Tim Severin - Corsair

‘Yes, yes. A chain did arrive, about eighty felons, mostly tax evaders and vagrants. Several may not be suitable material for the oar . . .’ he began, but Chabrillan cut him short. ‘I’ll be the judge of that. When can I inspect them?’

The commissaire hesitated. It was nearly noon, and he was looking forward to a leisurely lunch with a trio of echevins, aldermen of Marseilles. They were finalising a plan to acquire a parcel of land adjacent to the Arsenal, so that next year the King could be informed that the galley base needed more space and, after a suitable interval, that a site had been found which was good value. The transaction ought to net a fourfold profit for the syndicate. ‘Regretfully, I have pressing duties for the rest of the day, but if you would be willing to inspect the prisoners in the company of the receiving clerk, that can be arranged at your convenience.’

‘Without delay, if you please,’ retorted Chabrillan.

The commissaire summoned an aide and ordered him to escort Chabrillan to the holding cells where the convicts of the chain from Bordeaux were waiting their assessment.

‘And while the Chevalier is examining the convicts,’ the commissaire added, ‘you are to arrange for the Turks from Livorno and the two renegades to be made ready for galley service and delivered to the St Gerassimus , also that pickpocket, what’s his name – Bourdain or something like that.’ Turning to Chabrillan, he enquired, ‘Who should my man ask for at the quayside? He will need a receipt.’

‘He can deliver the oarsmen to my premier comite, Piecourt. He has full authority in these matters. Piecourt will also see to the necessary training of the men while I am away. As soon as I have selected the extra men I need, I set out for my estates in Savoy. In the meantime St Gerassimus needs maintenance work and I trust you will have this done promptly now that you have told me how fast your workmen can perform. When I return, I expect to find my vessel fully seaworthy again and her complement properly trained.’

‘The Arsenal will make every endeavour to meet your requirements, Chevalier,’ the commissaire assured his guest, though inwardly Batiste was already scheming how he could rid himself of the troublesome Chevalier. On his desk was an instruction from the Minister of the Marine. It ordered the Galley Corps to conduct trials to establish whether a new artillery invention, an exploding shell, was suitable for use at sea. He decided to recommend to his superior, Intendant Brodart, that the most suitable vessel for the test was St Gerassimus . The sea trials would keep the Chevalier of St Stephen busy, and if they went disastrously wrong might even blow him to smithereens.

Chabrillan stalked out of the commissaire’s office with the merest hint of a polite farewell, then made his way to where the receiving clerk was already waiting, his black coat hastily brushed in an attempt to smarten his appearance.

Chabrillan nodded at the clerk as he strode into the large gloomy hall where the chain prisoners were being held. ‘Have the prisoners paraded in a line,’ he ordered crisply. Slowly the newly arrived convicts shuffled into position, urged on by casual blows and curses from their goalers.

‘Now have them strip.’

Awkwardly, for many of them were hampered by their fetters, the prisoners removed their tattered and lice-ridden clothing, and dropped the garments to the stone floor.

‘Over against the opposite wall,’ Chabrillan commanded. The prisoners, trying to conceal their nakedness with their hands, shuffled across the room and stood, shivering, to face their examiner. Chabrillan walked along the line, looking into their faces and glancing at their bodies. ‘This one, and him, and this one,’ he announced, selecting the strongest and fittest, until he had picked out a dozen men. ‘Make a note of their names, have them dressed properly and sent to my ship,’ he instructed the receiving clerk, ‘and now let me see your ledgers.’

Meekly the clerk brought the Chevalier to his office, and showed him the list of names he had entered for the newly arrived chain. Chabrillan ran his eye down the columns, picking out those he had selected. He found he had chosen three army deserters, a poacher, a perjurer, and two sturdy beggars.

‘What about these?’ He pointed out the entries for five men against whose names the clerk had written, ‘without saying why’.

‘Just as it says, sir. They were unable to tell me why they had been sent to the galleys.’

Chabrillan fixed the clerk with a questioning stare. ‘So why do you think they were condemned to the oar?’

The clerk shifted uneasily. ‘It’s hard to say, sir,’ he answered after a short pause. ‘My guess is that they are Protestants, those who call themselves the Reformed. They have made problems for those of the Apostolic and Roman faith.’

‘Excellent. The Reformed make reliable oarsmen. They are serious and honest men compared to the usual felons and rogues who are condemned to the oar. I shall be glad to have them aboard,’ and without another word, Adrien Chabrillan left.

‘HECTOR, did you find out anything more about where your sister might be?’ asked Dan as he wriggled his shoulders inside the red and black woollen prison jacket he had just received from the Arsenal stores. Clothes issued to prisoners came in just two sizes, small and large, and the Miskito’s jacket was too tight on him. It was a warm afternoon in early summer and the two friends, together with Bourdon the pickpocket and a dozen Turks taken captive from the Izzet Darya , were being led along the Marseilles quay by an elderly warder whose relaxed manner indicated that he did not believe they would try to escape.

‘I asked everyone I could for information about where the Barbary corsairs land and sell their captives, but I didn’t learn anything more than I already knew. She could have been landed in any one of half a dozen ports,’ Hector answered. He too was uncomfortable in his new clothes. In Algiers he had grown used to loose-fitting Moorish clothing and, working in the Arsenal, he and Dan had continued to wear the garments they had been wearing when captured. Now his legs felt constrained by the stiff canvas trousers issued by the Arsenal stores. The trousers fastened with buttons down the outer seams so that they could be put on over leg chains while his other new garments – two long shirts, two smocks in addition to a jacket, and a heavy hooded cloak of ox wool – could all be put on over his head. He had also been issued with a stout leather belt, which was there not just to hold up his trousers. It was fitted with a heavy metal hook over which he could loop his leg chain while he was at work so that leg irons did not hamper him. ‘I wrote a letter to an old friend of my father’s, a clergyman in Ireland who had been a prisoner of the Moors. I asked him if he had heard anything. But when I tried to send the letter, I was told that prisoners in the Arsenal were forbidden from communicating with the outside world. I had enclosed a note for my mother in case she is still living in Ireland, though I suspect she has moved back to Spain to live with her own people. Maybe she has heard directly from my sister. It’s impossible to know. Life as a convict galerien in the Arsenal is as cut off from the outside world as being a slave in the Algiers bagnio.’

‘Maybe that will change now that we’re being transferred to a galley,’ Dan tried to cheer up his friend.

‘I doubt it. Look over there,’ Hector nodded towards the far side of the docks. ‘Aren’t those the masts and spars of galleys? At least ten, I would say. All neatly lined up side by side.’