Pawn in Frankincense - Dorothy Dunnett [29]
Philippa gripped the ladder, hard, with her shaky hands. ‘I think I could struggle along with it,’ she said. ‘Are they Spanish, or corsairs? I want to be able to say “no” in the right language.’ Rowing against the freakish, southerly wind, the galley was almost stationary, rising and falling on the greasy dark swell, while from ahead, on either side, the two attacking ships streamed converging towards them. The big capital ship, black-painted, flew no national flag.
Marthe was listening. ‘That’s the challenge,’ she said. ‘In French; but then they could see we are a French ship. I can’t tell who they are.’ A line of thought showed, fleetingly, between the fair brows: otherwise she looked quite undisturbed. Philippa, envying either her acting or her stolidity, asked what they had said.
‘The usual. Heave to, or we’ll ram you to the bottom,’ said Marthe. ‘A matter of form, if you like. We’re hove to already.’
It seemed to Philippa that one might as well die naïve as die ignorant, so she kept on inquiring. ‘Why? Why did we turn round to face them, and stop? And what’s wrong with the sky?’
‘We turned round because we can’t outrun them, and all our cannon is at and around the bows: look at it. And we’re waiting because the bombardiers won’t have time to load twice before the ships close; so we hold fire till well within range. When you see the volume of smoke from the first shot, you’ll realize anyway that there are no second chances. It may not come to that, of course. He may parley, or offer them some of our cargo, for instance. It depends what they want.’
‘And the sky?’
‘Oh, that’s our other stroke of bad luck,’ said Marthe. ‘It’s just a sandstorm over North Africa, but the sirocco’s blowing it over our way. Turks and Moors, of course, know it’s a sandstorm. French convicts are much more liable to think the Wrath of God is upon them, however M. Crawford may explain briskly otherwise. A change of wind would be nice.’
‘But you don’t expect one?’
‘I never expect anything,’ said Marthe. ‘It provides a level, low-pitched existence with no disappointments.’
‘I’m all for a level, low-pitched existence,’ said Philippa. ‘And when you see your way back to one, for heaven’s sake don’t forget to tell me.’ At which Marthe, surprisingly, laughed aloud.
Then, suddenly, they saw the faces at the bows turn, bluish-pale in the orange-brown dusk, and Lymond’s voice, secure and carrying, began to initiate the first stages of action. For a long moment, Marthe watched, then she laid a hand on Philippa’s arm. ‘They’re pirate ships, demanding complete surrender of cargo and crew. He’s going to fight,’ she said. ‘Come down. We must close the hatch now.’ And in silence, Philippa followed her into the dark of the cabin.
On deck, nothing moved but for the idling oars, rowing by thirds to keep the boat still. Timbers creaked. The sea slapped and hissed up and down the low freeboard, and on deck sprays of fire bloomed from gunplace to gunplace, sizzling in the burnt-orange haze. The sun had gone, and although it was afternoon still, falling chiffons of light brown and russet concealed the light from the sky and enclosed the three ships and the glittering, indigo water in a strange saffron dusk. Within it, the shining wood of the masts, the white sails of the enemy, the blanched ranks of slaves and fighting men gleamed not ruddy but a cold aquamarine; a ghostly blue-white that peopled the three ships, as they converged silently, faster, with a crew of dead men. A growling: a low-throated mutter of fear started and could be heard, travelling from bench to bench. Jerott looked round, sharply, at the tabernacle where Lymond stood; and Lymond, at the same moment, gave the word of command.
They were just within range. Under other circumstances, Jerott guessed, Lymond would have delayed a few seconds longer. But the chiourme needed action. The whistle shrilled, loud and clear, and was repeated twice along the slim ship. Then, instantly, the living pieces shattered and jumped; the ranks of scarlet flame jerked