Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [144]
He had guessed. Nicholas said, ‘He is unhurt.’
Lomellini still stared at him. He said, ‘In five minutes, I shall send a servant to look for him. Make yourself scarce.’
‘No need,’ Nicholas said. ‘In a few minutes, there will be only one thing to think of. Or – no – Get down!’
They were hardly in time. As they rolled on the deck, a ball from the enemy ship smashed into the rail of the forecastle, leaving a prodigious hole, and sending timber and iron flying. One of the bombards had gone. Among the dust and smoke, suddenly, there was a flicker of fire. As Nicholas scrambled upright, he heard John le Grant’s voice, swearing, and he began to breathe again. Before he could run, a dozen men were already there, and the fire was out. The men were his own, armed and efficient. Nicholas turned and found Lomellini, flushed, on his feet. Nicholas said, ‘We could beat them.’
Lomellini said, ‘We shall certainly try. But even your hundred men won’t help save us if they get in under our guns and board us. There are at least four hundred men in those galleys, and this is an old single-mast cog. It takes fifty men to swing that yard round every time she goes about. And her guns aren’t on swivels.’
‘So we keep them at a distance. We can’t manoeuvre against two of them anyway, not with this wind and the way they’ve placed themselves. Can we fix the guns? My engineer and the Order’s gunner might do it. Then we look to hackbuts – we’ve plenty, and we’re good – and some sort of shield against arrows. What about co-ordination between helm and gunners and handguns? Would you let me do that? If the shipmaster agrees? Where is the shipmaster?’
‘I heard you,’ said the man. He was a Rhodian, and a professional. He said, ‘Ser Napoleone? This makes sense. I’ll take this man back to the tiller, if you and the Grand Master get the soldiers where you want them. I don’t want a prow ram through my beam while we’re talking.’
‘And whatever extra oarsmen you’ve got,’ Nicholas said. ‘It’ll help the gunners if the storm sail comes down.’ An explosion shook the boat and they staggered, recovered, and looked to the bows. John had fired one of their bombards. As they stood, another spoke. Two fountains of seawater arose, one in front of each galley. They saw, in the distance, turbanned men throw themselves low.
The shipmaster was saying, ‘She’ll run south on her mast. But it’ll help. Come. Let’s get on with it.’ He ran, shouting orders, and Nicholas followed, to an outburst of drums and some trumpeting. Before they got to the poop, the yard was rattling down and men were running. He gave a slap on the back to one of his own squad as he passed, and the man looked round, grinning. Even when the odds were against them like this, no one minded once the fighting got started. Nicholas was so glad to be free, and in action, that he released a whoop, running forward. Faces turned, some of them irritated.
Then he was at the stern castle, where the steersman was listening to orders, while the trumpeter made brazen notes of them. The poop flag, undeviatingly, blew from the north and the current kicked. Below, running men formed a line along either gunwale, the long shafts of their guns in their hands, their helmets bowed over powder-satchels and matches. The galleys on either side began to change position. The cog’s helmsman swung the tiller, using the current, and her few oarsmen bent to their task. The round ship ceased to point into the seas and came broadside on to each galley. As she paused, rocking wildly, the hackbuts along her flanks fired, first on one side, then on the other, raking along the low, distant galleys. With the naked eye, some confusion on both the enemy ships could be seen, and then, all too quickly, there came the uplifting of Mameluke bows, and the arrival over the water of a double shower of fast, lethal arrows.
They arrived on the deck of the cog, and men screamed and fell, despite their armour. Some of them would be his, Nicholas knew, but so far he couldn’t identify them. But already the yard was