It had surprised them mid-way between Corsica and Minorca, two days out from Genoa. Low, black, afternoon clouds had begun to build to the east. By sunset the sky was covered and the sea had risen.
They had lowered the foresail and mainsail yards; at the prow they had hoisted a spar with the square sail reefed in and had shortened the lateen sail on the mizzen, attempting to outrun the bad weather. The storm had reached them in the middle of the night with squalls, breakers as high as the taffrail and icy gusts that continually threatened to breach them.
The Caterina, an old pinco of 100 spans, showed every one of her forty years and with every following wave she leapt forwards with a rocking motion, creaking as if she were about to break in two.
Shortly before dawn, the wind had dropped completely leaving a long, dead swell that made the ship roll heavily despite the hardened sails.
As the lantern was put out, another ship was spotted astern.
In the weak light of that tarry dawn, off the starboard quarter, at times hidden by the grey waves, there was a sail. Like the Caterina, it must have been caught out by the gale and was now at the mercy of the rolling waves. They kept station for the rest of the morning, just in sight of one another, waiting for the dead calm to lift. Just before midday, the captain laboriously managed to sight the vessel with his telescope and recognised a xebec.
He called his second-in-command and handed him the instrument: “Oh, Holy Mother of Mary!” said the man without lifting his eyes, “They’re Algerians!”
The captain, an old Genoan of almost fifty years of age, said nothing as he put away the instrument the other had returned with an inquisitive look.
“And now?”, the younger man asked him.
“And now nothing… we wait.”
They waited, every so often taking look to see whether the ship had gained or lost ground, but there she remained just a few miles adrift of them. The day passed, long and wearing. The captain heard his sails and those of the xebec slapping in the air and scanned the irregular sea for a sign of wind.
At dusk, he ordered the lantern not to be lit and noted that the xebec had done the same. He shook his head worriedly: it was not a good sign… He left an armed guard and set the watch before retiring to his cabin.
No one slept.
At first light, the sea had flattened and a faint glimmer to the east announced a little wind.
He began watching the other ship again.
It was no longer rolling: the three great lateen sails hung limply to leeward, evidence that a sudden breeze had at least managed to keep them drawn to one side.
Slowly, the xebec had begun to make headway.
“Here they come…”, said the second-in-command.
The captain made no comment but had all the light arms brought on deck and had the culverins and cannons loaded but kept the gun ports closed.
He did not want a fight. He knew the others would have been less heavily armed but more numerous, at least twice their number. God forbid they should hole the xebec’s hull… If they had sunk it then the attackers’ sole means of escape would have been to take the Caterina at all costs.
A volley across the deck would have swept away some of them, but the rest would have inevitably boarded the pinco and then there would have been a massacre. Even if they had had the better of things, the losses would have been such as to render the return voyage difficult if not impossible. Where had the storm carried them? How far were they from the first friendly ship or port, assuming they were friendly? A single certainty… at that precise moment the same doubts were also tormenting the man in command of the other ship.
The crew prepared in an oppressive silence.
The men passed an interminable hour hidden behind the bulwarks, looking up every so often to try to see what was happening. The xebec was now making good speed and they were soon able to distinguish the hull and they saw small figures moving.
When it was a hundred or so metres off their stern, it prepared to tack.
It was making four or five knots, at least one more that the Caterina, and the silence was broken only by the rushing of the bows, the whispering of the sails and rattling of the blocks.
No one appeared to breath but the tense air was broken by the occasional order in Genoan dialect or Arabic.
The captain drew his sabre from its sheath with a deep sigh.
The xebec was close now. From the pinco they saw an old, run-down boat, patched with rough timber, some of it rotting. The storm had broken the foresail yard, which had been splinted with an oar; on the deck were piles of sails, ropes and a host of other stores dragged up from the hold, a sign that they must have taken on a considerable amount of water.
On deck, dressed in dirty rags, around fifty North Africans, thin, bare-footed and burned by the sun, observed them silently.
The two ships were now just ten metres or so from one another. On the xebec they were preparing to come alongside: some of them were nonchalantly standing on the gunwale with grappling irons, lines and gaffs as if they were making an ordinary docking manoeuvre. Others on the deck were silent, their bony hands gripping their weapons, ready to board the Caterina.
The captain had the gun ports opened and told the crew to stand up from the shelter of the topside but not to open fire. The four cannons rolled out squealing and the men brought their muskets to their shoulders, cocked the hammers and calmly took aim.
The two ships remained like that, sailing on the same parallel course at the same speed, waiting.
He approached the gunwale. On the other side, a taller man with a great white turban followed suit.
“The head of this band of fools…” said the second-in-command.
He silenced him with a gesture and at last looked at his man, on the ship before him. He was just a little younger. Dark skinned, he had a long scar on his contracted face and he observed him in turn with dark and inexpressive eyes.
The captain raised his left hand with the palm open, then he indicated the cannons, the culverins and the men ready to shoot.
He slowly raised his sabre with the point towards the sky, then with a slow movement of the wrist he set it horizontal and, slowly, he rested it on the gunwale.
His hand opened and he rested it, ready close to the hilt but without touching it.
The Algerian stood looking at him uncertainly for an interminable time. He raised his right hand and let it fall; then, without taking his eyes of those of the Genoan, he said something to his helmsman.
Slowly, without anybody having moved, the xebec began to draw away.
Aboard the pinco, the men had all remained at their stations, holding their breaths. They continued to keep the ship in their sights, crouched behind the breeches or standing with their guns at their shoulders. They saw the still figures become confused and merge with the old hull that became one with the sail, disappearing over the horizon after a few hours.
They then steadily put everything in its place while the second-in-command took a sighting and the Caterina turned to a new heading.

*Alberto Capanna was born in Albisola, province of Savona, in 1961. In 1988 he moves to La Spezia, to the boatyard Valdettaro, where he follows historical repairs. Lives on board of prestigious yachts, meets famous people and decides to tell these stories to be able to live them again. In 1999-2000 is production director at Riva. He publishes his first book (Histories of Ships, of Travels and of Wreckages – Mursia editore) in 2001. The second (Bacicio do Tin – The Emperor Corsar and Pirate in Alto Tirreno – Mursia Editore) is from 2003 and has been awarded with Premio Selezione Bancarella 2004. Nowadays he continues to write, navigating, building models, working in the yard in Riva Trigoso (Fincantieri, Military Ship Division). He defines himself “Shipwriter and Talebuilder”.

Research and selection of literary texts by Linda Kaiser
English translation by Neil Davenport
From Arte Navale, n.24 giugno-luglio 2004