Ramage & the Saracens (25 page)

The Italian nodded grudgingly.

Stafford was busy preparing the gun. First he took the long, thin pricker and thrust it down the vent, jabbing it in and out until he was sure it had pierced the cartridge. Then he pushed a quill down the vent and then sprinkled some priming powder from the horn round his neck, so that it filled the pan and covered the top of the quill. The moment that Jackson pulled his firing lanyard and the lock was triggered to make a spark, the powder would fire the quill and a spurt of flame would flash down the vent and detonate the cartridge. But until the lock was cocked, there was no way that the flintlock could cause a spark.

His job as second captain completed, except for cocking the lock, Stafford stood back. Jackson crouched down and sighted along the barrel, although he knew the gun was already trained on the right section of the quay.

“I wonder how many there are,” said Stafford.

“I heard Mr Ramage say he reckoned they'd have about twenty boats,” Jackson said. “Tell me how many men the boats carry and I'll tell you how many men they have.”

“They'll be galleys and tartanes and maybe a few fishing boats. Thirty or forty men in each boat?”

“I doubt if they'd have as many as that,” Jackson said. “They need room for prisoners.”

“Even if they have only twenty in each boat, they'll outnumber us two to one.”

“But they won't have six carronades, half a dozen boat-guns and a couple of hundred muskets and pistols,” Jackson pointed out. “Cheer up, Staff, you probably won't end up your days in a Saracen galley!”

Stafford shuddered. “I should hope not. I can feel that whip across my shoulders, and my hands are raw from holding the oar.”

“It's your imagination that makes you tired,” Jackson said unsympathetically. “You just keep this gun firing and we'll all be all right.”

“We'll certainly surprise ‘em,” Stafford said, seeking some consolation in the fact. “There they come dancing ashore thinking they're attacking a helpless fishing port, and bang, bang, there are the Calypsos waiting for them.”

“I suspect that's why we're here,” Jackson said sarcastically. “I can't help thinking that that's what crossed Mr Ramage's mind when he first stepped ashore here.”

“I ‘spect so,” Stafford said in the tone of voice that took it for granted that the captain worked miracles. “He's usually got a reason.”

“I don't understand when we know to stop firing so that the seamen and marines attack along the quay,” Gilbert said.

“You weren't listening properly when Mr Ramage was giving us our orders,” Jackson said. “There'll be a rocket—maybe more than one—telling us when to open fire, and three rockets when we're to cease fire and the seamen and marines to go chasing up the quay.”

“Supposing we don't hear the rockets?” Gilbert persisted.

“We'd better, otherwise we're going to kill a lot of our own men as they run out,” Jackson said. “Anyway, we'll either see the rockets as they burst, or we'll hear the other guns stop firing. Or not hear them, rather.”

“It's not a very good idea,” Gilbert said. “Rockets don't make such a noise.”

“As Mr Ramage said,” Jackson growled, “there's no other way: men won't have time to run from gun to gun saying ‘Please stop firing.' Anyway, rockets make a completely different noise from carronades or muskets. You listen hard, Gilbert—and the rest of you. Staff and Rosey and I will have enough to concentrate on.”

“Rockets!” Gilbert said crossly. “Might as well have someone up at the castle blowing a whistle!”

Jackson stared at the Frenchman. “Say a prayer that we stay alive to hear the rockets. If those Saracens get near us with their scimitars, it will be all over!”

“They'll have to run fast to catch me,” Gilbert said drily.

Up in the castle Ramage watched the oncoming Saracen boats. It was impossible to see how many men they carried but the telescope revealed one thing: the decks were not lined with men. The Saracens, Ramage concluded, were sure that all they were doing was attacking yet another undefended small fishing port; as far as they were concerned this was a repeat of Marsala, Mazara, Sciacca, and Empedocle: a routine attack, nothing to get excited about.

“Light another slowmatch,” he told Orsini. “I don't like having to rely on one. In fact light two more: let's have one each when we want to fire off three rockets. The men are more likely to hear three rockets fired almost simultaneously.”

“We have about seven feet of slowmatch left, sir,” Orsini reported.

“That's enough for another three Saracen raids,” Ramage said impatiently.

The glare from the sea was strong now as the stiff breeze pewtered the water, throwing up small waves which reflected the sun like a million flashing diamonds. The Saracen craft were approaching like water beetles advancing across a pond. With this south wind, Ramage noted, the Saracens would be able to run into the port with a commanding wind, rounding up alongside the quay. It would be a head wind for them leaving—but, unless his plans went badly adrift, none of them would be doing that.

Five hundred yards? About that, then the first of the craft, a tartane, would be coming in through the entrance. Then a second and third tartane and then three galleys. They were gaudily painted. The tartanes were decked out in strakes of green and red, with blue and white triangles and stripes apparently painted on the hulls at random. The galleys were similarly painted but as Ramage swung his telescope further round he could see that the fishing boats were still painted in the Sicilian fashion, each with a big eye painted on either side of the bow.

Gaudy colours and patched sails, yet to give the devils their due the boats were fast: the tartanes were slipping along and the galleys, under sails and oars, were keeping up with them. The tartanes had pleasantly sweeping sheers while the galleys had almost flat sheers, with the banks of oars moving in unison as though the craft were breathing.

Now the first tartane had sailed through the entrance, followed by the second and then the third. The rest of the craft were beginning to turn like a gigantic tail. Very soon the first of the tartanes would be rounding up to come alongside the quay and the men at the guns, peering out of the stable doors, would be able to see them. If only all the Saracen craft had come alongside at the same time—then the guns could have opened fire on them before the men landed. A big if, Ramage thought.

The first tartane swung round head to wind and crashed alongside the quay. Ramage could not hear the noise but he saw the long yard quiver from the impact. The Saracens were more skilled at sailing their boats than handling them in confined spaces. Now the second and third large tartanes were alongside and the galleys were manoeuvring into position, an operation which took more care because each captain had to make sure the oars on the landward side did not hit the stonework of the quay.

“How do they boat those great oars?” Orsini asked.

Ramage shrugged his shoulders since he had no idea.

By now more tartanes and captured boats were streaming into the port but, Ramage noted, there was no mad rush to get on shore: the boats were giving themselves plenty of room, and they manoeuvred as though they had plenty of time, too. There was no hurry to attack the port. The Saracens knew that they had overwhelmed the other ports by sheer weight of numbers, and Licata was simply another like the others.

As he watched closely through his telescope Ramage could see men securing the first tartane alongside, throwing ropes over the stone bollards. The second tartane had come alongside the first and was securing to it, and while it was doing that, the third tartane came alongside her, so they were three deep. The first galley went alongside the quay and the second secured next to it, followed by the third. Then, like giant ants, the other boats came in and went alongside. The strange thing was, Ramage noted, that none of the Saracens had gone on shore, apart from the men throwing ropes over the bollards. It was a curiously leisurely invasion.

Soon all twenty or so craft were secured alongside the quay and then, as if someone had blown a whistle or bellowed an order that everyone could hear, the men started climbing over the bulwarks on to the quay. Ramage tried a rough count—twenty, forty, sixty, a hundred: that covered the first three tartanes and the galleys. Twenty, forty, sixty—that was two hundred. Quickly he reached a total of four hundred standing about on the quay, and that seemed the end of the exodus from the boats.

The four hundred stood in a crowd, as though undecided what to do next, but Ramage guessed that their leader—or leaders—were just getting their bearings.

If only the crowd would stay together and move into the area he had called the killing ground, but they would probably split up into groups as they made their way towards the town. Was there one leader or did each craft have its own leader—a man who became the chief of his own men as soon as they landed? It did not really matter except it might have some bearing on whether the men stayed together or split into smaller groups.

Then, watched by a startled Ramage, all the men turned to the east and flung themselves on to the ground. And from down on the quay Ramage could just hear a faint wailing: rhythmic and persistent but high-pitched.

“They're praying, by God!” exclaimed Orsini. “Those damned heathens are praying!”

“Praying for the souls of the infidels they are about to disembowel or drag off,” Ramage said drily. “Don't forget we often have a prayer before battle—it's the same sort of thing.”

“Yes,” said Orsini, who did not agree with the prayers, “it gets everyone into the right attitude for murder and mayhem, knowing that God is on their side. These fellows call him Allah, but the idea is the same.”

Then the Saracens stood up, gave a bloodcurdling shriek while waving their scimitars in the air, and turned towards the town. But they did not run: they did little more than amble, breaking up into small groups as they made their way along the quay.

Ramage could imagine six trigger-lines belonging to six carronades being tightened as the gun captains took up the first strain. In the houses seamen and marines would be cocking their muskets and pistols. The second captains of the carronades, too, would have cocked their locks and stood back clear of the recoil. Every one of the Calypsos would be listening for the crackling of the rocket as they watched the advancing Saracens.

The horde of men had covered about fifty yards so far: they must be very confident of themselves because they were not hurrying. And indeed, why should they not be confident? As far as they were concerned Licata was just another fishing port, so placed to provide Saracens with able-bodied men for their galleys and nubile women for the brothels.

The Saracens had covered seventy-five yards by now, a shambling group of men who were doing little more than shuffling their way towards the town. But more important, they were heading directly for the killing ground. They were not bunched up enough to make perfect targets for the carronades: in fact it was hard to believe that such a casual crowd of men were a menace to Licata. Except, Ramage realized, for the glint of the sun on the scimitar blades. The men were walking along swinging their scimitars just as men out for a peaceful walk might swing at flowers with walking sticks—in England it would be dandelions, but Ramage realized he was not sure that they grew in Sicily.

He almost laughed at himself when he found he was thinking about dandelions while at the same time he watched the Saracens through his telescope. No, there did not seem to be a particular leader, or at least no one man was heading the crowd. They were now thirty yards from the edge of the killing ground, and Ramage said to Orsini: “Stand by with the slowmatch.”

Orsini picked it up and blew on it so that it glowed red, and he moved close to the rocket as it stood in its tube canted over the town.

Then the first of the Saracens had reached the edge of the killing ground itself. Ramage could see that all of the men were dressed in robes with scarves or cloths covering their heads. And they all had beards; black beards which made them look fierce.

Now half of them were in the area, the rest of them shuffling along as though they had all the time in the world—which, as far as they knew, they had. Most of them, Ramage thought grimly, have very little time left in this world, although they were blissfully ignorant of the fact.

Ramage felt the excitement gripping him now: so far his plan was working out and everything depended on the timing of that rocket. If it was too soon, it would raise the alarm for the Saracens; if it was too late then many of them would be outside the target area before the guns fired.

He watched and waited, looking sideways to make sure that Orsini was ready at the rocket with the slowmatch. Yes, the slow-match was glowing. And he found he could judge the position of the Saracens better with his naked eye: the telescope distorted the view by foreshortening the foreground.

Damn, he had to watch that the leading men were not out of the area before the ones in the rear had entered it. There, now was the moment!

“Fire the rocket!” he snapped at Orsini and a moment later the rocket hissed up in the air over the town and exploded with a crackling noise as it sped over the quay.

Before the last of the rocket's noise was lost there was a series of deep coughs as the six carronades opened fire and the barrage was punctuated by the lighter banging of the boat-guns and the popping of more than two hundred muskets and pistols.

The leading Saracens collapsed in piles, cut down by case shot and musket balls as they walked, and the rest of the crowd froze, taken completely by surprise. Then the muskets crackled again as seamen and marines fired the spare guns they had beside them. And Ramage could imagine the carronade crews desperately ramming home cartridges, wads, and case shot and then heaving away with handspikes to aim the guns again.