Corsair (19 page)

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.’

‘F
ORTSA!
F
ORTSA!
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.’