Simon Scarrow - Sword and Scimitar

'Have your men load with chain shot, ’ Thomas suggested. ‘Aim for the oars. If we can cripple them then we can put alongside them, board their ship and end this quickly.’

Don Garcia nodded and gave the order to the captain to pass on. The gun crews hurriedly swabbed out their weapons and loaded the next charges as the flagship closed the distance. The guns roared out again at a range of two hundred paces. The first shot tore up the surface of the sea behind the oar blades on the port side and sheared through the rearmost of the oars. A moment later the second shot struck home. Several of the oars shivered and splintered as the weighted lengths of chain ripped through the wooden shafts. At once the corsair slewed round to port and exposed its beam, providing an easy target for the gunners on the Spanish flagship.

‘Pound ’em!’ Fadrique called out, his voice high-pitched with excitement.

His father gave him a disapproving glance before he fixed his attention on the enemy ship. The guns boomed out in a steady rhythm as their crews reloaded and fired as swiftly as possible. The flagship bore down on the corsair and as the range diminished every shot struck home, shattering oars, smashing gaps in the bulwarks and tearing men to crimson tatters on the main deck. Even so, the tiny flames of musket fire stabbed back towards the flagship and some shots were finding their targets. Thomas saw one of the gunners’ chests bloodily explode as a lead ball tore through his body.

‘Come with me, Richard,’ he commanded and led the way down on to the main deck and forward towards the armed men clustered between the two masts. The soldiers wore breastplates and helmets and their arms and hips were protected by studded gambisons. Some carried shields and heavy swords, and iron-headed clubs hung from their belts. Others held short pikes, ready to wield them double-handed. Thomas turned to his squire and looked him over, testing his straps and the buckle under his chin before he nodded with satisfaction. ‘You’ll do.’

Richard nodded too quickly and Thomas saw the fear in his eyes. A familiar fear - the terror of a man who is facing battle for the first time, his head filled with dreadful expectation of being wounded, or failing to acquit himself with honour. Thomas placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder and spoke just loudly enough to be heard over the crackle of musket fire and the beating of the drum below deck.

‘Stay close to me. I need you to protect my back. Are you ready?’

‘Yes. . . Of course . . . Why are we doing this?’

Thomas frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

Richard gestured at the men around them. ‘Fighting. That is surely the job of these soldiers. We are merely passengers.’

‘I am a knight. It is my duty to fight. As it is yours, as the man who calls himself my squire.’

‘Yes, yes, you are right. But our place is there on the aft deck and our duty is to defend Don Garcia with our lives. That’s where we should make our stand.’

As Thomas looked at his companion he felt no anger or contempt at the young man’s reluctance to fight, only an ache of disappointment that Richard was resisting the chance to put himself to the test. Unless the young man could suppress his fears and face this peril, he would be crippled by self-doubt through the rest of his life. It was not through love of violence that Thomas had moved forward to join the men about to board the corsair lying directly ahead. It was, as he had said, a duty. But there was more. Regardless of his wider moral concerns about the endless war of the faiths, circumstance had placed him in this conflict and perforce he would fight and kill without reservation.

‘Don Garcia is surrounded by his officers. He is safe. Our place is here, where we can have a more immediate effect on the outcome of the fight. We will fight alongside these men.’

Richard’s mouth opened to protest but Thomas cut him off before he could utter a sound. ‘No more words. Steel your heart and take a firm grip of your sword handle.’

The young man swallowed anxiously. ‘Should I pray?’

‘If you wish. Many men pray before a battle but I never saw that it protected them from either bullet or blade.’ Then Thomas smiled reassuringly. ‘Fix your mind on surviving and do all you can to ensure it. That is the only right and proper thought for a soldier to have before battle. Ready?’

Richard breathed deeply. ‘I am ready, Sir Thomas.’

Ahead, the masts and slender yards of the corsair galley loomed up against the sky. The Spanish gunners fired their last shots across the enemy deck and then the order was given for the flagship to turn to port. The oars on that side dug into the sea while those to starboard made one last powerful stroke before the timekeeper shouted at the rowers to ship their oars. There was a dull rumble from below the deck as the lengths of timber were slid in through their ports and heaved across the width of the galley. Then the stern of the corsair passed down the side of the warship and the vessels closed beam to beam. Thomas could see the enemy fighters lining the galley’s rail, screaming their war cries and insults as the gap closed.

‘Boarding hooks away!’ the captain bellowed.through his cupped hands. The sailors who stood ready with the hooks tied to coils of rope swirled the iron prongs above their head before releasing them up and over the narrow gap. The grappling hooks arced over the sea, trailing snaking ropes, and then plunged out of sight amid the robed figures crowding the deck of the other galley. At once, several Spaniards took up the ropes and braced their bare feet on the deck, straining to draw the two vessels closer together. The air was filled with the staccato crash of arquebuses and the frenzied cries of the men waiting for the chance to launch themselves into battle.

The swell lifted Don Garcia’s flagship and it crashed violently against the corsair so that the men on both vessels struggled to keep their footing. At once the captain shouted the order: ‘Fasten the lines!’

The men assigned to the grappling hooks pulled the ropes taut and looped them round the belaying pins to secure the two vessels together. About them the Spanish soldiers ran planks across the narrow gap between the two galleys and clambered up on to the bulwarks, yelling defiantly at the waiting corsairs. Thomas pushed his way through the soldiers and grasped a shroud and pulled himself up on to the wide wooden rail running along the side of the galley. He drew his sword and glanced back to see Richard right behind him. To his right a huge sergeant with an artfully patterned morion punched his sword towards the enemy and bellowed.

‘With me, boys! Death to the heathen!’

The sergeant leaped over the gap and landed on the rail before his impetus carried him on, falling amid the robes, dark-skinned faces and limbs, and curved gleaming blades beyond. Scrambling back on to his feet with a savage roar he began to lay about him with his sword, savagely hacking at the men scrambling to get clear of his reach. Blood arced across the deck. More men leaped after the sergeant while some dashed across the boarding planks.

Thomas sucked in a deep breath and leaped forward. For an instant he saw the gleam of the narrow strip of sea between the two galleys then he fell against one of the enemy, a slender man in dirty cotton robes, his head tightly wrapped in a turban. Both men thudded down on to the deck and at once Thomas thrust out his left arm to push himself back up as his feet found their grip. He felt a waft of warm breath and realised that the man he had landed on was screaming at him in rage as he lay pinned down under Thomas’s weight. He slammed the guard of his sword down into the corsair’s face, cutting off his shouts. He struck again, harder, and felt bone break and give way under the blow. Then he rose into a crouch and swung his blade in an arc to his front. Another Spaniard landed to his right before the corsairs surged forward, desperate to cut down the attackers before they could gain a foothold on the deck.