Cervantes
...ck to his hard fought battle with his exhausted crust (for his constant chewing had almost dissolved the hardened bread into submission.) I then realized the man did not wish to converse with me and I then cast out of my head any hopes of finding a companion on this ship, for every other man aboard spoke Italian and acted strangely (by that I mean strangely to a Spaniard, but I assume their actions would be deemed quite normal to a fellow Italian.) I glanced at Santo one final time before leaving, and noticed that he had almost completed his conquest of the stale bread. With a final swallow, he looked up at me and spoke: “We shall surely cleanse these waters of those vile Turks, if they even dare to face the might of our swords and cannon.” Amazed to hear him speak to me without my insistence, I decided that my hopes of friendship with this man had not been defeated as he was so sure our enemy would be. “I hope you are right brave sir,” I replied, “though I doubt it will be as easy as you make it sound. I have heard rumors that those godless Ottomans have over two hundred and twenty galleys and more than fifty galliots, while we barely number over two hundred ships in total.” Santo then unexpectedly leapt from his chair, his eyes growing wider as his voice grew louder. “O ye of little faith,” he exclaimed, “do not forget our six heavily armed Venetian galleases or that we are led by the Great Don Juan of Austria (Wikipedia). Let it also be remembered that under him, we are commanded by the most honorable Santa Cruz of Spain, the most noble Andrea Doria of Genoa, and the most notable Augustino Barbagio and Sebastian Veniero, both fighting for Venice herself” (Wikipedia). He then continued to ramble off every officer and their accomplishments, along with every ship and it’s arsenal, in the entire navy. I do doubt that he could have known all that said he did, but he seemed very sure of his facts so I did not question their validity (for this could have put our newfound friendship in jeopardy). When he had exhausted his reserve of names and deeds of our navy, he then began to curse the enemy. “Ali Pasha(Alex), may the devil take him, will certainly lead his men to ruin against the tips of our rams and the edges of our blades.” He then repeated his rambling of names along with accomplishments, though this time, substituting the names and deeds of men I our navy with those of the enemy’s navy. The enemy’s accomplishments were more akin to things like the burning of good Christian villages and the eating of good Christian babies than the saving of good Christian damsels and the killing of evil Moorish tyrants, as our soldiers had reportedly done. I again did not question his truthfulness. By the time he had finished, it was time to retire back to our cabins. As I lay falling asleep, I heard him whispering prayers asking for the victory we desired so badly. I silently agreed and mouthed my own similar prayers before giving in to the call of sleep. Chapter III: In which we fight in the most glorious and holy Battle of Lepanto. The next week or so (I do not remember exactly how many days it was) was full of the duties that sailors must perform in preparation of battle. I found these acts very mundane and very repetitive. I doubt that it would be of any interest to anyone if I recorded how many times the crew swabbed the deck, tied down the lines, dirtied the deck, checked the cannon, and then swabbed the deck again. In the interests of good storytelling, I will now omit these details and again begin to tell my story, starting on the day of the battle. As we approached the enemy battle line, all soldiers, including me and my fellow Spaniard, loaded their muskets and took up firing positions. We all stood or kneeled, anticipating the beginning of our glorious victory. All was quiet but for the crashing of the waves, the singing of the gulls, and the sound of metal on metal produced by the constant shuffling and fidgeting of Santo. Of all the soldiers there, he was the most ready, the most confident in our victory, and the most excited, being barely able to restrain himself from diving into the sea and swimming at the approaching enemy ship. Then all at once, our cannon and theirs fired together in perfect rhythm, oddly reminding me of church bells on a Sunday in Madrid. Men around me were blown away, leaving only parts of them left in their previously held locations. Santo and myself escaped this first volley unharmed. This chain of events was repeated multiple times, each time making more men useless in this fight and tearing more and more holes in the two ship’s sides. When we were in range, we were ordered by our officers to fire a volley from our muskets into the enemy’s musketeers. As we did this, the enemy officers must have heard and issued an almost duplicate order to their musketeers, because the enemy musketeers mirrored our moves, going as far as shooting at us. We reloaded, shot, reloaded, and shot once more before being ordered to prepare for boarding action. The two ships slipped into parallel positions to each other, signaling a climax was about to occur. I glanced over to where I had last seen Santo, but he was no longer there. As I turned to look forward toward the enemy, I then saw Santo, who had cast his musket down and drawn his saber, standing on the edge of our deck, screaming curses and other vile things across the chasm created by our two mighty ships. I raced over to him in hopes that I could reach him before a Turk decided to put a hole in him from twenty yards away (not a very difficult shot even for a Turk, although Santo was jumping up and down and from side to side with much energy). When I reached, him I yelled over the gunfire: “Get back to the rest of the boarding party you fool. You are going to get shot here before you can even board the enemy vessel.” I managed to wrestle him down (making sure to keep his saber pointed towards the enemy and not myself, for if I did not, this story might very well have never been told, or if it was, it would have ended quite differently). When our ships were close enough for the boarding to commence, I released Santo from my grip and began charge to the edge with him. Just then, I spotted an enemy soldier (though I doubt he was a Turk because he looked quite ordinary) bringing his musket to bear directly at Santo’s oncoming chest. “Santo!” I yelled, “Look out!” But it was too late. The Turk fired and Santo fell, though it was because he tripped on a line that one of the cabin boys had once again forgotten to secure (for it is well known how lazy and apathetic Genoese cabin boys generally are), not because of the Turks bullet. The bullet, which because of Santo’s fortunate fall, failed to strike my friend, continued on until it lodged itself in my left hand. “Santo!” I screamed, “Santo I’ve been shot!” My friend must not have heard me above the din of the cannon and muskets, because when I looked up, I saw him attacking ...