The Pirates of the Levant (33 page)

It was quite some prize, a whole galley to ourselves, but more men are killed by over-confidence than by adversity, and so, dragging two of our wounded with us, we beat a cautious retreat, while the Turks in the cabin pelted us with arrows and musket-fire. Then, seeing the quantities of gunpowder and lit match-cords available at our end of the ship, someone had the idea of setting fire to it — which was imprudent to say the least, given that their ship was attached to ours and this action could have brought disaster on us all.

The Christian galley-slaves, many of them Spaniards, were still chained to the benches and they cried and pleaded with us, for with our arrival they had thought their freedom was assured. Now, though, seeing us about to set fire to the ship, they begged us desperately not to leave them there, but to unchain them, otherwise they would be burned alive. But we could not delay or do anything for those poor unfortunates and so, with heavy hearts, we ignored their pleas. As the flames grew, we returned to the
Mulata
, cut the boarding ropes that bound us to the Turkish galley and pushed it away as best we could with pikes and bits of broken oar, taking advantage of the favourable breeze. It moved off gradually, shrouded in black smoke and with flames devouring the trinquet mast. The screams of the galley-slaves as they were roasted alive were terrible to hear.

Halfway through the afternoon, the
Caridad Negra,
holed in one side and slowly sinking, suffered such a fierce attack from the Turks that the survivors, with the prow in Turkish control, along with most of the rowing chamber, had to seek refuge in the captain's cabin, even though we were helping them from our side. General Pimentel had been wounded again, this time by arrows, and he was carried — like a St Sebastian — onto the
Mulata
where he would be safer. Then it was the turn of Captain Machin de Gorostiola to be laid low by musket-fire, which blew off one hand, leaving only a limp remnant hanging from his wrist. He wanted to cut it off completely so that he could continue fighting, but his strength failed him and his knees buckled. He fell to the floor where he was finished off by the Turks before his soldiers could save him. This might have discouraged other men, but it had the opposite effect on the Basques, who, beside themselves with rage, bawled out their desire for revenge. Urging each other on in Basque and cursing in Castilian, they fought with unimaginable fury. Not only did they clear their decks of Turks, they boarded the enemy ship as well, and whether the galley had been so badly damaged or had been holed by cannon shot below the water, it began to list, still attached by grappling hooks to the
Caridad Negra
, which also continued to sink.

The Basques returned to their own ship, and seeing that it was about to go under and that nothing could be done, they started climbing onto the
Mulata,
bringing with them as many of their wounded as they could and, of course, their flag. Shortly afterwards, we had to cut the ropes and hawsers and leave the vessel to sink, which it did, along with the Turkish galley, which turned up its keel before going down. It was a terrible sight: the sea full of debris and struggling Turks, the galley-slaves screaming as they struggled in vain to remove their chains before they drowned. In the face of such a tragic scene, we stopped fighting, while the Turks went about rescuing their men from the water.

In the end, the five surviving Turkish galleys retreated to their usual distance; every one of them was badly damaged, with blood running into the scuppers and between the oars, many of which were broken or not moving at all because the oarsmen had died.

There were no more attacks that day. As the sun set, the
Mulata
lay motionless on the sea, surrounded by enemy galleys and corpses floating in the still water, with one hundred and thirty wounded men crammed together below decks and sixty-two uninjured men scanning the darkness. As a defiant act, the
Mulata
again lit her lantern. But there was no singing that night.

EPILOGUE

The following morning, at sunrise, the Turks were not there. The men on watch woke us at first light, pointing to the empty sea: all that remained was the debris of combat. The enemy galleys had slipped away in the dark, having decided that it wasn't worth capturing a miserable, ruined galley at such a high cost. Still incredulous, looking in all directions and seeing not a trace of the Ottomans, we embraced each other, weeping with happiness and giving thanks to heaven for such grace. We would have called it a miracle but for the suffering and blood it had taken to preserve life and liberty.

More than two hundred and fifty comrades, including the Knights of Malta, had lost their lives in combat, and of the four hundred galley-slaves of all races and religions who had made up the crews of the
Caridad Negra
and the
Mulata,
only about fifty remained. Of the captains and officers, the only survivors were Don Agustin Pimentel and Captain Urdemalas, who somehow managed to recover from his wound. Among the soldiers and sailors, the only subaltern officers who survived were Captain Alatriste, the pilot Braco and Corporal Zenarruzabeitia, who had taken refuge on our galley along with General Pimentel and twenty or so Basques. Another survivor was the galley-slave Joaquin Ronquillo, who, on the recommendation of our General — once informed of his action against the janizary — had his six remaining years at the oars reduced to one. As for me, I emerged in reasonably good health, apart from a wound inflicted in the latter stages of the battle by an arrow from a Turkish crossbow, which pierced my right thigh; it didn't do too much damage, but left me with a limp for two months.

The
Mulata
remained afloat, although in need of innumerable repairs. We spliced together bits of rope to make cables, and while some men worked at bailing out, we patched up the broken deck, and after improvising a mast and sail from what remnants we could find and recovering several oars, we managed to make it to dry land, partly under sail power and partly under oars. Then we set up a watchtower in case of any surprise attacks, but, fortunately, the place proved to be rocky and uninhabited, and in only two days we had made the galley seaworthy again. During that time, many of our wounded died. We put them with the other Spaniards who had died on board and those whose bodies we had rescued from the sea and from the beaches. And before weighing anchor again, we buried them all at Cap Nero — a melancholy business. Since we had no chaplain to provide a funeral service, and since both General Pimentel and Captain Urdemalas were incapacitated, it fell to Captain Alatriste to provide a graveside prayer. We gathered around, bare heads bowed, and said a paternoster together. Then the Captain, for lack of anything more appropriate to say, and after swallowing hard and scratching his head, recited a few short lines which, despite coming from a soldierly comedy or some such thing, struck everyone as perfectly suited to the occasion:

Free they are of all their guilt, To eternal glory they have risen, There to taste far greater joys Than exist in this our earthly prison.

All these events happened in the month of September 1627, at Cap Nero, which is on the coast of Anatolia, facing onto the Escanderlu channel. And while Captain Alatriste pronounced that unusual prayer for the dead, the setting sun lit up our motionless figures as we stood around the graves of all those good comrades, each one with its own cross made of Turkish wood — a last defiant act in their memory. There they stayed, accompanied by the murmur of the waves and the cries of the seabirds, waiting for the resurrection of the flesh, when they will perhaps rise up from the earth fully armed, with the pride and glory that befits all faithful soldiers. And until that distant day, they will stay where they are, sleeping the long, honourable sleep enjoyed by all valiant men, next to the sea on which they sold their lives at such a high price, fighting for gold and booty, but fighting, too, for those things that are far from trifling — country, God and King.

EXTRACTS FROM A FLORILEGIUM OF POEMS BY VARIOUS SPANISH WITS

Printed in the seventeenth century with no place of publication or date and preserved in the 'Count of Guadalmedina' section of the Archive and Library of the Dukes of Nuevo Extremo in Seville.

BY DON MIGUEL DE CERVANTES SAAVEDRA

TO THE MEMORY OF THE SPANISH SOLDIERS WHO PERISHED WHEN LA GOLETA WAS LOST

From this battered, sterile land,

From these clods of earth brought low

Three thousand soldiers' holy souls

Rose, still living, to a better home,

Having, first, expended all

The strength and effort of their arms,

Until, at last, so few, so weary,

T' the enemy's blade they gave their life.

This land has been eternally,

Down the centuries, till now,

Full of doleful memories.

Yet no better souls from that hard breast

Will ever rise to heaven's light,

Nor heaven receive such valiant hearts.

BY LICENCIATE DON MIGUEL SERRANO

FROM SANTA FE DE BOGOTA, TO THE YOUNG SOLDIER INIGO BALBOA

By destiny, a son of Flanders field, And now the faithful shadow of your leader. You're young — apprentice still — and keenest reader Of the Don and Lope — no men to yield!

You're faithful, loyal and marked out by fate, To suffer at the hands of treach'rous love Put in your path by destiny above — Revenge for that and Alquezar must wait

A good companion in the darkest night, With dagger drawn, you were the bravest soul — I speak unvarnished truth, entire and whole.

And that is why my words ring true and right, That though you were a boy, a love-sick foal, Nor you nor Alatriste lost a fight

BY THE SAME

TO CAPTAIN DON DIEGO ALATRISTE Y TENORIO, VETERAN OF FLANDERS. ITALY, BARBARY AND THE LEVANT

Through old Madrid, where once he used to live, Wanders a ghost, the erstwhile valiant Captain. Be careful what you call him — he '11 not forgive; W-jund him, and the price could be your skin.

As vassal to his king, he used his sword To save a sovereign and a favourite. His footsteps pace the spot where once his lord Ignored him quite and never gave him credit

He finds no rest, when easeful rest is sought; His sword is up for hire, but not his honour, For, shorn of honour, life for man is naught

He came from glory, to glory goes, ready

To face dread destiny ~ his
bella donna —

And though his heart may tremble, sword stays steady.

BY DON FRANCISCO DE QUEVEDO

TO THE MEMORY OF THE DUKE OF OSUNA, VICEROY OF NAPLES, WHO DIED IN PRISON

Although his country has denied him praise, His deeds will always be his best defence; Imprison'd by Spain, he died — poor recompense For one who conquer'd Fortune all his days.

They wept in envious mourning, one by one, Those other grateful nations not his own, His fitting epitaph, the blood-red moon, His tomb, the Flanders battles that were won.

Vesuvius, at his funeral, made roar, And Naples, Sicily and Etna shook; His soldiers' flood of tears grew more and more.

I' the heaven of Mars, a favour'd place he took; The Danube, Tagus, Meuse and Rhine forsook Their calm, and moaned and murmured, weeping sore.

                                                                 BY SISTER AMAYA ELEZCANO, ABBESS OF THE CONVENT OF THE BLESSED ADORATRICES

TO THE PERSON OF CAPTAIN
DON
DIEGO ALATRISTE

O my gallant and venturesome captain,

My gentleman, faithful and true,

You reap, with the blade of your sword,

Still more laurels to add to your fame,

Yet, woe to the man who finds fault

With the cut and the dash of your life,

For the man who knows how best to keep quiet

Is the same man who knows how to fight