Corsair

ELEVEN

‘GLORY OF THE SEA’, Izzet Darya lay becalmed. The green banner of Algiers with its spangles of silver and gold crescents hung limp from its staff, and the sea around her hull had an oily sheen. The passing of an occasional swell was so faint as to be noticed only in the slight flexing of her monstrous main spar made from three lengths of straight pine lashed together like a great fishing rod. The spar and its furled sail weighed more than four tons, and the Captain of Galleys had ordered them to be lowered in order to ease the strain on the galley’s single mast with its enormous block and tackle. When a breeze did come, it would take thirty strong men hauling in unison on the massive six-inch halyard to raise the spar back aloft. Then the lightest and most agile members of the crew would have to shin up and let loose the bindings so that the single enormous sail fell open and sent the galley slicing through the water. But for now there was not a breath of wind. Izzet Darya was motionless, silent except for the steady thump of her pumps and the gush and trickle of bilge water falling back into the sea, for the galley’s elderly hull was incurably leaky, and only steady pumping kept her light and manoeuvrable. Turgut Reis was resting his oarsmen because Izzet Darya was where he wanted her to be, lurking at a cruciero, a crossroads of shipping lanes. Three leagues east was the island of St Pierre where Turgut’s men had recently taken on fresh water from a friendly population, and past this point came merchant traffic rounding Sardinia’s southern cape on their paths between Marseilles, Leghorn, Sicily and the straits. So the corsair galley waited, as dangerous as an ageing pike poised in ambush among the reeds.

From his position on the aft deck Hector looked down the length of the venerable galley. In the flat light of dawn the vessel appeared even narrower and longer than usual. Her beam was only sixteen feet, less than a tenth of the distance to her bows where he could make out the squat black shape of her single bow chaser, an iron cannon pointing forward into the dense mist which blanked out the horizon. Earlier Turgut had confided to him that Izzet had once mounted three fine bow chasers of bronze made by skilled Hungarian gun founders, but he had been obliged to sell the more expensive guns to pay his dockyard bills and outfit his ship and get to sea. A single catwalk ran all the way down the spine of the galley. Here on most corsair ships the overseers patrolled, keeping an eye on the slaves and lashing them to their work if they shirked. But on Izzet Darya there was no need for such discipline because most of her oarsmen, now relaxing on the benches, were volunteers. In that matter, at least, Turgut had been fortunate. He had announced his impending departure for the corso in early March, and just two weeks later buba, the plague, had struck the city. To Algerines the plague was a commonplace, lurking unseen and occasionally emerging to decimate the closely packed population. But buba was a summer affliction and rarely felt so early. It had taken the city unawares. After several of the more important citizens had died, there had been a rush to escape the scourge. Scores of men had volunteered for Izzet Darya’s crew though Turgut was promising no wage, only a share in the plunder.

So now 160 men were packed aboard, not counting the squad of forty janissaries under their aga who were the ship’s chief fighting force, and already the food rations were scrimped. Hector knew the precise details because he had come aboard as the captain’s scrivano, charged with keeping track of how many sacks of grain and dried fruit, jars of oil and vinegar remained. Izzet had sailed from Algiers with supplies for less than a month at sea because this was all that Turgut could afford, and now, three weeks into the cruise, the men were grumbling about the meagre helpings of couscous, which was their staple diet. The last full meal they had enjoyed was after the marabout, the holy man, had led the prayers for success on the corso. Eight sheep had been ritually slaughtered when Izzet’s well-greased hull had been eased down the slipway, coloured bunting fluttering from her rigging. The blood and guts from the dead sheep were thrown into the sea as a sacrifice, but the flesh reserved for the crew’s meal once the galley had made its ceremonial exit from Algiers harbour, the onlookers on the ramparts shouting their good wishes, and the crew saluting the tomb of Sidi Ketaka on the hill, without whose help no corsair crew could hope for success.

But their achievement had been indifferent despite the sacrifice. Off the coast of Majorca the galley had intercepted a dozen vessels, mostly small tartans and poleacres. Each time the galley had forced the stranger to heave to, then lowered a boat and sent across a team for the visita, the inspection to check the vessel’s nationality and lading. Whenever the vessel proved to be Christian, it had been Hector’s job to scrutinise the ship’s papers while the anxious captain hovered beside him, pleading that he was an honest trader and carrying only protected goods. Several captains had produced passports issued under the terms of a treaty between their own government and the Dey in Algiers promising protection from seizure of vessel and cargo. Disappointingly, these claims had proved to be true, and Turgut had honoured the passes, allowing the captures to go free. Only two vessels had turned out to be genuine prizes, and even then their cargoes were wretched enough – bundles of firewood, bales of unworked goat hair, and some millet and cheese which had been added to Izzet’s dwindling stores. A minor consolation had been the discovery of some sacks of coffee beans, probably destined for some Moorish sheikh.

Hector stepped around the hooped canopy which sheltered the spot where Turgut and the aga of the janissaries spread their sleeping mats at nightfall. It still felt odd not to have the weight of his slave ring on his right ankle. The previous day Turgut had insisted that the ring be struck off. ‘I am still your master, but now that you have adopted the Faith I have no wish to treat you as a chattel,’ he had announced. ‘From now on you should regard yourself as a member of my household, and a valued one at that. As the Prophet, peace be upon him, told us, “Your slaves are your brothers and Allah has put them under your command. So whoever has a brother under his command should feed him of what he eats and dress him of what he wears.”’

Aboard the galley the captain was following the Prophet’s advice. Like all his crew Turgut went barefoot and wore simple working clothes, a cotton gown or long shirt over a pair of drawers. Hector was grateful for the loose fit of the baggy garments because he was still conscious of his circumcision. His penis had healed during the two weeks’ convalescence allowed after circumcision, but it was still inclined to occasional discomfort in the heat.

A sailor clambered up the companionway that led from the oar deck, and as he came level with Hector, there was something familiar about his face. A moment later Hector placed him. It was the English sailor Dunton with whom he had shared the hold on Hakim Reis’s vessel. ‘I had not expected to see you again,’ he said.

Dunton checked in his stride and for an instant did not recognise the young Irishman. ‘It’s the lad from Ireland, isn’t it,’ he then exclaimed. ‘You’ve changed. You look older and more grown up.’ He glanced down at Hector’s bare leg. ‘Also it seems you’ve taken the turban.’

Belatedly Hector noted that Dunton was still wearing a slave ring on his ankle though he had discarded the red slave cap and, like everyone else, wore a nondescript cloth wrapped around his head. ‘Yes, I converted,’ Hector said simply.

‘Can’t say I blame you,’ observed Dunton, not the least surprised. ‘But how come you are on the aft deck with the officers? You’ve not become a garzon have you?’

‘No, I’m the captain’s scrivano,’ said Hector. A garzon was lingua franca for the young men who sometimes shipped aboard as companions and bedmates for the officers and senior odjaks. ‘I also help the captain in his chart-making.’

Dunton looked impressed. ‘Always took you for a clever one,’ he said. ‘What’s that you’ve got hanging round your neck?’

‘It’s my qibla finder,’ said Hector. ‘It shows me the direction in which to pray.’

‘Mind if I have a look,’ observed Dunton. He had opened the little case and saw the compass needle. ‘Handy enough aboard a ship which turns every which way.’

‘What about you? What have you been doing these past nine months?’

Dunton shrugged. ‘Much the same as what I would have been doing at home if I had been stuck on shore for the entire winter,’ he answered. ‘I was put to work in the Arsenal, doing shipwright’s work. I helped get this old tub back afloat. She’s a right old-timer. Half her joints are shaky and she’s long past her best days. Wouldn’t wonder if this turns out to be her last voyage.’

He spat expertly over the side.

‘I’m not sure I’d have joined her crew if I had been given the choice. But my master is the same captain, as you call him, and he was very keen to have me aboard because there’s a shortage of good seamen. Plenty of volunteers to pull on an oar, but not many who know how to get the best out of a ship under sail. In all but name I’m the caravana, the foreman in charge of sail handling. Officially the caravana is a Turk, but he knows sod all about the job, and leaves it to me to organise the tasks. If this cruise goes well, I might even come back with a bit of cash to buy my freedom and then settle down in Algiers. I like the climate and the pay is very good if you’ve got shipwright’s skills.

‘But I thought that all the English prisoners had been ransomed last autumn and gone home?’

‘Seems I was left off the list,’ said Dunton. ‘And we won’t see another delegation from London for several years. I hear that the English consul died of the plague, and he’s not been replaced as yet. So, my best hope is prize money from this corso. Then there’ll be nothing to stop me from bringing my wife and children out to join me.’

‘You mean you’ll share in the plunder?’

‘That’s usanza. Even the humblest galley oarsman gets a cut of the prize money, and it doesn’t matter if he is a slave. It’s just a single share, and in theory he’s meant to hand it over to his master. But if your master likes you, you get to keep it. By all accounts the captain is a decent old stick, and would let you hang on to what you earn if you serve him well.’

Dunton glanced up at the banner which was still hanging slack. ‘I’d better get going. This mist won’t last all day. I need to tighten those wooldings on the main spar while I have the chance. It’s nice to get the chance to talk English for a change too.’

‘So you haven’t met my friend Dan? He speaks English.’

‘No, who’s he?’

Hector pointed to the foredeck where Dan was talking to one of the odjaks. ‘That man there.’

‘The foreign-looking one with dark skin? I took him to be an usif, a blackamoor slave. How come he’s so friendly with the odjaks?’

‘He’s a musketeer,’ Hector told him. ‘He made quite an impression on them.’

IT HAD HAPPENED on the afternoon before Izzet Darya set sail from Algiers. The captain had told Hector that he would take him aboard as his scrivano, but he had made it clear that there was no place for Dan aboard the galley. Naturally Hector asked the captain to change his mind, only to be reminded that an illiterate artist would just be an extra mouth to feed. So Hector had resigned himself to being parted from his friend when Dan arrived at the dockside on an errand for Turgut’s steward. He had been told to bring Turgut’s prayer mat and some extra clothes out to the anchored galley, and by chance had hitched a ride with a boatload of odjaks coming aboard with their bedrolls and weapons. As the odjaks climbed on to the galley, one of the janissaries had handed his musket to Dan to hold. Dan had taken the weapon and, glancing at the firing mechanism, commented that it was out of alignment. ‘Are you armuriero, a gunsmith?’ the janissary had asked. ‘No, but I am a marksman, and this is a fine weapon,’ Dan had answered. Flattered, the janissary had asked Dan if he would like to try out the musket for himself, and the two of them had gone to the galley’s bow where Dan had loaded the musket and, under the watchful eye of the odjak, took aim at a mark, a dead cat floating in the water. He sank the carcass with his shot. The janissary had been so impressed that he had called on his fellow soldiers to watch another demonstration of Dan’s marksmanship, and when he again hit his target – a clump of floating weed – they had applauded. By now the aga of the janissaries had strolled over to observe what was going on, and when Dan missed his third shot by only a narrow margin, the aga had enquired where he had learned to shoot so accurately. ‘Among my people,’ Dan had replied proudly. ‘That’s why we are called the Miskito. Outsiders believe that our name is taken from the flying insects which infest our coast, but that is wrong. The Spanish call us Miskito because we are the only native people in those lands who have learned how to use guns against them. So they call us the musket people.’ ‘If you are prepared to fight the infidel, then you should assist us,’ was the aga’s comment, ‘we always need good marksmen, and those who can help repair our guns.’ The aga’s authority in matters of warfare was equal to the powers exercised by the captain himself, so Dan had found himself co-opted as an auxiliary with the odjaks, and – to Hector’s delight – the Miskito had joined the corso.

NIMBLY Dunton swung himself up on the mainspar, straddled it, and began attending to a frayed rope binding when, abruptly, he raised his head and looked out into the mist. ‘Hello!’ he said softly, ‘Something’s coming our way.’ Other crewmembers had heard the noise too, and there were calls for the pumping crew to cease work for a moment. In the silence that followed, a rhythmic heavy splash and groan could be heard. Quite where the noise came from was difficult to tell, but it was approaching. On the foredeck, the janissaries who had been smoking and talking put down their long pipes and took up their muskets, and quietly prepared the primings. Turgut, alerted by the sudden tension aboard, walked to the starboard rail and cocked his head to one side listening. ‘Galleot or maybe brigantine under oars,’ he said.

Dunton dropped down softly on the deck beside Hector. ‘Friend or foe?’ he murmured. ‘The Religion doesn’t normally operate in this area, though they’ve got eight large galleys in their fleet, about the same size as Izzet, which would give us a run for our money.’

‘The Religion? Who are they?’ whispered Hector.

‘The Knights of the Order of St John of Jerusalem. A bunch of nobles who act like pirates when it suits them, and from the best families in Europe. Claim they are fighting for the Cross. Hate Barbary corsairs. They operate out of Malta. One of their petty officers was a slave shipwright alongside me in the Arsenal.’ Dunton stopped talking as the aga scowled at him, demanding silence as he also listened, trying to locate the direction of the approaching ship.

Several minutes passed, and it became clear that the unknown vessel was moving at a leisurely pace. The splashes of the oars were slow and unhurried, the sound increasing only gradually. Izzet’s own rowers settled in their places and dipped the blades of their thirty-foot-long sweeps quietly into the sea, awaiting orders. Some were looking expectantly towards Turgut on the stern deck, others half-turned, trying to peer out into the mist. Abruptly, through the mist, came a cry, ‘Sieme! Sieme!’ Dunton mouthed, ‘Together! Together!’ and made a rowing gesture. Moments later, a dark patch in the mist became the unmistakable shape of an oared vessel, and there was a startled shout, ‘Aia! What ship?’ ‘Izzet Darya! In the Name of Allah,’ roared back Turgut. The advancing galley had stopped rowing, but her momentum carried her forward so that she could be clearly seen as a brigantine, an oared vessel about half the size of Izzet Darya. ‘Merhaba, welcome! From what port?’ called Turgut. ‘From Djidjelli. Corsan!’ The tension aboard Izzet Darya relaxed. ‘Fellow corsairs from Barbary,’ explained Dunton. ‘Hunting the same patch of sea.’

Hector’s knowledge of Turkish was good enough to follow the shouted conversation between Turgut and the captain of the newcomer. The brigantine had been on the corso for less than a week, and had managed to intercept three infidel vessels, two Spanish and the third French. None of the prizes were very valuable, but the captain of the French ship had curried favour with his captors by telling the corsairs that he had sighted a large merchantman, of unknown nationality, hull down on the horizon and apparently heading towards Leghorn. In pursuit of this potential prize the brigantine had ventured north hoping to intercept the vessel which would now be delayed by the calm. ‘Have you seen any of those shaitans from Malta?’ called Turgut.

‘No, nothing. It’s too early in the season for them. They like to lie in bed with their harlots,’ came the reply.

‘Will we join forces then?’ enquired Turgut.

‘D’accordo!’ came back the reply. ‘One hand makes nothing, two hands make a sound.’

Turgut smiled into his beard at the Turkish proverb as he called back, ‘We wait until the mist lifts, then spread out but stay in sight of one another, and cruise northward.’

‘Agreed! And may Allah go with us.’

‘Our luck has changed!’ said Turgut cheerfully, coming back across the deck. ‘Let the storemen issue a double ration so we may eat our fill, and be ready for what fortune brings.’ Dunton went forward to rejoin his shipmates and, as Dan took his meals with the odjaks, who had their own achtchi or camp cook, Hector found himself seated on the aft deck with the captain and his officers as they ate a simple meal of falafel and bread. From time to time the captain glanced across at the brigantine which lay hove-to half a musket shot away. He continued to be in a good mood.

‘Allah has been kind to us,’ he said to Hector. ‘Having a second ship means we can sweep a wider swathe of sea in search of prizes. And should we find only small coasters, the brigantine is fast enough to catch them easily. It will save us from having to lower our ship’s boats, and that means fewer visitas for you.’

‘The brigantine comes from Djidjelli,’ Hector observed. ‘Already you have a drawing of their harbour in your files, but if you wish I could go across and interview their captain and update the information.’

‘Maybe later,’ answered Turgut. ‘Less than four years ago I was in their port, not a good harbour, shallow and exposed but adequate if you want to take on supplies. The ruler of Djidjelli acknowledges the Dey as his overlord, and we leave him to his own devices. Just so that he does not interfere with our corsos. The same is true of Bougie a short distance down the coast. Let us hope that his information about the rich merchant ship turns out to be correct.’

‘Your excellency, if we do find and capture this ship how would we divide the spoils? The brigantine brought the news, so does her crew have first choice?’

‘A shrewd question, and the answer is that together we return to Algiers, with our prize. In Algiers the division is made by a court of arbitration composed of senior reis who decide on matters of precedence, acts of valour in the fight and so forth.’

‘And do they also decide who receives the prisoners as their reward?’

‘Of course. Often the value of the prisoners exceeds the value of the captured hull.’

‘And if we capture women, for example, where would they be held?’

Turgut looked at Hector searchingly. ‘Do you have a special reason to ask that question, and is that why you volunteered to visit the brigantine?’

‘Forgive me for asking, effendi. When I was taken by the corsair Hakim Reis, my sister was also captured. She was placed on one ship, while I was kept on another. Since that time I have not seen her. I wish to learn what might have happened to her, and where she is now.’

‘Tell me the details, as best as you remember them.’

Hector recounted the story of his capture and when he finished his account, Turgut paused to take a sip of coffee before replying, ‘I did not meet Hakim Reis after that venture when he raided Ireland. He was always lucky on the corso, quick to pick up prizes and welcome in any port to sell them. It would be normal for him to keep the women captives apart from their menfolk. I would do the same myself. The men are less likely to make trouble if they see their women could be punished. But I would have expected Hakim Reis and his escorting vessel to have entered their final harbour together and disposed of the booty in the same market place. That makes the final division of the profits easier as I have explained. I can only suppose that something happened to separate Hakim Reis from his raiding consort. You mentioned some sort of exchange of gunfire.’

‘And where might the other ship have gone?’ asked Hector. ‘Could it have gone to Djidjelli or to Bougie? Is that where I should look for my sister?’

‘If you volunteered to visit the brigantine in order to ask if anyone knew about her, then I’m afraid your enquiry would have been futile. Had the women captives been sold in Djidjelli, or Bougie for that matter, the news would have reached Algiers which is not so far away. No, I think your sister was taken farther afield.’ Seeing the disappointment in Hector’s face, he added, ‘You must not be too hard on yourself. Consider your own captivity. You must admit, it has not turned out to be so disastrous. Here you are aboard a fine ship and one of Muhammad’s people. Hakim Reis was right when he told you that, with luck, you could yourself rise to command. For all you know, your sister might be much happier than you fear.’

‘It is difficult to think with such optimism, effendi. I still feel responsible for her well-being.’

‘Hassan Irlanda,’ said Turgut kindly. ‘In Turkey we have a saying – “patience is the key to Paradise.” We must all accept the fate that Allah decrees. Keep up your search for your sister, but pursue it in the knowledge that it may never reach a conclusion. Rest assured that your sister will have been treated well. She would have been classified as murtafa’at; that is, first class. Wherever your sister was brought ashore for sale, everything about her would have been recorded by the amina, the woman inspector who examined her. Even as a conscientious jeweller notes the qualities of a special gem, her good points, the nu’ut, and her defects, the uyub, will have been written down. Somewhere that record and description of your sister still survives. Find it and you will be on the trail of your sister. Or find someone who sailed with Hakim Reis on that corso or, better still, find Hakim Reis himself. Then ask why the vessels were separated and where the missing ship would have gone.’

Hector finished his meal in silence, turning over in his mind Turgut’s advice and, still troubled, was on the point of asking again whether he could visit the brigantine to enquire if anyone had heard of Elizabeth, when there was an order for the oarsmen to stand to their sweeps. Dunton reappeared on the aft deck. ‘The pilot must think the mist is due to lift soon,’ he said as he checked the preventer ropes which secured the great spar. ‘Or maybe he’s worried how far we’ve drifted in the mist. Strange currents around here, according to the store keeper’s assistant. He’s a local man from Sardinia and used to fish these waters before he was captured by the Turks, and became a rinigato like yourself. Tells me that the current can be strong enough to set a ship ten or fifteen miles in a day.’

A series of calls and commands was heard along the catwalk as Izzet Darya slowly got under way, the same shouts repeated from the accompanying brigantine, whose sweeps also began to rise and fall ponderously as the two ships nosed their way forward. Occasionally Dunton looked up at the mast top where the captain’s insignia, a long red and gold pennant, dangled listlessly. ‘A sea fret like this normally lies close to the water, like a blanket,’ he said to Hector. ‘On a tall ship, you can send someone to the mast head as lookout, and often he’ll be sitting up there in the bright sunshine with a blue sky above his head. Yet when he looks down past his feet, he can scarcely see the deck for the vapour. Ahha! There’s a patch of blue now.’

Hector followed his gaze, and indeed the mist was thinning. A glimpse of blue sky had appeared, and on the aft deck around him the daylight seemed to be growing brighter. ‘Shan’t be long now before we are clear of this,’ observed Dunton confidently. ‘Then it’ll be time for the brigantine to stand clear and take up her cruising station.’

But that manoeuvre was not needed. Half an hour later the two corsair vessels rowed their way out of the mist. In a few oar strokes they passed from the close damp haze and emerged into a bright open world with a sparkling calm sea of intense blue. Looking astern, Hector saw that the edge of the mist was like a sheer grey wall, yet scarcely higher than a ship’s mast. A sudden exclamation from the galley’s pilot made him swing round again.

‘Alhamdullilah,’ the pilot burst out, pointing ahead. There, no more than five miles away, was a ship. She was utterly becalmed. Hector had never seen a craft as large or ponderous. Like Hakim Reis’s corsair ship which had raided Ireland, the vessel was an outright sailing vessel. Her three tall masts were rigged with great square sails which, at that moment, hung slack and empty and useless. Amidships her lowest point was twice the height of the low-slung galleys, and the stern of the vessel rose far above the sea in a series of decks that formed a wooden castle. Even at that distance it was possible to make out a massive ornamental lantern, twice the height of a man, which crowned the tall stern. The gilding on the lantern glinted in the sunlight.

‘God’s Blood!’ muttered Dunton beside him. ‘That’s a royal ship, I wouldn’t wonder. Can’t make out her flags, but she could be Spanish or Dutch maybe. She’ll be a tough nut to crack.’

A hurried council was already forming up on the stern deck of Izzet Darya. The captain, his chief officer, the pilot and the aga of the janissaries clustered in a group, and Hector could overhear snatches of their conversation. The pilot was urging caution, warning that the strange ship was too powerful to attack. The aga of the janissaries, stroking his mustache and striking an attitude, retorted that if the pilot could bring the galley close enough for his soldiers to board, his janissaries would soon clear the foreigner’s decks. The galley’s chief officer, a grizzled Turk, said nothing but waited patiently for the captain to speak, and all the while the oarsmen kept up their steady beat, moving the great galley forward.

Turgut Reis gazed thoughtfully at the sailing ship. This was not a vessel he had seen before, though it did have a certain similarity to the warship that had brought the English ransom agent to Algiers. He wished he had brought his sketch of that ship with him, even though this ship was much larger and, as yet, showed no flag. If only he had that sketch, it might help him decide whether the stranger was a warship or some rich merchant vessel. He looked again at the distant vessel. She was no more than four miles away now, and still helpless and becalmed. The captain thought about his ill luck on the corso so far, the debts that awaited him when he returned to Algiers, and that he had only a few days’ supplies left before he would have to return to base. He thought, too, about the damage to his reputation if it was said that he had shirked a fight with a large infidel ship. He knew his pilot was a cautious man who would always advise care, just as he knew that the aga was certain to demand a direct attack and boast of the courage and the fighting spirit of his odjaks. The captain did not doubt that at close quarters the weight of numbers and the terrifying charge of the janissaries would win the day. But first he had to get Izzet Darya close enough to board the stranger.

‘They’re lowering their boats!’ It was his chief officer who spoke, excitement in his voice. Turgut squinted into the distance. Yes, it was true. There was activity on the stranger’s deck. They must have been shocked by the menacing sight of two corsair galleys emerging as if by magic from the mist, and heading towards them. Figures on deck were hurriedly lowering boats into the water, and a large boat which had been towed astern was being hauled closer so that oarsmen could scramble aboard. ‘They’re abandoning ship!’ said a voice. Turgut wondered if this could be true. Often the crew of a vessel attacked by corsairs would leave their ship and flee for safety in their small boats. They would head for the nearest coast where they would run ashore and hide rather than be taken captive. But the Sardinian coast was too far for the small rowing boats to outrun the brigantine. ‘No,’ said another voice, ‘they’re trying to tow their ship out of trouble.’ That was more likely. The ship’s longboat and its tenders were moving to the bow of the becalmed stranger, and hawsers were being lowered to them. Maybe they were hoping to outpace their pursuit until darkness covered their escape.

The captain made up his mind. ‘Allah concealed us from our enemy until the time was ripe! Now we attack!’ he called out. Turning, he gestured to the accompanying brigantine that both ships were to advance at full speed and close with their prey from directly astern. Seeing this, the oarsmen in the waist of Izzet Darya began to cheer a rippling ‘Ya Allah! Ya Allah! Ya Allah!’ as they laid on their oars and began to increase the tempo of their stroke.

Hector felt the galley’s motion increase beneath his bare feet, and looked to the bow platform where Dan was checking the muskets of the janissaries. Dan glanced up and waved. Beside him Dunton said quietly, ‘Well here we go! The captain’s not the sort of person to run away from a battle. Let’s hope he’s not about to catch a Tartar.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Hector.

Dunton was staring intently at the sailing ship. ‘Seems to me,’ he said softly, ‘that she could be built for war. That big stern castle and the heavy bulwarks on the bow are the marks of a fighting ship. Still, if the calm stays with us, it shouldn’t matter too much. Right now, her main deck cannon – if she’s got them – are nigh-on useless. If we attack from directly astern, they can’t be brought to bear. She’ll have only one or two stern chasers, so she’s vulnerable.’

The words were scarcely out of his mouth when there was the sound of a cannon shot, and a puff of smoke from the ship’s towering stern. A moment later, a cannonball skipped across the surface of the sea, sent up a trail of white splashes, then plunged into the sea, half a mile ahead of the approaching corsairs.

‘Levarim! Levarim! Lay on your oars! Lay on your oars!’ yelled the overseers on the catwalk. But there was little need for their exhortations. The oarsmen of Izzet Darya were already at full stretch, eager to close with their prey and earn the plunder they craved. Only in the bow, where there were three or four benches of slaves who had been placed aboard by their Algerine masters, was it necessary for the overseers to ply the courbash. ‘Strongly! Strongly! My children,’ Hector heard Turgut say under his breath, and he wondered if the captain had the same worry as Dunton that the aged galley was heading for a mistaken target.

Again the thud of a cannon, and the splash of a cannonball, this time closer to the galley. ‘Good shooting,’ commented Dunton. ‘Those are not amateur gunners.’

‘Why don’t we fire back?’ enquired Hector.

‘No point,’ came the reply. ‘Our iron gun hasn’t the range, and besides it will hamper the oarsmen if we have to load and train the weapon. We’ll just have to take our medicine for the next few minutes. Run the gauntlet of those stern chasers until we are close enough to open fire ourselves. Better yet, get alongside and board her.’

‘FORTSA! FORTSA! Row Hard! Row Hard!’ the galley’s overseers were cheering on their men, and Izzet Darya surged forward, steadily closing the gap.

A double thud as, one after the other, the two stern chasers of the sailing ship fired at the approaching corsairs. This time a cannonball threw up a burst of spray which drenched the port-side oarsmen.

A closer explosion as Izzet Darya’s own gun answered. Hector felt the galley tremble beneath his feet. But the shot fell short.

‘Watch out! She’s coming round!’ cried Dunton. Hector looked forward over the heads of the straining oarsmen. Where before the sailing ship had presented her tall stern to the galleys, now he could begin to see along her quarter as slowly she began to turn. Out to one side he saw her boats. Their crews were rowing frantically, the towlines taut. ‘They’re pulling her to bring her into position so she can use her main armament,’ said Dunton. He sounded worried. Izzet Darya’s pilot had seen the danger, and called out to the helmsmen to try to stay directly astern of their prey.

Another twenty oar strokes, as 160 men in teams of five strained at each huge oar handle, and then their opponent began to open fire with her main deck guns. There was no broadside, just an irregular series of loud reports as each gunner found he could bring the advancing corsair vessels into his sights. Dunton was counting, ‘five . . . six . . . seven.’ He paused as the cannon shots ceased. ‘Thank Christ for that!’ he muttered. ‘Seven, maybe eight cannon a side. She’s an armed merchantman. We should be able to cope with that.’ His sigh of relief was cut short as another cannon fired, then another, and another. Looking ahead, Hector saw that the sailing ship was almost entirely obscured in a great cloud of gun smoke billowing around her. ‘Oh shit!’ blurted Dunton. ‘Twenty guns a side, maybe more. She’s a ship of war, a fourth-rate at least.’

There was a bellow of rage from the aga. The Turk was staring off to the side, at the accompanying corsair brigantine. One entire side of the brigantine’s oars had stopped, the blades poised level with the sea. For a moment Hector thought that perhaps a cannonball had struck and damaged the ship. But then in a sudden moment of silence he distinctly heard the cry, ‘Siya! Siya! Back! Back!’ and the oars began to move again, but this time in reverse. Inexorably, the brigantine began to turn, swinging away from Izzet Darya in a tight arc, as the smaller ship altered course, away from the fight. ‘Cowards! May you rot in hell!’ The aga was brick red with anger, roaring and raging as the brigantine completed her turn. She was fleeing from the scene, abandoning the attack, and putting as much distance as possible between herself and the cannon fire. ‘Seems they were counting cannon shots as well,’ said Dunton bitterly.

Turgut Reis stepped forward to the rail that divided the stern deck from the lines of benches where his crew were still labouring their oars. Many of the rowers were beginning to show signs of exhaustion, others were wild-eyed with fear. ‘My children!’ he called out. ‘We press on! Now there is all the more plunder for us. Allah will protect us! Soon we will be alongside. Fifty gold pieces to the first man who climbs aboard.’

There was a rattle of musket fire from the bow platform. Hector saw that the janissaries had begun shooting, aiming forward over the low breastwork that surrounded the bow platform. He wondered whether their target was really within range or whether the odjaks were firing their muskets to vent their frustration. He could not see Dan.

Suddenly there was an appalling crash and the galley quivered from stem to stern. A cannonball had struck the vessel, but for a moment Hector could not identify any damage. Then he saw the gaping hole on the port side, where the shot had torn away the outrigger support for the forward oars. He heard screams of pain and fear, then remembered that this was where the slave oarsmen had been placed, chained to the oar benches. Izzet Darya’s iron cannon fired, and a neat round hole suddenly appeared in one of the stranger’s limp sails.

‘They’re firing too high, stupid bastards,’ said Dunton. ‘We can’t take much more of this. We’ve got to get closer.’

Another crash, and this time the cannonball cut a bloody path through the rowers on the starboard oar benches. The rhythm of the oar strokes faltered. Hector felt the galley slow down. ‘Avanti! Avanti! Forward! Forward!’ yelled the overseers, and this time they were lashing even the volunteer oarsmen. Hector could detect that the crew was very close to panic. ‘Ya Allah! Ya Allah! Ya Allah!’ The rowers tried to take up the cadence of their work again, but the galley was partially crippled. Hector was reminded of a many-legged insect which struggles onward even when a third of its legs has been torn away. He looked forward, trying to see what was happening to Dan, and could not see his friend. Astonishingly, he saw that the janissaries were utterly unperturbed. He witnessed one of the odjaks set down his musket, calmly relight his long pipe, then pick up the musket again before taking aim.

‘Bloody hell!’ Dunton gasped, dismay in his voice. Hector looked round, trying to see what had alarmed the sailor. The enemy ship was less than a couple of hundred yards away now, every detail clearly visible. In a few moments Izzet Darya could close the gap, and then her boarding party would get in action. Soon the fight must be over.

Then he knew what had unnerved Dunton. The long pennant which hung from the stranger’s masthead was stirring. Hector could make out its colours, red and white. And the gun smoke which had shrouded the tall hull was drifting clear in wisps. The calm had ended, and a light breeze had sprung up. Even as he watched, Hector saw the great sails begin to flap and lift as they filled with the wind, and slowly the sailing ship began to move through the water. Even as the crippled corsair galley desperately tried to close the gap, the great ship began inexorably to slide out of reach.

‘Fortsa! Fortsa!’ The overseers were in a frenzy, demanding a final effort from the oarsmen. But the oarsmen were nearly collapsing. Hector, his nostrils filled with the smell of gunpowder, heard their sobs of exhaustion and effort. Several of the men were merely going through the motions of rowing, trying to keep time with their comrades. Here and there Hector saw a rower give up the effort, and slump to the deck.

Another crash, and this time a cannonball smashed a bloody track through the oar benches, body parts flying into the air. The fervour and discipline of the oarsmen began to disintegrate, as more and more of them realised that their efforts were useless.

Izzet Darya could not catch the sailing vessel. Several teams of oarsmen stopped rowing, releasing their grip on the oars and sitting down on the benches, their bare chests heaving as they gasped for breath. The motion of the corsair galley slowed to a crawl as their prey steadily drew farther and farther away.

Dunton was shouting at one of the Turkish petty officers. Hector guessed the Turk was the caravana in charge of sail handling. ‘Leva! Leva!’ Dunton was bawling, waving his arms frantically. ‘Hoist sail! Hoist sail!’ But there was no response. The Turk seemed at a loss, unable to act. It was the captain himself who responded. Moving to a position where the oarsmen could see him clearly, he called out, ‘Well done, my children! You have given of your best. Now is the time to make best use of the wind that comes also from Allah. We will become falcons!’ He had raised his right arm in a gesture of encouragement when, shockingly, he was struck by a hail of metal. One moment he was standing on the aft deck, and the next instant his body had been flung backward and he was just a lifeless heap on the deck, his white gown like a rumpled shroud. Nor had his officers escaped unscathed. The pilot was clutching at his face, blood seeping between his fingers, and the aga was staring down, numbed, at a mangled foot. ‘Oh Lord be our Protector!’ groaned Dunton. ‘Perrier guns. They’re going to finish us off.’

Hector tore his gaze away from the sight of the dead reis and looked towards the big sailing ship. The crew were brailing up the sails, slowing their vessel now that she was at a safe distance from the crippled galley and could manoeuvre. Even as he watched he saw activity on the high stern deck. Men were clustering around the light swivel cannon mounted along the rail, the perrier guns which could send hails of small shot and sweep a deck clear of men.

‘Leva! Leva!’ Again Dunton was roaring and gesticulating. He leapt up on to the main spar and frantically began unlacing the sail ties. Farther forward, the braver and more experienced sailors on the crew were hastily uncoiling the main halyard where it had been stowed, and laying it out along the catwalk. Those overseers still on their feet began to push and shove men into position where they could begin to raise the sail. A tall, thin Algerine with a wild look in his eye began to chant a work song, and incredibly some sense of order and discipline returned as perhaps a score of those not wounded began to haul on the great rope and the massive mainyard slowly began to rise.

The spar was dangling some ten feet in the air when there came another crash of cannon, the loudest yet. This time it was not the irregular thump and report of individual guns, but the ragged roar of a broadside. At point blank range the warship’s gunners could not miss. The broadside struck the stationary galley amidships, and broke her back. Men and oars were flung into the water. The bow and stern both tilted upward as the mid section of the venerable hull began to sink under water. The sea rushed in on the benches and Hector heard the desperate screams of the slave rowers still chained to their benches and unable to escape. The stern deck slanted under his feet, and sick at heart he watched Turgut’s corpse slip down and come to rest against the rail, itself already half under water.

Shocked and dazed, he grasped at a splintered post. Then, as the stern section began to roll over, he was washed into the sea.

As he came back to the surface, he realised that something had changed. The sounds of firing had nearly stopped, though the air was still thick with gun smoke. He coughed and choked. Something nudged against his shoulder, and he clutched at it blindly. He found he was grasping the canopy from the galley’s stern deck. Air had been trapped within the cloth so that it had risen to the surface, and was bobbing, half submerged. Steadying himself with one hand on the makeshift raft, Hector looked around.

The captain’s bloody death had distracted him from thinking about Dan’s fate, but now he scanned the mess of flotsam and wreckage, trying to spot his friend. The bow section of the galley was almost gone below the surface, and he saw only the heads of a few strangers nearby. Dan had disappeared. Closer to hand he glimpsed a face that was familiar. Thirty yards away was Dunton. He was clinging to a small piece of floating wood which was insufficient to keep him afloat. Every few seconds Dunton would submerge, coming back to the surface with panic in his face. ‘Here! Here! Swim over here!’ Hector called out. Dunton heard him, and twisted round to face him. Again he half-disappeared and was spitting water as he came back to the surface. ‘I can’t!’ he gasped. ‘I cannot swim!’

Hector had learned to swim during his summers on the Irish coast and now he slid into the water and struck out for the English sailor. ‘Here, hang on to me,’ he gasped as he reached Dunton. ‘I’ll tow you back.’

Dunton was floundering desperately. ‘It won’t work. That slave ring on my ankle pulls me down.’

‘Come on!’ snarled Hector. ‘Hold on round my neck. You can do it!’

With a sudden lunge Dunton abandoned the sinking flotsam and grabbed on to his rescuer. Hector clenched his teeth and began to swim, trying to regain the raft. The effort was enormous. However hard he swam, he was making little headway. Dunton was a dead weight on his back, pulling him down. Hector took great mouthfuls of air and knew that his strength would soon ebb away. He swallowed a mouthful of seawater, gagged, and for a moment he thought that he too would drown. Squeezing his eyelids shut to clear his eyes of the salt water he looked ahead, trying to judge how far he had come. He was still not halfway to the makeshift raft. ‘I said you could not make it,’ whispered Dunton behind his ear, and then – miraculously – the sailor’s grip relaxed and Hector found himself swimming free. He glanced over his shoulder and had a last glimpse of Dunton as he slipped under the water.

Even without the English sailor on his back, Hector was at his last gasp when finally he reached out and touched the floating canopy. Pulling himself up on its slippery wet surface, he lay there panting. Dimly he was aware of other survivors from the disaster who approached the raft. Once or twice he felt the canopy shift beneath him as they too heaved themselves on to its surface. He lay with his eyes closed, utterly spent and still in shock from seeing the captain meet his death. The captain had bought him in the same way as a farmer buys a promising colt at auction, yet Hector could only remember Turgut’s kindness, his compassion, and the words of encouragement when his protégé had faced his sunnet – ‘Don’t be afraid. It happens at once, and is a wonderful thing as Allah has wished. Praise be to God.’ Hector hoped that the same was true for the manner of Turgut’s death.

Abruptly a hand was seizing the collar of his loose shirt, and he found himself dragged off the canopy, then hauled bruisingly over the edge of a small boat, and dumped into its bilges. A voice said in English, ‘We’ve got another of the bastards.’ Someone knelt on him painfully and tied his wrists behind his back. A short while later he was pulled to his feet and then half lifted and half thrown up the side of a ship where he found himself on a steady, dry deck. Swaying with exhaustion, he kept his eyes down and watched the salt water trickle out of his clothes and make a wavering line across the planks. He felt wretched.

‘Ti! Moristo? Mauro? Turco?’ a voice was asking aggressively. Someone was trying to establish his nationality, speaking in rusty lingua franca and standing so close that he could smell the interrogator’s foul breath. But Hector felt too tired to answer. ‘He’s not wearing an ankle ring. Must have been one of the crew,’ claimed another voice gruffly. Someone was fingering the qibla still hanging from its thong around his neck. ‘Look at this,’ said the first voice. ‘He’s an Allah worshipper all right. Saw this when I was in the bagnio at Tunis.’

Hector raised his head and found himself looking into the hostile face of a common sailor. A jagged scar running from the corner of his mouth to his right ear gave him a brutish look. Behind him stood a short, badly shaved man wearing a wig and dressed in clothing which had once been of fine quality but was now shabby and stained with grease spots. Hector took him to be a ship’s officer.

‘My name is Hector Lynch,’ he said, addressing the officer. ‘I am from Ireland.’

‘A Papist turned Mussulman, that’s droll!’ mocked the officer. ‘A bucket that has dipped twice into the sink of iniquity.’

‘My father was a Protestant,’ began Hector wearily, but his reply was cut short by the officer’s retort. ‘You’re a renegade and turncoat, whatever stripe of faith you were before. To be serving with Barbary pirates means you deserve to hang. But as you are worth more alive than dead, you will be kept in chains until we reach port. Then you will wish you had gone to the bottom of the sea along with your thieving friends.’

Hector was about to ask the ship’s destination when the sound of a hammer on iron distracted him. A little distance behind the officer, the ship’s blacksmith was striking off the ankle ring of a starved-looking galley slave who must have been rescued from the wreck of Izzet Darya. Standing next in line, awaiting his turn and dressed only in a loincloth, was Dan. The Miskito, Hector recalled, had been wearing his slave ring when he had joined the corso, and Turgut Reis had not ordered it to be removed. Clearly the warship’s crew had mistaken Dan for a slave they had liberated from the corsairs. Deliberately Hector forced himself to look away. Any sign that he knew Dan would betray his friend.

‘Take the renegade and put him with his fellow blackguards!’ ordered the officer, and Hector found himself pushed across the deck to join a group of bedraggled survivors from the galley; among them were several odjaks. As he stood waiting to be led away to the prison hold, Hector heard a cheer go up. The starved-looking man had been freed from his slave ring, and several of the warship’s crew were gathering round to slap him on the back and congratulate him on his liberty. As Hector watched, Dan stepped forward impassively and placed his foot on the blacksmith’s anvil. A few sharp blows and the blacksmith had knocked out the rivets from the ring, and again a cheer went up. But this time, the congratulations were cut short as the starved-looking man suddenly turned and, snatching at Dan’s loincloth, whipped it away so that the Miskito stood naked. Pointing at Dan’s circumcised penis, his accuser screamed, ‘Rinigato! Rinigato!’ and gave a vindictive whoop of triumph.