WE WERE THREE days out of Barbate when disaster overtook us.
The captain and I were following a heading south along the Atlantic coast of Andalucía, with the intention of eventually swinging eastwards to take us back into the Mediterranean, when a violent storm came roaring in from the open sea and drove us entirely off course. Winter had passed, and for the last few weeks we’d witnessed enormous chattering flocks of migrating birds sweeping across the straits from Africa, heralding spring for the lands of Europe. The winter had been mild, so the shock of this sudden severe weather coming in April was all the greater. Driving hail battered the boat and great breaking waves pounded out of the west, threatening to engulf us.
Above the booming thunder the captain managed to scream in my ear, ‘Imagine the full fury of this in the Atlantic Ocean! Would any but a lunatic sail out there with the man Columbus to face such a storm?’
‘Yes!’ I shouted back as the waves whipped my face, and my head and my heart sang in exhilaration at this struggle with the elements of nature. ‘Yes, I would!’
We lowered the sail and stowed away our precious goods, then clung on and rode out the worst of it. Eventually it began to pass over. Sunlight lanced out of grey skies and the wash became a steady swell. Panipat and the oarsmen went on bailing while the quartermaster checked the cargo and the carpenter-cook and the sail-maker examined the mast, which had taken a beating and needed repair. Occupied by clearing up, and with dense clouds still tumbling and growling off to starboard, none of us noticed the white square of a sail appear on the horizon.
No lookout had been posted. Every man was busy, including the captain. He’d even taken off his peacock jacket in order to crouch down in the prow and check that the flint box was dry. The men were wringing out their possessions. Beside me in the bilges, Lomas was checking that the contents of his bag were safe. Suddenly I raised my head and saw the ship coming alongside no more than a hundred metres away.
My voice strangled in my throat. I could only grab Lomas by the arm and croak a warning.
He followed my gaze and yelled at the top of his voice, ‘Muster! Muster!’
The men scrambled to their places and I jumped onto the boardwalk.
There was a bang. The other ship had fired a cannon shot. It went clear across our decks. Lomas grabbed my ankle so that I fell flat on my face.
‘Get down,’ he yelled, ‘lest you want your head blown off!’
She was a tall three-masted privateer, with cannon on each side. And she was flying the flag of the crescent moon.
A shout of joy came from one of the Muslim slaves, and he called out to his companions. They raised their hands, pointing at the flag, smiling and waving.
I saw flame leap out again from the mouth of a cannon mounted on the ship’s foredeck. The ball went over and splatted into the water beside us.
‘She’s too high in the water!’ the man in front of Lomas shouted. ‘Her cannon won’t harm us.’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that,’ someone else replied as the next ball skimmed the deck, whapped against our mast, causing it to wobble, and then took off the awning draped above the captain’s table.
‘No talk!’ Panipat shouted in fury. ‘Use your energy to pull!’
But there wasn’t an island in sight and the Turks now saw that we had chained Muslim slaves who were crying out to them for rescue. They closed on us, intending to kill the Spanish crew.
‘For the love of God, release us or we’ll drown if our galley is holed!’ one of the slaves pleaded to Panipat.
‘And have you jump overboard?’ he swore at them in reply. ‘Not this time, you dogs. Get on, you curs! Get on!’ He lashed out with his whip.
The oars groaned as the men bent and pulled. Muscles stood out like ropes on their backs. The captain stamped his feet in frustration. We were far off course, and without knowing our location he couldn’t give Panipat an accurate heading. The Turks had us within their grasp and there was nowhere to go.
‘O Lord, deliver us!’ the quartermaster prayed as he handed out spears to the crew.
One of our freeman rowers spoke to me: ‘If you know what’s good for you, boy, you’ll make a run for it. When we’re boarded, seize your chance to jump and swim. Cling to anything that floats and try to get away. Better to drown than be captured by the Infidel. These heathens will use you for sport before they slit your belly open and toss you to the fish.’
I touched the waistband of my breeches where my knife was hidden.
The privateer was now so close we could see men lined up with grappling hooks, ready to throw down to pull us in. They were shouting to the Arab slaves, who replied in their own language.
‘Tell them how good a captain I’ve been!’ Captain Cosimo begged our chained Arab men. ‘I’ve always fed you and treated you fairly.’
The slaves laughed in his face and defiantly rested on their oars, disobeying Panipat’s instructions.
‘Let us parley!’ Captain Cosimo hailed the ship in the dozen or so languages in which he could say these words. ‘Name your terms of surrender!’
The answer came in a rush of descending arrows. There would be no discussion. They intended to take whatever we had.
A grappling hook with a line attached came hurtling across the water and thudded into the side of the boat. It failed to find a hold and fell back into the sea. The next one trailed across the deck and caught the side. Our galley shuddered, and a loud huzzah sounded from the enemy. I didn’t need to be told what to do. I ran forward, wrested the hook free and threw it back into the water. Arrows struck the deck all around me, one glancing against my arm. I jumped back among the oarsmen for safety. They cheered me as I crouched at their feet.
Then a contrary wind caught the sails of the other ship and she drifted away from us. Our men cheered even louder and bent over their oars. We began to make headway.
The gap between the two vessels widened. But the Turks were without doubt among the best seamen we had encountered. They altered their angle of approach to bring their prow to bear on our side.
‘Turn us!’ Captain Cosimo screamed at Panipat. ‘Turn us! We must not let them ram us on our broadside!’
Our men stood up and sculled hard. Our boat spun like a piece of cork in a river.
‘We can’t outgun them,’ Captain Cosimo shouted in glee, ‘but we might outmanoeuvre them!’
It seemed as though he was right. We were losing them. They’d no oarsmen to give them power to change direction. They relied solely on the wind, and luck was with us – but for how long?
Blindly the free oarsmen obeyed the stroke command, and there was more open water between the vessels.
The captain had a rough heading and he shouted out to Panipat. Was it possible that we might get away?
The freemen and the port-side slaves settled into a fast rhythm. The boat went on, moving with the flow of the sea.
But the Arab oarsmen were slacking – there was no doubt about it. Whereas eight months ago I wouldn’t have sensed the movement of the boat through the water, now I was experienced enough to feel the sluggishness jar through my very bones.
Panipat became as one demented. He ran up to the prow and began to beat the Arab slaves mercilessly. They bent their backs and took the blows but pulled not one iota harder. Finally he took his long knife from his belt and put it behind the ear of the nearest slave. ‘Pull, you son of Satan,’ he screeched, ‘or I’ll skewer your skull and take your place myself!’
The Arabs began to pull harder.
Our vessel was swift and light and had a skilled oars-master and crew. Now that we’d put distance between ourselves and the larger ship, the captain hoped to be gone. But the bigger vessel had tacked and the Turks were bringing it round again.
We could still get away. Why did the captain not alter course?
Panipat glanced out across the waves and then back to Captain Cosimo. ‘Change our bearing!’ he shouted.
The gap was closing again. Fast.
And then I realized that, at that distance, Captain Cosimo could not see the enemy ship tacking to turn against us.
I crawled along the boardwalk to the command platform and grabbed the captain’s arm. ‘She’s coming about!’ I shouted. ‘She’s coming about!’
Captain Cosimo blinked and stared at me. A mind-numbing pause. Then, within half a minute, he took in what I was telling him.
He was thirty seconds too late.
A shadow loomed over our heads as the privateer, prow out-thrust, bore down on us.
With a crunch of splintering wood she rammed us amidships.