The Blood-Red Crescent

Henry Garnett

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The Blood-Red Crescent was originally published in 1960 by Doubleday and Company, Inc., Garden City, New York. This 2007 edition by Sophia Institute Press® contains minor editorial revisions to correct infelicities in grammar and punctuation.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Garnett, Henry, 1905– The blood-red crescent / Henry Garnett. p. cm. Summary: In 1570, as Christians throughout Europe unite in a Holy League to defeat Turkish invaders, fourteen-year-old Guido of Venice, Italy, leaves the safety of a monastery to serve on a ship his wealthy father has contributed and fights in the Battle of Lepanto. ISBN 978-1-933184-33-3 (pbk. : alk. paper) [1. Coming of age — Fiction. 2. Christianity — History — Fiction. 3. Islam — History — Fiction. 4. War — Fiction. 5. Lepanto, Battle of, Greece, 1571 — Fiction. 6. Family life — Italy — Fiction. 7. Italy — History — 1559–1789 — Fiction.] I. Title.

PZ7.G18434Bl 2007 Fic]—dc22 2007033600 07 08 09 10 11 12 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 ++

This book is for Frances, Dominic, Mary Clare, and, last but not least, except in years, Mark Aelred, in the hope that they may sometimes think of “OY” +++ ++

Contents

To Set the Scene ...... ix

A New Crusade ...... 3

Cardinal to the Rescue ...... 19

The Arrows Flew Straight ...... 29

Skirmish on the Beach ...... 43

In a Monastery Garden ...... 53

A Warning from Our Lady ...... 61

The Turk Came First ...... 67

Village of Desolation ...... 79

The Spoils of War ...... 91

vii +++

Plan for Battle ...... 99

The Fleet Assembles ...... 111

Conference in Corfu ...... 121

Order of Battle ...... 129

Green Banner and Blue ...... 141

Battle by the Shoals ...... 149

Aid to Green Pennants ...... 157

Quest for Counsel...... 165

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To Set the Scene

This is a historical novel, and if you, my readers, are at all like your author, you will want to know which parts of the book are true, which people in its pages really existed, and which events and which characters were born in the writer’s imagination. Here, then, is a short description of the work that will satisfy your curiosity. The action in the book takes place during the years 1570 and 1571, and England then, as now, had a Queen Elizabeth on the throne. The first Queen Elizabeth was a convinced Protestant. You may remember that it was her father — King Henry VIII — who had closed the English monasteries and made himself, and his descendants, head of the Church as well as head of the state. Of course, there were many Catholics left in England, and their lives were very difficult. Perhaps because they really thought it the best for England, Elizabeth and her ministers made the laws against Catholics more and more severe. It was in 1570, in fact, that the Pope excommunicated Queen Elizabeth. Many English Catholics went to live in sympathetic countries on the continent of Europe. Others, like Michael Selwyn in this book, traveled away from their country whenever it was possible and gave what help they could to Catholic causes.

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At this time in history, Spain was the richest and most power- ful country in Europe, and her king, His Most Catholic Majesty Philip II, as he was called, also ruled in the Netherlands. Italy was quite different from what it is now. It was not a united country, but was made up of papal states, principalities, dukedoms, and republics. Of these last, Venice was the richest and most inde- pendent and was known as the Serene Republic. Now for a word about the Turks. For years, Turkish armies had been invading Europe. You will today find many of the words they used surviving in Central European languages. Moors had con- quered and lived in parts of Spain for a long time until their last re- volt against King Philip was crushed in 1568. It is quite true, as you will read in this story, that Moors, corsair pirates, and Turks — for the purpose of the tale, they may be regarded as one and the same, since they were all Moslems and united against Christendom — continually raided European coasts. Now you may see why Pope Pius V — now St. Pius V — be- came alarmed at the spread of Islam in Europe. He knew, too, that the Turkish Sultan Selim, who was a drunken tyrant, was building a great fleet of galleys in Constantinople, or Istanbul, as we now call it, and that he intended to use this fleet to extend his empire in Europe. That is why the Pope conceived the idea of a confeder- ation of Catholics to fight against the Turk, and he called it the Holy League. Of course, the Pope, as the originator of the idea, was obliged to provide some galleys and men, so he made the fair divi- sion of one-quarter to be found by himself, one-quarter by Venice, whose trade in the eastern Mediterranean was most affected by the Turkish pirates, and a half by the richest member of the League, Spain. The Pope asked Spain to provide the supreme commander of the fleet and forces, and King Philip chose his half-brother, a handsome gallant young man, Don John of Austria. If ever you go

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To Set the Scene

to Messina in Sicily, where the fleet assembled as is told in the story, you may see his statue. It shows him wearing the Order of the Golden Fleece, about which you will hear more shortly. And so we come to the people. The Callatta family of Venice is fictitious, but it is quite sure there were similar families living in the Venetian Republic at the time. Luigi is a Venetian sailor, and of course, there were many. Although Guido is imagined, the Cardinal Acquaviva, whom he meets in the Tuscan hills, is not. He really was a sick young man, and he had been sent by the Pope to explain about the plans for the Holy League to King Philip of Spain. This young Cardinal did, in fact, bring Miguel de Cervan- tes, now known all over the world as the creator of Don Quixote, back into Italy as his teacher of Spanish. The monastery at Genazzano and its inhabitants are largely imagined. The picture, or icon, of Our Lady of Good Counsel is not. The story is that sometime in the thirteenth century, this picture was in a Balkan church. When this church was threatened with destruction by the Turks, the picture miraculously flew through the air to Italy and came to rest in the church at Genazzano. Throughout the centuries, Our Lady of Genazzano has acquired the reputation of giving good counsel. Modern pilgrims make their way to Genazzano to pray to her for advice. Michael Selwyn and his travels have already been mentioned. He and Barnabas Butter, the master gunner, are the English dream children of the author. They are typical of English Catholics of the period, who traveled abroad for adventure, to make their fortunes, for devotion to Mother Church, or just to sell their swords to Catholic kings and princes. May you become as friendly with the brave and gentle Barnabas as your author was! You will not, in the course of the story, get to know the com- manders of the Christian and Turkish fleets and squadrons very

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well. It may interest you to learn, however, that they are correctly named and that they really lived. The movements of the two fleets during the battle are as near to the truth as it is possible to get when four hundred years have passed since the great fight was fought. You will note in the story that Don John, the supreme Chris- tian commander, is described as wearing the Order of the Golden Fleece. You should try to imagine the scene as he stood with the Pope’s ambassador on the quay at Messina. He was tall and slen- der, and he stood bareheaded, with his soft brown hair lifting in the breeze. He wore a polished steel cuirass decorated with silver, and around his neck, over this armor, hung the insignia of the Order of the Golden Fleece. This was a richly jeweled chain that winked in the sunshine. It hung down over his chest, and from it depended a small golden sheep. It denoted that King Philip of Spain had made him a member of the second-oldest order of knighthood in the world — the oldest is the Order of the Garter in Britain — for the Order of the Golden Fleece was founded by Duke Philip the Good of Burgundy in 1429. At the time of this story, King Philip was the Grand Master of the Order. The agony of body and the heartbreak that wars bring in their train are unchanged from the sixteenth century to now, so you will find the fighting men in this story very like the soldiers of today. Your author believes they were.

Henry Garnett London, 1959

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A New Crusade

The great cathedral church of St. Mark in Venice was crowded with a gaily dressed throng on a bright, sunny morning in October of the year 1570. The priest turned from the high altar and began to bless the congregation. His words were barely audible above the chatter of the excited gathering. It seemed to Guido Callatta, kneeling silently by the side of his father, and looking at the backs of his mother, his sister Julia, and the serving woman Magdalena, that the family formed the only listening group in the whole cathedral. He peered sideways from the corners of his eyes into the dimness. He was wrong, he saw. By the base of one of the pillars were a half-dozen proud, silent Spaniards. Their ruffs were starkly white above the sober black of their doublets, and they appeared to stand aloof from the colorful Venetians and the even more gaily appareled Genoese. “May Almighty God bless you, the Father, the Son” — Guido heard the priest’s words faintly and crossed himself — “and the Holy Ghost.” Others must have been listening too, for the excited chatter was stilled for a moment and a deep amen echoed from the high roof. Immediately, talk broke out again. Guido rose to his feet, dusted the dirt of the flagged floor from his knees, and offered an arm to help his mother to rise.

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At the age of fourteen, Guido was almost fully grown. The years to come would stiffen his supple body and destroy his youthful slen- derness, but now, to the ten-year-old Julia, he seemed to smile down from a great height when she slipped her hot and sticky hand into his. The Callatta family threaded their way between groups of ges- ticulating gallants and their ladies and emerged from the gloom into the shock of the autumn sunshine. Guido glanced up, as he always did, to above the pillared doorway where the carved horses prance eternally beneath the winged lion of St. Mark, and his heart was filled with pride — pride in the Republic of Venice and her achievements — pride in his own family. The little company of Spaniards passed, their gait and manner showing contempt of all that was not under the dominion of their master, His Most Catholic Majesty, King Philip II. Guido returned their casual glances scornfully. Julia pulled at his sleeve. “Guido,” she whispered, “what did the priest mean when he talked to us? It wasn’t an ordinary sermon, was it? Are the Turks going to fight us?” “Sh!” Guido replied quietly. “You know Father doesn’t allow us to talk after Mass. Not till we get home.” Julia tilted her head back and poked out the tip of a very pink tongue at him. “Pig!” she whispered. “You’re like the English.” Guido shook his head at her without speaking. Julia’s teasing abuse drove from his mind the message from His Holiness Pope Pius V that had come to them through the mouth of the cathedral priest. He remembered the English letter that crackled faintly beneath his doublet as he put his hand to his breast — the letter that he must show to his father very soon. Magdalena carried the last empty dish away from the table and set the flask of wine and a tall, intricately decorated glass before

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A New Crusade

her master. Signor Callatta carefully wiped his knife on a table napkin and thrust it back into the sheath dangling from his belt. “You all heard what the priest had to tell us this morning,” he said. “Julia did not understand what it was all about, sir,” Guido put in. Signor Callatta looked down the table to where his small daughter was perched on her thickly cushioned stool, and his face grew tender. “She is too young for these things,” he said. “But perhaps I can put it simply. During the past few years, the Turk has been getting stronger and stronger. The new Sultan in Constantinople has been building more and more galleys. We hear that shipyards work every daylight hour and that new galleys are clustered in his ports more thickly than the flies in the Turkish markets. Why does he want so many galleys?” Signor Callatta paused and glanced at Guido. “What do you think, Guido, my son? I hear that you spend much time in ships and talking to sailors. Time, doubtless, that should be spent with your books or in my factory, learning the craft and mystery of glass-making.” Guido flushed beneath his tan. “The sailors say that he intends to conquer Cyprus and then move west. They say that even Venice will not be safe from him, and that the Sultan Selim has boasted that he will set the Turkish crescent above the dome of St. Peter’s in Rome,” Guido answered. “If he does, it will be a blood-red crescent. Red with the blood of Christendom,” Guido’s father replied. “And who knows? Al- ready the Turkish armies are halfway across Europe.” “But, sir!” Guido looked up sharply at his father. “Where can the Sultan find the rowers for so many ships? I keep asking the sailors this, and they only laugh and say that they grow in the fields, ready for the taking.”

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The Blood-Red Crescent

“And the sailors are right,” Signor Callatta said. “The Barbary corsairs — the infidel pirates from North Africa — gather them every day. There is not a village on the coasts of Italy, France, or Spain that is safe from their raids. There is not a family in these villages that hasn’t a father or a son whose body is being broken in the chains of Turkish rowing benches. Not a family that hasn’t a daughter breaking her heart in an infidel seraglio.” He paused for a moment, his face grim, and then sighed deeply. He charged his wineglass. “Then, of course, there are the galleys that are captured. In the last few months, two galleys, carrying the finest decorated glass that my men have ever made, have been lost to pirates. Glass designed for the courts of England and France is now defiled by the Mohammedan’s sherbet. The galleys are gone. Such rowers as lived now serve under the banner of Islam — by force!” “But, Father,” Guido put in, forgetting in his eagerness the for- mal address due to him, “why must we always lose our galleys to the Turk? Do we never beat him in battle? Our men are as brave as his, aren’t they?” “We lose frequently because Christendom is divided,” Signor Callatta said. “The galleys of Genoa sometimes sail with those of Venice, but in battle, who knows whether they will obey the orders of a Venetian commander? Spaniards trust neither Venetian nor Genoese. Then the Barbary pirates attack in force, and their leader, Uluch Ali, Lord of Algiers, is a very fine seaman.” “I see,” Guido said thoughtfully. “Then that is what the priest meant when he talked to us this morning. The Holy Father wants us to combine to beat the Turk.” “Yes. He wants a fleet to be formed. Of all the Catholic countries and republics in Europe, Spain is the richest. Think, Guido, my son, of the American gold that pours every day into King

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A New Crusade

Philip’s coffers. Then there is our own Serene Republic of Venice, with a bigger trade in the Mediterranean than any other. So His Holiness suggests that Spain should find half the fleet and Venice a quarter. The remaining quarter the Holy Father will provide himself. Of course, there will be other vessels — from Genoa, for example, and doubtless the princes of Italy will find some. You will see, I think, that fighting men will volunteer from all over the Christian civilized world. The combined forces of Spain, Venice, and the Pope will be called the Holy League. It is a new crusade the Pope is preaching.” Signora Callatta stirred uneasily in her chair. The hour of the siesta had come, and Julia’s eyelids were heavy with sleep. Her husband gestured with his hand in dismissal. He himself sat on, fingering the stem of his wineglass, and Guido waited. “Yes,” Signor Callatta said at last. “I suppose it could be done — with the right leader.” “Is there no one else to help the Holy Father except Spaniards and Venetians?” Guido asked. “Who?” his father demanded in return. “France, perhaps.” “France is too torn with her own troubles. Catholics and heretics are at one another’s throats. No, there’s no help to be had from there.” “What about England?” Guido began. Signor Callatta laughed a quick, short bark of scornful amuse- ment. “England?” he said. “That country of heretics? With their cold queen, Elizabeth, just excommunicated by the Holy Father, and all faith in the Catholic Church forgotten in that fogbound land? What Englishman would join this Holy League? For that matter, what Englishman cares what happens to Venice or the Vati- can? Why, if the crescent were being flaunted from the dome of St.

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Peter’s, Englishmen would be there selling their wool to protect the infidel from the rigors of the Roman winter. No, my son, no!” “I should have thought English Catholics might have helped,” Guido said. “How?” Signor Callatta asked. “Such Catholics as are left in England are persecuted by their queen, Elizabeth, who calls herself head of the church, and their government. They’re harassed and fined until they have no substance left. How could they do anything for the Holy League?” “I know of one Englishman who’s going to help,” Guido said, and drew from his doublet a letter that crackled in his fingers. “What’s that?” Signor Callatta asked sharply, and held out his hand for the paper. “Pah! It’s written in English. You’ll have to translate it for me. Now I understand why you insisted on learning that barbarous tongue.” “It’s from Michael Selwyn,” Guido began. “That taciturn young Englishman you made friends with when he was visiting his cousin, who is a priest in Rome, last year? It was last year you met him, wasn’t it?” Signor Callatta interrupted. “H’m, at least he’s a Catholic, and has suffered for it, doubtless, since England broke away from Mother Church. He’s a lot older than you, isn’t he?” “He’s twenty-four, sir. He’s written to say that he’s bringing his sword to give what aid he can to the Holy Father’s cause. They’ve heard about it in England. He says, as well, that his father’s so poor now, he must do something to help him. He’s bringing the master gunner from one of his father’s ships — that he used to have, I mean — and he begs me to ask if you can help to find him, and his man — Barnabas Butter’s his name — a place in a Venetian galley.” “Is he coming here, to Venice?” Signor Callatta asked.

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A New Crusade

“No, sir. He’s going to Genazzano. He used to go before, when he was in Rome, to ask for help from Our Lady of Good Counsel in the monastery there. He says I can write to him at Genazzano.” “H’m. I must think about it. Now, Guido, off to your room. I’ll think about it.” Guido rose and bowed to his father. As he walked quietly from the room, he heard his father mutter, “Genazzano! Yes . . . that might be the place. Thirty miles behind Rome . . . And the help of Our Lady of Good Counsel . . . Heaven knows we need it — all of us . . . Yes!” Guido stood silently in the shadowed coolness of his room until he heard his father’s heavy steps on the marble treads of the staircase. He waited until the latch of his father’s door clicked home and then, slowly, he began to count. “One. Two. Three . . . One hundred.” For a second more, he listened. The house was quite silent. Guido stole across his room, skillfully avoided the board that creaked in the floor, and stepped onto his balcony. He threw a leg over the protective iron railing, and his toes slipped, almost without direction, into an accustomed foothold. A moment later, he dropped lightly onto the gently sloping roof of a porch. The heavy leaves of a fig tree spread their fans over the tiles. Guido disap- peared among them and descended the ladder of the tree’s branches to the sun-warmed flags of the patio. Five minutes later, he was seated, dangling his legs over the edge of the dock. Immediately below him, a sailor, who had been sleeping on the poop of a galley, opened heavy eyes and yawned. “There again, young Guido, are you,” the sailor said. “Hallo, Luigi,” Guido said. “May I come aboard?” “Come aboard and welcome,” Luigi answered. “As long as you don’t disturb me for a few minutes. Haven’t got the sleep out of my

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wits yet.” He yawned prodigiously, showing blackened stumps of teeth. “Nobody on board but me, so make yourself at home.” Guido jumped lightly down on the poop and sat on the breech of one of the two brass guns that pointed aft. From that position, he could look down the length of the ship. The sail was furled, and all the oars had been taken inboard and arranged in neat rows, fore and aft, on the rowers’ benches. Guido rose to his feet and began to walk down the center gangway. As he went, he saw the gleam of the chains that were used to secure captive Turks, or Christian criminals, forced to labor at the heavy oars. He wondered what it would feel like to heave at a Turkish oar, to feel the lash of a Turk- ish whip across his own quivering naked flesh as he helped to drive a galley to the destruction of his own countrymen. Unbidden, the thought came into his mind that a Mohammedan chained to a Christian oar might think as he was thinking. Wasn’t there room in the world for both Christian and Turk, and why must they destroy one another, he asked himself, and then firmly put the thought out of his mind. It was not Venetians who were marching about the world with fire and sword, killing, torturing, enslaving, and plundering, and had not the Holy Father preached a crusade? Somehow, a little of the brightness had gone out of the day. Guido climbed up on the high foredeck. Five guns presented their black muzzles to the slimy waters of the dock: a pair to starboard and a pair to port, both light and easy to handle; amidships a heavier cannon pointed forward, aligned with the heavy spur that ran like an iron-pointed bowsprit from the center of the galley’s bows. To ram an enemy ship, Guido thought, and stood pondering with his chin in his hand. He looked aft. Luigi had risen to his feet and was stretching his arms upward in the late afternoon sunshine. “Luigi!” called Guido. “Can you tell me something, please? Something about the galley?”

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A New Crusade

Luigi came rolling up the gangway with his doublet unbut- toned, showing a chest thickly matted with black hair. “Always wanting to know something ’bout ships, you are,” he said when he had climbed onto the foredeck. “What is it now?” “Have you ever been in a naval battle?” Guido asked. Luigi scratched the stubble on his chin with a broken thumbnail. “Well now, that depends,” he said slowly. “If you mean, have I been in a battle with dozens of ships on either side, or maybe hun- dreds, the answer’s no, and I wouldn’t tell you no lies. But if you ask if I’ve been in a sea fight, then the answer’s yes. There was that time we was attacked by pirates off Sicily . . .” “Please tell me about it,” Guido said excitedly. “Sure I will,” Luigi answered. “Half a minute, while I nip down to the kitchen and get some bits of wood they use for kindling.” Luigi rolled down the gangway into the ship’s kitchen amidships and came back with a handful of fresh, sweet-smelling chips from some shipwright’s adz. He squatted on his heels, and Guido sat cross-legged before him. “ ’Twaslike this,” Luigi said and laid out two chips of wood side by side and some inches apart. He pointed to the left-hand chip. “I was in this galley, steering, see? We were sailing abreast with this other about a quarter of a mile apart. Sailing, I say? Under oars, I mean, because the wind was dead against us and the rowers were pulling their hearts out. There was another of our galleys here,” and he placed a third chip about six inches behind the other two. “Now I’ve got to tell you what we were carrying, so as you’ll understand. We’d got a cargo of general merchandise — some of those big barrels your father packs his glass in, as like as not amongst it — and this galley by the side of us was loaded the same. There was a few gentlemen on board, and their ladies too.” Guido interrupted. “You won the fight, didn’t you?” he asked.

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“I’m here to tell the tale. But not so fast. The joke of it was that this galley behind — about two miles away, she was — had on board three hundred or so Spanish harquebusiers. You know, those chaps who shoot them newfangled muskets. On their way to Bar- celona, they were.” He threw back his head and laughed. “Funny that was! Johnny Turk didn’t know anything about those harquebusiers. Anyway, we were plowing along, taking it green over the bows every now and again, and the rowing master cracking his whip and the drums thumping regularly to set the stroke, all peaceful like, except for the poor devils at the oars. Then, all of a sudden, our lookout yells that there are two sails coming up over the horizon. A minute later, he shouts out there are two more!” “Turks?” Guido asked. “Yes! Those Barbary pirates, as we could see for ourselves within minutes. Fast — you ought to have seen them! No sooner did we sight the sails than they were on us, or so it seemed. Actually, I suppose it must have been nigh on an hour because our captain issued crossbows from the store to the seamen, and pikes and axes to the rowers. He even had the chains struck off the Christian rowers, but the Mohammedan slaves he put handcuffs on, as well as their leg chains.” “Would the Christian rowers fight for you?” Guido asked. “ ’Course they would. Think they’d want to be captured by the Turks? Up the pirates come, bold as brass, sailing fine with a spanking fair wind, not really needing their oars. Line abreast they were.” Luigi laid four slivers of wood before the two leading Christian galleys. In his mind, Guido could hear the creak of oars in their thole pins and the thump of the timing drums. He smelled the

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A New Crusade

decay of the Venice dock, and in his nostrils, it was the scent of a spray-laden Mediterranean wind. “Our gentlemen had put on their armor,” Luigi continued. “And there they stood, some on the poop and some on the foredeck, like it might be where you’re sitting now. Pretty as a picture they looked, with the sun winking on the polished steel and silver, with their swords in their hands. The gunners were busy loading their guns, and the stink of their smoldering matches was like the breath of hell. Then our captain orders us at the tillers to bring her a point or two to starboard.” He moved the two chips that represented the Christian galleys nearer together, and the four Turkish ships a little closer. “That was to stop two of the Turks running between us, see? Then they were on us. One of the Turks came between the two of us, like this, smashing our oars, and her spur came grinding down our bulwarks to the fourth bench of rowers. I saw one of our rowers pulling and pushing at an oar for all he was worth, only he hadn’t got a blade on his oar, and he hadn’t got a head. Then another Turk came crashing against our port side, and I caught a glimpse of brown men in turbans throwing grappling hooks. Our guns were roaring, and I saw a way open in the Turk’s rowers that was like a path in corn, red in the sunset.” Luigi paused and thoughtfully moved the bits of wood that represented the galleys into position. Screams of the wounded, fierce yells of the Turks, curses of Christian fighters echoed in his ears. “Please go on,” Guido begged. “Ah!” Luigi wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. “I tell you I saw this, and I mean no lie. I believe I saw this, and sometimes of nights when I haven’t had enough wine, I get a nightmare about it and see it again. Turks, some of the proper soldiers — janissaries, they calls them — in their silly skirts, pouring over our

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sides. Christian rowers were standing up and wielding their axes. And when a man who’s pulled an oar for years puts all his muscles behind an ax, he can split a man . . . Oh, well, it doesn’t matter. I suppose our other galley was in much the same pickle as us. I don’t know! I didn’t see! Busy, I was. There’s one thing I am sure about. I had a crossbow lying by my feet, and there wasn’t much to be done with the tiller just then. Then I caught sight of a Turk in a green turban. Grinning he was, with the flash of white teeth in his brown face. Grinning at me! And taking aim with a crossbow! I bent down to pick up my bow, and just as I did it, he shot. The wind of his bolt raised the hair on the back of my head, and the smack of it going into the deck sounded like a thunder clap in my ears . . .” “That was lucky,” Guido said breathlessly. “Lucky for me. It wasn’t for him! When I straightened up, he was just reloading his bow. I shot him through the neck, and the bolt stuck out at the back, carrying away his turban so that it hung down. Just like a piece of rag hanging on a hook behind a door. He stood there for a second or two, looking at me. I can see the look in his eyes now. It was sort of surprised and a bit like a mother looks at her bambino. As if — if you see what I mean — he’d just found out there wasn’t any quarrel between us. Ah, well, I fancied it, I reckon . . .” Luigi stopped speaking and picked up the wood that marked the position of the third, and following, Christian galley. He played with it in his fingers; his unseeing eyes fixed on the blood- red colors of the sunset. “Please, Luigi,” Guido said. “You can’t stop there. Do go on! What happened?” Luigi looked down at the boy. Slowly his eyes focused. He placed the wood from his fingers in position. “Ah! ’Twasfunny, like I said. Of course, with three against two, we should have lost. Three Turks grappled with two of us, fighting

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A New Crusade

it out, hand to hand. Another Turk lying off, waiting his chance to come in and finish us. Then up comes our third galley with all those Spanish harquebusiers aboard. She stops near the Turk that’s grappled to our port side, and the dons loose off their muskets. I reckon there wasn’t a man left on his feet on that galley, unless it was some rowers who’d crawled in their chains under their benches. Then she pulls off while the harquebusiers reload, and ’round the other side she goes and does the same thing to the Turk lying there. It was all over then. The Turkish galley who’d been waiting his chance made off as hard as he could go. A few chasing shots were fired after him, but he was out of range. Got clean away.” “What happened to the pirate who was lying between the two of you?” Guido asked. “Oh, him? Well, as soon as they saw what happened, our Chris- tian rowers were on board of him. I saw some of them cutting through the chains of his slaves. After that . . . well, there’s no need to say what happened. It wasn’t pretty . . . I looked over the side, and there was a crowd of little fishes feeding.” Guido sat silently for a full minute. Then — “Thank you for telling me, Luigi,” he said. “But there’s something I don’t understand. Did you have five guns on the foredeck, just as you do on this ship?” “We did that,” Luigi answered. “Four culverin, two on either hand, and a cannon.” “The cannon was fixed to fire forward, I suppose?” Guido asked. “Of course! They always are!” “Then what I don’t understand,” said Guido, “is why you couldn’t fire the cannon at the Turks and sink them with the heavy shot before they ever got at you?” “Use your eyes, boy,” Luigi answered. “See, this long pole that sticks out from the bows, with an ironshod end — the spur we call

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The Blood-Red Crescent

it — it’s right under the cannon. You can’t depress that gun. It isn’t intended for that sort of thing.” “It seems to me that the cannon might be more useful than the spur. If you hadn’t got a spur, you could use the gun,” Guido said. “Hadn’t got a spur? What you talking about? Galleys have had spurs since the days of the old Romans. Why, I bet you Julius Caesar had a spur on his galley. ’Course he did, come to think of it. I’ve seen them on the carvings when I went to Rome. They were lower down — on the waterline, in fact — but they were spurs, all right. Don’t you get ideas like that, young Guido. Flying in the face of your fathers!” “All the same,” Guido said thoughtfully, “I shall talk to Barna- bas Butter about it when he comes.” “Barna — Barnabas Butter? D’you mean that?” Luigi asked. “Just a master gunner who’s coming with a friend of mine. He’s an Englishman.” “Phoo!” Luigi answered. “Englishman! ’Course I know. All they think about is sails and more sails. And guns! Sticking out of the sides of their ships like the quills of a porcupine! No oars, either. What they’d do in a sea like the Mediterranean I don’t know. But as for Barnabas, I know him. Sailed with him, as a matter of fact.” “Did you really? When was that?” Guido asked. “Sailed ’round the coasts of Spain with more sails than half a dozen galleys. Going in ports, burning and plundering. Pirates, that’s what they are, the English! Worse than the Barbary corsairs, if you ask me, even if I did go with them! Unnatural it is, too, with all those sails and no oars. Well, I ask you . . . Barnabas Butter or no Barnabas Butter. When’s he coming?” Before Guido could answer, the high, clear voice of his sister Julia came from the dockside.

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A New Crusade

“Guido! Guido!” she called. “Please come home. Father sent Magdalena to find you, and she couldn’t. She looked everywhere. He’s cross!” Guido rose to his feet and stretched his cramped legs. “Thank you, Luigi, for telling me about the fight,” he said. “All right! All right!” Luigi answered. “But sail me no sails. Oars it was and always will be. No spurs . . . pah!” But Guido had climbed to the quay and was trotting away with Julia’s hand in his before Luigi had finished muttering. Back in the Callatta house, Guido’s father sat, impatiently tap- ping his fingers on the table. Papers lay scattered on the boards before him. He looked up sharply at Guido’s tap on the door and called a brusque command to enter. “Well, my boy,” he said when Guido stood before him. “You weren’t to be found. Away with your sailor friends again, I’ve no doubt.” He raised his hand for silence as Guido opened his mouth to speak. “No! Not a word!” he continued. “There’s something more important than that. I’ve had word of it who is to command the forces of the Holy League. It’s to be Don John of Austria! What do you think of that?” Guido thought of the stories he had heard of the tall, handsome, and gallant half-brother of the King of Spain and of his vic- tories against the Moors of Granada. “Very good, sir,” he said. “Never mind,” Signor Callatta continued. “I don’t suppose you really know anything about His Excellency Don John. What con- cerns you more nearly is that I have come to a decision.” “A decision, sir?” Guido asked. “Yes! You see, I have been thinking what I should do if I were commanding the Turkish fleet. Quite a lot of the ships of the Holy

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The Blood-Red Crescent

League will be built here in Venice. If I were the Turk, I should attack while I’ve got great superiority.” “Attack Venice?” Guido asked, horrified. “Yes! Attack Venice! And burn the shipping!” Signor Callatta answered. “And that would be followed by an attack on the city. Therefore, Guido, my son, I am going to send the Signora your mother and your sister away . . .” “Send my mother and sister away, sir?” Guido repeated. “Yes. And you will go in charge of them with some of my men.” “But where to, sir?” “It was you who gave me the idea. For the moment, to Genazzano. You can continue your education in the monastery there. You’ll go in about a week.” Guido saw the days that he spent with Luigi and other sailors fading with many dreams of boyhood. He had a vision of stern monks and sterner tutors. “Yes, sir,” he answered dutifully and dully. Signor Callatta nodded for Guido to leave him. When Guido had laid his hand on the latch of the door, Signor Callatta spoke softly to him. “Guido,” he said, “I’m going to build a galley of my own to join the fleet of the Holy League. When it is finished, you may come and see it. What is more, you may bring your English friend Michele — or whatever he is called — and his master gunner, whose name is so barbarous that I cannot even remember it. Does that please you?” Guido drew himself erect and looked at his father with shining eyes. “Yes, sir,” he said, and marched with a firm tread from the room.