Cutthroats of the Coast

Chapter 26 - "Tarradiddle, farradiddle, ging, boys, ging!"

The following days were the worst that I had experienced at sea.

Rowers began to die like children during an outbreak of plague. It was no surprise when the first man, a scrawny, consumptive shepherd with a pronounced outbreak of the King's Evil on his left side, collapsed, coughing up a torrent of blood at his oar the first time we rowed beyond Salé. It was some time before he was removed. In fact it was hard to tell that he had expired since we were packed so tight that he remained upright between his comrades, his body swaying in time with each sweep of the oar. Eventually he and his mates were unchained and they carried him up to the main deck to slide the poor fellow over the side, much to the delight of the waiting sharks who lurked beneath us, eager for sustenance.

My position at the oar hole was far from pleasant in this instance. Close as it was to the ocean's surface, it provided far too clear a view of the savage beasts as they swarmed upon the shepherd, a horrid red cloud spreading in the the water that thankfully concealed their dreadful feast.

He was not the last I would see reduced to floating scraps. Usually we would be travelling at such speed that the deceased did not long stay in sight, and, truly, I did not exercise myself overmuch to view what happened once the corse was dragged up top.

The oar hole did not just afford me frequent reminders of our constant companions as they swarmed after our trail of dead. It also enabled the sea to ingress into the rowing deck with each stroke of the oar. The remains of my ragged clothing were soon soaked in the chill brine. To avoid salt sores, I disrobed and, like many others, hung what was left from any projection within our berth that was convenient. Our deck soon had the appearance of a particularly impoverished laundry.

All the while, we rowed. Up and down the coast of Morocco we cut a furrow in the sea and sowed our dead in the wide field of the Atlantic. When we hove to, we slumped exhausted to our very bones over the oars, our chains binding us to our benches. At these times, my chest heaving, gasping down the thick, choking air of the rowing deck, I could not face the meagre rations doled out with poor grace by our under-officers. It would take time for my head to stop swimming, and a good deal of water, green and foul from old casks, to revive me enough to chew the hard biscuit that Jafar Rais provided for us.

It was in these moments of rest that the detestable and putrid state of the crepuscular rowers' berth pressed close upon me and my spirits sunk as low as they could go. Galley slaves had no freedom to leave their oar. We would stand and row at times simply to stretch our cramped legs but we had no opportunity to exercise ourselves on the main deck, or relieve ourselves over the side as the sailors could. Our bench was our bed, our dining table and our privy. With my bare feet sunk deep into human ordure, I confess that at times I sobbed in a way that I had not since I was a very little boy.

The xebec was soon worked up to a high state of readiness. After the first twenty poor souls went over the side, the rate at which we died off slowed. We stopped flinching when Jafar Rais's voice barked down the hatch at the under-officers for, "More shpeed!" and those same men went about us, belabouring our backs with long canes. They may as well have whipped the mast for all the effect it had on me but I still pulled as hard as my fellows. We were all at the oar together.

It may have been a week that we were at sea. Much of the day and night seemed to be as one and I was not really aware of the passing of time. A veil had descended over my thoughts and a blankness marked my every minute. If someone had asked me my name, I am not sure I would have been able to recall it. All I knew was the rhythm of the oar, marked by the beat of a drum placed aft and played by one of the sailors. All I could see was the bulkhead in front of me; every scratch, knot and grain in the wood known. A ditty I had heard in some past taproom whispered past my cracked lips over and over again, no doubt prompted by the sewage beneath the bench.