Malta's Guns

by Sam Barone

  The artillery and gunpowder would be unloaded last. Then the guns would have to be transported and dug in, supply lines established, and stocks of water and firewood transported. If enough guns were to be concentrated in one location, the attackers might even construct a road to facilitate movements of men and supplies.

  Antonio turned away from the sea and examined the countryside beyond the fort’s walls. Mgarr would be to the northwest, the place Sir Oliver said the Turks had landed. From that direction, hundreds of people hurried toward the villages of Birgu and Senglea and the safety of their walls. Not only people, but herd animals of every kind, most pulling carts or wagons loaded with supplies.

  The hills that marked the limit of Antonio’s vision held a long string of horsemen. Their armor and weapons glinted in the sun as the Knights’ cavalry protected the last of the island’s refugees seeking the safety of the forts.

  He wondered whether Captain Bredani and God’s Falcon had made their escape. Part of him hoped they’d all been captured, and that even now Olivio sat chained to an oar in one of the sultan’s galleys, with fresh stripes from the overseer’s whip on his back. Antonio’s anger at the cowardly Venetian made the blood pulse in his head, and his fading headache returned.

  “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  Antonio turned to find a short, bearded man with pock-marked cheeks practically in his face. The man spoke Spanish and wore a sword and knife at his belt. Others on the wall stopped their work and stared.

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but I wanted to see the Sultan’s fleet,” Antonio said. He pushed his hand against the man’s chest and shoved him backward. “Keep away from me.” Antonio’s head throbbed even more from the sudden movement, but his temper flared. His days of being polite to anyone were over.

  The soldier didn’t bother to reach for his sword, but he took a step forward and swung his fist at Antonio’s face, a powerful blow that might have knocked him over the wall’s rampart. Antonio, his rage aroused, took a half-step aside, avoiding the fist that brushed past his ear. Before the man could recover, Antonio thrust his right shoulder into the soldier’s chest, knocking him off-balance. He staggered back and stumbled into the wall. Antonio felt the heat flowing in his blood, and he decided to smash the man’s face.

  An onlooker laughed, and another voice shouted, “Fight!” Along the wall, men put down their tools or burdens and moved closer to watch the diversion.

  The soldier shook his head and came toward Antonio, this time moving with care, and clearly determined not to be caught off guard again. Antonio faced him, his hands raised. He shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet and waited for the rush.

  “Stop!”

  The voice froze the soldier in his place. Without taking his eyes off his opponent, Antonio stepped back. He saw de Clermont a dozen paces behind the man, striding across the rampart, his surcoat flapping in the wind and his body armor glinting in the sun. “What’s going on here, sergeant?”

  “This man,” the soldier jabbed his finger at Antonio, “I found him on the wall. No one is permitted to be here unless authorized.”

  “Yes, sergeant, you are right,” de Clermont cut in. “But this man is sick. He’s supposed to be in the hospital.” He put his hand on Antonio’s shoulder. “This part of the wall is forbidden to all except those assigned here. You will apologize to the sergeant.”

  For a moment Antonio considered telling them both to go to hell. But de Clermont’s voice held a trace of compassion. Antonio’s anger faded as quickly as it had come. He turned toward the soldier. “I’m sorry, sergeant. I don’t know what’s forbidden.”

  His pride mollified, the man nodded. “I didn’t realize you were injured.”

  “Bring Antonio here.”

  Two more knights approached, and Antonio saw Sir Oliver Starkey leading the way. Like de Clermont, he wore armor beneath the surcoat. The other man was much older, approaching his sixtieth year, with a full jutting beard speckled with gray. Despite his years, he, too, wore his armor.

  “We didn’t expect you to be up and about, Antonio,” Sir Oliver said. He turned to the older man. “This is the young Englishman who was left for dead by the Venetians. Antonio Pesaro arrived on the galley that came last night and supervised the transport of the gunpowder from the docks into St. Angelo. He is a master gunner in England, despite his youth, as de Clermont and Sir Glavin attest.”

  Antonio looked into piercing eyes that missed nothing. Up close, Antonio saw that the man appeared older than 60, perhaps even 70. Yet he stepped as lightly in his armor as did the others and looked as hard as de Clermont or any of the knights.

  “This is Grand Master Sir Jean de la Valette,” Sir Oliver said, “the leader of our order.”

  Antonio bowed. The respect Sir Oliver showed to his superior was apparent. “My apologies, Grand Master. I didn’t know . . .”

  “It is nothing, Antonio Pesaro,” Valette said, speaking in Italian. “But you must save your anger for God’s enemies. Our Lord delivered you here for a purpose and you must respect His will. I hope that you are ready to join the fight against the infidels?”

  The Grand Master’s eyes stayed fixed on Antonio’s, reading every flicker of expression, searching for any weakness or trace of unworthiness. For the first time in his life, Antonio felt as if someone had peered into his soul.

  “Yes, Grand Master. I will fight your enemies.” The words came without thought. He had the feeling no one could refuse this man anything he requested.

  “They are not my enemies, but God’s,” Valette said. “In time, you will understand that.” He turned to Sir Oliver. “You will add him to your Langue?”

  “With your blessing, Grand Master,” Sir Oliver replied.

  Antonio was still struggling over the word ‘Langue.’ It meant ‘tongue’ in French, which made no sense.

  “Sergeant,” Sir Oliver said. “Please escort Antonio to my Langue and take him to my master gunner.” He smiled at Antonio. “Since you are well enough to get out of bed, you can begin your duties. Go with the sergeant and present yourself to Master Ruvo. He will see to your needs.”

  The Grand Master and de Clermont had already resumed whatever business occupied them before the interruption, and Sir Oliver hurried after them. Antonio looked at the sergeant, expecting to see anger there. Instead he found sympathy.

  “Follow me, Antonio,” he said. “The sooner I get you off my wall, the sooner I can get my men back to work. And now I’ll have to endure them laughing at me, pushed down by a sick man. I’m sorry I didn’t notice the bandage. You’re quick on your feet.”

  “I’m sorry, too, sergeant,” Antonio said. His headache began to fade along with the last of his anger.

  “If Sir Oliver vouches for you, that’s good enough for me. Except for the Grand Master, Sir Oliver’s the second most important man on Malta, despite his being an Englishman. As for de Clermont, they say he doesn’t even bother to speak to anyone less exalted than a duke. You must have done something important to please him.”

  Antonio smiled at the sergeant’s portrayal of de Clermont. “He threatened to throw me overboard on the way here.”

  “Ah, that sounds more like him,” the sergeant said with a laugh. “I’m glad to see he didn’t. We need all the men we can get.”

  They finished their descent from the rampart, and the sergeant led the way through the inner complex. “But if you want to return to this section of the wall, ask for me. It has the best view of the fort and the harbor, and this is where the Grand Master spends most of his time when he needs privacy. Otherwise someone will be likely to heave you over the rampart. My name is Luca Vittoriosa.”

  “Thank you, Luca.”

  “No need to thank me,” Vittoriosa said with a smile. “We’ll probably all be dead in a few days anyway.”

  Chapter 27

  Sergeant Vittoriosa guided Antonio up a ramp that led to the next section of the wall, one that faced the eastern, la
ndward side of the harbor. “This section is Sir Oliver’s responsibility.” Vittoriosa then pointed out a heavyset man standing with one foot atop an iron cannon, at least a 32-pounder. He was surrounded by a half dozen soldiers, all listening intently to his words. “And that is Master Ruvo, the chief gunner of this Langue.”

  “What does that word mean, Langue?”

  “Oh, yes, that confused me, too, at first,” Vittoriosa said. “The Knights of St. John were originally organized by language, by tongues. There’s Auvergne, Provence, France, Aragon, Castile, Germany, Italy, and England. Most of the Knights here are from the three French Langues. Sir Oliver is in charge of the English one. It isn’t really English, though,” he added. “There are no English Knights or soldiers on Malta anymore, so Sir Oliver gets all the people that don’t fit in any proper Langue. Lots of the local Maltese, and escaped slaves and convicts. Mostly men with no country to call their own.”

  Misfits, Antonio thought. Just like him. Well, it didn’t matter.

  “Sir Oliver sent you a new man, Ruvo,” Vittoriosa said as they approached. “Better treat him well. He counts de Clermont among his friends.” With a wave at Antonio, the Spaniard turned and left, trotting back to his duties.

  “I see you’re dressed like a Venetian, but I won’t hold that against you. What’s your name?” Ruvo, short and stocky, spoke in Spanish.

  “Antonio Pesaro, sergeant. I’m a master gunner in England. I was visiting in Venice and studying at the Arsenal before I wound up here.”

  “What happened to your head? Did you get into a fight with the Turks?”

  “No, with a Venetian.”

  “Ah, that I can understand,” Ruvo said. “As conniving bunch of back-stabbing water rats as Italy’s ever seen. Even worse than Genoans.” He clasped Antonio’s hand. “I’m from Novara myself.”

  Novara was west of Milan, not far from Switzerland. Antonio glanced at one of the nearby cannons. “Can I help with anything?”

  “If you can show these ignorant peasants which end of the barrel to point toward the enemy, I can put you to work,” Ruvo said. “We’ve added so many new guns in the last few months, and there’s been precious little time to train anyone on how to use them. Do you speak Spanish?”

  Antonio nodded.

  “Good. Between Italian and Spanish, you can talk usually to anyone on Malta. Most of the Knights use French. I’ll show you what I want, and we’ll see how you do.”

  “Trust no one” seemed to be the motto in Malta. Yet Antonio understood the need to prove himself to these men. He spent the rest of the day with Ruvo, going from gun to gun, listening to the master gunner and watching what he did. They both worked with each crew. Ruvo had plenty of assistants who knew how to lay a gun, but not many men had Antonio’s experience working with so many different weapons, or knowing their design, capabilities, and weaknesses.

  When Ruvo heard Antonio had worked with gunpowder both in England and at the Arsenal in Venice, the man’s eyes lit up. By the end of the day, Antonio found himself in charge of gunpowder supplies for the English Langue.

  “This section of the fort is least likely to be attacked,” Ruvo explained, “at least at first. There’s not much land below, and the Turks will have to work their way past the guns at the south end of Birgu to get here.”

  Antonio leaned over the wall. Perhaps 50 feet of grass and sand separated the waters of the harbor from the base of the walls. The unevenness of the ground would make it difficult for attackers to storm the walls, and the cannons on the wall would have easy targets.

  As the sun began to set, they paused in their labors to eat. Women brought huge platters of food and pitchers of weak wine to the ramparts. The men had been ordered to remain on the walls until dismissed. The smell of meat cooking over open fires had been wafting up from the fort’s interior all afternoon, and by now everyone felt ravenous.

  “Plenty of fresh meat for the next few days,” Ruvo remarked. “The Maltese have been herding in their animals for days. The last of them arrived today. By tomorrow, the Turks will be in control of the rest of Malta. The Grand Master pays the Maltese for everything they bring in. That way there’s plenty of food for us, and nothing for the Turks. They’ll find the land stripped bare. Our soldiers have been riding over the countryside, poisoning every well on the island, not that there are that many of them.”

  Antonio’s surprise must have shown on his face.

  “They dump hemp, flax, manure, dead and decaying carcasses, you name it, into every well,” Ruvo explained. “The Turks will have to drink the water sooner or later. Malta’s a pretty dry island, with only a few sources of water, and it gets hot during the summer. Half of the heathens will be sick with dysentery within the week. They’ll be short of food soon, too, if the Turks have to feed 40,000 soldiers and sailors. One thing’s for certain, they won’t live off the land. Malta is just a barren rock and not much in the way of food crops grow on it. The Maltese have been importing grain for hundreds of years, trading honey, cotton, and cumin.”

  Antonio hadn’t thought of waging war that way, but Alexander the Great and his army had faced the same problem in Persia. “Where does the fort get its water?”

  “There’s a well just outside the village,” Ruvo said. “The Knights discovered it when they began excavating Birgu’s walls. The Maltese think it was a miracle, sent by God to help the Knights and the people of Birgu.” He laughed. “Or maybe it was just luck. Whatever the truth, every cistern is filled to the brim, and thousands of clay pots have been made and filled as well. Even with so many men, we’ll have enough water to get through the summer.”

  “What about the rest of the island,” Antonio asked. “Is there enough for them as well?”

  “No, there wouldn’t be,” Ruvo said. “But almost all of the young, old, and infirm have already been evacuated to Sicily. Most of the women decided to stay and fight beside their men.”

  “Do you think the Knights can hold out?”

  “For a while,” Ruvo said. “But I heard they counted almost 200 ships out there. That many ships mean at least thirty thousand of them are soldiers. And more will be coming. I suppose it depends on how many guns they can bring to bear on the forts.”

  It always came down to the guns, Antonio knew. As a rule of thumb, the fortresses gave the defenders at least a four or five-to-one advantage. As long as the walls stood, the Knights had a slim chance. Nonetheless, 30,000 Turkish soldiers was a staggering number that Antonio had trouble comprehending.

  “How many defenders do we have?”

  “Not really sure, but I know our Grand Master commands 500 Knights and their trained men-at-arms. They’re the backbone of the army. Then we have the soldiers, maybe 2,000. Counting the Maltese, we have maybe 6,000 fighting men, spread over the two forts and villages. And there’s about 500 Turkish slaves used for quarrying the stone, but they don’t get to eat much. Plus a few hundred cavalry up in the hills at Mdina. It’s a walled town about six miles inland. It will take the Turks awhile to chase them down and finish them off.”

  “You don’t sound worried, sergeant,” Antonio said.

  “I’ve lived here nearly 20 years, even raised a family. My wife is Maltese, so this place is our home. I’m not giving it up to some heathens.” He shrugged. “What about you? Seen any action?”

  “Just a battle at sea,” Antonio said. “We fought a French raider and her prize for nearly three hours, until they surrendered.”

  “The way you spoke to the men, I guessed you’d seen some fighting. Most gunners from the guilds have never seen a gun fired in anger. They don’t like to get their hands dirty.”

  Antonio lifted his grimy hands. “I think I’m past worrying about that. My father fought in sieges in the Venetian army. He says the trick is to concentrate your guns on a particular section, until that part of the wall is so weakened that it collapses.”

  “I fought with the Swiss once,” Ruvo said. “We tried for five weeks to take a German castle,
but gave up in the end. It’s a bloody business on both sides.”

  “How did you end up in Malta?”

  “Now there’s a question you shouldn’t be asking people,” Ruvo cautioned. “Malta’s the last place where a man can find work without too many questions being asked about his past or family, if you know what I mean.” He laughed. “But in my case, it doesn’t matter anymore. I killed a man in a fight. He had powerful friends, so I had to run for it. But that was a long time ago.”

  “I’ve a friend like that,” Antonio said, thinking of Martin. “I suppose life is unjust everywhere.”

  “I suppose if you want justice, or what passes for it in this world, you should have been born into the nobility.” Ruvo finished the last of his chicken leg and tossed the bones on the earthen plate. “Come on, let’s get back to work.”

  They worked until well after the sun went down, finishing up under torchlight. Before Ruvo left for his home, he showed Antonio where to sleep, a common room at the base of the wall crowded with men. The smell of so many men crowded together nearly made him gag. Antonio swallowed hard, then ignored all of them, found an empty place, and stretched out.

  At least the Turks hadn’t attacked today, and no one had fired a shot at him. Even better, he decided, as he slipped into sleep, an entire day had passed and no one had threatened to throw him overboard or hang him. The near fight with Sergeant Vittoriosa already seemed like a trifle.

  Chapter 28

  May 19

  They woke him before dawn. He didn’t waste time dressing, since he’d slept in his clothes. He followed the others, most of them yawning and farting, first to the latrine and then to the tables where the women had spread out breakfast. There was plenty of fresh meat, with so many animals being slaughtered and no way to preserve most of it.

  Thick slices of bread still warm from the ovens served as a trencher, and reminded Antonio that the women of Malta had risen hours earlier. The men ate standing, shoving as much food into their mouths as they could. A large barrel of water provided something to drink.