Corsair (4 page)

‘Have you been in Algiers?’ he asked, anxious to glean any information about their fate.

‘Of course! Was I not there for five years and more? And then they doubted the tales I had to tell.’

Hector was growing ever more confused by the old man’s rambling. ‘It’s not that I doubt you. Only I know nothing of these matters.’

‘I swear to you that I was a beylik slave for all those five years, mostly in the quarries, but sometimes on the harbour wall. Yet I never renounced my faith, oh no, though others did. Even when they beat me, I resisted. What came later was more cruel.’

‘What could be worse than slavery? And what’s a beylik?’

The old man ignored the question. He was working himself into a frenzy. He grabbed Hector’s arm and dug in with his bony fingers. ‘After they bought me, they treated me like dung,’ he hissed.

‘You mean the Algiers people?’

‘No. No. The canting hypocrites. After they paid my ransom, they thought I was their thing. They paraded me around, I and a dozen others. We were like monkeys to be stared at. Made us wear our old slave clothes, the red cap and the thin gown, even though it was shivering cold. They had us stand and call out from carts, shake our chains and tell our woes. That is, until they had enough of us. Then they turned us loose without a coin to our names. So I went back to sea, it is the only trade I know, and now I’m taken a second time.’ He cackled maniacally and shuffled back to his corner, where he again went through the peculiar pantomime of laying himself down on the hard boards with exaggerated care, then turned his face away.

‘Silly old fool. Don’t believe a word of his gibberish. He’s a charlatan.’ The sour comment came from the stout man wearing the wig and the expensive but stained clothes who looked like a merchant. He must have overheard the old man’s tale. ‘There are plenty of tricksters who go about, claiming they were captives of the Moors and begging for alms. They’re fakes.’

‘But what did he mean by “paraded around”?’ Hector found himself taking an instant dislike to the man.

‘It’s a technique the redemptorists use. They’re the do-gooders who raise money to buy back the slaves from Barbary. After they bring them home, they trundle the wretches around the countryside, putting them on show so that the common people can see what sufferings they have endured, and this encourages them to part with their money to pay for more ransoms.’ He gave a knowing look. ‘But who’s to say where most of the money goes? I am acquainted with a ransom broker myself, a City man who facilitates the meetings with the Jews that act as middle men for the Moors. My friend has done remarkably well, and that’s why I tell myself that I won’t stay long in Barbary. As soon as I can get word back to my friend, he’ll make sure that I’m ransomed early. Then I’ll get home to my wife and family.’

‘And what happens otherwise?’ Hector enquired, careful not to say ‘to the rest of us’. The merchant’s smug self-interest repelled him.

‘Depends what’s on offer. If you have money or influence, preferably both, then you won’t stay long with the Moors. Those who have neither should be patient. Every nation that calls itself Christian tries to ransom back its citizens sooner or later, provided there are enough funds.’

‘How is it that you are here yourself?’

‘I’m Josiah Newland, a mercer from London. I was on my way to Ireland when I was taken. Someone in Cork was having money difficulties and obliged to sell off a shipment of linen cheaply. I thought to get there ahead of the competition. So I hired a fishing boat to take me there, but unfortunately it was intercepted by these faithless pirates and they carried off myself and the crew. Those are the crew members over there.’ He pointed into the far corner, at the men who had earlier clustered around the basket of bread. ‘As you can see, they stick together. They are not at all my type, nor are those base fellows.’ He gestured towards the villagers in their miserable huddle. Clearly he thought that Hector was not of their company.

‘We were all captured at the same time,’ Hector replied, trying to keep his tone neutral. With every word Josiah Newland was revealing himself to be a selfish prig. ‘There was a raid on our village.’

The merchant seemed taken aback, though not sympathetic. ‘I didn’t think that sort of thing happened any longer. There was a time when the corsairs were very bold. They infested our coasts until the King’s ships began to patrol more actively. Nowadays those pirates confine their activities to capturing ships at sea, stealing their cargoes and carrying off their crews. Indeed I would not have undertaken my own coasting voyage if His Majesty had not concluded a treaty with the Barbary states. According to the newspapers the Turks promised not to molest English shipping. But then you can never trust the Turks, nor Moors for that matter, they are a treacherous lot. Or perhaps they thought the King of England would not trouble himself unduly about his Irish subjects, for he cares little for Papists.’

Hector did not reply. The mercer was only mimicking the attitude of the King and his ministers in London. To them Ireland, though a part of the realm, was a troublesome place populated by awkward, difficult and potentially treasonable subjects, particularly if they were followers of the Church of Rome. Hector tried to imagine Newland’s reaction if he was to tell him that the corsair captain who held him prisoner was an Irish turncoat who now sailed as a Muslim.

O
VER THE NEXT
several days Hector, who had an intelligent and enquiring nature, struck up a friendship with one of the seamen who had been captured with Newland. He was a Devon man by the name of Francis Dunton who seemed remarkably unruffled by their abduction. Hector made sure that whenever small groups of prisoners were allowed out of the ship’s hold for exercise, he and Dunton were on deck at the same time.

‘This ship we’re on now,’ he asked the sailor diffidently, ‘is she anything like the vessels you’ve sailed yourself?’

Dunton turned to face the young man, and Hector was struck by the similarity between the Devon man and the corsair petty officer who had escorted him to see Hakim Reis. Both men had the same compact, muscular physique, an easy balance on the moving deck, and the same air of calm competence. Dunton’s weather-beaten face was tanned to nearly the same colour as the corsair’s swarthy complexion. ‘No different,’ Dunton answered in his slow, gentle accent. ‘This here is a sailing ship like any other.’

‘Would you be able to sail this ship as well as those who have her now?’ Hector asked, impressed by his companion’s self-assurance.

The sailor gave a derisive chuckle. ‘Better. The man who cuns this ship, gripes her too much.’

‘What is “gripes”?’

‘Turns her head, her bow that is, too much towards the wind. That slows her down.’

‘And to “cun” the ship?’

‘That only means to steer her.’

‘I wonder if I would ever be able to learn all the sea words, let alone how to manage such a vessel.’

‘Seamanship comes natural to some,’ answered the sailor in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘Those who haven’t the knack, can usually learn if they are given enough time. The rare ones are those who can tell a helmsman which way to cun his ship, or can decipher the stars and predict a sure landfall on a foreign shore where he has never been before. That’s the man who his mates will want to sail with.’

‘You mean a navigator?’

‘Correct. Any fool can tell you that we’ve been heading south since we left the coast of Ireland, and a day ago I’d say we turned more eastward. You can tell that just by looking at the sun, and the fact that each night the air in the hold is getting hotter. I reckon we must have come at least four hundred miles and are close to Africa.’

Hector broached a subject that had been nagging at the back of his mind. ‘As a boy I once heard a man speak about being taken as a captive by the corsairs. He told how their prisoners were made to work as slaves in galleys, working the oars. But I don’t see any oars.’

‘This ship is a sailing vessel, not a galley,’ the sailor replied, ‘nor even a galleass, which is a word for a ship that has both oars and a sail. A galley would be next to useless out here in the open ocean. Nigh on impossible to row in the waves, and the distances are too great. How would you feed a crew on a voyage of more than a few days? You must trust to the wind when you are far from land. No, this ship suits well enough for her purpose, which is pirating.’

‘What about meeting another ship, is there a chance that someone might rescue us?’

‘I’d expect we’ll sight other ships all right, but whether we’ll be rescued is another matter. For one thing, there’s our companion over there.’ Dunton nodded towards the corsair’s sister ship still visible half a mile away. ‘Two ships sailing in close company are best avoided in case they’re hostile. They can gang up on a stranger. And should we get separated and must sail on our own, then who’s to say that this is a corsair ship. If the crew take the trouble to cover those few guns, this vessel could as easy be a merchantman as a pirate. Pull down those pennants and that green flag and run up someone else’s colours and she could be Dutch or French or a Brandenburger as much as Turk. That’s why ships avoid one another when they meet at sea, just in case of trouble.’

T
HE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON
almost proved Dunton wrong. The captives were on deck taking their exercise when a distant sail was sighted from the masthead. Hector noticed Hakim Reis gazing intently in the direction of the approaching vessel before the prisoners were hustled back down into the hold and shut in. Dunton stayed on the lower rungs of the ladder, his head cocked to one side, listening. There was a squeal of ropes running through the wooden blocks. ‘Hullo, they’re bringing the topsails amain,’ he commented. Soon afterwards there was a tramp of feet heading towards the stern. ‘And there they go to peak the mizzen. They’re heaving to.’

‘What does that mean?’ asked Hector in a whisper.

‘They’re stopping the ship, waiting for the other one to catch up,’ Dunton explained as Hector felt the motion of the vessel change. Where before the ship had been sailing at a slant, now she was level and pitching up and down gently on the waves.

Dunton sat down against the side of the hold. ‘No hurry, younker,’ he said. ‘It’ll be some time before that other sail catches up with us, three or four hours at least.’

‘Who do you think it is?’

‘No idea,’ answered the sailor. ‘But my guess is that our captain is a foxy one. He’ll pretend he is a friendly vessel, hang out some convenient flag, and wait for the visitor to come close enough, then close and board him. Take him by surprise.’

‘Not fire at him?’

‘A corsair doesn’t use his cannon except in emergency. He doesn’t want to damage his prey. Best lay board and board, and seize the other vessel with a rush of men.’

An air of excitement had also brought the other prisoners to life. Even the most depressed villager started to look hopeful of rescue. Newland, the cloth merchant, called enquiringly, ‘Friend or foe, sailor?’

Dunton merely shrugged.

It must have been about three hours later – there was no way to mark the passage of time below deck – when suddenly an order was shouted on the deck above, and the prisoners heard the scamper of running feet. ‘Hello,’ said Dunton. ‘Something’s not what was expected.’

There were more shouts and then the chanting of a work song, its refrain urgent and forceful. ‘They’re setting sail again, and in a hurry,’ commented the sailor. Within moments the prisoners could again hear the ripple of the waves along the flanks of the ship, and feel the vessel heel to the wind. A flat thud in the distance was followed by two more. ‘Cannon!’ announced Dunton. More cries on deck, and the answering bang of a cannon from directly above them. The vessel quivered with the recoil. ‘God grant that we are not hit. If we sink, we’ll never get out of here alive,’ muttered Newland the mercer in sudden alarm. Hector glanced at the villagers. Their earlier hopes of being rescued had turned to dismay. Several were on their knees, hands clasped in silent prayer, eyes shut tight. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked the Devon sailor. Dunton was still straining to hear the noises on deck. ‘Wish I knew their language. No way of knowing. But my guess is that we’re the chase.’ Again Hector felt frustrated by his lack of sea lore.