'Yes, but the chief pilot knows them well. He says that if the mahone is being sailed by people who know where the sandbanks are, then the natural route to follow would be between the chain of islands and the mainland. It's protected from the winds and safer.'
'Yes, that would be logical,' Braco agreed.
Diego Alatriste and Corporal Conesa — a plump, stocky fellow from Murcia — were studying the map with great interest. They didn't usually get a chance to see such documents, and as subalterns, they knew how unusual it was to be invited to such meetings. Alatriste was an old dog, though, and he could read between the lines. The ship they were planning to attack would be a major prize and Captain Urdemalas needed everyone to know that. This way, he could be sure that the troops would find out the facts and be eager to put their all into the enterprise. Being in the right place
at the right time and capturing the mahone would require them all to pull together, and soldiers and sailors who were aware of what was at stake would be more likely to obey.
'Do you think we can get there in time?' Ensign Labajos asked.
He showed his empty glass, in the hope that Urdemalas would summon his page to pour him some more wine.
Urdemalas pretended not to notice. 'The wind is in our favour,' he said, 'and, besides, we have the oarsmen. The Turkish mahone is a heavy sailing ship and will be travelling against the wind, and in calm weather the galley will have to tow her. The weather will turn cooler this evening, but we'll still have the wind in our favour. The chief pilot thinks we can catch up with them off Patmos or the Fournoi islands, and the other pilots and captains agree. Isn't that so, Braco?'
The Greek nodded as he rolled up the chart. Quemado wanted to know what the Knights of Malta thought about the matter.
'Those bastards don't give a damn,' said Captain Urdemalas, 'whether it's one mahone and one galley or fifty, whether they're carrying the Pasha of Cyprus's wife on board or the wife of Suleiman himself. The merest whiff of booty is enough to set their mouths watering. The more Turks, the bigger the profit.'
'What about the other captains?' Quemado asked.
'I don't know anything about the French captain. He's got knights who are on their first expedition with him, as well as soldiers from France, Italy, Spain and Germany. Brave men, as always. But I do know the captain of the Cruz de Rodas.'
'Brother Fulco Muntaner,' said the galleymaster.
'The one who was at the battle of Cimbalo and at Syracuse?'
'The same.'
Some of those present raised their eyebrows, while others nodded. Even Alatriste had heard, through Alonso de Contreras, of this Spanish Knight of St John. At Cimbalo, after losing three of the Maltese galleys in a storm, Muntaner had dug himself in on an island along with his shipwrecked men, all defending themselves like tigers against the Moors of Bizerta who had disembarked en masse to capture them. Not that there was anything surprising about that, for not even the most optimistic Knight expected mercy from the Mohammedans. This partly explains why it was that, at the battle of Lepanto, when the Maltese flagship was finally recaptured — it had been attacked and boarded by a swarm of Turkish sailors — only three Knights were found alive, badly wounded, but surrounded by the corpses of three hundred of the enemy. Almost the same thing happened again in 1620, off Syracuse in Sicily, when the same Muntaner, by then in his sixtieth year, was one of only eighteen survivors on the Maltese flagship, after the bloody battle fought between four Maltese and six Berber galleys. The Knights of Malta, feared and hated by their enemies, were tough professional corsairs, and Brother Fulco Muntaner was among the very toughest. Since the five galleys had met in Fossa de San Giovanni, Alatriste had often seen him at the stern of the flagship, Cruz de Rodas, with his bald head, long grey beard and face disfigured by cuts and scars, and had heard him haranguing the men in thunderous tones in his own Mallorcan tongue.
The proverb proved to be correct: that evening there was rain and, that night, there were occasional gusts of the promised north-easterly wind and more rain. The sea was so rough that, despite the lanterns lit on the stern of each ship, all five galleys lost sight of each other. However, despite the weather, we soon covered the forty miles separating us from the island of Nicalia. The sailors had to keep a constant eye on the sails, while everyone else, oarsmen included, crouched on the deck, numb with cold, sheltering as best we could from the spray.
We proceeded thus until the wind turned to the south-east, and the following morning, which dawned peacefully, with the heavy rain moving off over the island's steep, rocky peaks, we found ourselves opposite Pope Point, where two of the ships in our convoy were waiting for us. The other two arrived safely a short time later.
Nicalia, which some call Ikaria — the island where Icarus fell into the sea — is a rugged place, and while many torrents rush down its rocks, there is no harbour. However, since both weather and sea were calm, we were able to go in close to land and happily fill casks, barrels and kegs with water — given the number of people on board a galley, it is in constant need of fresh supplies.
According to our reckonings, the mahone would be sailing into the north wind and, we thought, would still be somewhere en route from Rhodes. To confirm this, Agustin Pimentel ordered four galleys to cover the strait between Nicalia and Samos, while the fifth went south to garner more information. One Spanish ship would attract less attention than five galleys gathered together like birds of prey. Moreover, the Greeks who lived on those islands seemed no better than the Ottomans, for, having no schools, they were the most barbarous people in the world, cowed by the cruelty of the Mohammedans and quite capable of selling us to the Turks simply to gain favour with them.
The Mulata was chosen to be the scout, and so we set sail that night and by the dawn watch had reached the deep, sheltered harbour of Patmos, the best of the three or four good ports on the island, at the foot of the fortified Christian monastery that dominates the harbour from above. We spent the morning there, but the only people allowed ashore were Captain Urdemalas and the pilot Braco. As well as finding out further information, they negotiated with the monks the ransom of the Jews we had taken on board as oarsmen — at least that was the pretext for the visit — although, for some reason or other, an agreement was reached not to free them until later, when we would leave them on Nicalia.
And so I did not have a chance to set foot on the legendary island to which St John the Evangelist was exiled by the emperor Domitian and where he dictated the Apocalypse to his disciple Procoros. And speaking of books, I remember that Captain Alatriste spent the day sitting in one of the crossbow embrasures, reading the copy of Dreams sent to him by Don Francisco de Quevedo. It was a small octavo volume, which he usually carried in his pocket. That same day, when he left it lying on his pack in order to go to deal with some matter at the prow, I picked up the book and, glancing through it, found this passage marked:
Truth and Justice came down to Earth: the first, being naked, found it most uncomfortable, as did the second, being rigorous. They wandered about for a long time, until Truth, out of necessity, fell silent. Justice, at a loss what to do, roamed the earth, pleading with everyone; but seeing that no one took any notice of her and that everywhere her name was used to support tyrannies, she determined to flee back to Heaven ...
We soldiers and sailors spent part of that day resting, delousing each other and eating a meal of boiled chickpeas and a little salt cod — for it was a Friday — while the oarsmen, beneath the awning that protected the rowing benches, were given their usual ration of hard-tack. The sun was very strong, and the heat so intense that tar was dripping down from the rigging.
Gone midday, Captain Urdemalas and the pilot returned, looking very cheerful, having dined well with the monks and imbibed wine made from honey and orange blossom — God curse them. Anyway, the Turkish mahone, they were told, had not yet passed through the strait, but had been seen, still with its galley escort, sailing towards the isle of Longos, struggling against t
he contrary wind, for it was a large and heavy vessel. And so, in less time than it takes to say 'knife', we had dismantled the awning, weighed anchor and set off, rowing hard to rejoin the other galleys.
For two days and nights, sailing with lanterns extinguished and eyes alert, we almost chewed our fingernails to the quick. The sea was leaden, with no wind to bring us that wretched mahone. Finally, a south-westerly breeze ruffled the surface of the water, and our patience was rewarded, for the order came to clear the decks and prepare ourselves for battle. The five galleys were skilfully deployed, being positioned almost, but not quite, out of sight of each other, and covering an area of more than twenty miles. A signal had been agreed to indicate when the prize was spotted. Behind us lay the island of Fournoi, on whose southernmost peak, from which one could see for leagues around, we had posted four men with orders to send up a smoke signal as soon as they spotted a sail. The island had a long corsair tradition, for its name, which means 'oven' or 'furnace', dated from the days when the Turk Cigala had the hard-tack for his galleys baked there. To the south, we had also posted a caique — manned by our people, but rowed by Greeks who had been pressed into service — as a reconnaissance vessel that would not arouse suspicion that the wolf was in the sheep pen. The unusual thing about the ambush was that, in order to get as close to the enemy as possible, and to avoid the mahone firing on us from a distance, we had made our ships look like Turkish galleys. We had shortened the mainmast, made the lateen yard seem stubbier and heavier, and lowered the topmast. Miguel de Cervantes, who knew a thing or two about corsairs and galleys, had written about this too:
In war there are a thousand ploys Full of tricks and lying noise: The thunder grumbles distantly, Yet lightning strikes us instantly.
This disguise was completed with the Turkish flags and pennants we carried for such occasions — as other ships would carry ours — and men wearing Ottoman clothes were placed in the most visible parts of each ship. Such tricks were part of the dangerous game that all nations played along those ancient shores, the theatre for this vast exercise in corsair chess and chance. For when there are eight or even ten cannon pointing at you, gaining time is of no small importance, even more so when they start firing and all you can do is row hard and grit your teeth until you're close enough to board and pay them back for it. Had England's encounter with the Armada in the English Channel been a frank confrontation between two infantries, as at Lepanto, that day would now be remembered quite differently.
Anyway, whoever happened to be in the appropriate place donned a Turkish costume and was much mocked for it. I, thank God, escaped, but others — the Moor Gurriato was one, condemned by his appearance — had to put on baggy trousers, the long tunics or robes that the Turks call dolmans, as well as fancy bonnets, taffetas and turbans. They formed a blue, white and red rainbow; and their skins were now so tanned by the sun that they needed only to start bowing to Mecca at the appropriate times to be taken for real Turks. One even made fun of his own disguise, kneeling down and shamelessly invoking Allah, but when some of the Muslim slaves protested, angered by such blasphemy, Captain Urdemalas sternly reprimanded the wretch, threatening him with a public whipping if he upset the oarsmen again. It was one thing, he said, to force them to row, but there was no need to insult them.
'Row hard, my lads! Harder, or they'll escape us!'
When Captain Urdemalas addressed the slaves as 'my lads' this was a sign that more than one of them was likely to row himself to death and be whipped for his pains. And so it was. Keeping up the hellish rhythm set by the galleymaster's whistle and the merciless crack of his whip on their bare backs, the oarsmen alternately stood up and fell back, again and again, breathing so hard it seemed their lungs would burst.
'The dogs are ours! Keep it up and we'll have 'em!'
The long, slender hull of the Mulata seemed to fly over the rippling waves. We were to the south of Samos, leaving behind its bare, rocky coast on the port side. It was a luminous blue morning, marred only by a faint trace of mist on the strip of land to the east. The five galleys were in full pursuit, with sails and oars working; two lay ahead of us, nearer to Samos, and another two behind, forming a line that gradually shrank as we converged on the galley and the mahone. They, in turn, were trying desperately to escape along the strait between the island and terra firma or else find some beach on which to take shelter.
The day, however, was ours, and even the most inexperienced soldier on board realised it. The north-west wind wasn't blowing hard enough to drive the heavy mahone along, and its galley escort, of course, had to remain by its side. Meanwhile, our galleys, spaced out about a mile apart, were visibly gaining on them. We had begun our approach when, almost simultaneously, the men on the caique and a tiny puff of smoke from the isle of Fournoi told us that the enemy ship's sails had been spotted. At first, the Turkish uniforms and the general appearance of our ships had confused the new arrivals — later, we learned that they had mistaken us for galleys from Mytilene sent to escort them — and so they had kept their course, unsuspecting. However, the scales had soon fallen from their eyes when they saw the way we were rowing and manoeuvring the galley. And so the Turks tried to set course for the north-east, with the mahone to leeward of the galley, the latter trying to interpose itself and cover the larger ship's flight.
Now the chase was as good as over. The Maltese flagship was already near the coast of Samos and would reach the strait first; the Caridad Negra had its ram pointing at the Turkish galley; and the Mulata, along with the Virgen del Rosario and the Sari Juan Bautista, slightly to starboard of us, was heading straight for the mahone, whose three masts — trinquet, cross and lateen — had now all filled with sail.
'Fetch your weapons and to your posts!' Ensign Labajos shouted. 'We're going to board her!'
At the stern, the drumroll beat out the rallying call and the bugle sounded the attack. The corridors seethed with people preparing for battle. The master gunner and his assistants were readying the cannon in the central gangway as well as the pedreros mounted on the sides of the ship. The rest of us had padded the pavisades with shields, palliasses, blankets and packs to protect us from Turkish fire, and we were now making our way to the chests and baskets from which we would take our heavy weapons. The galley-men were still rowing, drenched in sweat, their eyes popping from their heads, chains clanking, and to that sound, from prow to stern, was added the clank of metal armour and weapons being strapped on by the soldiers and the sailors who had been designated either to defend the galley or to board the other ship. All of this equipment was vital in close combat: breastplates, morions, shields, swords, harquebuses, muskets, pikes and half-pikes with the end of the shaft greased so that the enemy could not grab hold of it. Smoke was rising from the harquebusiers' match-cords and the linstocks ready in their bowls of sand. The skiff and the other small boat were in the water, being towed along at the stern. The cook had put out the oven and any other fire on board, and the pages and cabin boys had washed down the deck with sea-water so that neither bare feet nor espadrilles would slip.
At the stern, under the awning, along with the pilot and the helmsman, the Captain was barking out orders: "Row, my lads, row, a quarter to port, damn it, now to starboard, row, you buggers, row, slacken that rope, tighten that halyard, row hard, the dogs are ours now, row or I'll have the skin off your backs, you wretches, yes, by God's teeth and the holy host, we're gaining on the bastards." Luther could not have put it better, for no one blasphemes like a Spaniard in a storm or in combat.
The fighting on the mahone was hard. We arrived first, just as the Caridad Negra, which was slightly closer to the island than we were, rammed the Turkish galley; and we heard the distant sound of firing and the shouts of Machin de Gorostiola and his Basques as they rushed on board. Meanwhile, every eye on the Mulata was fixed on the black portholes open along the sides of the mahone. There were six cannon on each side, and when the mahone saw that she could not avoid us, she turned two or three quarter
s to port and unleashed a volley which, even though it struck us only a glancing blow, took down our trinquet sail along with the four sailors who were, at that moment, hauling it in to secure it. Their guts were left hanging grotesquely from the rigging. Another such volley would have done much greater damage, because galleys have very fragile frames. The experienced Captain Urdemalas, however, foresaw this: when the helmsman hesitated, the Captain pushed him out of the way — indeed, he very nearly stuck him with his sword — and flung the tiller to one side so that we were heading instead for the stern of the mahone. This, as I said, was as high as that of galleons and carracks, but had no cannon, therefore allowing us to get close without too much risk. The Virgen del Rosario bore the brunt of the second volley, which came from the other side, and that, it seemed to us, was the lesser of two evils. After all, these things must be shared out, and Jesus Christ may have told us all to be brothers, but not to be arrant fools.
'Prepare to board!' Ensign Labajos roared.
We were almost within harquebus range, and if the oarsmen did their job well, the Turkish gunners would not have time to recharge the cannon. I slung a small shield over my shoulder, and with my steel breastplate on and my helmet, with my sword in its sheath, I joined a group of soldiers and sailors with grappling-irons at the ready. At the prow, the sail on the broken yard had been taken in and stowed, and the mainsail was furled and at half-mast. The embrasures were packed with men bristling with metal. Another large group, gathered around the felled trinquet sail and near the fighting platform atop the bow, were waiting for our artillery at the prow to fire so that they could occupy the foredeck and the ram. Among them I could see Captain Alatriste, who