by Wilbur Smith
Alf Wilson ran back to Hal, his dark eyes dancing with excitement. ‘That’s the old Minotaur,’ he shouted. ‘I’d know her anywhere, Captain.’
‘Thank you, Mr Wilson, I suspected as much.’ Hal kept his expression neutral, then turned to glance at Ned Tyler. ‘Hold her on this course.’
As the two tall ships came together swiftly, Hal examined the Minotaur through his telescope. It was less than two years since she had been captured by al-Auf, but Hal saw at once that her sails and rigging had been allowed to deteriorate into a sorry state. No English captain would ever neglect his ship like that. Added to which, she was being handled sloppily. Perhaps her captain was accustomed to the lateen rig, and lacked expertise in the complicated setting of the high tiers of square sails. Now, her topsails were luffing and her mains were not properly trimmed around so the wind was spilling, the black canvas shaking and trembling as if with palsy. Hal could tell by the leeway she was making that her bottom must be foul and thick with weeds.
A disorderly swarm of men lined her sides and crowded into the rigging, prancing and waving their weapons, wild with glee. Hal estimated that there were several hundred, and he felt a chill of apprehension as he imagined that wild horde pouring aboard the Seraph. But he took no avoiding action that might alert the corsair. Meanwhile, the disguised English seamen on the Seraph were going through a delirious pantomime of welcome to the corsair.
The Minotaur carried twenty-five guns a side and the weight of her broadside was almost double that of the Seraph’s. If she were deftly handled, the Seraph would be no match for her. Let us hope that her fighting skills match her sailing qualities, Hal thought, as the two ships raced together head-on, until they seemed on the point of collision. The Minotaur’s attendant dhows straggled along behind her like ducklings.
They were so close now that Hal could make out the figurehead at her bows, the horned beast of mythology, half man and half bull. Swiftly the two ships closed until Hal could make out her name, Minotaur, even though the gold-leaf lettering was chipped, faded and coated with salt crystals.
Hal lifted his telescope and swept her deck. Almost at once he picked out a tall figure in black robes who stood out from the rabble of Arab seamen. There was no doubt in his mind that this was al-Auf, the Bad One. How had the cousin of bin-Talf described him? ‘He has the proud mien and the bold eye of a hero of old, a mighty man and terrible to look upon.’ Not too great an exaggeration, Hal thought grimly.
Al-Auf’s green turban was coiled high and the gem that secured its folds glittered above his forehead in the slanting rays of the early sun. The promise of hard muscle showed in his wide shoulders, and beneath the drapes of his robes his body was graceful and poised, as that of one of the great predatory cats. His beard was oiled and barbered into twin forks that blew back over his shoulders. The two ships plunged closer towards each other, until Hal could discern al-Auf’s features: dark eyes framed with beetling black brows, an eagle beak of a nose above a thin sword-cut of a mouth. A face as hard and cruel as the merciless Arabian desert that had fashioned it.
Hal saw that all the Minotaur’s gunports were open and all her heavy guns run out. A fine haze of blue smoke swirling back from her decks in the wind warned him that all her slow-match was lit, that her gunners waited behind their cannon. Al-Auf was cunning and wary enough not to accept the evidence of the red lanterns at the Seraph’s masthead as conclusive.
Hal’s eyes narrowed as the gap between them shortened to a cable’s length, and al-Auf showed no sign of giving way. Some of the crew in the bows of the Minotaur ceased their capering and looked around uneasily.
‘Run out the guns!’ Hal had left it to the last possible moment and his order was repeated in a yell down the companionways to the decks below. Immediately the sound of heavy blows reverberated through the ship. The wedges were being driven out with mallets. There followed a series of crashes as the lids of the gunports flew open, then the rumble of the gun carriages. From the gaping ports poked out the black muzzles of her cannon. Hal imagined the consternation on board the Minotaur as they saw what they had believed was a helpless, unarmed victim transformed before their eyes into a dangerous, warlike adversary.
As Hal watched, al-Auf reacted immediately. He whirled to his helm, but the order he shouted was lost in the wind and the cheers of his own crew. The Minotaur put up her helm and swung her bows into the wind. It was an ill-judged manoeuvre, intended to avoid collision and the sudden unexpected menace of the Seraph’s gaping broadside of cannon.
‘Not a wise decision,’ Hal murmured, with satisfaction. ‘You would have done better to trade shot for shot,’ and he held his course.
‘Mr Fisher!’ Hal called. ‘I’m going to cross her bows. Fire as you bear!’ Big Daniel strode to the leading starboard gun-team. Swiftly he checked the laying of the heavy weapons and pulled out the gunner’s wedge to depress the aim. The range would be point-blank. Aiming down into her would send the roundshot plunging through the Minotaur’s vitals.
Al-Auf’s ill-considered turn into the wind had taken the Minotaur aback. She was in irons, stalled, with the wind pressing into the front of her sails so that she could not pay off again on either tack.
‘Come up a point to windward,’ Hal ordered the helmsman. The Seraph turned in slightly towards the Minotaur, and began to cross her bows so closely that she almost ran into the jutting bowsprit. Not one of the other ship’s guns could bear, while every single gun in succession on the Seraph’s starboard side would be aimed directly into the gilded bows. Big Daniel pressed the lighted match into the touch-hole of the leading gun, which fired with a tremendous roar and leaped back against its restraining tackle. The long plume of gunsmoke touched the Minotaur’s bows, and her planking burst open to the shot in a humming cloud of splinters.
The single shot raked the Minotaur, tearing through her lower decks where her gunners waited by their cannon. On board the Seraph they could clearly hear the screams and the cries to God as the ball tore along the gundeck. Big Daniel strode back to the second gun, and checked its aim. Sedately the Seraph glided on past the wallowing Minotaur until the cannon was pointing straight into her. Daniel touched it off in another bellowing blast of fire and gunsmoke. The heavy iron ball smashed through her bows, and the shrieks of wounded and dying men carried clearly on the wind.
One after the other, the Seraph’s guns crashed out, and the Minotaur shivered and reeled, unable to respond, under the heavy blows. Hal could see the green turban of al-Auf standing out in the panic-stricken mob of his crew as he tried to rally them, to get the sails trimmed around so that his ship would come on the wind and turn away from the terrible blows that were raking her from stem to stern.
In the Seraph’s rigging men were firing muskets down onto the Minotaur’s deck. Even with their inaccurate smooth-bored guns nearly every shot was telling among the densely packed throng of robed figures milling about in wild confusion. The deafening boom of the cannon was punctuated by the sharper crack of the falconets that swept the Minotaur’s deck with grapeshot. Hal glanced up at the foremast to make certain the two boys were safe, and saw Tom busy reloading the falconet. Dorian’s head was close beside his brother’s, bobbing with excitement, and Hal thought he could hear his high, excited voice even above the din of battle.
Every one of the Seraph’s starboard batteries had been discharged into the helpless Minotaur, and the slaughter was terrible. Hal could see blood running out of her open gunports and scuppers in bright rivulets that dribbled down her sides.
‘I will lay us alongside,’ Hal warned Ned. He waited until the last gun had fired and the Seraph had swept past her victim, then shouted the order in the lull. ‘One broadside into her as we come alongside, and we will board her in the smoke.’ The crew cheered and brandished their boarding weapons, pikes, cutlasses and axes. Once they were on the Minotaur’s deck they would still be outnumbered, but Hal trusted in their training, their fighting spirit and the confusion of the Arabs to
carry the ship with the first rush.
He gave the order and the Seraph pivoted neatly, coming around so that the two ships presented their broadsides to each other. But the Seraph’s way had carried her wide and they were still a full musket shot apart. Hal ordered all the mainsails taken in so that she was down to fighting sail, then he backed the foretopsail to take some of the way off her and bring her in more rapidly towards the Minotaur. One of the small dhows that had been following the enemy ship found itself directly under the Seraph’s bows, unable to avoid collision. Her crew looked up in terror as the high ship reared over them. Some threw themselves overboard, others were frozen with terror as the Seraph trod the dhow down. Her planking shattered and snapped as she rolled clean under, and the screams of her crew were drowned abruptly.
As the Seraph gybed through the wind she gathered speed and rushed down on the Minotaur, but the enemy ship was at last paying off and swinging on to the opposite tack.
They were at half musket shot, a hundred yards apart, and Hal could see al-Auf driving his men back to their battle quarters with angry shouts and blows. One or two of the Minotaur’s heavy cannon roared out. Some of the shot flew wide, missing the Seraph by fifty yards, skipping across the surface of the water like a child’s game of ducks and drakes. A few balls howled through the Seraph’s rigging high above the deck, and one of her stays parted with a crack like a pistol shot. Still she bore down remorselessly on the other ship. The Minotaur was gathering speed only slowly, and most of her sails were still shaking and flapping. The yards were so close now that they were almost touching.
‘Stand by to grapple her!’ Hal cried, and glanced at the men in the chains. They were already swinging the heavy iron hooks in looping circles above their heads, working up the momentum to launch them across the narrow gap and grip the enemy.
Hal saw al-Auf abandon his futile efforts to rally his men to face the Seraph. Instead he ran to one of the unfired cannon, which had been deserted by its crew. Hal saw no sign of fear on his bearded face as he snatched up a burning match from the tub beside the gun and glared across at the Seraph. Then he stared straight at Hal and his thin lips curled into an angry sneer. In that instant Hal sensed that neither of them would ever forget the other. Then al-Auf thrust the smoking, spluttering match into the touch-hole of the cannon. He had no time to train it around. It was a despairing gesture of defiance, a wild throw of the dice in the hazard of battle.
With a long blast of flame and smoke, the heavy iron ball smashed through the Seraph’s gunwale, blew two English seamen to bloody shreds then smashed into the base of the Seraph’s foremast. It shivered, swayed, then began to topple, swinging slowly outwards, stays and shrouds popping and whipping, the timber tearing and cracking, gathering speed and momentum as it fell.
Hal watched his ship transforming before his eyes from a sleek fighting machine to a crippled hulk. Then, from the crow’s nest at the top of the falling mast, he saw two human figures hurled like pebbles from a slingshot. For a moment they were outlined against the grey rainclouds, then they dropped towards the surface of the sea.
‘Tom!’ Hal cried, in agony. ‘Oh, my God, Dorian!’
From the crow’s nest, Tom looked down onto the Minotaur’s decks, onto the horde of turbaned Arabs in their multicoloured robes. He was swinging the falconet on its swivel mounting, training it almost straight downwards so that he had to hang out over the side of the crow’s nest to bring it to bear.
‘Shoot!’ Dorian shouted beside him. ‘Shoot, Tom!’ Tom could see clearly the terrible damage that the Seraph’s guns had inflicted on the enemy ship. Her gunwales were shattered, raw white timbers exposed, her bowsprit had been shot away with a tangle of foresails and ropes hanging into the water. One of her deck cannon had taken a direct hit and been hurled from its carriage. The bodies of two Arab gunners were pinned under its massive black barrel.
Dead and wounded men littered the deck, and the terrified crew slithered and fell on the red-washed decks, tripping over the corpses of their fellows as they crowded to the side of the ship furthest from the Seraph’s menacing banks of cannon.
‘Shoot!’ Dorian was pounding his brother’s shoulder with a clenched fist. ‘Why don’t you shoot?’
Tom was waiting for the right moment. He knew it might take five minutes to reload the long-barrelled falconet in his awkward perch in the crow’s nest and in that time his best chance might pass while his gun was empty.
‘Always wait for your moment,’ Big Daniel had drummed into him. ‘Don’t blaze away at long range. Get in close and make every shot count to the full.’
The far rail of the Minotaur was densely crowded. Some of her crew had scrambled onto the ship’s rail, prepared to throw themselves into the sea and try to swim to one of the small dhows, rather than face the Seraph’s broadside and the wave of infidel devils who would come swarming aboard. They were pushing and fighting to reach safety, packed six and seven deep. Tom saw clearly their brown, terror-stricken faces looking back over their shoulders as the Seraph loomed high over them.
He aimed carefully into the thick of them, then touched off the falconet. Smoke and fragments of burning wad flew out in a dense cloud and were blown back into his face by the wind so that, for several seconds, he was blinded. Then the smoke was whipped away and he saw the hole that the blast of grapeshot had blown in the frenzied ranks on the deck below. At least a dozen robed figures were down, struggling and kicking convulsively in their own blood.
‘Oh, good shot! Good shot!’ Dorian screeched.
‘Help me reload,’ Tom said and swung the falconet’s stubby barrel upwards until it was pointed at the sky.
Dorian reached up, swabbed out the barrel, and poured a charge of black powder from the leather bucket into the gaping muzzle, and Tom thrust in the oakum wad to ram it home.
It was at that moment that the mast lurched and shuddered under them, and the shivering impact of the iron cannonball fired by al-Auf was carried through the timbers. Tom dropped the ramrod and snatched a handhold on the side of the crow’s nest. He flung his other arm around Dorian’s body and hugged him close.
‘Tom, what’s happening?’ Dorian cried, in wild alarm, and clung to his brother.
‘Hold hard, Dorry!’ Tom tried to quell his own terror as the mast swayed, teetered, then leaned out until they saw the tossing waves directly beneath them. ‘We’re going over, Dorry. Hold on to me.’
Unhurriedly the foremast swung outwards, and the boys were overwhelmed by the squeal of tortured timbers, the snap and whip of parting ropes and sundering tackle. Faster and still faster the toppling mast sent them plummeting downwards so their breath was trapped in their lungs.
‘I can’t hold on—’ Tom cried in despair. Still clinging to each other they were thrown clear of the canvas bucket and dropped through the thicket of twisting ropes and tumbling spars, a long, swooping, breath-stopping fall, until they struck the surface of the sea and were driven deep beneath the green water.
Dorian was torn from Tom’s hands by the force with which they hit the water. Even while he was deep below the surface, Tom opened his eyes and tried to look for him, groping wildly as he kicked upwards. When he burst out again and gasped for air, his only thought was for his little brother. Through eyes that streamed and stung with salt water he looked around him. ‘Dorry!’ He choked. ‘Where are you?’
The Seraph’s shattered mast lay over the side, its canvas in dreadful disarray, hanging in the water like a huge drogue anchor, dragging the bows around, so that the Minotaur was pulling away from her rapidly. Tom found himself enmeshed in a tangle of rope and canvas, and struggled to free himself. He kicked off a length of trailing rope that wound itself around his legs, and grabbed at a shattered spar to lift himself high enough to look about him.
‘Dorry!’ His voice was high with terror and panic. At that moment Dorian’s head popped above the surface thirty feet from where Tom floundered. He was half drowned, choking and coughing up gouts of
water. The way that the ship was swinging through the water was drawing them swiftly apart.
‘Dorry, hold on!’ Tom shouted. ‘I’m coming.’ He let go of the spar and struck out overarm towards his brother. Immediately the rope wrapped itself around his legs again.
‘Tom!’ Dorian saw him, and reached out a hand towards him. ‘Save me, Tom. Please, please, Tom!’ He was out in the open water, drifting swiftly away.
‘I’m coming, Dorry.’ Tom kicked and struggled with the rope that held him, but it was like trying to throw off the tenacious grip of an octopus. A wave broke over Dorian’s head, driving him under again. When he surfaced he was twenty feet further away, flapping his arms uselessly, trying to keep his head clear of the surface.
‘Swim, Dorry!’ Tom yelled at him. ‘Like I taught you.’ Dorian heard him, and controlled his frenzied struggles a little.
‘Kick, Dorry!’ Tom called again. ‘Use your hands.’ Dorian trod water more determinedly, but the current had him in its grip, and Tom was being pulled away swiftly by the rope that bound him to the broken spar. He ducked below the surface, groped for the rope end and unwound it from around his legs. But the drag of the sea was tightening the loops of line and, although he tore at the rough hemp with bleeding fingers, it would not yield. He had to breathe and he dragged himself back to the surface.
He sucked in air, and once his eyes were clear looked about for Dorian. He saw him a hundred yards away, his expression unreadable with distance but his voice a despairing wail. ‘Tom, help me!’
At that moment the spar rolled end over end in the water, and Tom was plucked under again, but this time so deep that his eardrums squeaked and the pain shot through his skull like a gimlet. As he tore at the rope that held him he felt the skin on his fingertips smear and his nails tear out at the roots. The pain in his chest, the need to breathe, was insufferable, but he fought on even as the strength went out of him. His vision faded into blackness, and he was left with nothing but the will to go on. I’m not going to give in. It was the only thought left to him. Dorry needs me. I cannot let myself drown.