Tim Severin - Corsair

He looked around at his companions. ‘No point in keeping your muskets now. Get rid of them. Strip off any clothing that may hinder you as you run. When I give the word, make a dash for it. As you run, spread out. That will make us a harder target for the musketeers. If anyone trips and falls, he must look after himself as best he can. The musketeers are bound to get off at least one shot, probably two. Any more will depend on how quickly they reload.’

He laid his own musket on the ground and unbuckled the belt that held his powder horn and stock of bullets. He removed his heavy sandals. Young Ibrahim had made them and he had planned to keep them as a memento of the young man. But running in bare feet was more important now. He pulled over his head the long loose shirt that he had worn in the desert. Now he was wearing only a pair of loose cotton drawers. The others followed his example, and when they were ready, he waved them forward. They crouched on the edge of the bluff, watching the ship’s boat moving closer. There were two men in her. They were rowing steadily, taking a slanting course to counteract the pull of the river current. They were nearly halfway to the shore.

‘Get ready!’ said Hector quietly. ‘See you aboard . . . let’s go!’

He stood up and launched himself over the edge of the bank. The face of the bluff fell away in a steep slope, part sand, part gravel. The surface was loose and crumbly, and he felt his bare feet slipping and slithering. He plunged onward, concentrating on keeping his balance. It was impossible to control his speed. The angle of the slope made him set one foot after the other just to keep himself upright. He could hear the sound of his companions as they too pelted down the hill. Belatedly he realised that he should have told them to swerve a little from side to side as they ran, to put the musketeers off their mark. But there was no sound of a shot. As yet they had not been seen.

He was almost at the bottom of the slope when he heard the shouts. Hector took another dozen strides before the explosion of the first musket shot. A moment later, there came the sound of a volley. He thought there was the sound of a musket ball whizzing past, but his breath was coming in great gasps so he could not be sure. He glanced around to see if anyone had been hit. To his shock he realised that he was the slowest runner of the four. Dan was several yards ahead of him to his left, and Bourdon was close behind him. Karp was level with him, a little distance away and running steadily.

Now they were on the level ground of the shoreline itself. The hardened mud of the beach was beneath the soles of his feet. It was easier to run without the fear of tripping or losing balance. The baked river mud stretched out before him, and he found himself wondering at the regular surface of plate-like cracks. He ran on.

He glanced to his left towards the rowing boat. The two men in it had heard the shots, and turned to see what was happening. They were resting on their oars. The boat had come to a standstill. In a few moments the current would catch it and it would begin to drift downstream. Hector hoped that the current would not take it out of reach.

His legs were tiring now and he could feel the air harsh in his throat. He forced himself to concentrate on taking steady strides. Soon he would be at the water’s edge, and then in the shallows.

Without warning his right foot broke through the crusted mud. In a shocking plunge his right leg dropped straight down into the slime beneath. It was as if he had stepped into thin air. He was thrown forward and sideways and slammed face down, the breath knocked out of him. As he fell, he felt an agonising pain in his ankle. He twisted to one side, desperately trying to free his leg, grimacing at the fierce, lancing pain, and he remembered what the coffle’s blind guide had said: a camel was uninjured when its foot broke through a crusted salt pan, but a horse would break its leg.

He looked up to see what had happened to his companions. Both Dan and Bourdon had turned back. They had seen him collapse. Now, to his mingled dismay and relief, they were hurrying towards him.

‘Here, let me get you back on your feet,’ offered Dan. He bent down and seized him by an arm. A moment later the Frenchman was on his other side, and had grasped him around the waist. Together they began to tug him clear. ‘Leave me,’ Hector gasped. His leg was buried up to mid thigh. ‘Run for yourselves. I’ll be able to manage.’

They ignored him.

‘Here, put an arm over my shoulder,’ Dan ordered. Working with Jacques, he wrenched Hector bodily upward. The trapped leg came out of the mud like a rotten tooth from its socket.

Several more muskets shots. Hector was amazed that no one had been hit. He tried to put his right foot on the ground, and gasped in agony. He almost fell again. Together his two friends began to carry him towards the water’s edge, Hector’s right leg trailing uselessly behind him.

‘I said, leave me! I’ll manage.’ He spoke through clenched teeth.

Again they ignored him.

‘Leave me, please!’ he insisted fiercely. ‘Three of us together make an easy target.’

Now he became aware of Karp. The Bulgar also had abandoned his headlong dash for the river, and had come to join them. He was hovering nearby, anxious to assist. Another musket shot rang out. It could not be long before one of them was struck down.

‘Karp! Run on,’ Hector pleaded. ‘Get to the boat. There’s nothing you can do.’

To his astonishment, Karp raised his hand in some sort of salute. Then he turned and began to run. But he did not run towards the shore. He ran directly towards the red-robed Moor still waiting at the landing place. As he ran he let out a great raw screech and began to flail his arms. He was like a madman, half-naked and howling with rage. There was a single musket shot, then a brief lull in the firing as the hidden musketeers decided what they should do.

In that pause Dan and Bourdon reached the shallows, with Hector hanging between them. The rowing boat was forty yards away, still motionless. As Hector felt the splash of water, he turned his head to see what was happening to Karp. The Bulgar was less than twenty paces from the man in the red burnous. Several of the other Moors had jumped up from behind the tree trunk and were running forward. The chieftain’s bodyguards had panicked at the terrifying sight. They were fleeing. Karp screeched again, a long piercing howl which could be heard clearly, and bounded forward like a wild beast. The remaining musketeers had gathered their wits and took him as their target. There came a ragged volley. Karp was impossible to miss. Several musket balls must have struck him for he sank down on one knee.

As Bourdon and Dan lifted Hector farther into the river, the boldest of the Moors ran forward, sword in hand. Hector had a last glimpse of Karp as the scimitar swung up in the air and came slicing down towards the Bulgar’s head.

Hector turned back towards the rowing boat. It was much closer. The two oarsmen were blacks. ‘Help us!’ Hector shouted.

His companions dragged him to where the water was up to their chests. Bourdon the non-swimmer could go no farther.

There was a peculiar whirring noise, closely matched by a gunshot. Hector realised that he was hearing the sound of a musket ball skipping off the water. The musketeers had turned their attention back to the fugitives now they had dealt with Karp. The range was too great for accuracy, but they were taking random shots, hoping to make a lucky hit. For a moment Hector felt like ducking out of sight beneath the surface of the river, but he knew it was futile. The gunmen would simply wait until he reappeared, then shoot. It was better to try to swim out of range. But he could not abandon Bourdon. Despite the excruciating pain in his leg, he and Dan would have to pull the Frenchman along with them as they swam.