Corsair

FIFTEEN

A MILE FROM WHERE St Gerassimus floated on an indigo blue sea, the first slopes of the Barbary mountains rose behind the close-packed buildings of a small Moorish town where a river drained from a cleft in the mountains. In front of the town a dozen or so feluccas and caiques lay at anchor in the roadstead, their decks deserted. The foreshore too was empty except for the rowing boats abandoned by the sailors who had fled their vessels the moment that St Gerassimus had appeared over the horizon. The arrival of the galley had taken them by surprise. In the past the town’s walls had proved stout enough to resist all but a prolonged attack, and the place was too insignificant to reward a major assault by any enemy. So the attention of a first-class war galley caused some puzzlement among the citizens though there was no great concern as they watched the newcomer hover quietly in front of the town, her oars occasionally moving as she maintained her station. The more observant of the townsfolk did, however, note something a little unusual about their visitor. The galley was not floating level. She was down by the bow.

On board St Gerassimus, premier comite Piecourt too was anxious – but for other reasons. The morning after the Festival of Galleys the Chevalier had summoned Piecourt and the sous comites to tell them that the galley was to put to sea within the week. During the banquet Commissaire Batiste had informed the Chevalier that the galley was to proceed to the Barbary coast, there to test the newest artillery weapon in the Corps Arsenal. The order came from Minister Colbert himself, and was to be obeyed with all despatch. Details of the armament were kept secret, and it was not until Piecourt saw the monstrous device floated out to his galley on a pontoon that he feared the result. The weapon was grotesque: a short, black cannon that reminded him of a gargantuan beer pot sitting on a heavy wooden sledge. What this monstrosity weighed he had no idea, but it had required a triple tackle to hoist the gun on to his galley’s foredeck, the rambade. As the monster was lowered into position he distinctly felt the galley tilt forward. He had removed the ship’s other guns, and shifted ballast further aft. He had also ordered the galley’s main anchor, normally kept in the bows, to be stowed below deck nearer the stern. Yet even when this was done, St Gerassimus still felt unwieldy, and the squat black mass on her foredeck appeared to him like an ugly wart.

But worse was to come. On the morning St Gerassimus left Marseilles harbour, she hove to outside the pier head so that the Arsenal’s gunpowder barge could come alongside to offload the test ammunition for the cannon – a hundred hollow cast iron globes filled with explosive and half as many kegs of a fine-grade gunpowder as propellant. The gunpowder was stowed in the galley’s magazine but the bombs, as the technician who accompanied the shipment called the heavy spherical projectiles, had to be kept separate. Some were already primed and fused and coated in sticky tar. Apparently they were to be sprinkled with gunpowder immediately before they were inserted into the gun’s gaping mouth. In theory the gun then shot the bomb high in the air, the tar-and-gunpowder coating ignited and, as the bomb blazed through the sky, the weapon lit its own fuse. When the device dropped into the target, it cleared any defences and smashed through any obstacle before exploding with massive damage. What happened if the fuse caught fire too soon and the bomb burst prematurely inside the cannon did not bear thinking about. St Gerassimus’s mission was to test the reliability of the weapon.

‘Do you think the gun will work with the new bombs?’ Hector had asked Dan as they sat in the warm sunshine, chained to their oar bench and waiting for orders as the galley drifted on the glassy calm.

‘I don’t know,’ answered the Miskito. ‘I heard about it when I was in the armoury in the Arsenal, but never saw it for myself. The gun was kept in the artillery park.’

‘Yet the technician recognised you when he came aboard.’

‘He visited the gunsmiths a couple of times while I was working with them, to ask if we could improve one of the new designs of fuse. It’s a plunger which is screwed into the bomb casing. When the bomb lands on target, the plunger is meant to drive inwards, striking sparks from a flint and igniting the powder inside the bomb, just like a musket. He didn’t know much about boats as far as I could tell. He’s more a technical man.’

‘You would have thought they would have picked someone with better sea legs. He was seasick all the way here from Marseilles,’ said Hector. He looked over his shoulder for at least the twentieth time, to gaze at the coast of Africa.

‘Apparently a galley makes an ideal platform for his mortar – that’s his name for the launching gun – because the weapon is so heavy and awkward to move about on land,’ Dan continued. ‘But a ship can take the gun wherever it is wanted, and a galley can aim the mortar accurately by manoeuvring so that the gun is exactly at the right range and angle to throw its bombs on target—’

His explanation was cut short by Piecourt’s voice. ‘You there! Get up on the rambade! The gunner wants you.’ The premier comite was on the coursier, pointing at Dan. ‘Secure your oar, and take your companions with you.’ He bent down to unlock the padlock to the bench chain and allow the men to slip clear, but when Karp and the vogue avant Irgun made as if to move, Piecourt raised his whip threateningly. ‘Stay where you are!’ he ordered.

Dan led Hector and Bourdon on to the wooden platform of the rambade. The technician was fussing over the mortar. It sat on its massive sled, pegged and chained to the deck. Nearby a large tray held several bombs, a tub of fuse cord, and a number of fuses to be tested. At a safe distance, lashed against the rail, were some small kegs of gunpowder.

‘The first job is to check the bombs and their contents,’ said the technician, a small worried-looking man with badly bitten fingernails. It seemed he was also to act as gunner. ‘Any of you know about gunpowder?’

Bourdon gave a sardonic laugh. ‘Only how to make this mark,’ he said, pointing at the letters GAL branded on his cheek. ‘That’s how they make the brand permanent. They rub in gunpowder as soon as the hot iron is lifted.’

‘I’ve worked in a quarry,’ Hector interjected. ‘I’ll show him.’

‘Good. The gunpowder must be kept separate at all times. Even empty barrels can contain fine particles which may explode,’ warned the gunner, then turned towards Dan. ‘I need you to make sure that the correct charge is loaded into the mortar’s chamber, and that the firing fuse is properly inserted in the bomb, and in working order. You’ll find all the tools you need in that canvas bag over there.’

As Dan prepared the mortar, Hector and Bourdon checked over the bombs. They removed each bomb’s wooden plug, mixed and poured in more gunpowder through a funnel, made sure the powder settled evenly in the hollow sphere, and finally tamped home the plug again. It reminded Hector of the days when he was setting blasting powder into the rocks of the Algiers quarry. Careful to observe the gunner’s safety instructions they returned the empty barrels to their place against the rail. The sailors and the galley’s gun crew normally stationed on the rambade had made themselves scarce. Even Piecourt was standing far enough away to avoid the worst effects of an accident.

‘I’m ready to try a ranging shot,’ called out the technician. ‘Line up the vessel, if you please. The bow must point straight at the target.’

Piecourt squinted ahead at the town, then blew a series of calls on his whistle. Obediently the oarsmen dipped their blades into the sea, the starboard side pulling ahead, while their companions backed water. The galley slowly swivelled. A sharp blast on the whistle and the oarsmen maintained the galley in position. Glancing astern, Hector saw that the officers of St Gerassimus had all gathered on the poop deck. They were too distant for him to recognise individuals and he wondered which was the captain, the celebrated Chevalier who was said to be such an implacable adversary of the Muslims. Even when Chabrillan had hosted his celebration of the Festival of Galleys, the galeriens had been forbidden to look directly at the Chevalier and his guests. To do so, the oarsmen had been warned, would be treated as insolence and punished with the lash.

His thoughts were interrupted by a deep coughing thud, a large cloud of dense black smoke, and the galley shuddering along her entire length. Beneath his feet Hector felt the bow of the galley suddenly dip into the sea as the massive recoil of the mortar thrust downward. A ripple spread out from her hull as if a giant rock had been dropped into the water.

The bomb could be seen high in the air, a black spot trailing smoke and flame as it raced upwards, hurtling towards the shore. Then it arched over and dropped back towards earth, only to splash harmlessly into the shallows, a hundred yards short of the town wall. There was no explosion.

‘Bring the vessel in closer, please,’ asked the gunner.

Again Piecourt’s whistle blew. The galeriens took a dozen strokes, then paused. The galley glided nearer to the thin line of surf.

Another bomb was loaded, and this time when it was fired, the projectile landed halfway up the beach and there was a muffled explosion.

‘Closer yet, please,’ asked the gunner. ‘Bring the galley nearer to the target area.’

‘There may be shallows here,’ Piecourt warned. ‘I’ll not risk the ship. If we come much closer, it may bring us in range of the town’s own cannon. They could have a few great guns, and be holding fire, so as not to waste powder. Just one shot could do us a lot of damage.’

‘I cannot increase the angle of the mortar,’ complained the artilleryman. ‘It’s already set at forty-five degrees for maximum range. I can only add to the propelling charge, and that might burst the barrel.’ He gave Dan a worried look. ‘Get your friend from the quarry to help you measure accurately. We don’t want any mistakes.’

All through the afternoon Dan, Hector and Bourdon worked on the rambade. They checked and primed the bombs, loaded them into the gun’s maw, cleaned out the mortar’s chamber after each shot and cleared the touch hole, helped the artilleryman to recharge the mortar and set the fuse, then to fire the weapon once the oarsmen had placed the galley in position. Bomb after bomb was sent towards the town, sometimes dropping short, occasionally veering off course and falling wide. One detonated in mid-air with a premature explosion that sent fragments of the metal casing pattering into the sea, an accident that drew a frightened intake of breath from the artilleryman. With practice, they learned just how much powder was needed to propel the bombs to reach their target, and just how much coating of powder was needed so that the missiles exploded on impact. The plunger fuses were soon abandoned for they usually failed to work. By the time the sun was setting, every bomb they fired was landing on target, and they could see the dust spurt up when they hit.

But there was no apparent effect on the town. The place remained silent and still. No one emerged from the gates, nor was anyone seen on the battlements. No one fled into the hills. No fires broke out. It was as if the place was abandoned and uninhabited. Only a thickening of the dust haze above the buildings hinted at the destruction that must have taken place. By the time the light faded nearly all the bombs in the ammunition store had been fired away, and there was a tone of disappointment in the gunner’s voice as he called a halt to his bombardment.

Piecourt ordered the oarsmen to row a safer distance offshore and there the St Gerassimus dropped anchor.

Black with powder smoke and half deaf, Hector and his two companions returned to their oar bench and were shackled in place. ‘We did more damage to the galley than the town, I think,’ said Hector quietly.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Dan.

‘The rambade shuddered badly every time the mortar fired. It was worse after we increased the charge in the mortar’s chamber. The deck planks started to lift. By evening the beams under them also were loose. When Bourdon and I went aft to fetch more powder from the magazine, the water in the bilge was rising faster than usual. I’m surprised that no one else noticed.’

‘Perhaps they did and they kept their mouths shut. The officers were all too far away, and the rest of the petty officers are too frightened of Piecourt to interfere. He seemed to enjoy bombarding the town. He’s someone who relishes other people’s discomfort even if it’s only at a distance. I doubt that the townsfolk enjoyed their day.’

‘I wouldn’t be surprised if the galley was being shaken to pieces,’ said Hector. ‘I’ve seen a galley built and know how fragile the joints are. Once the main fastenings give way, there’s little to stop the vessel falling apart.’

‘What would you say are our chances of surviving in that town,’ muttered Bourdon. He was shaking his head from side to side, still trying to clear his hearing, and staring towards the distant land.

‘I expect they would hang us from the walls after the damage we’ve been inflicting.’

‘Not if they knew we had been forced to our work.’

‘And how would you get there?’

‘I’d go for a swim right now if it wasn’t so far,’ said Bourdon with a wink and shook his sleeve. One of the gunner’s work tools dropped into his hand. It was the thin spike used for cleaning out the touch hole of the mortar. ‘Never seen a better picklock. I lifted it from his tool bag when he was packing up, and he’ll not miss it until the morning. I could have us loose in no time at all.’ He folded his fingers over the implement, and when he opened his hand again, the tool had disappeared as if by magic. ‘Told you I was a good pickpocket,’ he said, a confident grin on his branded face.

Piecourt’s whistle blew the signal for the galeriens to take their rest, but Hector found it difficult to go to sleep. He lay there, thinking whether it would be madness to take up Bourdon’s suggestion of an escape and – as always – whether he would ever be able to track down Elizabeth. He shifted uncomfortably on the wooden deck and looked up at the sky and noted that the stars had vanished. The heavens had clouded over. From time to time he heard the tread of Piecourt or one of the sous comites walking the coursier as they carried out their night patrol, and he heard the call of the sailor on watch on the rambade, reporting all was well. As the hours passed, Hector became aware of a gradual change in the motion of the anchored galley as she tugged at her cable. St Gerassimus was beginning to pitch and roll. The noise of the waves increased. Pressing his ear against the deck planking Hector was sure that the sound of the bilge water swirling back and forth was louder. He sensed a general discomfort spreading among the galeriens as they slept or dozed all around him. Little by little he became aware of men waking up, and he heard the sound of retching as those with weak stomachs began to succumb to seasickness. He sat up and listened. The voice of the wind was definitely louder. A large swell passed under the galley and made her lurch. He heard raised voices. They came from the foredeck, and almost immediately there was the sound of Piecourt’s whistle. It was the order to man the sweeps. He struggled to his feet and sat down on the bench, his ankle chain tugging painfully. Fumbling in the darkness, he joined his companions in freeing the handle of the great sweep from its lashings, and sat ready to take a stroke. It would not be easy. Now St Gerassimus was rolling heavily in the waves, and with each minute the motion of the galley was growing wilder. Piecourt’s whistle sounded again. Hector and the other oarsmen took a long steady stroke, then another, and tried to set a rhythm. There were shouts from the foredeck, and he heard the command for the rambade crew to hoist anchor. In reply there were yells and curses, and a surge of water passed across his naked feet. He detected a note of alarm, even panic.

The galley was definitely in some sort of trouble. Hector tried to make sense of the sailors’ shouts. Farther aft a sous comite was shouting. He was ordering three benches of galeriens to set aside their oars and man the pumps. The anchor must have been raised, for he felt the galley slew sideways, and there was a sudden tremor as she fell aslant the waves. Hector and his bench mates nearly lost their footing as the galley canted over so far that they were unable to reach the water with their blades, but rowed in the air. A moment later the galley had tilted in the opposite direction, and their blades were buried so deep it was impossible to work them. The chaos increased. In the darkness men missed their strokes, slipped and fell. Piecourt’s insistent whistle cut through the darkness, again and again, but it was useless. Rowing was impossible.

The wind strengthened further. It was keening in the rigging, a thin, nagging screech. St Gerassimus rolled helplessly. Someone shouted out an order to hoist sail, but was immediately countermanded by another voice which said that this was too dangerous, that the main spar would tear the mast out of its step. Sailors ran aimlessly up and down the coursier, until a petty officer roared angrily at them.

Gradually the sky grew lighter, bringing a cold, grey dawn and a vista of angry waves racing down from the north. The galley was in real distress. Designed for calm waters, she was unable to hold up against the force of the sea. She was drifting helplessly, no longer controlled by her crew. Hector looked downwind. The galley was perhaps two miles away from land, though he did not recognise the coast. The gale must have driven her sideways during darkness. He saw a bleak expanse of bare mountain, a narrow beach, and the sea thrashing into foam on a coral shelf that reached out from the shore towards them.

‘Let go the bow anchor again!’ bellowed Piecourt. ‘And bring the main anchor up on deck and made ready. Fetch up the main cable!’

A seaman on the rambade leaned out over the sea, knife in hand, and cut free the lashings which held the smaller bow anchor in place so that it plunged into the sea. Half a dozen of his mates ran back along the coursier and opened the hatch leading to the aft hold where the main anchor had been stowed. Two more men squeezed down into the cable locker in the bows where the galley’s main hawser was kept only to reappear a moment later, wild-eyed with fear. ‘She’s sprung her bow planks,’ their leader shouted. ‘She’s taking water fast!’ Hardly had the words been uttered than the men who had gone aft also re-emerged on deck. ‘There’s four feet of water in the bilge,’ someone cried. ‘We’ll never be able to get the main anchor up.’

Piecourt reacted coolly. ‘Get back down in the cable locker,’ he snapped. ‘Find that main cable and bring it up.’ The frightened sailors obeyed, and returned, dragging the end of the six-inch main hawser. ‘Now fasten it to that bitch of a mortar, and fasten it well,’ the comite told them, ‘and bring levers and a sledgehammer.’ His men did as they were ordered, and soon the mortar was trussed up in a nest of rope. ‘Now break the gun free! Smash the bolts and planks if need be,’ urged Piecourt, ‘then dump the cannon overboard!’ Working in grim silence the men attacked the fastenings that held the mortar in place. It took them nearly twenty minutes to loosen the gun so that they could take advantage of a sudden tilting of the deck and slide the monstrous cannon and its carriage overboard. It disappeared into the sea with a hollow, plunging sound that could be heard even over the roar of the gale. The hawser ran out, then slowed as the mortar struck the sea bed. The sailors secured the hawser, and the galley felt the drag of the monstrous cannon so she slowly turned her bow towards the waves and hung there, no longer drifting helplessly down on to the coast.

Hector had to admire Piecourt’s composure. The premier comite eased himself into the cable locker to see the extent of the leak for himself, then calmly made his way along the coursier to the poop deck where Hector saw him confer with the ship’s officers. Next, Piecourt beckoned to the foredeck crew who also went aft and began to unship the galley’s rowing boats from their cradles above the oar benches. The galley heaved and wallowed but eventually the two boats were hoisted out and lowered into the water where they rose and fell, bumping wildly against the galley’s side. It was when the sailors and several of the warders, the argousins, climbed into the boats, and were joined by the artillery man and the officers from the poop deck, that Hector realised they were abandoning ship.

The other galeriens realised it too. A low moan arose from the oar benches interspersed with angry shouts. Piecourt spoke quietly to the remaining warders who loaded their muskets and stood to face the oar benches. The two boats, filled with men, pushed off and began to pull for the shore. Their course was downwind, and within minutes the men were scrambling out of the boats and splashing up on land while the oarsmen turned and began to row back out to the galley. Their return trip was slower, and by the time they reached the St Gerassimus, the water which had been around Hector’s ankles was now up to his knees. Whatever injury the galley had suffered, she was sinking fast

The boats made two more trips to the beach and soon there was no one left on the poop deck except Piecourt, the rowing master and half a dozen armed argousins. Just before mid-morning the galley was awash, the sea lapping the tops of the oar benches, and the galeriens were frantic. They swore and pleaded, raged and wept, tugged at their chains. Piecourt gazed at them pale-eyed and utterly implacable. ‘May you rot in hell,’ one of the oarsmen shouted. ‘No,’ called the premier comite. It was the first word he had spoken directly to the benches. ‘It is you, you infidels and heretics, who will suffer torments. I shall not even think of you.’ He lifted from his belt the ring of the heavy keys for the padlocks on the oar benches, held it up for all to see, and deliberately tossed it into the waves. Then he turned, stepped into the boat and gestured at his men to row for shore.

Spray from a wave crest wetted the back of Hector’s neck. In front of him was a piteous sight – the heads and naked torsos of two hundred galeriens glistening above the waves as they stood on their benches and tried to escape the rising water. Flotsam, odd lengths of timber, a galerien’s cloak half filled with air so it floated, all drifted past him. Beside him, Bourdon blurted, ‘I dared not move while those swine argousins were watching. I’d have been shot. Let me have some slack on that chain so I can try to get at the padlock.’ Irgun, the big Turk, reached sideways, seized the padlock where it was attached to the coursier and held it steady. The galley was so low in the water now that every wave submerged the padlock, and sea water gushed out of the keyhole as it reappeared. Bourdon lay prone across his companions and began to feel inside the padlock with the tip of the spike. He choked as a wave crest filled his mouth, then closed his eyes as if asleep as he concentrated on feeling for the levers within the lock. Twice the spike slipped out, and once the point stabbed into Irgun’s fist. The big Turk did not flinch. Finally Bourdon withdrew the tool, bent the thin tip at a right angle, then plunged it deeper and gave it a twist. The padlock popped open.

‘Well done!’ blurted Hector, the pressure on his ankle chain suddenly relieved. He took a deep breath and bent forward, head underwater. He groped for the heavy bench chain, pulling it clear of his leg irons. To his right he felt Karp do the same. Coughing and spluttering all five men scrambled up on to the coursier whose top was already being lapped by the waves. ‘Help us!’ screamed an oarsman from a neighbouring bench. Bourdon turned and handed him the spike. ‘You’ll have to help yourself,’ he shouted back. ‘There’s too little time.’

Hector looked around him. Amidships the galley was entirely underwater. Only the poop deck and the rambade were above the waves. The rambade was only a few paces away. Hitching up his leg chain to his belt hook, he shuffled on to it.

‘What do we do now?’ asked Bourdon, looking at the distant shore. ‘It’s too far to swim. Our leg irons will drag us down. They’ll be the death of us.’

‘Not if you do as I show you.’ It was Dan who spoke. He crossed to where the empty gunpowder kegs were still lashed in place. Selecting a barrel, he unbuckled his heavy galerien belt, wrapped it around the keg, and cinched it tight. ‘Hold the barrel in your arms, sideways like this, and jump overboard. When you’re in the water, make sure you get the centre link of your leg chain on to the belt’s hook. Then push down with both feet. It’ll be like riding in stirrups. The barrel should take your weight. Don’t try to swim, just concentrate on staying upright, clutching the barrel, and the wind and waves will carry you ashore.’

With that, he jumped into the sea, holding the barrel against his chest.

Hector watched his friend come back to the surface, the keg in his arms dipping this way and that, spinning and turning in the water so that one moment Dan was on the surface, the next he was beneath the sea. But soon Dan had found his balance and could be seen leaning forward across the keg, with his face far enough out of the water so that he could breathe. The barrel gyrated slowly as it drifted towards the shore. ‘Come on. Hurry!’ he shouted back at his companions, and one after another they leaped into the sea.

IRGUN DID NOT reach the shore. Perhaps he was too heavy to be supported by an empty keg or it filled with water and sank, or he failed to secure his leg chain on the belt hook. But Hector, Bourdon and Karp drifted into the shallows where Dan was waiting to assist them on to land. ‘What made you think of that?’ asked Hector. He was shaking with exhaustion as he sat down on the beach to rest. ‘Our canoes at home,’ said the Miskito. ‘I told you how we turn them the right way up after they capsize. But it’s not always possible. So if the wind and waves are right, a sensible fisherman just hangs on and waits until he is blown ashore. That’s if the sharks don’t take him.’

‘I’ve never seen a shark. If there are any in this region, they’ll soon be feasting on those poor wretches,’ said Hector. He was looking back towards the galley. All that was now visible of the St Gerassimus was a section of the outrigger which had once supported her great sweeps and the blades of several oars pointing to the sky like enormous spines. The galley must have capsized while he and the others were coming ashore. That way, he thought to himself, the galeriens chained on board would have drowned more quickly than if the vessel had settled on an even keel. He had scarcely known any of them, yet a sense of great weariness and gloom oppressed him.

A touch on his arm abruptly brought him back to his surroundings. Karp was pointing up the beach and making an alarmed snuffling sound. A man was walking towards them. For a moment Hector thought he might be another survivor from the wreck, because he was wearing what looked like a galerien’s long hooded cloak. But the stranger’s garment was loose and grey, not brown. Then he saw other men, similarly dressed, cautiously making their way down the rocky hillside behind the beach.

‘Greetings,’ Hector called out, getting to his feet and forcing a weary smile. He spoke first in lingua franca, then in Turkish, but received no answer.

The group of strangers, about a dozen men, came closer, and stopped a few yards away. They were Moorish-looking but with paler skins. Most kept up the hoods of their cloaks, but those who did not, had shaven heads except for a long lock of hair which hung down the back of their scalps. They wore thin fillets of leather across their foreheads. Only a few carried old-fashioned muskets. They stared at Hector and his companions.

‘Greetings,’ he tried again. ‘Can you help us, please?’

One of the strangers said something to his companions in a language Hector did not understand.

Then, to Hector’s surprise, Dan intervened. He spoke slowly and haltingly, choosing his words carefully. The man who seemed to be the leader of the group replied and the two of them exchanged a few sentences.

‘Who are they?’ Hector asked his friend. ‘And what is that language you are speaking?’

‘They call themselves amazigh, “the free people”, Dan replied. ‘Several of the gardeners who worked with me in the gardens of Algiers spoke the same language, or something very similar. I can’t understand everything they say, but they are from a village in the hills. Apparently they saw the galley in difficulties and came down to the beach to investigate if there was anything to salvage. They were frightened of the armed men who came ashore earlier in the boats so they kept out of sight.’

‘That must have been Piecourt with the ship’s officers and the other sailors.’

‘Apparently they went off along the beach, and turned inland. The amazigh said that they won’t get far. Their clan chief lives in that direction and they’ll fall into his hands.’

‘So what about us?’

‘They’ve recognised that we are slaves from the galley, and I’ve told them that you and I are Muslims. If they’re like my workmates at the masseries, they’re also followers of the Prophet.’

‘What about Bourdon and Karp?’

‘I didn’t say anything about them. The amazigh seem friendly enough. They’re taking us to their village. Once we’re there, they’ll get the village blacksmith to remove our leg irons.’

The climb through the foothills was almost more than the four castaways could manage. The land rose steeply, one rocky slope succeeding another, the narrow footpath twisting and turning its way along dried-up watercourses and then up screes of fallen rock. Occasionally they passed clumps of pine trees, and beside the track Hector noted plants he remembered from his days in Algiers – wild lavender, purple thyme and white rock roses. Eventually, when the sea was far below them, their guides led them into a small settlement made up of single-storey houses, their walls of unmortared stones. In the centre of the village a mountain spring had been diverted through wooden pipes to splash into a stone trough placed in the shade of a venerable cedar tree. Here the village blacksmith knocked out the rivets that closed the ankle rings on the visitors’ legs, demanding no payment except that he keep the metal for himself, and the village headman asked Dan to go with him the following day to meet with the clan’s council of elders. They would decide what was to be done with the castaways. In the meantime they were his guests.

Dan and the headman left long before daybreak, and Hector and Karp waited all morning for his return, seated in the village square and watching Bourdon entertain the village children with sleight of hand, making pigeon eggs and other small objects appear and disappear. Trying to remember what he had learned from Turgut Reis’s maps and charts, Hector broke off a twig and was drawing in the dust so that he could work out where St Gerassimus had sunk. He had made a rough outline of the Mediterranean when, unexpectedly, Karp took the twig from his hand and scratched a mark to the north of Constantinople, then pointed to his chest

‘Is that where you come from, Karp?’ Hector asked. His companion nodded, then clumsily drew some letters in the dust. Hector managed to puzzle them out.

‘You are a Bulgar?’ he asked. Again Karp nodded, and held out his hands, the wrists close together. ‘You were taken prisoner?’ Again the nod. ‘Where was that?’ Karp looked down at the map in the dust and, hesitantly, placed his finger at its eastern end. ‘In the Holy Land?’ This time Karp shook his head, and drew some more letters in the dust. They read ‘Kan—’. Hector stopped him. ‘You were taken prisoner at Kandia?’

Turgut Reis had told him all about the siege and fall of Kandia. It was a famous victory for the Turks. As a galley commander Turgut had witnessed the final capitulation of the city to the forces of the Sultan. It had taken the Turks fourteen years of siege to bring Kandia to its knees, and they had allowed the defenders, Venetians and their allies, to leave after handing over the keys of the city.

‘But the Christians were given free passage out of the city, were they not?’ Hector commented. In response, Karp opened his mouth, pointed to the mangled root of his missing tongue, and made an angry gurgling noise as he shook his head.

‘The Turks tore out your tongue?’ Now Karp was really agitated. He shook his head furiously from side to side. ‘If it was not the Turks, then who did that you?’ asked Hector gently. He hoped to calm the Bulgar. To his astonishment, Karp got to his feet, drew a cross in the dust, and deliberately stamped down on it.

The sound of distant musket shots prevented further questions. There was a flurry of consternation in the village. The women and children rushed inside their houses to hide. The menfolk grabbed up their guns and ran to take up position to cover the approaches to the village. But when the volley of musket shots was repeated, it must have been some sort of announcement because the men relaxed and began to gather in the square, looking expectantly towards the path that led up from the coast. After a little while Hector was relieved to see Dan appear. He was accompanied by the headman and a distinguished-looking elder whom Hector guessed must be the clan chief. But what caught Hector’s attention was the armed escort following on their heels – a dozen fierce-looking Negroes carrying spears and muskets. With them was a white man dressed in a long gown of red satin decorated with lines of pink silk ribbons tied in bows. His rapier hung from a wide baldrick of red brocade, and he was wearing a wide-brimmed hat embellished with a white ostrich plume.

This flamboyant apparition strode towards Hector and his companions and announced formally, ‘In the name of the Emperor, I summon you to attend on His Majesty, Moulay Ismail.’ To Hector’s stupefaction this command was delivered in Spanish.

‘HIS NAME IS Luis Diaz and he’s an officer in the army of the Sultan of Morocco,’ explained Dan some time later when the two friends had a chance to talk together privately. ‘The amazigh are tributaries of the Sultan, and Diaz and the soldiers were on a tax-collecting mission among them when he heard about the wreck of the galley. He wanted to interview the survivors about the bombs dropped on the town. He showed up while the amazigh council of elders were still discussing what to do with the other survivors from the St Gerassimus whom they had picked up.’

‘News travels fast,’ observed Hector.

‘The mortar bombardment was a sensation. Everyone’s talking about a wonder weapon.’

‘And did Diaz learn anything?’

‘Piecourt is in charge of the survivors, and is claiming to know nothing about the mortar. He said that the St Gerassimus’s commander and all the ship’s senior officers had taken the two small boats in order to go along the coast and try to reach a friendly port to fetch help, and the bomb technician had gone with him. There was not enough room in the boats to carry all the survivors so the premier comite had been left in charge of the land party.’

‘I wonder where the boats were heading.’

‘Piecourt didn’t say. He and the rowing master were there with a dozen sailors and several petty officers, some of whom I didn’t recognise. They weren’t at all pleased to see Diaz. They had already asked me if I could persuade the amazigh to send word to Algiers, to the Jewish ransom brokers there, about their plight. Piecourt even offered me a reward if I could arrange this.’

‘Well, all that’s changed now. I have the impression that the amazigh will do whatever the Sultan or Emperor, however he styles himself, wants.’

‘No doubt about it. They made no objection when Diaz told them that he was taking charge of survivors from the galley. He said they were his prisoners from now on, and he would be sending them to the imperial capital at Meknes to be questioned.’

‘And does that include us?’

‘I expect we will be better treated. The amazigh informed Diaz that we had been slaves aboard the galley. Apparently convicted criminals and runaway slaves from other countries are given their freedom once they reach the Emperor’s territory, provided they can make themselves useful.’ Dan hesitated. ‘Hector, there’s something else you should know, though you may not like what you hear.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Hector.

‘The Emperor accepts tax from the amazigh not just in cash but in kind. If the amazigh cannot pay in cash or goods, they sometimes offer their young women for the Sultan’s harem. They pick out the girls with the palest complexions. The Sultan has a special liking for women with fair skins. He also buys them from the corsairs. In Meknes you may be able to trace what has happened to your sister.’