“Well, then, perhaps God is not so mysterious after all. I will give you a letter to take to the Spaniard.”
*
“With the future of Christendom at stake, would he really have cast me aside had I declared Protestantism?” Hawkwood asked Viniero.
The Admiral gave a grim smile. “The latter, certainly. These Romans see in the disciples of Luther a direct challenge to their own authority, which, after all, exists only in men’s minds.”
But there was no time for metaphysical matters, for it was already September, a month since the fall of Famagusta. Not only would the weather soon begin to break for the winter — and there would be no hope of keeping the allied fleet together for several months without the tonic of a victory — but Anthony had no idea how much longer the news of that catastrophe could be kept secret.
From Rome they hurried to Civitavecchia, to join a Papal galley, and by that night they were at sea, making south for the Straits of Messina. Two mornings later they passed between the Rock of Scylla and the Whirlpool of Charybdis, and emerged into the broad stretch of water which, for a hundred miles, separated Italy from Sicily. And there came upon the allied fleet — combining ships of Venice, the Papacy, Genoa and Spain.
“I should tell you,” Viniero said, “that from here on you have to be even more careful how you go, Hawkwood. In the Venetian fleet, among my commanders, are two younger Brigadinos. They do not yet know of their brother’s death — or how he died.”
*
The fleet made a brave sight. A quick count convinced Hawkwood that there were some three hundred ships at anchor, covering a huge extent of water, and including everything from small galleys to ocean-going galleons.
Most interesting to him, however, were the six huge galleasses moored close to each other, true floating fortresses. He had only ever seen these mammoth vessels from a distance, and his practised eye could discern at once their weaknesses as well as their strengths. They needed several banks of oars, for when there was no wind, yet with the coming of too much wind, those oar-ports would need to be closed, after the oars had been shipped, and in a hurry.
Yet properly used, and in the right weather, he thought they might have a devastating effect on any battle.
The fleets were a mass of pennants and flags, and a mass of men, too. A tremendous hubbub rose into the still air, together with a tremendous effluvium. These ships had been here too long already.
No one paid much attention to the Papal galley — there were already quite a few ships flying the Roman colours — as it snaked through them and entered the harbour of Messina itself. There Don Juan of Austria had his headquarters in a palazzo in the city. Once again Hawkwood was kept waiting, while the letters from both the Pope and the Doge were sent in to the allied commander.
He was aware only of pleasant anticipation. Having seen the fleet, he had recognised at once that it was not so large as Ali Pasha’s, and that the crews were undoubtedly stale from too long in port, yet he felt that they had a better than even chance, especially with the ideas he had in mind.
Supposing Don Juan would even listen to him.
As he watched, he found himself gazing at the young man who sat at the desk on the far side of the room. Clearly one of Don Juan’s secretaries, for he was writing industriously, he every so often raised his head to look at the big man. His face was somewhat long and solemn, but he had lively eyes.
At last his curiosity grew too much for him.
“Excuse me, monsignore,” he asked. “But I cannot convince myself that you are truly a Venetian.”
“Nor am I,” Anthony said. “I suppose you could say that I am English, although I have never set foot in that country.”
“Then you are a wanderer, like myself.”
“You, sir? I would have said you were Spanish, serving a Spanish commander, I observe.”
“Indeed, monsignore. But yet am I a fugitive in Italy, sentenced to the loss of my right hand should I ever return to Spain” — there was a faint smile — “unless I can do so with sufficient patronage. Hence I have volunteered to serve the Prince. Can I cover myself with glory now, when we encounter the Turk I may hope for better things.”
“A duel?”
“An affray. During which my opponent lost some blood. It sore beset me to leave my country, and my parents, and enter exile, but what would you, monsignore, without my right hand…” He regarded it speculatively. “It is the hand I write with.”
“Indeed,” Anthony observed.
“Monsignore, I am a poet.” He glanced at Hawkwood. “I have been published.”
“My congratulations,” Anthony said.
Messengers had been hurrying to and fro during the conversation, and richly dressed men had begun to arrive. Now Viniero himself appeared.
“We are summoned to a conference,” the Venetian admiral confided. “It can only be about you.”
He went into the inner room, and almost immediately Hawkwood was called. He turned to the young man. “I will wish you good fortune with your hands, and your talent.”
“If you are volunteering for the fleet, monsignore, you will need little fortune. The commander will welcome you. But I will wish it for you none the less.” He held out his hand. “My name is Miguel de Cervantes.”
Anthony squeezed the offered fingers.
As he stepped through the doorway, he observed that there were several men present. But he had eyes only for the man standing behind the desk and gazing at him.
Don Juan was twenty-four years old, tall and slender, exquisitely but quietly dressed in doublet and trunk hose, both in black relieved by the gold chain round his neck and gold embroidery at the shoulders and cuffs. His head was bare, and his fair hair and beard indicated his German mother.
“Hawk Pasha,” the young Habsburg said in Italian, his voice quiet. “I had never supposed to meet you, except in battle. But I would rather have you at my shoulder than before my face. Welcome to Messina.”
He held out his hand, and Anthony grasped it, feeling his heart warming to this young man.
“I would have you meet my officers. From the Spanish navy, the Marquis of Santa Cruz, and Don Gil de Andrade.”
Anthony bowed to the Spanish commanders; their gazes were hostile.
“From the Republic of Genoa, Admiral Giovanni Andrea Doria.”
The two men stared at each other. Their fathers had fought against each other, and Anthony himself had followed Dragut in raids upon Genoese possessions fifteen years earlier.
Then Doria gave a brief smile. “Welcome, Hawk Pasha,” he said.
“From the Papacy,” Don Juan continued, “Admiral Marco Antonio Colonna.”
Again a quick bow.
“Admiral Viniero you already know. His officers: Augustino Barbarigo, Marco Contarini, Federigo Nani, Marco Quirini, Ambrogio Brigadino, and Antonio Brigadino.”
Anthony bowed. It took a considerable effort of will not to catch his breath as he gazed at the two young men who looked so like their dead brother.
“The general of my soldiers, Marshal Ascanio de la Corgnia,” Don Juan continued. “And this is Cardinal de Granvelle, who represents His Holiness in our debates.”
Like the Spaniards, the Cardinal’s look was hostile, despite his master’s letter of recommendation.
“His Holiness and His Excellency the Doge indicate that you have abandoned the service of the Sultan to return to the true faith,” Don Juan said. “And, more important, that you have pressing news for us.”
Hawkwood glanced at Viniero, who raised his eyebrows. Both Pope and Doge had clearly left it to their decision as to how soon to acquaint the fleet commanders with the news of Famagusta.
But now that decision had to be shared.
He looked Don Juan in the eye. “My news is for your ears alone, my lord.”
Don Juan frowned, then glanced at his officers.
“We are a united force, sir,” Cardinal de Granvelle snapped.
“Nonetheless, I m
ust speak with your commander in private.”
“To assassinate him?” inquired de Andrade.
“I am entrusted by His Holiness with my mission, signore. If you wish to distrust me, then send me back to Rome.”
Anthony knew that only boldness would succeed with these men, each of whom in his heart must hate him…but each of whom also hated every other.
“I will speak with you alone, Hawkwood,” Don Juan decided. “If you will excuse us, signori.”
The admirals hesitated, but Viniero urged them from the room.
“You had best be seated,” Don Juan invited, when the door had closed, and he sat down himself. He gave a quiet smile. “The better to convince me of your purpose.”
Hawkwood sat down. “First I need to be convinced of yours, my lord.”
Don Juan’s frown was back. “You are a singularly arrogant fellow.”
“You mistake me, sire. The news I bring might shake the resolve of any but the most determined of men.”
“You are about to tell me that Famagusta has fallen?” Don Juan looked shaken.
“I will tell you of it,” Anthony said, and did so.
Don Juan listened in silence. Then he said, “You are also a singularly bold fellow, Hawkwood. But then, that is obvious, did His Holiness send you to me to be hanged?”
“To assist you in leading your fleets to victory, sire.” It was his turn to smile. “If I do not, then you will have to take your turn in the queue to put the noose around my neck.”
Don Juan slapped his desk. “I admire you, renegade Englishman — and I feel sorry for you. Your task is impossible. Once those men out there hear that the reason for our gathering here no longer exists, they will fly apart like the pieces of an exploding grenade. They threaten to do so anyway. As for when the Brigadinos learn what happened to their brother…”
“I am perfectly willing to meet either of the Brigadinos, sword in hand, if they wish it so, my lord. But not until we have defeated the Turks.”
Don Juan stroked his beard. “You have powerful reasons for wishing this campaign carried through, that is obvious. Can it be done? The Turkish fleet is very large, and strong.”
“That is true. But tell me of yours.”
Don Juan got up and went to a window which overlooked the harbour. “My half-brother, the King of Spain, has sent, under my command, a fleet of ninety galleys, twenty-four galleons, and fifty frigates and brigantines; this includes the Genoese squadron, but Doria will obey me. Viniero commands a fleet of one hundred and six galleys, six galleasses, two galleons and six frigates, but it is short of soldiers. The Papal fleet consists of twelve galleys and six frigates.”
Hawkwood stood beside him. “Then you are gravely outnumbered. Ali Pasha will command not less than two hundred and fifty ships, and they will all be Turkish.”
Don Juan’s frown came back. “I do not understand you. We have more than three hundred.”
“Of which only two hundred and eight are galleys, my lord. This will be a galley fight, because Ali Pasha will make it so. I believe the six Venetian galleasses will be invaluable…but you can entirely discount your sailing ships. In the Adriatic, or in the Aegean, wherever we encounter the Turks, there will either be no wind at all, so that they will lie helplessly becalmed, or so much they will have all they can do to keep out of trouble, much less fight a battle.”
“The devil!” Don Juan returned to his desk.
“But I believe we will still gain the day.”
“You think so?” Don Juan’s shoulders were hunched. “The problem seems to grow more and more insuperable every moment. As you have just remarked, all the enemy ships will be manned by men of a single nation. While ours…”
“What is your total strength?”
The Prince shrugged. “I have approximately fifty thousand seamen, but that includes the galley slaves, and some thirty thousand soldiers. It is the difference in nationality that worries me. The Genoese hate the Venetians, the Venetians hate the Papal troops, my Spaniards hold the lot of them in contempt, and as for this de Granvelle fellow, I sometimes think he hates the world. The conditions he would continually impose upon me, as regards treatment of heretics…or even suspected heretics! And you still say we can beat the Turks? I cannot be sure that, at the very moment battle is joined, my force will not commence fighting each other rather than the enemy. To be outnumbered as well…”
Anthony now realised that the commander was too young to bear the mental burdens of the responsibility which had been placed upon his shoulders, not to mention the looming disapproval of his admirals, all older and more experienced than he — and all in turn overshadowed by the brooding personality of the Cardinal.
Yet Don Juan’s charisma was evident. All he needed was the spur of action.
“I was sent here to help you, sire,” Hawkwood said “therefore I will speak plainly, at the risk of giving offence. Every day your fleet sits here it rots, and the enmities within it grow. And the Turks grow stronger. You must put to sea immediately.”
Don Juan sighed. “It is already September. My captains who regularly sail these waters say it is too late in the year, and that we must wait until the spring.”
“By the spring your command will no longer exist. Put to sea, my lord. The weather does not break fully until the second half of October. We have a month. Put to sea. I know where the Turkish fleet is, and I will lead you to it.”
Don Juan raised his head.
Anthony smiled at him. “And give you the victory…if I may also give you some advice.”
“Begin.”
“I would like to begin by inspecting your ships, my lord.”
*
Hawkwood already had his ideas fairly firmly fixed in his head; they were but strengthened by what he saw. The galleons were as powerful as he had always suspected, but as unwieldy except in a brisk sailing wind — from the right quarter. As he had told Don Juan their value in a Mediterranean battle could be written off. The same went for the frigates and brigantines, which were small, half-decked ships, very lightly armed, although he considered that the brigantines might be useful for scouting whenever there was a wind.
The galleasses, however, were even more powerful than he had anticipated. They carried no less than seventy guns each, varying from man-killers to ship-smashing cannon, and in addition, their rowers were protected by a deck above their heads. He reckoned one galleass, resolutely handled, should be able to take on half a dozen galleys with every hope of success.
But the battle would be won or lost by the galleys themselves.
The Christian galleys were on the average over a hundred and fifty feet in length, about the same as the Turkish, but he was interested to discover that their hull planking was some four inches thick, an inch more than the Turkish ships, and that here again their rowers were protected by wooden mantlets, something else the Turkish ships lacked.
They also carried an average of five guns on their foredeck, as opposed to the Turkish three. And each ship was armed with the great gilded ramming beak, which Anthony supposed had not changed an iota since the days of the Athenian triremes.
“What do you think?” Don Juan asked, when the tour of inspection was finally completed. It had taken several days — while the admirals stood around and pulled their beards and de Granvelle wrote letters to Rome.
“I think you have the makings of a fine fighting force here, sire,” Anthony told him. “But you will be opposed by a fleet which has not known defeat this generation.”
“And outnumbered,” Don Juan said, again despondent.
“Thus we cannot rely upon normal tactics.”
“What would you describe as normal tactics for a naval battle?”
“I am not qualified to speak of a battle in the Atlantic, my lord, where wind and weather plays as important a part as guns and marines. But here in the Mediterranean a normal galley battle is very like a land battle. The two sides array themselves in order, and then engage, the objective be
ing to overwhelm a weak part of the enemy line, or turn his flank. For this reason most galley battles are fought close to land, so that one flank at the least cannot be turned. You may be sure that Ali Pasha will adopt this strategy.”
“Can we not adopt something different?”
Hawkwood shook his head. “Not without danger. But we can, I think, adapt our tactics to our advantage.”
“How?”
“Well, firstly, I would use your galleasses as prongs, to force the enemy into disarray. If you were to place them in pairs, one pair in front of each of the three divisions of your fleet, and send them ahead, boldly into the centre of the Turks, you would cause a mêlée of which your ordinary galleys may be able to take advantage. The Turks are apprehensive of the galleasses, as I know. They have none of their own and no experience in fighting against them.”
Don Juan stroked his beard. “I stand the risk of losing the six great ships.”
“It is a risk worth taking if it enables you to win the battle, my lord.”
Don Juan stared at him. “Go on.”
“Secondly, my lord, I would remove the beaks from the bows of every one of your galleys.”
“Are you sure you are not demented, Hawkwood? How may a galley fight without its beak? Is not the main function of galley warfare to ram, or sheer off an opponent’s oars?”
“That is true, sire. Or it would be more correct to say that it has always been true up to now. But to ram an enemy, or sheer away his oars, you must come into contact with him. You must have a mêlée. Once you lose your ships in a mêlée with the Turks, you will lose them indeed, because they will outnumber you both for ships and men. You must win this battle, or at least equalise your numbers, at long range — by the use of your cannon. You are more heavily armed than the Turks, but your guns are hampered, as are theirs, by being unable to fire straight ahead. Remove the beaks, my lord, and give your five pieces on each ship a clear field of fire. I believe you may gain the day without ever coming alongside an enemy.”
“By all that is holy,” Don Juan muttered. “You are either a genius or a fool, Hawkwood. But will my commanders accept such a radical approach? Will they fight, in any event?”
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