Corsair hl-1

by Tim Severin

  ‘Yet the technician recognised you when he came aboard.’

  ‘He visited the gunsmiths a couple of times while I was working with them, to ask if we could improve one of the new designs of fuse. It’s a plunger which is screwed into the bomb casing. When the bomb lands on target, the plunger is meant to drive inwards, striking sparks from a flint and igniting the powder inside the bomb, just like a musket. He didn’t know much about boats as far as I could tell. He’s more a technical man.’

  ‘You would have thought they would have picked someone with better sea legs. He was seasick all the way here from Marseilles,’ said Hector. He looked over his shoulder for at least the twentieth time, to gaze at the coast of Africa.

  ‘Apparently a galley makes an ideal platform for his mortar – that’s his name for the launching gun – because the weapon is so heavy and awkward to move about on land,’ Dan continued. ‘But a ship can take the gun wherever it is wanted, and a galley can aim the mortar accurately by manoeuvring so that the gun is exactly at the right range and angle to throw its bombs on target—’

  His explanation was cut short by Piecourt’s voice. ‘You there! Get up on the rambade! The gunner wants you.’ The premier comite was on the coursier, pointing at Dan. ‘Secure your oar, and take your companions with you.’ He bent down to unlock the padlock to the bench chain and allow the men to slip clear, but when Karp and the vogue avant Irgun made as if to move, Piecourt raised his whip threateningly. ‘Stay where you are!’ he ordered.

  Dan led Hector and Bourdon on to the wooden platform of the rambade. The technician was fussing over the mortar. It sat on its massive sled, pegged and chained to the deck. Nearby a large tray held several bombs, a tub of fuse cord, and a number of fuses to be tested. At a safe distance, lashed against the rail, were some small kegs of gunpowder.

  ‘The first job is to check the bombs and their contents,’ said the technician, a small worried-looking man with badly bitten fingernails. It seemed he was also to act as gunner. ‘Any of you know about gunpowder?’

  Bourdon gave a sardonic laugh. ‘Only how to make this mark,’ he said, pointing at the letters GAL branded on his cheek. ‘That’s how they make the brand permanent. They rub in gunpowder as soon as the hot iron is lifted.’

  ‘I’ve worked in a quarry,’ Hector interjected. ‘I’ll show him.’

  ‘Good. The gunpowder must be kept separate at all times. Even empty barrels can contain fine particles which may explode,’ warned the gunner, then turned towards Dan. ‘I need you to make sure that the correct charge is loaded into the mortar’s chamber, and that the firing fuse is properly inserted in the bomb, and in working order. You’ll find all the tools you need in that canvas bag over there.’

  As Dan prepared the mortar, Hector and Bourdon checked over the bombs. They removed each bomb’s wooden plug, mixed and poured in more gunpowder through a funnel, made sure the powder settled evenly in the hollow sphere, and finally tamped home the plug again. It reminded Hector of the days when he was setting blasting powder into the rocks of the Algiers quarry. Careful to observe the gunner’s safety instructions they returned the empty barrels to their place against the rail. The sailors and the galley’s gun crew normally stationed on the rambade had made themselves scarce. Even Piecourt was standing far enough away to avoid the worst effects of an accident.

  ‘I’m ready to try a ranging shot,’ called out the technician. ‘Line up the vessel, if you please. The bow must point straight at the target.’

  Piecourt squinted ahead at the town, then blew a series of calls on his whistle. Obediently the oarsmen dipped their blades into the sea, the starboard side pulling ahead, while their companions backed water. The galley slowly swivelled. A sharp blast on the whistle and the oarsmen maintained the galley in position. Glancing astern, Hector saw that the officers of St Gerassimus had all gathered on the poop deck. They were too distant for him to recognise individuals and he wondered which was the captain, the celebrated Chevalier who was said to be such an implacable adversary of the Muslims. Even when Chabrillan had hosted his celebration of the Festival of Galleys, the galeriens had been forbidden to look directly at the Chevalier and his guests. To do so, the oarsmen had been warned, would be treated as insolence and punished with the lash.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a deep coughing thud, a large cloud of dense black smoke, and the galley shuddering along her entire length. Beneath his feet Hector felt the bow of the galley suddenly dip into the sea as the massive recoil of the mortar thrust downward. A ripple spread out from her hull as if a giant rock had been dropped into the water.

  The bomb could be seen high in the air, a black spot trailing smoke and flame as it raced upwards, hurtling towards the shore. Then it arched over and dropped back towards earth, only to splash harmlessly into the shallows, a hundred yards short of the town wall. There was no explosion.

  ‘Bring the vessel in closer, please,’ asked the gunner.

  Again Piecourt’s whistle blew. The galeriens took a dozen strokes, then paused. The galley glided nearer to the thin line of surf.

  Another bomb was loaded, and this time when it was fired, the projectile landed halfway up the beach and there was a muffled explosion.

  ‘Closer yet, please,’ asked the gunner. ‘Bring the galley nearer to the target area.’

  ‘There may be shallows here,’ Piecourt warned. ‘I’ll not risk the ship. If we come much closer, it may bring us in range of the town’s own cannon. They could have a few great guns, and be holding fire, so as not to waste powder. Just one shot could do us a lot of damage.’

  ‘I cannot increase the angle of the mortar,’ complained the artilleryman. ‘It’s already set at forty-five degrees for maximum range. I can only add to the propelling charge, and that might burst the barrel.’ He gave Dan a worried look. ‘Get your friend from the quarry to help you measure accurately. We don’t want any mistakes.’

  All through the afternoon Dan, Hector and Bourdon worked on the rambade. They checked and primed the bombs, loaded them into the gun’s maw, cleaned out the mortar’s chamber after each shot and cleared the touch hole, helped the artilleryman to recharge the mortar and set the fuse, then to fire the weapon once the oarsmen had placed the galley in position. Bomb after bomb was sent towards the town, sometimes dropping short, occasionally veering off course and falling wide. One detonated in mid-air with a premature explosion that sent fragments of the metal casing pattering into the sea, an accident that drew a frightened intake of breath from the artilleryman. With practice, they learned just how much powder was needed to propel the bombs to reach their target, and just how much coating of powder was needed so that the missiles exploded on impact. The plunger fuses were soon abandoned for they usually failed to work. By the time the sun was setting, every bomb they fired was landing on target, and they could see the dust spurt up when they hit.

  But there was no apparent effect on the town. The place remained silent and still. No one emerged from the gates, nor was anyone seen on the battlements. No one fled into the hills. No fires broke out. It was as if the place was abandoned and uninhabited. Only a thickening of the dust haze above the buildings hinted at the destruction that must have taken place. By the time the light faded nearly all the bombs in the ammunition store had been fired away, and there was a tone of disappointment in the gunner’s voice as he called a halt to his bombardment.

  Piecourt ordered the oarsmen to row a safer distance offshore and there the St Gerassimus dropped anchor.

  Black with powder smoke and half deaf, Hector and his two companions returned to their oar bench and were shackled in place. ‘We did more damage to the galley than the town, I think,’ said Hector quietly.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Dan.

  ‘The rambade shuddered badly every time the mortar fired. It was worse after we increased the charge in the mortar’s chamber. The deck planks started to lift. By evening the beams under them also were loose. When Bourdon and I went aft to fetc
h more powder from the magazine, the water in the bilge was rising faster than usual. I’m surprised that no one else noticed.’

  ‘Perhaps they did and they kept their mouths shut. The officers were all too far away, and the rest of the petty officers are too frightened of Piecourt to interfere. He seemed to enjoy bombarding the town. He’s someone who relishes other people’s discomfort even if it’s only at a distance. I doubt that the townsfolk enjoyed their day.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if the galley was being shaken to pieces,’ said Hector. ‘I’ve seen a galley built and know how fragile the joints are. Once the main fastenings give way, there’s little to stop the vessel falling apart.’

  ‘What would you say are our chances of surviving in that town,’ muttered Bourdon. He was shaking his head from side to side, still trying to clear his hearing, and staring towards the distant land.

  ‘I expect they would hang us from the walls after the damage we’ve been inflicting.’

  ‘Not if they knew we had been forced to our work.’

  ‘And how would you get there?’

  ‘I’d go for a swim right now if it wasn’t so far,’ said Bourdon with a wink and shook his sleeve. One of the gunner’s work tools dropped into his hand. It was the thin spike used for cleaning out the touch hole of the mortar. ‘Never seen a better picklock. I lifted it from his tool bag when he was packing up, and he’ll not miss it until the morning. I could have us loose in no time at all.’ He folded his fingers over the implement, and when he opened his hand again, the tool had disappeared as if by magic. ‘Told you I was a good pickpocket,’ he said, a confident grin on his branded face.

  Piecourt’s whistle blew the signal for the galeriens to take their rest, but Hector found it difficult to go to sleep. He lay there, thinking whether it would be madness to take up Bourdon’s suggestion of an escape and – as always – whether he would ever be able to track down Elizabeth. He shifted uncomfortably on the wooden deck and looked up at the sky and noted that the stars had vanished. The heavens had clouded over. From time to time he heard the tread of Piecourt or one of the sous comites walking the coursier as they carried out their night patrol, and he heard the call of the sailor on watch on the rambade, reporting all was well. As the hours passed, Hector became aware of a gradual change in the motion of the anchored galley as she tugged at her cable. St Gerassimus was beginning to pitch and roll. The noise of the waves increased. Pressing his ear against the deck planking Hector was sure that the sound of the bilge water swirling back and forth was louder. He sensed a general discomfort spreading among the galeriens as they slept or dozed all around him. Little by little he became aware of men waking up, and he heard the sound of retching as those with weak stomachs began to succumb to seasickness. He sat up and listened. The voice of the wind was definitely louder. A large swell passed under the galley and made her lurch. He heard raised voices. They came from the foredeck, and almost immediately there was the sound of Piecourt’s whistle. It was the order to man the sweeps. He struggled to his feet and sat down on the bench, his ankle chain tugging painfully. Fumbling in the darkness, he joined his companions in freeing the handle of the great sweep from its lashings, and sat ready to take a stroke. It would not be easy. Now St Gerassimus was rolling heavily in the waves, and with each minute the motion of the galley was growing wilder. Piecourt’s whistle sounded again. Hector and the other oarsmen took a long steady stroke, then another, and tried to set a rhythm. There were shouts from the foredeck, and he heard the command for the rambade crew to hoist anchor. In reply there were yells and curses, and a surge of water passed across his naked feet. He detected a note of alarm, even panic.

  The galley was definitely in some sort of trouble. Hector tried to make sense of the sailors’ shouts. Farther aft a sous comite was shouting. He was ordering three benches of galeriens to set aside their oars and man the pumps. The anchor must have been raised, for he felt the galley slew sideways, and there was a sudden tremor as she fell aslant the waves. Hector and his bench mates nearly lost their footing as the galley canted over so far that they were unable to reach the water with their blades, but rowed in the air. A moment later the galley had tilted in the opposite direction, and their blades were buried so deep it was impossible to work them. The chaos increased. In the darkness men missed their strokes, slipped and fell. Piecourt’s insistent whistle cut through the darkness, again and again, but it was useless. Rowing was impossible.

  The wind strengthened further. It was keening in the rigging, a thin, nagging screech. St Gerassimus rolled helplessly. Someone shouted out an order to hoist sail, but was immediately countermanded by another voice which said that this was too dangerous, that the main spar would tear the mast out of its step. Sailors ran aimlessly up and down the coursier, until a petty officer roared angrily at them.

  Gradually the sky grew lighter, bringing a cold, grey dawn and a vista of angry waves racing down from the north. The galley was in real distress. Designed for calm waters, she was unable to hold up against the force of the sea. She was drifting helplessly, no longer controlled by her crew. Hector looked downwind. The galley was perhaps two miles away from land, though he did not recognise the coast. The gale must have driven her sideways during darkness. He saw a bleak expanse of bare mountain, a narrow beach, and the sea thrashing into foam on a coral shelf that reached out from the shore towards them.

  ‘Let go the bow anchor again!’ bellowed Piecourt. ‘And bring the main anchor up on deck and made ready. Fetch up the main cable!’

  A seaman on the rambade leaned out over the sea, knife in hand, and cut free the lashings which held the smaller bow anchor in place so that it plunged into the sea. Half a dozen of his mates ran back along the coursier and opened the hatch leading to the aft hold where the main anchor had been stowed. Two more men squeezed down into the cable locker in the bows where the galley’s main hawser was kept only to reappear a moment later, wild-eyed with fear. ‘She’s sprung her bow planks,’ their leader shouted. ‘She’s taking water fast!’ Hardly had the words been uttered than the men who had gone aft also re-emerged on deck. ‘There’s four feet of water in the bilge,’ someone cried. ‘We’ll never be able to get the main anchor up.’

  Piecourt reacted coolly. ‘Get back down in the cable locker,’ he snapped. ‘Find that main cable and bring it up.’ The frightened sailors obeyed, and returned, dragging the end of the six-inch main hawser. ‘Now fasten it to that bitch of a mortar, and fasten it well,’ the comite told them, ‘and bring levers and a sledgehammer.’ His men did as they were ordered, and soon the mortar was trussed up in a nest of rope. ‘Now break the gun free! Smash the bolts and planks if need be,’ urged Piecourt, ‘then dump the cannon overboard!’ Working in grim silence the men attacked the fastenings that held the mortar in place. It took them nearly twenty minutes to loosen the gun so that they could take advantage of a sudden tilting of the deck and slide the monstrous cannon and its carriage overboard. It disappeared into the sea with a hollow, plunging sound that could be heard even over the roar of the gale. The hawser ran out, then slowed as the mortar struck the sea bed. The sailors secured the hawser, and the galley felt the drag of the monstrous cannon so she slowly turned her bow towards the waves and hung there, no longer drifting helplessly down on to the coast.

  Hector had to admire Piecourt’s composure. The premier comite eased himself into the cable locker to see the extent of the leak for himself, then calmly made his way along the coursier to the poop deck where Hector saw him confer with the ship’s officers. Next, Piecourt beckoned to the foredeck crew who also went aft and began to unship the galley’s rowing boats from their cradles above the oar benches. The galley heaved and wallowed but eventually the two boats were hoisted out and lowered into the water where they rose and fell, bumping wildly against the galley’s side. It was when the sailors and several of the warders, the argousins, climbed into the boats, and were joined by the artillery man and the officers from the poop deck, that Hector
realised they were abandoning ship.

  The other galeriens realised it too. A low moan arose from the oar benches interspersed with angry shouts. Piecourt spoke quietly to the remaining warders who loaded their muskets and stood to face the oar benches. The two boats, filled with men, pushed off and began to pull for the shore. Their course was downwind, and within minutes the men were scrambling out of the boats and splashing up on land while the oarsmen turned and began to row back out to the galley. Their return trip was slower, and by the time they reached the St Gerassimus, the water which had been around Hector’s ankles was now up to his knees. Whatever injury the galley had suffered, she was sinking fast

  The boats made two more trips to the beach and soon there was no one left on the poop deck except Piecourt, the rowing master and half a dozen armed argousins. Just before mid-morning the galley was awash, the sea lapping the tops of the oar benches, and the galeriens were frantic. They swore and pleaded, raged and wept, tugged at their chains. Piecourt gazed at them pale-eyed and utterly implacable. ‘May you rot in hell,’ one of the oarsmen shouted. ‘No,’ called the premier comite. It was the first word he had spoken directly to the benches. ‘It is you, you infidels and heretics, who will suffer torments. I shall not even think of you.’ He lifted from his belt the ring of the heavy keys for the padlocks on the oar benches, held it up for all to see, and deliberately tossed it into the waves. Then he turned, stepped into the boat and gestured at his men to row for shore.

  Spray from a wave crest wetted the back of Hector’s neck. In front of him was a piteous sight – the heads and naked torsos of two hundred galeriens glistening above the waves as they stood on their benches and tried to escape the rising water. Flotsam, odd lengths of timber, a galerien’s cloak half filled with air so it floated, all drifted past him. Beside him, Bourdon blurted, ‘I dared not move while those swine argousins were watching. I’d have been shot. Let me have some slack on that chain so I can try to get at the padlock.’ Irgun, the big Turk, reached sideways, seized the padlock where it was attached to the coursier and held it steady. The galley was so low in the water now that every wave submerged the padlock, and sea water gushed out of the keyhole as it reappeared. Bourdon lay prone across his companions and began to feel inside the padlock with the tip of the spike. He choked as a wave crest filled his mouth, then closed his eyes as if asleep as he concentrated on feeling for the levers within the lock. Twice the spike slipped out, and once the point stabbed into Irgun’s fist. The big Turk did not flinch. Finally Bourdon withdrew the tool, bent the thin tip at a right angle, then plunged it deeper and gave it a twist. The padlock popped open.