The Archer's Marines: The First Marines - Medieval fiction action story about Marines, naval warfare, and knights after King Richard's crusade in Syria, ... times (The Company of Archers Book 5) by Martin Archer Page B
Authors: Martin Archer
Tags: Historical fiction
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three galleys to man one of the cogs. We don’t have enough sailors for the other cog so it is still being slowly towed with a couple of men on board to work its rudder.
Jeffrey has us moving nicely using both our sail and oars when the lookout on the mast reports a galley dead in the water off our port bow. A few seconds later, as soon as they see us, the galley’s rowing drum starts and some of its oars begin to row – and some of them keep rowing even after we come along side and hail it with an order it to stop and be boarded.
“Come down immediately,” I shout up to the lookout. “I’m sending up bowmen.”
“Jeffrey, get your two best archers up there with their bows.”
Less than a minute later the lookout is on the deck and the Marines are in the nest.
“Can you see the man at the rudder or the rowing drum?” I shout up to the Marines as they scramble up the mast. “If you can see either of them, take them.”
@@@@@
It is totally dark and the warm and sunny day has turned into a rather nice but windy evening by the time we cast off the grappling lines - so our new prize crew and the Tunisian’s slaves are once again rowing our recaptured prize towards Malta. The only difference is that now twenty of Jeffrey’s Marines are on board to keep order and help row.
All of the Tunisian slaves except the most seriously wounded are once again chained to the lower rowing benches. At the moment they are wolfing down bread and cheese from the food we hurriedly pass over to the prize while it is still light enough to see what we are doing.
All we know for sure is that two men of the six in our prize crew have been killed and three wounded, one quite seriously. We’ll sort out the slaves when we reach Malta and Harold can talk to what’s left of the men in our prize crew. Though I rather doubt the leader or leaders of the mutiny will ever see Malta again.
Chapter Nine
Helen and I are standing side by side at the very front of Jeffrey’s galley as we come into Malta’s harbor late the next day. It’s a moment to savor despite the oppressive heat, and I certainly do - the harbor is packed with ships and we row between them towards the dock to an increasingly enthusiastic reception as the word spreads of our arrival and their sailors and Marines pour on to their decks to cheer and wave.
Most of the galleys and sailing ships, it seems, are ours and most of them are prizes. There is also no doubt about it - their cheering and waving sailors and Marines are pleased and happy. They should be; we’ll be passing out a huge amount of prize money when we reach Cyprus, and rightly so.
Malta’s old stone dock is teeming with all kinds of activity. Men and carts are everywhere. Harold, Henry, and a number of our most senior sergeants are all waiting with big smiles and open arms as we bump up against the dock and tie up at the one and only space that our galleys have not already taken. There is a huge crowd of our men and curious local citizens standing in a great half circle behind them. And, thank God, I see Long Bob; Harold or one his galleys must have picked him up when his galley went down.
We English have a reputation for being staid and stoic and not showing much emotion. But you wouldn’t know it from great hugs and backslapping that occur after I step from the roof of the forecastle and Harold pulls me up on to the dock by my extended arm.
Helen is still standing demurely on the forecastle roof when I turn back and Henry and I each take one of Helen’s arms and pull her up to join us. It made me laugh out loud in delight and Helen smile shyly when each of the bearded ruffians very carefully bent down and took her hand and
Jeffrey has us moving nicely using both our sail and oars when the lookout on the mast reports a galley dead in the water off our port bow. A few seconds later, as soon as they see us, the galley’s rowing drum starts and some of its oars begin to row – and some of them keep rowing even after we come along side and hail it with an order it to stop and be boarded.
“Come down immediately,” I shout up to the lookout. “I’m sending up bowmen.”
“Jeffrey, get your two best archers up there with their bows.”
Less than a minute later the lookout is on the deck and the Marines are in the nest.
“Can you see the man at the rudder or the rowing drum?” I shout up to the Marines as they scramble up the mast. “If you can see either of them, take them.”
@@@@@
It is totally dark and the warm and sunny day has turned into a rather nice but windy evening by the time we cast off the grappling lines - so our new prize crew and the Tunisian’s slaves are once again rowing our recaptured prize towards Malta. The only difference is that now twenty of Jeffrey’s Marines are on board to keep order and help row.
All of the Tunisian slaves except the most seriously wounded are once again chained to the lower rowing benches. At the moment they are wolfing down bread and cheese from the food we hurriedly pass over to the prize while it is still light enough to see what we are doing.
All we know for sure is that two men of the six in our prize crew have been killed and three wounded, one quite seriously. We’ll sort out the slaves when we reach Malta and Harold can talk to what’s left of the men in our prize crew. Though I rather doubt the leader or leaders of the mutiny will ever see Malta again.
Chapter Nine
Helen and I are standing side by side at the very front of Jeffrey’s galley as we come into Malta’s harbor late the next day. It’s a moment to savor despite the oppressive heat, and I certainly do - the harbor is packed with ships and we row between them towards the dock to an increasingly enthusiastic reception as the word spreads of our arrival and their sailors and Marines pour on to their decks to cheer and wave.
Most of the galleys and sailing ships, it seems, are ours and most of them are prizes. There is also no doubt about it - their cheering and waving sailors and Marines are pleased and happy. They should be; we’ll be passing out a huge amount of prize money when we reach Cyprus, and rightly so.
Malta’s old stone dock is teeming with all kinds of activity. Men and carts are everywhere. Harold, Henry, and a number of our most senior sergeants are all waiting with big smiles and open arms as we bump up against the dock and tie up at the one and only space that our galleys have not already taken. There is a huge crowd of our men and curious local citizens standing in a great half circle behind them. And, thank God, I see Long Bob; Harold or one his galleys must have picked him up when his galley went down.
We English have a reputation for being staid and stoic and not showing much emotion. But you wouldn’t know it from great hugs and backslapping that occur after I step from the roof of the forecastle and Harold pulls me up on to the dock by my extended arm.
Helen is still standing demurely on the forecastle roof when I turn back and Henry and I each take one of Helen’s arms and pull her up to join us. It made me laugh out loud in delight and Helen smile shyly when each of the bearded ruffians very carefully bent down and took her hand and
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