Simon Scarrow - Sword and Scimitar

‘Jesu!’ Stokely muttered as he clambered back on to his feet close by Thomas.

The Swift Hind had stopped dead in the water and there was a brief moment of stillness as the stunned crews on both vessels recovered their wits. Then La Valette’s voice cut through the chill dawn air.

‘Grappling hooks! Aim for the far side and cleat home!’

‘Come on.’ Thomas lowered his pike to the deck and beckoned to Stokely to follow him as he raced forward and snatched up one of the heavy iron hooks lying on a coil of rope. Letting out a short length he swung the hook up and then swirled it overhead before releasing his grip. The hook arced across the enemy deck and disappeared over the far side. At once Thomas snatched up the rope and pulled in the slack. As he bent down to fasten the rope round a cleat, more hooks flew across the enemy vessel and lodged in the woodwork.

‘Back oars!’ ordered La Valette. ‘Quickly now. Pace master, use your whip!’

The rowers struggled back on to their narrow benches and grasped the shafts of their oars, worn smooth over the years by those who had gone before them. The order for the first stroke was given before every rower was ready and the blades splashed down clumsily on either side. Having fastened their ropes, Thomas and Oliver returned to their position at the head of the band of armed men on the main deck. For a moment the Swift Hind did not move and her bows continued to press down on the side of the enemy vessel. Then with a gentle lurch she began to ease back, and the ropes attached to the grappling hooks snapped taut across the enemy deck.

There was a cry of alarm from the stern as the corsair captain realised the danger. Some of his men began to slash at the ropes stretching overhead, but because of the canted deck only the handful who struggled up to the far side could hack into the ropes.

But it was already too late. The Swift Hind began to draw clear, dragging the far beam of the corsair vessel after them. The near side dipped beneath the water and then, with a graceful flow of movement, the galley capsized, pitching the crew and unsecured equipment across the deck and into the sea. Thomas caught a quick glance of the terrified expressions of the rowers through the deck gratings, still chained to their benches. Then they were gone, rolled under the surface of the sea, and the barnacled hull of the galley glistened on the disturbed waters of the bay. The grappling hooks were cut loose and the ropes slapped into the sea. Around the hulk, dozens of men thrashed as they tried to stay afloat. Those who could swim were making for the safety of the beach, a short distance away. Others clung to whatever floating debris they could find, or tried to find purchase on the hull,

A cheer rose up from the men on the Christian galley but Thomas could not find the heart to join in. He could not free himself of the spectacle of the faces of the rowers as the enemy ship had turned over. Most of those men were Christians like himself, taken prisoner and condemned to the galleys, only to die, dreadfully, at the hands of men of their own faith. Even now, Thomas could imagine them trapped under the water, thrashing about in the cold and darkness, held down by their chains until they drowned. He felt sick at the thought.

A hand slapped him on the shoulder. He glanced round to see Stokely beaming at him, until he caught sight of Thomas’s stricken features, and frowned.

‘Thomas, what is it?’

He tried to answer but there were no words to describe the horror that chilled his heart. He tried to thrust the feeling aside and shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

‘Then join in.’ Stokely gestured at the other men on the deck as they cheered wildly.

Thomas looked over at them briefly and then turned towards the remaining enemy galley, less than a quarter of a mile away. The corsairs had cut their anchor cable and turned the vessel so that it was now pointing directly at the Swift Hind. Thomas nodded his head towards the enemy. ‘There’ll be no chance of surprising them in the same way.’

Movement caught Thomas’s eye and he turned to see the crew of the galleon swiftly climbing the ratlines and spreading out along the spars as they prepared to unfurl the sails. They would be under way shortly but there was no more than the lightest of breezes and they would be lucky to clear the bay before the duel between the two galleys was decided. Time enough to deal with them later, Thomas decided as he returned his attention to the corsair galley.

Once the Swift Hind was clear of its first victim, La Valette gave the order to move ahead and the rowers strained at the oars to get the galley moving. Slowly, then with increasing speed, the slender vessel swept forward. There was a brief cry of terror as one of the corsairs in the water saw that he was in line with the oars but then a great blade smashed down on his skull and drove him under the water and abruptly cut off his scream.

On the foredeck the gun crews hurriedly sponged out the barrels of the two cannon and began to load the next charge, ramming down the stitched bag that carried the powder charge, and then packing in the second bag carrying the assorted pieces of iron shot that were so deadly at close range. On either side of the main deck the crossbowmen were working their winding mechanisms and preparing their next bolts. Thomas could see the turbans of men above the bows of the approaching corsair galley as they readied their arquebuses. Below them, protruding from gun ports either side of the prow, were the barrels of two cannon, the dark spots at the end of the muzzles looking like two black eyes, staring remorselessly at their prey.

‘This is going to be a bloody business,’ one of the men behind Thomas muttered.

‘Aye,’ one of his comrades answered. ‘The Lord have mercy on us.’

Stokely turned on them angrily. ‘Quiet there! The Lord is on our side. Our cause is just. It is the faithless heathen who should be begging for mercy.’

The men fell silent under the knight’s fierce gaze and he turned away and raised himself to his full height as he stared towards the enemy. Thomas edged closer to him and spoke under his breath. ‘I’ve not yet discovered a prayer that is proof against the bullet of an enemy or the shot from his cannon. I’d bear that in mind when they open fire.’

‘That is profanity.’

‘No, it is bitter experience. Save your prayers and set your mind to the matter of killing, or being killed.’

Stokely made to reply; then he clamped his jaw shut and pressed his lips together as he looked towards the corsair galley, surging across the calm water towards them. The eastern horizon was ablaze with the liquid glare of the sun just beyond the black mass of the far headland. A moment later the details of the corsairs were thrown into sharp outline as the first rays of sunlight lanced across the sea, causing Thomas and the others to narrow their eyes. The enemy were close enough for the sound of their cheers and the clatter of their blades against the sides of their round shields to carry clearly across the sea. The gap between the two galleys closed swiftly and now Thomas heard the first crackle of shots as the more excitable of the arquebusiers shot at the Christian vessel. Even though the range was long, still over two hundred paces, one of the gunners was struck in the head and his skull exploded as he tumbled back, showering his companions in droplets of blood, brains and bone splinters.

‘Why doesn’t La Valette give the order to shoot back?’ asked Stokely.

‘The captain knows what he’s doing.’

Another shot struck home, striking one of the soldiers in the stomach with a high-pitched clang as it pierced his breastplate and burst through the padding of his gambison. He dropped his pike as lie collapsed on the deck and rolled on to his side, groaning in agony.