Текст книги "Sword and Scimitar"

Автор книги: Simon Scarrow

Соавторы: Simon Scarrow
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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

The bow of the galley to the left began to swing towards the enemy, faster as the oars on the port side hung in the water and the forward momentum dragged the galley round to face its tormentors.

‘The fool!’ Thomas growled as his fingers gripped the wooden rail tightly. ‘The fool.’

The galley fired on the corsairs as soon as its two bow guns came to bear. There was no attempt to wait for the vessel to settle and take the best shot. Even so, one of the balls crashed through the gun port under the forecastle of the nearest enemy galley and then tore down the length of the ship, smashing through the rowers, their benches and several of the oars which jerked savagely along the side of the galley. The other shot plunged harmlessly into the sea a short distance in front of the galley, throwing spray over the corsairs brandishing their weapons in the forecastle.

As soon as the Spanish galley had begun to turn, the other corsairs surged forward again, heading either side of the galley to take full advantage of the gap that opened up between the warships escorting the galleons. The damaged corsair could not move until the casualties amongst the rowers had been cut free and dropped into the bilge, and then the survivors redistributed amongst the remaining oars. As the vessel wallowed on the swell, the Spanish galley continued to pound it, cutting down the foremast and smashing the bows into a splintered ruin. As Thomas watched he could see that the corsair would not be able to take any further part in the battle even if the vessel was lucky enough not to sink. But that was small comfort since the way was now open for the remaining five corsairs to sweep past the Spaniard and fall on the galleons. A crackle of musket fire sounded as the corsairs exchanged shots with the crew of the galley, then the crash of cannon from the galley ahead and to the left of the flagship. The shot struck the stem of the foremost corsair, striking down the officers gathered there.

‘Sir.’ Thomas turned to Don Garcia. ‘We have to stop the corsairs reaching the galleons.’

‘I can see that, thank you. We must move closer to them.’ Thomas took another look at the scene before he saw that one of the corsairs was flying a much larger pennant than the others. He pointed it out. ‘That must be their leader, there.’

Don Garcia followed the direction he indicated.

‘If we can take or sink him, then we might discourage the others, sir.’

‘What of the formation? If we take after that ship we will no longer be able to cover the rear of our other galleys.’

‘It’s already too late for that. The formation was only good for as long as every ship held its station.’ Thomas gestured towards the galley still firing at the dismasted corsair, which had started to settle by the bows. ‘Now it’s every ship for itself, sir.’

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

‘Captain!’ Don Garcia called out as he strode to the rail that overlooked the main deck. ‘Alter course towards that corsair with the long pennant. Do you see him?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Have your gunners make ready. We must destroy him as swiftly as possible.’

As the captain passed the orders on, Thomas watched the corsairs’ attack unfolding. Five galleys had slipped between the Spanish escorts and were closing on the galleons to open fire at point-blank range. One of the enemy vessels had heaved to, and there were figures running across the stern deck as they looked for survivors amongst the officers who had been scythed down by a blast of grapeshot. Beyond the corsairs the leading Spanish ship was starting to turn back to rejoin the battle. To the south the two galleys tasked with protecting that flank were still keeping station even though they were under fire from the second group of corsairs.

‘What will the enemy do now?’ asked Richard.

Thomas considered the situation briefly before he replied. ‘If they follow usual practice they’ll try to shred the rigging and sails to stop the galleons and then clear the decks with grapeshot before they attempt to board. But there isn’t time for that. I believe they will fire on to the decks first and cause as many casualties as possible before they are forced to retreat. Then they’ll repeat the same pattern of attack. As long as the corsairs handle their ships well and avoid a melee they can continue their running attacks on the galleons.’ He sucked air through his teeth. ‘The soldiers on board are going to suffer grievous losses unless we can drive the corsairs off.’

The pace setter’s drum quickened and the flagship turned towards the enemy leader who was backwatering as he approached the nearest of the galleons. There was a flash and puff of smoke from the bows as the gun fired on the galleon. Just as Thomas had feared, the shot was aimed low and cut a swathe through the soldiers trapped on the deck. Small puffs of fire and smoke blossomed along the side of the galleon as some of the arquebusiers fired back. The other corsair galleys took up positions abeam of the galleon and added their fire and the officers on the deck of the flagship could only look on in despair as the Spanish soldiers were steadily cut down.

‘Can’t this damned ship move any faster?’ Richard hissed in frustration. ‘And why doesn’t anyone give the order for our guns to open fire? Surely we’re in range.’

They were little more than a quarter of a mile from the leader of the enemy fleet, whose galley was in direct line with the galleon.

‘We can’t fire,’ Thomas realised. ‘We’d risk hitting our own men.’

The captain of the flagship had also seen the danger and steered wide for long enough to ensure that the galleon would be clear of the line of fire when the flagship resumed its original course. The other Spanish galleys on the northern flank were turning to bear down on the enemy, their crews crying out battle cries as they saw their comrades being cut down on the galleon. The corsairs were alert to the danger and their oars dipped into the swell as they turned swiftly and made towards the next galleon, leaving the first with shattered bulwarks and thin trails of blood running down from the scuppers. The pale dots of the faces of the men on the high stern of the second galleon looked back towards the oncoming corsairs and Thomas could imagine the sick fear welling up in the pits of their stomachs as they prepared to endure the same fate their comrades had moments before.

The pursuit of the clumsy galleons had turned into a one-sided stern chase as the sleek vessels of the corsairs rapidly advanced on their prey. The enemy slowed as they closed up on the second galleon and the first shots struck the stern quarter, shattering the painted wooden shutters and tearing ragged holes in the ship’s side.

‘Are we in range yet, Captain?’ asked Don Garcia, his fist clenched tightly over the pommel of his sword so that his knuckles were white.

The captain silently judged the distance before he replied. ‘The range is still long, sir. But we might get a lucky shot in.’

‘Then give the order. At once.’

The deck shuddered as the first gun roared and a thick cloud of smoke briefly obscured the target. The wind stripped the smoke away as the men on the stem deck strained their eyes to see if the shot had struck home. The flagship rose on the swell and Thomas and the others saw a foaming white circle and ripples on the water close to the stem of the ship of the corsair leader.

‘Near enough,’ Don Garcia nodded. ‘Fire at will.’

The second gun blasted out and a fluke of the breeze swept the smoke aside swiftly enough for those on the flagship to see a section of the stern explode into a shower of splinters. A cheer tore from the throats of the crew and some waved their fists triumphantly.

'Have your men load with chain shot, ’ Thomas suggested. ‘Aim for the oars. If we can cripple them then we can put alongside them, board their ship and end this quickly.’

Don Garcia nodded and gave the order to the captain to pass on. The gun crews hurriedly swabbed out their weapons and loaded the next charges as the flagship closed the distance. The guns roared out again at a range of two hundred paces. The first shot tore up the surface of the sea behind the oar blades on the port side and sheared through the rearmost of the oars. A moment later the second shot struck home. Several of the oars shivered and splintered as the weighted lengths of chain ripped through the wooden shafts. At once the corsair slewed round to port and exposed its beam, providing an easy target for the gunners on the Spanish flagship.

‘Pound ’em!’ Fadrique called out, his voice high-pitched with excitement.

His father gave him a disapproving glance before he fixed his attention on the enemy ship. The guns boomed out in a steady rhythm as their crews reloaded and fired as swiftly as possible. The flagship bore down on the corsair and as the range diminished every shot struck home, shattering oars, smashing gaps in the bulwarks and tearing men to crimson tatters on the main deck. Even so, the tiny flames of musket fire stabbed back towards the flagship and some shots were finding their targets. Thomas saw one of the gunners’ chests bloodily explode as a lead ball tore through his body.

‘Come with me, Richard,’ he commanded and led the way down on to the main deck and forward towards the armed men clustered between the two masts. The soldiers wore breastplates and helmets and their arms and hips were protected by studded gambisons. Some carried shields and heavy swords, and iron-headed clubs hung from their belts. Others held short pikes, ready to wield them double-handed. Thomas turned to his squire and looked him over, testing his straps and the buckle under his chin before he nodded with satisfaction. ‘You’ll do.’

Richard nodded too quickly and Thomas saw the fear in his eyes. A familiar fear – the terror of a man who is facing battle for the first time, his head filled with dreadful expectation of being wounded, or failing to acquit himself with honour. Thomas placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder and spoke just loudly enough to be heard over the crackle of musket fire and the beating of the drum below deck.

‘Stay close to me. I need you to protect my back. Are you ready?’

‘Yes. . . Of course . . . Why are we doing this?’

Thomas frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

Richard gestured at the men around them. ‘Fighting. That is surely the job of these soldiers. We are merely passengers.’

‘I am a knight. It is my duty to fight. As it is yours, as the man who calls himself my squire.’

‘Yes, yes, you are right. But our place is there on the aft deck and our duty is to defend Don Garcia with our lives. That’s where we should make our stand.’

As Thomas looked at his companion he felt no anger or contempt at the young man’s reluctance to fight, only an ache of disappointment that Richard was resisting the chance to put himself to the test. Unless the young man could suppress his fears and face this peril, he would be crippled by self-doubt through the rest of his life. It was not through love of violence that Thomas had moved forward to join the men about to board the corsair lying directly ahead. It was, as he had said, a duty. But there was more. Regardless of his wider moral concerns about the endless war of the faiths, circumstance had placed him in this conflict and perforce he would fight and kill without reservation.

‘Don Garcia is surrounded by his officers. He is safe. Our place is here, where we can have a more immediate effect on the outcome of the fight. We will fight alongside these men.’

Richard’s mouth opened to protest but Thomas cut him off before he could utter a sound. ‘No more words. Steel your heart and take a firm grip of your sword handle.’

The young man swallowed anxiously. ‘Should I pray?’

‘If you wish. Many men pray before a battle but I never saw that it protected them from either bullet or blade.’ Then Thomas smiled reassuringly. ‘Fix your mind on surviving and do all you can to ensure it. That is the only right and proper thought for a soldier to have before battle. Ready?’

Richard breathed deeply. ‘I am ready, Sir Thomas.’

Ahead, the masts and slender yards of the corsair galley loomed up against the sky. The Spanish gunners fired their last shots across the enemy deck and then the order was given for the flagship to turn to port. The oars on that side dug into the sea while those to starboard made one last powerful stroke before the timekeeper shouted at the rowers to ship their oars. There was a dull rumble from below the deck as the lengths of timber were slid in through their ports and heaved across the width of the galley. Then the stern of the corsair passed down the side of the warship and the vessels closed beam to beam. Thomas could see the enemy fighters lining the galley’s rail, screaming their war cries and insults as the gap closed.

‘Boarding hooks away!’ the captain bellowed.through his cupped hands. The sailors who stood ready with the hooks tied to coils of rope swirled the iron prongs above their head before releasing them up and over the narrow gap. The grappling hooks arced over the sea, trailing snaking ropes, and then plunged out of sight amid the robed figures crowding the deck of the other galley. At once, several Spaniards took up the ropes and braced their bare feet on the deck, straining to draw the two vessels closer together. The air was filled with the staccato crash of arquebuses and the frenzied cries of the men waiting for the chance to launch themselves into battle.

The swell lifted Don Garcia’s flagship and it crashed violently against the corsair so that the men on both vessels struggled to keep their footing. At once the captain shouted the order: ‘Fasten the lines!’

The men assigned to the grappling hooks pulled the ropes taut and looped them round the belaying pins to secure the two vessels together. About them the Spanish soldiers ran planks across the narrow gap between the two galleys and clambered up on to the bulwarks, yelling defiantly at the waiting corsairs. Thomas pushed his way through the soldiers and grasped a shroud and pulled himself up on to the wide wooden rail running along the side of the galley. He drew his sword and glanced back to see Richard right behind him. To his right a huge sergeant with an artfully patterned morion punched his sword towards the enemy and bellowed.

‘With me, boys! Death to the heathen!’

The sergeant leaped over the gap and landed on the rail before his impetus carried him on, falling amid the robes, dark-skinned faces and limbs, and curved gleaming blades beyond. Scrambling back on to his feet with a savage roar he began to lay about him with his sword, savagely hacking at the men scrambling to get clear of his reach. Blood arced across the deck. More men leaped after the sergeant while some dashed across the boarding planks.

Thomas sucked in a deep breath and leaped forward. For an instant he saw the gleam of the narrow strip of sea between the two galleys then he fell against one of the enemy, a slender man in dirty cotton robes, his head tightly wrapped in a turban. Both men thudded down on to the deck and at once Thomas thrust out his left arm to push himself back up as his feet found their grip. He felt a waft of warm breath and realised that the man he had landed on was screaming at him in rage as he lay pinned down under Thomas’s weight. He slammed the guard of his sword down into the corsair’s face, cutting off his shouts. He struck again, harder, and felt bone break and give way under the blow. Then he rose into a crouch and swung his blade in an arc to his front. Another Spaniard landed to his right before the corsairs surged forward, desperate to cut down the attackers before they could gain a foothold on the deck.

There was a glint to the left of his field of vision and Thomas saw a blade slicing through the air towards his shoulder. The blow rang in his ear as the edge glanced off his shoulder guard. The padded jacket beneath absorbed most of the energy and Thomas slapped the blade away with his forearm and then cut at the corsair’s bare arm with his sword, the muscled flesh giving way beneath the finely honed steel edge. The corsair’s sword clattered on to the deck and blood spattered down on to it as the injured man drew back, gritting his teeth in agony. Thomas looked quickly from side to side and saw the Spaniard to his right double over as a large Moor with a chain-mail vest and spiked helmet drove a pike into his stomach, carrying him back hard against the bulwark so the deadly point burst through his body and lodged in the timbers at his back.

As the Moor wrenched the shaft back, Thomas thrust his point into the man’s side but the chain links did not give way. The man grunted in pain and turned the bloodied point of his pike towards Thomas’s body. Then, seeing the breastplate, the Moor dropped the point and stabbed at Thomas’s groin. Twenty years before, Thomas would have nimbly dodged the blow but now he had to throw himself to the side against the mortally wounded Spaniard who had dropped his weapons and stood mouth agape as he stared down at the ragged tear in his quilted jacket and greasy grey length of gut that had been tom out as the Moor wrenched the pike free.

Thomas recovered his balance and struck back, cutting towards the side of the Moor’s head. The edge of the blade struck the cheekguard, bending it in half, and the Moor’s jaw shattered under the impact. Blood and teeth spurted from his gaping mouth. For an instant the Moor was dazed and Thomas snatched his blade back and thrust deep into the man’s throat, then ripped the blade free in a rush of bright crimson. Stepping back into a crouch, Thomas held the dripping tip of his blade up and glanced to both sides. The Spaniards were swarming over the bulwark and leaping into the fight. A thud to his left caused Thomas to twist round sharply and he saw Richard, wide-eyed as he held up a hand to ward off the point of Thomas’s sword.

‘Keep close,’ Thomas commanded, then moved cautiously across the deck. A sprawling melee extended on each side as the Spaniards pressed forward, cutting wildly about them as they struggled to create more space for their comrades to follow them. Towards the stem Thomas saw a richly robed man in a braided green jacket leading a party of armoured men down from the aft deck, and realised it must be the enemy commander and his officers. Strike him down and the rest of the crew might surrender, Thomas decided. Without their leader the rest of the corsair ships might also lose heart and break off their attack.

‘This way!’ Thomas gestured towards the man and beckoned to Richard to follow him. They had advanced no more than a few paces before a knot of corsairs blocked their path – five men, unarmoured but equipped with shields and heavy scimitars. They had been hanging back from the fight but now, seeing the two Christians before them, their confidence flowed back and they surged forward with enraged cries. Thomas parried the first blow before a second weapon glanced off the reinforced crest of his helmet. He blinked and struck back, hacking at a shield and driving it down, then grasping the rim and wrenching it away as he punched the guard into the man’s face.

He was dimly aware of a blur of action to his left and he heard Richard hiss a curse, before the savage scrape and clatter of blades that ensued. Then Thomas was dealing with his next foe, an older man, ten years or more older than Thomas himself. He held back as they briefly weighed each other up. Then the corsair feinted, testing Thomas’s reactions. He did not flinch, but stood poised as he stared back. The second attack was followed through and Thomas parried three cuts before he made a riposte that was knocked aside at the last moment by the corsair’s shield. As he drew back his sword and lunged again, aiming for the man’s face this time, Thomas’s boot caught on the limb of a body sprawled on the deck and he pitched forward and fell heavily, at the mercy of the corsair standing over him. He rolled on to his side and raised his left arm to protect his head, willing to risk it in order to save his life. The corsair raised his scimitar and his expression gleamed with bloodthirsty triumph as he swung the fatal blow. Then there was a blur and a sharp metallic ring as another blade blocked the scimitar, a swift arcing movement and then a deep grunt.

For a brief moment all was still and then Thomas felt several warm drops spatter across his face. He blinked them aside as a hand reached under his arm and hauled him up on to his feet. Richard glanced over his body.

‘Are you wounded, sir?’

‘No ... I think not.’ Thomas shook his head, and then saw the two bodies to one side, each mortally wounded by a thrust to the heart. Richard was holding a rapier in one hand. He drew a broad– bladed dagger from its sheath with his other hand. The man Thomas had just been fighting lay on his back, legs working feebly as he clutched his hands to his throat and tried to stem the blood pulsing from a ragged wound beneath his chin. Richard pushed in front of him, leaning slightly forward, his arms held loosely to each side, both weapons poised. A heavily built African with a studded club had stepped forward and with a loud roar he leaped forward and swung the club in a diagonal arc. Thomas watched as his squire ducked nimbly under the attack and then stabbed the dagger into the corsair’s powerful bicep and ripped it free, tearing the muscle apart. The African howled in agony but managed to hold on to his club and aimed a fresh blow at the squire’s head. Once again Richard moved neatly aside and this time swung his sword up and punched the tip under the corsair’s ribcage. The man’s momentum did the rest; the sword blade sliced up into his vital organs and cut through blood vessels. Stepping back, Richard twisted the blade and yanked it free before he resumed his en garde position.

Thomas was breathing heavily and nodded his thanks. ‘I thank you, young Richard,’ he said hoarsely.

‘There will be time later,’ he replied curdy, then stepped forward between two corsairs standing back to back. Both men were despatched with carefully executed blows that they never saw coming, and Richard took another couple of paces before he stopped long enough to allow Thomas to catch up and resume the lead.

‘Now do as I said and stay at my side,’ he said.

‘As you will.’

Around them the fight was clearly going the Spaniards’ way.

The corsairs had already suffered heavy losses from blasts of chain shot that had scourged the deck of the galley, and now they had been pushed back to the bows and stern of their vessel and only a handful of men continued to fight along the deck between the masts. Thomas and Richard were only ten or so paces from where the corsair leader and his officers were fighting the Spaniards pressing around them, anxious for the honour of killing the enemy commander and looting his body. Yet several of their comrades had already fallen under the bejewelled scimitars of the corsairs and as Thomas watched, another was struck down, the blade of the leader cleaving through his collarbone and deep into his chest so that his right shoulder and sword arm slumped to the side as the Spaniard collapsed on to his knees. Thomas was close enough now to see the deep lines on the enemy commander’s face and the scar across his brow and cheek. He had lost one eye. The other glittered, as did his teeth, within the dark weathered skin of his fierce expression.

‘Make way!’ Thomas called out to the Spaniards facing the enemy officers. ‘Move aside there!’

He roughly shoved one of the soldiers from his path and then thrust between two more before he stood a short distance from the enemy commander. Raising his sword, Thomas bellowed, ‘Hold fast! Hold fast!’

The Spaniards looked at him and then as reason mastered their fury they backed off a pace and regarded their opponents warily.

Thomas raised his left hand and thrust his finger at the corsair commander. ‘Surrender your ship.’

The corsair needed no familiarity with English to understand the instruction and his lips twisted into a sneer before he spat on to the deck at Thomas’s feet. Ignoring the insult, Thomas turned his head slightly towards his squire, while keeping his eyes fixed on the corsair.

‘Tell him the fight is over. His ship is ours. If he surrenders now, he and his men will be spared. If not, they will surely die. ’ Thomas lowered his voice. ‘I already have enough blood on my hands and wish no more. Tell him.’

Richard did so. The corsair chuckled and shook his head. He snarled a reply and raised his head haughtily and glared down his nose at Thomas with his remaining eye.

‘He says he would sooner die a thousand times than accept mercy from the son of a jackal,’ Richard translated.