Chapter CXLII: Counter-Attack
15 April 1643
Calipah provides the following section
“Mein Admiral, Nizam al-Mulk’s ships are burning!” the young Qubtan shrieked in alarm as Al-Farazdaqi rapidly made his away along the thronged and foggy deck to the bow, hands hurriedly producing the monocular from his side. He growled at the sight of the smoldering Persian galleons scattered across the Almeria, planks of burnt wood drifting at the caprice of the western winds.
The incompetent fools! Did they not know how to fight a broken fleet? The Isphani were countering the offensive, their ships now ominously clogging the horizon, volleys of cannanolli attacking the disastrously spread-out Persian fleet, their men assaulting multiple Persian vessels in protracted engagements.
Hubris! He turned to his aide, the scruffy Gulani now more like a fakir than a Qubtan.
The Admiral’s large hands strangled the man’s emaciated shoulders. “What happened here?!” he yelled out. The man, with blood rushing back into his extremities and face spoke with inappropriate composure
“The Qubtans rushed on the tail of the retreating Isphani Armada. Our lighter ships were obliterated,” he bit his tongue, “it was all a ploy apparently. I have already relayed the order to regroup--” The Admiral set the man free from his heavy grip. He grew calmer now, more in possession of his senses and secure in command.
“How large are our losses?” he asked.
“We’ve lost most of the galleys and dyes, as well as several galleons. Roughly a third of the total force. We still have more of our heavier ships than they do,” the Qubtan rejoined solemnly.
So the situation wasn’t that bad – he could still muster a punch and crush the Isphani with his heavy guns if he so wished. Nevertheless, he would have to be careful, and it is said,
war is trickery better a
farr than a
kharr. “Are the Fajja’rra still at hand?” posed the Admiral.
The Qubtan’s eyes flashed for an instant, like a cat’s when caught by a portly vendor stealing a fish in an Isfahani Bazaar. There was a healthy dose of fear and excitement dancing around his wide black pupils. “Why yes,” he stuttered as if collecting a mess of words scattered around his tongue “yes mein Admiral.” The Fajja’rra were the demolition ships that Al-Farazdaqi had planned to use against the Cadiz sea turrets during the landing. That was now well behind them, and the plans were, for the moment, going to be changed accordingly.
“Well then, you know what to do mein Qubtan.”
The young Gulani struck his chest in acknowledgement and hurried off, diving head on into the squabble of hectic seamen, disappearing out of sight behind a cackle of Turkish and rowdy Kurdish orders hurled to and fro across the deck. “So the Isphani want to play rough eh?” Farazdaqi asked rhetorically, his shifting glances jumping from the captive Admiral a few meters behind him and the battle unraveling before him.
His men had managed by now to return to knit formation with a small narrow watery path kept open for the demolition ships. Of course there was the chance that the breeze might conspire against him, it was quite weak after all, but no matter. This had to work,
nay, he thought,
it will work, for his son’s sake. He kept looking into his eyeglass restlessly, watching with great vigilance the advance of the Fajja’rra. There would be a passing confusion amongst the Isphani at first – the question as to why a few nimble Persian ships would be advancing towards them at high speed debated and argued by the various commanders – and by the time realization dawns upon them, it would be too late, their bodies fuel to a growing flame. He watched with delight the enormous flash and explosion produced by the first vessel’s collision, setting alight in a dazzling display under the noon sun a whole row of Isphani galleons, their masts and sails a forest set ablaze.
By then the Isphani would begin to furiously bombard the other approaching Fajja’rra. Some would sink undoubtedly, but some would reach their goals, leaving the infidel in disarray and a chance for the Persians to truly annihilate them once and for all. The Admiral couldn’t help but smile. He felt the return of his breathless Gulani Qubtan, the spectacle now giving him reprieve in his homesick heart, and without turning around, said briskly, “now we finish these sea dogs off. Order the Qubtans to attack at full throttle, mein gold mithkal for the man who sinks the most.” He lingered a bit more to observe the advance of his fleet, and turning to his Qubtan, his light feet at edge of departure, said “bring our honored guest here, I would like to see how his opinions hold before the destruction of Isphania’s mighty Armada.”
---
Captain Marco wiped off his sword as he approached the galley hold. Another one of the overextended Persian vessels had now been overtaken, but this one in particular gave him some pause. With long, wide oars like the wings of a dragon painted red on either side of the vessel, he had easily recognized it from afar as an updated gallease before engaging it. With the Persian guards of the ship surprised and dispatched, it was now time to address the other matter on that boat that concerned him.
He stepped gravely towards the doorway to the lower deck that one of his lieutenants held open for him. It was then that Captain Fernando, who had helped him raid the vessel, swiftly placed a hand on his shoulder. “Is this wise?” Fernando muttered under his breath while his eyes scanned the soldiers around them busily refitting the vessel for combat.
Marco stopped and turned casually to his fellow Captain addressing him with gestures that would appear to any onlooker as if they were merely exchanging notes on the conflict. “We need all the ships we can muster. We don't have any men for this ship and we need her speed. With the wind so low, she'll be the fastest boat in the water...” Marco replied with a grave face.
“I know that... but how can you trust...
them.” Fernando now gave Marco that solemn dark stare that spoke like the abyss of the Ocean Sea churning silently in brooding distrust of sailors sulking in the darkness of the midnight that surrounded them.
“I cannot,” Marco admitted, “but I will not put them to the sword if I can help it. This is an opportunity we should be willing to take.” Fernando searched his new commander's eyes before lifting the palm off the man's shoulder.
“I pray that you're right about this,” Fernando groaned before walking off. Marco sighed heavily and stepped down into the lower deck. “I'll be on my boat waiting for orders.”
The smell from below was rancid with sweat, urine, and blood. The men who stood up to face him were dirty with many having beards as long as most people have hair on the top of their heads. Several of his guards snapped to attention as they saw their captain descend into the gallease depth and the slaves who had been loud until then suddenly halted into an anxious silence. All eyes were on Marco. These eyes were mostly Turkish, Armenian, or Egyptian. Many Moors also made up the ranks of the slaves—almost all were brigands of some kind: almost all had scars of murder, theft or worse.
“My name is Captain Marco Dias,” Marco announced, “if any one of you can speak Spanish or Portuguese step forward to speak for your lot.”
There was a silence and a confusion of sorts. Several folded on their galley seat in resignation that the foreign words were a death sentence passed on them. Others looked at the Portuguese captain with wonder. Marco looked back at them steadily. His eyes scanned the group and from the far distance of the rear, a single man stood up after the pause. The man said some strange words, but Marco could recognize that the speaker had said his name: he had apparently translated for him. The slaves of the vessel looked back and their eyes now followed the single man who stepped up to the front where Marco and his guards stood.
“What is your name, sir?” Marco asked the man who, like himself, sported a venerable beard and sea-faring scars (although these scars seemed less ancient than those adorning the captain's cheeks). The difference in their builds was obvious, and the emaciated figure of the man drooped towards the conquering captain as if in deference.
“Ibrahim, Sir. Ibrahim Al-Armani.”
An Armenian, hm? Marco thought to himself. “I didn't know many slaves could speak Spanish—aside from the Christian prisoners we freed earlier,” Marco smiled cordially to the man.
“I'm afraid it is because I am not a slave, sir,” Ibrahim replied with a low head while procuring, carefully and slowly, a ledger from the inside of his jacket. “I am the late Captain's scribe. I was sent down here to tally the men after the engagements when your ships attacked and the quartermaster told me to help row as some of the stronger men were pulled above deck to fight.”
Marco looked at the ledger before nodding singularly for the scribe to put away his tools. Marco flashed a short smile to Ibrahim before saying, “well, Ibrahim, there is a favour I need to ask of you.” Added to the delivery was a calculated sigh as Marco passed his eyes to the curious men behind him. “I need you to tell these men that the battle is not yet over and that the final engagement is about to begin. If there is any attempt at resistance all of you will be put to the sword.”
Ibrahim's eyes followed Marco's lips solemnly while avoiding the man's stern eyes. It was not out of cowardice or disrespect that he looked at the man's features than in his gaze, but as if he was in awe at the sentence about to be delivered from that portal of the soul: those words coming from those lips were exactly what he had expected. “I understand,” he said quietly before beginning to speak loudly the message given to him.
“But,” Marco cut him off unexpectedly and the Armenian's gaze dared to hope by shifting to Marco's fiery eyes. “I have a proposition for you to ask your friends. I know that most of you are, like in our galleys, brigands, thieves, murderers, and other criminals impressed into service under the pain of death. However, I wish to give you all a chance to redeem your freedom.” Marco paused as he stared back at Ibrahim who had hung on his every word. “Tell them, my new friend, that I wish for them to row for me against their former masters.”
Marco's lips sealed themselves and the ebony residue of gunpowder and coagulated blood on his mouth were like the inseparable planks of a galleon held together by pitch. A few moments later, Ibrahim turned around to face the anxious slaves. His words trembled for a moment as he tried to find the proper tone for the proposition. As soon as he finished his translation, Marco could see the visible change in his prisoners. Some looked around at each other with wrinkled foreheads and many began to talk amongst themselves. Some merely stared, as if the executioner's hatchet was still poised above their necks. Others, Marco noted, leaned on their fellow rowers with a kind of lustful excitement at the idea while others turned white in the face.
To Marco's surprise, Ibrahim began talking again and Marco could hear then speaking back, though the noise began to die down. As Ibrahim spoke, those who seemed most distant began to gain colour in their cheeks again. Ibrahim nodded his head a few times before turning to the Captain. “I'm afraid many are hesitant. They will face punishment if the Persians are victorious,” he relayed to Marco.
Marco examined Ibrahim's face closely. The creases on the older man's water-worn face seemed to creak like aged wood as he strained to speak in the Spanish tongue. “Tell them,” Marco began to say over the din of the crowd, “that in this upcoming battle, if their former masters are victorious, then good for all of you. But know that if the Persians win, they will take command of this vessel again and all you will find is slavery and death. If you win for me, I will promise to set you all free and give you this vessel, if she survives, as your reward to travel wherever your oars wish. Tell them quickly, I have no more time. It is either this or I throw the men overboard to make room for my oarsmen.”
Ibrahim, picking up on the speed by which Marco's last sentences sped past that captain's mouth, turned around as well and began, with great gesticulation of his arms, expressing the sentiments of the sea captain. The crowd seemed to all lean forward collectively as if in the motions of Ibrahim's hands there was some miracle about to be born. When Ibrahim had finished, there was silence afterwards. The galleymen looked at each other with quick looks. In this tense moment of indecision, Ibrahim raised his voice again, this time his hands waving tiredly across the air as if he was too weak to reach something off in the distance. The others looked calmly before collectively looking down onto the dirty floor of their vessel lined with the imprint of their laboured feet.
One of them from the rear stood up quietly and said something to Ibrahim in that same tongue that Marco could not understand. The others began to nod and Ibrahim turned around to Marco. “They will sail for you, Qubtan.”
Marco similarly nodded and assessed the eyes of the men behind Ibrahim. They seemed to hold a steady determination in their eyes which locked with his as if both were asking each other “can
you win this victory for
me? “What did you tell them?” Marco could not help but ask as he grinned at his new oarsmen.
Ibrahim smiled quickly as if unused to any kind of cunning. “I merely told them that each would also be rewarded with a heavy bounty if we win.” Marco, right then, burst out in a heavy chortle.
“In other words, you lied to them,” Marco said as he looked at the scribe.
“These are thieves and criminals, they respond only to the clink of gold,” Ibrahim replied with a resigned sigh.
“Well, in that case, if that was all it needed, then I will make due on the promise of gold nonetheless. Though you better not offer them anything more.” Ibrahim gave a generous bow and Marco turned to one of his subordinates. “Inspect these men and get them ready. Ibrahim, my friend, come with me.”
As they ascended the stairs up to the upper portion of the boat, Ibrahim walked up respectfully to Marco's side. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said quietly to gain his new master's attention. “I'm afraid now that the play is over, I will tell you that I have spent many months with these men. Despite many of them of good moral characters deep underneath, many are still used to their criminal instincts.” Marco turned to face Ibrahim as lieutenants around him began to rush about in preparation to bring the ship into action. “I don't see how you can trust them fully with this,” Ibrahim added gravely.
Marco searched the other's face and the sincerity on Ibrahim's brow produced a nod out of Marco. “I need to gamble on these men,” Marco began. “I was once a galley slave myself once. I had fought for Portugal many years ago—in one of the later rebellions. I was only young at the time, but I know those men are not wicked. Even if they do betray us, I trust that God's will is best served through mercy and not cynicism. Whether God allows us to win this battle or not is up to Him. In that sense, to act merciful to slaves such as those as someone was merciful to me when I was a slave is no crime. Virtue can never be used against Providence. In the end, even if these men revolt, I trust it has a meaning to it and I choose to participate in God's plan for us all by acting according to that Will even if it's only one moment and situation at a time.”
Ibrahim looked at him quietly and his lips seemed to want to say something as if his first impulse was to translate what was spoken to him so that it would flow in that tongue that was more beautiful to his ears. “I will stay with the men, then and treachery or not, I respect this honour you have given us.” Ibrahim bowed once more.
“I will leave Lieutenant Torres here to command this vessel,” Marco added tersely before Ibrahim nodded in compliance and returned to the portal to the deck below. Marco moved over to one of his men carrying a lamp and pointed to Torres who was standing nearby. “The vessel is yours, Lieutenant. Bring her along Silvio's right: we'll use her to flank the ships with her speed.”
“Understood. Sir, speaking of Silvio, he's in position and signaling a report in. The Persians are consolidating. They've sent out lighter vessels ahead first it seems.”
Marco, in the dim darkness of the deep night harkened to the news and turned southward towards the enemy fleet. His spyglass snapped open like a thunderbolt and his eyes searched the oncoming lanterns although the remaining blaze of Cadiz (which had been slowly diminishing since the day) was still enough to illuminate a good portion of the hulls coming at them. “They're arranged in a crescent formation now... a more standard arrangement.”
“They mean to try and overpower us by boarding, then? Ship to ship?” Torres asked as he, too, looked on into the orange black horizon.
“It makes sense: they out-man us, but they underestimate us as well if they send out the smaller boats first: the Admiral is making another blunder. We'll engage the smaller ships fast and hard. If he thinks he can use the smaller ships to buy him time to outflank us with the larger vessels, he's dead wrong. We'll turn his own strategy against him. Prepare to close our distance with the lighter vessels quickly! Light the signal fires: we'll need as much visibility as we can get tonight.”
The night had thickened around the two interlopers. The clock was already ticking past midnight and Trey hid his cold hands underneath the sleeves of the hoodie and crouched down with his arms over his chest shivering slightly. His breath let out some droplets of steam as if his spirit was leaving him a half dead cold corpse curled up against the wall. Randall, he could see in front of him, was not bothered by the nightly weather. Randall similarly had a hooded outfit and the blonde roommate was peeking through the corner of the building.
Perhaps it was not just the cold that was getting to Trey. How in the world did Randall plan on getting inside of a government holding facility and find a suspected murderer. The whole thing made Trey nervous and now the blood was running away from his skin. Not to mention if this was the same murderer who had killed that boy in the middle of the floor of that house... that house where he heard someone speaking... where he saw...
“We've been here for hours, Randall, I told you, we're never going to get in there.” Trey said with chattering teeth. He had to say something—anything to get his mind off of those thoughts of what had happened before: of what he had seen.
“I think I've figured out the guard patterns.” Randall said enthusiastically.
“You say that,” Trey began to whine as he held his knees closer to his chest, “but even then they'll have surveillance cameras or whatever. We can't get in just by avoiding a night patrol or two.” Trey looked up hoping that Randall had listened to reason, but all he saw was that steady figure watching across the corner of the building they hid behind. “Can you even see that far across the street?” Trey protested some more.
“Relax,” Randall said as he pulled back away from the corner. “I wasn't figuring out the pattern to slip past the guards... It just makes me feel better if I know what kind of random pattern they're trying to use. It'll make a difference. I have a different idea for getting in.”
“And how are you going to do that?” Trey looked up dully.
“Well...” and here, Randall had crouched down next to Trey and donned a sporty grin that rivaled the crescent moon above him. “we're not going to, really.” Randall, as he spoke, procured a little device from his pocket at the same time.
“Your mini-notebook?” Trey looked intrigued.
“I've kept it in autistic mode until now to make sure we're off the local net,” Randall explained as he opened it up.
“And how are you going to use that to contact the Belmont guy?” Trey leaned in curiously as he watched the screen light up. Randall's fingers tapped swiftly at the small touchpad as the cursor flew about the display.
Randall did not answer, but instead, began typing in various lines that Trey had trouble understanding forming a backdrop of black symbols scrolling against a white window. “I'm in...” Randall said suddenly. “We'll only have ten minutes at most before our exposure to the net erodes the barrier and they know where we are.”
“But you're in... where? In there?” Trey asked surprised.
---
Julius Belmont lay atop his bed with the blanket coarsely strewn over his legs and waist. His one arm was underneath his unkempt hair while the other arm lay across his chest with his fingers attempting to grasp crosses that were no longer there—something the guards confiscated from him. His green eyes stood still in the shadow his cell like the marble orbs of a cat. His television switched on. Those eyes shifted downward to look across the room only to read: “Why did you kill him?” It was written in crude white lettering on black but lazily remained on his screen with a soft buzz accompanying its static position. Underneath the question was the roman alphabet and a white square blinking above the letter A.
Julius stood up and stared at the screen for a few moments before his eyes wandered beyond the bars of his cell. The guards enjoyed varying their patrols so that the inmates could not anticipate or clock their movements, but he nonetheless stood on his feet. Even random events needed to obey probability: his guard had visited him too many times the past hour: such a thing would not be maintained for too long despite the impressive vigilance and cunning of his warden. It would be time to take a risk.
He walked over to the television and manipulated the buttons. He could move the white box around the letters he wished and guessed that selecting the 'enter' button after entering his words would mean it would send to whoever it was that was wishing to communicate with him.
---
“Who are you?... he asks,” Randall said out loud almost a bit stunned.
Trey could sense Randall's confusion and chided him. “Well what did you expect? Don't waste your time though, tell him something.”
“I... need... to know...” Randall began reading aloud as he typed, “because... people... are... after... me.” Randall seemed to be as confused as Trey as to what the statement he sent it would mean to the inmate and he could only offer a shrug, but he knew that they did not have much time and he had not anticipated the question at all.
“Do not contact me or come near here,” suddenly flashed on the screen after a minute.
“Ask him if he knows who is trying to get to us,” Trey suggested at which Randall complied immediately. The two were frozen once more as they waited for a reply.
“The Others,” came on the screen.
Randall's fingers tapped on the small keyboard swiftly with the question on both of their minds: “who are the others?”
Perhaps a whole two minutes passed before “They need you. You must run. They are here now.”
A sudden hold of fear gripped them both as if by instinct. Un-consciously, Randall snapped his notebook closed as if it was exposing him to the world. Both stood up and Randall looked around uncomfortably. Trey, for some reason, had some trouble keeping himself balanced and relied on Randall as a point of reference in his slight disorientation. They began to make their way to the back of the building's lot that led into the woods where they had arrived from. At the edge of the forest, however, Trey froze and crouched down onto the ground violently. Randall turned hurriedly. “What's wrong?” Randall nearly shouted as he reached down to his friend and went on his knees to try and pull him up. Trey was holding his head uncontrollably. His eyes were shut in pain. “What's wrong?!” Randall demanded.
Trey could only gasp breaths into his mouth like a fish out of water, but his lips, as if half vomiting as he spoke, managed to say, “she... she's... here...” before groaning in agony. Randall looked up suddenly as he sensed something as well. From that very corner of the building from whence they were just huddled upon, he could swear, as the hair on his back suddenly shivered upward in a long wave, he could swear, as his tongue stiffened in a metallic taste in his mouth... he could swear, as the world seemed to shake slowly... that there... in along the side of that building... and here the shiver ran from his buttocks all the way to his neck and he could not stop holding onto Trey's trembling shoulders... he could swear that he...
He could see! There it was... hair like tortured ink dying in water... an eye was dawning from the side of the building like some perverse imitation of a dawn that seemed too far away. The moon seemed to grow paler in fright and the sooty autumn ground at the back of that building lost all colour and seemed to quake in the pallid light. A grey cataract ringed a pupil of utter darkness slid from behind the corner. The skin suddenly contracted and in that horror of the night, Randall screamed and screamed, but in the vastness of the night, his voice could only create a faint sound like that of a violin string torturing the neck of a child. Randall felt like he was going to die and Trey fell limply into his arms.
Chapter CXLIII: Sickness Unto Death (coming soon)
. I almost cheered at the end of chapter 33.
