Tim Severin - Corsair

By now Hector had recovered enough from his surprise to repeat the vital question that was preying on his mind.

‘Please,’ he tried again, ‘I would like to know what has happened to my sister. Her name is Elizabeth.’

‘Ah, the good-looking girl who was in the house where we found you. She clawed my men like a wild cat. Such ferocity must be a family trait. She came to no harm, and is safe.’

‘Where is she now? Can I see her?’

Hakim Reis wiped his fingers on a napkin. ‘No. That is not possible. We always keep the men and women apart. Your sister is aboard the other vessel.’

‘When will I see her again?’

‘That is in God’s hands. We are homeward bound, but at sea one never knows.’

‘Then where are you taking us?’

The captain looked mildly surprised. ‘I would have thought you would have been informed. Did not the older villagers tell you? There must be some who remembered the last time it happened. But of course they are of a different generation, or perhaps those who were left behind chose to forget.’

‘One of the men in the hold spoke to me of “the Taking”,’ Hector said.

‘So that is what they call it. Not a bad name. It was Murat Reis who commanded at the time, a great captain, and his memory is still revered. Foreign-born like myself, a Flamand by origin. Mind you, he did not have my local knowledge and so he was obliged to use a Dungarvan man as his pilot to guide him in.’

Hector recalled that no villager ever mentioned the name of Dungarvan town without spitting, and also some talk of a Dungarvan man being hanged as a traitor. The foreign captain was growing nostalgic. ‘When I was a boy I can remember my father forbidding my brothers and me from playing with the dirty children, as they called them. We were told that we would catch foul diseases if we did. He meant the Catholics, of course. In those days the village was remarkable for being home to so many Protestants. Tell me, is that still the case?’

‘I believe so, sir. There is a new landlord now, and he has enlarged the chapel. He strongly favours those of the Protestant faith. The Catholics must go for Mass to the friars on the island, and they try to do so without attracting attention.’

‘How little changes. The more I hear about the quarrels and rivalries between the Christians, the happier I am that I took the turban.’ Noticing Hector’s puzzlement, he added, ‘Some call it “turning Turk”.’

Hector still looked blank.

‘I converted to the True Faith preached by the prophet Muhammad, may he be honoured and glorified. It was not such a difficult decision for someone whose memories of home were only of cold and damp, and a place where everyone had to work like a drudge to pay rent to a distant landlord. Of course I did not convert at once, but after serving the man who bought me. He was a kind master.’

At last Hector understood. Maybe the shock of his capture combined with the blow to his head and his fears for Elizabeth had obscured what was now obvious: Hakim Reis was a corsair. He must come from one of the pirate states of Barbary on the coast of North Africa whose ships plagued the Mediterranean and the Atlantic approaches. They intercepted and robbed ships and carried off their crews into slavery. From time to time they also made slave-taking shore raids. Hector wondered how he could have been so slow on the uptake. One evening, several years ago, his father had entertained a local celebrity, the vicar of nearby Mitchelstown, who was renowned for having been held as a slave of the corsairs. Eventually the vicar had been ransomed, and he was much in demand at dinner parties when he would recount his experiences. Hector had been allowed to stay and listen, and he recalled a tall, rather haggard man with a husky voice describing the conditions in the slave pens. Hector struggled to remember his name. There was a joke to it, someone had raised a laugh by referring to a fish being caught by the bay. That was it, the reverend’s name was Devereux Spratt, and he was the captive of a foreign potentate called the Bey. Unfortunately the reverend had rather spoilt the pun by announcing primly that the jokester was confused in his geography of the Barbary states. The Bey was the title of the ruler of the state of Tunis, while he had been a prisoner of the ruler of Algiers whose title was Dey.

‘I beg you in the name of your Muhammad,’ Hector pleaded, ‘that when we reach our destination, you will let me speak with my sister.’

‘We will be at sea for at least another week.’ Hakim Reis gave Hector a shrewd glance, and Hector noticed that the corsair’s eyes were pale grey in contrast to the deep tan of his face. ‘Will you give me your word that you will make no trouble during that time, now you know that there is a chance you can speak to her?’ Hector nodded. ‘Good, I will order those fetters to be removed. And do not look so glum. Maybe your life will be blessed, as mine was, and you will rise to command a fine ship. Besides, you will sell for a higher price if you have a happier face.’ And to Hector’s astonishment he held up the plate of fruit and said, ‘Here, take a handful with you. They will remind you that life can be as sweet as you wish to make it.’

The captain spoke briefly to the petty officer, who produced a key and unlocked the manacles. Then he escorted Hector back to the hatchway and he gestured for Hector to go back down into the hold. Once again Hector heard the wedges hammered home.

He had expected his fellow captives to ask him what it was like up on deck. But most of them ignored his return. They were apathetic as though they had accepted their fate. Someone was muttering a prayer for salvation, repeating it over and over again. It was a depressing sound, and in the gloom he could not see who it was. The only person alert to his return was the elderly madman. As Hector settled himself back in his place, he crept up again and hissed, ‘Is it to be Algiers or Tunis?’

‘I don’t know,’ Hector answered, taken aback by the accuracy of the old man’s question.

‘As long as it’s not Sallee,’ muttered the old man, more to himself than to Hector. ‘They say it’s the worst place of all. Underground pens where you can drown in liquid shit, and chains so heavy that you can barely walk. They told me I was lucky to be in Algiers.’

‘Who are “they” and what do you mean by “lucky”?’ Hector asked, wondering what his fellow captive was babbling about. He was answered with another shifty look. ‘Trying to catch me out, are you? Well you won’t this time,’ the dotard wheezed, and suddenly grabbed at the young man’s hand and demanded fiercely, ‘What have you got there? Share! Share!’ Hector had forgotten about the fruit he had been given. He supposed them to be olives, though they felt more sticky. The old man snatched one away, and thrust it into his mouth. He began to drool. ‘Datoli, datoli,’ he gloated. Hector tasted one. On his tongue it was the sweetest fruit he had ever known, as if saturated in honey, and there was a hard pip in the centre.

‘Have you been in Algiers?’ he asked, anxious to glean any information about their fate.

‘Of course! Was I not there for five years and more? And then they doubted the tales I had to tell.’

Hector was growing ever more confused by the old man’s rambling. ‘It’s not that I doubt you. Only I know nothing of these matters.’

‘I swear to you that I was a beylik slave for all those five years, mostly in the quarries, but sometimes on the harbour wall. Yet I never renounced my faith, oh no, though others did. Even when they beat me, I resisted. What came later was more cruel.’

‘What could be worse than slavery? And what’s a beylik?’

The old man ignored the question. He was working himself into a frenzy. He grabbed Hector’s arm and dug in with his bony fingers. ‘After they bought me, they treated me like dung,’ he hissed.