The Archer's Return: Medieval story in feudal times about knights, Templars, crusaders, Marines, and naval warfare during the Middle Ages in England in the reign of King Richard the lionhearted (4 page)

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       Amidst the turmoil and confusion while we are trying to retrieve Phillip’s galley I can see some of our other galleys and more of what are obviously prizes rowing for the harbor entrance.  Others have already passed through the entrance and are disappearing into the distance.  I can also see smoke coming from one of the Algerian galleys anchored in the harbor and from a couple at the far end of the beach. 

       There is activity all along the beach and in the harbor.  It’s like a wasp’s nest that has been overturned.  Worse, there is a great deal of activity on the galleys and cogs that we didn’t take or burn.  Their crews are on deck to repel boarders – too late, of course since we are leaving.  But some of them are obviously preparing to get underway to escape - or to counterattack and try to retake our prizes?  Look there; that one’s oars are starting to move.  And there’s another. 
It’s time to go.

       “Make for the harbor entrance,” I order Harold.  “We’ll block it as long as possible and then do a wounded bird.” 
We must.  Some of our galleys and prizes may not have a full complement of rowers and be caught by the fast movers coming out of the wasp’s nest we kicked over.

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       We reach the harbor entrance and wait as the last two of our galleys and a couple of prizes rush past.  We can hear the fast pace of their rowing drums as they pass us.  In a few minutes they will be over the horizon towards the south and out of sight to any pursuers. 

       Spirits are high and the handful of men on our decks give each other cheers and waves as the galley and their prizes go past.  It’s little wonder the decks are so empty; almost everyone’s at an oar helping to row their galley out of the harbor at the highest possible speed.  That’s exactly where they should be. 

       “All archers on deck,” Harold shouts.

       The cheers on the decks are barely gone when Harold turns us north and we begin very slowly rowing away using only the oars on our lower benches – like the bird who pretends to be wounded to lure the fox away from the nest.  That’s the ruse we planned.  It’s why we sailed with so many men including many of our strongest rowers.  And, of course, goddamnit, one of our prize crews is still on board to help with the rowing.

       A full ten minutes passes before the first of the Algerian galleys comes charging out of the harbor.  We’re the closest raider and it heads straight for us with the water from its oars flashing in the sunlight.  They’re pulling hard.  That’s for sure.

       The Algerian begins to close the gap on us as two more Algerian galleys come out of the harbor one after another right behind it.  Our other galleys and prizes are pulling away from us in the distance. 

       We are by far the closest enemy galley and trying to look slow and vulnerable with our square sail only half up and flapping as if some of its lines have been cut.  It seems to be working.  All three of the Algerians are headed our way as the harbor entrance begins to recede from view.  Hopefully any subsequent galleys coming out will follow the three now chasing us to the north.

     Our drum begins to pick up the beat as the first of our pursuers closes on us.  The other two Algerians, and possibly two more according to the lookout on our mast, are coming up as well.  Harold himself scampers up the mast for a look. 

       “It’s nowhere near time yet,” he shouts at me breathlessly as he climbs back down.  “There are four of them behind yon thruster and they are still coming.”

       An hour passes and then another starts.  Our flight goes on and our pursuers stay with us.  The wind is from the west when Harold comes down from another look from the mast and slowly reduces the rowing beat.  Almost an hour or so earlier one of the back four was able catch up and pass our initial pursuer.  It’s now the only Algerian in sight and it follows us and cuts the corner to close rapidly when Harold makes a dogleg turn to the right. Hopefully, we and our pursuer are far enough ahead of the other Algerian galleys that they will not see either of us make the turn. 
I least we hope they don’t.

       “Peter, go up that mast and keep a lookout.” … “No. Don’t take your bow or quiver. Leave them here on the deck with me.  You’ll need both hands to hold on tight.” 

       Twenty minutes later and it appears the trailing Algerians are so far back that they missed our turn and are no longer following us.  Now we’re heading straight into the wind and it’s just between us and our one remaining pursuer.  Well, it’s just between the two of us if Harold’s right that the other Algerians didn’t make the turn.  In any event our pursuer is finally closing on us. 

      
I trust Harold and the sailor he has as a lookout on the mast.  But I’m not taking any chances – every so often I send Peter up the mast to make sure no other Algerians are in sight.

       Harold has all of our archers on deck as our pursuer continues to cut the gap separating us.  He lets the Algerian close on us until it is well within the range of our archers because of the favorable winds.  That’s when our archers begin to launch and the drum picks up the beat so we’ll stay just enough ahead to keep the Algerian within range of our archers’ long bows.

       I myself climb part way up the mast to watch as the archers on our deck begin to shoot. 

      
I’ve only done it a few times before and it’s not something I enjoy.  The damn thing is slippery and sways back and forth you know.
 

       In the distance I can see movement on the Algerian’s deck as our archers’ arrows find the range and begin to land.  Now the tables are turning.  At first the Algerian thruster merely slows to drop back out of range.  But we slow with it so it can’t escape the continuous and expertly aimed rain of our arrows. 

       Finally the Algerians have enough and turn to break off – and we turn back to go after them.

       Harold quickly spins our galley around using both its rudder and oars and then we row hard to get a little behind and slightly off to the port side of our now fleeing prey.  From this angle the arrows of our archers can drop into the open area behind the Algerian’s mast and reach down to its rudder men and some of its rowers – and they mostly do.

       Within minutes the Algerian is virtually stopped with its deck and upper rowing bank clear of men.  At some point the Algerian captain finally realizes our need for a specific position in order to drop arrows into the open area next to his lower rowing benches.  Now he has his rowers periodically rowing on only one side so that his galley keeps turning in a tight circle to keep us from having clear shots. 

       It’s almost a game.  The Algerian captain is constantly maneuvering to deny our archers a shooting line into his rudder men and the open area on his lower deck where his survivors can hide – and we are constantly maneuvering around his galley to get clear shots into it for our archers.

     Harold finally brings us alongside the Algerian about an hour before the sun will start to go down.  Our archers are all on deck with their short distance heavy arrows and they have already cleared the Algerian’s deck and the upper rowing benches on one side.  There are no Algerians in sight as our grappling irons are thrown.  With the sun about to start going down it’s now or never.

       The shuddering crash as the two hulls come together brings the surviving Algerians out from behind the nearside deck railing where they’ve been sheltering and charging out of the lower rowing deck – and straight into an absolute storm of arrows from the archers lining the side of our galley.  For an instant Peter and I and every archer are shooting arrows at close range as some of the Algerians launch a forlorn hope and go down.  The survivors quickly drop back down to cower and try to stay out of sight.

       For a while the two galleys bob up and down together and there is no movement on the Algerian.  All we can see are bodies on the Algerians deck and neither galley dares send a man up its mast to see for fear he’ll be picked off by an archer.  Finally there is a loud hail in a foreign tongue and then in French. … “Quarter” … “Quarter.”  …  “We surrender.”

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       It is totally dark and the warm and sunny day has turned into a chilly and windy evening by the time we cast off the grappling lines and our prize crew and the Algerian’s released slaves begin rowing our third prize towards Malta. 

       All of the Algerian sailors except the most seriously wounded are chained to the lower rowing benches and food and water from our galley’s stores have been loaded.  The joyful Algerian slaves have been released and are enthusiastically helping to row.  The big difference is that the surviving Algerians have taken the place of their slaves as the principal rowers and the slaves are wolfing down bread and cheese from the food and water skins we hurriedly pass over to our prize while it’s still light enough to see what we are doing. 

       We’ve lost one man killed and three wounded, one quite seriously with a cracked skull.  Blood must have seeped into the water for we soon attract a large number of sharks.  They are undoubtedly feasting on the bodies we throw overboard.  The surviving Algerians are brave men who tried to recover from our surprise attack and fight us.  We’ve got them chained to the rowing benches and that’s where they’ll stay - but we’ll feed them, treat them well, and try to exchange them, even their wounded. 
Hell, we’re the pirates; they’re our prey even though they didn’t know it until it was too late to escape.

                          Chapter Three

       Our arrival in Malta almost a week later is quite triumphant.  About half of our galleys and prizes are already here.  Their crews line their decks to cheer and wave as we row into the harbor and tie up at the city’s dock.  The day may be a bit murky and overcast but everyone’s spirits are high and rightly so. 

       Even Count Brindisi, Malta’s somewhat Roman Catholic ruler on behalf of the King of Sicily, is down from the stone watch tower on the hill that passes for his castle and standing at the dock to greet us as we tie up.  At his insistence he and I promptly walk to the nearest tavern so he can hear about the raid and, of course, get the latest news about Richard and the latest gossip about our betters.  He claims his fortune teller predicted our success and King Richard’s return. 

       Brindisi obviously admires Richard.  How surprising. 
Are Thomas and I the only ones who despise him because he broke his word and murdered the thousands of Saracens who surrendered to us at Acre?

       I don’t suggest it, of course, but I think the old scoundrel is jealous; I think he misses his days as a pirate before he got made a noble for using his ships to help the king of Sicily steal its throne when the old king died childless.
 

       I’m sure he is – living in a cold and drafty stone tower in your very own castle sounds great until you have one and have to live in it.  A nice comfy farmhouse with cattle and sheep packed into the lower room to keep it warm is much better.

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       Seven happy drunken days later the weather clears and we’re waiting to row out of Malta and on to Cyprus with big hangovers and Alfred Forester’s galley waiting to gather up any late arrivals.  On the bad side, the butcher’s bill is high even before we know the fate of the fifty or so men in our missing prize crews.  We have almost certainly lost at least one of our galleys - and at least ninety seven men including two of our sergeant captains, mostly from our lost galley.  We have forty seven wounded ranging from dying and seriously wounded men who will stay on Malta under the care of the local barber to those who are slightly sliced and already returned to duty. 

       On the good side we’ve taken three cogs including one with a cargo of fine olive oil and fourteen Algerian galleys have already come in with our prize crews in command.  There are still two prizes missing and, as expected though we’d hoped otherwise, no one has heard from our two pirate taking cogs.  Hopefully they are operating off the Holy Land by now and attracting pirates - who don’t discover the number of men in their intended victim until they’ve lashed themselves to its side and it is too late to escape.

      
Also on the good side we are off to Cyprus carrying a goodly bag of coins from selling the cargo of olive oil we found in one of the cogs, some Maltese merchants and their goods, two terribly smelly Hospitaller knights, and a party of German knights and their men and a priest going out to join the crusade.
 

      The lord or whatever he is leading the German crusaders got upset yesterday when he came to see me in the tavern and I told him what he would have to pay and that his men would be split up among our ships and disarmed to insure my men’s safety.  But I told him it was take it or leave it and he took it. 

      
At least I think he got upset.  Maybe getting red in the face and shouting is how Germans talk all the time.  Probably not; his translator priest seemed rather serene.

       Even so, the German will be a worry so long as he is on board because he’s either a blockhead or a religious fanatic with a death wish.  Why else would he be leading his men into meaningless battles now that King Guy de Lausignon’s stupidity at Hattin destroyed any chance of a crusader victory? 

       But I can’t complain about the new king of Cyprus being a moron, can I?  He sold me a good title for a bag of coins and his crooked chancellor helped Thomas buy his bishopric.  Besides, Guy’s disastrous and unnecessary defeat at Hattin is what caused all the Christian and Jewish refugees who are making us rich by carrying them to safety in our galleys.