The Archer's Return: Medieval story in feudal times about knights, Templars, crusaders, Marines, and naval warfare during the Middle Ages in England in the reign of King Richard the lionhearted (3 page)

       Damn.  We’re not even there yet and already the alarm is being sounded.

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       William assigned me to go after the Algerian galleys pulled up side by side on the harbor beach next to the dock.  My crew and I are as prepared and determined as men can be.  This is the chance of a lifetime for me to become rich and famous.  As you might imagine, I am determined not to let it pass.

       I’ve told off three prize crews and they’re each ready and anxious to fight their way on to an Algerian galley and take it off the beach.  Then, God willing, they’ll sail them on to Malta and Cyprus and I’ll be rich. 

      
My new wife is very enthusiastic about this.  She’s a widow I met on board one of Lord William’s refugee ships when it carried her to safety from Latika and I signed on as a pilot.

       As you might imagine, we want to cut our prizes out and get away quickly before the heathen bastards begin to fight back.  That’s why I am standing here in the bow looking for galleys that are merely nosed into the beach next to the dock and still floating - so my prize crews can quickly push them off the beach and climb aboard.  If a galley doesn’t have slaves to help us row it to Malta we’ll burn it, if we have time, and look for one that does.

       “Over there.  Put us in there,” I shout over my shoulder to my rudder man as I point to a couple of galleys that are nosed into the shore side by side.

       “Stand by to back oars” …… “back oars.”

       There is a grinding noise for a couple of seconds as the bow of our hull begins to come over the sands and pebbles of the beach.  Even before we come totally to a stop there are great cheers and shouts and about half my men, the men of my three prize crews, leap over the rail in front of me to wade ashore and go for the galleys.  Every man is a volunteer because of the coins on offer and the men who didn’t get selected are jealous of them.

       My prize takers are all carrying ships’ shields and swords and about half of them are also carrying long bows and quivers.  Three of them, one member of each prize crew is carrying a bundle of twigs and a lantern to fire them if the prize crew comes across a galley it cannot take. 
Every penny counts you know.  That’s what my wife always says.

       Removing the weight of all the men in my prize crews from the front of my galley raises our bow and, as expected, we float free.  One of my chosen men jumps down to follow the prize crews.  His name is Joseph and he’ll stand there knee deep in the water and use the mooring line he’s holding to keep our galley close to shore until all of my men are either back on board or safely away on our prizes.  Three others of my men are on deck holding long Swiss pikes and ready to push us away from shore for a fast departure as soon as Joseph scrambles back on board.

       Already two of my prize crews are climbing on the two side by side galleys floating next to us with their noses up on the beach.  My third prize crew is dashing down the beach to a third galley about three hundred paces further to the north.  The sand is loose up on the beach where it is dry so they are running along the water’s edge where it is firmer and they can run faster.

      
Resistance.  By God we are meeting resistance.
I can hear the shouts and sounds of fighting coming from inside the two side by side galleys next to us.  Worse, there are armed men standing on the sand in front of the third galley and more jumping down from it.  My prize crew on the beach is about to be in a serious fight. 

       “Francis,” I snap to the newly promoted archer sergeant standing next to me as I point at the galley down the beach where are men are about to come to grips and start fighting.  “Take your men down the beach and join the prize crew fighting for that galley; Phillip, you take yours and help clear the two galleys next to us.”

       There is fighting and shouting all along the beach.  Worse, it appears that my third prize crew and their reinforcements have run into a wasp’s nest of Saracens.  They are heavily engaged on the beach to my right and more are coming.  Francis’ archers are not going to be enough.

       “Everyone follow me. Emergency.  Emergency.  Let’s go.  Hurry boys hurry.”

       I grab a ship’s shield off the railing where they hang and rush down the beach at the head of twenty or so of my men, the last of my crew except for the minimal amount of rowers we’ll need to get off the beach and row away.  Already I can see some of my boarding party have been cut down. 

       Our arrival makes the difference.  Many of the Algerians begin to run; others are still fighting but the tide is definitely turning.  Some of my men are down but most of them are at the galley; they’re trying to push it out and climb aboard at the same time.

      “Push it out.” … “That’s it.”  …  “Push it out.” … “Everyone get on board.” … “Hurry….”

       I’m shouting and running for the galley myself when suddenly a tremendous blow to my back staggers me forward.  I look down when I get regain control of my feet without actually falling.  A bloody arrowhead is sticking out of my chest in front of me.  Then somehow I’m on the beach and I can see legs around me and sand is getting into my eyes
.  I’m killed.
 
Poor old Jane.  She’s a widow a….

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       Harold heads our galley for the Algerian ships and galleys tied up along the long stone dock.  Our designated place among our four galleys heading for the dock is in the middle left of whatever shipping is tied up along it.  One of our galleys is coming even faster, too fast I think, and pulling alongside of us.  It is going after the galleys and cogs docked further to our left.  The other two are going to those docked to our right.

       A few minutes ago Harold told everyone to piss on the deck and now the rowing drum is beating at an unsustainable rate.  I can feel my heart pounding and I’m glad I pissed when everyone else did. 

      
I don’t know why but it seems a lot of men always need to piss before a battle.  I know I always do.  It seems strange but there you are.

       As we approach the dock Harold shouts “Rowers stop”…and then after very brief pause he shouts what the rowers expect to hear next … “Back oars.. Pull…Pull…Pull. ..Pull… Prize crews and deck archers.  Get ready … Prize men and deck archers …  Get ready.” 

       There is a hard bump and the sound of splintering wood as we bang into the dock between two tied up Algerian galleys.  We hit so hard the upper part of our front rail is pushed in and some of the men standing ready to leap on to the dock lose their balance.  They quickly recover and within seconds Harold’s prize crews are pouring off the deck and are on the dock racing for their potential prizes.

       Harold and I remain on deck with a wide-eyed Peter standing next to me with his longbow strung and one of his heavy arrows ready to draw.  Harold is standing next to me holding his big shield and his sword drawn.  We watch as one of our boarding parties runs to the galley on our left and the other runs to the galley on our right.  The men are running hard and don’t have far to go.  They reach them and leap aboard in what seems like the blink of an eye.

      Our galley’s archers are on the deck with us and they begin shooting at the handful of Algerians in range even before our boarding parties pour off our deck and on to the dock.  Peter and I join them and there is much shouting and commotion both on the dock and on the Algerian galleys on either side of us.  Harold just stands there.  He’s obviously poised to throw up his big shield for us to hide behind if arrows start coming the other way.

       All of a sudden Harold motions me to stay put and vaults over the deck railing and on to the dock to better watch our boarding parties.  He vaults back over rail and is back on board as soon as he sees his boarding parties are on their galleys and the mooring lines of the two galleys have been cut or cast off.

       “Archers below to row.  Steer to the big one over there” Harold shouts to the rudder man as the rowing drum begins to beat. “Yes.  The big one, the one with three masts and all the square sails.  Go for it…Hurry damn you.. Hurry.”

       And then a few minutes later. 

       “Grapplers, archers and number three boarding party men to the deck.”  …  “Grapplers, archers and number three boarding party to the deck.”  …  “Get ready lads.  Here come more coins for us all.” ….  “Throw your grapples as she comes”…. “Throw ...  Throw”… “Stand by with the tow line.”

       The ship Harold is after is one of the biggest ships I’ve ever seen.  Three tall masts, square sails, and a strange flag with Islamic markings. 
Wonder where it’s from?  Well I guess we’re about to find out.

      
“What kind of ship is that, Harold?  I’ve never seen one like that before.”

       “First time for me too.  Big’un isn’t she, by God?  Eighty paces long if she’s a foot.  I think she’s one of those new heathen ships I heard about after the goddamn Moors catched me up as a slave.  I saw a ship sort of like it through my oar hole once didn’t I?  In Acre it was … when the Saracens held the castle and the Moors was welcome.  Square sails it had and three masts … not as big as this one though.”

       About then is when Harold and I both realize the problem at the same moment.  And it’s a big one - our quarry’s sides are so high above the water that we can’t possibly climb up to its deck.  

       One part of the big ship’s deck looks to be lower so Harold orders the grapplers to loosen their lines so we can pull ourselves forward along its hull to reach the low spot.  We get to it - and then we discover the big ship still towers too far above us even here at its lowest point.  This is impossible. 

       “Cut the lines,” Harold shouts with an exasperated sound in his voice.  “We’ll go for another.” 

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       But we don’t.  We start to go for a nearby cog.  But as we get closer we can see its deck crowded with armed men.  And then rocks start coming down around us. 
They’ve got slingers by God.

       “Don’t throw,” Harold screams at the sailors who are winding up to throw with the grapples they are swinging around and around over their heads.  “Don’t throw, Goddamnit.” …  “Steer to that one.”  … “Yes, that’s the one.”

       One of the grapplers suddenly drops like he’s been axed as we go past the bow of the big cog.  Then another staggers and sits down on the deck with an arrow in his thigh. 
Damn.  Those bastards up there are good.

     
One of our galleys is coming towards us with a cog in tow.  Other galleys, clearly prizes, are rowing for the harbor entrance along with some of our own galleys.  And one of our galleys seems to be stuck on the beach with fighting going on all around it. 

       “Harold, over there,” I shout as I point at the fighting going on around one of our galleys that has somehow gotten itself turned sideways to the beach.  “Phillip’s galley is still on the beach.  It looks stuck.  Head there and we’ll try to pull him off.”

       A few minutes of hard rowing is all it takes before we approach Phillip’s stricken galley.  Its stern has floated around so that it is lying broadside up against the beach. There is a great horde of men on the beach around it and more in the shallow water trying to climb on board – and more men are running towards it from all over the beach. 
Oh my God.

        Our besieged galley’s oars are not moving.  Every man must be on deck fighting the enemy boarders who are continuing to climb on board.  We can hear the shouts and screams and sound of the fighting on its deck coming to us over the water. 

       As we approach our archers begin loosing arrow after arrow at the men they can see in the water and on the beach.  So do Peter and I.  We reap a deadly harvest and everything is happening at once.  Two our sailors are in the very front of our bow with their grapples beginning to swing around their heads.  We’re going to try to pull Phillip’s galley out into the harbor to get it away from the Algerians rushing towards it. 

       Then more disaster.  One of the swinging grapple irons hits an archer in the head and down he goes.   The other grapple connects to the railing in the right rear near the stern.

       “Back oars.  Every man except the archers to the oars.”  … “Every man except archers to the oars.”  … Pull ….Pull…Pull…”

       Our oars literally froth the water as our drummer beats the rowing drum faster and faster – and nothing happens.  Finally, the stern of our stranded galley begins to slowly come around towards us.  Very slowly.  Too slowly.  The fighting and what’s left of Phillip’s crew is clearly visible.  Phillip is not among them.

       We fly our arrows whenever we get a clear shot but mostly we watch helplessly as the rapidly dwindling survivors of Phillip’s crew give ground backwards towards where our grapple is attached.  Someone still standing among our men on board is obviously smart enough to realize their only hope of escape is to prevent the grappling line from being cut.  He’s right - if we can pull Phillip’s galley out deep enough into the water no more of the Algerians on the beach will be able to climb on board to join the fight.

       Too late.  We’re starting to pull Phillip’s galley stern first away from the shore when the sound of the fighting on its deck dies away.  Suddenly the tow line goes slack and there is great cheering on the galley’s deck despite our arrows – and it isn’t in English. 
Poor Phillip.