Tim Severin - Corsair

‘I prefer the stool,’ said Hector, his voice unsteady.

‘As did your friend. Pull up your gown, and sit down then, with your legs spread apart.’

Hector did as he was instructed, and the abdal reached forward and took the young man’s penis in one hand and gently teased forward the foreskin. Next, as Hector peered down anxiously, the abdal was holding in his free hand an instrument which Hector first thought was a set of dividers of the type he himself used when measuring distances across a map. But these dividers were made of wood, each limb flat-sided. Hector broke out in a cold sweat as he realised it was a clamp. Expertly the abdal closed the clamp upon the foreskin, nipping it tightly so that it could not retract. Hector shut his eyes and clenched his fists so that the nails dug deep into the palms of his hands. He sucked in air and held his breath, while hearing the soft mutter of a voice saying, ‘Allâhu akbarre’. Then came an agonising spike of pain which made him gasp, and a shocking moment later the warm spurt of blood striking the inside of his thigh. Even as he quivered with the pain, he sensed the blessed pressure of some sort of poultice or bandage being pressed to his wounded manhood.

ELEVEN

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

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

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

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

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