Sword and Scimitar

by Simon Scarrow

  Meanwhile not a man on the Christian galley spoke a word and the only sounds were the beating of the drum, the rush of the water along the sleek lines of the hull and the muffled grunts of the men straining at the oars. Thomas looked back along the deck to the stem and could just make out his captain’s expression in the thin pre-dawn loom. La Valette was standing quite still, his left hand resting on his sword hilt, his features, framed by a closely clipped beard, fixed and unyielding. It was his custom to lead his men into battle in silence, knowing that it would unsettle the enemy. Only at the last moment would they let out a deafening roar as they fell upon their foe.

  A sharp crack sounded close by and Thomas flinched as several splinters exploded from the side rail. A puff of smoke from the nearest corsair galley showed where an arquebusier had fired at them a moment earlier. He had already lowered the butt of his long-barrelled weapon to the deck and was reloading. Thomas glanced to each side to see if anyone had noticed his flinching but the men around him were staring ahead and Stokely’s lips moved as he prayed under his breath. His gaze flickered towards Thomas and he stilled his tongue and averted his eyes when he saw Thomas looking at him.

  There were more puffs of smoke and the lead balls zipped overhead before another shot struck the galley on the bow. Thomas forced himself to stand still as he watched several more shots fired from the nearest enemy vessel, each one a lurid red bloom in a swirl of smoke that died away in a moment.

  ‘Crossbows!’ La Valette called out. ‘Make ready!’

  The soldiers of the Order still used the outdated weapon. It lacked the range and power of the Turks’ firearm but it was less cumbersome and could cause terrible injuries when it was aimed true. A small party of men moved forward and took up position along each bow rail. Using the small windlass on the butt they wound back the bowstring and carefully placed a bolt in the channel running along the top of the weapon.

  ‘Shoot at will!’ The order carried clearly from the stem of the galley. The loud cracks of the enemy’s arquebuses were answered by the dull whack of the released bowstrings and the bolts leaped across the water in a shallow arc before disappearing amid the men crowding the deck of the corsair vessel.

  There were now no more than a hundred paces between the two galleys, Thomas estimated. Scores of turbaned men lined the side rail, shouting their challenges at the Christians as they brandished their scimitars and pikes. Below the side rail the first oars were being run out as the crew frantically struggled to get their vessel under way. Thomas braced himself for the imminent order to fire the galley’s cannon, and he saw one of the gun captains glance over his shoulder. ‘Come on, come on,’ the man growled.

  La Valette waited a moment longer then cupped his hands to his mouth and bellowed, ‘Open fire!’

  CHAPTER TWO

  At once the gun captains touched the glowing ends of their slow matches to the paper cones filled with gunpowder that protruded from the vents. There was a crackling hiss as the powder flared and then an ear-splitting roar and thump as a jet of fire and flame leaped from the muzzle of each cannon. The violent recoil caused the deck to lurch beneath Thomas’s feet and he staggered forward a step before he recovered his balance. Each weapon had been carefully loaded with a mixture of large iron nails, linked chains and cast lead shot, captured from an enemy ship months earlier. There was a savage satisfaction in seeing the enemy’s ammunition used against them, Thomas mused. The deadly cone of metal fragments blasted into the side of the corsair vessel. Splinters spat in all directions as the side rail was chewed up in two places. Behind, the turbaned warriors were swept away like children’s dolls and left in tangled heaps on the deck.

  ‘For God and St John!’ La Valette bellowed and his men echoed his cry with a great roar that tore at their throats, their mouths agape and their eyes wide with crazed excitement. ‘For God and St John!’ they shouted again and again as the galley surged forward, directly towards the side of the enemy vessel.

  ‘Brace yourselves!’ La Valette shouted, his booming voice just audible above the cheering of his men. Thomas stilled his tongue and gritted his teeth as he lowered himself into a crouch, grabbed the side rail with one hand and spread his feet wide. The others around him, those with the wit to understand what was to come, followed his example and waited for the impact. The deck seemed to leap beneath him and the soldier standing behind Thomas slammed into his shoulder before pitching on to the deck, along with several others. The foremast groaned in protest and there was a loud crack as one of the shrouds parted. Below deck there was a muffled chorus of cries as the terrified rowers were hurled from their benches and brought up painfully by their chains. The bow of the Swift Hind had been heavily reinforced to withstand the impact of a ramming attack and now rode up with a terrible grinding and splintering as the corsair galley tilted under the impact. There were cries of terror as scores of the enemy tumbled down the sloping deck and fell against the side. Several continued over the rail and splashed into the sea.

  ‘Jesu!’ Stokely muttered as he clambered back on to his feet close by Thomas.

  The Swift Hind had stopped dead in the water and there was a brief moment of stillness as the stunned crews on both vessels recovered their wits. Then La Valette’s voice cut through the chill dawn air.

  ‘Grappling hooks! Aim for the far side and cleat home!’

  ‘Come on.’ Thomas lowered his pike to the deck and beckoned to Stokely to follow him as he raced forward and snatched up one of the heavy iron hooks lying on a coil of rope. Letting out a short length he swung the hook up and then swirled it overhead before releasing his grip. The hook arced across the enemy deck and disappeared over the far side. At once Thomas snatched up the rope and pulled in the slack. As he bent down to fasten the rope round a cleat, more hooks flew across the enemy vessel and lodged in the woodwork.

  ‘Back oars!’ ordered La Valette. ‘Quickly now. Pace master, use your whip!’

  The rowers struggled back on to their narrow benches and grasped the shafts of their oars, worn smooth over the years by those who had gone before them. The order for the first stroke was given before every rower was ready and the blades splashed down clumsily on either side. Having fastened their ropes, Thomas and Oliver returned to their position at the head of the band of armed men on the main deck. For a moment the Swift Hind did not move and her bows continued to press down on the side of the enemy vessel. Then with a gentle lurch she began to ease back, and the ropes attached to the grappling hooks snapped taut across the enemy deck.

  There was a cry of alarm from the stern as the corsair captain realised the danger. Some of his men began to slash at the ropes stretching overhead, but because of the canted deck only the handful who struggled up to the far side could hack into the ropes.

  But it was already too late. The Swift Hind began to draw clear, dragging the far beam of the corsair vessel after them. The near side dipped beneath the water and then, with a graceful flow of movement, the galley capsized, pitching the crew and unsecured equipment across the deck and into the sea. Thomas caught a quick glance of the terrified expressions of the rowers through the deck gratings, still chained to their benches. Then they were gone, rolled under the surface of the sea, and the barnacled hull of the galley glistened on the disturbed waters of the bay. The grappling hooks were cut loose and the ropes slapped into the sea. Around the hulk, dozens of men thrashed as they tried to stay afloat. Those who could swim were making for the safety of the beach, a short distance away. Others clung to whatever floating debris they could find, or tried to find purchase on the hull,

  A cheer rose up from the men on the Christian galley but Thomas could not find the heart to join in. He could not free himself of the spectacle of the faces of the rowers as the enemy ship had turned over. Most of those men were Christians like himself, taken prisoner and condemned to the galleys, only to die, dreadfully, at the hands of men of their own faith. Even now, Thomas could imagine them trapped under the water, thrashing about in
the cold and darkness, held down by their chains until they drowned. He felt sick at the thought.

  A hand slapped him on the shoulder. He glanced round to see Stokely beaming at him, until he caught sight of Thomas’s stricken features, and frowned.

  ‘Thomas, what is it?’

  He tried to answer but there were no words to describe the horror that chilled his heart. He tried to thrust the feeling aside and shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Then join in.’ Stokely gestured at the other men on the deck as they cheered wildly.

  Thomas looked over at them briefly and then turned towards the remaining enemy galley, less than a quarter of a mile away. The corsairs had cut their anchor cable and turned the vessel so that it was now pointing directly at the Swift Hind. Thomas nodded his head towards the enemy. ‘There’ll be no chance of surprising them in the same way.’

  Movement caught Thomas’s eye and he turned to see the crew of the galleon swiftly climbing the ratlines and spreading out along the spars as they prepared to unfurl the sails. They would be under way shortly but there was no more than the lightest of breezes and they would be lucky to clear the bay before the duel between the two galleys was decided. Time enough to deal with them later, Thomas decided as he returned his attention to the corsair galley.

  Once the Swift Hind was clear of its first victim, La Valette gave the order to move ahead and the rowers strained at the oars to get the galley moving. Slowly, then with increasing speed, the slender vessel swept forward. There was a brief cry of terror as one of the corsairs in the water saw that he was in line with the oars but then a great blade smashed down on his skull and drove him under the water and abruptly cut off his scream.

  On the foredeck the gun crews hurriedly sponged out the barrels of the two cannon and began to load the next charge, ramming down the stitched bag that carried the powder charge, and then packing in the second bag carrying the assorted pieces of iron shot that were so deadly at close range. On either side of the main deck the crossbowmen were working their winding mechanisms and preparing their next bolts. Thomas could see the turbans of men above the bows of the approaching corsair galley as they readied their arquebuses. Below them, protruding from gun ports either side of the prow, were the barrels of two cannon, the dark spots at the end of the muzzles looking like two black eyes, staring remorselessly at their prey.

  ‘This is going to be a bloody business,’ one of the men behind Thomas muttered.

  ‘Aye,’ one of his comrades answered. ‘The Lord have mercy on us.’

  Stokely turned on them angrily. ‘Quiet there! The Lord is on our side. Our cause is just. It is the faithless heathen who should be begging for mercy.’

  The men fell silent under the knight’s fierce gaze and he turned away and raised himself to his full height as he stared towards the enemy. Thomas edged closer to him and spoke under his breath. ‘I’ve not yet discovered a prayer that is proof against the bullet of an enemy or the shot from his cannon. I’d bear that in mind when they open fire.’

  ‘That is profanity.’

  ‘No, it is bitter experience. Save your prayers and set your mind to the matter of killing, or being killed.’

  Stokely made to reply; then he clamped his jaw shut and pressed his lips together as he looked towards the corsair galley, surging across the calm water towards them. The eastern horizon was ablaze with the liquid glare of the sun just beyond the black mass of the far headland. A moment later the details of the corsairs were thrown into sharp outline as the first rays of sunlight lanced across the sea, causing Thomas and the others to narrow their eyes. The enemy were close enough for the sound of their cheers and the clatter of their blades against the sides of their round shields to carry clearly across the sea. The gap between the two galleys closed swiftly and now Thomas heard the first crackle of shots as the more excitable of the arquebusiers shot at the Christian vessel. Even though the range was long, still over two hundred paces, one of the gunners was struck in the head and his skull exploded as he tumbled back, showering his companions in droplets of blood, brains and bone splinters.

  ‘Why doesn’t La Valette give the order to shoot back?’ asked Stokely.

  ‘The captain knows what he’s doing.’

  Another shot struck home, striking one of the soldiers in the stomach with a high-pitched clang as it pierced his breastplate and burst through the padding of his gambison. He dropped his pike as lie collapsed on the deck and rolled on to his side, groaning in agony.

  ‘Get him below!’ Thomas ordered and one of the soldiers set down his weapon and dragged the man over to the hatch just behind the foredeck and down the steps into the small hold where the galley’s food and water was stored. There he would lie until his wound could be seen to after the fight. If the corsairs won the day then that is where he would drown or be killed as the ship was looted.

  By the time the soldier returned to his post, the distance between the ships had halved and still the cannon had not fired, even as musket balls whirred overhead or cracked into the timbers of the Swift Hind. Thomas saw the nearest gun captain raise his slow match towards the powder quoin and he shouted to the man.

  ‘Wait for the order!’

  The gun captain looked round with a fearful expression, just as a brilliant flash came from the bows of the other galley. An instant later another. Then the air around Thomas was filled with a cacophony of cracking, clattering and the sharp ring of metal striking metal. Several of the crossbowmen at the bows were swept away, together with most of the crew of the larboard gun. Thomas was jerked round as something glanced off his breastplate and he staggered to the side to regain his balance. There was a brief hush across the deck before the cries and screams of the wounded broke out. Thomas glanced over his body but there was no sign of any wound. He looked up and saw Stokely clutching a hand to his cheek. Blood welled up beneath his gauntlet and dripped on to the polished steel of his gorget.

  ‘I’m wounded . . .’ he said in a shocked tone. ‘Wounded.’

  Thomas pulled his hand away and saw that a chunk of his cheek had been tom away. ‘It’s a flesh wound. You’ll live.’

  He turned to look over the deck and saw that perhaps a dozen men had been downed. Just then the surviving gun captain touched his slow match to the quoin of his weapon and there was a savage flash, a billowing cloud of smoke and a concussive thud that passed through the timbers of the galley and the bodies of those aboard her. Thomas saw the match in the lifeless hand of the dead gun captain and ran on to the foredeck to snatch it up. Crouching down beside the barrel he waited a moment until the smoke had cleared enough for him to see the corsair vessel looming directly ahead. There was just time to spring back and touch the glowing slow match to the powder, and the gun bucked violently as it discharged its weight of iron into the faces of the enemy.

  ‘Ship oars! Helm hard to port!’ La Valette’s voice cried from the stem.

  The rowers instantly pressed down on their handles to raise the blades clear of the water and then began to haul them in as the rudder bit into the water and forced the bows round to pass down the side of the corsair vessel. A moment later there was a jarring collision and a long rumbling groan as the two hulls ground along each other. Some of the oars from each vessel had still not been withdrawn through the sides and there was a series of sharp splintering reports as the long lengths of wood shattered.

  Before the Swift Hind had stopped moving La Valette had rushed down from the quarterdeck, sword in hand, and raced to join the party of armed men led by Thomas and the other knights. The captain glanced round to check that his men were ready and then pointed his sword over the bulwark towards the enemy. ‘For God and St John!’

  CHAPTER THREE

  La Valette clambered up on to the side rail and leaped over the narrow gap between the hulls and on to the enemy deck. Some of the crew had already begun to lob grappling hooks over the small gap and draw the two galleys together.

  Thomas sucked in a deep breath,
grasped his pike tightly in one hand and echoed his captain’s cry. ‘For God and St John!’

  Then he, too, climbed on to the rail and jumped after La Valette. The veteran knight had already made his way into the middle of the corsair’s deck, swinging the long blade of his sword before him in a vicious arc to drive the enemy back and clear a space for the men following him- A handful of shots sounded from either side as the arquebusiers discharged their weapons and then cast them aside before drawing their scimitars and charging into the fight. Thomas thudded down on to the deck and looked quickly from side to side, then turned towards the nearest threat, a large turbaned man with skin as dark as coal. His eyes glittered above a thick beard. He carried a heavy scimitar in one hand and a brass buckler in the other. He charged across the deck towards Thomas, swinging his blade to knock aside the steel point of Thomas’s pike. Thomas let the point drop and cut under the corsair’s blade before he thrust at the robes covering his opponent’s chest.

  Instinctively the corsair smashed his buckler against the shaft of the pike, knocking it aside so that it missed its target and ripped through the folds of his robe instead. Thomas snatched the pike back and presented it to his enemy again, feinting to keep the man at bay. On the periphery of his vision he was aware of La Valette’s sword cutting down into a skull in a welter of blood. On the other side, Stokely was leading a small party of men in a charge along the bulwark. A small gap had opened up between