Corsair hl-1 Page 3

  ‘Would you be able to sail this ship as well as those who have her now?’ Hector asked, impressed by his companion’s self-assurance.

  The sailor gave a derisive chuckle. ‘Better. The man who cuns this ship, gripes her too much.’

  ‘What is “gripes”?’

  ‘Turns her head, her bow that is, too much towards the wind. That slows her down.’

  ‘And to “cun” the ship?’

  ‘That only means to steer her.’

  ‘I wonder if I would ever be able to learn all the sea words, let alone how to manage such a vessel.’

  ‘Seamanship comes natural to some,’ answered the sailor in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘Those who haven’t the knack, can usually learn if they are given enough time. The rare ones are those who can tell a helmsman which way to cun his ship, or can decipher the stars and predict a sure landfall on a foreign shore where he has never been before. That’s the man who his mates will want to sail with.’

  ‘You mean a navigator?’

  ‘Correct. Any fool can tell you that we’ve been heading south since we left the coast of Ireland, and a day ago I’d say we turned more eastward. You can tell that just by looking at the sun, and the fact that each night the air in the hold is getting hotter. I reckon we must have come at least four hundred miles and are close to Africa.’

  Hector broached a subject that had been nagging at the back of his mind. ‘As a boy I once heard a man speak about being taken as a captive by the corsairs. He told how their prisoners were made to work as slaves in galleys, working the oars. But I don’t see any oars.’

  ‘This ship is a sailing vessel, not a galley,’ the sailor replied, ‘nor even a galleass, which is a word for a ship that has both oars and a sail. A galley would be next to useless out here in the open ocean. Nigh on impossible to row in the waves, and the distances are too great. How would you feed a crew on a voyage of more than a few days? You must trust to the wind when you are far from land. No, this ship suits well enough for her purpose, which is pirating.’

  ‘What about meeting another ship, is there a chance that someone might rescue us?’

  ‘I’d expect we’ll sight other ships all right, but whether we’ll be rescued is another matter. For one thing, there’s our companion over there.’ Dunton nodded towards the corsair’s sister ship still visible half a mile away. ‘Two ships sailing in close company are best avoided in case they’re hostile. They can gang up on a stranger. And should we get separated and must sail on our own, then who’s to say that this is a corsair ship. If the crew take the trouble to cover those few guns, this vessel could as easy be a merchantman as a pirate. Pull down those pennants and that green flag and run up someone else’s colours and she could be Dutch or French or a Brandenburger as much as Turk. That’s why ships avoid one another when they meet at sea, just in case of trouble.’

  THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON almost proved Dunton wrong. The captives were on deck taking their exercise when a distant sail was sighted from the masthead. Hector noticed Hakim Reis gazing intently in the direction of the approaching vessel before the prisoners were hustled back down into the hold and shut in. Dunton stayed on the lower rungs of the ladder, his head cocked to one side, listening. There was a squeal of ropes running through the wooden blocks. ‘Hullo, they’re bringing the topsails amain,’ he commented. Soon afterwards there was a tramp of feet heading towards the stern. ‘And there they go to peak the mizzen. They’re heaving to.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ asked Hector in a whisper.

  ‘They’re stopping the ship, waiting for the other one to catch up,’ Dunton explained as Hector felt the motion of the vessel change. Where before the ship had been sailing at a slant, now she was level and pitching up and down gently on the waves.

  Dunton sat down against the side of the hold. ‘No hurry, younker,’ he said. ‘It’ll be some time before that other sail catches up with us, three or four hours at least.’

  ‘Who do you think it is?’

  ‘No idea,’ answered the sailor. ‘But my guess is that our captain is a foxy one. He’ll pretend he is a friendly vessel, hang out some convenient flag, and wait for the visitor to come close enough, then close and board him. Take him by surprise.’

  ‘Not fire at him?’

  ‘A corsair doesn’t use his cannon except in emergency. He doesn’t want to damage his prey. Best lay board and board, and seize the other vessel with a rush of men.’

  An air of excitement had also brought the other prisoners to life. Even the most depressed villager started to look hopeful of rescue. Newland, the cloth merchant, called enquiringly, ‘Friend or foe, sailor?’

  Dunton merely shrugged.

  It must have been about three hours later – there was no way to mark the passage of time below deck – when suddenly an order was shouted on the deck above, and the prisoners heard the scamper of running feet. ‘Hello,’ said Dunton. ‘Something’s not what was expected.’

  There were more shouts and then the chanting of a work song, its refrain urgent and forceful. ‘They’re setting sail again, and in a hurry,’ commented the sailor. Within moments the prisoners could again hear the ripple of the waves along the flanks of the ship, and feel the vessel heel to the wind. A flat thud in the distance was followed by two more. ‘Cannon!’ announced Dunton. More cries on deck, and the answering bang of a cannon from directly above them. The vessel quivered with the recoil. ‘God grant that we are not hit. If we sink, we’ll never get out of here alive,’ muttered Newland the mercer in sudden alarm. Hector glanced at the villagers. Their earlier hopes of being rescued had turned to dismay. Several were on their knees, hands clasped in silent prayer, eyes shut tight. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked the Devon sailor. Dunton was still straining to hear the noises on deck. ‘Wish I knew their language. No way of knowing. But my guess is that we’re the chase.’ Again Hector felt frustrated by his lack of sea lore.

  ‘Does that mean we are in pursuit?’

  ‘No, the chase is the vessel which is pursued.’

  ‘God grant us salvation!’ pleaded the cooper. ‘Praise the Lord for his Mercy. He who watches over us! Let us pray together for our liberation.’ He began to hum a psalm.

  ‘Shut up!’ snapped Dunton. ‘I’m trying to hear what is going on.’

  The cooper ignored him, and his co-religionists in the hold began a dirge which drowned out all but the distant occasional thud of the cannon fire which, as time passed, became fainter and more irregular until, finally, nothing more could be heard.

  ‘Must have outrun them,’ grunted Dunton, who had shifted to his favourite position beneath a crack in the deck planking where he could squint out at the sky. ‘Or perhaps we lost them in the gathering darkness. It’ll be full dark soon.’

  The disappointed prisoners settled down for their rest, their stomachs empty, because for the first time in the voyage, no one had appeared at the hatch with their evening ration. ‘Let us pray to God that our women and children are safe,’ said the cooper, and Hector, who had naturally been silently wondering what might have happened to Elizabeth on the sister ship, found himself praying quietly for her survival as he tried to go to sleep, curled up against a bulkhead. He felt completely helpless as Hakim Reis’s ship sailed on towards its unknown destination.

  BY NOON the next day the captives had still not been fed, and they were hungrily awaiting the arrival of their usual ration of bread and olives when there was another shattering crash of cannon fire. But this time it was not a single cannon. An entire battery of guns was shooting, and very close by. The ship’s armament promptly answered, and the prisoners heard the thud of the gun carriages slamming down with the discharge. The sudden torrent of sound tipped the elderly madman over the edge of sanity. He leapt up from where he had been sleeping, and began to caper and shout nonsense. He hooted and bellowed, and nothing could restrain him. Again came the shocking crash of a battery, and an answering blast from the ship’s guns. A strange smell wafted down – the
acrid stink of gunpowder.

  All at once the hatch was flung open, and not one but five sailors came hurrying down the ladder. But instead of bringing food, they began to shout and point excitedly, urging the captives to go up on deck. Dazed and uncomprehending, the prisoners shuffled forward. Those who stayed were pulled to their feet and thrust forward. Hector found himself following the grimy and naked feet of a villager as he climbed the ladder to the deck, and emerged to see a scene ahead of him never to be forgotten.

  Off to one side, less than a hundred yards away, stood a formidable fortress constructed of massive stone blocks on a low and rocky islet. The sides of the fortress were a series of angled surfaces designed to deflect cannonballs. Its parapet bristled with cannon, and from a copper dome, which also served as a lighthouse, rose a tall flagpole from which floated a huge crimson flag. In the centre of the flag was the image of an arm, black on red, brandishing a broad-bladed sword like the weapons wielded by the sailors aboard Hakim Reis’s vessel. As Hector watched, white smoke belched from the mouths of the fort’s cannon, and a moment later he heard the echoing explosion. He flinched, waiting for the shock of cannonballs tearing into the fabric of the ship. But nothing came. Then he realised that the fort was firing a salute to greet the incoming vessel, even as Hakim Reis’s men let off their own guns and gave a great cheer.

  But what made him gape was the city which climbed the hill behind the fort. Blinding white in the midday sun, rank upon rank of tightly packed houses extended up the flank of a steep mountain to form a dense triangular mass. The flat roofs of the houses were topped with balconies, their walls pierced with rows of small arched windows. Here and there emerged a turquoise or gilded dome and the spikes of tall spires, and at the very apex of the triangle, far up the slope, was a sprawling complex which Hector took to be a citadel. To the left, outside the city wall and dominating the skyline, loomed another massive castle, its turrets decked out with flagpoles and banners. Orchards and gardens spread across the flanks of the mountains on both sides, and their show of greenery framed the dizzying spectacle of the corsairs’ base.

  The sound of cheering brought his attention back to the harbour. On the seaward side of the fortress a curtain wall had been built to protect an anchorage. This curtain wall, some thirty feet high and built along the crest of a reef, was also topped with battlements and cannon platforms. The rampart was lined with citizens who had come out to greet them. They were shouting and waving, and a small band of musicians – three drummers and a man with some sort of flute – had struck up a wild skirling tune. Those spectators who were nearest the musicians were clapping in time and a few of them were whirling and dancing with delight.

  A shove on his shoulder from one of the crew pushed him into line so that he stood side by side with the other captives at the rail of the ship, facing across to the crowd of onlookers. Hector realised that he and the other prisoners were being put on show. They were the spoils of the corsair’s cruise.

  A few moments more and their ship was rounding the far end of the harbour wall, with the anchorage opening ahead of them. Moored in the middle of the roadstead were four sailing vessels similar to the one Hakim Reis commanded. But what caught his eye were the dozen vessels deep inside the harbour, their bows tied to the mole itself. Without being told, he knew what they were. Low and sleek and dangerous, they reminded him of the greyhounds his father and his friends had used to course hares in the countryside. He was about to ask Dunton if he was right in thinking they were corsair galleys, when the villager standing beside him said in anguished tones, ‘Where’s the other ship? The one with our womenfolk and the children?’

  Shocked, Hector turned to look. Nowhere could he see the vessel that had accompanied them. She was gone.

  FOUR

  SAMUEL MARTIN, the English consul in Algiers, heard the salvoes of gunfire and walked to the window of his office. From long experience he knew the reason for the commotion. Squinting down into the harbour he recognised Hakim Reis’s ship and sighed. The corsair’s arrival meant there was work for him, and it was not a task he relished. By inclination and preference Martin was a trader. He would much rather have looked out of his window and seen merchant ships arriving and departing, laden with the honest merchandise from which he had hoped to make his living when he had first arrived in Algiers a decade ago. But it had not turned out that way. Legitimate trade between England and Algiers was on the increase but the Algerines much preferred to make their money by seizing captives for ransom or selling stolen goods, often back to their original owners. Hence the joyous reception being given by the populace to Hakim Reis and his ruffians down at the harbour.

  Consul Martin, a small and active man, often wondered if the government in London had any inkling of the complications of being England’s representative to a Barbary regency. For a start he never quite knew whom he should be dealing with. Officially the city ruler was the Pasha appointed by the Turkish Sultan in Istanbul. But the Sublime Porte was far away, and ultimately the Pasha was really nothing more than a figurehead. Effective power apparently lay with the Dey and his cabinet of advisers, the divan. But that too was a deception. The Dey was elected by the janissaries, the city’s Turkish-born military elite. Known locally as the odjaks, the janissaries were professional warriors, but it was normal that they also followed a second occupation, usually as merchants or landlords. Certainly they devoted more energy to political intrigues than to soldiering. They made and unmade their Deys at an alarming rate, and their favoured method of getting rid of the current officeholder was by assassination. In Consul Martin’s time three Deys had been killed, two by poison and one with the garrotte. The Consul was aware that the divan only paid him any attention when it suited them, but he nursed a hope that one day he would be able to influence the current Dey, an elderly odjak, directly through his favourite wife who was reputed to be an Englishwoman. She was a slave girl who had taken the old man’s fancy and borne him two children. Unfortunately Martin had yet to meet the lady, and rumour had it that she was as avaricious and corrupt as anyone else in the palace.

  The consul sighed again. Had the incoming vessel been a galley returning from a short cruise in the Mediterranean, the prisoners on board were likely to be French or Genoese, Greeks or Spaniards, and therefore not his concern. But Hakim Reis was known to range as far as the English Channel on his man-catching cruises. Recently Martin had helped negotiate a treaty between London and Algiers whereby the Algerines had promised not to molest English ships, or vessels sailing under English passes. But the consul was not sure that Hakim Reis would have honoured the pact. So it was best if His Majesty’s consul established just who was on the corsair’s roster of captives. And should any of his captives prove to be subjects of the King, then Martin’s duty was to find out their identities and what price was expected for them. The best moment to do that was when the prisoners were first landed, before they were distributed among various owners or vanished into any one of the eight bagnios, the slave barracks.

  Indoors, the consul liked to wear the loose cotton kaftans and slippers which the Moors of Algiers favoured, and he thought the dress very sensible in the heat. But in public he was expected to dress according to his rank and dignity. So now he called for his manservant, a Hampshire man awaiting the final instalment of an agreed ransom, and told him to lay out his street clothes – a three-piece suit of heavy cloth with a waistcoat and knee breeches, a starched linen shirt with a frilled front and ruffles at the wrist, and a cravat.

  Half an hour later, sweating in this turnout, Martin descended to the street. His office and living quarters were in the coolest part of the building, the topmost of the three floors which served as the consulate as well as his residence and place of business. On the way downstairs he passed the rooms where his servants ate and slept, the dormitories occupied by several dozen captives whose ransoms were expected soon or who were part-paid, and finally on the ground floor the storerooms for the commodities he traded – mo
stly skins and ostrich feathers from the interior. His doorkeeper, a burly and necessary functionary who intercepted unwelcome callers at the house, pulled back the heavy nail-studded door. Martin adjusted his newly brushed periwig and, a little unsteady on the two-inch-high heels of his buckled shoes, he stepped out into the narrow street.

  The noise and heat made a double blow. The consulate was situated halfway up the hill of Algiers, and its front door gave directly on to the main street which ran the length of the city, from the docks to the Kasbah at the upper end of the town. Never more than a few yards wide, with high flat-fronted houses on each side, the street was like a sultry ravine. Paved with worn stone slabs, it climbed so steeply that it had to be broken by occasional short flights of steps. The street also served as the main bazaar and emporium of the city, so walking along it meant stepping around stalls and dodging pavement vendors selling everything from vegetables to metalwork. Asses laden with panniers plodded up and down the slope, hawkers yelled, water carriers clattered tin cups against the brass flagons strapped to their backs. As the consul made his way slowly through the press of the crowd he wondered, not for the first time, whether he should retire and return to England. For years he had suffered the noise and heat of Algiers, and the roguery of its inhabitants. Yet he told himself once again that it was too soon to abandon the city. Property prices in England were rising so fast that he would not be able to afford the country estate on which he had set his heart.

  On the quayside, Martin found the Dey’s scribes already seated at the table where they would enter the new intake of captives in the city register. Martin knew the chief registrar slightly and bowed to him, a gesture of politeness which would do no harm as the Algerines, for all their villainy, valued good manners. The usual crowd of idlers had assembled to observe the landing of the prisoners and pass comments on their potential worth as slaves, while the first boatload of the captives had already been ferried ashore. Martin noted how bewildered and frightened the poor wretches looked as they gazed about them at the strange world into which they were being inducted. Glumly the consul concluded that the new arrivals were too fair-skinned to be Italians or Spanish, and he supposed they must be Dutch or English. The only prisoner taking an intelligent interest in his surroundings was a handsome, black-haired young man in his late teens. He was looking this way and that, apparently searching for someone. He seemed agitated. Beyond him was a short, pudgy man wearing a wig. He was standing slightly apart from his fellow captives and trying to look as though he was too superior to be in their company. Martin wondered if the man knew that his every action was telling his captors that he was worth a larger ransom.