by Sam Barone
“We know how to shoot a cannon, Englishman,” one seaman said. “Don’t need no wet-behind-the-ears apprentice to tell us our trade.”
Antonio struggled to translate the odd Italian phrase, while the gun crews all enjoyed a good laugh.
“Good. Just give me your name, so I can tell Captain Bredani that you’ve taken responsibility for the guns.” Antonio waited, but the man remained silent, with a single glance toward the stern. Apparently standing up to Bredani didn’t interest any of the crew. The captain had been in a foul mood since the start of the voyage and no one wanted to attract his attention. “Good, then let’s go over the firing procedure again.”
When they finished with the bow guns, they repeated the process on the stern. God’s Falcon carried six swivel guns there, mounted three to a side, and two nine-pounders facing astern. Antonio worked with the crews of the nine-pounders, making sure each man knew how to load the weapon, how much powder to pour in the touchhole, how to swab the barrel, and even what position to take before, during, and after the firing.
Whether because they were under Captain Bredani’s eye, or because the gun crews actually wanted to learn, they gave Antonio their complete attention as he walked through the steps needed to fire the weapons. There was more space at the stern than in the bow, but during action, any empty space might be filled with arquebusiers firing their own weapons. Matches would be burning everywhere, and the chance of a spark encountering gunpowder would be high.
The gun crews were smiling when Antonio finished. He turned to see Captain Bredani and the French knight observing him.
“I’ll inspect the men’s arquebuses next, Captain.”
“Can’t your apprentice do it?” Bredani’s foul mood seemed worse.
An arquebus, or musket as some were beginning to call it, was the first weapon every apprentice worked on. The hand-held weapon fired a one-ounce ball six tenths of an inch in diameter. The basic operation matched that of a cannon – add powder, drop in a ball, then ram it down to hold the projectile in place and compress the gunpowder. More powder went into the touchhole, then the weapon was aimed and a lit match attached to the stock set off the explosion. “Tozzo knows the firing process, Captain.”
“Let him do it. You deal with the Frenchman,” Bredani said, and stalked away, apparently determined to spend as little time as possible with the knight, and to stay as far from him as feasible on a galley.
Antonio faced the Hospitaller. “At your service, Sir.”
“Your name is Antonio, but they call you the Englishman. Are you English or Venetian?”
The odd question caught Antonio by surprise. “I was born in Venice, but I’ve lived all my life in England. She is my country, sir.”
“Better an English dog than a Venetian cur, I suppose,” de Clermont said. He ignored Antonio’s look of surprise at the slur. “I want an inventory of every weapon on board destined for Malta. Everything, down to the last musket ball. You will see to it personally, with Sir Glavin’s help.” He nodded to the knight standing a step away. “After you finish here, you’ll do the same on the other two galleys.”
“Yes, sir.”
“When we land, Sir Glavin and you will make certain every single powder cask, gun, and bullet goes ashore. We will unpack and inspect each keg and box if necessary. These Venetian thieves have been known to transport cargo and return with half of what they were supposed to deliver. If anything is missing, I’ll have you flogged and then hanged. Do you understand, Englishman?”
Antonio clenched his jaw but nodded. The captain threatened to throw him overboard, and now this Knight of St. John wanted to hang him. “Yes, sir. I’ll start now.”
Sir Glavin pulled the bill of lading from within his garment, the document listing every item paid for and loaded aboard. He and Antonio examined it, standing on the stern. At least all the cargo brought aboard was intended for a single port. Sometimes ships hauled cargoes destined for more than one harbor, which would have complicated the process, since loads would need to be rearranged and re-stowed at each stop. And with an increased probability of something going missing or getting damaged.
With Tozzo helping, they started at the bow with the gunpowder casks, which Antonio had delivered to the docks himself. The physical count matched for God’s Falcon, as did the kegs of bullets, the two robinets, and the sundry supplies needed for them.
By this time they’d worked their way to the stern, and only the count of the arquebuses remained. With a sinking sensation, Antonio saw only three boxes resting beneath the rowers’ bench. There should be five. A glance around showed nowhere else to look, except in the captain’s tiny cabin. No sense bothering in there, as both Knights and Bredani had their personal equipment stowed there.
“What is it?” Sir Glavin’s voice showed that he noticed something amiss.
“There should be five boxes, but I only see three,” Antonio said. “Perhaps they’re on one of the other galleys.” He glanced at Tozzo as he finished, but the apprentice’s head was down. Something was wrong and Tozzo knew it.
“Open the boxes,” Glavin said, his suspicions aroused. “I want to see what’s inside.”
Tozzo carried his gunner’s hammer. Without looking up, he knelt and wrenched the first box open. Four arquebuses rested inside, along with the required ramrods, matches, and cleaning materials. Without waiting, Antonio helped the apprentice open the others. Their contents were intact, just as the Arsenal had packed them.
Glavin snorted, then climbed the steps to the stern, where de Clermont waited. The senior Knight’s expression didn’t change as he listened to Glavin.
“Antonio,” de Clermont ordered, “come here.” He waited until Antonio stood before him. “Tell the captain what is missing.”
Bredani had already joined them and took the news with a grunt. “Two boxes?” He shrugged. “Probably on one of the other ships. We’ll sort it out in Brindisi.”
“We’ll sort it out now,” de Clermont said. “Signal the other galleys to come alongside. I want to see what’s missing on them as well.”
For a moment, Antonio thought Bredani would refuse. He had 18 armed men at his disposal, as well as the rowers that he could order against the two Knights and their two men-at-arms. But the grim expression on de Clermont’s face silenced all protest. For the first time, Antonio realized that the captain was afraid of de Clermont.
“Signal the other galleys to join up,” Bredani ordered the first mate. “Strike the sails and give the rowers time to eat.”
God’s Falcon oars ceased their sweeps and slid back into the vessel. The other galleys slowed their pace, and let their momentum carry them alongside. As soon as the other boats had hooked on, de Clermont turned his face to Antonio. “Go. Check the other boats.”
With Tozzo and Sir Glavin following, Antonio moved to the starboard side and swung over to the second galley. Bredani shouted to the other two captains, and they came aboard God’s Falcon. A heated exchange arose. With Sir Glavin hovering, Antonio started the inventory. He and Tozzo opened every box and cask, every bundle and sack. An hour later, when he found nothing missing, Antonio breathed a sigh of relief.
They moved back across God’s Falcon and onto the other galley. Olivio waited there, shifting impatiently from foot to foot. No one had bothered to explain what was going on, but he’d seen Antonio and Tozzo cross to the other galley and perform a check of the cargo.
“What’s happening? Why are we stopping?”
“Two boxes of arquebuses are missing from God’s Falcon,” Antonio explained. “They were probably loaded on this galley by mistake.”
Olivio swallowed hard, and his eyes darted to Sir Glavin, who stood grim-faced behind Antonio. Olivio must know something about the missing weapons. Antonio walked to the bow and started checking the cargo against the shipping list. Glavin followed, watched every check mark, and inspected the contents of every cask and crate.
When Antonio and Tozzo reached the stern, everything ma
tched the list. Only the two boxes from Bredani’s ship were missing. “Just the two boxes, Sir Glavin,” Antonio said. “They must have been left behind at the Arsenal.”
“Return to God’s Falcon,” Glavin ordered. He switched to Italian. “And you, too, whatever your name is.” That was meant for Olivio, who frowned at the order.
On board Bredani’s galley, Sir Glavin held a hurried conference with de Clermont in French. The other two Knights had come aboard the Falcon, and they stood behind their leader, left hands resting on the hilts of their swords. Antonio waited on the main deck just below the stern, wondering what would happen next. A clump of boots on the deck, and he looked up to see the French Knight glaring down at him.
“Who loaded the arquebuses?” De Clermont’s eyes bored into Antonio’s.
“I don’t know.” He could say that truthfully enough. He’d paid no attention to anything but the powder kegs.
“Ask the Venetian,” de Clermont ordered.
Antonio turned to Olivio, and saw the apprentice master’s mouth was trembling.
“He wants to know if you loaded the arquebuses,” Antonio repeated.
Olivio’s eyes were on the deck, and he had to swallow before he could speak. “Tell him . . .I just supervised the loading.”
Antonio noticed that the ship had gone silent, not a word said, not even an oar scaping on a bench. De Clermont’s boot sounded loud as he descended to the main deck and moved in front of Olivio. “I asked you a question.”
To Antonio’s surprise, the words were in Italian. Not fluent perhaps, but more than plain enough.
“Sir, we both loaded the ships,” Olivio said, indicating Antonio. “The missing boxes must have been left behind.”
With the speed of a striking snake, de Clermont’s left hand shot out and caught Olivio by the throat. Antonio realized the leader of the knights had donned his leather gauntlets. A glance at Sir Glavin and the others showed their hands encased as well. Gauntlets were worn only when fighting, to give the sword hand a better grip. Antonio hadn’t noticed when the knights slipped them on.
Olivio was as tall as de Clermont, but the grip on the Venetian’s throat was like a vise. Olivio tried to pull away, then clutched the Knight’s wrist, but to no avail. Muscles bulged in de Clermont’s arm.
“Tell me where my boxes are, or I’ll crush your throat,” de Clermont said.
Antonio translated, though he doubted the need.
Olivio’s face had turned red, and he sank to his knees, but de Clermont’s grip never lessened. Antonio had never seen such a thing, one man choking another with only one hand.
A strangled gasp was all that Olivio could muster, but de Clermont pushed him so hard that Olivio fell on his back to the deck, his face red and gasping for air.
“Tue-le,” de Clermont ordered. Kill him!
Antonio couldn’t believe what he heard. A handful of Knights and their retainers stood ready to turn the deck of the galley into a slaughter house, if necessary. But the Venetian captains knew who would be the first to die. Not that any of them cared about a thief from the Arsenal.
No one said a word or raised a hand. Bredani and the other captains just stared in silence. Olivio might not speak French, but only a fool would not know the knight’s intent.
None of the Knights would sully his weapon with such a deed, but the squire who attended de Clermont had no such compunctions. He stepped forward, drew his sword in the same motion, lifting it to strike.
“No, please, Mother of God,” Olivio gasped, struggling to his knees. “The boxes must have been left behind by mistake! A mistake, I swear it!”
The squire hesitated while Antonio translated Olivio’s words.
“Wait,” de Clermont said, and the squire stayed his stroke. “Search him. Strip off his clothes. Search everything he brought onboard.”
Sir Glavin helped the squire search Olivio. It took only a moment to find his pouch. Inside, wrapped in a gaily striped handkerchief, they found a fat handful of gold double ducats. The squire handed the coins to Sir Glavin, who tendered them to Antonio as if they were the devil’s own currency. “Count them.”
Every eye focused on Antonio as he made the count. “Eighty ducats, milord.” Antonio replaced the coins inside Olivio’s pouch and handed it to Sir Glavin, who passed it to de Clermont.
Olivio had the equivalent of about 10 English pounds in his possession. The Apprentice Master likely sold the two boxes of arquebuses to someone on the dock for less than half their value, no doubt a hurried transaction to fatten Olivio’s purse at the expense of the Knights. He hadn’t expected anyone to inventory the goods while at sea, and once the cargo was unloaded, even if the discrepancy were discovered, Olivio could easily disavow any knowledge.
“Kill him,” de Clermont repeated, as calmly as before. He tossed the ducats on the deck. No one moved to touch them.
“No, wait, milord,” Antonio said, stepping forward, his heart racing. De Clermont was as likely to order Antonio killed as not. “We’ll need him to help unload the gunpowder at Malta.”
The squire paused, looking at his master, who lifted his hand enough to stop the stroke from falling.
“You’ll want to unload as quickly as possible,” Antonio went on, speaking as fast as his French allowed. “This man knows how to supervise the process. It will be safer and proceed faster if he helps.”
The knight took only a moment to decide. “Very well,” de Clermont said. “He’ll be whipped instead. And if anything goes wrong during the unloading, I’ll hang you both.” He turned to Sir Glavin. “Twenty lashes.”
Three squires moved forward. With an efficiency that amazed Antonio, they bound Olivio’s hands, dragged him across the deck, then bent him over the nearest cannon. One held his head immobile, while another ripped Olivio’s shirt off his back. The other two grasped Olivio’s arms, pinning him to the iron gun.
The oar master handed over his lash, used mostly on the slaves or criminals chained to rowers’ benches. De Clermont’s steward took the long strand of plaited leather and administered the punishment. He wielded the whip with casual expertise. Antonio guessed the steward had done such tasks for his master before.
Olivio screamed at the first stroke and tried to squirm away. “Tell the coward if he keeps moving, he’ll get another 20.” De Clermont turned toward the other side of the galley and stared at the open sea.
Antonio had to shout the words to make sure Olivio understood. By then the steward was on the sixth stroke, each landing with all the man’s force. Every stroke of the leather cut through Olivio’s skin like a knife and left a blood trail. Helpless, he shrieked at every lash, begging for mercy.
When the whipping ended, Olivio had twenty distinct cuts from his neck to the small of his back. He collapsed on the deck, twitching and weeping uncontrollably. His breeches were wet where he’d soiled himself. No one moved to help him.
“Get that filth off my ship,” de Clermont said. He grasped Antonio by the arm and dragged him across the deck to where Captain Bredani stood. The Venetian hadn’t made the slightest effort to intervene, or even to protest.
“Tell our good captain,” de Clermont ordered, “that he will replace the eight missing guns from his own stock. And since these were new weapons, I want the eight best arquebuses on board.”
Bredani started to protest after Antonio delivered the message.
“Captain, give him the guns,” Antonio pleaded, speaking as quickly as possible. “The Arsenal will make them up when you return, and you’ll get eight new ones yourself. And there’s the 80 ducats still lying on the deck. The Knights won’t touch it.”
The captain might still have argued, but one glance at de Clermont’s face changed his mind. That or the thought of the 80 ducats. “Very well. Tell him I’ll give him the weapons. Now ask him if we can get moving again. We’re sitting here like ducks on a pond, waiting for some Turkish hawk to scoop us up.”
De Clermont tightened his grip on Antonio’s ar
m. Pain shot up his shoulder. The Knight’s grip was powerful, and Antonio understood why Olivio had been unable to break loose. The gauntlet’s rough material, meant to insure a firm grip on a sword, worked equally well on human flesh.
“Captain Bredani agrees to your request, milord,” Antonio said. “He only asks that you allow his men to keep the weapons until we arrive, in case they’re needed.”
The pressure on Antonio’s arm eased, and the Knight inclined his head a fraction of an inch to Captain Bredani. “Very well. Give the captain my thanks, and suggest that we get moving again. We’ve wasted enough time already.”
The captain started bellowing commands even before Antonio finished speaking.
“And Antonio, I see your wits are quick,” de Clermont said. “Perhaps an English wolfhound is better than a Venetian cur.”
Antonio didn’t know if that was a compliment or not. He wanted to rub his arm, but his pride kept him from doing so. He’d never felt a grip so powerful. The Knight understood Italian after all, at least well enough to pick up Antonio’s words. “Yes, milord. And I see that the Knights of Saint John are as clever as they are just. May I return to my duties?”
The hint of a smile crossed de Clermont’s face. He turned away without speaking, leaving Antonio standing there.
“Are you all right?” Tozzo had gathered his courage enough to join Antonio.
“Yes. I think I just avoided having the skin flayed from my back. If Olivio hadn’t given himself away, we might both have been whipped.”
“I’ll lose no tears over Olivio,” Tozzo said. “I saw him and one of his fawning apprentices carry the boxes to the other end of the dock. By now they’ve been sold in the market. Why did you speak up for him? You know he hates you.”
“I don’t know.” Antonio shook his head. “It just happened. Maybe I didn’t want to see any Venetian killed by these knights.”
“Even a thief like Olivio? No one deserves it more.”
“Foolish Olivio should have known better than to cheat the Knights,” Antonio said. The scars from the whipping would never fade. “Now he’ll remember that transaction for the rest of his life.”