"The infidel Turks! Their galleys blacken the seas! Come to the defense!"
"As soon as we lower this captive into—" began one of my guards.
"No!" A bearded face looked over the black-clad shoulder of the newsbringer. It was the visitor who had recognized me. "Bring him along, he will help fight!"
"Well thought of!" came the deep voice of Father Augustino, higher on the stairs. "Free every captive who can bear arms! Let them fight for life!"
We all raced up the steps together.
CHAPTER XVII Defense of the Fortress
Mounting to battlements around the upper wall of the castle, we all saw that the sea was indeed full of craft. There were galleys, a full dozen, many smaller feluccas, and open rowboats swarming as thick as a school of mullet. Drums resounded from the larger ships; and horns. Our own bugles brayed back defiance.
Father Augustino was rasping orders, like any seasoned captain.
"Man and load each gun," he commanded. "Line the walls, keep lookout for where they may land." His eye found me. "Ha, wrestler! Canst use a sword?" He motioned to an aide, who thrust a hilt into my hand. "You have fought your fellow Christians over-long. Fight now against infidels!"
I shifted the weapon to my left fist, trying its balance. At an opposite rampart stood the man who had recommended my joining the defense, and to him I made my way.
"I do not know you, sir, though you know me," I said. "Thanks for saving me from that spider's hole into which they would have thrown me."
"We will speak more of it anon." He pointed to where, inside the little harbor, lay a trim sailing vessel among the boats of the Holy Pilgrims. "Yonder is my craft, and upon it a fair lady who must not set foot on this monk-owned island. I pray heaven naught befalls either of them."
But I showed him where some of our men strung a heavy chain at the mouth of the inlet. That would prevent the approach of enemy boats, which in any case sought to storm us from the other side.
At that point the wall dropped straight to the sea, and had been badly damaged not long before—perhaps in the fight a spring ago, when I had heard crumbling of stones. The brothers had built it up roughly with broken masonry and spaded earth, faced it with timbers and logs, but it was still the weak spot of the defenses.
Even the stone flooring at the top had collapsed and was replaced with planking; while, instead of an adequate parapet, a work of earth-filled goatskins had been laid in and topped by a great log, nearly a hundred feet long.[14] From this log ran back cross-pieces, lashed on as slanting supports.
Here the fire from the galleys was concentrated. Round shot tore holes in the goatskins and let out cascades of the heaped earth, while a blizzard of arrows and slings picked off such the brothers as manned the log-topped parapet. The others crouched low.
"They will seek to carry this quarter," announced Father Augustino sagely, limping across to the log.
His gown, looped up to kilt length, showed great steel greaves upon his shins, and he had thrown back his cowl to don a plumeless helmet. A bolt from a crossbow struck his shoulder, then glanced away. He must be wearing a steel cuirass under his robe.
"Aye," he called, "here they come, a hell's spawn of boats, under cover of their fellows' fire! Keep down, brethren, until they mount our wall. Then the fire must slacken, and we will meet the unbelievers with an argument they will understand."
Drawing his sword, he spat between big hand and worn hilt.
I dared look over the log. A shoal of boats swept swiftly toward us from the galleys, boats filled with gesticulating and howling Turks. I saw the glitter of their mail, the curves of their flourished scimitars, the upward jut of helmet spikes from their turbans. A moment later, a jagged little stone sang upward and against my forehead—slung, like David's pebble, from a sling. Like Goliath I fell sprawling on my back, half dazed and almost dropping my sword.
Father Augustino leaned farther from his point of vantage, careless of the rain of missiles.
"They raise ladders!" he cried. "Here they mount!" He turned to his followers. "Strike, brethren, for the true faith!"
I made shift to rise, a little shakily, and watched as a line of black-robes came swiftly forward over the planked-in floor, swords and axes and halberds at the ready. The sound of firing had ceased from galleyward, as Father Augustino had predicted. A moment later, a yodelling cry rose from below:
"Ululululallahuakbar!"
One prolonged bellow of challenge and of profession. Then the outer side of our log was lined with turbaned, bearded heads.
The storming party was upon us, eager for trouble. Nor could they have come to a better place to find it.
The Holy Pilgrims hurled themselves upon the attackers, calling upon the names of every saint in the calendar, and hewing and thrusting like fiends instead of clergymen. At their head, and in the hottest press, nimbly hobbled Father Augustino, his straight sword playing like a striking adder against a whole forest of scimitars.
Something impelled me in his direction, and in good time for him. While his point wedged in the neck-bone of one adversary, another charged close and, catching him by a fold of his gown, slashed a scimitar viciously at his head.
The blow was turned by Father Augustino's helm, but its force staggered him, and a second effort beat him to his knee. With a whoop, the Turk lifted his blade for a third and finishing cut, but at that moment I hurled myself between, my own steel forestalling his.
He was a deep-chested fellow, brown as chocolate, with mad foam on his black beard.
"Ya Nazarini!" he snarled. "Ya 'bn kalb!"[15]
And he fell furiously upon me. But for all his fierceness, I was more than his match. My first slicing lunge laid open his face, my second bit into the side of his neck. He collapsed, bleeding from nose and mouth to die even as I turned away.
The surviving Turks were reeling back, whipped along by the savage garrison. They tumbled down their ladders and rowed hurriedly away in their boats, under a new curtain of shot and arrows.
Father Augustino was up again, glancing around to estimate the situation.
"We suffered sorely, but they suffered worse," he commented. "What says Holy Writ? 'Blessed be the Lord my strength, who teacheth my hands to war, and my fingers to fight.' " He turned his eye on me. "Thanks for the rescue, my son. Yet I make no doubt that, with heaven's help, I could have risen and overthrown him. Whence will come the next assault?"
We found out soon enough. Three great galleys moved against the mouth of our inlet. Our gun crews toiled madly, but could not batter them back. When the galleys had drawn close, a great throng of little black figures dived overside and began to swim for the inlet.
"By heaven, I see that they carry axes!" spoke up my friend, the bearded visitor. "They will attack the chain. If it is cut, they will come in and seize our ships!"
"A sortie! A sortie!" yelled Father Augustino. "Out, brethren, and meet them in the water!"
He led the rush downward himself, leaving only the armed prisoners and a dozen black-robes to hold the upper ramparts. We watched, fascinated, from above, as the monks burst from the great gate, hurried down to the water's edge. Some of them were shot by crossbows on the galleys, but the greater part reached the water and swam forward to meet the Turks. There was a fierce, clumsy melee in the waves that lapped along either side of the chain.
"The brethren triumph!" pointed out a monk at my side. "Look, the forgotten of God are retreating, swimming away."
"They do so more readily than I had hoped," I replied, thinking of the previous stubborn assault. My own words gave me a new disturbing wonder. "What," I demanded, "if it were a false attack, to withdraw us from our own defense?"
14
A log of this length was by no means rare in the Fifteenth Century, well before the deforestation of Italy.