Ottoman

by Christopher Nicole

  Diniz joined him. “Your ancestors were born here?”

  “In this land, certainly. But far from here, on the eastern side of the country.”

  He climbed up the cliff-path, Diniz at his heels. They emerged into a large field stretching back towards a village dominated by a church. Beyond stood a rather large and splendid house.

  “These people have never been to war,” Diniz said. “They will provide easy plunder.”

  Certainly the peacefulness of the place was astounding, but he had not come here to make war…until he heard shouts from below him, followed by shots.

  Looking down, he spied a body of horsemen galloping along the beach. Clearly they came from some other town, and no doubt had been alerted by the fishermen. As they galloped they fired off pistols — a cluster of yeoman led by two or three brightly dressed gentlemen.

  The corsairs were taken by surprise, and several had already fallen. The rest were hurriedly struggling to relaunch the boats. In this they succeeded, before they were surrounded by the horsemen, though they had no choice but to abandon their wounded, and also their pasha. The crews still on the ships were reluctant to open fire for fear of hitting their own comrades.

  Harry and Diniz cautiously began their descent. As they watched the scene beneath them, they saw two of the captured sailors being dragged across the sand towards the stunted trees which grew at the bottom of the cliff. It all happened very quickly. A rope was thrown over the branch of one tree, a noose was looped round the neck of the first Turk; and a moment later he was dangling. One of the horsemen pulled hard on his thrashing feet in order to break his neck. Then the second Turk was hustled forward.

  Harry was aware only of fury, that he had led his men to such an ignoble death. Standing up, he cupped his hands and bellowed, “Open fire!”

  If his men were going to die, they should do so in conflict.

  The Englishmen were taken by surprise in turn, looking left and right as they tried to discern where the voice had come from. Now the guns on the bows of the feluccas opened fire, and round shot ploughed into the hesitating group. Several men fell. Some of their compatriots ran to the foot of the path and began to clamber up, waving swords. Harry drew his scimitar and charged towards them, followed closely by Diniz. The first man fell to a sweeping blow, and the rest scurried back down the hill. Most of their comrades had already remounted, and were retreating along the beach, leaving their dead, and the two Turks dangling from the branch. The men who had confronted Harry leapt hastily into the saddle and followed them.

  Harry cut down the hanged men with a slash of his scimitar, and soon found himself surrounded by his people, who came ashore. They were angry and wanted blood.

  And did he not too? This pilgrimage back to his homeland had turned out badly. Well, if they wanted war, they would have war.

  The horsemen were still watching them from about half a mile up the beach, so Harry put into practice the same strategy he had carried out successfully at Cascais. He and his men re-embarked with every evidence of haste, set their sails and put out to sea. He carefully took a compass bearing on the cove.

  They sailed out of sight of the land, then dropped their sails and drifted. Towards noon the wind dropped, and it was a calm and lazy day. Harry kept lookouts active in case any ships approached them, but none did. Then, in the afternoon, his men got out the sweeps and began slowly to return to the shore.

  Just before dusk they sighted the same beach, now deserted. Since they had seen no other boats, it seemed most likely the Englishmen assumed that they had indeed fled.

  Although a breeze sprang up just after dusk Harry continued to use his sweep, and took his ships even closer in than the last time, having ascertained that there was deep water almost up the steeply shelving beach. He left ten men on each ship, and led the other hundred odd up the path to the clifftop. Every men was armed to the teeth, and eager to avenge the deaths of his comrades.

  The night was already dark — the moon would not rise until after midnight — and quiet. No doubt the militia were celebrating their victory in the local inn.

  The corsairs crept across the fields and were nearly at the houses before the first dog barked. Then a regular cacophony began, but it was already too late for the villagers.

  Diniz led a third of the men along the main street, battering down doors and crashing inside to loot what they could and burn everything else. Harry led the main assault on the inn itself, which lay at the other end of the street and at some distance from the nearest houses.

  By the time he got there, the whole village behind them was in flames; women were screaming, dogs were barking, and the church bell was tolling.

  Drunkenly the men in the taproom reached for their weapons as the doors burst open. As they gazed astonished at the Turks and their huge, red-headed leader, a pistol exploded and the Turks surged forward, cutting and thrusting. Barmaids and whores screamed as they tried to escape by the rear, but were hauled tumbling back and stretched out on the floor, where beer and blood now mingled freely. In less than ten minutes the massacre was over, with none left alive save for the women being raped.

  “Get our people out and fire the building,” Harry ordered his captains, and went outside to find Diniz and his men waiting. Behind them the village blazed in a huge conflagration that had to be visible for miles.

  “There are other men approaching, my lord,” Diniz warned.

  “Call our people to arms,” Harry snapped, and a bugle immediately blared into sound. The Turks poured from the inn, which was already burning.

  Harry moved some distance away from them, along a lane leading inland from the village, and stared into the darkness beyond the flames. Out there were the lights of the large house, clearly that of the lord of the manor. The house and its garden were surrounded by woods, which in turn were encompassed by a wall. The wrought-iron gates stood open, and from them advanced perhaps a score of men, well-armed — from the gleam of steel — and accompanied by half a dozen large dogs, still leashed, which were baying angrily.

  The party checked at the sight of the Turks so clearly visible in front of the burning houses.

  “Fall back,” someone yelled. “They are too many. To the house. Fall back.”

  Harry was the only one amongst the Turks who understood.

  “Charge!” he yelled, and ran forward.

  His men ran at his heels, with bloodcurdling shrieks.

  Then the dogs were loosed, and came at them. They were magnificent beasts, but helpless against the razor-edged scimitars. Then their masters fired their pistols. A ball struck Harry on the helmet, but the range was too great to cause anything more than a jar. Then the defenders were running back for the house…but not fast enough.

  Their blood stirred by their activities in the village, the Turks raced after them. Round a bend in the wooded driveway stood the house itself, set on a terrace above wide steps. Here the Englishmen gathered for a last stand, but they were outnumbered by some four to one and the battle was brief. Harry burst through his assailants behind his swinging scimitar, blood splashing over his arms and face — and then he was up the steps and at the front door.

  The door was closed and barred, as were the windows to either side, but the stout oak resisted only two charges before breaking inwards.

  The Turks tumbled in, and gazed around at the high-ceilinged hall, with carved oak stairs leading up to one side, and richly furnished rooms beyond, at the paintings of austere men and women on the walls, the suits of armour, the long table laden with silver plate… There was considerable wealth here, Harry realised.

  But no people.

  “Sack the place,” he ordered, and himself took the stairs three at a time. Some of his men followed him; others scattered to left and right.

  He reached a first-floor gallery, off which opened several more chambers and parlours, every one as richly furnished as the ones below. His men whooped as they began gathering up all the valuables they could carry.
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  Harry ranged through all the rooms, then took another flight of stairs to the second floor. Here he found bedrooms with cambric sheets and down pillows, and glowing candles — the family had clearly been about to retire.

  He ran back down the stairs again, and entered the kitchens, where some of his men were feasting off the remains of a luxurious dinner. There he discovered what he sought: the stairs to the cellars.

  He descended these, and found first a well-stocked wine cellar. Beyond was another stout wooden door, firmly closed and clearly barred on the inside.

  “Break it down,” he urged those who had followed him.

  They charged the door with their shoulders. At the third attempt it creaked, at the fourth it cracked, at the fifth it burst open.

  The Turks tumbled in, and remained on their knees as they gazed at the scene before them, illuminated by a singled guttering candle.

  There were some fifteen women in the room. Most were clearly serving maids, but three were dressed as ladies of quality. All of them huddled together in terror.

  As Harry stepped forward through his men, there was an explosion. The pistol ball passed so close to his head he could feel its passage. The flash of it left him half-blinded for a moment.

  Two of his men uttered a roar and ran past him to seize the woman who had fired the shot. They dragged her forward.

  Harry stared at her. She could hardly be more than fifteen, a wisp of a girl. She was clearly not a servant, for her gown was of the best brocade. Still narrow-shouldered and slim-hipped, her breasts no more than a swell at her bodice, it was her face and hair which gave her beauty. The hair was yellow, like Aimée’s, but this girl’s was a profusion of curls tumbling on to her shoulders and down her back.

  Beneath it was a somewhat long face, a pale complexion highlighted by the colour which had flooded into her cheeks as she realised her peril. High forehead, small nose and mouth, softly curved chin, and above all wide-set pale blue eyes were carefully combined to leave a quite delightful picture.

  She now hung limp in her captor’s hands, anticipating her fate; her tongue came out to give her lips a quick lick. Around her the Turks surged towards the other women, and the cellar became a place of screams and grunts.

  While Harry stared at the girl, the bloodlust of vengeance in his brain suddenly seemed to cool, and he realised that here could be a prize indeed. “Do not harm these women,” he told his men.

  They stopped, hands already tearing at bodices, to stare at him in amazement.

  “There are riches for everyone in this house,” he told them. “Take what you wish. But make haste and let us be out of here before the whole county is raised.”

  They shouted their agreement and rushed back up the stairs to grab everything of the least value. A bellow of triumph from along the hall told Harry that someone had found the squire’s treasure chest.

  The women seemed to huddle even closer. Some had fainted, but most now stared at Harry as rabbits might stare at a snake.

  The girl remained in front of him, gazing at him with her mouth slightly open.

  All manner of thoughts rushed through his mind. He had come here wishing only to see the country of his ancestors. Now he was as much in contest with them as with any other Christian country, for to these people he was a Turkish corsair. And here in front of him was a woman to make any heartbeat quicken.

  She was English, so was he — so their son would be the truest Hawkwood born in three generations. And his blood was aflame after the excitement of the assault.

  As he reached out for her, she uttered a faint exclamation and tried to turn. He caught her arm, swung her round, and lifted her from the floor. Her head hung behind, with hair brushing the ground. She pounded on his back with her fists, but he hardly felt her. He wrapped his left arm round her thighs to keep her in place, and strode back to the foot of the stairs.

  “Scoundrel!” shouted one of the women, bolder than the rest. “Put her down, sir, Put her down!”

  Harry ignored her, and a few moments later he led his loot-laden men back out of the manor house.

  *

  Regaining the beach and their ships, they were jubilant with the success they had achieved and the revenge they had inflicted. The village was still in flames, and the noise everywhere was tremendous. Undoubtedly the militia was alerted for miles around, but this time they would be too late.

  The girl had ceased screaming, and he thought she might have fainted. He set her down, but her legs gave way and he caught her against him. Her eyes were open and her cheeks were stained with tears. She looked more appealing than ever.

  He put her in a boat and sat close beside her as they were rowed back to the ships.

  “Please, sir,” she said, her voice trembling.

  He didn’t know whether she was begging for her life, her chastity, or just her freedom. She could have no idea that he understood English. When he put his arm round her shoulder and kissed her hard on the mouth, his men laughed. She gasped and shuddered as his tongue burst in upon hers, and she tried to push him off with her hands.

  “She’ll not be long intact for the market place,” one of the Turks chortled.

  “Unless the pasha tires of her soon,” agreed another.

  Harry took his mouth away and gazed into her eyes. I shall not do that in a hurry, he thought.

  She was weeping again.

  As they came alongside, he bundled her on board. “Take her aft,” he told Diniz. “Stay with her and watch her at all times.”

  He did not wish to confine her in the hold with the captive Frenchwomen.

  *

  Harry watched the rest of his men come aboard, and he watched the shore too. Before the last Turk was safe the cliff was lined with people and shots were fired — but the range was too great.

  The sails were set, the anchors taken up, and the feluccas made out of the bay. Horsemen thundered along the strand, but they were also too late. Within an hour the feluccas had lost sight of the land and its lights. It was still hardly midnight.

  *

  Harry went aft to inspect the girl. Diniz was on the steering oar only a few feet away, but most of the men were forward. They talked of the recent adventure and of their deeds of glory.

  She sat leaning against the bulwark and stared at him as he knelt beside her. Her legs were drawn up beneath her voluminous skirt, and her face was pale in the darkness. A rope had been secured round her waist and thence to the gunwale, so that even if she did manage to throw herself overboard, she could easily be regained.

  “Please, sir,” she whispered again, her entire body trembling.

  “How are you named?” he asked in English.

  She stared at him in consternation.

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “I speak your language. I am English myself,” he found himself adding.

  She seemed to draw herself up. “But then…you will save me?” As though forgetting it was he that had just abducted her.

  “Why, yes, I will save you from a lot of terrible things.”

  She clutched at his hand. “My father, Squire Martindale, he is a wealthy man. He will ransom me, I know that, sir.”

  Obviously she was unaware that her father was probably dead.

  “All the money in England could not ransom you,” Harry told her. “What is your name?”

  She licked her lips. “My name is Felicity Martindale.”

  “Felicity Martindale,” Harry said. “It has a ring to it. You will be the mother of my son.”

  She gasped at him, then gave a convulsive start. She leapt to her feet, and ran for the side.

  But Harry had firm hold of her skirt, and brought her back to the deck. She screamed and attempted to fight him off, panting and writhing as if expecting immediate rape.

  He held her tight against him until she subsided.

  “You will come with me to Tunis.”

  *

  Next morning she had to be force-fed. But she was so very young that her powers
of resistance were soon governed by her bodily needs and comforts. Before long she was violently seasick, and then grateful for the slightest amount of solicitude.

  For the next few days they ran down the Channel and towards the Bay of Biscay. After three days Felicity appeared to feel better. When she attempted to sit up, Harry had had a blanket thrown over her to protect her marvellous pink and white complexion from the wind and the sun. Eventually he sat beside her and offered her food.

  She stared at it, and then at him, and then began munching hungrily.

  “Consider this,” he coaxed. “It is probably your fate to be married to some man chosen by your parents — one you would never previously have seen. Can you not regard me as such?”

  She swallowed, then whispered, “You are a pirate, a thief and murderer.”

  “Your people first killed some of my men.”

  “All French pirates are killed the moment they land,” she said fiercely. “They raid our coasts constantly.”

  “Ah.” He began to understand the instant hostility of the militia. “But I am not French.”

  “If you are English you are doubly damned. And those men there…” She stared at the dark-visaged crew and shuddered.

  “They are Turks, Felicity.”

  “Turks!” she gasped in horror. No doubt everyone in Europe had heard of the Turks.

  “My master is the Sultan Suleiman…”

  “Suleiman,” she whispered. “Suleiman the Magnificent!”

  Harry raised his eyebrows. That should please the Sultan, he thought, to be known as such…and at such a distance.

  “I am taking you to a beautiful city where you will be very happy. I promise you that.” He felt as if talking to a child.

  “I can never be happy,” she declared.

  He grinned and ruffled her golden hair — the first time he had touched her since bringing her on board.

  “You will, you know. And you will adore my Yana.”

  But he wondered what Yana would make of her.

  *

  For the next few days there was no time to talk further with his latest acquisition, for the weather changed. This time the wind blew from the north-west, and sent huge seas piling up against the Spanish and Portuguese coasts. Harry took the decision to stand out to sea to prevent his small squadron being driven ashore. But he told himself that this storm was a blessing in disguise: it would drive any Portuguese ships out looking for him back into port.