my utmost assurance that William Kidd will be amongst the first to retire from this race.
The first to retire from the race? The statement only fuelled Kidd’s determination to give these men the fight that would force them to earn that promise. He ran a finger through a line of text. The ink smudged, a sure sign the letter had been penned recently, as the writer had not yet blotted the excess. He crushed the document into a tightly packed ball and hurled it into the raging ocean.
The cabin door burst open and Kidd was confronted by a sailor carrying a hammer, nails, and several planks of wood. Kidd felled him before he could raise the alarm. The nails scattered across the deck.
After peering into the corridor to see if the young man had company, Kidd pushed the door closed. He considered swapping clothes, but they were both drenched to the skin. He’d wrestled with wet garments many times before. It was a frustrating and time-consuming task, even in the days when his fingers could manage something as simple as a button.
He ventured into the corridor. A bulkhead separated the captain’s study from the main deck. A spiral staircase stood at each end, one up, the other down. Although Kidd wasn’t much of a sailor, he knew stairs leading upward would take him to the bridge, where a multitude of armed sailors would deal him a swift death. The stairs dow
n seemed a better option. He took a lantern swinging from a hook, gripped the handrail as the deck lurched, and ventured into the bowels of the Invincible. When he reached the berth deck, he overheard men speaking in Spanish from a doorway beyond. A quick glance around the frame revealed at least thirty men busying themselves around a bank of cannons like ants. They rolled the heavy guns into position, packed the great barrels with gunpowder and thick wadding before dressed stone balls were heaved into place.
Kidd had no desire to witness the volley when it was discharged. He continued downwards past another gun deck and found the cargo hold. As the battle ensued overhead, Kidd had the hold to himself. It was packed with provisions, food, and other supplies. With such stores, the Invincible could sustain a long voyage at sea. He raised the lantern and read the labels painted in thick black letters on the barrels and crates. ‘Ron’ was printed on the side of some small kegs, probably containing rum or some other kind of liquor. Next he found apples and some salted meat, all no use. Finally he found seven barrels lashed together at the far end of the cargo hold. The word ‘Polvara’ had been neatly stencilled on the lids. He hung the lantern on a hook well away from the barrels before smashing a cask open with his fist. The sharp-smelling black dust was gunpowder. Another was filled with fuses for the cannons. He lit a bundle with the lantern and carefully nestled it in the open barrel. They hissed and spluttered as powder burned through cord.
He turned and ran, reaching the foot of the stairwell as a stocky man descended on him, wearing a grey cloak, now familiar despite being soiled and wet. Unlike the other men of his order, his face was uncovered. He had swarthy golden skin and a patchy beard, but the barbed knife on his hip was fresh in Kidd’s memory.
The Warrior of God was shocked to see Kidd in the depths of his vessel, but he managed to keep his wits better than the deck hand lying unconscious in the captain’s study. “Alto!” he cried, reaching for his knife.
“Stand aside,” yelled Kidd in Spanish, “or we’ll both die!”
The man growled and tried to stab Kidd in the stomach. The fuses burned lower. There was no time to deal with his opponent in a respectful manner. Kidd stepped into the lunge, caught the Warrior’s hand, and folded it downwards to break the bones in the wrist. The hooked knife clattered to the deck. Kidd returned to the staircase, leaping two steps at a time.
He reached the study again, and departed the Invincible the same way he had arrived. The explosion followed seconds later. The ocean felt like a cobbled courtyard as he broke the surface. Freezing water closed over his head and deprived him of air. After what felt like hours, Kidd righted himself and swam for the surface, coughing salt water from his lungs.
The Invincible’s bow had blown apart like an eggshell and she lurched through the water, sinking from the front and toppling sideways at the same time. Thick oily smoke billowed from the breach, and flames licked the hull with no respect for the elements. Men jumped or fell from the rigging. The mighty Invincible, pride of the Spanish fleet, was headed for a watery grave at the bottom of the Mediterranean Sea.
Kidd grasped a long plank that had once been part of the hull to keep him afloat. The Masala lay ahead, badly damaged, but at the Invincible’s sinking, she made a limping turn back towards the wreckage. Keen eyes spied him ducking in and out of the waves. Cold and exhausted, he was hauled to safety.
Harissa wrapped him in a warm blanket and embrace before he could sit down. “Invincible indeed! You are a Godsend.” She cackled with joy. “But you are no more Flint’s bodyguard than Ramiro is my grandmother.” She clapped him on the back solidly, her arm strong for a woman her size. “Get this man some rum!”
A deckhand presented a bottle of dark rum and a wooden goblet, which Harissa filled before she thrust it into Kidd’s hand. He sipped the sweet liquor and felt the warmth spread from his stomach to his limbs. Harissa took a deep swig from the bottle. “Ach! Break out whatever grog is left and give the crew a drink!” A chorus of cheers followed as bottles of rum were uncorked, and before long the deck was filled with laughter and song. Harissa refilled Kidd’s goblet and took another gulp from the bottle. “So, if you ain’t Flint’s bodyguard, who might you be then?”
Kidd squinted at her. “I’d prefer to remain anonymous. Too many men know my name, and most want to see me dead.”
Harissa nodded like a priest in a confessional. “Aye. I understand, but the lads and I owe you our lives.” She drew so close to Kidd’s ear that he could smell the scent of her hair. “We pay our debts, except for port taxes.” She took another swig from the bottle. “And there are sixty souls aboard this boat who now owe you a life debt. Sixty-one if you include your companion, Tom Flint. I would learn the name of the man that saved so many lives.”
“I was born William Robert Kidd, but most people know me as Iron William Kidd.”
Harissa coughed and blew the contents of her mouth onto the deck. “Iron William Kidd, the English mercenary? Aye, I’ve heard a tale or two about you. In recent months, men with fat purses have passed our way asking if anyone’s seen you about. If what they say about you is true, I’m glad you’re on our side.” She clinked the bottle against Kidd’s mug. “Very glad indeed.”
As Kidd eyed the damage to the Masala, and considered the lives and the cargo they had lost, he wondered if Harissa would feel so fortunate if she knew that he was also the reason for the Invincible’s attack.
~ Chapter 17 ~
STREETS OF THE MEDINA
Tunis, in the Barbary States
Flint looked on with intense curiosity as Kidd cleaned his hands. “We’re cursed, body and soul. My head—your hands—and now we’re pitted against your former employer and our countrymen.”
Kidd had just finished recounting the events aboard the Invincible, particularly the letter, while he laboured over the exacting task of maintaining his armour. The prolonged exposure to seawater had made several joints seize. With a coarse brush and a pail of rain water he worked the bristles between the plates to dissolve crusty clumps of salt. “We’ll have few friends, if any, once this is over. I’ve half a mind to board the first ship bound for the New World and never look back.” He poured olive oil onto a rag and buffed each hand in turn.
Flint rubbed his chin. “I’ve considered doing the same many times myself, but it’s no place for men like us.”
Above deck they heard Kemal’s resonant voice over the creaking of the timbers and the endless rattling of the oars. “Land ahoy!”
The announcement was met with a muted cheer, the weary sailors grateful for the prospect of respite at last. With their small stock of wood, nails and tar, they had managed to patch the severest damage. However, many more wounds needed tending, to man and galley alike.
Kidd abandoned his cleaning regimen for the chance to see land. Ahead, the Barbary Coast emerged from the sea, a pale green strip of salvation.
“All spare hands to the oars!” bellowed Kemal. “We’ll eat a hot meal tonight.”
The Masala limped into the harbour preparatory and put down anchor in a patch of water away from other vessels. Once Harissa was satisfied there wasn’t any immediate danger, she allowed the oars to be stowed, and a rowing boat lowered. “You can use the rope ladder this time if you wish,” she said to Kidd.
He could see the grin under her scarf. “I will, thank you.”
They joined the small expedition bound for shore, and listened to Kemal sing a gentle, haunting melody in a foreign language while he rowed.
Tunis was exotic and surprising to Kidd. Buildings crowded the harbour edge as if the sea alone had stopped their progress. Like dusty brown boxes, they were stacked upon each other, separated only by catacombs of covered alleyways that stretched deep into the city. Beyond the harbour’s edge, palaces, mosques, and other great monuments rivalled the sky with bright colours and real gold. Under the rule of Suleiman, the Turks were becoming a people to be reckoned with, and they were eager to demonstrate that prosperity and power.
The small boat was moored in front of a bank of whitewashed houses. “We’ll see to getting a berth dockside to make repairs,” said Harissa. “The old girl will be out of commission for several days, but once you’ve finished your business here, you’re welcome to take passage again. Take care here. Tunis has been nothing but bad luck for some time now.”
Kidd relished the sensation of solid ground under his feet once more. He offered Harissa his hand by way of farewell. Instead, she lifted hers and touched him gently on the cheek, her fingers soft and warm. He was unable to conceal his reaction.
“What? A blush? See you in a couple of days, Iron William Kidd.”
Kidd stammered a reply, but it was lost as Harissa swaggered off with a casual wave.
Flint’s face grew animated with curiosity. Before he could speak, Kidd grabbed him under the arm and marched him away, not caring in which direction they went.
“What was that—?”
“Nothing.” Kidd pulled the scroll-case from his pocket. “Focus on the map.”
Flint snatched the case and hid it under his lapel. “Don’t wave it round idly. We’re dealing with a double dose of trouble now. The rule of Tunis has been disputed, the old-fashioned way, with swords and firearms. At present, it’s part of the Holy Roman Emperor’s protectorate. His hold is tenuous and we’ve just sent one of his ships to the bottom of the sea.”
“And?”
Flint look annoyed. “And it’s full of Turks, you numbskull!” He opened the case carefully and removed the rubbing. He slipped the bronze tube back into Kidd’s coat with the deftness of a pickpocket. “The temple may be marked, but there are no street references. Until then, this map has no value. I suggest we start by finding something to eat. It could be a long day.”
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