Two weeks later the ninth evacuation galley arrives and the merchants are so convinced there will be a tenth that, as a well appreciated courtesy, they pay in full so I can leave for Malta and England. Late that evening we board the big galley, row out of the harbor with two of our best Marine archers at every oar and six prize crews to spell them, and a virtual king’s ransom in gold coins as our ballast. The crusaders may take Constantinople but by God they won’t get all its gold.
What’s good indeed is who is commanding the ninth galley – it’s Harold, by God. I’d know that red hair and the way he stands anywhere. We wave enthusiastically to each other as his men prepare to throw their mooring lines and some of our men trot down the shore to catch them and pull his galley to a stop despite the moving current.
“Hello you old goat,” I shout as he jumps over the rail with a big smile and we pound each other’s shoulders. “I’m surprised to see you.”
“Well I got all the galleys off to where they should be and there was nothing more for me to do – so I decided to send Angelo to Malta in my place and come and see for myself what devilment you’ve got us into this time.”
Randolph and I spend most of the day hearing Harold’s news and telling him stories about what’s happening here and showing him around our camp and the city. And we drink a few bowls of wine to keep our throats wet whilst we talk. We have a grand old time for a former galley slave and two old archers who were poor as church mice a couple of years ago.
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Randolph and many of our captain sergeants are on the moonlit dock as we leave in the middle of the night. Our men have already broken through the city wall and the barriers sealing off each end of our concession are mostly up. We’re rich and we’re suddenly very short of the one thing we thought we had in excess – galleys to send from Cyprus to the Holy Land ports.
Our big problem at the moment, of course, is very big indeed - everyone in the city knows we are leaving and will undoubtedly be taking a huge amount of gold coins with us.
I thought about announcing to everyone that, because of the gold, we’d be going back to Cyprus to deposit it before heading to Malta. But then I decided against it – it might attract the pirates or the king to attack Yoram’s compound and the men we’ve left behind.
But we’re not exactly dumb are we? Of course not; we load row out of our moorage in the middle of the night and we don’t take the best route through the Turkish and Greek islands or even the second or third best routes. We go far out of our way in the wrong direction before we turn and head for Malta. I may be a bit slow sometimes but I’m not stupid.
Chapter Ten
Our voyage to Malta is different from that of most galleys. We’ve got a very large crew of the best fighting men in the world. And perhaps even more importantly in terms of getting through to Malta, we’ve loaded a cargo primarily of water and bales of arrows and we are going to sail down the middle of the Mediterranean instead of following the coast. We’ll be hard to find if anyone is interested in trying to separate us from our coins – and even harder to catch if they do.
All goes well until we have Malta is in sight. It is the peak of the sailing season and we see various ships coming and going in all directions. Mostly they turn away and run.
Sighting Malta and seeing a fleet of waiting galleys happens at virtually the same moment.
“Land ahead, Land ahead,” comes the cry from the lookout on our mast. Almost immediately comes another shout. “Ships to the north; galleys they is.”
A few minutes later and the lookout’s cry is more ominous. The galleys have turned towards us and there are a dozen or more. Pirates for sure and they’ve got more of the wind than we do. Worse, the pilots for our galley and the prize crews are on deck and are in agreement – the port we want is to the north. We’ll have to fight our way through. Or do we?
I climb the mast to see for myself. It’s true. So I heave a big sigh and start down.
“Harold,” I shout while I’m still climbing down, “It’s time to do another wounded bird.”
He laughs when I tell him the plan.
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Within minutes we have turned south with our sail up and we’re running before the wind with the pirates in hot pursuit. Our archers are resting at their oars and talking cheerfully among themselves. Some are napping. I’d gone down to the rowing decks and explained my plan to them. To a man they like it. And they should - they’re almost all veterans and see no reason to risk their lives if it can be avoided by a bit of rowing and a few more hours at sea.
My plan is simple. We’ll head south and go the long way around the island until we reach the harbor. Of course, if the pirates figure it out in time they’ll just turn around and go back to the harbor and wait for us to show up again. So we’re going to try to entice them to follow us – and so far it seems to be working.
We are only showing and using oars from our lower rowing benches and within an hour the first of the pirates begins to slowly close between us. Our strongest archers are on deck with their “lights” ready to go. “Lights,” of course, are an archer’s arrows for maximum distance as opposed to their “heavies” which can punch through knights’ armor but don’t have so great a range because of their greater weight.
Our rowing pace picks up more and more as the closest pirate gets closer and closer. It is well within range of our archers and slowly closing the gap. The other pirates are closing in as well and we are still not using our upper bank of oars as would be the case if we are short of rowers.
Then we try to appear desperate by having our archers simultaneously launch a huge cloud of arrows. This is exactly the response the pirates would expect from an enemy galley filled with archers desperately trying to get away.
It works; our closest pursuer drops back out of arrow range and we stop launching them. The others come up but also stay back just at the distant edge of our archer’s range. Then they once again surge forward and once again come within the distant reach of our archers. And once again we launch a steady stream of arrows until they pull back.
Hmm. They know we have archers and yet they are all coming forward to become targets; is this a pre-arranged effort to share the pain so that no pirate ship takes undue punishment until we run out of arrows and they can board us? That’s what I’d do – if I don’t know the galley I’m after is so strongly crewed or has so many baskets of arrows on board.
We are leading the unknown galleys further and further away from being able to turn back and go around the island the other way to beat us to the port. After three or four hours most of them move up on us and we launch a heavy barrage of arrows at each pirate galley in turn. And once again they fall back. But before they do several of the closer pirates begin launching a few of their own arrows at us.
One of their arrows hits home and an archer not ten feet from me goes down with an arrow in his leg. Then another is hit in the chest and killed on the spot. I’m glad I’m wearing my chain link shirt.
“Is it time to turn for the port?” I shout to Harold.
He nods and I nod back. Orders are shouted and for the first time the oars on our upper rowing deck are unshipped and begin to be used. With two strong men at every oar we quickly begin to pull away from our exhausted and bloodied pursuers. In less than an hour they disappear behind us.
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There are no pirates behind us when night falls and none in sight when approach the harbor the next morning. Even so, we’re on high alert when we row into the harbor - because we don’t know what we might find. Our concerns are unfounded. What we find, as Harold earlier assured me we would, is almost all of our England-bound galleys from Cyprus. Only one has not yet arrived.
Cheering and waving erupts from the decks of our anchored and docked galleys as we row to the Cyprus dock and tie up next to a couple of fishing boats unloading their catches. The various captains and senior sergeants quickly gather and, of course, old Brindisi hurries down to get the latest n
ews.
There is nothing Harold and I can do but shake a lot of hands, clap a lot of shoulders, and repair to the nearby tavern to share our news and get theirs. They’ve all heard that I’ve got a woman with me and I get more than a few winks and nudges and inquiries if they can do the same, some quite serious I think. Harold and I don’t share everything, of course; certainly not about all the gold bezants we are carrying or our plans for the galleys after we leave Malta.
Even so, the old pirate knows about our gold coins and he tells me so as soon as he can walk with me to the alley for a piss and a private word.
“Everyone knows about the gold coins you are carrying, my friend. Even my old captains asked me for permission to go after it. That’s probably why you are missing a galley.”
“When did they find out?’ There’s no sense denying it.
“Yesterday morning. An entire fleet of Venetian galleys came in straight from Constantinople and made inquiries. They only stayed for a couple of hours while they were taking on water and asking around. Fortunately it was after most of your galleys came in or you would probably have lost more than one. But you better take on supplies and leave before more of the local boys get the word. I certainly don’t want the goddamn Venetians or anyone else in these waters taking galleys because they hope it might be your gold ship. I’ve got a couple of galleys myself, you know.”
“Who took my galley? What have you heard?”
“Well, someone probably took it. All I know is that it wasn’t my boys because they’ve been in the harbor all week.”
I take the old pirate’s advice and we all leave for England that very night. Helen doesn’t even have a chance to do much more than set foot on the ground and make a brief visit to the market.
What Harold and I do not do is share our plans with our captains until late that afternoon when we are at anchor in the middle of the harbor and ready to leave.
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“Our plan is simple,” I tell the sergeant captains when they finish assembling on the deck of Harold’s galley. “We’re going to rendezvous at the mouth of the Alarcon for water. From there we’ll try to take some cogs and galleys from one of the Moslem ports. The prize money will be the same as that for Algiers and payable in Cyprus.”
The captains, of course, want to know which port; Harold and I, of course, tell them they’ll have to wait to find out.
“No one is to go ashore to the village at Alarcon – just dip the water you need out of the river and wait in the harbor. If for some reason you are not there by the Sunday morning you are to water when and where you can and head for Cornwall without stopping at any Moslem ports between here and Lisbon.”
Three days later we rendezvous at the mouth of the Alarcon and I give the captains their orders for our first target – nearby Almeria and all the ships and galleys in its port.
Almeria is a major Moslem port on the Spanish coast and tomorrow we’re going to do our usual – row in as if we own the place and cut out all the Moslem ships we can safely take away. Afterwards our galleys and their prizes will rendezvous back here to the mouth of the Alarcon River to transfer food and water skins if they need them.
After we rendezvous the prizes will row for Crete and then on to Malta and Cyprus. Our fleet of galleys, on the other hand, will head west into the Atlantic and rendezvous again at the mouth of the River Taquin to take on more water and get their new assignments.
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It is quiet and it stayed quiet as we row into Almeria in the scorching hot sun of the early afternoon. It is as if the place is deserted. We quickly seize the only galley we find with slaves on its rowing benches and tow out the three cogs.
There are two other galleys in the harbor without slaves. It would take too many of our men to man their rowing benches so the fire bundles are quickly lit to burn them both. The only conflict is between two of our crews – they both board the prize galley at the same time and almost come to blows over whose prize it is.
One of our captains shouts something over the water and Harold orders our rudder men to steer closer so we can hear. Phillip has men on a possible prize with no slaves on its rowing benches. He wants permission to tow it out and let a couple of sailors try to get the empty galley to Cyprus using its sail.
I shout back my agreement - so long as the men are volunteers and no Marine archers are involved. I fear we’ll need every one of our Marines later and sailing a galley that far without rowers sounds like a forlorn hope. I give an emphatic nod of my head and raise my thumb to signal my agreement.
A few minutes later a thought hits me – I hope Phillip and his volunteers remember to check the galley’s water supply before they cast off the tow line; with such a small crew it is unlikely they’ll be able to maneuver their prize into a river mouth or anchor someplace to take on water.
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Our next rendezvous is a great distance away - the mouth of an obscure Spanish river running into the Atlantic, the Taquin. Our captains and their pilots have a week to get their galleys there. They should be able to find it as it as it is just past the first Moorish city one comes to on Spain’s Atlantic coast after passing Gibraltar. They’ll turn right and head up the Atlantic coast to it after they go past the big castle which looks down at the narrow gap where the Mediterranean opens into the Atlantic.
Chapter Eleven
We sail in weather that is placid and extremely warm. Or perhaps I should say we row in the hot weather for that is what we have to do because the winds are light and infrequent. Even Harold and I take our turns on the rowing benches. And Helen takes to dipping a bucket into the sea and using the water to wash off the sweat that pours off me; she is a treasure.
It’s easy to stay together in the placid weather and mirror-like water and we do. We arrive together at the little inlet at the mouth of the Taquin River and begin taking on water to fill our depleted waterskins.
I host the “captains” flag and the sergeant captains quickly climb in their dinghies and row to my galley.
“Well Lads, Almeria was a bust. Let’s hope Cadiz has more for us.”
There are sharp intakes of breath and soft whistles at the announcement. And then smiles. Cadiz is a great port, perhaps the biggest port in Moslem Spain – and its one day of easy rowing to the north if the weather holds. If we can’t take prizes in Cadiz we’re in the wrong trade.
We’ll leave tomorrow in mid-morning so we can hit Cadiz when the day is at its hottest. Then we’ll all come back here to make sure our prizes are properly supplied and crewed before we send them on the long trip back to Cyprus.
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Cadiz is a jewel in the Moslem crown and the principal port on Spain’s Atlantic coast. Its great natural harbor is the home port of a tremendous number of ships and the center of the vast fleet of pirate galleys preying on European shipping. There are rich pickings to be had when the hunters become the hunted. We all hope.
It makes no sense to tire out our crews so we row easy under the scorching sun as we move north along the coast line to the harbor entrance. Only our shaded lower rowing benches will be used for rowing until we are hurrying back out of the harbor with whatever prizes we might take.
We make the turn and enter the harbor entrance with our decks crowded with archers, prize crews, and bales of arrows both lights and heavies. Then Harold stops our progress and we watch as our nine galleys charge on ahead towards their assigned places. Our job is cover their retreat.
I’m not about to risk losing all the gold bezants we’re carrying in a desperate fight to take one or two more galleys.
Harold and I stand with our hands on the deck rail watching as our galleys move from ship to ship anchored in the harbor and along its three great docks. I’m so excited that I actually begin shivering despite the intense heat of the sun.
What we see is each of our galleys moving up to anchored ships, swarming aboard with its boarders and a prize crew to kill everyone they find who isn’t at a rowing bench, and th
en re-boarding their galley to go on the next ship in the harbor - leaving only the men their prize crew behind to get their new prize underway.
“So far they all seem to be obeying orders and going for the galleys,” I comment quite unnecessarily to Harold who obviously can see that for himself.
I’d made much of going for galley as prizes because those are what we most need for our own use. As I had explained to our sergeant captains, cogs and other cargo ships may have to be towed out of the harbor to catch the wind; and once you’re towing something out of the harbor will be hard to take another prize - so get them last on your way out and, whatever you do, don’t get greedy and risk losing your ship.
“Aye, and look there by the dock. Ralph is going after that string of galleys tied side by side; he looks to be trying to take them all, by God.”
“Good on him, by God. Good on him.” … “Damn, I hope they all have their slaves on board. He and his men will be rich, by God.”
This is very exciting. So exciting that I motion Helen to come out from where she is trying peer out of forward cabin door to see what is happening. She darts her way through all the men and arrow baskets and runs to me with her eyes bright with excitement and breathing heavily.
Within what seems like only a few seconds the first of our prizes begin to be rowed out of the harbor past us with great shouts and waves from the men around us.
“By God, William, this is much better than Almeria, isn’t it?”
“Uh oh. Look over there. A couple of Moorish galleys are getting underway.”
“Damn, you’re right. It’s time to go. I’ll raise the recall flag and spin us around so we can start moving back towards the entrance.”
Seeing our galley pointed out of the harbor with the recall flag on our mast is the recall signal. It’s time for our captains to quickly finish taking any prizes they’ve got hooked up and begin retreating. We’ll stay here for a while to cover them and then do a wounded bird.
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Two days later we watch as the last of our prizes gets underway for Cyprus via Crete and Malta. Then our ten galleys and their archers begin their long run up the coast and across the channel to England. It’s time to go home.
The Archer's Return: Medieval story in feudal times about knights, Templars, crusaders, Marines, and naval warfare during the Middle Ages in England in the reign of King Richard the lionhearted Page 11