Corsair hl-1

by Tim Severin

  ‘And do they?’ Hector enquired.

  ‘Depends who you speak to. The French gun foundries at Liège are among the most advanced in the world, and the Spaniards would claim that they make the finest musket locks. The Italians write well about the theory of gunnery; while the Dutch are great innovators. And from what I witnessed in the Grand Seignor’s foundry outside Istanbul, I can assure you that the Turkish topcus as they call their gun founders are no slouches.’

  They entered a room, clearly Allen’s office, which was partitioned off from the rest of the armoury. Looking around, Hector noticed a shelf of books and pamphlets on the art of gun founding and the manufacture of powder and rockets. Sean Allen carefully closed the door of the study behind them, opened a cupboard and took out a large green glass flask and several glasses. ‘One of the privileges of my post,’ he explained, as he removed the stopper from the flask and began to pour. ‘It’s a blessing that the making of incendiaries can require spirits of alcohol. Take the repair of spoilt gunpowder, its restoration as you might call it. We get a great quantity of bad gunpowder brought to us. Either it got wet while on campaign with the Emperor’s army, or maybe it was captured out of some foreign ship and we find that it got damp from lying in a ship’s hold for too long. The Emperor is very pleased to receive such tribute, but unless the gunpowder is repaired it is useless. So what do we do?’

  The gun founder took a gulp from his glass, walked over to the bookshelf, and took down a volume. It was written in Latin and entitled The Great Art of Artillery. Clearly Allen was an educated man.

  ‘It’s all written up here,’ continued the gunsmith. ‘We make up an elixir of two parts brandy with one measure each of white wine vinegar and purified saltpetre, and add half measures of oils of sulphur and samphire. Then we sprinkle the elixir over the damaged powder and put it out in the sun to dry. When the powder is completely dried out we package it again in barrels, and place it in dry store. Then it’s as good as new.’ He closed the book with a snap and took another mouthful of his drink. ‘Of course there’s always brandy left over, and it’s amazing what a thirst a man works up when he is in the heat of a gun foundry.’

  Noticing that Hector had barely touched his glass of brandy he went on, ‘Drink up! Surely you’re not an abstainer. That would be a disappointment, what with your coming from the old country.’

  ‘No,’ replied Hector, ‘Dan and I did profess Islam when we were slaves in Algiers but that was under duress. And anyhow we saw plenty of Turks who came to drink in the bagnio’s taverns. Neither of us care much for religion.’

  ‘Very understandable. Half the captives here in Morocco take up Islam just to make life more bearable. It’s mostly the fanatics who refuse.’ The gun founder produced paper and pen from his desk. ‘Now, give me a description of the mortar that you saw on the galley.’

  ‘Maybe it will be easier if Dan draws a picture of it for you,’ suggested Hector. ‘He’s good with pen and ink.’

  ‘All right, then,’ answered Allen, handing the pen to the Miskito and he watched as Dan quickly sketched out the mortar and its sledge. ‘Ah! I see the fault. The gun carriage was wrong. If it had been designed so that the mortar rolled back when it was fired, and was not pinned in place, it would not have shattered the foredeck. Perhaps a rocker or a curved slope to absorb the recoil would have done the trick.’ Taking back the pen from Dan, he quickly drew an improved gun carriage. ‘That’s one problem likely solved,’ he said, ‘but that’s not what the Emperor wants. He’s after those exploding bombs, and as noisy and spectacular as possible. Can you tell me anything about them?’

  ‘They were about twelve inches in diameter and a perfect globe,’ answered Hector, ‘except for the hole where they were filled and fused. At that point there was a collar like the neck of your brandy flask though much shorter. The globes were already packed with gunpowder when they were loaded on the galley, but if one of them needed topping up, we poured in more gunpowder through the hole, then plugged it with one of the fuses.’ He went on to describe the different fuses that were tested, and finally added, ‘The bombs had small handles on each side of the fuse so when Karp and I were loading them into the mortar, we could get a grip to lift them. Each bomb must have weighed maybe forty pounds.’

  Allen looked pensive. ‘I imagine the hollow globes were cast, and not made from wrought iron. Cast iron bursts with more destructive power, throwing smaller shards of metal and doing more damage. But the thickness of the wall of the globe has to be just right, and the gunpowder inside calculated nicely, as well as being of the highest quality.’ He sighed, ‘And that is going to be my main problem here. Getting hold of the right powder to make the bombs. As I said, much of the stuff we hold in stock here is repaired powder, and that would never do.’

  ‘I worked in a quarry once, in Algiers,’ ventured Hector, ‘and I remember how the ordinary corned powder was unreliable. The powder we used on the galley to top up the bombs, as well as for the charges inside the mortar, was fine-grained and very black.’

  ‘Would you recognise it again if you saw it?’ asked Allen.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Then come with me,’ said the gun founder. ‘You others can stay here and pour yourselves some more drinks. We won’t be long.’

  Allen took Hector to a low, squat, windowless building, half sunk in the ground and made with immensely thick walls of stone. Unlocking a heavy wooden door, he led the young Irishman inside the gunpowder magazine. It was two-thirds empty, with perhaps a hundred barrels and kegs of gunpowder set out on the earth floor.

  Allen crossed to the farthest corner where a single small keg stood by itself. Tipping it on its side, he rolled it nearer to the daylight from the open door, and removed the plug. He poured a small quantity of its gunpowder into the palm of his hand and held it out for Hector to see. ‘Is that the sort of stuff you used on the galley’s mortar?’ he asked.

  Hector looked at the little heap of black grains. ‘Yes, or something very like it.’

  ‘Thought so. That’s French powder. Best-quality pistol powder, hard to find,’ he grunted. He replaced the bung, rolled the keg back into its place, and ushered Hector out of the magazine. As Allen carefully locked the door behind him, Hector asked, ‘Will you be able to get more of that powder? Enough for the bombs?’

  ‘We can’t make that quality here and my supplier is, you might say, irregular,’ Allen replied. He gave a hiccup, and Hector realised that the gun founder was slightly tipsy. ‘He’s a corsair who calls in at Sallee. Mostly he operates in the Atlantic, off the Spanish coast or as far north as the Channel. Sallee is convenient for him whenever he has interesting goods to sell. He’s a countryman of ours who took the turban as you did, though rather more seriously. Name of Hakim Reis.’

  Hector felt his spine tingle.

  ‘Hakim Reis.’ he repeated. ‘He’s the corsair who took me captive.’

  ‘Don’t hold that against him. Man-catching is a good slice of his profession, and he’s a decent enough sort.’

  Hector tried to keep his voice steady. ‘Will there be any chance of meeting him?’

  Allen gave him a shrewd look. ‘Not thinking of taking revenge, are you? I wouldn’t recommend it.’

  ‘No, no. I just wanted to ask him some questions. When do you think Hakim Reis will next be here?’

  ‘Impossible to say. He comes and goes as it suits him. He might show up next week, next month or perhaps never again if he’s been sunk at sea or died of the plague. But one thing about him is that if war is declared, he seems to be early on the scene, and the first to come into port with the spoils.’

  Hector thought furiously as he tried to find another thread that might lead him to locating Hakim Reis. ‘That powder he sells to the Emperor. Where does he get it?’

  ‘I’d say he has good contacts on the Spanish coast. There are plenty of small bays and inlets where you can meet up with people willing to sell war material to the highest bidder, and never mind
where the guns and powder finish up.’

  ‘But you said that was French-made gunpowder. How would he obtain that?’

  ‘Gunpowder’s a valuable commodity. It could have changed hands several times, passed from smuggler to smuggler until it reaches someone like Hakim Reis who has a ready market for it.’

  ‘And you have no idea who any of these smugglers might be, and whether they know where to find him?’

  The gun founder looked at Hector searchingly. ‘Why so keen to meet Hakim Reis?’

  ‘He may be able to help me locate a member of my family – my sister. She was also taken captive, and I’ve heard nothing of her since. I promised myself I would find her.’

  Allen pondered for a moment, and when he spoke his tone was sympathetic. ‘I wish I could help you. I’ve known Hakim since the early days when he used to come in with shoddy muskets to sell. I did ask him on one occasion whether he could get me a further delivery of best powder, and he said he’d consult with someone he called Tisonne, or maybe he said Tison, I can’t remember exactly. But he never mentioned the name again, and I’ve never heard of it, not in these parts anyhow. And if Tisonne or Tison is a professional smuggler, it could be his cover name, not his real one. Then he’ll be even more difficult to locate than Hakim himself.’

  Hector and the gun founder had arrived back in the armoury where they found Dan examining a musket from the display. ‘What do you think of it?’ asked Allen.

  ‘This is exactly the sort of gun we have at home among my people. I hadn’t expected to find one here. The weapon must be at least fifty years old. It still uses the old-fashioned matchlock,’ observed the Miskito.

  ‘Indeed it does. Have you worked with guns?’

  ‘Back home, and for a brief period in the workshops of King Louis’s Galley Corps in Marseilles.’

  The gun founder gave a grunt of satisfaction. ‘You’ve just talked yourself into a job. Rather than helping me concoct exploding bombs, it will be more use if you could supervise these English lads here in the armoury. Show them how to repair the older weapons. Your French friend and the silent bugger can help you. Meanwhile Hector can assist me in providing Moulay with his castle smasher.’

  ‘Perhaps I could start by interviewing the other survivors from the galley,’ suggested Hector. ‘They should reach Meknes in the next few days, and I could ask them for more information. They might cooperate if they think it will help obtain their early release. Moulay has already appointed me as the go-between to arrange their ransom.’

  ‘That’s just the sort of quirky idea that would entertain the Emperor,’ Allen agreed. ‘Our friend Diaz will be able to tell us when the prisoners from the galley arrive and where they will be held. He stops by here most evenings as he and his cronies are fond of my brandy.’

  IN THE END it was several more days before Diaz reported that comite Piecourt and the other captives from the St Gerassimus had arrived in Meknes. They had been added to the palace labour force, and were being held in the cells built into the arches under the causeway leading to the royal stables. The following evening when all slaves would have returned from their work, Hector set off to find his former masters. Walking along the line of twenty-four arches, he caught sight of the unmistakable figure of Yakup, the rowing master. The renegade Turk was squatting against one of the stone pillars supporting the roadway above. He was stripped to the waist and had tilted his head back against the stonework. The distinctive fork-tailed cross branded on his forehead was clearly visible. As Hector approached, two men emerged from the archway, deep in conversation. One was a tall, ascetic-looking figure and Hector did not recognise him. The other had a pale skin and close-cropped sandy hair. It was Piecourt. Both were dressed in the loose tunic and cotton pantaloons worn by slaves. ‘Good evening, comite, I would like a word with you,’ said Hector quietly. Startled, Piecourt broke off his conversation and swung round towards him. As he did so, the slanting rays of the evening sun fell square on his companion’s face and Hector saw that his otherwise handsome features were marred by a scattering of small dark blue spots spread across his right cheek from just below his eye to the jaw line. ‘Who are you?’ asked Piecourt. A moment later the light of recognition dawned in his eyes. ‘You are from the galley, aren’t you? Middle oarsman, bench three, port side.’

  ‘That’s correct, comite,’ said Hector. ‘But I am now in the employment of the gun founder to His Majesty Moulay Ismail.’

  Piecourt’s mouth twisted in a sardonic smile. ‘Come to think of it, we’ve already met your bench companion, the brown man. He interviewed us when we were first captured. So more than one of my dogs have survived. What do you want?’

  ‘I need to interview the technician who looked after the mortar on St Gerassimus, also her captain and anyone else who can provide information about the gun.’

  Piecourt was expressionless. ‘Then you will be disappointed. The technician and the captain are not here. After the galley foundered, the captain took the two ship’s boats and headed west along the coast, to seek help. The technician went with him.’

  ‘Is there anyone who could provide me with any information about the gun? It would help your case. The Emperor is disposed to look kindly on anyone who is cooperative.’

  ‘That is not enough reason for me or anyone else to help the infidel. On the contrary, you would be doing yourself a great favour, if you would send word to Algiers, to Iphrahim Cohen the Jewish ransom broker. Once he learns that we are being held here, he will arrange our release. As I already told your brown friend, you could earn yourself a handsome reward. Later you and your friends from bench three might even receive a royal pardon from His Majesty King Louis. I have friends who can arrange such things.’

  ‘It is too late for that, Piecourt. Moulay Ismail has already given orders for your ransom. I am to advise and consult with his own ransom broker, here in Meknes.’

  The comite still seemed unperturbed. ‘We are not worth very much. There are only myself and the sous comites and a number of common sailors. The officers left in the boats. I repeat: the sooner you get word to Algiers, the more you will benefit.’

  There was something about Piecourt’s manner which made Hector suspicious. The comite was hiding something.

  ‘I’ll take a moment to look around your cell,’ he said.

  Piecourt shrugged. ‘You don’t need my permission.’

  Stepping inside the cell, Hector was immediately brought back to his days in the Algiers bagnio. The far end of the archway had been blocked off with a wall of bricks, and the near entrance could be closed at night with double doors. The result was a narrow, high room where the only light and air came in through two small windows high up in the far wall. Looking about him, Hector was impressed with the cleanliness of the cell. The occupants were keeping it swept and there was no sign of rubbish. Everything was neatly in its place. It was evident that discipline among the occupants was very good. For their sleeping arrangements the Frenchmen had rigged up a series of bunks from lengths of timber and matting. Due to the height of the cell, these bunks extended upwards for four tiers, and the topmost could only be reached by climbing a ladder. Several of the beds were now occupied by men relaxing after their day’s work, while a group of another half a dozen were playing cards on a home-made table placed on the ground between the tiers. Among the card players were two sous comites who had been subordinate to Piecourt, and a sail handler who had worked on the rambade. They glanced at Hector incuriously before returning to their game. It occurred to him that the ship’s officers and freemen had known no more about galeriens toiling in the waist of the vessel than the latter had known about the occupants of the poop deck. And Piecourt had been right, there was no sign of the technician who could have answered questions about the mortar and its bombs.

  As he left the cell, Hector saw that Piecourt had now deliberately placed himself so he could ignore his visitor. He was seated next to the rowing master and also leaning back against the pillar of the
arch. The two of them had their eyes closed as they basked in the sun waiting for the time when the prisoners had to return to their cells and be locked in for the night. Their colleague with the speckled cheek was nowhere to be seen.

  Walking back through the gathering darkness, Hector was troubled. There was something he had failed to notice during his visit to the prisoners. Piecourt had been too cool, too composed. It was almost as if, by his nonchalant indifference, he was trying to distract Hector’s attention.

  He voiced his disquiet to Dan the following day. They were in the armoury where the Miskito was carefully examining the long barrel of an old-fashioned musket. At a work bench nearby Jacques Bourdon was dismantling the weapon’s obsolete firing mechanism. ‘Piecourt’s hiding something,’ said Hector, ‘or at least he was not telling me the truth.’

  ‘Hardly surprising,’ Dan replied. ‘In the bagnio, if you remember, it was wise to say as little as possible to strangers or anyone in authority in case you got yourself or a friend into trouble.’

  ‘But this was more than that. Piecourt deliberately discouraged any conversation with me. I have a suspicion that he knows one of the prisoners can supply information about the mortar but didn’t want me to identify who the man is.’

  ‘And you are sure the technician wasn’t there?’

  ‘Definitely. I had a good look round and couldn’t see him anywhere, though I did recognise one of the men who normally worked on the rambade.’