Ottoman

by Christopher Nicole

  “We’ll have them all,” Don Juan shouted. “Signal general chase.”

  Anthony looked quickly from left to right. The Christian crews were in the main exhausted. Even Doria’s people, though not actually engaged, had been rowing flat out for upwards of two hours, first one way and then the other.

  Even more important, those telltale wisps of cloud were back, and low in the sky.

  “My lord,” he said, “if I may be so bold…your people will not catch Uluch now. And have you not gained the most complete victory in the history of sea warfare? A fleet of three hundred ships destroyed, save for perhaps fifty.”

  “It is my duty to sink every Turkish ship afloat, Hawk,” Don Juan insisted.

  “But not at the risk of losing your own fleet, sire. It will be blowing a gale within twelve hours.”

  Don Juan looked at the sky. “What do you suggest?”

  “That we seek shelter, my lord, as quickly as possible. There is a harbour close by, at Petala, where we may lie in safety until the storm blows itself out.” He grinned. “Uluch Ali will still be bottled up in Lepanto when we put to sea again.”

  Don Juan hesitated, then nodded and gave the necessary orders. The entire Christian fleet went off to safety. When all were anchored by nightfall, the men could regale each other with their tales of derring-do and of tragedy.

  *

  Now it was time for patching up the injuries sustained in battle. As Anthony had his arm — pierced by a pike-head — attended to, he found Cervantes also amongst the wounded.

  The secretary’s left wrist was swathed in bandages; there was no longer a hand. “It was all but severed by a scimitar,” he explained sadly. “The surgeon has done nothing more than complete the work.” Anthony was aghast at such misfortune, but the boy was remarkably cheerful. “This incident has proved to me, monsignore,” he said, “that no man may go against his fate. I was sentenced to lose my hand in Spain, and so I fled Spain, only to lose my hand in the service of Spain. But it has also proved to me that God is merciful, for where I was sentenced to lose my right hand, now I have lost my left. I can still write.” Cervantes grinned. “And would you not say that I now have a great deal to write about, monsignore?”

  *

  Notwithstanding his own fatigue, Hawkwood took a small boat and had himself rowed across to Colonna’s battered galley. He had a purpose in mind.

  The scene here was the same as would be found on most other ships of the Christian fleet: exhausted men sitting around in groups, drinking wine as they ate their evening meal, or dressing each other’s wounds, reminiscing and boasting.

  “Hawk!” Colonna greeted and embraced him. Even Cardinal de Granvelle, who had not been visible during the battle, was smiling tonight. “A great victory!”

  “Every man did his duty,” Anthony told him.

  “Save that perfidious Genoese,” the Cardinal remarked. “He should be hanged from his own masthead.”

  “He made a mistake, good father. No man should be hanged for an honest mistake. But I am seeking information, monsignore.” He addressed Colonna. “Your ship was attacked, by the galley of Pertau Pasha?”

  Colonna nodded. “We took it. It lies over there.”

  “What of the Pasha? Did he fall?”

  “I cannot say — but there were survivors. Indeed, half a dozen are still alive. I will chain them to my own benches tomorrow.”

  “Will you permit me to speak with them tonight?”

  “Certainly. Your men can take you there now.”

  Anthony clambered on to the captured ship, Kalil as ever at his shoulder.

  Manacled at wrist and ankle, the Turkish prisoners huddled together, and their eyes rolled as they discovered Hawk Pasha looming above them.

  “I seek news of Pertau Pasha,” Anthony began. “Did any of you see him die?”

  They shook their heads.

  “The Pasha did not die,” one of them said at last.

  “What did you say?”

  “We towed a galliot astern,” the man said. “And when he saw that we were likely to be overwhelmed, the Pasha abandoned us. He took to the galliot and fled.”

  Anthony knelt beside him. “Are you certain of this?”

  “I saw this with my own eyes, Hawk Pasha,” the man said. “Our Pasha deserted us. I saw the galliot make for the narrows leading to the Gulf of Corinth. He abandoned us to seek the safety of his estates.”

  “How do you know this?” Anthony demanded.

  “Because I was his servant, Hawk Pasha. And he abandoned me, together with all of his people.”

  Hawkwood stroked his beard. But he believed the man, who was clearly bitter at having been deserted by his master. And he knew that Pertau did have estates in the Peloponnesus, fairly close to the ruined city of Corinth. Pertau, being Pertau, would wish to make sure that his wealth and his wives were safe, in case the Christian fleet should ravage the coast.

  Hawkwood returned to the flagship. The wind was already blowing twenty knots, from the east, but backing into the north, and the galleys rose and fell to their anchor lines — but in complete safety.

  The Brigadino brothers were waiting patiently for him, and they embraced him warmly. “Now is Marcantonio avenged,” they said. “We are honoured to have sailed with you, Hawk.”

  Don Juan frowned when he noticed that Anthony was hardly looking happy.

  “What causes your anxiety?” he inquired.

  “My lord,” Anthony said, “I would crave the use of one of your brigantines for the night.”

  “To what purpose?”

  “That I may take her up into the Gulf of Corinth.”

  “You would put out tonight? Into the storm?”

  “I know these waters, and the weather, sire. And I have compelling reason for wishing to do this.” He then described Pertau’s escape.

  “This is the man who murdered our brother?” Ambrogio Brigadino demanded.

  “The same. I am sworn to kill him,” Hawkwood replied.

  “Then so are we,” Antonio Brigadino broke in. “We will come with you.”

  “This is madness,” Don Juan declared. “I cannot permit it.”

  “It would be to your advantage, my lord,” Hawkwood told him. “For I can also reconnoitre for you the situation of Uluch Ali and what is left of the Ottoman fleet.” He gave a grim smile. “At least you can be sure now I will not desert you.”

  “Have you any idea what they will do to you, if you are taken?”

  “I can hardly be made to suffer more than Brigadino, my lord.”

  “And you hope to avenge his death.” Don Juan sighed and clasped his hand. “Go and satisfy your honour. Hawk. But come back to me. I need you.”

  *

  When Hawkwood called for volunteers, these were quickly forthcoming. Every man in the fleet now understood the part he had played in their astonishing victory and they would willingly have followed him anywhere. In addition the brigantine crews had played little part in the actual fight, so were anxious to prove their worth.

  He took twenty men, including the Brigadino brothers, and put to sea. It was dark by now, and the wind was gusting above thirty knots. In the narrow waters of the Gulf the seas had not the fetch to become dangerous, but in such restricted waters seamanship of a high order was necessary, to prevent the little ship from being driven on to the rocks which abounded to either side.

  Tacking into the northerly wind, and with the pumps active as sheets of spray clouded over the bows of the half-decked brigantine, Hawkwood made his way up the Gulf of Patras to the narrows, beyond which lay the deeper Gulf of Corinth.

  Penetrating the narrows in bad weather was always a dangerous operation, but in addition it was immediately on the eastern side of this passage that the town of Lepanto was situated, to which the remnants of the Turkish fleet would certainly have fled, and in which Uluch Ali would also certainly now be preparing to withstand a siege.

  Uluch’s obvious course was to block the narrows themselves
with his ships, but he had not done so tonight. This was understandable, since his men were beaten and demoralised, and the wind was increasing all the time. Uluch must have reasoned that the Christians would also be sheltering from the storm.

  There were not even guardships in the straits, and the brigantine slipped through in utter darkness.

  There were lights enough in Lepanto, however, and on the wind was borne the clash of cymbals and the blowing of flutes as the Turks mourned their numerous dead.

  Hawkwood knew there was a chance that Pertau had also taken refuge in the seaport, but he discounted this possibility. Pertau would know that his defection had been witnessed by almost the entire fleet; and he would have no wish to confront Uluch Ali until he had prepared an acceptable excuse — if he could.

  Hawkwood altered course to the south-east, now on a broad reach under shortened canvas. The waves were on the beam, and the brigantine lay well over, but she was scudding along at a fine speed. The lights of Lepanto fell rapidly astern and were swallowed in the darkness, and Anthony, no longer afraid of encountering a stray Turkish cruiser, set his own masthead lantern to warn any vessel that might be in their way, while Kalil took his place in the bows and peered ahead.

  They had proceeded for several hours before they sighted any more lights, and those — still far distant — Hawkwood knew had to be the village of Corinth, which had arisen a few miles away from the site of the ancient city. But then Kalil called out that he could discern another light, closer at hand to the south.

  “It is moving, master,” he shouted. “It is signalling.”

  Hawkwood altered course towards it, while now every man stared into the gloom. By now the moon had risen, and through scudding clouds there was enough visibility to make out the darkness of the land only a few miles to the south — the whiteness of cliffs and flurries of surf where the tumbling sea met outcrops of rocks.

  “There, Hawk,” said Antonio Brigadino, who had come aft to stand beside the helm. “It is a galliot, I am sure.”

  Anthony narrowed his eyes, and saw that the small galley was anchored in a bay on the Peloponnesian coast. She had obviously taken refuge when the wind first got up, and while it had blown from the east she had remained quite sheltered; but now that it had backed to the north she was totally exposed, and yet apparently unable, or afraid, to raise anchor and head out into the open waters of the Gulf. Or even to put her people ashore? She was certainly asking for help.

  Kalil had also come aft, waiting for Hawkwood’s decision.

  “We’ll stand in,” Anthony decided. “He may have information about Pertau.”

  “There’ll be rocks, master.”

  “So keep a sharp look-out.”

  He had sail shortened even further, and with no more than a scrap of canvas up, the brigantine’s speed was further reduced. But the entrance to the bay was alarming, as the narrow stretch of water was covered in foaming whitecaps. As the brigantine crashed through them and into the violently disturbed waters beyond, Anthony’s hands were tight on the tiller.

  Now he could see the problems facing the galliot’s captain in having chosen such an uncertain refuge. The bay was backed by cliffs rising sheer from the sea, not a hundred yards away, and the galliot had lost her boat. Her people would have to swim ashore — but there was no shore for them to swim to.

  Hawkwood shouted his commands, put the helm down, and the brigantine swung round to come up into the wind.

  The galliot was just two hundred yards away, her crew gathered aft and waving as they saw the brigantine come about. Anthony had to gain way again immediately to avoid being swept against the cliffs, and now the ship was on the starboard tack, steering to pass close behind the stern of the galliot.

  As the two vessels closed rapidly, Anthony told Kalil to hail, in Turkish.

  “What ship is that?” Kalil bellowed.

  “We are the galliot of Pertau Pasha,” came the reply. “We are making water. We need your assistance.”

  Kalil looked over his shoulder at his master.

  Pertau! Delivered up by his own pusillanimity in seeking shelter long before the seas had become truly dangerous.

  The brigantine was now past the galliot, and he brought her round again.

  “Tell them we will come alongside to take them off.”

  Kalil shouted the message, and the men on the stricken vessel waved their acknowledgement. Its decks were now crowded.

  Perhaps some of them were innocent, but Anthony could not take that into account. For the last time in his life, he must behave as an Ottoman above anything else.

  “Load our guns,” he called. “Depress them to aim at the waterline.”

  His men hurried to obey, while he brought the brigantine around again, and it surged up to the stricken galliot. Within fifty yards of her, Hawkwood could make out the figure of Pertau standing on the quarterdeck, waving as vigorously as any of his men at the unexpected prospect of being rescued.

  But the matches were already glowing on board the brigantine, and as Hawkwood brought her broadside on to the galliot, he gave the order to fire.

  The brigantine rocked beneath their recoils as the two cannon exploded. At point blank range the balls smashed into the hull of the galliot, just on the waterline, to screams of outrage from her crew.

  Hawkwood then took the brigantine past the bow and brought her about again, turning her in her own length to pass down the starboard side of the galliot. The Turkish vessel was already listing to port, her starboard hull beginning to expose its weed-dripping surface.

  “Fire!” Anthony shouted again, and the two port guns exploded. Once again the range was point blank and the iron balls smashed through the timbers.

  Holed on both sides, the galliot sank like a stone; the tumbling water filled with drowning men.

  Hawkwood steered into their midst, and some were hauled up to be confined below deck. But he was looking for one man only.

  “Rescue!” Pertau was screaming. “Rescue!”

  The Turk was clinging desperately to a length of broken rail. Hawkwood himself heaved the line, and Pertau grasped it — and was pulled into the side of the brigantine. Slowly he was lifted clear of the water, and dragged up to the gunwale. There, still clutching his rope, he gazed at Hawkwood and the drawn sword.

  “Hawk Pasha!” he gasped, and then looked at the men standing to either side — and recognized from their facial features who they had to be.

  “I give you a better death than you deserve,” Ambrogio Brigadino told him, and swung his sword to slice off Pertau’s head.

  Both head and trunk fell separately into the sea.

  “Now is our brother truly avenged,” Ambrogio said.

  *

  In tactical terms, Lepanto was the greatest and most decisive naval battle ever fought. The Christians lost twelve galleys sunk, and one captured, with approximately fifteen thousand men killed, wounded or drowned. The Turks lost one hundred and thirteen galleys sunk, and a further one hundred and seventeen captured. A known thirty thousand men were killed, an entirely incalculable number drowned. In addition eight thousand Turks were taken prisoner and some fifteen thousand Christian galley slaves set free.

  The wealth taken from the captured Turkish galleys was on no less a scale; on Ali Pasha’s flagship alone were found one hundred and fifty thousand sequins. More importantly, Don Juan of Austria captured two hundred and seventy-four cannon.

  *

  The Commander-in-Chief magnanimously sent Hawkwood with the news of the victory, on board the Angel galley, to Venice. Anthony found the Republic in a state of tremendous anxiety, racked with rumour, at every moment expecting Ali Pasha and his vengeful fleet to appear off the lagoon.

  As a result of the news the city was thrown into a hysterical reaction. Church bells rang, people danced in the streets and swam in the canals, the fountains gushed wine.

  “I meant my promise,” the Doge, Alvise Mocenigo, told Anthony. “Ask and, if it is in my power to g
rant your wish, you will have it. For you have helped deliver us from the hands of the Turks, and also you have avenged Famagusta.”

  “Our task will not be completed until we have taken Constantinople,” Anthony told him, “so I must rejoin the fleet. I will seek my reward, Your Excellency, when the war is over.”

  But before he left he was able to spend several happy nights with his wife, and some no less happy time with his sons.

  “You have achieved so much,” Barbara whispered as she lay in his arms. “What next?”

  He smiled into her ear. “I shall take you back to the Hawk Palace — as a conqueror.”

  *

  In later years Hawkwood was to learn that his dream of that moment was entirely practicable. The news of the catastrophe of Lepanto had such a devastating effect in Istanbul — as an observer wrote — that had even fifty Christian galleys appeared in the Bosphorus, the city would have surrendered meekly.

  Unfortunately, no Christian galleys ever appeared there.

  Although Don Juan had every intention of continuing the campaign, it was too late to keep the fleets at sea that year, and so he left Viniero and Hawkwood and Jacopo Fascarini, the new Venetian vice-admiral, in command at Corfu, and himself returned to Messina, the various squadrons being sent to their home ports for the winter. Viniero was now too old to be considered as a fighting admiral, and so the command devolved upon Fascarini, with Hawkwood as his deputy and adviser.

  Anthony remained buoyant. He sent scouting galleys ranging down to the Gulf whenever the weather was fine enough, but there was no sign of any Turkish activity; the Ionian Sea was empty.

  “Undoubtedly Selim — or rather Sokullu — will be building another fleet just as rapidly as he can,” he advised his colleagues. “But it will have to be composed of green timber and, more important, of green men. He has only one admiral left of any experience: Uluch Ali. So if he attempts to meet us this coming year, he will again be annihilated. And if we sail east as soon as possible, not later than June in any event, the Ottoman realm will just fall apart.”

  But on 1 May 1572, while the Venetians were expecting news of the reassembly of the Christian fleet, Pope Pius V died. Although many people felt relieved, this was in reality a catastrophe. The old man might have made himself intensely unpopular through his strict reforms and the harshness with which he had implemented them, but it was he who was the true driving spirit behind the Christian cause.