Malta's Guns

by Sam Barone

  “What can I do to help?”

  “Ah, the impetuousness of youth.” Breathing hard, Master Donato joined them. “Always ready to leap into danger. But your help would be useful,” he added. “All the galleys laid up in the Arsenal must be assembled, put into the harbor, and readied to defend Venice. Others will act as cargo vessels. They’ll deliver guns and powder to Malta and Sicily, and on the return trip pick up food and whatever else will be needed for a siege here. Experienced gunners will be needed to examine the weapons and make sure everything is in order. It’s usual for a senior gunner to accompany each vessel.”

  “With so many ships in the water,” Master Palino said, “we will not have enough gunners for even half of them.”

  “The older apprentices will fill in,” Donato said. “Meanwhile, Antonio, you can best help Palino with the gunpowder stores.”

  Antonio nodded. “I’ll do whatever I can.”

  The rest of the day he labored with Palino and his staff in the gunpowder storehouses. They checked the kegs, each holding 40 pounds of explosive, to make sure they were dry and tight. New barrels were filled as well, and as fast as the workers topped them off, men carried them to the ships that glided in and out of the Arsenal’s harbor in an endless stream. As the hours passed, Antonio’s role grew in scope, as in twos and threes, gunners and senior apprentices said their goodbyes and hurried off to board their assigned vessels.

  That night, the talk over dinner was grim. Nobody in Venice could be certain what the great Sultan on his gilded throne planned, and everyone speculated as to what he would do after Malta was taken. Marco voiced his own doubts.

  “Against a fleet that size, Malta will not last more than a few weeks. That will leave the sultan’s admiral enough good sailing weather to strike another target. That would likely be Venice.”

  Antonio noticed Gianetta’s concerned look. Even Marco realized the grim news had upset the girl. Both men changed the conversation to something cheerful, but the shadow of war hung over the table.

  The next morning, Antonio and Marco arrived at the Arsenal before dawn.

  “I will be with the Signoria most of the day,” Marco said as they passed through the gates. “We are to provide the latest inventory of our supplies and catalog our preparations for any possible siege.”

  Antonio nodded and hurried off to join Master Palino. Now Antonio supervised a half dozen junior apprentices, making sure they took their time and exercised care in handling the powder. Lunch was a hurried meal of bread and cheese, eaten standing, and he returned to his station to find that Master Donato had returned, handing Palino a new order before rushing away. After a quick glance, he handed it to Antonio.

  “Fifty-five tons of gunpowder!” The size of the order caught Antonio by surprise. “That’s more than a galley can carry.”

  “Three galleys,” Palino corrected, again studying the bill of lading. “A special shipment going to Brindisi. Captain Bredani will command. Can you see to it? I’m needed at the Palace.”

  “Yes, of course.” Antonio glanced around and realized he was now the most senior gunner remaining in the powder warehouse.

  With a half dozen apprentices and 30 laborers, it took less than an hour to convey the kegs to the dock. By then three vessels had glided into the dockyard and tied up to the wharf. Antonio realized that more than just food, water, and gunpowder were being loaded. Five robinets, with all their equipment, already waited to be manhandled onboard. A gang of laborers brought out 10 swivel guns while he watched.

  Master Stefano rushed over. “Ah, Antonio, can you help supervise the loading? With so much gunpowder, we don’t want any accidents.”

  The first of the rowers entered the yard, many staring nervously at the 800 kegs of gunpowder. None ventured near the galleys. They would take their stations only after the cargo was loaded. Some even crossed themselves superstitiously, afraid of the deadly contents.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Antonio said. The dock master had already dashed off to attend to another problem. Antonio knew his own journeymen would have to load the gunpowder. Normal cargo handlers were too likely to drop one, possibly spilling its contents across the dock. The potential for an explosion was always present.

  All other loading stopped, and everyone watched as Antonio’s gang moved the explosives into the three galleys, dividing the dangerous cargo equally among the ships. While his men loaded the kegs, Antonio and the apprentices checked the storage. It had to be dry, so that no bilge water could get into the powder. The containers had to be lashed down to prevent any shifting during the passage, then covered with canvas above and beneath. Rain, or even a rogue wave, posed a serious threat to the delicate powder.

  At last they finished. Antonio, covered with sweat, stepped onto the dock. A small crowd waited for him, including the dock master and Senior Apprentice Olivio with a handful of his own apprentices.

  “The gunpowder kegs are secured, Master Stefano,” Antonio announced.

  “Good.” Stefano had kept everyone back until the gunpowder was safely stowed. Now he gave the orders and the yard’s laborers resumed loading the rest of the weapons, as well as the food and water needed for the journey.

  Antonio started to lead his men back to the warehouse, but Stefano stopped him.

  “I need a master gunner to accompany one of the ships, Antonio. You are available, are you not?”

  “I hadn’t expected to go with any of the ships, Master Stefano. I’m only here as a guest of the Guild.”

  “Yes, I know. But this is a safe run, just four or five days down to Brindisi. These ships are strong enough to fight off any pirates.”

  The request caught Antonio by surprise. He wanted to go, to see the galleys pull through the sea. But at sea anything could happen, and this was not his fight. “My duty is to return to England, Master Stefano. I cannot . . .”

  “Are you afraid, Englishman?” Apprentice Master Olivio had heard the exchange. “You said you were the hero of a sea battle. Now you’re too frightened to sail down the coast of Italy.”

  “I’m not frightened,” Antonio said, his lips tightening. The two had scarcely acknowledged each other since the apology. But behind his back, Olivio continued to make remarks about Antonio’s qualifications and reasons for being in Venice. Last week Master Donato had openly rebuked Olivio for his conduct. “But I have to consult with my Uncle. He’s at the Palace. When are the galleys leaving?”

  “As soon as the crew is aboard,” Stefano said. “Surely your uncle would have no objection to your being gone a few days.”

  That wasn’t the problem. But Antonio saw the smirk on Olivio’s face, and knew what would be said if he didn’t agree. “All right then, I’ll go. You’ll tell my uncle?”

  “Yes, of course,” Stefano said, as the last of the rowers climbed aboard. No doubt he wanted the galleys full of explosives away from his dock as quickly as possible.

  There was nothing for Antonio to do but board the ship. He carried nothing with him, no pack of food or clothing, none of the usual items he might need on the voyage. After one last glance around the dockyard, he started toward the gangplank of the Falcon.

  “Not this ship,” Olivio said. “You go on the smallest ship. I’ll sail with Captain Bredani on board the Falcon. You join the Santa Dorotea.”

  Bredani’s ship was named Il Falco del Dio, God’s Falcon. Antonio shrugged. What ship he boarded didn’t matter. Nonetheless, he felt like a fool as he moved down the dock and stepped aboard the smallest galley, the Santa Dorotea.

  “So I’ll be under your orders, Englishman. Better you than Olivio any day,” said one of the junior apprentices sailing with the galleys.

  Antonio just managed to recall the boy’s name. “Yes, Tozzo. It seems that you’re stuck with me.” About 14 years old, the apprentice had a big smile that displayed his white teeth. From his dark hair and swarthy skin, Antonio guessed he came from Sicily.

  “At least you’re not likely to blow us all to he
ll. With Master Olivio, you never know.”

  They stood in silence as the last contingent boarded. These were soldiers, a mixed lot of Venetians, Germans, Spaniards, and Italian mercenaries. Antonio counted 16 fighting men on this ship, and a few more than that on Bredani’s boat. Combined with the rowers, that made for a formidable force against any possible pirates.

  The rowers waited at their benches, and the crew made the final preparations before pushing off.

  “Wait!” The faint shout came from the quay.

  Captain Bredani, about to give the order to get under way, turned toward the wharf. A group of men approached, striding rapidly across the dock. One wore the fine gown of a Venetian merchant, the long, fur trimmed, black garment flapping in the wind. An equally voluminous black hat covered his head.

  But Antonio's eyes focused on four men walking behind the merchant. They wore plate armor under white surcoats that hung to their knees, and each carried a long sword belted at his waist. A knife with a blade the length of Antonio’s forearm balanced the load on their right sides. Four tough-looking soldiers completed the group, each struggling under a heavy pack as well as their weapons.

  “By Jesu Christo,” Tozzo said. “Knights of Saint John!”

  Antonio saw the eight-pointed cross of the Order on their breasts. He’d seen noblemen before, even knights in England, but nothing like these grim Hospitallers. Why they wore their armor, here in peaceful Venice, made no sense to him.

  “Captain Bredani,” the merchant called out as he reached the end of the dock. “Come ashore for a moment.”

  “Who’s that?” Antonio asked.

  “That’s Nobleman Sonno Rambaldo,” Tozzo said, as much in awe of the knights as Antonio. “What Venetians call a merchant prince. He owns these vessels, the two smaller ones outright, and half of Bredani’s galley as well.”

  Antonio, with no assigned place to be, stepped to the galley’s rail. He watched Captain Bredani descend the gangplank onto the dock and join Rambaldo. The two moved away, out of earshot of everyone. Rambaldo, his arm on Bredani’s shoulder, had time for little more than a few words before Bredani exploded.

  “JESUS, MARY AND JOSEPH!” He made the sign of the cross. “Are you mad?”

  Rambaldo ignored the outburst and kept his words low. The two men continued talking. Bredani remained upset, his hands waving about. Once he even pointed to the ship, stabbing the air with his finger.

  At the edge of the wharf, the four Knights remained silent, as if bored by the entire discussion.

  “What is he saying?” Tozzo could scarcely keep his voice under control. “He must want Bredani to take the Knights to Brindisi.”

  By this time, the merchant prince had finished his conversation with his captain, and he walked back to speak with the leader of the knights. After a brief conversation, the Knight nodded assent at something. He turned to his attendant and spoke a few words. The knight’s servant reached inside his tunic and handed a heavy pouch to Rambaldo.

  Meanwhile Bredani shouted for the other two captains to join him, and both galleys disgorged their captains. The three walked further away from the others, almost back to the storehouse. Another long conversation ensured, with everyone gesticulating. Then the three captains separated and each returned to his ship.

  “Master of Arms,” Antonio’s captain, whose name was Alfieri, spoke the moment he came aboard. “Secure the galley. No one leaves without my permission.” Under his breath, he added, “Damn all these Knights to hell’s fire.”

  Antonio still didn’t know much more than his captain’s name, but the man clearly didn’t look happy. The Knights split up, two going onto Bredani’s vessel, and one each aboard the other two ships.

  The Knight that stepped easily over the side onto Antonio’s galley appeared young. He said something to his attendant in French. Antonio knew the Knights of Saint John came from all of Europe, but he’d assumed these men to be Italian or Spanish, the countries that supplied the majority of soldiers to the Knights’ order.

  The ships prepared to depart once again, but there was another delay. Master Stefano stepped onto Captain Bredani’s boat, and the two men had another brief but heated discussion. Apprentice Master Olivio joined them. In a moment Olivio grew angry, punching his open palm with his fist.

  Stefano ignored the outburst. He stepped back onto the dock and approached the Santa Dorotea, Antonio’s ship.

  “You speak French, Antonio? Sir Annet de Clermont wishes to converse with a master gunner in his own language.”

  “Yes, Master Stefano, a little,” he said, surprised that the Knight didn’t speak Italian.

  “Est-ce que vous parlez français, ou non?”

  The words were spoken rapidly but distinctly, and Antonio turned to find the young Knight of St. John at his side. Do you speak French or not?

  “Oui, je parle francais.” Antonio spit the words out as quickly as the knight.

  Master Stefano sighed in relief. “Then get on board Captain Bredani’s galley. You’ll take Olivio’s place there.”

  Olivio, a frown on his face, had already jumped onto the dock, and in a moment another apprentice carrying two sacks joined him. As he passed by, Olivio lowered his shoulder to bump Antonio, nearly knocking him from his feet.

  “Damn you,” Antonio shouted. He had enough of Olivio. “Next time . . .” But the Apprentice Master never looked back. When Antonio boarded the God’s Falcon, he found the leader of the Knights waiting for him.

  “Do you speak French better than that fool of a Venetian?” De Clermont’s French marked him as from the Auvergne region. “Can you tell me and my men about the military supplies on board? Explain the sling guns and swivel weapons, the gunpowder, everything?”

  “Yes, milord,” Antonio answered in the same language. “I’m English, but I speak French well enough for that.”

  De Clermont relaxed at hearing Antonio’s accent. “Then we’ll begin as soon as we’re at sea. There will be plenty of time before we reach Malta.”

  At least a dozen crewmen and soldiers stood nearby, and the knight’s last word sent a shock through all of them, including Antonio. Malta! That name needed no translation.

  Captain Bredani bellowed commands, and the three galleys moved away from the dock. The men-at-arms spread themselves out, watching the crew and rowers. Antonio realized they were making sure no one jumped overboard to swim ashore. Not many sailors knew how to swim, but the alternative of going to Malta might make even a landlubber take a chance on making it to shore.

  The boat rocked slightly. Another man had leapt onto the ship as it moved away from the dock.

  “Row, you bastards, row,” Bredani shouted from the stern, and the galley slid through the passage and into the open sea.

  Antonio found Tozzo rubbing his shin as he rose from the deck. “That pig Olivio didn’t want me on his ship, so he ordered me to join yours.” He laughed. “Thank God for small blessings.”

  Antonio had to smile. “Don’t count your blessings yet. We’re on our way to Malta.”

  “Malta? Never been there. Wonder what it’s like?”

  “Let’s hope we don’t have the chance to find out.”

  Chapter 20

  God’s Falcon turned south and started down the long coast of Italy. Antonio and Tozzo stood at the rear of the rowers, near the tiny stove and block of wood that served as a kitchen, watching the vessel glide through the waters. A favorable wind blew from the north and the crew raised both triangular sails. These lateen sails, running fore and aft, were mounted at their center to vertical masts. The other two ships followed behind and to the side, staying out of the Falcon’s wake.

  “What are you two doing?” The scowl on Captain Bredani’s face left no doubt that they had violated some rule.

  “I’m the master gunner, Captain,” Antonio answered, “and this is my assistant.”

  “Then get yourself to your work, or I’ll toss you both overboard,” Bredani snarled. “No one stands arou
nd doing nothing on this ship. I want every gun, arquebus, sword, pike, whatever inspected. And when you’re done with that, you’ll take a turn at the oars. Damn all dock workers to hell! Enrico! Get these fools moving.”

  Enrico, the master of arms, strode across the deck, a wide grin on his face. “Come, start at the bow with the main guns. I’ll show you what to do. The captain’s in a foul mood, and we don’t want you getting thrown over the side, do we?”

  As Antonio and Tozzo started examining the cannons, Antonio realized that the only two ship captains he’d ever sailed with had both threatened to drop him over the side. He spent the rest of the afternoon inspecting the weapons.

  There were three guns on the bow, all iron – a 30-pounder at the centerline and two 12-pounders on either side. He had thought the guns aboard the Pinnace were cramped, but these cannons stood dangerously close together. Reloading all three at once, if it were ever needed, would be a dangerous operation.

  The smaller guns likely fired grape, intended to sweep the deck of men, in the event the shot from the main cannon missed the enemy’s hull. Antonio couldn’t conceive that any galley could sustain a direct hit from a 30-pounder and stay afloat.

  He and Tozzo went over each weapon with the gun crews, and Antonio soon realized that he would be expected to man the main gun as well. Master Stefano, either from haste or because he didn’t want to give Antonio an excuse not to sail, had neglected to mention that fact.

  Darkness halted further work, and with the sun below the horizon the wind dropped off as well. The oars came out and the Falcon continued on her way, slowing down a little as the grumbling rowers took over powering the ship. Bredani guided the Falcon farther out to sea, until Antonio could no longer see the coastline.