Ottoman

by Christopher Nicole

  “You must be sure of it, by hanging the first man, of whatever rank, who dares to disobey you. As for their differences, why…you must mix your people up.”

  “Eh?”

  “You say the Venetians are short of soldiers. Put Spanish soldiers on board the Venetian galleys. Then take some Venetian sailors on board your own ships. Have a fully integrated fleet.”

  “Your concepts grow bolder by the moment. Tell me what else you have in mind.”

  “That is all that needs to be done at this moment, sire. Have the beaks stripped today, and let us put to sea as quickly as possible. Once we are at sea… I have another suggestion.”

  “Tell me.”

  “We are outnumbered in fighting men as well as ships. This we must rectify.”

  “Do you not suppose I have sought additional recruits? They are simply not to be had.”

  “They exist on board your own ships.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How many of your galley slaves are Christians?”

  “Why, two-thirds, I would estimate. But of those, more than half are Protestants, sentenced to the galleys by the Inquisition.”

  “They are still Christians, and we are going to fight the Turk. Just before we engage the enemy, unchain them, and arm them.”

  “Now I know you are mad!”

  “And promise them their freedom after your victory, if they fight for you.”

  Don Juan leaned back on his chair. “Granvelle would absolutely forbid it.”

  “With respect, my lord, but may I ask who commands this fleet? Cardinal de Granvelle or Don Juan of Austria?”

  The young man stared at him for several seconds, then slapped his desk. “Don Juan of Austria, by God.”

  *

  The orders were given, and to the consternation of the admirals, the beaks were removed from each of the galleys. They were even more astounded when the Commander-in-Chief ordered Spanish marines on board the Venetian galleys, and Venetian seamen on to Spanish ships.

  At least his actions stirred them up. Messina hummed with activity and comment, composed in equal parts of enthusiasm and dismay.

  Then came the orders to put to sea and make for the Venetian-held island of Corfu.

  “In September?” the Marquis of Santa Cruz expostulated. “It is too late, my lord, for the Adriatic. This English renegade is leading you astray.”

  “The fleet will sail, my lord Marquis,” his commander replied, quietly but firmly. “The Turkish fleet is to be found up the Gulf of Patras. We will make Corfu our advanced base.”

  The admirals had no choice but to obey. On 15 September 1571 the galleons put to sea behind a screen of frigates. With them went the galleasses.

  The galleys left the next day. At Don Juan’s insistence Hawkwood sailed with him in his flagship, the Real.

  They spent their time discussing the actual tactics which would be required when the two fleets came to grips, hopefully after the Turks had been thrown into disarray by the gunfire of the galleasses and the unbeaked galleys. Anthony put at the Commander-in-Chief’s disposal all of his long accumulated knowledge of galley fighting, reminding him of essentials like having soapy water ready to throw across his own decks to make them slippery should an enemy attempt to board, and having his boarding pikes greased for the last four feet of their length so that an opponent could not grasp them to wrestle them away. He also reminded the young leader that, because of the limited deck space on a galley, a squad of men must be detailed to throw dead bodies overboard the moment life was extinct…or before that, in the case of an enemy.

  “There are so many little points which need consideration,” Don Juan conceded. “You must have been sailing galleys for a long time.”

  “All of my life,” Anthony told him, simply.

  “Then I thank God that He sent you to us. What else must we do?”

  “You must order your line of battle, and acquaint your commanders with it.”

  “What would you recommend?”

  “I would recommend three equal squadrons, and a reserve. Which of your commanders is the most capable of acting on his own?”

  “Why, the Marquis of Santa Cruz. He is the most experienced seaman in the Spanish fleet.”

  “Then place him in command of the reserve. I would say twenty-eight ships, with orders to act upon his own initiative, and to support whichever part of the main battle most needs it.”

  Don Juan nodded. “Go on.”

  “Then divide the rest of your force, as I have said, into three squadrons, of sixty ships each. You will of course command the centre. If, as I anticipate, Ali Pasha waits for you to come to him…”

  “Why should he do that, Hawk wood?”

  “For two reasons. As I have said, he prefers to fight near a headland, so that one wing is protected. But secondly, when he learns the size of your fleet, as he will do, he will prefer to fight in Turkish waters, so that if he is defeated he can safely retreat.”

  “While if we are defeated we lose everything.” The commander was again gloomy.

  Anthony smiled. “But we are not going to be defeated, sire. I was saying, if I am right, Ali will opt to fight within sight of the land, probably in the mouth of the Gulf of Patras, and inclining to the north shore, as it is upon that shore that his base of Lepanto is situated. In that case, I would give command of your left wing to the Venetians, who are most used to fighting in close waters. They will be the ones nearest the shore.”

  “And my right wing?”

  “Why, my lord, as I doubt you will yield it to me…”

  “I cannot, Hawk Pasha, much as I would like to. There is sufficient concern at your being with us at all.”

  “I recognise that, sire. Well then…give it to Doria.”

  Don Juan gazed at him. “He is your bitterest enemy.”

  “He is also an excellent fighting seaman.”

  “You have a broad spirit, Hawkwood. I will adopt your recommendations. Now tell me, what else must we do?”

  “There is little else we can do…save pray that the weather holds.”

  For the moment the skies were clear.

  *

  The last stragglers reached Corfu on 25 September. By then Don Juan and Hawkwood were in possession of some interesting information. The island had been attacked by a Turkish force only a week or two previously, the Turks withdrawing when they learned through their scouts of the approach of the Christian fleet.

  These small scouting galleys had been seen from time to time, and Don Juan had only with difficulty prevented his captains from setting off in pursuit. His only fear was that the Turks would withdraw from Lepanto on the news of his coming, but Hawkwood was able to reassure him on this: Selim would never permit it. Nor would Ali Pasha wish to do so. This was the moment for which he had been waiting all his life.

  And indeed from prisoners taken by the Venetian garrison they learned that the entire Turkish fleet was concentrated in the Gulf, and that Ali Pasha had arrived to take command.

  “Who has he with him?” Anthony asked the frightened men.

  “There are many great commanders, Hawkwood. Ali Pasha has with him Hassan Pasha from Algiers…” Barbarossa’s son, Anthony thought sombrely, “Hammet Bey, Uluch Ali, and Mahomet Scirocco Pasha.”

  “Who commands the troops?” Hawkwood asked.

  “Pertau Pasha, my lord.”

  “Pertau Pasha,” Anthony repeated with venom.

  “Is he more important than the rest?” Don Juan asked.

  “To me he is, my lord,” Anthony said, with grim satisfaction.

  *

  On 29 September the fleet, accompanied by the galleasses but less the galleons — for there was no wind — sailed across the narrow strait separating Corfu from Albania, and put into the port of Gomenizza on the mainland to pick up some more information. That evening Don Juan of Austria assembled his captains and revealed to them at last the news that Famagusta had been captured, and its garrison murdered. He also to
ld them of Hawkwood’s part in it, and of the fate of Marcantonio Brigadino, gazing at the victim’s brothers as he spoke.

  Ambrogio Brigadino was on his feet. “And that wretch,” he said, pointing, “is now virtually second-in-command of our fleet? My lord, I demand he is hanged this instant.”

  Anthony also stood up. “Monsignore, I am perfectly willing to meet you, sword in hand, the moment this campaign is over. But we are here to serve a great cause, a cause to which I am prepared to sacrifice my life. Should we not avenge your elder brother, and all those doomed men he commanded, before we fight amongst ourselves?”

  “Well said, Hawkwood,” Don Juan broke in. “There will be no duelling until after the battle. After our victory.”

  *

  Next day seventeen more galleys arrived. Eight were a squadron supplied by the Knights of St John in Malta, commanded by the Prior of Messina, whose name was Giustiniani — a direct descendant of the Genoese soldier who had so heroically defended Constantinople against Mahomet the Conqueror. The other nine came from Venice; it seemed that Alvise Mocenigo had determined to put everything he had into the defeat of the Turks, and had stripped his defences bare.

  The reinforcements delighted Don Juan, who was able to adjust his tactical dispositions; he increased each of his three divisions to sixty-three ships, and the reserve to thirty-five. With two hundred and twenty-four galleys together with the galleasses, he no longer felt quite so outnumbered. And if the galleons could by any chance be brought into action…

  Hawkwood was more concerned about the weather, as he observed wisps of cloud high in the sky. Once October dawned, a sudden storm was always possible, although unlikely before the second half of the month, as he had promised their leader. Still, he would have liked to get on in search of the Turks, but Don Juan still insisted that the galleons would be of use in the coming fight, and three precious days were lost waiting, in Gomenizza, waiting for the breeze which would enable the huge ships to put to sea.

  There was another cause for concern, as sickness now appeared in the fleet, inevitable when men were cooped up for a long period; nor did the daily intake of fresh food from the Albanian countryside improve matters — rather it seemed to make things worse. Amongst those down with fever was the young secretary, Miguel de Cervantes.

  These were days when tempers, already tense, began to fray. Meanwhile the clouds gathered.

  “My lord,” Anthony said at last in desperation, “you are likely to lose the whole game by waiting to make it safe. There is weather about.”

  “Where?” scoffed the Cardinal, who no longer bothered to hide his dislike for the Englishman. “There is not a breath of air.”

  “Which makes it more certain that there will be a great deal of air in a few days’ time.” Hawkwood turned to address Don Juan: “Surely you can see for yourself how useless the great ships will be in such conditions as these?”

  The young Habsburg gave in, and next morning, 4 October, the galley fleet stood out for the south, passing inside the islands and the harbour of Prevesa — the scene of the battle of Actium sixteen centuries before and of Khair-ed-din’s victory over the Genoese fleet in 1538 — before anchoring for the night off Cape Ducato.

  That night the wind which Anthony had feared finally arrived, screaming out of a clear sky just after midnight. The galleys rolled and began taking on water, signal lanterns bobbed, and men cried out in dismay.

  “What must we do?” Don Juan hurried on deck to find Hawkwood already there.

  “We must seek shelter, sire.”

  “But where?”

  “Cephalonia. There is a harbour called Phiskardo, protected from the north. We will lie there in perfect safety.”

  “If we ever get there,” the Cardinal muttered, and crossed himself.

  Don Juan was already giving commands, and the fleet weighed anchor and battled its way to the south. The Real led the way, a mass of lanterns at its masthead so that if one was blown away there would yet be others to follow, and by dawn all the ships had come safely into Phiskardo.

  Their crews were shaken, however, and in Phiskardo there occurred an incident which nearly wrecked the entire campaign. Hawkwood and Don Juan were dining on the afterdeck of the Real when there was a tremendous hubbub from the Venetian squadron.

  Both men were on their feet in a moment, gazing through the forest of masts in an attempt to discover what was happening. The hubbub continued for some time, before a Spanish officer, white-faced with indignation, arrived at the flagship by boat, and spluttered out his story.

  There had been an altercation between some Venetian seamen and some Spanish soldiers on board one of the Venetian galleys, swords had been drawn, and several of the Venetians killed. Whereupon Admiral Viniero, being informed of the incident, had had the Spaniards seized and hanged.

  “They droop there yet, my lord,” the officer cried. “Murdered by those republicans.”

  “Viniero must hang beside them,” de Granvelle growled. “The insolent dog.”

  “By God!” Don Juan said, as angry as anyone. “He shall. Give orders to surround the Venetian squadron, and demand that their admiral present himself before me.”

  “My lord!” Anthony cried. “You cannot do this.”

  Don Juan turned towards him, brows gathering in an imperious frown. “Do you dare countermand my order?”

  “I dare attempt to save you from ruining your enterprise, sire. Did you not say to me that your only fear was that your people might fall to fighting amongst themselves before they could come to grips with the enemy?”

  Don Juan hesitated, biting his lip.

  “My lord,” Hawkwood went on, “we are merely fortunate that this is the first such incident that has occurred. The men are anxious to close with the enemy. There is the cure for all our ills — and we are close to them now. That must be our sole objective. To attempt to arrest Admiral Viniero would be to have the entire Venetian fleet sail for home. Then would you be utterly bereft, and at the mercy of the Turks.”

  Don Juan stared at him for several seconds. Then he said, “Countermand that order.”

  The waiting officers hesitated, then obeyed.

  “But I will not speak with Viniero again,” Don Juan said. “Mark this well. I will communicate only with Vice-Admiral Barbarigo.”

  Hawkwood bowed his head. He had at least averted a catastrophe. He could do nothing more than that.

  *

  The wind continued to howl all day Saturday, 6 October, and the fleet tossed at its anchorage. Don Juan still had some hopes that the galleons might now be able to join them, but Hawkwood knew this was a slim chance; big, unwieldy ships would be in great danger attempting to brave such uncertain weather in this maze of islands and rocks.

  But that evening the wind dropped.

  “Will it come again. Hawk?” Don Juan asked.

  Anthony studied the sky. “Not for another twenty-four hours at the least, sire.”

  “And we know the Turks are in the Gulf. Will they not stay there, waiting for the weather finally to drive us away?”

  “I doubt that, my lord. But…we have not too much more time.”

  “Then we shall use that time.” The young commander called his flag captain. “Have the fleet signalled,” he said. “We put to sea tomorrow morning, for the Gulf of Patras.”

  The captain saluted, and hurried on his way.

  “Am I being rash?” the Habsburg asked.

  “You are taking the only possible course, my lord,” Anthony assured him.

  *

  At two o’clock on the morning of Sunday 7 October, the Spanish-Genoese squadron, which was designated to form the right wing of the Christian fleet, set sail under the command of Giovanni Andrea Doria.

  As soon as it was clear of the harbour, the Real set out, followed by the centre division, included in which was not only the flagship of Colonna, the Papal commander, but also Viniero, who had handed over the command of the left wing to Barbarigo, in accordance
with Don Juan’s orders; the old man was as distressed as anyone over the deaths on board one of his ships.

  With the centre squadron there sailed the first two galleasses, commanded respectively by Captains Duodo and Guora. The second pair would sail with the Venetians. The third pair had been supposed to accompany Doria and the Genoese, but for some reason were late getting under way. No doubt they would catch up later.

  The course set was between the island of Oxia and the mainland, to round Point Scropha into the Gulf of Patras.

  “How slowly Doria moves,” Don Juan grumbled, as the Genoese squadron seemed to lumber immediately ahead of them. “Increase the beat,” he told his flag captain.

  The captain hurried to the waist with the order, and the drumbeat was immediately quickened to one every second. The galleys began to surge through the water.

  “May I counsel patience, my lord,” Anthony suggested. “The enemy is there. He will not escape us now.”

  “I must lead, and be seen to lead,” Don Juan declared. “Maintain the beat.”

  He was now in a fine fury of anticipation and elation. Abeam of Point Scropha the flagship was abreast of Doria’s squadron, with the remainder of the fleet strung out behind. Ahead of them were the open waters of the Gulf of Patras, with the northern shore of the Peloponnesus lost in the morning mist, as the darkness faded to an uncertain light.

  Hardly were the ships round the headland when Hawkwood observed signals flying from the masthead of Doria’s flagship, the Capitana.

  “Ships in sight,” he said. “Where away masthead?” he bellowed.

  “Two sail to the east,” came the call.

  Every officer immediately climbed into the port rigging, the better to see.

  “Three, four, six, eight,” called the masthead.

  Anthony narrowed his eyes, staring into the sudden brilliance as the sun threatened to rise above the mountains surrounding the gulf. Eight, he thought. Ten. Fifty, a hundred, two hundred, three hundred…

  “There, my lord,” he said. “There is Ali Pasha, and the Turkish fleet. This is the day we have waited for.”

  The day I have waited for, he thought — for ten years. But now I am on the wrong side.