‘We can’t fire,’ Thomas realised. ‘We’d risk hitting our own men.’
The captain of the flagship had also seen the danger and steered wide for long enough to ensure that the galleon would be clear of the line of fire when the flagship resumed its original course. The other Spanish galleys on the northern flank were turning to bear down on the enemy, their crews crying out battle cries as they saw their comrades being cut down on the galleon. The corsairs were alert to the danger and their oars dipped into the swell as they turned swiftly and made towards the next galleon, leaving the first with shattered bulwarks and thin trails of blood running down from the scuppers. The pale dots of the faces of the men on the high stern of the second galleon looked back towards the oncoming corsairs and Thomas could imagine the sick fear welling up in the pits of their stomachs as they prepared to endure the same fate their comrades had moments before.
The pursuit of the clumsy galleons had turned into a one-sided stern chase as the sleek vessels of the corsairs rapidly advanced on their prey. The enemy slowed as they closed up on the second galleon and the first shots struck the stern quarter, shattering the painted wooden shutters and tearing ragged holes in the ship’s side.
‘Are we in range yet, Captain?’ asked Don Garcia, his fist clenched tightly over the pommel of his sword so that his knuckles were white.
The captain silently judged the distance before he replied. ‘The range is still long, sir. But we might get a lucky shot in.’
‘Then give the order. At once.’
The deck shuddered as the first gun roared and a thick cloud of smoke briefly obscured the target. The wind stripped the smoke away as the men on the stem deck strained their eyes to see if the shot had struck home. The flagship rose on the swell and Thomas and the others saw a foaming white circle and ripples on the water close to the stem of the ship of the corsair leader.
‘Near enough,’ Don Garcia nodded. ‘Fire at will.’
The second gun blasted out and a fluke of the breeze swept the smoke aside swiftly enough for those on the flagship to see a section of the stern explode into a shower of splinters. A cheer tore from the throats of the crew and some waved their fists triumphantly.
'Have your men load with chain shot, ’ Thomas suggested. ‘Aim for the oars. If we can cripple them then we can put alongside them, board their ship and end this quickly.’
Don Garcia nodded and gave the order to the captain to pass on. The gun crews hurriedly swabbed out their weapons and loaded the next charges as the flagship closed the distance. The guns roared out again at a range of two hundred paces. The first shot tore up the surface of the sea behind the oar blades on the port side and sheared through the rearmost of the oars. A moment later the second shot struck home. Several of the oars shivered and splintered as the weighted lengths of chain ripped through the wooden shafts. At once the corsair slewed round to port and exposed its beam, providing an easy target for the gunners on the Spanish flagship.
‘Pound ’em!’ Fadrique called out, his voice high-pitched with excitement.
His father gave him a disapproving glance before he fixed his attention on the enemy ship. The guns boomed out in a steady rhythm as their crews reloaded and fired as swiftly as possible. The flagship bore down on the corsair and as the range diminished every shot struck home, shattering oars, smashing gaps in the bulwarks and tearing men to crimson tatters on the main deck. Even so, the tiny flames of musket fire stabbed back towards the flagship and some shots were finding their targets. Thomas saw one of the gunners’ chests bloodily explode as a lead ball tore through his body.
‘Come with me, Richard,’ he commanded and led the way down on to the main deck and forward towards the armed men clustered between the two masts. The soldiers wore breastplates and helmets and their arms and hips were protected by studded gambisons. Some carried shields and heavy swords, and iron-headed clubs hung from their belts. Others held short pikes, ready to wield them double-handed. Thomas turned to his squire and looked him over, testing his straps and the buckle under his chin before he nodded with satisfaction. ‘You’ll do.’
Richard nodded too quickly and Thomas saw the fear in his eyes. A familiar fear - the terror of a man who is facing battle for the first time, his head filled with dreadful expectation of being wounded, or failing to acquit himself with honour. Thomas placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder and spoke just loudly enough to be heard over the crackle of musket fire and the beating of the drum below deck.
‘Stay close to me. I need you to protect my back. Are you ready?’
‘Yes. . . Of course . . . Why are we doing this?’
Thomas frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
Richard gestured at the men around them. ‘Fighting. That is surely the job of these soldiers. We are merely passengers.’
‘I am a knight. It is my duty to fight. As it is yours, as the man who calls himself my squire.’
‘Yes, yes, you are right. But our place is there on the aft deck and our duty is to defend Don Garcia with our lives. That’s where we should make our stand.’
As Thomas looked at his companion he felt no anger or contempt at the young man’s reluctance to fight, only an ache of disappointment that Richard was resisting the chance to put himself to the test. Unless the young man could suppress his fears and face this peril, he would be crippled by self-doubt through the rest of his life. It was not through love of violence that Thomas had moved forward to join the men about to board the corsair lying directly ahead. It was, as he had said, a duty. But there was more. Regardless of his wider moral concerns about the endless war of the faiths, circumstance had placed him in this conflict and perforce he would fight and kill without reservation.
‘Don Garcia is surrounded by his officers. He is safe. Our place is here, where we can have a more immediate effect on the outcome of the fight. We will fight alongside these men.’
Richard’s mouth opened to protest but Thomas cut him off before he could utter a sound. ‘No more words. Steel your heart and take a firm grip of your sword handle.’
The young man swallowed anxiously. ‘Should I pray?’
‘If you wish. Many men pray before a battle but I never saw that it protected them from either bullet or blade.’ Then Thomas smiled reassuringly. ‘Fix your mind on surviving and do all you can to ensure it. That is the only right and proper thought for a soldier to have before battle. Ready?’
Richard breathed deeply. ‘I am ready, Sir Thomas.’
Ahead, the masts and slender yards of the corsair galley loomed up against the sky. The Spanish gunners fired their last shots across the enemy deck and then the order was given for the flagship to turn to port. The oars on that side dug into the sea while those to starboard made one last powerful stroke before the timekeeper shouted at the rowers to ship their oars. There was a dull rumble from below the deck as the lengths of timber were slid in through their ports and heaved across the width of the galley. Then the stern of the corsair passed down the side of the warship and the vessels closed beam to beam. Thomas could see the enemy fighters lining the galley’s rail, screaming their war cries and insults as the gap closed.
‘Boarding hooks away!’ the captain bellowed.through his cupped hands. The sailors who stood ready with the hooks tied to coils of rope swirled the iron prongs above their head before releasing them up and over the narrow gap. The grappling hooks arced over the sea, trailing snaking ropes, and then plunged out of sight amid the robed figures crowding the deck of the other galley. At once, several Spaniards took up the ropes and braced their bare feet on the deck, straining to draw the two vessels closer together. The air was filled with the staccato crash of arquebuses and the frenzied cries of the men waiting for the chance to launch themselves into battle.