Muntaner, as calmly as if he were sailing into port, made a dismissive gesture in the direction of the eight Turkish galleys and said in his strong Mallorcan accent, 'Small fry.'
When the
Cruz de Rodas
had passed us, the
Caridad Negra
followed at the same easy pace, the flag bearing the royal arms fluttering feebly at the stern, for the only breeze was that created by the movement of the galley. Thus we watched the Basques preceding us in the attack, and we waved to them with hands, hats and helmets. There went Captain Machin de Gorostiola and his surly men, the match-cords of their muskets and harquebuses burning from prow to stern. There was Don Agustin Pimentel with his page holding his helmet. He stood very erect and elegant in his expensive Milanese armour, one hand on the hilt of his sword, showing all the aplomb befitting his rank, his country, his King and the God in whose name we were about to be hacked to pieces.
'May Our Lady help them,' someone murmured.
'May she help us all,' said another.
The three galleys were now rowing in single file, keeping very close together, nose to tail, while the silent lightning continued to flicker over the sea. I was at my post, between the Moor Gurriato and the man in charge of one of the
pedreros
, who was holding a smoking linstock in one hand and fingering a rosary with the Other as he murmured a prayer. I wanted to swallow, but my mouth and throat were dry from the sip of arrack and watery wine I had drunk.
'Row harder!' Captain Urdemalas shouted.
The order, the galleymaster's whistle and the crack of the whip all came at once. Trying to conceal my shaking fingers, I tied my scarf around my head and put on my steel helmet, securing it with a chinstrap. I checked that I could easily unfasten the chains on my breastplate if I were to fall into the sea. My espadrilles with their rope soles were tied on tightly at the ankles; in my hands I held the shaft of a half- pike with a razor-sharp blade and the upper third of the shaft carefully greased. At my waist were my sword and dagger. I took several deep breaths. I had all I needed, but there was a hollow in my stomach. I unfastened my breeches and urinated into the scupper — even though I didn't much feel like it — in between the rhythmically moving oars; no one paid any attention, indeed most of my fellows were doing the same. We were all battle-hardened men.
'Everyone to the oars! Now — row hard!'
We heard the sound of cannon shot at the prow and stood on tiptoe to get a better view. The Turkish galleys, which we were fast approaching and which, until then, had not stirred, were beginning to move. The decks swarmed with turbans, red hats, the tall toques worn by janizaries, jelabs, Moorish cloaks and colourful haiks. A puff of white smoke appeared at the prow of the Turkish galley nearest to us. The silence following the explosion was broken by a shrill clamour of whistles, flutes and trumpets, and from the Ottoman ships came the usual battle cries. The
Cruz de Rodas
responded with three short blasts on the bugle, followed by a roll on the drums and cries of: 'St John! St John!' and, 'Remember St Elmo!'
'That's the Maltese galley,' said an old soldier.
A series of explosions and arrows burst from the Turkish galleys; cannon and moyens began to fire on the
Cruz de Rodas,
with some loose bullets reaching us and whistling over our heads. The galleymaster, his assistant and the overseer raced up and down the gangway, lashing the backs of the slaves.
'Full ahead now!' howled Captain Urdemalas. 'Row for your lives, my boys!'
The smoke was growing denser by the minute, and the harquebus fire increased along with the Turkish arrows scudding through the air in all directions. The enemy ships were closing on our lead galley, now that it was clear she was making a rash attempt to escape. We saw the
Cruz de Rodas
plunge into the smoke, in between the two nearest galleys, so determinedly that we heard the crunch of planking and oars as they broke. Our flagship followed, heading off to the left. We could hear Machin de Gorostiola and his fellow Basques shouting: 'Santiago!
EkinJ EkinJ
Spain and Santiago!' The
Mulata
went behind, into the roar of combat and the cries of men fighting for their lives.
The galleymaster's whistle shrilled in our ears as the galley flew over the waves; for that fast, intermittent whistling marked the space that separated us from death or captivity. Still unable to believe our momentary good luck, we were looking back at the galleys now pursuing us. We had crossed the Turkish lines, although the distance between us and our pursuers was minimal. The sea was as smooth as oil, and the silent flashes of lightning lingered in the west. There would be no saving wind. The
Caridad Negra
, which had gone ahead of us, was to the right of the
Mulata
now, rowing desperately in a bid to escape the five Turkish galleys at our rear. Behind us, still only a cannon-shot away, the Maltese ship, surrounded by three enemy vessels, was fighting furiously, swathed in smoke and flames. Amid the din of its hopeless struggle we could still hear cries of, 'St John! St John!'
It had been a miracle, albeit of limited scope. Once the
Cruz de Rodas
had penetrated the Turkish line, where it immediately came under attack, the
Caridad Negra
had taken advantage of the space left by that manoeuvre to pass through, not without attracting enough cannon fire to smash her trinquet mast and not without breaking some of her oars as she slipped between the Maltese galley and the nearest enemy ship. This gave us an advantage, fast behind her as we were, because we reached them just as the enemy cannon had been fired and before they had a chance to reload; thus we met only with harquebus fire and a rain of arrows. Our starboard oars touched those of the
Cruz de Rodas,
which, caught helplessly among the Turkish galleys, with more approaching at full speed, was boarded from three sides simultaneously, twice on one side and once at the prow.
With all our senses focused on avoiding a Turkish galley approaching from the left, we were too preoccupied to appreciate her sacrifice at the time — although we saw Captain Muntaner and his Knights fighting for their lives at the stern. There ensued a pandemonium of shouts and curses; arrows flew past, impaling themselves in the pavisade, in masts and in flesh. Our helmsman, with Captain Urdemalas screaming orders into his ear — like one of those devils you get in plays put on at Corpus Christi — flung the tiller to one side in order not to collide with the
Caridad Negra,
which, with its felled mast dragging through the water, was lurching off course. As he did this, the enemy galley rammed us in the stern. Three or four oars splintered and broke, there came a babble of Turkish voices, and the battle cries of those of us who rushed to repel the boarders. The contact lasted only an instant, but it was enough for a group of vociferous janizaries to leap across. Our half-pikes, harquebuses, muskets and
pedreros
soon dealt with them, while from the topmasts, the cabin boys emptied firepots and bottles of tar onto the enemy, drenching their foredeck and forcing them to retreat, while we continued on our way.
'Come on, lads!' Captain Urdemalas roared. 'We're nearly there! Come on!'
Our Captain was, perhaps, optimistic, but then, given the circumstances, he had a duty to be, urging on the frantically rowing slaves, whose backs were now raw and bleeding.
'Overseer! Give them another drink of arrack! Now row, damn it! Row!'
But not even the strong Turkish liquor could work miracles. The oarsmen, almost mad with exhaustion, their backs covered in sweat, bruises and blood, were almost at their limit. The galley was flying along, as I said, but so were the five Turkish galleys in hot pursuit. Occasionally their cannonballs scored a hit — with a subsequent crunch of broken planks and cries of pain — or else cut through the air and fell into the sea, sending up a column of spray at our prow.
'The
Caridad
is getting left behind!'
We all rushed to the starboard side to see what was happening, and a woeful clamour filled the ship. Badly battered as she crossed the Turkish line, with many oars broken and too many oarsmen dead, wounded or exhausted, our flagship was losing momentum and we were gradually overtaking her. In a matter of moments, she had gone from being a pistol shot away from our prow to almost abeam. We could see Don Agustin Pimentel, Machin de Gorostiola and the other officers looking anxiously behind at the Turkish galleys that were fast catching them up. The
Caridad'
s oars were out of rhythm, sometimes clashing with each other, and several were utterly still, dragging through the water. We also noticed that a few dead galley-slaves had been thrown into the sea.
'That's them done for,' said one soldier.
'Better them than us,' commented another.
'There'll be plenty more of that to go around.'
The
Caridad Negra
was slipping further and further behind. Some of us shouted encouraging words, but it was no use. Crowded along the edges of the boat, leaning over the pavisades, we saw that she was hopelessly lost, her oars all awry, with the Turks almost upon her, her crew powerless to do anything but watch as we moved away. Some Basques called out to us from the fighting platforms, but we could no longer hear what they said. Then they raised their hands in farewell and rushed to the stern, harquebuses and muskets smoking and at the ready. At least the Turks would pay a high price for their booty.
'Officers to the stern!' came the cry, as the order was passed down the ship.
A deathly silence filled the galley. As the saying goes, shepherds only gather when a sheep has died. We saw Sergeant Quemado, Ensign Labajos and the galleymaster heading, grave-faced, towards the back of the ship, while the other men made way for them. Captain Alatriste joined the group. He passed by without seeing me, or so it seemed. His eyes were expressionless, as if they were contemplating something beyond the sea, beyond everything. I knew that look. That was when I realised: the Basques on the other galley were only preceding us into disaster.
'The oarsmen can't go on,' said Captain Urdemalas.
Diego Alatriste glanced at the rowers. They were clearly exhausted, indifferent now to the lashes of the assistant galleymaster and the overseer, and incapable of keeping up the necessary rhythm. Like the
Caridad Negra,
the
Mulata
was flagging, and the Turks were gaining fast.
'They'll be on us in no time.'
'Perhaps the soldiers, or at least some of them, could row,' said the galleymaster.
Ensign Labajos retorted indignantly that this was out of the question. He had discussed the matter with some of the men, and no one was prepared to take up the oars, not even in the present situation. God will provide, they said. Since it looked like they were going to end their lives here, no one wanted to die a galley-slave.
'Besides, it would be a waste of time with five ships on our tail. My men are soldiers, and they need all their energy to do their job, which is fighting, not rowing.'
'If they catch us, many of us will end up rowing in chains anyway,' said the galleymaster grimly.
'Well, that's for each man to decide.'
Diego Alatriste studied the men crowding the corridors and the fighting platforms. Labajos was right. As they waited for a sentence to be handed down against which there could be no appeal, and despite their anxiety, those men still looked as fierce and formidable as ever. They were the best infantry in the world, and Alatriste knew why. Soldiers like them — or
sefiores soldados
as they demanded to be called — had been soldiering for almost a century and a half and would continue to do so until the word 'reputation' was erased from their limited military vocabulary. They might suffer misfortune and exposure to fire and steel, they might find themselves mutilated or dead, unpaid and inglorious, but they would never cease to fight as long as there was a comrade living before whom they must maintain faith and decorum. Of course they wouldn't row, not even to save themselves. They would, of course, as individuals, be prepared to row for their lives and liberty, but only if they could be sure that no one would ever hear about it. Alatriste himself was capable, if it came to it, of taking his seat at a bench and placing his hands on an oar. Indeed, he would be the first, but neither he nor the biggest rogue on board would do such a thing if he lost stature in the eyes of the world, for this was what Spain was like. The one thing that neither kings nor favourites, priests nor enemies, not even illness or death, could take from him was the image he had forged of himself, the chimera of someone who proclaimed himself to be a gentleman rather than a slave. For a Spanish soldier, his profession was his honour. All this went entirely against the words spoken by a Berber corsair in a play Diego Alatriste had seen, words that came unbidden to his lips:
The Christian takes his stubborn honour
To such absurd extremes,
That even to touch the end of an oar
Is a great dishonour, it seems.
And while their foolish, childish ways
Cause them to preen and smirk,
Our ships come home stuffed full of these jays,
But for us it's simply work.
He said nothing, however. This was not the moment for poetry, nor was it in his nature to quote lines of verse. He merely concluded to himself that this attitude would doubtless seal the fate of the
Mulata,
just as it would, in time, bring about the ruin of Spain, although, by then, it would no longer be any business of his. At least, in men like him, such desperate arrogance offered a certain degree of consolation. There was no other rule to cling to once you knew of what stuff flags were made.