‘Can we outrun them?’
‘No, Roger, we cannot. We are going to have to engage them just to get on a course to Scilla.’
That destination soon changed with the wind, which swung into the north, bringing blue skies for the first time in a week, making a southerly course the best point of sailing for Ridel’s ships, obliging him, taking account of both wind and current, to head for Reggio, which had the advantage of a properly defended harbour as opposed to just a jetty. Ridel’s primary task was to get his little fleet into some kind of order, a defensive huddle around his own vessel that, even untidy, would make it difficult for any galley to single one of them out, which did little to allay the threat; it took time and such a delay allowed their opponents to close the gap to a dangerous degree.
Now fully under way, with their enemies swinging to pursue, it was possible to calculate the odds and they were not favourable. The current was moving in the same direction as the wind was driving the sails but that mattered little, given it favoured the galleys as well, making rowing that much easier. Soon the first crossbow bolts were hissing across the intervening water, many dropping short but others thudding into shields under which the Normans sheltered; the Calabrians had taken to hiding behind the thick bulwarks.
If such salvoes lessened as the supply of bolts diminished, it was not a cue for a respite as the galleys manoeuvred round the sailing ships in an attempt to ram them. Close to, it was obvious they were crowded with eager enemies, and if curses and shaken fists had been thunderbolts they would have been doomed there and then. Time and again the galleys used their greater manoeuvrability to suddenly swing round, their reinforced prows aiming straight for the side of one of the huddled fleet.
Fortunately the sailors who manned Roger’s vessels were as well versed in avoiding pirates as those in pursuit. Time after time, with a swift shift of the single great sail, or by letting it fly, often accompanied by a heave on the stern sweep, the masters avoided a crunching, disabling collision, yet proximity exposed the fighting men on deck to thrown lances, something else they could not reply to: their lances were embedded in the human remains that lined the shore of Cape Faro.
‘They cannot keep rowing at this pace,’ shouted Geoffrey de Ridel. ‘They must cease soon.’
‘Now would be soon enough.’
Roger’s reply was given as he tried to extract an embedded lance from his shield. All around his men were gathering up like weapons, which they would need to repel more attacks.
‘Damn them,’ Ridel shouted a second time, ‘they are changing to sail.’
The reason required little explanation: with mountains on both sides of the straits acting like a funnel the wind was increasing in strength, which allowed the sleek galleys to ship their oars. That alone added to the danger: the projecting oars had kept the enemy away from the actual side of the fleeing vessels. That would no longer be the case: now they would range right alongside and seek, by their greater numbers, to board.
‘Get those weasels on their feet,’ Roger yelled, knowing no one would need to be told of whom he was speaking. Newly acquired lances were used to poke the cowering Calabrians and get them into order, this while spare sailors produced knives and axes with which to cut away any grappling hooks that attached to the ship’s side; that they would come they had no doubt. At the same time Roger was conscious of the need to watch out for what was happening on the other vessels and it was soon apparent one was falling behind.
What happened then, albeit slowly, reminded Roger of the activities of a pack of wolves, animals who lived off weakened prey. The galley sails began to flap, allowing the vessels to fall away for a moment until the mass of the Norman fleet was past them, only to immediately make their canvas taut again, their great steering sweeps employed to bring round their bows to aim for the straggler, the sail being clewed up and oars reappearing so they could close in.
‘Ridel,’ Roger yelled, pointing to the labouring vessel.
‘I know, but unless you want to lose us all we must leave them to defend themselves.’
‘No!’
The eyes of the two Normans locked, creating a contest of authority: if Roger de Hauteville was the leader of this expedition Ridel was the man who held the command on water.
‘Every vessel would have to slow to that pace,’ Ridel insisted, ‘and the more time we are at sea the more we risk. Those galleys have the advantage in men and you have just seen how easily they can change from sail to oars.’
‘We must risk it.’
The pause was short enough to tell Roger that his sailing master disagreed, but he did then pick up a speaking trumpet and yell orders that carried to the other ships, this while his own sail was eased to slow their rate of sailing. Soon the straggler was back in the huddle, but it was clear the act of salvation would add much time to their bid to reach safety.
There had to be a central directing mind on those galleys, given their tactics changed speedily. They formed up one behind the other, a manoeuvre which took time, but not a concern to them, given they were not short of that commodity. Also, smoke began to rise from their decks, clear indication that if they could not take their enemies they would be content to set them alight with catapulted fire pots. Then the lead vessel, once more employing oars, began its attack, this time the prow aimed at the gap between Roger’s ship and the one just ahead.
‘They are going to try and cut us out.’
Roger was at a loss to know how to counter this — luckily Ridel was not. He called the ship ahead to slow and increased his own speed, so closing the gap that the galley entering it risked being trapped, which would leave it, near stationary and isolated, at just as much of a risk as any of the Norman fleet. This being noted, the approaching prow swung towards the stern, to the now greater gap behind. The master of that vessel was too sluggish to react, failing to tighten his canvas and increase his rate of sailing and, worse for him, the second galley in line swung even more to get astern of her.
Ridel was close beside Roger now, wanting no more shouted disputes, whispering his opinion. The only way to aid what was about to be a stricken vessel was to come about, something which the whole fleet would be obliged to do, a manoeuvre so dangerous they might all end up being lost. He could see, in Roger’s face, how he was struggling for a way to overrule him, when the first of the catapulted fire pots came flying towards them. Hitting the deck the clay smashed, sending flaming wads in all directions.
There was no time to think of rescue: fire was the ultimate fear of every sailor, the means by which a ship could be utterly and speedily destroyed. Every hand needed to sail the ship, the only people who could bring aid to their threatened consort, were now engaged in trying to save their own vessel and they were shouting to every soldier aboard to help them. The master, guessing what was coming, had seen fit to fetch up and wet some spare canvas and this was now thrown on the multiple fires, aided by every bucket on the ship being used to fetch aboard seawater.
Almost alone at the stern, Roger de Hauteville watched as two galleys closed in on the ship behind, one crossing the bow so close to him he could reach their deck with a cast lance, the other disappearing behind the stern. They sent no fire into a ship they were intent on taking and lines snaked out with grappling irons to fix their prey and lash it to their sides, too many to cut, men pouring across the divide even before they were pulled close, to face a small knot of a dozen Norman warriors lined up to oppose them.