Archers and Crusaders: Historical fiction: Novel of Medieval Warfare by Marines, Navy sailors, and Templar knights in the Middle Ages during England's ... (The English Archers Saga Book 6) (12 page)

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       Our lack of targets to shoot at doesn’t last long.  We come flying past an anchored cargo cog just as a Venetian galley comes past it on the other side. 
How it is that we never even saw the Venetian until now totally escapes me, but here it is.

      
We’re running side by side through the packed harbor and the Venetian’s deck is crowded with shouting men.  Their ship is so close and the men on its deck are so packed that the long bows of our Marines can hardly miss. 

       I see a man who appears to be giving orders and send one of my light straight into his ribs.  Someone else must have also seen him for at almost the very same instant another arrow goes into him not two inches from mine.

        We reap a tremendous toll before the men on Venetian’s deck realize what is happening and begin to seek cover by diving down behind the deck railing.  But that doesn’t stop the Venetian captain from running alongside of us or turning towards us.  He’s a brave man and there is no doubt about it - our paths are converging and we’re about to rub the sides of our galleys together.

       “Ship your oars; ship your oars.” is the desperate shout from our sailing sergeant as the Venetian suddenly lurches over towards us and starts to rub up against our port side.  The sides of the two galleys literally bounce off each other several times.  As I stumble against the railing I can clearly hear the crack and screams as oars in both galleys are broken off and others are suddenly snapped back with bone breaking force against their rowers’ chests and faces.

       When the galleys finish bouncing off each other and the distance between their hulls begins to widen I regain my balance - and as I do I find myself staring across the narrow space that divides us into the face of a heavily bearded Venetian with wild eyes, a snarling mouth, and a sword in his hand.  He looks to be about my age and he’s staring straight at me from less than twenty paces away. 

       Our eyes meet – and then I watch as if time is standing still as his eyes widen in shocked surprise when I put a shaft right into his chest before he can get his shield up.
Sorry old man is what comes to my mind; at this distance I would never miss such a big target as you.

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       Chaos is the only way to describe what’s going on down below on our rowing benches.  I’ve been a sailing sergeant for years and never seen such a sight.  The Captain and Bishop Thomas are using their bows and have left the ship to me and the rowing sergeant down below me.  I keep shouting orders down to George but our rowing stopped when we collided with the Venetian and we can’t start rowing again until he get the rowers organized.  I’d go down there myself to sort things out but I’m supposed to stay up here.

       Time seems to stand still as I watch our oarsmen pass unbroken oars to each other and reseat themselves.  Finally George gets the drum started and we begin to pick up speed once again.  Thank God the bastard who hit us is still dead in the water. 
Oh sweet Jesus.  Here comes another. 

       “Hurry, George; Hurry goddamnit.  Get the drum started.  Here comes another of the bastards.”

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       Our rowing stops briefly after we sideswipe the Venetian and that’s all it takes for some of the Venetian galleys behind us to catch us up.  Three of them are almost on us.  After that there’s quite a gap – I cannot immediately make out any others due to all the ships and masts in the harbor between them and us.  Three’s more than enough to catch us, however, particularly since some of our rowers may have been injured by their oars snapping back and many of our Marines are on deck with their bows.

       “We’re coming to the entrance,” Jeffrey shouts and points.  “Dead ahead.” 

       My heart sinks when I look where Jeffrey is pointing.  I can see past the handful of ships anchored in this part of the harbor.  There is no doubt about it - the Venetians have some of their galleys waiting at this entrance as well.   Worse, their rowers will be fresh and ours are not.

       “Jeffrey, let’s stop and reorganize and do what they don’t expect.  Do you still have the Venetian flags from the prizes we took? ”

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       Jeffrey agrees and within seconds he gives the necessary orders.  Our sailors and Marines begin changing positions as the three Venetians bear down on us.  The archers on the deck and in the lookouts’ nest have the freshest arms so they hurry down to the lower rowing deck where the oars are lighter as well as being both more effective and easier to quickly bring inside our hull because they are shorter.  They are joined there by everyone who also hasn’t rowed yet including the rowing sergeant, the drummer, Jeffrey’s talking sergeant, and most of the sailors.  The bigger stroke oars on the last four benches on each side have two rowers on them and so do the even bigger rudder oars. 

       After only a few frenzied seconds as everyone runs to his new position every oar on the lower deck has at least man with fresh arms on it and we are rapidly swinging around to go back the way we came – with three of our injured oarsmen gamely waving Venetian flags from positions on the deck and new Marine archers climbing the mast to the lookouts’ nest with their bows, all the quivers they can carry, and the rest of the flags from our prizes. 

       The sailors who were carrying the arrows are now rowing so one of the Marines who had been rowing will carry additional arrows up to them as needed and use his own bow on the deck until they are.  The changeover to fresh rowers goes rather smoothly as well it should – thanks to my friend Harold we require that changing rowers and archers in a hurry be practiced every day on every one of our galleys.

       Our sail is going up, Venetian flags are being waved, and the exhausted rowers from the lower benches are resting on deck with their bows as the rowing drum begins to beat and we get underway once again.  The Marine archers on the deck will be joined by the Marines now resting on the upper tier of rowing benches if there is hand to hand fighting on deck or more archers are needed.

       The first of the Venetian galleys trailing us is almost on top of us by the time Jeffrey spins us around and the rowing drum begins beating.  We’re barely moving towards them and only the oars in lower bank are in the water for the few seconds it will take for us to reach the closest of them.

       “Get ready to pull them in fast boys” That’s what I shout over and over again to the rowers as I walk down the narrow aisle between the lower rowing benches.  Our rowing drum is beating but not all that fast. 

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       Thomas is down on the first tier of benches getting the new rowers settled in.  I’m up here all by myself as we turn and almost immediately close with the first Venetian.  The Venetian’s rowing hard using both tiers of oars and moving fast right at us.  He obviously wants to disable us by breaking out our oars just as we want to do the same to him if we can break them without getting damaged.  We’re only rowing with our lower tier for just that reason. 

       They’re almost on us.  I can see the men on the Venetian’s deck waving their swords and I can see our Marines pouring arrows into them. 
They don’t even have archers with short bows, the fools.

       “Stand by to ship oars.  Stand by.  Ship oars.  Ship oars.”

       Our men are primed and ready and our oars come in fast.  Within seconds there is a great grinding and lurching as our hulls come together with the terrible cracking and crunching noise as oars are broken and screams as those that don’t break snap back at their oarsmen – hopefully all theirs because I think all ours got shipped in time.

       “Out lower tier oars.  Out lower tier oars.  Row boys, row.”

       The Venetian grinding along our starboard side virtually stops us as it goes past.  And I can see one of the other Venetian thrusters go on by port side without getting close enough to take off any of her oars.  Now where the hell is the third one?  

       I never do see the third Venetian.  And I don’t have time to look for it – I’m too busy watching the Venetians on the deck of the galley going past and shouting commands down to the rudder men and rowers as we go back through the mass of ships in the Venice harbor.

      We’re only rowing the lower oars, our sail is up, and we’re waving Venetian flags and not rowing hard.  Men are lining the decks of the ships we pass and some of the men even wave as we go by.  We see numerous Venetian galleys coming the other way and twice we come close to galleys coming right at us – and row serenely right on past them because they don’t realize we not one of theirs until it is too late.  The arrows of our Marines archers sweep their decks as we go past.

       Thomas joins me on the roof of the Castle and ten minutes later we pass out of the harbor entrance and into the sea ahead.  It’s clear ahead but we’re not out of the woods yet - looking back I can see we now have a number of pursuers and we’re hours away from it being dark enough for us to slip away.  We’ve got our sail up and so do all of them.

       “How many are behind us do you think?” I ask Thomas.

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       Our drum begins to pick up the beat and our upper tier of oars begins to row as the first of our pursuers closes on us.  The other two Venetians, and at least two more according to the lookouts on our mast, are coming up behind us as well.  Jeffrey himself scampers up the mast for a look.

       “They’re too bunched up to try to slow them down,” he shouts at me breathlessly as he climbs back down.  “We’ll have to wait.  There are at least four of them behind the first two and they’re all coming fast.”

       Our rowing drum picks up the pace and Jeffrey sends everyone on the deck back to the oars.  We now have two men on every oar on the lower tier and one man on every oar on the top tier stroking at every other drum beat. 

       An hour passes and then another starts.  We hold our speed and our flight goes on.  Our pursuers stay with us.  They must have added their fighting men and sailors to the slaves who normally do their rowing.

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       The wind is from the west when Jeffrey comes down from yet another look from the mast and slowly reduces the rowing beat.  Almost an hour or so earlier one of the Venetians in the back four was able catch up and pass the two galleys which had previously been in front.  The thruster and one other are now the only Venetians in sight - and they both follow us and cut the corner to close rapidly when Jeffrey suddenly makes a dogleg turn to the left.  Hopefully, we and our two pursuers are far enough ahead of the other Venetian galleys that they will not see any of us make the turn. 
I least we hope they don’t.

       “Andrew” I shout to one of the Marine rowers who had just been replaced on the upper tier so that he could take his turn going for water and a piss.  Climb the mast and keep a lookout.” … “No.  Don’t take your bow or quiver.  Leave them here on the deck with me.  You’ll need both hands to hold on tight.” 

       Twenty minutes later and it appears the trailing Venetians are so far back that they missed our turn and are no longer following us.  Now we’re heading with the wind in our sail coming from our port side.  Now it’s just between us and our two remaining pursuers.  Well, it’s just between the three of us if Andrew’s right about none of the other Algerians making the turn to follow us.  In any event the closest of our two pursuers is finally closing on us. 

         Jeffrey stops the top tier of oars from rowing and sends the Marines on deck as archers as our nearest pursuer continues to cut the gap separating us.  He lets the Venetian close on us until it is well within the range of our archers.  Then he gives the word and our archers begin to launch.

       I myself climb part way up the mast to watch as the archers on our deck begin to shoot. 

      
I’ve only tried to climb a mast a few times before and it’s not something I enjoy.  The damn ropes are often wet and slippery and mast sways back and forth and it sometimes gives a sudden jerk.
 

       In the distance I can see movement on the closest Venetian’s deck as the arrows of our Marines find the range and begin to land.  Now the tables are turning.  At first the Venetian thruster merely slows to drop back out of range.  But we slow with it so it can’t escape the continuous and expertly aimed rain of our Marines’ arrows.

       Finally the Venetian has had enough and turns to break off.  We keep going but now we only have the second thruster behind us.  Within minutes the galley that turned back disappears over the horizon.  It’s mid-afternoon and so far as we know there is now only one Venetian galley trailing us.

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       Jeffrey tantalizes the Venetian behind us by staying just far enough ahead of him to avoid contact.  What he’s doing is what has worked for us over and over again in the past – the “wounded bird” maneuver Harold teaches all the captains.

       “What do you think?” he asks me after the lookout on our mast responds to his hailed inquiry by once again reporting that only a few fishing boats are in sight in addition to the galley chasing us.

       “It’s time,” I agree with a nod.

       Once again our rowing drum slows to allow our Venetian pursuer to come closer.  And once again our archers send a hailstorm of arrows into our pursuer.  This one surprises us by shooting back with cross bow quarrels.   To our amazement one of our Marine archers goes down with a quarrel in his forehead that kills him instantly and causes the arrow he was about to launch to  go skittering out into the sea – and causes his fellow Marines to redouble their efforts to drop their arrows on to the men on our pursuer’s deck and its rudder men.