Don Juan shouted, “Fire the cannon, captain. Signal, enemy in sight!”
22
The Battle
Anthony climbed high into the rigging, the better to see the approaching fleet. As he had forecast would be the case, Ali Monizindade had divided his ships into three squadrons, and was keeping close to the northern shore of the Gulf to protect his flank.
From the pennants Anthony determined that the northern squadron, the smallest of the three although it still certainly numbered more than fifty ships, was commanded by Scirocco Pasha.
Ali Monizindade himself commanded the centre, which was very nearly double the number of the flank squadron. Close by the flagship, Anthony could make out the pennant of Pertau Pasha.
The left wing, a squadron as large as that of the centre, flew the pennant of Uluch Ali.
Meanwhile, Don Juan had ordered the pennant of the Christian League to be run to the masthead, at the same time signalling his various squadrons to take up their positions, and commanding the principal admirals to come on board the flagship for their final fighting instructions.
It was just dawn.
*
The fighting instructions were as determined earlier by Hawkwood and the Commander-in-Chief, with the exception that the command of the left wing, which would move inshore to combat Scirocco Pasha, was now entrusted to Barbarigo. Viniero remained in the centre squadron, on the left of the flagship. Colonna, in the Papal flagship, took station immediately upon the Real’s right.
While the admirals were conferring, the captains called their men to breakfast, and then stripped the ships for action. Immediately the conference was over, Don Juan had himself rowed right round the fleet, to be greeted by cheers from every ship as he stood on the quarterdeck, his armour glittering in the first rays of the rising sun.
The prospect of action had driven away all his doubts, Anthony was happy to see. And restored his humour. When he passed Viniero’s ship, and saw the venerable old Admiral standing on his quarterdeck, he gave him a happy wave.
On the return of the flagship to station, the signal was given for prayer. By now all the Christians were in armour, and this huge accumulation of mail-clad men, thirty thousand of them, solemnly knelt on their decks to make their peace with God before placing their lives in His hands.
Anthony watched them in wonder. He had been equipped with a Spanish cuirass and morion, but had declined a rapier — the use of which he knew nothing — for a trusty broadsword, though he would far rather have retained his scimitar. He looked like any Spaniard or Venetian, but realised he was not really at one with these people.
Kalil, also wearing Spanish armour, gazed in awe at the Christians kneeling around him.
During the prayers both men kept their eyes on the Turks, who emerged into the body of the Gulf in a huge crescent. But this was slowly straightening as they approached their enemies. It was also easy to see that there was some confusion already in the Ottoman fleet, occasioned by the presence of the four huge galleasses moving slowly forward in front of the Christian squadrons. Unfortunately the other two galleasses were still far behind.
The Turks kept coming, and their shouting and yelling drifted down on the slight land breeze.
It was now nearly ten o’clock in the morning when, with an enormous clanking ripple, the Christian host rose from their knees. The sun, now high in the sky, reflected brilliantly from their armour — it was as if each galley had lit a hundred candles all at the same moment.
It was now time to estimate the tactical problems which were looming. On the Christian left, Barbarigo and his Venetians were maintaining a slightly faster striking rate than the rest of the fleet, and were slowly drawing ahead — without, however, closing the shore as much as Don Juan had wished. Obviously Barbarigo was afraid of getting caught in the shallows.
Now Scirocco Pasha, either ordered to do so or acting on his own initiative, also increased his striking rate, and advanced rapidly to meet the Venetians. Don Juan immediately commanded his own striking rate to be increased, to move up abreast of his left wing.
On the Turkish left, however, Uluch Ali had extended his already superior strength so as to threaten an enveloping movement round the Christian right. Doria had seen the movement, and now his squadron was steering away from its station in an attempt to keep pace with the Turks.
Anthony chewed his lip. Doria’s action was opening a gap in the Christian line. But it was too early to call upon the Marquis of Santa Cruz to bring his ships up; no one could tell if they might not be more urgently needed elsewhere.
*
It was half past ten when Scirocco’s squadron came within range of Barbarigo’s galleasses, and the first shots of the battle were fired. Smoke swirled into the air, and the galleasses’ aiming and their power were so destructive that several of the Turkish galleys were crippled within a few minutes, their oars shattered like matchsticks and, in some cases, their masts going by the board. The rest altered course to the right, away from the galleasses and towards the shore.
Their intention was obvious: to flank the Venetians. Don Juan pulled his beard anxiously as he watched them — the centre was not yet engaged.
“Barbarigo is a fine fighting seaman,” Hawkwood told him reassuringly.
And sure enough, the Venetian admiral turned his own ships to meet the threat, reasoning correctly that as long as the Turkish galleys floated, his would also. A furious mêlée developed inshore, and Hawkwood pointed.
The entire Turkish squadron had been drawn into the fight, their line folding up. This had left the Venetian right wing, commanded by Marco Quirini, in the air, as it were. And Quirini, another able commander, had immediately sized up the situation and turned his ships also to the north, but inclining slightly to the east — so that he was in the process of entirely surrounding the Turkish squadron.
“There at least we should have the victory, my lord,” Hawkwood told Don Juan.
But now it was time to look to themselves; the centre was within range.
Once again the galleasses did their work, the crews serving their guns so well that the Turks recoiled from attacking them. Instead they surged round them and rowed for the Christian fleet, setting up a tremendous hubbub. In their centre were the galleys of Ali Monizindade and Pertau…and they were making straight for the Real and her consorts.
And suffering heavily as they did so. For while every gun in each fleet was blazing away as fast as it could be loaded and fired, the Christians were doing far more damage, thanks to being able to fire straight ahead, following the removal of their beaks.
But Ali kept coming, and that he had identified Don Juan’s pennant was obvious.
“He means to board,” Hawkwood said, watching the Turkish galley surging towards them at full speed, while the Christian ships were maintaining a slow and regular beat.
“Arquebusiers!” came the call, and the three hundred men armed with handguns assembled in the waist of the ship.
Screaming their fury, the Turks kept on. The galley seemed to rear out of the sea as it was urged forward. Anthony had only time to cast a quick glance to the right to find that Pertau had inclined away to attack Colonna, who was closing up on the Real.
But Pertau would have to wait. There was a tremendous jar which sent men tumbling in every direction, and Ali’s galley had struck home, smashing into the starboard bow of the Real, scything away oars, and bringing screams of terror from the rowers.
Over the shattered bows of both vessels there swarmed a horde of mailed Turks.
The arquebusiers were back on their feet and reforming, their staves planted in front of them.
“Fire!” Don Juan bellowed, at the same time drawing his sword.
Anthony had already drawn his weapon, and now, to his surprise, discovered at his side the young poet-cum-secretary, Miguel de Cervantes.
“I had supposed you ill, senor,” he said.
Certainly the boy looked pale.
“Not ill e
nough to miss such an occasion,” he replied.
Together they hurried forward, Kalil behind them.
The arquebuses rippled fire, and more smoke clogged the still air. The Turks, overrunning the foredeck, were checked by the flying lead.
“Now,” Hawkwood shouted. “Swords and pikes. Follow me.”
He ran through the ranks of arquebusiers, who hastily dropped their firepieces and drew their swords. He charged at the bow; and the few remaining Turks clinging to the shattered timbers — several of their number were dead and several more had fallen into the water — shrieked their terror.
“Hawk Pasha!” they yelled. “Hawk Pasha returned from the grave.”
Anthony assumed that the galley-captain he had outwitted in the Adriatic must have reported him as lost.
The Turks fled back on to Ali’s ship, but Anthony leapt behind them, fighting to keep his footing on the slippery deck. Someone thrust at him with a pike, and he cut the weapon aside before bringing his sword forward with a jar as it encountered bone. The man fell away, and Anthony watched the rest running back along the gangway between the rowers, still screaming his name.
“Bah!” shouted Ali Monizindade from the quarterdeck. “That is no ghost. That is the traitor, Hawk Pasha. Will you not cut him down?”
He drew his scimitar and himself led the counterattack, pausing when within a few feet of Anthony.
“Well, Hawk,” he said, “It is now to be my duty to take your head to the Sultan.”
“Then take it,” Anthony challenged him.
Their blades clashed, but before they could properly set to, there was another violent jar, which threw them off balance. Hawkwood actually fell amongst the rowers, but Kalil seized his arm and jerked him back out before he could be grasped by those hellish creatures soaked with sweat and blood from the deck above.
Another Turkish galley had driven into Ali’s, so as to send their reinforcements on board the flagship; and the Spaniards were now retreating. Hawkwood had no option but to go with them — he was not yet ready to commit suicide.
“Stop!” he bawled. “Form ranks.”
Don Juan was on the bow of the Real, attempting to rally his men, but the Spaniards were now outnumbered by more than two to one as the fresh Turks poured across the bow. And only a few of the arquebuses had been reloaded.
“By God, we are lost,” Don Juan cried, as this time the volley failed to check the rampant Turks. The Spaniards had been driven on to the quarterdeck.
“The slaves,” Anthony snapped, and ran down the ladder to the first row of benches. “Will you fight for God?” he shouted. “And your freedom!”
“Aye!” they roared back.
It was the work of seconds for him to uncouple the chains, assisted by the boatswain. A tub of pikes had been placed by the drum for just such an emergency, and each man armed himself before following Hawkwood back up on to the deck.
Just in time. The Spaniards were on the point of being overwhelmed — but the sudden appearance of a horde of naked men armed with pikes took the Turks by surprise, and again they fell back.
For the second time Hawkwood and Don Juan led the charge on to the Turkish flagship, and Anthony spotted Ali on the quarterdeck, screaming orders as he rallied his men and called for assistance. They were separated by too many heaving, cutting, yelling bodies, and although Hawkwood set out to fight his way to him, before he could get there two more Turkish galleys came alongside with shuddering, oar-smashing violence, and once again the Christians were driven back, while the Turks surged forward.
By now, however, Santa Cruz had observed the desperate conflict taking place in the centre of the Christian line, and sent forward half a dozen of his reserve squadron, crowded with men. These clambered over the stern of the Real to join in the fighting. But the Turks were still more numerous, and while blood ran in rivulets along the scuppers and discoloured the sea into which it poured, the men cursed and swore and hacked and jabbed and slipped and fell overboard or on to the half-empty rowing benches and screamed and choked, the Christians were still slowly forced back.
Hawkwood realised that only the death of Ali himself could save the day. By now he was exhausted, his helmet dented from an unexpected blow he had received, his left arm stinging to suggest that he had been wounded, his breath heaving in great gasps, his entire body a seethe of perspiration. But again he forced himself forward, his bulk no less than the power with which he swung his sword soon clearing a way for him, and suddenly he was face to face with his target, although at a distance of several feet.
Ali Monizindade grinned, showing his teeth. “Again, traitor,” he said. “For the last time.”
He dashed forward — then threw up his arms, and tumbled from the gangway down on to the rowing benches. Someone had shot him through the forehead.
Instantly Hawkwood leapt down beside him, knocked off his helmet, grasped his hair, and cut off his head.
Then he regained the gangway, holding the dripping head high in front of the appalled Turks.
“Ali Pasha is dead!” he shouted, his voice hoarse. “Ali Pasha is dead!”
With screams of dismay the Turks began to waver.
“Now,” Don Juan bellowed, his voice as hoarse as Hawkwood’s. “Now!”
For one last time the Christians surged forward. The sight of the Ottoman admiral’s head had produced the effect Anthony had been aiming for, and the Turks had now lost their offensive spirit. They retreated, but this time there was to be no rally. There was no quarter either, as the mailed Spaniards, gasping for breath, relentlessly drove the Ottomans into the sea to drown or viciously cut them down, hacking at the wounded time and again to make sure of their deaths. Only a few minutes after Ali Pasha’s death, his flagship was taken — as were the three galleys attached to it.
It was now time to consider what was happening elsewhere in the conflict.
A glance to the north assured Anthony that there complete victory had been achieved. Surrounded by the Venetians, thanks to Quirini’s prompt action, Scirocco’s squadron was in the grim process of being destroyed. Not one of the Turkish galleys would escape, and very few of their crews.
It was not an easy victory, as Hawkwood learned later. Barbarigo had been mortally wounded, and his nephew, Marco Contarini, who had succeeded him in command, was killed outright. Federigo Nani had then assumed overall charge of the squadron, and it was he who achieved the final victory. Scirocco Pasha was dragged from the sea, also mortally wounded.
In the centre, Ali Pasha’s squadron had also been virtually destroyed.
But on the right, things were not going well. Uluch Ali, having observed Doria’s movement to the south to counter his threatened envelopment, had been presented with a choice of two tactical manoeuvres. One would have been to take his ninety-odd galleys directly against the Genoese squadron, and make use of an overwhelmingly superior force, which must have been very tempting — he would certainly have gained a local victory no matter what had happened in the rest of the conflict. But Uluch was as able a tactician as any of the Christian admirals, and rapidly observed that the right wing of the Turkish fleet was lost, and the centre in trouble. He therefore determined to do what he could to reverse the trend towards an overall Turkish defeat: he turned his ships and steered straight for the gap opened in the Christian line by Doria’s manoeuvre, intending to fall upon the right of Don Juan’s centre squadron, and hopefully roll it up.
To block him, Giustiniani turned the small Maltese contingent of galleys on the extreme right of the centre to meet this onslaught. But the Maltese were overwhelmed, their ships taken, and the crews put to the sword.
This catastrophe was discerned by Santa Cruz, who had promptly despatched eight galleys, under the command of Don Juan de Cardona, to assist the Maltese. Unfortunately they arrived too late to save them, and now found themselves in the middle of the fiercest mêlée of the entire battle, as each Christian ship was assailed by two Turkish vessels. It was at this scene that Haw
kwood gazed first after Ali Monizindade’s flagship was taken.
The Christians there were again overwhelmed, fighting almost to the last man. Cardona himself was mortally wounded, and of the five hundred soldiers on board his ship only fifty survived. On board the Florence, almost every man was killed, including the galley slaves; the captain, Tomasso de’ Medici, severely wounded, found himself at the head of only seventeen Knights of St Stephen. In two other Papal galleys, the San Giovanni and the Piamontesa, there were no survivors at all, the galley slaves being killed in their rows as they sat chained to the oars.
This was the carnage observed by Hawkwood and by Santa Cruz. The Marquis was already hurrying up with the rest of his reserve ships, when Anthony clutched Don Juan’s arm.
“My lord, our right is endangered.”
Don Juan took in the situation at a glance, and also the fact that the Genoese squadron was now some miles away. Doria by now had realised that he had been outmanoeuvred, and had turned to come back, but it would be half an hour before he could make his presence felt.
“May God damn that man for a traitor,” Don Juan growled.
“I do not think he is false, sire. He was merely outwitted. But whether true or false, we cannot wait upon him.”
“You are right.” Don Juan looked right and left, then gave orders for the captured Turkish galleys — in the process of being systematically looted before being set on fire — to be cast adrift and for all hands to return to their commands. Then he set out to work his way down to the rescue of the Papal squadron.
Once again there was a fierce mêlée, but Uluch Ali now realised that he was in danger of being overwhelmed by the entire enemy fleet, as more and more Christian ships abandoned their prizes to come to the support of their Commander-in-Chief, and as Doria approached from the south.
Uluch now, in turn, abandoned his prizes and took his thirty-odd remaining galleys back into the Gulf, showing his defiance to the last by flying at his masthead the banner of the Order of St John, taken from Giustiniani’s flagship.
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