Malta's Guns

by Sam Barone

  Chapter 23

  God’s Falcon got underway again, the crew thankful to have the galley moving even if it meant going south. With a scowl that implied the delay and confrontation with the Knights was somehow Antonio’s fault, Captain Bredani ordered Antonio to the ship’s bow, to take one of the lookout positions. But Bredani informed Antonio that from now on, he would only join the rowers every third shift.

  Antonio decided that de Clermont had mentioned something to Bredani, possibly about not wanting his interpreter collapsing in exhaustion after every rowing shift. Whatever the reason, Antonio accepted the new assignment.

  Standing as far forward as possible, he and a crewman scanned the waters ahead. On the Pinnace, sailors had used the crow’s nest atop the mainmast to search the sea, but the galleys’ lateen sails provided no such convenient perch. Lookouts, too, needed to be relieved every few hours, otherwise the monotony of the endless sea tricked the eyes into seeing nothing. Yet should an enemy appear, every second would be precious.

  Antonio and a young Italian boy sharing the duty saw little of interest. Occasional coastal vessels hugged the shoreline, moving north and south, each ready to dash for the safety of land should an enemy appear. Many did turn toward the coast when they caught sight of the three galleys rushing south. Despite the Venetian pennant hanging from the mast, caution remained the safest policy. Turkish vessels had been known to fly the flags of Christian countries.

  When he finished his turn as a lookout, Antonio took a shift at the oars. His hands had been tender after the first two stints on the bench, but now he wrapped scraps of wool around his palms. He had to pay a grinning oarsman for the material, either that or rip up his shirt. Nothing, it seemed, was free aboard God’s Falcon.

  The oarsmen rowed at a good pace. Captain Bredani no doubt intended to make up for the three hours lost inventorying the cargo. Everyone knew the ship was in a race. They had to get to Malta before the Turks reached the island. If the ships from Venice arrived too late, dozens of the Sultan’s galleys would be blockading the harbor and patrolling the approaches to the island. In that case, the three Venetian galleys would have to turn around and run.

  “That’s when they’ll throw us overboard,” Tozzo informed him. “Bredani will dump the cargo to lighten the load, then toss anyone not pulling an oar. We’ll be lucky if the Turks bother to pick us up.”

  “Becoming a slave on a Turkish galley doesn’t sound much better than drowning,” Antonio said.

  But they saw no pirates that day or the next. Traveling night and day, Antonio accepted the idea that the galleys could cover a hundred miles each day, as long as the wind helped.

  The sun was still high in the sky on the fifth day when they rounded a cape and saw the port of Brindisi two miles ahead. In Roman times, this had been an important port, the jumping-off place to Greece and the eastern territories. The famed Appian Way had ended here, the same road that saw Spartacus’s followers crucified along its entire length.

  Julius Caesar had chased his famous rival Pompey to this place, and nearly captured both Pompey and his ships. Brindisi had chosen the wrong side in that war, supporting Pompey. Caesar had stormed the town with his usual efficiency and put his enemies to the sword, while Pompey, afraid of Caesar’s battle-hardened legionnaires, collected his men and slipped across the sea.

  The harbor had two entrances, and the three galleys entered through the eastern channel. As they sailed in, a sailor ran up another pennant on the mast beneath the flag of Venice. This one announced the presence of the Knights of Saint John.

  “Antonio, report to the captain.” One of the crew delivered the message. He took Antonio’s place on the oar bench without losing a stroke.

  On the stern, Antonio found de Clermont, Sir Glavin, and Bredani standing together. “Yes, Captain.”

  Bredani ignored him, and Antonio realized that it was de Clermont who’d asked for Antonio’s presence.

  “You will make it plain to the captain,” de Clermont said, “that he is not to approach the docks. He is to stay well clear, and he is to make sure no one attempts to desert the galley.”

  Antonio repeated the statements in Italian. Bredani showed little reaction to the order. Either he had anticipated it or had reached the stage where he was ready to row into Hell’s fires, if that’s what it took to get the Knights of St. John off his ship.

  “Tell him we need food and water,” Bredani replied, “or we can’t go on.”

  De Clermont was expecting that. He handed a pouch to Antonio. “Give that to the captain. It contains more than enough ducats to have sufficient food and water brought to the ships.”

  Antonio passed the pouch to Bredani and translated the message. The captain hefted the leather sack, but didn’t bother to open it. Everyone standing there knew a portion of the pouch’s contents would end up in Bredani’s pocket.

  “Ask our exalted knight if I am permitted to go ashore to arrange things,” Bredani asked.

  Permission was granted, and Antonio guessed the Knights hadn’t fully paid the captain for his boat yet. Either that, or de Clermont figured he could command the boat himself, after he dispatched one of his Knights to hunt Bredani down and kill him.

  Captain Bredani halted the ships in the middle of the harbor, a good 250 yards from the nearest land.

  “Boat approaching,” the lookout called.

  Antonio looked at the harbor for the first time. The fortress on the hill, built hundreds of years ago, looked down over the water. The flag of the Venetian Republic flew from the highest rampart. Brindisi marked the extent of the Republic’s Italian Empire to the south. A longboat had already put out from shore, a dozen men working the oars, with two figures seated behind them.

  In a moment, Antonio saw the now-familiar cross of St. John on the men’s chests. More knights, of course. The call had gone out throughout Europe months ago, summoning every member of the Order to return to Malta and defend the fortress. There would be knights at every port seeking passage to the island.

  By the time the arriving boat bumped alongside, Captain Bredani was in the galley’s tiny skiff, heading for the shore. De Clermont and Glavin greeted the arriving men. These two knights, both tall and with long blond hair, were German, not French, and looked as hard and powerful as de Clermont. Nevertheless, judging by the warmth of their embraces, the men could have been long-lost brothers.

  After a brief discussion, the taller of the Germans bowed to de Clermont. Antonio realized that, according to whatever unknown rank or seniority de Clermont held within the Knights’ order, he had assumed authority.

  His authority established, de Clermont turned to Antonio. “Tell the crews to make room for 20 more men. I’ll divide them equally among the galleys. And inform the rowers that my men and I will take our turns at the oars, and that Captain Bredani will increase their pay by half.”

  Antonio wondered what news the Germans carried. Whatever the situation, the urgency to reach Malta had increased.

  The longboat returned to the dock, carrying only one of the German knights. The other took his station on God’s Falcon, pacing up and down the companionway that ran from bow to stern. His armor glistened under his surplice and not a trace of rust showed. This knight’s sword looked even longer than de Clermont’s, and his face even grimmer. Another incentive not to try to desert, Antonio decided.

  Two hours later, the water casks had been refilled, stocks of fresh bread and olive oil replenished, and the galleys got slowly under way and headed back to the open sea.

  Antonio found himself involved in another discussion between Captain Bredani and de Clermont. Bredani wanted to make for Syracuse first, and strike for Malta from there.

  “The passage from here to Malta is too dangerous,” Bredani protested. “It’s almost 400 miles over open water, and that’s if we don’t lose our bearings. If a storm comes up, we’ll drown. With the extra weight we’re carrying, the Falcon is as slow as a barge and as likely to capsize.”

/>   “God will direct your ship to Malta, just as He will protect us,” de Clermont replied, with the same certainty as promising the sun would rise in the morning. “There is no time to lose. We must reach Malta before the infidels arrive.”

  Captain Bredani muttered under his breath and stalked away. Antonio descended from the stern and found Tozzo squeezed into a space behind the last bench. The additional knights had brought their own provisions and weapons, as well as their own squires and a few men-at-arms. The new arrivals added to the congestion. Antonio knew the Falcon was dangerously overloaded.

  “We’re going to Malta across the open sea,” Antonio informed his friend, squatting beside him. “That’s four days, maybe five if there’s a head wind. We might all drown yet.”

  “At least we’ll be lighter on the way home,” Tozzo said. “Besides, better to be here than at the Arsenal working under Olivio.” Suddenly he grinned. “Wait until I tell everyone how he cried and wet himself during the whipping.”

  Antonio grinned at the memory. He had scarcely seen Olivio since the punishment and didn’t intend to waste any sympathy on the cowardly thief. “I think the less said about that, the better. Now let’s get some rest, before we’re ordered back to the oars. It’s still a long way to Malta.”

  Chapter 24

  For the next three days and two nights Antonio had little time for sleep or even rest. The lookouts were doubled, and the men stopped working the oars only when the wind shifted to a favorable angle. Food and water were rationed, in case God’s Falcon missed the island of Malta and had to double back to find it.

  Antonio knew thirst for the first time in his life, the raging thirst of a man working long hours in the hot sun. He pushed and shoved his way in line for the water ration as eagerly as any oarsman.

  His thirst satisfied, Antonio noticed the blisters on his hands. The muscles in his neck, arms and shoulders ached from his exertions. Rowing exhausted anyone not used to the demanding labor. Fortunately the long ride from France combined with Martin’s training had toughened his body. Antonio realized that conditions aboard the galley had worsened as men took less care about relieving themselves over the side. The hull beneath the rowers’ feet began to stink.

  At least Antonio had no more dealings with the Knights. With the inventory taken, the extra Knights and retainers on board guaranteed there would be no trouble from Bredani or his sailors.

  Antonio still couldn’t understand the incapacitating fear these Knights of St. John had on the crew. God’s Falcon had fought several successful actions under Captain Bredani, and his men were as brave as any Venetian crew. They would fight, ship against ship, against any Ottoman galley.

  Nevertheless, the Knights of Saint John of Malta had cowed these Venetians so much that they would risk death from drowning or at Turkish hands rather than challenge them. No amount of ducats alone could have induced Captain Bredani to sail straight to Malta, but he’d complied with de Clermont’s orders.

  Bredani did turn out to be right about losing their bearings. Midday came and went with no sign of Malta on the horizon. The captain slowed the ship while he tried to get a fix on his position, but then the lookouts shouted that a single sail had appeared on the starboard horizon. A lone ship, heading straight for the three galleys.

  When not at the oars, Antonio rested just below the quarterdeck, should de Clermont require a translator. “That’s no Turkish boat,” Antonio overheard Bredani say. “None of them would challenge three Venetian galleys.”

  As the strange craft drew closer, a murmur of relief came from the stern. The galley flew the flag of Malta. Showing no fear that the Venetians might be Turks in disguise, the Maltese vessel came within hailing distance. Since this might entail discussion between de Clermont and Bredani, Antonio climbed the steps to the stern. He’d done this so many times now that no one thought to challenge him. Antonio crossed over and stood next to Sir Glavin, who treated him with a reasonable degree of politeness.

  “How do they know we’re not Turks?” Antonio asked.

  “The stench of the slave deck would carry across this distance,” Sir Glavin said. “I’ve fought their galleys. After a few weeks at sea, you can smell Turkish slave stink a mile away. Pestilence and disease follow wherever their galleys journey.”

  Using his speaking trumpet, Captain Bredani spoke in Italian to the Maltese vessel. When he finished, he turned to Antonio. “Tell de Clermont we’re 20 miles southwest of Malta. We’ll have to row east and approach the island from the south.”

  The Grand Harbour of Malta lay on the southwestern end of the island. They had missed their destination, but not by too much, and the fortunate meeting with one of Malta’s patrolling galleys gave the captain of God’s Falcon all the directions he needed.

  “The Turkish fleet hasn’t arrived yet, milord,” Antonio said, repeating another part of Bredani’s shouted conversation. De Clermont took the news with no reaction. “At least, not as of early this morning.”

  “Good. Then we’ll reach the harbor well before sundown.”

  Bredani wasted no time, and soon the three galleys set off on a new course. The Maltese galley resumed its patrol, which Antonio took as a good sign that the Venetians could find their way to Malta on their own.

  Nevertheless, Antonio wasn’t the only one who breathed a sigh of relief when the rocky hills of Malta edged upward from the sea and came into view. Bredani drove the crew without rest. Everyone worked the oars as they forced the three galleys against the wind until the vessels rounded the southern part of the island. The rowers had received some assistance from the Knights and squires. All took their turns as well, except de Clermont, who apparently had determined to stay on the stern and at Bredani’s side at all times.

  Back at the oars Antonio’s arms, shoulders, and legs ached from the brutal pace, and broken blisters on his hands bled from the punishing work. He didn’t look up until the galley passed under St. Elmo, the fort atop the cliff that guarded the southern entrance of the harbor.

  The inner waters, sheltered from the wind, made for easier rowing, and Bredani slowed the strokes to half time as they pulled their way past the fishing village of Birgu and into the inner harbor. The stroke changed to quarter beat, and the ship eased toward Dockyard Creek, where Antonio saw two galleys moored, both flying the pennants of the Knights of St. John.

  “Oars in,” Bredani bellowed, and the oarsmen shipped the oars inside the galley with a small cheer. A moment later, the vessel bumped against the dock. The sun had already kissed the western horizon. Darkness would soon be upon them.

  “Antonio! Get up here!”

  Bredani’s order got Antonio to his feet and off the oar bench. Now his real work would begin. De Clermont remained on the stern, as rooted to the deck as he’d been since the galley left Brindisi.

  “Get the powder and supplies moving ashore,” Captain Bredani said. “Men from the fort will transport the cargo.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Wait!” De Clermont voice halted both men.

  “Antonio will take charge of unloading of all three ships, Captain,” de Clermont said, “and he will see to it that all the gunpowder kegs reach the fort safely. I don’t want any accidents with the gunpowder, and I want every item unloaded. Make sure your captains understand. Until everything is safely ashore and accounted for, no food or water will be loaded aboard, and neither you nor your crews will leave the harbor. There will be no payment and no departure until every keg is safely stored in the fort’s magazine.” The Knight turned to Antonio. “Do you know what you need to do?”

  “Yes, milord,” Antonio replied.

  “Good. The sooner you carry out my orders, the sooner you and Captain Bredani’s ships can leave the island. Sir Glavin will see to your needs.” De Clermont turned away, his hand on his sword.

  “Mother of God, do what he says, Antonio,” Captain Bredani whispered. “I want to be out of here within the hour. I need just enough light to get past the harbor.
Then we’ll hide in the darkness as we row to the west, away from this doomed place and these accursed knights.”

  Antonio got Tozzo started, telling him to supervise the unloading of the weapons and other supplies first. That would give them more room to work when they started on the gunpowder kegs.

  Antonio stepped onto the dock. Sir Glavin waited there, the bill of lading in his hands. Already a dozen men waited there, ready to help unload the cargo. Antonio walked down to the second ship, as full of activity as God’s Falcon. Olivio had taken charge there, and already started moving the gunpowder.

  “Stop,” Antonio ordered. “The Knights want the weapons and supplies unloaded first.”

  “Don’t tell me how to move cargo, Englishman,” Olivio said. “And you’ll obey my orders, or I’ll . . .”

  Sir Glavin strode out of the shadows. “You will do as Antonio directs you, or I’ll have you whipped again. If I hear any complaints, if there are any attempts to withhold the tiniest part of the cargo, you’ll be whipped to death. Do you understand?”

  Olivio’s bravado vanished. He had no interest in dealing with the Knights. “Yes, milord, of course. I only meant . . .”

  But Sir Glavin and Antonio had turned away, moving on to the last galley. More men arrived from the fortress, and Antonio soon had the kegs of bullets, crates of arquebuses, and the robinets out of the galleys. The galleys’ crews were eager to help. All knew the sooner they discharge their cargo, the faster they could escape the island.

  Despite the need for haste, they unloaded the gunpowder kegs one at a time. Tired men made mistakes, tripped or stumbled, and Antonio didn’t want to take the slightest chance. Darkness had fallen before the last keg stood on the dock. Three wagons waited, and they were soon loaded down with the gunpowder. De Clermont refused Bredani’s entreaties to begin loading food and water aboard the galleys. No payment, no supplies, no departure until the precious powder kegs reached the safety of the fort’s magazine.