Corsair
( Hector Lynch - 1 )
Tim Severin
1677, on a late summer’s evening two ships lurk off the coast of southwest Ireland. They are Barbary corsairs from North Africa, slave catchers. As soon as it is dark, their landing parties row ashore to raid a small fishing village - on the hunt for fresh prey . . . In the village, seventeen-year-old Hector Lynch wakes to the sound of a pistol shot. Moments later he and his sister Elizabeth are taken prisoner. From then on Hector’s life plunges into a turbulent and lawless world that is full of surprises. Separated from Elizabeth, he is sold to the slave market of Algiers, where he survives with the help of his newfound friend Dan, a Miskito Indian from the Caribbean. The two men convert to Islam to escape the horrors of the slave pens, only to become victims of the deadly warfare of the Mediterranean. Serving aboard a Turkish corsair ship, their vessel is sunk at sea and they find themselves condemned to the oar as galley slaves for France. Driven by his quest to find his sister, Hector finally stumbles on the chilling truth of her fate when he and Dan are shipwrecked on the coast of Morocco . . .
ONE
THEY ARRIVED an hour before daybreak, forty men in two boats, cotton rags tied around the shafts to muffle the creak of the oars, and the rowers dipping their blades neatly into the sleek blackness of the sea. The boats were of local design, stolen from a fishing port a week earlier, and if a coast watcher had spotted their approach, the sentinel might have mistaken them for fishermen coming home early from the night’s work. Certainly the raiders were confident that their mother ships had been invisible from the cliff tops for they had waited patiently over the horizon, hovering with sails lowered until they had the conditions they wanted: a calm sea and a thin veil of cloud to diffuse the starlight. There was no moon.
The oarsmen eased stroke as the two boats glided into the small cove. They heard the muted surge and backwash of small waves lapping the shingle, then quiet splashes as the bow men jumped out and held the boats steady while the raiders stepped knee-deep into the shallows. The water was warm for this time of year, yet it was far colder than the seas to which they were accustomed. Many of the raiders were barefoot, and as they began their march inland, the callused soles of their feet felt the change from smooth beach pebbles to tussocky grass, then the soft squelch of a boggy stream bed. A smell of rotting vegetable matter came up on the humid summer air. Ahead of them, a nesting marsh bird burst out of the reeds and flew away with a sudden clatter of wings.
Ten minutes of easy climbing along the stream bed brought them to the watershed. From a patch of level ground, they looked down the far slope at their goal. The village was less than half a mile away, a low cluster of dark roofs etched against the broad glimmer of the great bay which thrust far into the contorted and rocky coastline, providing a vast but empty anchorage. There was not a light to be seen, and still there were no warning shouts.
THE RAIDERS descended the slope, moving faster now, and were at the outskirts of the village before the first dog barked. ‘Who’s there?’ called a woman’s voice from one of the turf-roofed cabins. She spoke in the soft fluid tones of the local speech. ‘Go back to sleep, woman,’ one of the raiders replied in her own language. There was a short pause as the men stopped and listened. The silence returned, except for the muted growling of the suspicious dog. The intruders moved forward quietly, spreading along the single main street.
At the very centre of the village, in one of the few stone-built houses, Hector Lynch opened his eyes. He lay in the pitch darkness, wondering what had woken him. On calm nights it was sometimes so silent that you could hear the distant boom of waves breaking on the rocks in the aftermath of a heavy swell as the Atlantic gnawed steadily at the granite coast. But this night there was something melancholy and stifling about the lack of sound. It was as if the village had been smothered in its sleep, and was dead. For almost as long as Hector could remember, he and his sister, Elizabeth, had been coming here each summer to study at the Franciscan friary on the island at the harbour mouth. Their mother insisted that he and Elizabeth, his junior by two years, learn Latin and the tenets of her own Catholic faith from the Grey Friars. Her family were Spanish, shipowners from Galicia, and for generations they had engaged in the wine trade with this remote corner of south-west Ireland where she had met and married her husband. He was of minor Protestant gentry impoverished in the recent civil war and more interested that his children learn practical and domestic skills to help them prosper in the Protestant hierarchy which now ruled the land. The mixed ancestry of their children showed in the sallow skins, dark eyes and jet-black hair which Hector and Elizabeth had inherited from their mother – at fifteen the girl was on the cusp of becoming a real beauty – and in their fluency of languages. They used English when speaking to their father, Spanish with a Galician accent when alone with their mother, and Irish among their summer playmates from the poorer fishing families.
Hector turned on his side and tried to go back to sleep. He hoped that this was the last summer that he and Elizabeth would spend in this isolated backwater. In January their father had died, and after his funeral their mother had hinted to her in-laws that she was thinking of returning to Spain, taking her children with her. Hector had never visited Spain – indeed he had never been farther than the city of Cork – and he had a seventeen-year-old’s longing to see more of the world. He nursed a secret and romantic belief that his own name, Lynch, was an omen because the Irish version, O’Loinsigh, meant ‘seafarer’ or ‘wanderer’.
He was thinking about the possibility of a trip to Spain, and what it would be like, when he heard the first pistol shot.
It was the signal for the raiders to begin breaking down doors and wrenching open shutters. Now they made as much noise and racket as possible. They yelled and whooped, banged cudgels against doorposts, kicked over stacks of farm tools. In response every dog in the village began to bark furiously and somewhere a donkey brayed in panic. Inside the cabins the occupants were stupefied by the sudden din. Many slept on beds that were little more than piles of dried bracken covered with blankets on the beaten earth floor, and they were still getting to their feet groggily when the intruders burst in among them. Children clung to their mothers, babies began to wail, and the adults were disoriented and dazed as the raiders began to herd them out of doors. Those who resisted did so from confusion and weariness rather than a sense of defiance. A slap across the face or a well-aimed kick in the backside quickly changed their minds, and they stumbled out to join their neighbours in the street.
The first flush of dawn gave sufficient light for the raiders to make their selection. They spurned those who were bent with age and hard labour or obviously misshapen. A young man with a badly twisted leg was rejected, so too was a halfwit who stood helplessly, his head turning from side to side as he tried to understand the mayhem that surrounded him. Infants were also discarded. One raider casually pulled a baby of less than six months from the mother’s arms, and handed the child to the nearest crone as if it was an unwanted parcel. The mother he pushed into the chosen group of able-bodied men, women and their children who had to appear at least five years old if they were to qualify.
But not everyone was caught. There was a flurry as a figure was spotted running away down the road that led inland. A shouted order, and the two raiders who had set off after the fugitive turned back to rejoin their companions. The running man was on his way to fetch help, to alert the local militia, but the invaders knew the village was too isolated for assistance to arrive in time. So they continued their selection with calm efficiency.
Hector scrambled out from his bed and was still pulling on his breeches when the door to his room slammed open. Someone in the passageway held up a lantern so that the light shone f
A moment later a fourth man walked confidently through the doorway. He was dressed like the others, only more richly, with a brocaded waistcoat over his loose shirt, and his red and blue turban was even bulkier and made of fine cloth. He was a much older man, his white beard neatly trimmed, and he seemed unperturbed by the commotion. In his hand he held a pistol. For a moment Hector thought that he would be shot for resisting so fiercely. But the newcomer only walked across to where Hector was now half-kneeling and, neatly reversing the pistol, brought the butt down on the young man’s head.
Just before the crash of pain and the black oblivion that followed, Hector heard the sound that was to haunt him for months to come: the frantic, repeated screams of his sister Elizabeth, calling for his help.
TWO
THE HARSH RASP of timber against his cheek brought him back to his senses. He was propped against some sort of wooden wall, lying awkwardly, and his face had scraped against the planking as he slid downwards. A painful lump on his head throbbed, and his skin was cold and clammy. Worse, it felt as if he was spinning helplessly in a black void that constantly expanded and contracted with each beat of his heart. Nauseous, Hector kept his eyes closed and, from deep down in his stomach, he retched. He was miserably aware that the real world around him was swaying and lurching, while close beside his ear was the gurgle and swirl of moving water.
Hector had only ever been to sea in small fishing boats and when it was calm so he had never experienced the torment of acute seasickness. Thus it was several hours before he felt well enough to take stock of his surroundings. He was in the bowels of a ship. That much was clear. There was the fetid stench of bilge water, the discordant creaks and groans of wood on wood, and the sound of moving water as waves washed against the hull. The stomach-churning pitch and sway of the vessel was exaggerated by the fact that barely any light penetrated into the hold of the vessel. He presumed that it was day time but whether it was morning or afternoon, or how long he had been unconscious, he had no idea. Not since he had fallen out of a tree as a boy and landed on his head, had he felt so bruised and battered. He reached up tentatively to touch the lump on his scalp, only to find that his wrists were shackled with iron manacles from which a thick tarred rope led to a ring bolt set in a cross beam. He was tethered in place.
‘That’s to stop you making trouble or jumping overboard,’ said a sly voice close by. Startled, Hector turned to see an old man crouched beside him. He was dirty and balding, and his face with its sunken cheeks and sickly blotched skin wore a pleased expression. Hector concluded that his observer was enjoying the sight of his sufferings. ‘Where am I? How long have I been here?’ he asked. The residue of vomit in his throat tasted sour. The man cackled and did not reply but scuttled away and laid himself down on the deck boards with exaggerated care, his face turned away from Hector.
Left without an answer Hector carried on taking stock of his surroundings. The hold was some five paces wide and ten paces long, and there was scarcely enough height for an ordinary-sized man to stand upright. In that airless space some thirty people were sitting despondently or slumped on the floorboards. A few had pulled old cargo sacks over themselves as blankets. Others were curled up with their heads buried in their arms. Hector recognised several villagers: the gangling figure of the carpenter and, seated just beside him, a brawny young labourer whom he had sometimes seen setting off from the village to cut peat on the hillside with his slean – a thin bladed spade – on his shoulder. Two men, clearly brothers, were the same fishermen who took it in turn to ferry visitors across to the island friary, and the older man with the gash on his jaw – where someone must have struck him with a club – was the cooper who made the barrels in which the villagers salted down their winter supply of pilchards. They were all still wearing the ragbag of clothes they had put on when they were snatched from their homes, and they looked broken and forlorn. There were also half a dozen children. One of them, perhaps six or seven years old, was whimpering with fear and exhaustion.
Then, abruptly, he recalled his sister’s despairing wail for help and, looking round the hold again, noted that there were no women in the group.
There was the thump of a hammer blow. It came from directly above, the sound magnified in the hollow space. Then a shaft of light struck down into the gloom. Hector squinted upward to where a hatch was being opened. A pair of bare feet and shins appeared as a sailor came down the ladder leading into the hold. The man was dressed in the same garb as those who had attacked him. A sailor’s knife dangled from a lanyard around his neck, and he was swarthy and heavily bearded. He carried a large wicker basket which he set down on the floor. Without a word he climbed back up the ladder and closed the hatch. A moment later Hector heard the sound of wedges being driven home. Several of the men who looked like seafarers immediately made their way to the base of the ladder, and began to rummage in the basket.
Hector’s tether had been left long enough for him to join them, and he found they were pulling out sheets of thin flat bread which they ripped to pieces and shared out amongst themselves. Beside the basket stood a small tub of water with a wooden scoop. Hector took a sip, spat to wash his mouth out, and then drank deeply. He broke off a piece of the bread and tasted it. It was slightly gritty but wholesome. In the basket were also small fruits which he recognised as a delicacy his mother had occasionally received from her family in Spain. He bit into one and spat out the stone, an olive. Picking out half a dozen of them and another chunk of bread, he retreated to his place by the hull and began to eat, feeling better with every mouthful. Now he realised that he was the only person who had been manacled and tethered. Everyone else in the hold was free to move about.
While his fellow captives fed, Hecto
r picked steadily at the knot in the rope that bound him to the ring bolt. It was some sort of complicated seaman’s knot but eventually he managed to work it loose. Holding the tether in a loop so it did not trip him, Hector moved across to talk to the villagers. He was feeling a little awkward. Though he had spent his summers among them, he did not know any of the older men very well. The difference in their backgrounds was too great; the son of a gentleman, however impoverished, had little in common with peasant labourers and fishermen. ‘Has anyone seen my sister Elizabeth?’ he asked, embarrassed to pose such a question when he knew that each one of the men must have his own immediate troubles. No one answered. He knelt beside the cooper, who had always seemed a sober and level-headed family man, and repeated his question. He noticed that the cooper had been crying. There were streaks where the tears had run down his face and mingled with blood that leaked from the gash in his chin. ‘What happened? Where’s my sister Elizabeth?’ he repeated. The cooper seemed not to understand his question, for he only mumbled: ‘God has made a second Taking. To Israel he promised a return from the captivity, yet we are twice punished and left in darkness.’
The man was a devout churchgoer, Hector recalled. Like all of the tradesmen, the cooper was a Protestant and regularly worshipped in the village chapel. It was the poorer sort – the fishermen and the landless peasants – who were Catholic, and they crossed to the island each Sunday to attend Mass with the friars. Hector, with his Protestant father and his Catholic mother, had never given much thought to this arrangement. He had little or no interest in religion, and veered as easily between one faith and the other as switching languages when speaking to his parents. He dimly remembered people talking about ‘the Taking’, but usually in hushed tones and he had never enquired further, believing it to be none of his business.