The Mer- Lion

by Lee Arthur

  Marimah was anxious. "What of the Sultan of Sultans? What if Suleiman finds out?"

  "Let him. Let him discover that the Moulay Hassan of Tunis harbors Knights Hospitaler. How long, think you, the Moulay will survive when his son-in-law is of that proscribed order? I have thought it over. No way may we lose, we can only win."

  Marimah was not convinced. "What of the order? Suppose they get wind of this and exact revenge?"

  "With what? If my voices tell me right, they scour the continents for new recruits. Think you they will dare storm Algiers or even Tunisia? Nay, they huddle on the barren rocks of Malta and pray that we ignore them."

  Eulj Ali, having adopted the plan almost instantaneously, was eager for details. "How will you accomplish this?"

  "I won't, you will. Is there a good-looking one among them who would impress a woman? Perhaps this jamad ja'da?"

  "He is the most beautiful, but there are one or two others. Why do you ask? For yourself or our plan?"

  Sinan the Jew ignored the discourtesy of his friend's son in alluding, even faintly, to the corsair's predilection for men. "If one is attractive enough, our work may be done for us. We sell him and his friends—as a lot—at the slave market in Tunis. Already the market is being dried up by the princess's agents who buy and buy and buy. If, however, by the time we get there, she has bought all she needs, we can enter them in the contest under the aegis of one of our Berber friends."

  At first flush, Eulj Ali could find no fault with the scheme and he agreed to ship the Hospitalers out the next day to the slave markets at Tunis. But before they were dispatched, Sinan the Jew demanded a look at them.

  "Shall we go now?" Eulj Ali asked.

  "You two go," Marimah said. "I have things to do."

  At the foot of the steps to the dungeon, the two men were met with cries of "Water! Water!" from the several cells that held the knights, servants, freemen, beggars, and sailors. Eulj Ali suddenly remembered he had not given orders to feed and care for the prisoners, and he bellowed up the stairway, "Bring water and food for these miserable curs. And be quick about it!"

  With a scurrying of many feet, both food and water were shoved through the small opening in the bottom of the barred doors that provided the only light into the cells.

  Going from cell to cell, Eulj Ali quickly assessed the damage and concluded that other than being parched and weak, the lot of them would soon recuperate. The beggars, he noted, seemed hardly bothered at all by the lack of food and water. And when he came to the cell holding de Wynter, their eyes locked in a mutual mixture of respect and hatred.

  "A thousand pardons, al-rabb," said the redhead. "I was so glad to be home that I did not extend the courtesies of my home to you." And from his lips came a taunting victory laugh.

  "I shall remember it," said de Wynter, noticing Eulj Ali's companion for the first time. Ignoring Eulj Ali, the Scot and the Jew silently took one another's measure while thirst-crazed, hungry men, slurping water and gulping unchewed food, filled the dungeon with the bestial noise of some hellish menagerie. De Wynter, staring into those hooded eyes, felt his hackles rise—as if in the presence of evil incarnate—and he knew terror.

  "I would have a better look at him," Sinan finally said, without looking elsewhere. "Bring him out here and let me assess his true worth."

  Only too well the redhead knew the real meaning of Sinan the Jew's request. He wished to assess the man as a sex object, not as meat for the slave market. Nonetheless, Eulj Ali had to admit, sometimes the two were the same.

  However, Sinan's liking for men frequently left his partners disfigured. That would not do for de Wynter, Eulj Ali decided. "No! Let him be. We want him in good shape when he arrives in Tunis. In fact, if I catch you near him, I'll cut off that thing that causes you so much trouble." He also changed his mind about sending Sinan alone with the prisoners on the four-day journey to Tunis.

  The following day the prisoners were marched from their cells back to the harbor. Still in chains which bound them one to

  another, they were herded aboard a fifty-foot barcha especially fitted out for speed. Instead of a hold, the usual construction for this type of Mediterranean vessel, she had now but a raised walkway down her middle, with rowing benches and oars below it on either side.

  Each bench, six to a side, was built for three oarsmen, 36 in all.

  With any kind of a breeze at all this vessel, equipped with a triangular sail, and with oars plying at a good rate, could

  outrun anything in its size class and most that carried far more sail.

  The pirates used the ship, the Sea Devil, for getting messages from ship to ship, or from Algiers to Tunis or Cairo, and occasionally, as on this trip, to carry a prize catch to the closest slave market, the huge one at Tunis. Although it was necessary to arrive at market with slaves in as good physical shape as possible, why feed them for more days than necessary?

  De Wynter, Carlby, and the rest of the Christian captives were lined up in single file down the length of the raised walkway. A huge, hairy man passed down the line with a heavy set of pincers snapping the irons in two between every third man. Each threesome was then shoved onto a rowing bench with a second corsair snapping a leg manacle onto the left ankle of each prisoner.

  In de Wynter's threesome, as the luck of the draw dictated, were Fionn and John the Rob, who stuck as close to de Wynter as possible. Fortunately for them, Fionn had muscles to spare and compensated for John the Rob's lack of weight as they pulled at the oar.

  De Wynter looked about from his low vantage point. No shelter from the boiling sun or angry storm was provided them nor any place to recline. To rest, one leaned forward on one's arms on the heavy oar. Remembering the squalid conditions in which the oarsmen labored aboard the Annunciata, de Wynter prayed for a short trip.

  If, as Carlby supposed, their destination was a slave market somewhere, probably at Tunis, de Wynter had no intention of spending the rest of his days as a slave. Like a true fighting man and survivor of Naples he had already begun to plan an escape at some undetermined moment in the not-too-distant future. "By my mother's memory, mate," John the Rob said to de Wynter, "it looks like we're in for a rough go, eh?"

  "So it would seem, friend," de Wynter replied. "My guess is that we'll not long be at sea; we are taking on too little water. We might even be back on land in three days if the breeze holds. Pass the word. Maybe it will give heart to some of these poor wretches."

  He considered for the moment mentioning their probable destination, then decided against it. No need to cause diem any more dismay at this stage.

  "And tell them to behave themselves or we'll all feel that hairy bugger's whip, I daresay."

  John the Rob casually leaned forward and called guardedly to Ogilvy, "The white-haired one thinks we'll be where we're goin' in three days. Pass it on. And tell me men to mind their bloody manners lest we all get the bloody whip or worse."

  The highlander spoke quietly to his oar mates and leaned forward, in turn, to pass the word. A whip, cracking across his back, forced his scream. A voice—a decidedly English voice—practiced in being heard over creaking oarlock and howling wind yelled, "There'll be no talkin', y'hear? Nary a word! Or ya'll feel the bite o' me little friend here." With that this renegade Englishman cracked the long bullwhip over his head in rapid fire succession in every direction, just to put the fear in them all. And with most, he succeeded.

  "Now ye pulls when I say 'pull,' and ye rests when I say 'hold.' Do it right and we'll get along just fine. I see ye slackin' and ye gets me whip. Any questions?"

  "Yes, sir," spoke up John the Rob, "where do we si—" The crack of the whip cut off the word, the frayed tip biting through his tattered shirt, and the balance of the blow falling across de Wynter's back.

  "I said no talkin'. Can't ye hear?" the hairy one roared.

  "I was only answerin' yer questi—" Again the whip cracked and caught John the Rob's back, though de Wynter sensed its fall and leaned away from its
full force. (

  "No talkin' means no talkin'. Understand?"

  A few heads nodded, but nobody answered; John the Rob was too busy swallowing the bile pain brought to his throat. Satisfied, the hairy one went forward to help cast-off while the prisoners leaned on the oars, resting their heads on their chained arms.

  The plank was pulled aboard, great hemp ropes slipped off their moorings, and the sail untied though not hoisted aloft. The few kegs of water were rolled up the walkway and tied down near the cabin. Bags holding bread and rolls were stocked on top of the kegs and weighted down with martin spikes and extra pulleys.

  Striding down the walkway, the whipwielder roared, "Let's see what kind a lily-livered seaman ye are. Pull those oars into your guts, men straight up, then push. Altogether now. Pull. Up. Push, me hearties'."

  And the ship took its first lurch away from its rocky mooring.

  "Pull. Up. Push. Bend to it, ye landlubbers." A dozen times he repeated his rhythmic cadence and despite some oar fouling and general mishandling of the cumbersome pieces of timber, the ship was gliding well out from those still moored.

  "Now, over here." He cracked his whip high over de Wynter's side of eighteen oarsmen. "Dip those oars in the water and hold 'em there." Again the whip cracked, this time over the other eighteen. "And over here ye keep on the same as before. Pull. Up. Push. Pull. Up. Push. Get yer backs into it and bring her about, ye no good scum."

  Slowly the ship swung round and headed out of the harbor.

  "Now we does it the other way, me hearties. We pushes away. Then lifts. And we pulls."

  Again there was some fouling up, primarily from the beggars to whom the oar and rowing were totally foreign. But being chained in threes actually helped the three dozen slaves soon achieve a semblance of rhythm. As the Sea Devil began to make headway, the crew of eight scrambled about hoisting the great triangular sail and securing its moorings while one heavy set man of the sea handled the steering oar and the captain stood on the walkway shouting directions.

  The sail billowed out and de Wynter could feel the ship fairly leap forward. And while it lessened the strain of each pull on the oar, it kept the oarsmen on their guard lest the blades catch in the rushing water and rap them smartly on chin or chest.

  It was two hours after they had cleared the great harbor at Algiers that me oarmaster finally cracked his whip and yelled, "Hold!" To a man, the rowers dropped exhausted on their oars, their backs aching to the point of torture and their hands already showing blisters.

  A ten-minute break and the whip cracked again. "Up an' at 'em, ye lazy louts. Push. Up. Pull. Push. Up. Pull."

  The midday sun dried the salty sweat on their arms and necks, for though the ship's headway was creating its own breeze, little of it reached the lower levels where the oarsmen labored. Some had collaborated with their chained partners to rip their shirts open or all the way off, though de Wynter and some of the more experienced sailors knew it was better to have some cover from the burning sun and, later, the night air.

  Every two hours a crewman passed down the rows with a bucket of lukewarm water and a common ladle. One ladle apiece, and if any slopped in their eagerness, a lash with the whip. When the ten-minute break was up, back to the oars. Many a bladder ached for relief, but was forced to hold out as long as possible. The steady back-and-forth motion created a kind of euphoria, a trancelike state with aching muscles responding mechanically, but the chains cut sharply into the wrists of anyone who fell too deeply comatose.

  An hour before sunset, the oarsmaster cried, "Hold." They had made excellent headway all day, for the wind had held and the oars had plied at a steady, punishing beat. The captain of the Sea Devil, who had been reminded more than once that first day by Sinan the Jew that Barbarossa would have his head if the prisoners were not in fit shape when they reached Tunis, bad decided to feed them and let them rest their weary muscles.

  A large keg was rolled out on the walkway and a crewman smashed in its lid with a heavy mallet. Picking the splintered wood out of the liquid contents, a fair amount of which had spilled onto the planks, one crewman ladled out a stew lumpy with congealed grease while two others held bowls and passed them to the eager oarsmen. No spoons. Just bowls, which each trio soon learned to bring to their mouths in unison.

  This was, for most of them, their first taste of salmagundi, a hearty concoction which was a favorite with Mediterranean pirates, but which could be made only the first few days out of port or when-they had just captured a merchant ship with a full larder. This particular batch of salmagundi had been prepared in the kitchens at Al-Penon, Marimah's idea to keep the prisoners in good health.

  Into the huge cooking kettle had gone turtle meat, pigeon, pork, and duck, cut into chunks and marinated in spiced wine beforehand. In, too, went cabbage, mangoes, boiled eggs, palm hearts, onions, olives, grapes, and anchovies. Plus copious quantities of garlic, salt, pepper, mustard seed, oil, and vinegar.

  .Salmagundi was best when served piping hot. But the makeshift galley on the Sea Devil did not have a fireplace sufficient to heat up the stew, and it was served warmed by the sun,- with the gobs of grease clinging to the vegetables and chunks of meat. Not a man among the prisoners thought it anything but delicious as he gobbled and slopped it down in rapid fashion, hardly attempting to chew the tougher chunks. The bowls were gathered up, and the oarmaster strode down the center walkway brandishing his whip.

  "Awright, ye slop hogs, on yer feet, and make it snappy, or I touches up yer backs with me leather."

  The men staggered to their feet, the stronger helping the weak.

  "Now ye takes yer turn at the trench," the hairy one bellowed, "and if ye misses a drop, ye'll stand in place all night, so help me."

  Eager hands ripped open britches and loosed streams of urine into the narrow trough that ran along the hull on either side. Each in turn relieved himself and resumed his standing position. Crewmen drew buckets of sea water from over the side and sloshed the troughs which sloped from forward to aft, the resulting foul mixture running out holes cut in the sides of the ship for the purpose, and which could be plugged in the event of foul weather and heavy waves. There being no provision made for relieving one's bowels, the men simply sucked in their guts and refused to respond to their natural urgings. De Wynter, for one, wondered what effect the greasy and spicy salmagundi would have on their intestines.

  "Ye can thank the captain for givin' ye a chance ter sleep. Meself, I'd work ye through the night. Mind I'll make up for it when the sun comes up, so ye best make the most o' it," taunted the oarmaster. "Down ye go, and I dinna want a head up till mornin'," he said and cracked his whip for emphasis.

  Down went the heads upon aching arms resting on huge oars. Exhaustion let them sleep despite the cramped, uncomfortable position and the aches from back, legs, and arms. They slept with only minor stirrings during the night—a cramped leg shifted here and a head turned to the opposite side there when a crick in the neck grew too severe. The dawn broke all too soon and the prisoners were allowed to stand and stretch and use the trench. Ladles of wine were handed out, and each man was tossed a chunk of bread, already beginning to sour. Then it was back to the oars, steady two-hour shifts, followed by ten-minute breaks for water and rest. The wind was holding and the crew seemed satisfied with their progress. Even the oarmaster seemed more lenient with the whip and tongue. And in the hue afternoon came another shipping of the oars, mugs of ale and pieces of bread, another piss call and blessed rest for the night.

  John Carlby was suffering as much as any man aboard. Not as young as de Wynter and his fellow novices, and not as accustomed to the nigged life as were John the Rob and Fionn, he relied on an inner faith that kept him going hour after hour at the oar without losing the peaceful expression that was an inspiration for all within sight of him. He had survived the battle at Rhodes, he would survive this latest twist in the road he was sure God had set for him. This was merely another test, albeit a strenuous one, of his belief.<
br />
  His experienced eye told him that Tunis was indeed the probable destination as he and de Wynter had surmised. And within a few more hours the sail would be slackened so that arrival could be effected in daylight hours. He knew, too, that the oarsmen would be forced once more to the oars, bringing the ship to her moorings more gently than could the ship's huge triangular sail, which was fine for straight running but difficult to maneuver in the harbor. And just before he passed out from utter exhaustion he remembered details of the harbor—bigger than the one at Algiers, and better protected from the elements. And he remembered visiting the slave market, the distaste and revulsion he had felt upon seeing humans sold as livestock. The tall minarets, the bargaining street merchants, the call to prayer at dawn. It was a colorful, and yes, a sinful city in many ways, a reflection of the depraved man who was its monarch.

  Leaning on their oars, the slaves slept. Carlby but fitfully for he was troubled by a collage of dreams of turreted Moslem cities and of stark church-fortresses and of dark rock-hewn dungeons. Everywhere he looked there were people, some with hauntingly familiar, long-dead faces, others with cold, indifferent, strange countenances. Through it all loomed a ship, a monstrous one that grew and grew and that refused to move within the sea no matter how hard he rowed and rowed and rowed...