The Pirates of the Levant

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  Perhaps they are simply cruelly bored

  By the harshness of a captive's life,

  And so, in the jaws of that bitter vice,

  they embrace Mohammed's faith as lord: A way that's easy, a way that's broad

  And so it was that we unshackled as many Spanish, Italian and Portuguese slaves as offered their services, and they were duly issued with spears and half-pikes. The two galleys, which had lost a third of their soldiers and sailors, thus found themselves with sixty or seventy new recruits who were determined to die fighting rather than be drowned or cut to pieces in the fury of battle. Among them was a rower at the stern called Joaquin Ronquillo, a gipsy and jewel of Malaga's ruffianry, as well as an acquaintance of ours; he was a very dangerous man and much feared on board, so much so that for some time we had kept our savings under his bench, where they were safer than in the house of a Genoese banker.

  This Ronquillo fellow — shaven head, black doublet edged in red, a treacherous gleam in his eye — joined our group, bringing with him a small band of like-minded men, who looked about as honest as he did. Shortly afterwards, we were given orders by Ensign Labajos, who appointed Captain Alatriste as our commander — he and Labajos were the only officers of any rank left among the soldiers on the Mulata — to form a fighting squad to provide reinforcements wherever the Turks proved most of a threat, especially the area around the skiff and the ladders on either side of the stern, which would give the enemy access to the corridors leading to the fighting platforms. We were all urged to defend the galley plank by plank; Father Nistal blessed us again from the deck of the Caridad Negra-, and we and Machin de Gorostiola's Basques — to whom we were still bound for good or ill — wished each other luck.

  Just as we took up our positions, with the sun barely risen in a clear sky over the dead-calm sea, the seven Turkish galleys, with shouts and the noise of cymbals, flutes and trumpets, began to row towards us.

  Ensign Labajos had died in the midst of the battle, overwhelmed by Turks, as he repelled yet another boarding party at the stern of the Mulata; Captain Urdemalas had also been wounded. Diego Alatriste was leaning against the awning supports, washing blood from his face and hands with sea water, which made the scratches and surface wounds sting. His whole body hurt. He was watching the men throw overboard any dead bodies that cluttered the deck, which was a chaos of broken planks and shattered rigging. The fighting had lasted four hours, and by the time the Turks had withdrawn to recover and to disentangle and replace the broken oars on their galleys, both masts on the Mulata had been brought down, the yards and torn sails lying either in the water or on top of the Caridad Negra, whose trinquet mast had been lost and its mainmast cut in two. Both galleys were still tied together and afloat, although the losses on both ships had been appalling. On the Mulata the galleymaster and his assistant were dead, and the German gunner had been killed when a cannon he was firing exploded, killing him and his helpers. As for Captain Urdemalas, Alatriste had just left him, or what remained of him, lying face down on the floor of his cabin at the stern, where the barber and the pilot were using their fingers to scoop out gobbets of blood from the huge gash — from kidney to kidney — inflicted by a Turkish scimitar.

  'You're in command,' Urdemalas had managed to say between groans, cursing the man who had wounded him.

  In command. There was a grim irony to those words, thought Alatriste as he surveyed the bloody, splintered mess that had once been the Mulata. All the storage compartments, including the one set aside for gunpowder, were full of wounded men, body piled on body, begging for a sip of water or something to cover their wounds. But neither water nor bandages were to be had. Above, in what had been the rowing chamber, and which was now a confusion of blood and debris, lay galley-slaves alive and dead, the survivors moaning amid what remained of their benches and the shattered fragments of mast, rigging and oars. And in the corridors and on the fighting platforms, beneath a searing sun that made the steel of breastplates and weapons burn, the remaining soldiers, sailors and freed slaves were tending their wounds or those of their comrades, handing round whetstones to repair the battered blades of swords and knives, and gathering together what they could find of gunpowder and bullets for the few muskets and harquebuses that still worked.

  To drive all of this from his head for a few moments, Alatriste sat down with his back against the side of the ship, unfastened his buff coat and, with a mechanical gesture, took out his copy of Don Francisco de Quevedo's book, Dreams. He used to leaf through it in quiet moments, but now, however hard he tried, he couldn't read a single line; the words danced in front of his eyes, his ears still ringing with the recent sounds of battle.

  'You've been called to a meeting on the flagship, sir.'

  Alatriste looked at the young page delivering the order, not understanding at first. Then, reluctantly, he put the book back in his pocket and slowly got to his feet. He walked down the starboard corridor and, putting one leg over the side and then the other, he grabbed hold of a loose rope to swing himself across to the Caridad Negra. As he did so, he glanced over at the Ottoman galleys. They had retreated the same distance as on the previous night, while they prepared for their next assault. One of the vessels, badly damaged during the last attack, was sitting dangerously low in the water, almost sinking, and there was a lot of coming and going on deck. The flagship with the three lanterns had lost its trinquet mast. The Turks were also paying a high price.

  The situation on board the Caridad Negra was not much better than on the Mulata. The galley-slaves had suffered terrible losses, and Captain Machin de Gorostiola's Basques, their eyes vacant and their faces black with gunpowder, were taking advantage of the breathing-space to rest and recover as best they could. No one broke the grim silence or looked up as Alatriste walked past on his way to the General's cabin, the floor of which was covered with trampled pieces of paper and dirty clothes.

  Standing round a table, with a pitcher of wine that was being passed from man to man, were Don Agustin Pimentel, with a wound to his head and his arm in a sling; Captain Machin de Gorostiola; the Caridad Negro's galleymaster, and a corporal named Zenarruzabeitia. The pilot Gorgos and Father Francisco Nistal had both died during the last assault. Gorgos had been slit open and the chaplain had been felled by a musket shot as he was walking up and down the gangway, oblivious to everything, brandishing crucifix and sword and promising eternal glory for all — a glory he would now be enjoying himself.

  'How's Captain Urdemalas?' Pimentel asked.

  Alatriste shrugged. He was no surgeon, but the fact that he was there alone made it clear that no one of higher rank on board the Mulata was still standing.

  'The General thinks we should surrender,' Machin de Gorostiola said bluntly. Many thought he adopted this manner deliberately, to be like his men, who adored him.

  Alatriste looked at Gorostiola rather than at Don Agustin Pimentel. He was a short man with a black beard, very white skin, a large nose, bushy eyebrows that met in the middle, and the rough hands of a soldier. He was a sturdy Basque, a peasant with little education but a great deal of courage; the very opposite of the elegant General who, pale from loss of blood, grew still paler when he heard the Basque's words.

  'It's not that simple,' he protested.

  This time, Alatriste did turn to look at the General. He suddenly felt tired, very tired.

  'Simple or not,' said Gorostiola in a neutral tone, 'after the way we've fought, would it be honourable now to strike the flag?'

  'Honourable ...' repeated Alatriste.

  'Or whatever word you want to choose.'

  'In the eyes of the Turks.'

  'Yes.'

  Alatriste shrugged. It wasn't his business to gauge whether or not it would be honourable to surrender after the sacrifice of so many lives. Gorostiola was observing him with great interest. They had never been friends, but they knew and respected one another. Then Alatriste looked at the galleymaster and at the corporal. Their faces were set hard; in fact
, they looked somewhat embarrassed.

  'Are your men on the Mulata going to surrender?' Gorostiola asked, handing him the pitcher of wine.

  Alatriste drank — he had the devil of a thirst on him — then wiped his moustache with his hand.

  'I imagine they would agree to anything, whether it be surrendering or fighting on. They're beyond reason now.'

  'They've already done more than could be expected of them,' said Pimentel.

  Alatriste put the pitcher on the table and looked hard at the General. He had never seen the man from such close quarters. He reminded Alatriste slightly of the Count of

  Guadalmedina, the same style: the fine figure beneath the splendid Milan steel breastplate, the trim moustache and goatee beard, the white hands, the gold chain around the neck, the sword with a ruby in the hilt. The General came from the same aristocratic caste, although this highly inelegant situation had tempered his arrogance — it's always best to talk to noblemen, Alatriste thought, when they've just been punched in the face. Nevertheless, the General retained his noble appearance, despite his pallor, the bandages, and the blood staining his clothes. Yes, he definitely reminded him of Guadalmedina, except that Alvaro de la Marca would never have considered surrendering to the Turks. Then again, the General had held up fairly well, far better than would many others of his class and character. But courage can be dented too, Alatriste knew this from experience, especially in a man who has been wounded and who bears a heavy burden of responsibility. The Captain decided that he was in no position to judge someone who had been fighting for two days, sword in hand, alongside everyone else. Every man has his limits.

  'I see you have a book with you.'

  Alatriste patted the book distractedly, then took it out of his pocket and handed it to the General, who leafed through its pages with curiosity.

  'Hmm, Quevedo,' said the General, returning it to him. 'What's the point of a book like that on a galley?'

  'It makes days like this seem slightly more bearable.'

  He put the book back in his pocket. Gorostiola and the others were staring at him in bewilderment. They could understand having some kind of religious book, but not a book like that, although needless to say, none of them had even heard of Quevedo.

  The General picked up the pitcher again and said, 'I'm sure I could obtain satisfactory conditions.'

  Alatriste and Gorostiola exchanged glances. There was neither surprise nor scorn in those glances, only the weary impartiality of two veterans. Everyone knew what conditions the General was , referring to: a reasonable ransom for himself, who would be well treated in Constantinople until the money arrived from Spain, and a ransom perhaps for another officer. The others, the soldiers and sailors, would remain on the galleys and in captivity for the rest of their lives, while Pimentel would return to Naples or to Madrid, where he would be admired by the ladies and congratulated by the gentlemen as he recounted the details of his Homeric battle. It would have made more sense, Alatriste thought, to have surrendered before the slaughter began. The dead would still be alive, and the maimed and wounded would not be piled up on the galleys, howling in agony.

  Machin de Gorostiola interrupted his thoughts.

  'We need to know your opinion, Senor Alatriste, as the only officer left on the Mulata.''

  'I'm not an officer.'

  'You're all we have, so let's not split hairs.'

  Alatriste looked at the trampled papers and clothes beneath his tattered, blood-stained espadrilles. Having an opinion was one thing; being asked to give it another.

  'My opinion ...' he murmured.

  He had known what his opinion was the moment he walked into the cabin and saw those faces. Everyone, apart from the General, knew as well.

  'No,' he said.

  'I beg your pardon?' said Pimentel.

  Alatriste wasn't looking at him, but at Machin de Gorostiola. This wasn't a matter for the likes of Pimentel, it was a matter for soldiers.

  'I said that the men on the Mulata do not agree to surrender.'

  There was a long silence, during which the only sound came from behind the bulkhead, the moans of the wounded lying in the hold.

  'Surely you need to ask them,' said Pimentel at last.

  Alatriste shook his head. His cold eyes fixed on the General.

  'You have just done so, Your Excellency.'

  A faint smile flickered cross Gorostiola's bearded face, while the General grimaced, clearly displeased.

  'What does that mean?' he asked curtly.

  Alatriste continued to hold his gaze. 'The past few days were for killing; perhaps today is the day to die.'

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the galleymaster and the corporal were nodding approvingly. Machin de Gorostiola had turned to Pimentel. He seemed pleased, as if a heavy weight had been removed from his shoulders.

  'As you can see, Your Excellency, we are all in agreement. We're Basques, devil take it.'

  Pimentel raised the pitcher of wine with his good hand, but when it reached his lips, it trembled slightly. Finally, half-angry and half-resigned, he placed the pitcher on the table with a sour look on his face. No General, however respected at Court, could surrender without the agreement of his officers. That could cost you your reputation or, sometimes, your head.

  'Half of our men are dead,' he said.

  'Fine,' replied Alatriste, 'let's avenge them with the other half.'

  The attack that afternoon was by far the fiercest. One of the Turkish galleys had sunk, but the other six came rowing towards us against the westerly breeze, their flagship first, intending to board us all at once. That would mean six or seven hundred men — more than a third of them janizaries — against just over one hundred Spaniards, those of us who could still fight. Battering us with their artillery as they approached, they ploughed straight into both galleys, crushing our already broken oars as they did so and trying to hole the sides with their rams, hoping to sink us if they could. We were able to repel some boarders with our swords and muskets, but other galleys attached themselves to us with grappling- irons. And such was the impetus of their attack that, whereas on the Caridad Negra, the Basques were so mixed up with the Turks that it was impossible to fire a musket with any certainty that you would hit one and not the other, on the Mulata, they managed to seize the port-side fighting platform and the trinquet mast and got as far as the mainmast and the skiff, taking over half the ship.

  Somehow, though, we held firm and fought back, largely because of a piece of good luck. Leading the Turks on this attack was a janizary of massive build, a man who shouted and yelled and dealt fierce two-handed blows with his scimitar. We found out later that he was a famous captain, Uluch Cimarra by name, and highly esteemed by the Great Turk. Now it happened that, just as this mighty beast reached the skiff from which our men were retreating, he met the group of freed galley-slaves led by the gipsy Ronquillo, armed with spears, half-pikes, scimitars and swords taken from the dead. They fell on the giant janizary with such ferocity that Ronquillo managed to stick a spear through the giant's eye with his first blow. The janizary let out a howl, pressed his hands to his face and dropped to the deck, whereupon the other men, producing from somewhere or other yellow-handled slaughterer's knives, finished him off in a trice, like dogs to a boar. Astonished to see their paladin slain in this fashion, the Turks stopped in their tracks.

  They were still standing there, hesitating, when Captain Alatriste decided to take advantage of the situation by rounding up all the men who were there, some twenty of us. We rushed forward, certain in the knowledge that we had either to fight hard or be killed. And since killing or dying were all one to us, we charged shoulder to shoulder, Captain Alatriste, Sebastian Copons, the Moor Gurriato and I, along with Ronquillo and his gang, as well as others who joined forces with us. And since there is nothing more consoling in a disaster than the sight of a group behaving in a disciplined manner, standing firm and attacking, all the other men who had become scattered or were fighting
alone attached themselves to us as well, like men rushing to fall in with the last infantry squad on the parade ground. And so, growing in numbers as we went, we advanced down the galley, the Turks stopped killing, and even turned tail and ran, trampling on the galley-slaves lying between the shattered benches. Finally we reached the ram of the Turkish galley, still laying about the enemy with our swords and knives.

  When many of them dived into the water, some of us ventured onto the galley itself, and you can imagine the brio with which our handful of men boarded the ship, shouting 'Spain and Santiago!' — all except me; I was shouting 'Angelica! Angelica!' Seeing us there, black with gunpowder and red with blood, as fierce and pitiless as Satan himself, the Turks started hurling themselves into the sea in even greater numbers or running to the captain's cabin at the stern to take refuge there. Thus we seized their trinquet mast with no effort at all and could have seized the mainmast, too, if we had dared.