Tim Severin - Corsair

‘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.’