Corsair

SEVENTEEN

‘I THOUGHT YOU WERE going to get your neck broken,’ grumbled Diaz as he hurried Hector and the others away. ‘Moulay is not usually so forbearing. He’s like those cats of his. You never know what he is thinking and which way he will jump. He’ll toy with a victim for hours before pouncing. Then it’s all over in a moment.’

They were returning through the palace compound by a route that took them towards an area of large, square buildings with the appearance of storehouses and depositories. ‘I think you were saved by the fact that you come from Ireland. I dare say Moulay’s met very few people from that country, and when you appeared in front of him to answer about this miraculous new gun and said you were Irish, he must have thought that fate had taken a hand. His master gun founder is an Irishman. He’s been casting cannon or repairing Moulay’s artillery for years, and he’s very popular with those of us who like to celebrate now and then, because he’s allowed to keep large stocks of alcohol. He claims it’s an essential ingredient for his craft. Ah! There he is, the small man in the leather apron just coming out of the foundry.’

Hector saw a stooped, white-haired figure emerge from the nearest of the buildings, wipe his face with a cloth, then stand in the open, fanning himself. His clothes were soaked with sweat.

‘Greetings Sean,’ called Diaz. ‘I’ve got some helpers for you. By order of the Emperor himself.’

The gun founder looked at them placidly. Hector judged him to be about sixty years old. Beneath his shock of white hair he had clear grey eyes in a face permanently discoloured with ingrained grime, and his hands and bare forearms were marked with dozens of small burns and scars. The gun founder coughed to clear his throat, spat carefully and wiped his face again before replying.

‘Help’s always welcome,’ he said, looking Hector and his companions over. Hector noted that his voice, like all his movements, was calm and unhurried. His Spanish was slow and deliberate. ‘What are they meant to do?’

‘Explain to you about some sort of new artillery the Emperor wants copied,’ said Diaz cheerfully. ‘This is Hector. He’s a countryman of yours.’

‘Is he indeed?’ responded the old man and, addressing Hector, said, ‘I’m Sean Allen from Meath though it’s a long time since I was there. And yourself?’

‘Hector Lynch from Cork County, and these are my friends: Dan is from the Caribees, Jacques Bourdon from Paris, and Karp is a Bulgar, though he’s a mute.’

The gun founder shot Karp an amused glance and said, ‘He’s a silent bugger, so?’ No one understood the quip and he added, ‘Buggers or bugres, that’s what you call someone who’s awkward. It’s on account of so many Bulgars being troublemakers. Something to do with their religion. They are said to be extreme heretics. Not that I care.’

He paused to wipe his brow again.

‘I saw enough bigotry back home when I was at the siege of Limerick with Cromwell’s son-in-law, Ireton. I minded and mended his cannon for him, and what he did to those who led the resistance sickened me and I left poor unhappy Ireland. Since then I’ve served the Sultan in Istanbul, the Bey of Tunis, and now the Emperor of Morocco. They all need guns and will employ those who have the knowledge to make them. Now tell me about this artillery I’m supposed to copy. What’s so special about it?’

‘I don’t know the technical details,’ Hector answered, ‘but it’s a short, fat gun which shot flaming bombs in the air and they fell into a town and exploded.’

‘Nothing new there,’ said the gun founder, now mopping the back of his neck with the cloth. ‘Mortars have been used for years. Ireton had four of them when we besieged Limerick, and a Hungarian built a truly enormous one for the Grand Turk when he besieged Constantinople and that was two centuries ago. I saw his great mortar on display in the city. It was so big that it shot stone cannonballs that weighed five hundred pounds. Mind you, it must have taken the stonemasons a month of Sundays to chip and shape each cannonball so it fitted right. Not exactly a rapid rate of fire.’

‘The gun we saw used ready-made hollow shells of metal fitted with different sorts of fuses. Some worked, others didn’t. The gun was mounted on a galley, and that’s why we are here. It shook the galley to pieces.’ Hector stopped talking, conscious that he had said something which had caught the gun founder’s attention.

‘A mortar carried on a ship. That’s different altogether,’ Allen said thoughtfully. ‘Some clown failed to compensate for the recoil. It would need a different sort of carriage from the usual one for land guns, something that would allow the downward thrust to be converted to a sideways motion. I heard that a Dutchman – Coehorn I think is his name – has come up with an improved mortar, perhaps that is what was being used on board that ship.’ He was half talking to himself, imagining the practical problems of his new commission from the Emperor, and Diaz had to interrupt him. ‘Sean, I’ve got to get back to my own billet. I’ll leave your new helpers with you. I presume you can find space for the extra members of your team.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said the gun founder absent-mindedly, ‘I’ll see that they are looked after.’

Allen turned towards the building behind him, and pulled open the door. His visitors quailed at the blast of heat though the gun founder seemed to be oblivious to the temperature as he led Hector and the others inside. ‘This is the foundry itself,’ he explained, as they stepped around a mass of glowing metal in a pit. ‘We had a pour a few hours ago and are waiting for the metal to cool down. It’s nothing special, just a small brass culverin. The Emperor likes to boast that he has a full-sized gun foundry, but in fact we haven’t the facilities to make anything much bigger than this. Most of our work is repairing damaged cannon or casting round shot and grape for his field artillery. A ten-pound ball is heavy enough to knock down the mud walls of the forts that the tribes build for themselves in the interior. But a true siege cannon, like the weapon you are talking about, is another matter altogether.’

He had reached the far end of the foundry, and passing through a double door and then across the narrow lane he brought his visitors into an even larger building. It was an arms depot. Here were rack upon rack of sabres and muskets, trays of pistols, bundles of pikes and an array of blunderbusses. Clusters of bandoliers hung on pegs, and disposed here and there on the floor were heaps of body armour, corselets, greaves, and helmets of many different styles and in varying condition. ‘The Emperor hates to have any war material thrown away,’ confided the gun founder. ‘Half of this stuff is so antiquated as to be useless, like that arquebus over there. But when Moulay comes on an inspection he’ll suddenly ask to see some piece of equipment which he remembers from months earlier, and there’s all hell to pay if it can’t be produced immediately. You there!’ He called out to a lad who was replacing an old-fashioned Spanish helmet in a chest. ‘Don’t put it in like that. Wrap it first in paper so it keeps its gleam.’ Hector noted that the gun founder had spoken in English. ‘Does everyone in the foundry use English?’ he asked. ‘I should hope so,’ answered the Irishman. ‘I’ve got a score of youngsters working here for me, and every one of them is English. It’s another quirk of Moulay’s. Every time his people capture an English youngster, the lad is assigned to work with me in the Arsenal. My guess is that Moulay thinks the English make the best gun founders and gunsmiths.’

‘And do they?’ Hector enquired.

‘Depends who you speak to. The French gun foundries at Liège are among the most advanced in the world, and the Spaniards would claim that they make the finest musket locks. The Italians write well about the theory of gunnery; while the Dutch are great innovators. And from what I witnessed in the Grand Seignor’s foundry outside Istanbul, I can assure you that the Turkish topcus as they call their gun founders are no slouches.’

They entered a room, clearly Allen’s office, which was partitioned off from the rest of the armoury. Looking around, Hector noticed a shelf of books and pamphlets on the art of gun founding and the manufacture of powder and rockets. Sean Allen carefully closed the door of the study behind them, opened a cupboard and took out a large green glass flask and several glasses. ‘One of the privileges of my post,’ he explained, as he removed the stopper from the flask and began to pour. ‘It’s a blessing that the making of incendiaries can require spirits of alcohol. Take the repair of spoilt gunpowder, its restoration as you might call it. We get a great quantity of bad gunpowder brought to us. Either it got wet while on campaign with the Emperor’s army, or maybe it was captured out of some foreign ship and we find that it got damp from lying in a ship’s hold for too long. The Emperor is very pleased to receive such tribute, but unless the gunpowder is repaired it is useless. So what do we do?’

The gun founder took a gulp from his glass, walked over to the bookshelf, and took down a volume. It was written in Latin and entitled The Great Art of Artillery. Clearly Allen was an educated man.

‘It’s all written up here,’ continued the gunsmith. ‘We make up an elixir of two parts brandy with one measure each of white wine vinegar and purified saltpetre, and add half measures of oils of sulphur and samphire. Then we sprinkle the elixir over the damaged powder and put it out in the sun to dry. When the powder is completely dried out we package it again in barrels, and place it in dry store. Then it’s as good as new.’ He closed the book with a snap and took another mouthful of his drink. ‘Of course there’s always brandy left over, and it’s amazing what a thirst a man works up when he is in the heat of a gun foundry.’

Noticing that Hector had barely touched his glass of brandy he went on, ‘Drink up! Surely you’re not an abstainer. That would be a disappointment, what with your coming from the old country.’

‘No,’ replied Hector, ‘Dan and I did profess Islam when we were slaves in Algiers but that was under duress. And anyhow we saw plenty of Turks who came to drink in the bagnio’s taverns. Neither of us care much for religion.’

‘Very understandable. Half the captives here in Morocco take up Islam just to make life more bearable. It’s mostly the fanatics who refuse.’ The gun founder produced paper and pen from his desk. ‘Now, give me a description of the mortar that you saw on the galley.’

‘Maybe it will be easier if Dan draws a picture of it for you,’ suggested Hector. ‘He’s good with pen and ink.’

‘All right, then,’ answered Allen, handing the pen to the Miskito and he watched as Dan quickly sketched out the mortar and its sledge. ‘Ah! I see the fault. The gun carriage was wrong. If it had been designed so that the mortar rolled back when it was fired, and was not pinned in place, it would not have shattered the foredeck. Perhaps a rocker or a curved slope to absorb the recoil would have done the trick.’ Taking back the pen from Dan, he quickly drew an improved gun carriage. ‘That’s one problem likely solved,’ he said, ‘but that’s not what the Emperor wants. He’s after those exploding bombs, and as noisy and spectacular as possible. Can you tell me anything about them?’

‘They were about twelve inches in diameter and a perfect globe,’ answered Hector, ‘except for the hole where they were filled and fused. At that point there was a collar like the neck of your brandy flask though much shorter. The globes were already packed with gunpowder when they were loaded on the galley, but if one of them needed topping up, we poured in more gunpowder through the hole, then plugged it with one of the fuses.’ He went on to describe the different fuses that were tested, and finally added, ‘The bombs had small handles on each side of the fuse so when Karp and I were loading them into the mortar, we could get a grip to lift them. Each bomb must have weighed maybe forty pounds.’

Allen looked pensive. ‘I imagine the hollow globes were cast, and not made from wrought iron. Cast iron bursts with more destructive power, throwing smaller shards of metal and doing more damage. But the thickness of the wall of the globe has to be just right, and the gunpowder inside calculated nicely, as well as being of the highest quality.’ He sighed, ‘And that is going to be my main problem here. Getting hold of the right powder to make the bombs. As I said, much of the stuff we hold in stock here is repaired powder, and that would never do.’

‘I worked in a quarry once, in Algiers,’ ventured Hector, ‘and I remember how the ordinary corned powder was unreliable. The powder we used on the galley to top up the bombs, as well as for the charges inside the mortar, was fine-grained and very black.’

‘Would you recognise it again if you saw it?’ asked Allen.

‘I think so.’

‘Then come with me,’ said the gun founder. ‘You others can stay here and pour yourselves some more drinks. We won’t be long.’

Allen took Hector to a low, squat, windowless building, half sunk in the ground and made with immensely thick walls of stone. Unlocking a heavy wooden door, he led the young Irishman inside the gunpowder magazine. It was two-thirds empty, with perhaps a hundred barrels and kegs of gunpowder set out on the earth floor.

Allen crossed to the farthest corner where a single small keg stood by itself. Tipping it on its side, he rolled it nearer to the daylight from the open door, and removed the plug. He poured a small quantity of its gunpowder into the palm of his hand and held it out for Hector to see. ‘Is that the sort of stuff you used on the galley’s mortar?’ he asked.

Hector looked at the little heap of black grains. ‘Yes, or something very like it.’

‘Thought so. That’s French powder. Best-quality pistol powder, hard to find,’ he grunted. He replaced the bung, rolled the keg back into its place, and ushered Hector out of the magazine. As Allen carefully locked the door behind him, Hector asked, ‘Will you be able to get more of that powder? Enough for the bombs?’

‘We can’t make that quality here and my supplier is, you might say, irregular,’ Allen replied. He gave a hiccup, and Hector realised that the gun founder was slightly tipsy. ‘He’s a corsair who calls in at Sallee. Mostly he operates in the Atlantic, off the Spanish coast or as far north as the Channel. Sallee is convenient for him whenever he has interesting goods to sell. He’s a countryman of ours who took the turban as you did, though rather more seriously. Name of Hakim Reis.’

Hector felt his spine tingle.

‘Hakim Reis.’ he repeated. ‘He’s the corsair who took me captive.’

‘Don’t hold that against him. Man-catching is a good slice of his profession, and he’s a decent enough sort.’

Hector tried to keep his voice steady. ‘Will there be any chance of meeting him?’

Allen gave him a shrewd look. ‘Not thinking of taking revenge, are you? I wouldn’t recommend it.’

‘No, no. I just wanted to ask him some questions. When do you think Hakim Reis will next be here?’

‘Impossible to say. He comes and goes as it suits him. He might show up next week, next month or perhaps never again if he’s been sunk at sea or died of the plague. But one thing about him is that if war is declared, he seems to be early on the scene, and the first to come into port with the spoils.’

Hector thought furiously as he tried to find another thread that might lead him to locating Hakim Reis. ‘That powder he sells to the Emperor. Where does he get it?’

‘I’d say he has good contacts on the Spanish coast. There are plenty of small bays and inlets where you can meet up with people willing to sell war material to the highest bidder, and never mind where the guns and powder finish up.’

‘But you said that was French-made gunpowder. How would he obtain that?’

‘Gunpowder’s a valuable commodity. It could have changed hands several times, passed from smuggler to smuggler until it reaches someone like Hakim Reis who has a ready market for it.’

‘And you have no idea who any of these smugglers might be, and whether they know where to find him?’

The gun founder looked at Hector searchingly. ‘Why so keen to meet Hakim Reis?’

‘He may be able to help me locate a member of my family – my sister. She was also taken captive, and I’ve heard nothing of her since. I promised myself I would find her.’

Allen pondered for a moment, and when he spoke his tone was sympathetic. ‘I wish I could help you. I’ve known Hakim since the early days when he used to come in with shoddy muskets to sell. I did ask him on one occasion whether he could get me a further delivery of best powder, and he said he’d consult with someone he called Tisonne, or maybe he said Tison, I can’t remember exactly. But he never mentioned the name again, and I’ve never heard of it, not in these parts anyhow. And if Tisonne or Tison is a professional smuggler, it could be his cover name, not his real one. Then he’ll be even more difficult to locate than Hakim himself.’

Hector and the gun founder had arrived back in the armoury where they found Dan examining a musket from the display. ‘What do you think of it?’ asked Allen.

‘This is exactly the sort of gun we have at home among my people. I hadn’t expected to find one here. The weapon must be at least fifty years old. It still uses the old-fashioned matchlock,’ observed the Miskito.

‘Indeed it does. Have you worked with guns?’

‘Back home, and for a brief period in the workshops of King Louis’s Galley Corps in Marseilles.’

The gun founder gave a grunt of satisfaction. ‘You’ve just talked yourself into a job. Rather than helping me concoct exploding bombs, it will be more use if you could supervise these English lads here in the armoury. Show them how to repair the older weapons. Your French friend and the silent bugger can help you. Meanwhile Hector can assist me in providing Moulay with his castle smasher.’

‘Perhaps I could start by interviewing the other survivors from the galley,’ suggested Hector. ‘They should reach Meknes in the next few days, and I could ask them for more information. They might cooperate if they think it will help obtain their early release. Moulay has already appointed me as the go-between to arrange their ransom.’

‘That’s just the sort of quirky idea that would entertain the Emperor,’ Allen agreed. ‘Our friend Diaz will be able to tell us when the prisoners from the galley arrive and where they will be held. He stops by here most evenings as he and his cronies are fond of my brandy.’

IN THE END it was several more days before Diaz reported that comite Piecourt and the other captives from the St Gerassimus had arrived in Meknes. They had been added to the palace labour force, and were being held in the cells built into the arches under the causeway leading to the royal stables. The following evening when all slaves would have returned from their work, Hector set off to find his former masters. Walking along the line of twenty-four arches, he caught sight of the unmistakable figure of Yakup, the rowing master. The renegade Turk was squatting against one of the stone pillars supporting the roadway above. He was stripped to the waist and had tilted his head back against the stonework. The distinctive fork-tailed cross branded on his forehead was clearly visible. As Hector approached, two men emerged from the archway, deep in conversation. One was a tall, ascetic-looking figure and Hector did not recognise him. The other had a pale skin and close-cropped sandy hair. It was Piecourt. Both were dressed in the loose tunic and cotton pantaloons worn by slaves. ‘Good evening, comite, I would like a word with you,’ said Hector quietly. Startled, Piecourt broke off his conversation and swung round towards him. As he did so, the slanting rays of the evening sun fell square on his companion’s face and Hector saw that his otherwise handsome features were marred by a scattering of small dark blue spots spread across his right cheek from just below his eye to the jaw line. ‘Who are you?’ asked Piecourt. A moment later the light of recognition dawned in his eyes. ‘You are from the galley, aren’t you? Middle oarsman, bench three, port side.’

‘That’s correct, comite,’ said Hector. ‘But I am now in the employment of the gun founder to His Majesty Moulay Ismail.’

Piecourt’s mouth twisted in a sardonic smile. ‘Come to think of it, we’ve already met your bench companion, the brown man. He interviewed us when we were first captured. So more than one of my dogs have survived. What do you want?’

‘I need to interview the technician who looked after the mortar on St Gerassimus, also her captain and anyone else who can provide information about the gun.’

Piecourt was expressionless. ‘Then you will be disappointed. The technician and the captain are not here. After the galley foundered, the captain took the two ship’s boats and headed west along the coast, to seek help. The technician went with him.’

‘Is there anyone who could provide me with any information about the gun? It would help your case. The Emperor is disposed to look kindly on anyone who is cooperative.’

‘That is not enough reason for me or anyone else to help the infidel. On the contrary, you would be doing yourself a great favour, if you would send word to Algiers, to Iphrahim Cohen the Jewish ransom broker. Once he learns that we are being held here, he will arrange our release. As I already told your brown friend, you could earn yourself a handsome reward. Later you and your friends from bench three might even receive a royal pardon from His Majesty King Louis. I have friends who can arrange such things.’

‘It is too late for that, Piecourt. Moulay Ismail has already given orders for your ransom. I am to advise and consult with his own ransom broker, here in Meknes.’

The comite still seemed unperturbed. ‘We are not worth very much. There are only myself and the sous comites and a number of common sailors. The officers left in the boats. I repeat: the sooner you get word to Algiers, the more you will benefit.’

There was something about Piecourt’s manner which made Hector suspicious. The comite was hiding something.

‘I’ll take a moment to look around your cell,’ he said.

Piecourt shrugged. ‘You don’t need my permission.’

Stepping inside the cell, Hector was immediately brought back to his days in the Algiers bagnio. The far end of the archway had been blocked off with a wall of bricks, and the near entrance could be closed at night with double doors. The result was a narrow, high room where the only light and air came in through two small windows high up in the far wall. Looking about him, Hector was impressed with the cleanliness of the cell. The occupants were keeping it swept and there was no sign of rubbish. Everything was neatly in its place. It was evident that discipline among the occupants was very good. For their sleeping arrangements the Frenchmen had rigged up a series of bunks from lengths of timber and matting. Due to the height of the cell, these bunks extended upwards for four tiers, and the topmost could only be reached by climbing a ladder. Several of the beds were now occupied by men relaxing after their day’s work, while a group of another half a dozen were playing cards on a home-made table placed on the ground between the tiers. Among the card players were two sous comites who had been subordinate to Piecourt, and a sail handler who had worked on the rambade. They glanced at Hector incuriously before returning to their game. It occurred to him that the ship’s officers and freemen had known no more about galeriens toiling in the waist of the vessel than the latter had known about the occupants of the poop deck. And Piecourt had been right, there was no sign of the technician who could have answered questions about the mortar and its bombs.

As he left the cell, Hector saw that Piecourt had now deliberately placed himself so he could ignore his visitor. He was seated next to the rowing master and also leaning back against the pillar of the arch. The two of them had their eyes closed as they basked in the sun waiting for the time when the prisoners had to return to their cells and be locked in for the night. Their colleague with the speckled cheek was nowhere to be seen.

Walking back through the gathering darkness, Hector was troubled. There was something he had failed to notice during his visit to the prisoners. Piecourt had been too cool, too composed. It was almost as if, by his nonchalant indifference, he was trying to distract Hector’s attention.

He voiced his disquiet to Dan the following day. They were in the armoury where the Miskito was carefully examining the long barrel of an old-fashioned musket. At a work bench nearby Jacques Bourdon was dismantling the weapon’s obsolete firing mechanism. ‘Piecourt’s hiding something,’ said Hector, ‘or at least he was not telling me the truth.’

‘Hardly surprising,’ Dan replied. ‘In the bagnio, if you remember, it was wise to say as little as possible to strangers or anyone in authority in case you got yourself or a friend into trouble.’

‘But this was more than that. Piecourt deliberately discouraged any conversation with me. I have a suspicion that he knows one of the prisoners can supply information about the mortar but didn’t want me to identify who the man is.’

‘And you are sure the technician wasn’t there?’

‘Definitely. I had a good look round and couldn’t see him anywhere, though I did recognise one of the men who normally worked on the rambade.’

‘I doubt that the sailor would know very much,’ said Dan. He was holding the musket barrel up to the light so he could squint down inside the barrel. ‘If you remember, the regular rambade crew was terrified that the mortar would burst, or a bomb explode while still on deck. So they kept well clear when the gun was being tested.’ He picked up a small file and scraped at a rust mark on the musket barrel, then put the musket barrel on one side, and called out to Bourdon, ‘No need to fix that lock, Jacques. This gun’s so rotten that it would blow up the face of the man who used it. Get one of the lads to give it a polish and put it back in the rack so it looks good on display if Moulay comes round on an inspection. But make sure that it doesn’t get issued for active service. I’m condemning it.’

‘That’s one of the guns I got from Hakim Reis, back in the old days,’ commented Allen. The gun founder had just come out of his office on his way to the foundry where the new brass culverin was being chipped out of its mould. ‘Those muskets were made specially for the export market. Shoddy, cheap stuff.’ Turning to Hector, he asked whether he had come back with any more information about the galley mortar. When Hector admitted that he suspected the French comite of the St Gerassimus was holding something back, Allen suggested a new approach. ‘Why don’t you go to speak with Joseph Maimaran, Moulay’s ransom agent? He’s very clever. See if he can devise a way of putting some pressure on the comite to make him talk. I know Joseph quite well as I obtain all my brandy and spirits from the Jews because they have the monopoly on distillation. I’ll send one of the English lads with you, and he’ll bring you to Maimaran’s house. It’s in the Jewish quarter, of course, so you’ll need to explain your business to the guards at the gate.’

THE MELLAH, the Jewish quarter, lay deep within a maze of narrow streets to the rear of the palace compound, and the young lad who guided Hector took gruesome delight in explaining that its name meant ‘the place of salt’ because Jewish butchers were obliged to pickle the heads of traitors before the heads were nailed up on the city gates. The youth also managed to get himself lost, and it was only by following a stranger dressed in a Jew’s black skull cap and cloak who was walking bare foot – the boy explained that the Jews had to go shoeless by Moulay’s order – that they finally came to the gateway in the wall enclosing the Jewish enclave. Here Hector and his guide were allowed to pass after handing over a small bribe.

Joseph Maimaran’s house lay at the end of a narrow alley and had a modest unpainted door set so deep in the surrounding wall that it was easily overlooked. The humble appearance of the building was as unassuming as its owner who greeted his visitor warily. Maimaran was at least sixty years old, and possessed one of the saddest faces Hector had ever seen. There were deep shadows under his doleful eyes, and the small mouth beneath the prominent nose was permanently downturned and despondent. Hector had to remind himself that Joseph Maimaran, according to Allen, was one of the richest men in Morocco. His wealth had helped bring Moulay to power and he was acknowledged leader of the Jewish community. This meant he had to tread a delicate path. Often, when Moulay needed money, Maimaran was expected to extract it from his fellow Jews, and he could not ask for the return of any loan to the Emperor. If he did so, he risked suffering at the hands of the Black Guard.

‘I’ve come about the prisoners from the French galley St Gerassimus,’ Hector began carefully. ‘The Emperor gave instructions that I was to assist you in setting the amount of their ransom.’

‘So I believe,’ answered Maimaran, who made it his business to stay closely informed about the Emperor’s latest whim.

‘He also wants to acquire a siege gun similar to one on the galley, and for that I need information from the prisoners.’

‘And have you had any success?’

‘Not yet. I was wondering whether it would be possible to reduce the amount of their ransom if they cooperated in the matter of the gun.’

‘It is a proposition fraught with risk,’ commented the Jew. As he observed the young Irishman in front of him, Maimaran wondered if the young man knew just how angry and violent Moulay would be if he learned that he had been denied a full ransom.

‘Sean Allen thought you might be able to suggest another way forward.’

Maimaran pretended to give the matter some thought. But he had already decided he would prevaricate. He spread out his hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘At this stage I don’t know what to propose. I know too little about the case. It would be helpful to have some more information about the French prisoners, any details that would help me calculate their ransom.’

Hector looked disappointed. ‘Would there be any advantage in getting in touch with other ransom brokers? The leader of the prisoners is a man called Piecourt. He has twice asked that someone send word of their capture to Algiers. Apparently there is someone there – an Iphrahim Cohen – who can arrange their speedy release.’

This time Maimaran’s hesitation was genuine. Hector’s suggestion was a surprise. Of course, Maimaran knew that the leading ransom brokers in Algiers were the Cohen family. He had dealt with them in the past, though in matters of trade, not as ransom brokers. Again the Jew was cautious. ‘Did this man Piecourt give any reason why this Iphrahim Cohen should be told?’

‘No. He only asked that someone contact him.’

‘An interesting idea . . .’ It was odd, Maimaran reflected, that a comite of the French Galley Corps should know the identities of the leading ransom agents in Algiers. ‘Again, it seems that we need to be better informed about the Frenchmen. One of my assistants will visit them. He will assess their ransom value – he is an expert in these matters – and report back to me. In the meantime I suggest you also try to learn more about them. You said that is the Emperor’s wish: that you act as the go-between.’

With that remark, Maimaran shifted the responsibility back to Hector and brought the interview to an end.

LUIS DIAZ was waiting in Sean Allen’s office when Hector got back there, and the grin on the Spaniard’s face contrasted with the gun founder’s tone of exasperation. ‘One moment the Emperor wants a castle smasher,’ Allen was saying, ‘and the next instant he sends word that there’s to be a fantasia. That means we’ll have to waste some of our small stock of pistol powder so there will be even less for bomb experiments.’

Hector was startled. ‘Is the Emperor going to have someone blown from the mouth of a cannon?’

Diaz laughed aloud. ‘Whatever makes you think that?’

‘In the bagnio of Algiers our Turkish guards accused us of a fantasia if we did or said something insolent or disobedient.’

‘This is a different sort of fantasia, thank god,’ the gun founder reassured him. ‘One which delights our horse-mad friend here. It involves a lot of over-excited cavalrymen charging around on their horses and firing guns in the air. It’s spectacular and very profligate as it uses up a great deal of gunpowder. It is aptly known as Laab al-Barud or Powder Play.’

Luis Diaz’s grin only broadened. ‘Sean, don’t be so grumpy. Our young friend deserves a day out from this smoky hellhole. I’ll take him and his companions along to see the show. In the meantime you might be so good as to issue me with half a keg of good pistol powder so I can bring it to the royal stables without further delay. The fantasia is scheduled for today, after the evening prayer. There’s no time to waste in gossiping.’

Diaz’s good humour continued as he left the Arsenal with Hector and his companions, closely followed by a servant leading a mule loaded with the precious powder. ‘A fantasia is really something special. You’ll never have seen anything like it before. Two or three hundred first-class riders mounted on some of the very best horseflesh in the world.’

They came to the causeway where it crossed over the prison cells, and Diaz advised them to wait there: ‘This is the best place to see the show. It’ll take at least a couple of hours for the riders to get ready, so you can spend the time catching up with your former shipmates from the galley. As it’s Sunday, they’ll be having the day off. But leave someone up here to keep yourself a good spot as it’ll soon get crowded.’

Leaving Dan to hold their place, Hector went down into the shallow gully with Karp and Bourdon and headed towards the arch where the crew of St Gerassimus were lodged. He was intent on cross-examining Piecourt, but as they reached the Frenchman’s cell, a surly-looking inmate told him that the comite was absent, and so too was the rowing master. Nor would anyone tell him where they had gone. Hector was left with the impression that the crew members of the St Gerassimus had been told to be as unresponsive and obstructive as possible if he returned with any questions. Only when Bourdon met up with some of his countrymen who failed to recognise him was the pickpocket able to learn that the comite and the rowing master were at mass. ‘Apparently there’s a clandestine chapel in the last archway. It’s been set up secretly by two Franciscan priests who came to Meknes to negotiate some prisoner releases. Moulay has been keeping the priests waiting for months, quibbling about the size of the ransom. In the meantime they conduct secret masses for the faithful. The comite and a couple of the other men from the galley are there now.’

‘Karp, would you mind coming with me into the chapel and having a look round?’ Hector asked. ‘I have a feeling that it might be dangerous for me to go in there by myself. Jacques, perhaps you can stay outside and keep watch. Warn us if you think that we might get ourselves trapped inside.’

The three men made their way to the furthest archway. It was much smaller than the others, and had been closed off with a wooden doorway. Quietly Hector pushed the door open and slipped inside with Karp at his heels.

It took a moment for their eyes to adjust to the almost total dark. A service was in progress. The chapel was tiny, so cramped that it could hold no more than a score of worshippers. All of them were crushed together and on their knees as they faced a portable altar set up against the far wall. In front of the altar a priest was also kneeling, his hands clasped in prayer. There was no window to the tiny room, and the only light came from a single candle placed on the altar which illuminated a cross made from woven straw pinned against the far wall. In the dense gloom Hector could not identify the individual figures of the worshippers. They all appeared to be dressed in slaves’ clothing though he thought he recognised the broad shoulders of the rowing master. Deep in their prayers, none of the congregation turned their heads as they murmured their responses to their priest’s invocation.

As unobtrusively as possible, Hector sank down to his knees. Beside him he felt Karp do the same. The chapel was so crowded that he found it difficult to avoid the bare feet of the man directly ahead of him. Hector kept his head bent forward, wondering at the intense devotion of the worshippers. The chapel was airless and the smell of the close-packed bodies filled his nostrils. He admired the courage of the priest who would risk holding such a mass, and the ardent devotion of his flock.

Slowly he became aware that Karp beside him was beginning to shake. At first it was a slight quivering, but then it became a pronounced movement, an uncontrollable tremor that shook the man’s body. For a moment Hector wondered if Karp was about to have a fit. When he glanced sideways he saw that the Bulgar’s eyes were wide open. He was staring in horror at the ground in front of him, as if witnessing something terrible. Hector tried to make out what was frightening his companion. In the half-light all he could see were the feet of the man kneeling directly in front of Karp. Looking closely he saw that on the sole of each foot was a brand. Someone had burned the sign of the cross deep into the flesh, leaving a hard scar.

Fearful that Karp would draw attention to their presence, Hector reached out and grasped the Bulgar’s arm reassuringly. Karp turned his anguished face towards him, and Hector gestured that they should leave. Quietly rising to his feet and still keeping his hold on Karp, Hector eased open the chapel door and the two men stepped outside into the daylight. Looking into Karp’s face, Hector saw that the Bulgar had tears in his eyes. He was still shaking.

‘What is it, Karp? What’s the matter?’ Hector asked gently. The Bulgar was making incoherent strangled sounds, though whether they were from terror or rage it was difficult to say. Something warned Hector that it would be wiser if he and the Bulgar were not seen near the chapel.

‘We had better move away,’ Hector went on. ‘It’s safer.’

Bourdon joined them and the Bulgar began to calm down, but his chest was still heaving and he was making unhappy guttural sounds. Suddenly he leaned down and pulled off the sandal he was wearing. Holding up his foot, he sketched the sign of the cross on the sole, then pointed into his ruined mouth and made a fierce gurgling sound. ‘The man with the branded foot is something to do with your tongue being torn out, is that it?’ Hector asked. Karp nodded vehemently. Squatting down he drew in the dust the outline of a ship, a galley. Next he marked a flag with a cross and, pointing down towards the ground, uttered a deep anguished roar. ‘He’s from the galley? From our galley?’ Karp nodded. ‘Karp, we’ll sit down quietly when we get back to the foundry. There Dan can help us with pen and paper and you can tell us precisely what it is that you want us to know.’

At this point there was a shout. It was Dan leaning over the edge of the causeway and beckoning to them. ‘Come on up,’ he called, ‘the fantasia is about to start. Hurry!’ Hector, Bourdon and Karp made their way up to the crest of the causeway to find that a crowd of spectators had assembled. Most were courtiers from Moulay’s entourage, but there were also a number of foreigners, including the three Spanish cavalrymen they had last seen at Diaz’s billet. Everyone was jostling together and looking towards the royal stables. Hector placed himself near the edge of the crowd where he could look down and also watch the entrance to the secret chapel. Soon he saw figures appear. The Mass must have finished, and the celebrants were leaving. They emerged in twos and threes, and hurried away quietly. Hector guessed that the priest must have instructed them to remain as inconspicuous as possible. He saw the rowing master, his squat figure unmistakable even though he was in the deep shadow cast by the setting sun. Close behind the rowing master came Piecourt. Once again he was accompanied by the same tall figure of the man he had been with when Hector had visited the cell. Then, finally, he saw the figure of the priest holding to his chest a box which must be the folding altar.

Behind him there was an excited murmur and Hector turned to see that the crowd was now gazing intently down the broad road which led towards the royal stables. In the distance was movement, a low cloud of dust. He strained his eyes and the dust cloud resolved itself into a line of horsemen advancing across a broad front towards the causeway at a slow walk. As the riders drew closer, he began to distinguish that they were all dressed in white robes which flowed and billowed around them. Soon he heard the low rumble of many hooves, hundreds of them, and he realised that there were many more horsemen behind the first squadron. Rank after rank of riders were coming forward. Suddenly, as if on a single command, the front troop of horses passed straight from a walk into a full gallop. They were heading directly towards the spectators as if determined to ride them down. Their riders began to whoop and yell, standing in their stirrups and waving muskets. Some were throwing their weapons up in the air and catching them as they continued their headlong rush. Hector felt his heart pounding as the ground trembled under the hooves of their charge. The horsemen were much closer now. He could see the magnificent accoutrements of their mounts – deep saddles covered with brocade, bridles and reins of tooled leather stamped with gold, velvet saddle blankets edged with silver and gold fringes and tassels, broad breast bands worked with filigree. He heard the cries of the riders urging their animals to gallop even faster. Involuntarily he flinched back expecting the onrushing horsemen to crash into the crowd. Suddenly one of the riders, an older man riding to one side, gave a signal. As one, the front rank of the horsemen swung their muskets forward, holding them two-handed across their bodies so the muzzles pointed over their horses’ ears and fired their guns. There was a single, ear-splitting salvo, and the air was filled with puffs of smoke torn through by the arcing sparks of the burning wads. In the same instant, the front rank of riders had reined their horses to a halt, so that the horses heaved back on their haunches only yards from the onlookers. A touch on the reins, and the animals spun on the same spot and went tearing away, with the robes of the riders flapping out behind them and their exultant cries ringing in the ears of the crowd.

Again and again, troop after troop, the riders charged down in the fantasia, fired their guns, wheeled around, and raced away only to regroup and charge down again. As Hector got over his surprise, he began to recognise the pattern in their movements. There were ten squadrons of riders, each performing their manoeuvres at the full gallop, perhaps a thousand horses in total. Each squadron was distinguished by its own particular feature – the colour of the bridles, the size and colour of their horses. One squadron in particular was more magnificent than all the rest. It was composed mostly of horses that were the palest cream in colour. Their tails and manes had been allowed to grow almost to the ground so that they streamed out spectacularly as they galloped, and their discipline was perfect. In that pale squadron three horses stood out. Two were jet black and the third was a handsome pale grey covered with black spots. Each time this squadron charged forward, these three horses were always a few paces ahead of the rest, and they were controlled by a single horseman. The animals were superbly schooled for they stayed close together at a full gallop and allowed their rider to leap from saddle to saddle, occasionally throwing up his musket and catching it again. And it was always this same rider who, as he came careering up to the crowd in advance of his squadron, was the one who gave the command to fire the guns. On the third occasion that this squadron, now like ghostly riders in the near-darkness, completed the fantasia, their leader came to a halt so close to Hector that flecks of foam from his horse’s mouth – it was the speckled grey – flew out and landed on his face. At that moment Hector recognised the rider was Moulay Ismail.