Tom Swan and the Head of St. George Part Five: Rhodes by Christian Cameron Read Free Book Online

‘Could be true. You have to be leery of these heretics. Many of them prefer the Turks to us. Eh? Be a good lad and do my tassets, please?’
    Midday, and they weathered the Korfas headland. Asai was a stone’s throw off their starboard oar tips, and the wind was directly in their teeth.
    Which proved to be altogether in their favour.
    ‘Ready about!’ Fra Tommaso screamed. Swan hadn’t really ever heard the old man stirred to emotion before – perhaps flares of anger, but nothing like this urgency. Swan was in his hammock, forward with the archers – he rolled out, grabbed his sword, and ran for the helm, feet pounding along the catwalk.
    The oarsmen cursed, but those on the port side were already reversing benches. And behind him, the vessel’s sailors had the sail on the great yard, ready to be raised.
    Swan leaped on to the command deck from the catwalk. Fra Tommaso pointed forward over the bow, and Swan turned.
    There, framed against the strait, was a fleet that seemed uncountable – more than a hundred vessels of all sizes. In the van there were at least a dozen military galleys, and most of them had their sails up and their bows threw white waves as they came on.
    ‘The Turks,’ Fra Tommaso said.
    Behind Swan’s shoulder, Peter grunted. ‘Son of a bitch,’ he said.
    The Blessed Saint John turned like a dancer and had her main yard aloft and her great lateen full in the time it would take a pious man to repeat a single paternoster. And her clean hull and her beautiful lines paid off – in an afternoon’s run, she gradually buried the Turks below the horizon, and they docked at Rhodos without further incident – that is, without food or sleep for two days.
    But two thousand professional soldiers could accomplish an immense amount of work in a day. When the Turkish fleet hove into view on the northern horizon, the towers had their hoardings up, and Swan had a brief instruction on the use of a light artillery piece. The noise it made on firing caused him to twist his ankle on a chunk of rubble, but he knew what it took to put several ounces of charcoal, saltpetre and sulphur into the iron tube.
    The tube in question was attached to a frame of good Greek oak. The whole contraption looked like a candlestick bolted to a table.
    Peter watched the whole performance with contempt. ‘What can it do that my bow cannot do?’ he asked. ‘Ah – it can explode and kill me. My bow cannot do this.’ He handed his master a beautiful Turkish bow and two quivers of arrows. ‘I found these for you. If your new rank doesn’t preclude a little archery.’
    When the Turkish fleet came over the horizon in the hours after dawn, the garrison was resting, the walls were barely manned, and the ships were safely inside the fortified mole. The only men working were slaves and conscripted Greeks, who were toiling with picks under a sun already ferocious despite the season, improving the network of trenches behind the weakest portion of the wall.
    Swan rose late, with the other Donats from his section of the fortifications who had stood guard or worked far into the night. He climbed the windmill nearest to the English bastion and from it he watched the Turks disembark.
    Sir John Kendal, the senior English knight under the turcopolier, and the acting commander of the forces in the English bastion, came up the windmill and seemed surprised to find Swan watching the Turks. He nodded and leaned his elbows on the edge of the parapet.
    ‘Do they intend an actual siege?’ Swan asked, after a period of silence. ‘Sir?’ he added.
    Sir John seemed on the verge of muttering a platitude, but he paused. ‘You’ve seen some fighting?’ he asked.
    ‘Yes, sir,’ Swan answered.
    ‘You’re the young hellion who gave Sir Kenneth the bruise on his neck?’ Sir John managed a thin-lipped smile.
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    Sir John nodded. ‘Fra Tommaso speaks very highly of you. So you know they aren’t landing any artillery.’
    That’s what I