The Pirates of the Levant

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  kes!... Alautalah!'

  The janizaries were extraordinarily valiant. They came on board in waves, urging themselves in the name of God and the Great Turk to cut off the heads of these infidel dogs. And such was their scorn for death, one would have thought the houris of Mohammed's paradise were right at our backs. They clambered along the rams of their galleys, even running along the yards of their own ships or across the oars, which they leaned against the sides of our galley. Their battle cries and guttural shouts were terrifying, as was their appearance — brilliant caftans, shaven heads, tall hats and large moustaches — and their scimitars, which they wielded with deadly precision.

  God and King were nevertheless well served, for the Spanish infantry, in the face of the enemy's valour and scorn for death, still had a few cards up its sleeve. Each wave of Turks crashed into the wall of our harquebuses and muskets, which unleashed volley upon volley. It was remarkable how, in the midst of all that madness, our old soldiers remained as serene as ever, calmly firing, reloading and firing, occasionally asking pages and cabin boys to fetch them more ammunition. And us younger folk, lithe and more agile, attacked in good order, first with pikes and half-pikes and then, in close combat, with swords, daggers and axes. This combination of lead, steel and sheer courage more or less kept the enemy at bay, biting and nipping at them like a dog with fleas; and the fragile redoubt of the Caridad Negra and the Mulata continued to spit fire at the five Turkish galleys surrounding them. Some drew nearer while others retreated so that their crew could rest, attack with more artillery fire and then try to board again, and after a long period of intense fighting, it became clear to the enemy that victory was going to cost a great deal of their blood and ours.

  'Forward for Spain and Santiago! Attack! Attack!'

  The show, as they say, had only just begun, and we were already hoarse with shouting and sick of the smell of smoke and blood. Others, less constrained, hurled insults at the Turks in whatever language came most naturally — Castilian, Basque, Greek, Turkish or Frankish — calling them dogs and sons of whores, and bardag, which, in Arabic, means 'sodomite', not forgetting the pig that impregnated some Muslim mother and other such pleasantries. The Ottomans responded with imaginative variants in their own tongue — the Mediterranean has always been particularly fertile in insults — on the debatable virginity of Our Lady or the dubious manhood of Jesus Christ, as well as acerbic comments on the chastity of the mothers who bore us. It was, in short, all very much in accord with the place and the situation.

  Bravado apart, we all knew that for the Turks it was merely a question of patience and keeping up the attack. They had at least three times as many men and could cope with any losses, withdrawing now and then to rest and regroup without ever giving us a moment's respite. Moreover, whenever we managed to fight off one of the enemy galleys, it would take advantage of the greater distance to fire on us to devastating effect. As well as the cannon-ball itself, there were the splinters and fragments that flew in all directions, demolishing the pavisades that were our only protection.

  Bodies were blown to pieces, and there were guts, blood and debris everywhere. In the water, between the ships, floated dozens of corpses, either men who had fallen in while boarding or dead men who had been thrown in to clear the decks. Many galley-slaves — ours and theirs — had been killed or wounded. Still in their chains, unable to seek protection, they clung together among the benches and beneath their broken oars, shrieking in terror at the furious attacks from both sides and begging for mercy.

  AlautalahJ Alautalah!'

  We must have been fighting for at least two long hours when one of the Turkish galleys, in a skilful manoeuvre, managed to position its ram right by the prow of the Mulata, and another great horde of janizaries and Turkish soldiers poured on board, determined to overwhelm us.

  Our men fought like tigers, defending every inch of deck with remarkable courage, but the Turks were stronger than we were, and gradually we had to relinquish control over the benches and the fighting platforms at that end of the ship. I knew that Captain Alatriste and Sebastian Copons were there somewhere, but in the smoke and confusion I couldn't see them. An order came to cover the breach, and as many of us as were able rushed to do just that, filling the gangway and the corridors on both sides. I was among the first, for I was not prepared to stand by while they made mincemeat of Captain Alatriste.

  We closed on the Turks just beyond the mainmast, the yard of which lay on the deck. I jumped over it as best I could, shield and sword before me, trampling over the wretched oarsmen who were crouched between the benches and the shattered oars. One, in his agony, even grabbed my leg. He looked like a Turk, so I dealt him a blow with my sword that almost severed his manacled hand. In situations of such pressing danger, reason has no place.

  'Forward for Spain and Santiago! Attack!'

  Finally, we fell upon the enemy, and again I was among the first, caring little for my own safety, so caught up was I in the fury of the fighting. A swarthy Turk came at me, as hairy as a wild boar. He was wearing a leather helmet, shield and sword. Before he even had time to make a move, I closed on him, shield to shield, and grabbing him round the neck — my fingers slipping on his sweat-slick skin — I managed to unbalance him and deal him a couple of thrusts with my sword before we both fell to the deck. I tried to get his sword from him, but it was tied to his wrist. Then he grabbed the edge of my helmet, intending to push my head back so that he could slit my throat, meanwhile uttering the most fearful of screams. Silently I felt behind me, took out my dagger and stuck it in him two or three times, inflicting only minor wounds, which seemed to hurt him nonetheless, because his screams took on another quality. He stopped screaming altogether when a hand pulled back his head and a curved dagger sliced open his throat. I scrambled to my feet, feeling bruised and wiping the blood from my eyes, but before I could thank him the Moor Gurriato was already furiously stabbing another Turk. And so I put away my dagger, picked up my sword and my shield and returned to the fight.

  'Sentabajocanef

  yelled the Turks, as they attacked. Alautalah! Alautalah/'

  That was when I saw Sergeant Quemado die. In the ebb and flow of combat, I had ended up at his side. He was gathering a group of men to attack the janizaries on the fighting platforms. We leapt onto the galley benches — there was scarcely an oarsman left alive — and fought our way along the corridors, gradually retaking what they had taken from us, until we reached our trinquet mast and the ram of their galley. It was then that Sergeant Quemado, who had been urging on any laggards, was hit by an arrow that pierced his cheeks from side to side. While he struggled to remove it, he was killed stone-dead by a shot from a harquebus. This caused some of our men to hesitate, and we nearly lost what we had gained, but then we raised our faces to heaven — although not to pray exactly — and attacked like wild beasts, determined to avenge Quemado or to die there on the ram of that Turkish galley.

  What happened subsequently beggars description, and I will not say here what I did — only God and I know that. Suffice it to say that we regained the prow of the Mulata, and that when the battered Turkish galley turned and retreated, not one of the Turks who had boarded our ship went with it.

  And so we spent the rest of the day, as stubborn as any Aragonese, withstanding volleys of artillery and repelling successive boarding parties from not just five galleys now, but seven. The three-lanterned flagship and the other Turkish galley had joined the fight in the afternoon, bearing the heads of Brother Fulco Muntaner and his Knights impaled on their yard-arms. And by way of a trophy, for it would bring them little in the way of booty, the Turks were also towing the shattered Cruz de Rodas, which was now as flat as a pontoon. It had been no small feat to take it either, for the Knights had fought so ferociously that, as we learned later, not one was taken alive. Luckily for us, neither the Ottoman flagship nor its escort was in any state to fight again that day, merely approaching now and then to relieve the others or to fire on us
from a distance. The third Turkish galley, badly damaged

  in the battle, had sunk without trace.

  *****

  By late that evening, both the Ottomans and we Spaniards were utterly exhausted, but while we were comforted that we had been able to resist so great a number, they were enraged because they had been unable to break our spirit. The sky was still stormy and the sea still the colour of lead, which only accentuated the grim nature of the scene. As the light faded, a slight westerly breeze got up; but being a shoreward wind, it was of no use to us. Not that even a favourable wind would have changed the situation, for our ships were in a terrible state. The rigging was peppered with bullets, the yards had been toppled and the sails reduced to tatters; the Caridad Negra had lost its mainmast, which floated beside us along with corpses, ropes, planks and broken oars. The cries of the wounded and the stertorous breathing of the dying rose like a monotonous chorus from the two galleys, which remained tied to each other. The Turks had retreated a little towards land, until they were about a cannon-shot away; there they threw their dead overboard and repaired rigging and other damage, while their captains met in council. We Spaniards could do nothing but lick our wounds and wait.

  We were a pathetic sight, lying, along with the galley- slaves, among the broken benches or in the gangway, in the corridors or on the fighting platforms, exhausted, broken or badly wounded. We were smeared with soot from the gunpowder, arid our hair, clothes and weapons were caked with blood. To give us some cheer, Captain Urdemalas ordered what little remained of the arrack to be shared out, while to eat — the oven had been destroyed and the cook was dead — there was dried shark's meat, a little oil and some hard-tack. The same was done on the other galley, and men even came and went between the two ships, talking over the events of the day and enquiring about such and such a comrade, mourning those who had died and celebrating the living. This did cheer people a little, and some even began to think that the Turks would go away or that we could repel further attacks — there were sure to be more the following day, if the Turks didn't try to board us during the night. But we had seen that they, too, were in a bad way, and that gave us hope, for in a desperate plight, the doomed man clings to any illusion.

  The fact is that our gallant defence had emboldened the most hopeful among us, and some even thought of a funny trick to play on the Turks. Two live chickens were kept in cages in the storeroom; their meat and eggs — although they did not lay much while on board — were used to prepare stews and broths for the sick. The jokers made a raft with a little sail on it, and after tying the two creatures onto it, they took advantage of the gentle breeze to send the creatures off towards the enemy galleys, amid much laughter and shouts of defiance. We all laughed, too, especially when the Turks, although stung by the insult, picked up the birds and took them on board. This raised our spirits, which was something we certainly needed, and some men even began to sing, loud enough that our enemies could hear, the old shanty that the sailors used when they hauled the yard. In the end, the men formed a large chorus of voices, broken but not beaten, as they stood facing the Turks:

  Heave ho, the pagans, Heave ho, the saracens, Heave ho, Turks and Moors, They all bow down to Abram's sons.

  Soon we were all leaning over the sides, shouting at the top of our voices and telling the dogs to come closer, that we'd be delighted to have a couple more boarding parties to finish off before we went to bed, and that if they weren't man enough to do that, then they should go back to Constantinople to fetch their brothers and their fathers (if they knew them), and their whorish mothers and sisters, on whom, of course, we would bestow some very special treatment. Even the wounded, swathed in bloody bandages, raised themselves up on their elbows and joined us, howling out all the rage and fear we carried within us, and finding comfort in that boasting — so much so that not even Don Agustin Pimentel or the captains made any attempt to stop us. On the contrary, they urged us on and even joined in, aware that, condemned to death as we were, we needed something that would encourage us to put a still higher price on our heads. If the Turks wanted to hang them on their yard-arms too, they would first have to come and cut them off.

  In a further act of defiance, our commanders ordered the lanterns on the poop rail to be lit, so that the Turks would know where to find us. We reinforced the ropes keeping the two galleys together and let go the anchors — we were in shallow water — so that no unforeseen wind would carry us towards the enemy. The men were also allowed to rest, albeit with their weapons at the ready and taking turns on watch, just in case the enemy should decide to attack in the dark. But the night passed calmly and without wind, the sky clearing slightly to reveal a few stars.

  I was relieved from my watch just as I was about to fall asleep through sheer exhaustion. Feeling my way past the men lying on the deck — both galleys were filled with a chorus of moans worthy of a troupe of French beggars — I reached the embrasure where, in a kind of bastion made of torn blankets and remnants of rigging and sailcloth, Captain Alatriste, the Moor Gurriato and Sebastian Copons had taken shelter. The last was snoring loudly, as if he were putting his heart and soul into it. They, like me, had been lucky enough to escape unscathed from that terrible day, apart from the Moor Gurriato, who had suffered a slight scimitar wound to one side, which Captain Alatriste had bathed with wine and then sewn up — an old soldier's skill — with a thick needle and thread, leaving one stitch loose so that any bad humours could drain out.

  I lay down without saying a word, too tired even to open my mouth, but I couldn't sleep, my body ached so. That encounter with the hairy Turk and with all the others who came after him had left me stiff in every limb. I was thinking — and I knew I was not the only one — about what the next day would bring. I couldn't imagine myself at the oars of a Turkish galley or in a prison on the shores of the Black Sea, and so, since victory on our part seemed improbable, my future looked set to be distinctly brief. I wondered what my head would look like hung from a yard-arm, and what Angelica de Alquezar would think if, possessed of some mysterious clairvoyant powers, she were to see it. You might imagine that such thoughts would have plunged me into despair, and there was something of that, but the horse does not think the same thoughts as its rider. Viewed from the warmth of a good fire and a well-stocked table, things look very different than when viewed from a trench or from the fragile deck of a galley, where placing life and liberty at risk is one's daily bread. We were certainly desperate, but we were like young bulls bred only to fight, so that lack of hope seemed natural. As Spaniards, our familiarity with death allowed us to stand and wait patiently for it; we had no alternative. Unlike other nations, we judged each other according to how we bore ourselves in the face of danger. That is why our character was such a curious blend of cruelty, honour and reputation. As Jorge Manrique said, centuries of fighting

  Islam had made us free men, proud and certain of our rights and privileges.

  They're earned by monks and pious nuns

  Through prayers and supplications;

  By valorous knights through waging wars

  'gainst Spain's old enemies ~ the Moors.

  And that is why, accustomed as we were to the vicissitudes of fortune, with Christ's name on our lips and our soul on a knife-edge, we accepted our fate on that sad day — if indeed it was to be our final day — as we had on so many similar days. We did so with the resignation of the peasant watching the hail flatten his crops, of the fisherman finding his nets empty, of the mother certain that her child will be born dead or will be carried off by a fever before it has even left the cradle. Only the pampered and the comfortable and the cowardly, who live with their backs turned to the realities of life, rebel against the inevitable price that sooner or later we all have to pay.

  There was the sound of a harquebus shot and we all sat up, uneasy. Even the wounded stopped moaning. Then there was silence, and we relaxed.

  'False alarm,' Copons muttered.

  'Fate,' said the Moor Gurri
ato stoically.

  I lay down again next to the Captain, with nothing to cover me but my steel breastplate and my tattered doublet. The night dew was already soaking us and the planks we were lying on. I felt cold and moved closer to the Captain in search of warmth. After the rigours of the day, he smelled, as ever, of leather and metal and sweat. I knew he would not mistake my shivering for fear. I sensed that he was awake, although he did not stir for a long time. Then, very carefully, he removed the scrap of torn sail from his own body and placed it over me. I was no longer a child, as I had been in Flanders, and that gesture did not so much warm my body as my heart.

  At dawn, we shared more wine and hard-tack, and while we were eating that sparse breakfast, the order came to unchain any of the slaves who were prepared to fight. We looked at each other; we knew we must be in very bad straits if we had to resort to such extremes. Turks, Moors and natives of enemy countries, such as the English and the Dutch, were excluded, but for the others this offered a chance, if they fought well and survived, of having their sentence or part of it redeemed on the recommendation of our General. It was not a bad opportunity for the slaves from Spain and from other Catholic nations, for if they stayed at the oars, they were doomed to go down with the ship if it sank — no one would bother to unchain them in the event of shipwreck — or else remain as slaves, but rowing for the Turks, which they could avoid only if they renounced their religion. (In Spain, a slave baptised a Christian always remained a slave.) Some did choose that route to freedom, especially younger men, for reasons that are easy to understand. This, however, happened less often than you might think, for even among galley-slaves, religion is a serious, deep-rooted matter, and despite the misery of captivity, most Spaniards taken by the Berbers or the Turks remained true to the one faith, so that the words of Cervantes — a captive who never renounced his faith — would not be applied to them: