Nick had sailed on galleons and roundships that were used as troopcarriers with his father, and on the merchantmen and bertoni that plied the Narrow Sea. He had seen and heard and smelt the galleys that traversed the Adriatic and the Mediterranean, admired the skill of manoeuvre and the speed as they fled across the water sleek as greyhounds. But he had never before set foot on one. The reality of what Gallio had faced struck him like a blow in the face.
The rows of scarred and branded backs, five to a bench, the fettered legs, the inexorable beat and chant of the drum keeping stroke was sickening. The rowers sat in their own filth, the top row better placed than the tier below, sluiced down once a day. The stink and noise was memorable. As they drew out into the main channel, their muscled backs and arms slammed to and fro, feet braced on the rests, the fifty-foot lengths of beechwood rose and fell in unison and the grunt of their breathing kept time to the beat: the slave master walked with his whip up and down the gangway between the banks of oars. La Sorcière was a fast two-tiered, twin-masted vessel, gay with gilding and bunting and vermilion paint, carrying little ordnance and a small valuable cargo, and once clear of the harbour with a favourable wind, the sails were hoist and the sweating rowers rested, slumped under a white sun over the oars.
Graceful as birds from a distance, up close the galleys were hell. Nick could only admire the seamanship and the endurance and go to his cabin under the poop praying to the god of sailors for calm seas and no pirates. None that he did not know, at least.
There were other passengers on board, two merchants and a priest. Nick gathered the ship was carrying a rich cargo of ivory, amber, emeralds and gold from Africa, great in value and necessarily small in volume. The priest was Spanish and returning from a Mission. Nick did not seek out their company and, hating the close confines of his narrow cabin, spent most of his time on the high-bridged poopdeck, squinting over the minute writing of his copy of Marlowe’s play, writing up his journal and drawing. He shut his ears to the cacophony of shouts and cries and whistles, the beat of the incessant drum, the screaming of the gulls that wheeled overhead; he had soon ceased to notice the smell.
Days passed and Nick began to understand more about the workings of the vessel. Tobias had been right: a galley allowed insufficient room for passengers and cargo, they were primarily warships, fast and manoeuvrable. Even the larger biremes like this one, and the triremes, were still too full of rowers and ordnance to carry much else in the way of cargo. In the light of what he had seen of the privateers’ ships, he began to adjust his ideas for expanding the courier service. He would not give up on it, his stint as an ambassador had sparked an interest in trade and the new routes being pushed out into the unknown, the notion of exploration excited him, and he found the tricks of the merchants amusing. If he wanted a position of strength, this might be the way.
This trip was unusual, in that it would brave the Western Sea as far as Oporto, hugging the coast. As they beat up the coast of Italy and into the sea of Liguria there were long periods of calm and most mornings a gentle wind would get up at about eleven, sails were hoist and the oarsmen rested as their meal came round. There were free men among the rowers, skilled oarsmen, which accounted for the sweet handling of the ship. He remembered being told that a fighting galley could turn in her own length and began to speculate again on the possibility of acquiring such a vessel as guard and escort. He came to distinguish between the oarsmen and one slave in particular caught his eye. A huge negro, as skilful as the freemen, sat at the first bench on the starboard side, next to the gangway. He face was impassive as his powerful body swung to and fro, and Nick noticed him helping the man next to him when the food came round.
The passengers dined with the skipper, a swarthy man from Modon, by the name of Manolo. Nick recalled some of the dispatches and asked idly if he had heard of the safe house kept by the English pirates. Manolo shook his head vigorously, loudly disclaiming all knowledge of such things, assuring the merchants they were in no danger.
“Be easy, messires. We keep to shallow waters where the wicked English cannot come. All will be safe, believe me.”
With a mental shrug, Nick changed the subject. October blurred into November and days and nights grew colder. Another birthday came and went and Nick wondered if Kate remembered it. He took to practising his swordplay on the poopdeck, regarded with amusement by the other passengers. He noticed the bow oar watching him beadily.
They were fortunate in a series of following winds across the sea of Liguria, and from Barcelona they hugged the coast of Spain as near as they dared: no English pirates so close in. They were making excellent time and Nick began to think he might be home for Christmas after all. The weather seemed set fair and they skimmed under the Pillars of Hercules in fine style, sails furled, an easy fifteen strokes a minute, well out of range of the guns of Ceuta. A pretty easterly breeze sprang up and Manolo, the ship’s master, shipped oars and hoist full sail. The cook’s mate brought up the bowls and the cauldron and passed between the banks of oars with the rowers’ meal. They rounded the south-western cape at a good six knots and sailed out into the Atlantic and up towards Lisboa.
To Nick’s disappointment, far from entering the great port, they sailed on past. Her harbours were crammed with shipping: men-of-war, merchant ships and huge ocean-going galleons, most flying Spanish flags. Nick spotted troopships among them, still riding high on the water. Delayed by unfavourable winds? Uncertain policies? Nick would have liked to put in, with a chance of gathering intelligence, but Manolo seemed intent on sailing up the coast while the weather was on their side.
Before long, however, heading north, things were different. The Atlantic was running a huge oily swell, the wind changed, and a navy-blue bank of cloud was coming from the north to cover the sun. The temperature dropped and a mighty squall hit the spread sails with a bang like cannon shot. Taken aback, the sails flapped and tore, the ship heeled over and the lower bank of oarsmen to starboard shrieked as they were pinned under splintering wood. The heavy cauldron slid across and toppled the shipmaster into the hold with a yell, the tall rudder swung wildly and the helmsman lost his grip and was swept into the sea. Nicholas picked himself up from where he had been thrown, seized one of the heavy axes from its bracket, thrust it at the negro at bow oar and ran skidding down the length of the gangway. He fought his way aft, shouting to the seamen to bring down the ragged sails. He had watched and learned enough on his travels to know the ship must be brought head into the wind and with half the rowers out of action and Manolo still scrambling out of the hold, the crew was without a leader. He grabbed a man to help him with the great sweep that formed the rudder, unmanned and swinging wildly. The timonier was blowing his whistle and shouting orders to the portside rowers and slowly the vessel righted herself and began to turn, wallowing, into the howling gale. It took all Nick’s strength and the man beside him to get control of the sweep and gain steerway. With hands slipping and burning they hung on, beaten with drenching spray and a freezing rain, until at last the Sorcière was riding head-on to the waves.
Manolo and his crew were replacing oars and oarsmen, the master screaming orders and laying about him. The rowers reversed stroke and the Sorcière ran before the wind, stern foremost, seeking shelter. Or so Nick supposed, hanging on for dear life trying to keep the rudder answering, praying it would not snap. The timonier slid across the heaving deck to relieve him and nodded wordlessly at the seamen struggling with the mound of useless canvas that slithered across the deck threatening to engulf the battling oarsmen. Nick tumbled down the ladder and fetched up with a crash against the mainmast. Struggling against the screaming wind, his skull beaten and eyes stung with icy water, he fought with the others to subdue the unwieldy jumble of wet canvas. It was obstinate and weighed like a ton of pig iron, impossible to get a grip on, and by the time it was wrestled into place and lashed down he had torn most of his fingernails and lost all the skin of his palms.
The eye of the storm gave a little respite and they made some progress with fitting spare oars before it all began again. The ship had taken on water and was beginning to wallow; some of the freed slaves began to panic and lose what rhythm they had found. The other passengers were huddled under the forepeak, on their knees with the priest. Lending a hand where it was needed, buffeted and deafened and half-blinded by the sheets of flying water, Nick spared a thought for his plan. It would go on without him. Jack was provided for… He heard a new note in the wind, it was dropping, from a shriek to a moan. The waves flinging themselves down the deck were losing some of their force; the worst of it had passed. Slowly, gradually, things on board began to calm down. His flayed hands in his armpits, Nick straightened up to take stock, straddling the rail of the afterdeck. The injured men had been dragged out of the way, the oarsmen were keeping better stroke and presently jiggers of the Venetian equivalent of navy rum were passed round. It was a rough brandy and Nick took his gratefully, thanking his stars that his beloved horses were safe on land. Blown well off course, the helmsman now turned the vessel in its own length and steered for a steep-sided inlet with a little cluster of houses on top of the cliff. Night was coming on and he performed a small miracle in bringing the Sorcière to a safe harbour, a man calling the depths in the bows. The storm had passed as quickly as it had come, an eternity while it lasted. They dropped anchor and the rattle of the chain was the only loud noise as the quiet night sounds crept in, the hushing of waves on shingle, sleepy birds among the leaves, the rustle of falling water. It was like suddenly going deaf.
Slowly the other passengers crept whey-faced from their place under the poopdeck. The priest moved forward among the injured, doing what he could. Nick emptied the sea water out of his boots, shrugged out of his ruined doublet and hung it over the rail. It was useless looking for dry clothes, everything in his cabin was soaking wet, and he brought out his fighting jack and weapons to clean and dry them. His papers and journal he carried always in an oiled-silk wallet inside his shirt.
The galley swung quietly at anchor, oars couched, as the last storm clouds blew away leaving a sky of luminous purple. It grew darker and Nick sat outside his cabin in his shirtsleeves binding up his hands and watching the stars wink out one by one. First Venus, then Pegasus and the Great Bear. There would be no moon tonight.
At the top of the cliff, a watchfire flamed into life. Uneasy, Nick stood up, listening. All he could hear was the moans of the injured men and a sudden cry of fury from below. The water casks had been broached. He had his night sight now and he looked out to sea. Nothing. He gazed round and the rustle of water resolved itself into a thin silver thread catching the starlight, falling down the cliff into a fine mist at the bottom. ‘A well-found harbour indeed,’ he thought. They were breaking out the skiff to go ashore for the water and he made a sudden decision. His points were tight-knotted with wet and his fingers too sore to deal with them. Instead, he pulled on his damp doublet, strapped on his money belt, thrust himself into his jack, belted on sword and dagger, and picked up his pistol and powder horn in their waxed packet. Thus armed to the teeth, he stamped into his boots, found his cap and cloak and went to join the shore party. If Manolo attached no significance to the watchfire, so be it.
Keeping a wary eye out, he helped with the filling of the casks and opted to sleep ashore. “Perhaps find me a fat coney or two,” he said, lifting the pistol. Tapping their heads at the follies of mad Englishmen, the seamen loaded the casks and rowed back to the galley. She was showing all her lights as the business of repair went on, and Nick crunched as quietly as he could up the narrow beach to the cliff. The waterfall had carved out a handy way up, but Nick had still not conquered his dislike of heights and elected instead to follow the cliffs inland to the source of the inlet. There was an easy shallow clamber along the stream at the far end, and he made his way up and back along the top of the cliff, screened by the thorny scrub that grew along the edge. He lay down where he could see the galley, wishing he had some food, and settled himself to watch. Presently, the lights were dowsed and all was quiet. No one replenished the watchfire. He checked pistol and powder. Both had been well wrapped in the waxed cloth and were dry. His clothes were clammy with salt and sea water and he stripped down to his shirt, his sore fingers clumsy with the buckles, and belted his cloak round him under the jack. He laid the doublet aside to dry and lay down to watch and wait. He dozed and woke and dozed again.
Finally woken in the pre-dawn light by the chirp of an early bird, he roused up and looked out to sea. And there was the thing he had dreaded. A three-masted galliasse flying a black flag, sails reefed, cannon run out, was gliding silently out of the mist to take up station across the mouth of the creek. Boats were swung out and a swarm of dark figures shinned down into them.
Nicholas stood up, checked his powder and cocked his pistol. He fired into the air. The echoes ricocheted round the cliffs, a cloud of birds, white, grey and black, erupted screaming into the air. Surely Manolo had set a watch. He reloaded and fired again, then dropped flat, half an eye on the white-walled cottages behind him. Someone had lit that watchfire with intent.
The boats rowed swiftly towards the galley where she floated idly, a painted ship reflected crimson in the still water. She exploded into life. Nick could hear the shouted orders as the crew strove to bring her round for the guns to bear, but it was too little too late. In no time, she was boarded and taken. The shouts turned to screams, men were flung into the water to sink or swim as they might, and the boats began a purposeful plying to and fro with cargo and those men worth a ransom.
Nick stayed where he was, hidden, straining his eyes, wishing ardently for the spyglass left in his cabin. A man in the last pirate boat stood and lobbed a dark object that sparkled and left a trail of smoke into the waist of the Sorcière, where it exploded with a flash of fire and a soft crump. Flames spread rapidly and Nick saw and heard an extraordinary thing: with a high-pitched squeaking, the gay scarlet paint turned to a pullulating black as the rats poured out of her ports. A dark tide of bobbing heads fanned out over the water and Nick heard the screams and yells of the surviving crew as they jumped ship and swam or waded ashore. The rats swarmed up the beach and disappeared and he found he had been holding his breath. A whiskered snout and beady eyes looked into his face and several rats ran over his body as he lay there. He ducked his head in his arms and when he looked again the spars of the pirate ship were disappearing back into the mist and in minutes she had slipped away as silently as she had come, leaving only the despairing cries of the men in the water to disturb the gulls.
“Slick,” thought Nick. The whole operation had taken less than fifty minutes. One black head was ploughing a swift arrow through the water, towing a sodden bundle of trailing robes. Evidently the priest was not valued very highly. The rest of the survivors were galley slaves and a few seamen. The pirates had taken everyone of value or use together with the chests of gold and emeralds.
Nick watched as the flames rose higher, and La Sorcière, a spectacular bonfire, burned to the waterline and sank, her keel resting on the shallow bottom. The bulky tusks of ivory were going down with the ship. Salvage and payment for whoever set the watchfire? Perhaps. Economical and efficient, thought Nick. Looks as if I’ll miss Gallio after all. He needed a friendly port and another ship. He needed to know where he was.
He sat cross-legged on the short turf, considering his options. An educated guess told him he was stranded roughly a third of the way up the coast between Lisboa and Oporto. He could go south to Lisboa in the hope of avoiding the Spaniards and picking up another ship, or set off on foot, heading north.
“My kingdom for a horse!” he said aloud. If I go back, the miles are to do again and no guarantee of a ship. North it is. His stargazing the evening before had not been solely for the beauty of the night. On the long voyages undertaken for Robert Cecil he had watched and listened and learned. His insatiable curiosity had given him some knowledge of how to find his way about the world, and now he eased his fingers inside his shirt for his wallet of papers. The watch made by M’sieur Corner of Paris was there safe and dry. He found a stick to set upright in the pale morning light and dredged through his hard-won knowledge for all he could recall of method and maps. The stub of lead wrapped round with string and a page torn from his journal aided his careful calculations, and he presently felt reasonably confident of their landfall, on the southernmost coast of Portugal, blown back just north of Lisboa, and he was sure of his direction. The night sky would tell him more. So far, so good. He stowed away watch and journal and looked again at the beach. Manolo, his senior officers and the merchants had all been taken for ransom, those left were able-bodied men and they had a Spanish priest with them; they should do well enough.
The mist rolled landward; only the growing light indicated the time of the morning. The sun would not show itself today. Nick became aware of hunger and thirst. “A fat coney” would be an excellent idea if he had time and means to snare one. A pistol shot would sound for miles and he was an indifferent marksman with a handgun in any case. He slaked his thirst at the stream and took a last look at La Sorcière. She was canted over, a few blackened spars above the water and the group on the shore was watching her dolefully. About to crawl back and stand up, he paused and glanced over the cliff. The marooned party was sitting and lying on the sand, the priest was arguing with one of the seamen, pointing up to the village. Shutters banged, a dog barked and a pump began clanking. Someone shouted at the dog and Nick heard children’s voices. “Time I went,” he said. He wriggled back and stepped down into the stream bed and, bent double, made his way along it.
Once out of sight and sound of the cottages, he straightened up and took a good look round. At this time of year, the flat tableland was covered with coarse dry grass, fissured with cracks and tiny streams, little cover anywhere. After a while the stream he was following bent away from the direction he wanted to go and he stopped to drink again before striking off due north. Rabbits had come out to feed. Nick crept as close as he could and tried his luck with his throwing knife. The movement was enough to scatter the coneys and he retrieved his knife, thinking, I shall go hungry at this rate. A sling, that’s what I need.