‘It’ll heal straight now,’ he said.
Last of all was the clerk. His face was blank, stony, and his pale brown eyes squinted past Suleiman without any expression.
‘What were you before?’
‘A merchant’s clerk, sir.’ His Portuguese was precise, cultured.
‘Morisco?’ asked Suleiman, pointed at the man’s privates.
‘No sir. Marrano.’
Suleiman’s eyebrows rose. ‘Ah? So that’s why you are here?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You call me Padron.’
‘Yes, Padron.’
‘Injuries?’
‘My lungs are weak, Padron.’
‘Rowing in a galley will either cure your lungs or kill you. Have you fought in battle?’
The pale brown eyes contemplated this question, contemplated Suleiman. ‘Not in battle, no,’ he said eventually. ‘Padron.’ there was the white mark of a spear wound in his shoulder but Suleiman left it.
‘Fussy eater?’
‘I prefer not to eat pork, Padron.’
‘Too bad,’ said Suleiman. ‘Eat it anyway.’
He watched while the clerk took the sausage, looked at it and then ate it. Good. No trouble there.
Suleiman was reasonably happy with his two benches. Tomorrow they would rig the oars and practise Taking Hold and the next day, no doubt, they would put to sea for sea-trials and all hell would let loose.
Well, no doubt the clerk would get his hand caught and crushed or his head stove in or would simply keel over as so many did. Suleiman was quite sure he wouldn’t last. They had about twenty more men, mostly escapers, caged down in the hold to take the places of the losses, but that was all and he knew it wasn’t enough. He’d have to shake out his no-hopers quickly, so he could get his pick of the replacements.
The slaves spent a quiet night, which wasn’t to say they slept. After the nets had been rigged, Suleiman brought in his bedroll and slept on the walkway above them. None of the slaves had blankets or pallets, of course, and they hadn’t learned yet to huddle up in rows like sardines in a barrel to get a bit of warmth from the man next door, they were still shy. They would soon lose that. Of all people, galley slaves had the least use for shyness or modesty. Once the oars were in they would find they had even less space.
Suleiman slept very well. It was like a lullaby to him, the sound of an oardeck with two hundred and fifty-two men in it, sleeping, snoring, muttering, farting.
In the morning, they brought the oars and it was just as much of a nightmare as Suleiman had expected. The ship swarmed with riggers, cursing, shouting, hauling. The riggers had to put each sweep through the oarport by crane from the outside, hammer the cross-piece into the hole drilled for it, attach the pulley rope to the ring at the end, and then each bench had to haul in their own oar until it was pulled up at an angle in its sling at precisely the right position, the paddle-end just by the port and the business-end, with the handrails, triced up tight to the ceiling formed by the upper deck above them. Suleiman recognised the system; it was the one used for the lower deck of an old-fashioned trireme. One after another went in until one side of the oardeck was as full of oars as a herring full of bones and then they had to warp the ship around and put the other row in. You couldn’t do it from the sea, the sweeps were too big and heavy – each sweep was made from two individual pinetrees lashed together and shaped with adzes to the form of an enormous oar.
The oardeck filled with the smells of new pinewood and lard, with sweat and tar. He had his men stowed under their bench, out of the way. Thirty-six trees criss-crossing the oardeck, one above, one below, gave a very snug fit indeed when you added two hundred and fifty-two men. The whole process took a day and a half.
Of course, they couldn’t possibly practise rowing until they were at sea. They couldn’t even run the oars out, on account of the quay being in the way. Suleiman went up on deck to report and found the sailors in the new rigging, ready to make sail as they caught the tide. He watched them monkeying around the ropes for a while, fascinated. He never ever wanted to do it himself because he was terrified of heights.
The Captain of the Oardeck and the Señor of the Benches were arguing with a pretty boy aristocrat in the service of Hugo de Moncada, the Admiral of the Galleases. The Captain of the Oardeck beckoned Suleiman over. He made an obeisance to the pretty boy, who didn’t bother to return it.
‘This is Suleiman, one of our most experienced and successful Padrons,’ said the Captain of the Oardeck. ‘He’ll tell you.’
The pretty boy glinted in the sun, what with his tawny satin doublet and a great quantity of gold brocade. Suleiman looked at him and indulged himself in the fantasy of seeing the boy stripped and chained to one of his benches.
‘With such men as you directing the work, there would be no problem rowing out of port, would there, Suleiman?’ said the pretty boy with a brilliant, confiding smile.
Suleiman brushed his moustache and sucked his teeth. ‘How many replacements have we got in the hold?’
‘Twenty,’ said the Captain, who knew he knew this.
‘Find me another sixty, Señor, and I’ll do it.’
Pretty boy laughed. ‘Oh surely,’ he neighed, ‘you wouldn’t expect to lose that many?’
‘They’re all new, Señor, none of them know their arses from their elbows. Could be more. And of course we’ll need to come back to port for refitting to replace the oars we’ll break. And we’d need plenty of space around us…’
‘But I myself have seen galleys come up to the quayside at full speed, back water and rest up against the quay as sweet as a kiss,’ said the boy, who obviously had some romantic notion about showing off his new suit on the deck of a ship under oars, no doubt to someone equally pretty on the quay.
‘Give me a month to work the men and we will do that, Señor,’ said Suleiman, ‘but not today. With respect.’
The pretty boy looked sulky but left the point.
‘Is he the officer in charge of this ship?’ Suleiman asked. It was possible. He had seen stupider choices of Commander.
‘No,’ answered the Señor of the Benches. ‘Thank the Blessed Virgin, we are the flagship. His Excellency Hugo de Moncada will be the Captain of this ship as well as Admiral of the Galleas squadron.’
At least that one had some idea of what he was doing. Suleiman nodded. ‘Señor,’ he said, ‘I have one question to ask of you.’
‘Yes, Suleiman?’
‘Water barrels. Where are they?’
The Señor of the Benches stared at his boots and the Captain of the Oardeck looked miserable.
‘They’re on their way, Padron.’
Suleiman gazed unwaveringly at him until the Captain of the Oardeck looked away.
‘Señor,’ said Suleiman, ‘this is a serious matter. Without water, the men cannot row. There must be water available.’
The Captain had evidently heard this from the other Padrons. He nodded and then shrugged.
Suleiman went down to the oardeck again, unconsciously chewing the underside of his moustache. Galley slaves could row without food for a remarkably long time, far longer than anyone ever thought possible. But without water they would be unable to row in a day and dead in another two.
The Englishman El Draco was to blame of course. When he had burned the seasoned barrel staves the year before, he had set back the supply of the Armada by three years, not one. But the King didn’t understand about barrels and water, and had ordered them on without regard to the problem. Suleiman went to talk to the other Padrons about it.
* * *
The ship heeled slightly as they cast off for their practice run and the warping ropes took hold. Once they were away from the quay, the sails part filled with wind and the hull began to rock in the mild waves of the harbour.
They only sailed a little way because they needed the space. They hove-to in the outer pool.
Suleiman went to stand on the walkway, stripped to the waist, his mo
ustache magnificently waxed. From where he stood, he could take hold of the cross-bar at the end of the oar when it was run out for he was the seventh man on it. He had a junior Padron for his second bench who was experienced enough to do as he was told.
The first time you put the ours out; like taking a boy’s virginity. A ticklish and delicate process and one that needed a certain boldness. The Captain of the Oardeck stood at the aftmost point holding his speaking trumpet, with the drummer beside him.
‘Stand!’ said Suleiman to his benches. Most of them stood at once, hunched by the mass of the oar above them. ‘Clerk, do you know how to cast off a line and put a stopper on?’
The clerk nodded, then shouted, ‘Yes, Padron!’ The beautiful boy at the other oarport didn’t know of course, and had to be shown by Suleiman’s junior.
The oardeck was full of noise as normal. The Captain of the Oardeck roared for silence, then gave the order and two hundred and fifty-two men tried to let thirty-six enormous oars slip gently through their oarports and stop them at the right point. Most of them failed. The oars were run up and they tried again. And failed again. One oar went all the way because one bench let go. It stuck fast by its cross-piece, with the Padron of that bench cursing and beating. Suleiman watched impassively. At least his men were trying. He didn’t believe in too much beating; slaves would lose their fear of the whip. He tried to make sure all of them tasted it in the first few days so they knew it hurt, and then he kept it as a threat. Of course, if he ever did have occasions to beat someone properly they might well not survive so he did it rarely.
They had sorted out the stuck oar, they ran them up and tried again. And again. Hugo de Moncada was watching from the hatchway, not over-concerned at the chaos.
The oardeck was heating up already as the men worked on the ropes, up and down, up and down, some of them panting and slipping. The soldier was thoroughly cowed, doing his best. The two blacks worked without seeming to understand or care what they were doing. The tall one on the end was already crowing for breath, though they hadn’t done anything yet. So far, to Suleiman’s surprise, the clerk had managed to keep his hands clear of the oar as it thundered through the port and he had managed to cast the rope on and off and pull on it without getting knocked out.
They went through it twenty times before the Captain of the Oardeck let them keep the oars out. Many Padrons never went into their oarpit once the nets were rigged, but Suleiman slipped round the net and dropped to the deck, walked between two rows of chained men to the oarport.
‘Clerk,’ he said to the man, ‘you have an important job. You must clip on the ring.’ Suleiman pulled down the huge iron ring on its thick chain, opened it, passed it round the oar at the reinforced place and bolted it. The clerk watched short-sightedly. He undid it again. ‘Now you try.’ The clerk jumped to reach it, put it on, clamped it too loosely. Suleiman showed him again, and he tried again. Not so bad. He left the ring as it was, went to show the beautiful boy with the good arse the same thing. That took longer.
At last Suleiman picked his way back to the walkway and jumped up, knowing he was being stared at by the other Padrons who didn’t know him. So what if many Padrons didn’t care to go among their benches for fear of being killed by a slave who didn’t care how he died so long as the Padron did too. Suleiman felt that if a slave wanted to try it on with him, he was welcome to have a go. It was only fair. If Suleiman wasn’t the best fighter, he shouldn’t be the Padron.
The command came: ‘Rings on!’ Plenty of fumbling, swearing from Padrons shouting orders. Suleiman brushed his moustache. His benches were the only ones with their oars secured. The Señor of the Benches came along the walkway, making sure the rings were on properly, reported to the Captain of the Oardeck. Then came the order that still thrilled Suleiman after fifteen years of it.
‘Take Hold!’
Once more, he jumped down, showed his men how to put their hands round the rail bolted to the oar. The oar itself was far too thick for a man to hold. When you took hold, you did it for the duration, there could be no slipping or letting go or the oar might go wild with the waves and break the others. Discipline was essential. Here in the pool it might not be too serious and if they broke an oar or two they could refit, but later there would be no such leeway.
He told them about it. ‘Once you take hold, you hold until you hear the order Let Go,’ he said. ‘Any man who lets go without the order, I shall beat him. If he does it again, I shall personally bind his hands to the rail. Once you take hold, you never let go. Never.’
They all gulped in unison, looked at their hands on the rail, mostly pale and soft as uncooked sausages. Only the peasant seemed unworried.
Suleiman said, ‘Let go.’ Half of them didn’t. And he sighed. ‘Likewise,’ he told them, ‘if you fail to let go on the order, it may be that your hand will be ripped off. So let go.’ And they did.
He ordered them to take hold again, took hold himself at the top end where you needed the greatest skill and strength to control it, unhitched the rope from the ring at the end of the oar and put it on the hook on the beam beside him, and that was it, they had control of the enormous sweep.
‘Do you remember when I taught you to stand and sit?’ he asked them. Probably they had forgotten. ‘Now, when I give the command, you must stand and sit, and all the time you keep hold of your oar. Understand?’
Some of them nodded, others stared.
‘When I ask you if you understand, you say, “Yes, Padron!” Firmly, like that. So I know you are still alive and worth feeding.’
‘Yes, Padron,’ they chorused dolefully.
Suleiman could hear orders being shouted above, Hugo de Moncada was looking down the hatchway again. We are going for a small rowing voyage now, he thought, and this is when we lose the first ones. Very good. Let’s shake them out.
The Captain of the Oardeck gave the order: ‘Ready! Stroke!’
‘Stand!’ roared Suleiman. ‘Sit!’
As the oarsmen stood up the sweep dipped into the water. As they sat, it moved back through the air.
Chaos was instant as the forward oars heard the order later than the aftward oars and some stood and some sat. On the larboard side of the ship there was a crack as two oars slammed together and the sound of shrieking as somebody’s arm was broken. But you couldn’t stop, or rest.
‘Stand. Sit. Stand. Sit!’ roared Suleiman as he walked forward when they stood and backward as they sat. He had the least effort, but the most movement. The clerk down by the oarhole had the least movement and the most effort.
The soldier let go to look at a blister. Suleiman never paused in his movement and his roaring of orders, but he laid the lash across the broad shoulders so the blood came. The soldier took hold again.
In the calm waters of the Lisbon outer pool, with very little wind, the effort to move the high, clumsy galleas through the water was brutal. The men launched themselves off from the bench, pushing their weight against the oar, and then collapsed backwards onto the bench again. And again. And again.
Hugo de Moncada was looking through the hatchway again, measuring their speed through the water. The galleases had been sailed to Lisbon from Naples but they had had sea-trials with professional oarsmen, which had allowed adjustments to be made and the best way of stowing and controlling the oars discovered. Then they had been thoroughly cleaned and fitted out and galleries attached to extend the oardeck and allow space for two extra men per oar, hence the new wood in the gutters, which was already staining yellow with urine.
And again. And again. Each time Suleiman roared, ‘Stand!’ they all stood. Soon he knew the whole oardeck would take his stroke simply because he had the best ear for it. Each galley had its own natural rhythm, subtly different from the next because no two were alike, any more than men were alike. The galleas would be the same, but he hadn’t found the right rhythm yet. Eventually the slaves would be able to take their cue from the drummer, but that day was far off.
T
hey stood and they sat for an hour before the order came to raise oars while the sails were trimmed. Suleiman took a waterskin out from under the walkway and went down between the benches, pouring water soured with wine into the men’s gasping mouths. They were all heaving and crowing for breath, most of their legs were trembling, many had bruises and grazes on their arses and the backs of their legs, several had his lash marks on their shoulders and backs for letting go. The clerk’s breath rattled in his throat and he could hardly gulp the water down, and there was blood coming between his fingers where he gripped the rail.
Then they rowed for another hour with the temperature in the oardeck rising to a steambath heat. Eventually four slaves on other benches, whose Padrons did not bother to water them, had fallen between the benches, one juddering in the convulsions that usually marked a man killed by heatstroke. Two more oars broke as a result. At last they were given the order to raise oars again.
‘Make fast.’ Suleiman attached the hauling line to the ring on the end of the oar. ‘Rowers, let go!’
As he had expected, most of them couldn’t do it. Suleiman went back down into the oarpit with his wineskin over his shoulder again, poured water onto the back of hands, rubbed forearms, helped them to unpeel their fingers and then rinsed the hand rail of blood and bits of skin. He picked up the hauling line and gave it to them. One look at the clerk and the boy, who were both half-conscious, told him there was no point expecting them to unclamp the ring, so he did it himself and then ran lightly along the bench under the oar and vaulted up onto the walkway. They hauled the oars up to their rest position, some of them coughing and puking as they did it, and then Suleiman was about to vault down again to make the line fast when he found that the clerk had roused himself to wind the rope round the knightshead and coiled it as well. His junior, Gaston, did the job for the nice-looking boy who was crying again.
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