‘Aye, sir.’ The sailing master nodded.
‘And the men?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Thomas replied. ‘I have already called them to arms.’
‘Good.’ La Valette looked round at his officers and raised his fist. ‘Then let us do the Lord’s work and visit his wrath upon the Turk!’
There was already the faintest hue of lighter sky on the eastern horizon as the Swift Hind began to round the headland. Beyond, the bay opened out into a broad crescent some three miles across. The outlines of the galleon and the two galleys were clearly discernible against the pale loom of the sandy beach and a tiny faint orange glow showed where the embers of a campfire still warmed those huddled about it.
‘We’re too late,’ Stokely said softly as he stood beside Thomas on the deck. ‘The dawn will be upon us long before we reach them. The Turks are sure to see us.’
‘No. We’re approaching from the west - the darkness will shroud us for a while yet.’ Thomas had seen La Valette use the tactic before in his raids on the enemy and it was a proven way of concealing their approach until the last moment.
‘Only if the Turks are completely blind.’
Thomas bit back on his irritation. This was Stokely’s first ‘caravan’, as the Order called their sea campaigns. The young knight would learn to trust the experience of the captains who had spent many years at war with the Turks - provided he lived long enough, Thomas reflected. There were many ways in which a knight might meet his maker while in the service of the Holy Religion. Combat, disease and drowning all took their toll, with no regard to whether a man was from one of Europe’s most noble families or raised in the sewer. Drowning was a particular danger. The plate armour that protected a knight in battle, and the rest of his equipment, was heavy enough to send him straight to the bottom of the sea should he tumble into the water.
Thomas glanced down the length of the galley, taking in the clusters of soldiers, some armed with crossbows, and saw La Vaiette on the stem deck, standing tall and erect, with the stout shape of the sailing master at his side. No man spoke above a whisper and the only sound was the dull crash of the ocean swell against the rocks of the headland, and the rhythmic creak of the oars and the splash as the blades bit into the sea. Once the galley had cleared the head-land, the steersman turned the Swift Hind in towards the shore, in line with the nearest of the galleys. Thomas had become accustomed to the captain’s habit of keeping his plans to himself but could nonetheless guess at his intentions. La Vaiette intended to attack the nearest galley first. Even if the galleon managed to weigh anchor and clear the bay before the galleys were dealt with, she would be easy enough for the Order’s sleek warship to run down and capture.
To the east the light was now distinctly stronger and the outline of the opposite headland was stark against the sky. A stinking waft of the enemy’s galleys carried across the deck of the Swift Hind, adding to the foul smell of the Christian vessel.
The galley had closed to within half a mile of the enemy before the shrill blast of a horn carried across the water, sounding the alarm. Thomas felt an icy twinge of anxiety snatch at the back of his neck and he grasped his pike more tightly in his hands. From the rear of the galley La Valette’s voice carried clearly to his men.
‘Paceman, battle speed! Gunners, prepare your port fires!’
As the drum began to beat out a steady, insistent rhythm below the deck, a dull glow appeared at the bows as the first length of the port fires emerged from its small tub. For an instant it flared brightly as a gunner blew on it and then the other gun captain took his turn and both men stood poised by the breaches of their cannon waiting for the order to fire.
Thomas’s heart quickened with the increased pace of the time keeping drum and the deck lurched slightly beneath his boots with each sweep of the oars. Off the port beam he could see tiny figures scrambling to their feet around the glow of the fire on the beach. Some simply stared at the galley cutting across the surface of the bay towards them. Others began to run to the water’s edge and wade out towards the galleon, then splash forwards as they swam towards their vessel. Those who could not swim began to heave the ship’s tenders into the gentle surf and scramble aboard. Over on the nearest of the corsair galleys dark figures began to line the sides of the vessel. Many wore turbans and gesticulated wildly towards the oncoming danger as they snatched up their weapons. Their shouts carried clearly across the intervening sea.
Meanwhile not a man on the Christian galley spoke a word and the only sounds were the beating of the drum, the rush of the water along the sleek lines of the hull and the muffled grunts of the men straining at the oars. Thomas looked back along the deck to the stem and could just make out his captain’s expression in the thin pre-dawn loom. La Valette was standing quite still, his left hand resting on his sword hilt, his features, framed by a closely clipped beard, fixed and unyielding. It was his custom to lead his men into battle in silence, knowing that it would unsettle the enemy. Only at the last moment would they let out a deafening roar as they fell upon their foe.
A sharp crack sounded close by and Thomas flinched as several splinters exploded from the side rail. A puff of smoke from the nearest corsair galley showed where an arquebusier had fired at them a moment earlier. He had already lowered the butt of his long-barrelled weapon to the deck and was reloading. Thomas glanced to each side to see if anyone had noticed his flinching but the men around him were staring ahead and Stokely’s lips moved as he prayed under his breath. His gaze flickered towards Thomas and he stilled his tongue and averted his eyes when he saw Thomas looking at him.
There were more puffs of smoke and the lead balls zipped overhead before another shot struck the galley on the bow. Thomas forced himself to stand still as he watched several more shots fired from the nearest enemy vessel, each one a lurid red bloom in a swirl of smoke that died away in a moment.
‘Crossbows!’ La Valette called out. ‘Make ready!’
The soldiers of the Order still used the outdated weapon. It lacked the range and power of the Turks’ firearm but it was less cumbersome and could cause terrible injuries when it was aimed true. A small party of men moved forward and took up position along each bow rail. Using the small windlass on the butt they wound back the bowstring and carefully placed a bolt in the channel running along the top of the weapon.
‘Shoot at will!’ The order carried clearly from the stem of the galley. The loud cracks of the enemy’s arquebuses were answered by the dull whack of the released bowstrings and the bolts leaped across the water in a shallow arc before disappearing amid the men crowding the deck of the corsair vessel.
There were now no more than a hundred paces between the two galleys, Thomas estimated. Scores of turbaned men lined the side rail, shouting their challenges at the Christians as they brandished their scimitars and pikes. Below the side rail the first oars were being run out as the crew frantically struggled to get their vessel under way. Thomas braced himself for the imminent order to fire the galley’s cannon, and he saw one of the gun captains glance over his shoulder. ‘Come on, come on,’ the man growled.
La Valette waited a moment longer then cupped his hands to his mouth and bellowed, ‘Open fire!’
CHAPTER TWO
At once the gun captains touched the glowing ends of their slow matches to the paper cones filled with gunpowder that protruded from the vents. There was a crackling hiss as the powder flared and then an ear-splitting roar and thump as a jet of fire and flame leaped from the muzzle of each cannon. The violent recoil caused the deck to lurch beneath Thomas’s feet and he staggered forward a step before he recovered his balance. Each weapon had been carefully loaded with a mixture of large iron nails, linked chains and cast lead shot, captured from an enemy ship months earlier. There was a savage satisfaction in seeing the enemy’s ammunition used against them, Thomas mused. The deadly cone of metal fragments blasted into the side of the corsair vessel. Splinters spat in all directions as the side rail was chewed up in two places. Behind, the turbaned warriors were swept away like children’s dolls and left in tangled heaps on the deck.
‘For God and St John!’ La Valette bellowed and his men echoed his cry with a great roar that tore at their throats, their mouths agape and their eyes wide with crazed excitement. ‘For God and St John!’ they shouted again and again as the galley surged forward, directly towards the side of the enemy vessel.
‘Brace yourselves!’ La Valette shouted, his booming voice just audible above the cheering of his men. Thomas stilled his tongue and gritted his teeth as he lowered himself into a crouch, grabbed the side rail with one hand and spread his feet wide. The others around him, those with the wit to understand what was to come, followed his example and waited for the impact. The deck seemed to leap beneath him and the soldier standing behind Thomas slammed into his shoulder before pitching on to the deck, along with several others. The foremast groaned in protest and there was a loud crack as one of the shrouds parted. Below deck there was a muffled chorus of cries as the terrified rowers were hurled from their benches and brought up painfully by their chains. The bow of the Swift Hind had been heavily reinforced to withstand the impact of a ramming attack and now rode up with a terrible grinding and splintering as the corsair galley tilted under the impact. There were cries of terror as scores of the enemy tumbled down the sloping deck and fell against the side. Several continued over the rail and splashed into the sea.
‘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.’