'They're not exactly easy,' explained Walter. 'In fact, they're fuckin' impossible. But they're good when they do get it together.'
Gresham grinned at him, the fire of war in his blood. He grabbed Walter's hand. 'One-masted, biggish, a hatch for'ard and a much bigger one aft. Taken late in the day, so presumably with minimal decoration, fake masts and the like.'
'We'll find 'er,' said Walter Andrews, 'if she's there to be found.' His eyes were looking for a way through the crowded waterway. His hand was raised, waiting to drop and signal for his oarsmen to bite the oars into the water. Suddenly he saw the opening, dropped his hand. They careered through three boats, rigged as galliasses, whose rigging had become inextricably entangled.
'Where d'you want to start?' asked Walter Andrews.
'Where the danger is,' answered Gresham flatly.
It was clear even to Sir Robert Mansell that the promised battle was not going to happen. It was rumoured that the King and Queen were about to leave the stands, bored by a few small boats firing cannon and muskets with blank shot. James would be more than bored, thought Sir Robert, if he knew what this failed extravaganza had cost him. He had one ace up his sleeve. Half of the fortress of Algiers was primed to explode at the climax of the battle, its wood and plaster walls impregnated with barrels of powder set to ignite with the lighting of one fuse. Just before the walls collapsed, three of the attacking boats were meant to explode as if hit by shore batteries. The powder set in the 'walls' and that in the three boats was not normal gunpowder. Those responsible for the fireworks had been allowed at it. The boats would go up with a fiery blue flame, sending rockets into the sky. The explosion of the fortress would be predominantly red and yellow.
'Well, the mock battle was over, with all that did for his standing and his reputation. Current, wind and tide had meant that the two opposing fleets had never been properly able to meet. Not to mention the shamefully drunken crew, and the gross incompetence of the Court. Yet all was not quite lost…
To hell with it, he decided. They would only dismantle the fortress the next day were it not blown up. What had he to lose? His reputation was gone already, yet might be restored by this last throw. If only he could manage the fortress to be blown up before His Majesty left the stands'. He hurried to give his orders. One of his lieutenants, the most trusty, was there. Six fresh oarsmen were in his boat. The twisted rope that would ignite the fuses was smouldering happily in its barrel. He sent them off to the three boats moored on the Lambeth side.
'There's three boats on the Lambeth side — primed with powder! Set to be blown up before the walls of the fortress fall apart!' Walter yelled to Gresham above the sounds of musketry, cannon and men being maimed.
'What of it?' yelled Gresham back.
'One of them ran into a stone jetty. Holed itself badly. My men tell me they were desperate. Word spreads on the waterfront. They set out to commandeer another boat. With one of the King's men on board.'
'So?' yelled Gresham.
'Look over there.' Walter pointed to the Lambeth shore. The Algerian fort was lit by what seemed hundreds, thousands of torches. In front of it, darkened and anchored, lay three other boats. Two of them were rigged as Venetian galliasses, double-anchored, a rude disguise over their plain origin as London riverboats. The third had no such disguise. Bobbing on only one anchor, it was single-masted. The barrels of powder, bound together by strong rope, were silhouetted against the light.
Hope flared in Gresham's heart. He nodded. Walter turned the tiller sharp over and yelled at his men. Already working hard, they redoubled their efforts.
Another boat shot ahead of them, for all their efforts. There was someone who looked like an official in its prow; As it crossed the halfway mark in the river, Turkish boats swarmed towards it, the fitful wind at their backs. The liveried official stood in the prow, shouting at them.
'Back off! Back off! Make way! Make way! On the King's business! Make way!'
Walter stood at the prow of his boat, hurling a gesture to Gresham to stand by him. 'Back off! Back off! Make way! Make way! On the King's business! Make way!' he echoed, pointing to the man dressed so clearly as a nobleman standing beside him.
The Turkish boats hesitated, backed off. Let them both through.
The King's boat shot towards the first mock galliass moored upstream. It made sense, work down the stream. The furthermost would have the longest fuse.
With a nod, Gresham directed Walter towards that furthermost boat downstream, the darkened vessel with no extra mast to hide its humdrum origins and only the five barrels of powder on its deck to show its purpose.
The current had eased now, wind and tide turning far too late to be of any real use. Walter still felt the need to heave a grapnel over on to the other boat, its claws digging deep into its wood. His boat slewed round, smashed against the hull of the other with a jarring crash.
There was a guard too on the middle galliass. He jumped up from his perch on deck, yelling at them, misunderstanding, warning them off the boat packed with powder.
Gresham leaped on board regardless, the ceremonial sword he had worn all day in his hand. There! A hatch for the main hold, beneath his feet almost. A smaller hatch forward.
The King's boat, on the orders of Sir Robert Mansell, reached the first of the ornately rigged galliasses. There was one man on board, keeping guard. Curtly, the steward ordered him into his own boat. He took the corded twine, smouldering redly at its edge, and applied it to the fuse, which was hanging over the side of the boat, at a convenient height for a standing man to ignite it. Thank God something had gone right tonight, as his own red- ended yarn ignited the spluttering fuse. On, he ordered, on to the second boat. Before they were blown to hell and beyond by this one. The men needed no encouragement.
There was a padlock over the forward hold, Gresham saw. All he had was his sword. He punched it through the hasp of the lock, wrenched it upwards. With a sharp 'Snap!' the blade broke off. With a despairing glance he turned behind him. Walter was there with something between an iron hammer and a chisel. He wasted no time going for the padlock. Instead he chopped, savagely, at the wood securing the hasps. One side sprang free.
Darkness. A stink of fish, tar and lamp oil hit Gresham from out of the hold. And something else. The smell of people breathing.
'A light!' Gresham yelled, beside himself. 'Give me a light!' Walter looked nonplussed for a moment, then yelled to his men. Something spluttered, and a thin, poor lantern was handed to Gresham, its flame already guttering. He half jumped down the ladder into the hold. In the dim light he saw his wife and his two children. Gagged. Eyes open wide. Necks held in cruel iron collars. Hands and feet bound.
He felt for the knot to Jane's gag, lost patience and grasped the dagger at his belt, ramming it into the stiff cloth behind her smooth neck. The gag came away and she fell forward, heaving, sucking in breath. Her hands cut into his body, holding him so hard that it was as if she was drowning. She turned her head, vomiting into the corner. He cut through the bonds around her wrists and legs, seeing the blood that stained the lace on the arms of her dress. The collar, the cruel iron collar, was still around her neck. He yelled to Walter, who smashed at the wood around the ring bolt. Gresham pushed Jane away with all the gentleness his enraged body could muster, moved to the children, ripped the cruel binding off Anna and then Walter.
The thud of the explosion hit them before the vast, eyeball-scarring intensity of its flame. The first boat had exploded, those who had fired it unaware that the King had left his seat in the stands. A sheet of fire vented its way to the stars, a moment of blue and white brilliance turning night into day. Yet the King's boat, shielded from the blast by its next target, had already made its way to the second moored galliass. The guard on its deck was screaming at them. The captain of the boat ignored him. His vessel crashed into the side of the second galliass, the fuse directly opposite. He lit it, and it spluttered into life. Then he heard for the first time what the guard was screaming.
'She's shifted! She's shifted! The anchor's gone!'
Christ Almighty! Instead of the two anchors, fore and aft, that had meant to secure the boat, there was only one, and that had clearly lost its footing in the bed of the Thames and was dragging. Only a few ropes kept the vessel from careering down the Thames to explode in the midst of God knew what collection of other boats and people. Cursing, the captain turned to hack the fuse off, but as he did so three or four short sharp waves flung his boat upwards. He fell forward, into the gap that had suddenly opened up between the two craft. The next wave pushed his boat back in again. His head exploded like a squeezed orange as it was pressed between the two hulls. The men on the boat saw the fuse well alight and backed off, the guard hurling himself into their boat, threatening to capsize it. With a final, bucking scrape the second galliass lifted over the ropes holding it against the current and
