Malta's Guns

by Sam Barone

  Antonio didn’t feel too thirsty, but he reminded himself that he might not have the opportunity to drink again, so he forced himself to drink all he could hold. He watched the men stuffing bread into their shirts and decided to do the same. There was no telling when he’d get a chance to eat again.

  Up on the wall, he found Ruvo already hard at work. He glanced up as Antonio arrived. “I need you up here before dawn from now on,” he said. “Those two guns are yours,” indicating two old 42-pound cannons that marked the southern end of the English Langue. “And find yourself a sword and helmet, and anything else you can think of to protect yourself.”

  Antonio spent the rest of the morning checking the guns, the powder supply, and the cannon balls. The Knights of Malta favored stone cannon balls for defense. Lighter and easier to load, they tended to fragment upon impact, and deadly splinters of rock could cause as much damage as the impact itself. All the stone had been carved and rounded by hand, which meant there would be differences between each of them. Stone would be less accurate than iron balls, which could be cast more uniformly, and didn’t vary much in weight.

  The morning passed without incident, and when Sir Oliver came by to inspect his section of Birgu’s walls, Ruvo had everything in order.

  “You’ve done well, Sergeant Ruvo,” Sir Oliver said. He saw Antonio and motioned to him to come forward. “Are you fully recovered? No signs of dizziness or pain?” He spoke in English.

  “No, Sir Oliver,” Antonio said, answering in the same language. He’d had a slight headache when he woke, but the fresh air blowing across the ramparts from the harbor had cured that. “Is there any sign of the Turks?”

  None of the others had dared to ask the one question on everyone’s mind. Antonio decided they didn’t want to seem concerned before their leader, who just happened to be one of the few men in Malta who knew exactly what both the enemy and the defenders were doing. But Antonio didn’t care about how foolish he sounded; he just wanted to know what was happening.

  Sir Oliver took in the dozen faces surrounding him, all eager for news, and switched to Spanish. “The cavalry watching the road to the north encountered the advance guard of the Turks, so they have already landed some of their men. There was a brief skirmish. But it’s not likely that the Turks will attack today.”

  Antonio could sense the sigh of relief as the men relaxed. They had at least one more day.

  When Sir Oliver departed, Sergeant Ruvo, perhaps impressed that the knight had spoken kindly to Antonio, ordered him to stay at his side.

  “You might as well begin learning Maltese,” he said. “You’ll need it.”

  By day’s end, Antonio had acquired all the basic words needed to give orders about the guns. That was important, he knew, since different men could be serving any gun at any time. More than half the men in Sir Olivier’s Langue were Maltese.

  “You’ll have to stand a watch tonight,” Ruvo said. “But you can dine with me and my family. My house is only a lane away, but first we’ll stop at the armory.”

  He led the way. A soldier guarded the armory, but stepped aside as they approached. Inside, Ruvo made sure that Antonio received a good sword, knife, and a morion for his head. “And give him a decent fitting brigandine jacket,” Ruvo ordered the sergeant in charge. “At least that will give you some protection.”

  The leather jacket had small, overlapping metal plates attached horizontally across the chest and back. Surprisingly heavy, Antonio wondered how well it would stop iron fragments. He tried several on, until he found one that fit properly. The garment hugged his chest, and he could still move with relative ease. The Spanish morion, the crested helmet with a flat brim, fit securely on his head. Belting the weapons around his waist, he carried the jacket and helmet into Birgu’s lanes.

  Ruvo’s house was larger than he expected, a good three rooms occupying the second floor above a tavern, and accessed by a stairway from the lane. What seemed like a crowd awaited Ruvo’s arrival. His wife, a small, dark-haired woman named Darmenia, smiled at her husband, and welcomed Antonio with a hug.

  “You will eat with us,” Darmenia ordered, as she guided him to the already crowded table.

  Three children also greeted their father, jumping up and down and speaking in Maltese. Ruvo introduced another girl as his daughter, Rusana, the oldest of his children.

  Rusana didn’t look any older than Antonio, but she had a baby in her arms and stood beside her husband, a tall Italian named Leo who nodded politely to Antonio.

  They spent two hours dining, with plenty of wine washing down the food. Most of the time, Antonio didn’t understand what anyone was saying, though occasionally Ruvo would put down his glass and translate.

  When Antonio left, lugging his weapons and jacket, his head buzzed from the strong wine.

  The morning was still dark when Antonio woke up, with Ruvo’s foot on his chest. “Come. You don’t want to be late if Sir Oliver is there.”

  Antonio fumbled for his things and walked behind his sergeant. They mounted the steps just as the first rays of the sun climbed up into the western sky. A moment later, Sir Oliver arrived, accompanied by two knights. Even before there was enough light to make out their features, Antonio realized these two knights were German.

  Both were older men, well past their prime, and Antonio wondered what had brought them to Malta. Ruvo introduced them as Sir Otto, tall and heavyset, and Sir Ludwig, short and stout. Both Germans looked dour, and it was clear they spoke not a word of Maltese and didn’t intend to learn any.

  Ruvo accompanied the knights as they inspected the defenses. They checked the guns, the men, their weapons, everything before the sun had risen much above the horizon.

  When Sir Oliver left, Ruvo called all his gun captains together. “The Turks are massing their forces to the south, against Birgu. We’re to stand ready, and prepare to send reserves to the Castile post.”

  The post of Castile was the province of the three Spanish Langues, and looked toward the southern part of the island. The massive outer wall of Birgu was there, facing the open land that sloped upward into a series of low hills. It was the obvious place to launch an attack, but also, according to Ruvo, one of the most strongly defended places. If the Turks thought they could just sweep aside the defenders there, they might be in for a surprise.

  For the next two hours, everyone waited, all of them staring toward the north. The empty hills were now covered with Turks, many wearing scarves of red and green. The sounds of men cheering and shouting, cymbals clashing, and even horses neighing carried across the half mile of intervening land. Antonio counted at least 70 guns pointing toward the Castile post. He couldn’t see much else, though he stood on the battlement.

  “You want to go with the reserve?” Sergeant Ruvo had returned. “It looks like the Turks are planning to attack Castile, and Sir Oliver has ordered his reserves there. Who wants to volunteer?”

  Part of Antonio knew that it would be foolish to place himself in danger, but he found himself nodding as he jumped down. None of the other senior gunners had volunteered.

  “Young fool,” Ruvo said good-naturedly. “All right, you’ll go with the Germans,” he said, indicating Sir Otto and his companion. “Take charge of my gunners, and make sure you and all of them get back here in one piece.”

  Accompanying the two Germans were 20 men, 10 gunners and 10 musketeers. The Knights led the way along the rampart, clearing a path as they strode along. Everyone was quick to get out of their way, and Antonio stayed right behind them. They descended into Birgu, and stepped rapidly through the lanes until they reached the great bastion of Birgu that formed the corner of the walls. There they turned right, moving into position behind the row of cannons.

  All the guns stood manned and ready, and in every empty space a man armed with an arquebus stood guard. Fire tubs were scattered about, so that the men could light their fuses when it came time to shoot. The sight of so much open flame made Antonio tighten his lips. Accidents wer
e certain to happen and men would die, but no one seemed too concerned about it.

  He lifted his eyes over the wall and stared at the panoply facing him. Thousands of men now covered every foot of the hills, all of them moving about excitedly, waving swords and scimitars in the air. Hundreds of fanciful standards in every color stretched out in the light breeze, marking various commands and nationalities.

  Red or white turbans covered the heads of many of the soldiers. Most were dressed in white, loose flowing clothing meant for the warmer climates of the southern Mediterranean. Antonio had never seen so many men crowded together. Sunlight sparkled against the hillside, reflected from the thousands of swords waving in the air.

  Antonio saw the enemy cannons being readied behind the soldiers. Neither side had fired a shot so far. In their eagerness to attack, some Turks surged forward a few times, and had to be recalled. They showed not the slightest trace of fear, not like men getting ready to charge a well-fortified enemy.

  Suddenly the shouting increased, getting louder and louder, until every Turk screamed his defiance at the walls. The frightening sound filled the air and Antonio wondered how any fort could withstand such violence. Then the row of cannons behind the men began to fire, a ragged volley that marked the order to attack. A cannon ball whistled overhead, and Antonio felt the outer wall shudder from a nearby impact. For the second time in his life, men were trying to kill him.

  The shrieking Turks began to move forward, brandishing their weapons as they came, some running, others walking. In moments they were in effective range, but not one gun from Birgu responded.

  Antonio stepped beside Sir Otto. “Why don’t we return fire?” He asked the question in French, the one language the German was certain to speak in addition to his own.

  Sir Otto frowned at him, either because of the interruption or Antonio’s temerity to question anything. “We’re to await the Grand Master’s signal. He’s ordered us to hold fire until the enemy is well within range.”

  Antonio followed the knight’s eyes, and caught a glimpse of Grand Master Valette standing on the exposed bastion that jutted out from the wall, the one point most likely to be targeted by the enemy gunners. The Turks were more than halfway to the fortification before Valette raised his arm, held it for a moment, and dropped it.

  Guns began to fire all along the wall, the sound drowning out the shouts of the attackers. The arquebusiers fired, too, the crack of their weapons adding to the din. A Turkish cannon ball crashed into the top of the wall a dozen paces from where Antonio stood, smashing blocks of stone, and sending splinters flying.

  One gun was dismounted, the bloody bodies of its gun crew knocked backwards by the force of the strike. A splinter struck Sir Otto on the chest, tearing his surcoat. The knight’s armor stopped the missile, and it dropped next to Antonio’s foot. Sir Otto grunted in annoyance. “See to that gun. Get it working again.”

  Antonio called to his men and a half dozen rushed to the damaged weapon. The carriage had been broken, but a gunner and a carpenter trotted over. Antonio ignored the firing going on all around him. Four men struggled to lever the gun up, while two others helped Antonio brace a thick block of wood beneath it. The carpenter’s hammer pounded on the broken staves, and soon a new support was in place. The carriage’s wheel had survived the impact, and it was quickly placed on the axle. The gun settled into its place, a functioning weapon once again.

  “Swab the barrel,” Antonio shouted. The stone cannon balls for the gun were buried under the rubble. One man began to dig them out, but Antonio stopped him. “No! Use the wall fragments.” The cartridge was shoved down the barrel, and Antonio and two others gathered every scrap of stone and fragment they could find and tossed them down the barrel. The sheer weight of the load wouldn’t carry far, but that didn’t matter by now. The Turks had pressed close to the fort.

  Musket balls were striking the top of the battlement around them as they pushed the gun forward into the breech. Antonio pushed the quoin in, depressing the barrel as much as possible. When he glanced along the barrel, all he could see was a sea of men dressed in white billowy clothes. Some had already reached the base of the wall, but hundreds more still rushed forward, jammed together and screaming their war cries or shouting “Allah!” as they charged.

  “Stand clear,” Antonio ordered, and nodded to the gunner. The man jammed the flaming match into the touch hole. With a loud roar and a cloud of dust and smoke, the gun recoiled, lifting off the stone battlement like a living thing. Antonio ducked under the dingy gray cloud and peered out.

  A wide swath of bodies had been knocked to the ground. A cheer went up from his men as they saw the devastation they’d caused. It took Antonio a moment to grasp that he had just killed his first man. He pushed the thought out of his head.

  “Reload,” Antonio snapped. The rock fragments had worked as well as any grape shot, spreading widely the moment they left the barrel. That single shot might have struck 20 or 30 Turks, and had certainly killed at least a dozen outright.

  They reloaded the cannon, everyone ignoring the noise and activity around them, and this time Antonio selected the heaviest powder cartridge he could find. Once again rubble from the damaged wall was rammed into the barrel, filling it almost to the mouth, and the weapon shoved into firing position. This time Antonio threw his weight against the carriage, shifting the cannon to the side, so that the fragments flung from the barrel would have more room to spread.

  The gunner didn’t wait for the order to fire. Antonio had barely moved clear when the gun went off. With a slightly larger powder charge and more weight to throw, the gun again shook itself into the air with a mighty blast of sound, followed by a cloud of gray and white smoke that spewed out from the wall. The gun, slammed back against the restraining ropes, dropped back into position.

  A woman waited for an opportunity to reach the wall. She pushed past Antonio, carrying an incendiary device, one of the flaming hoops that Sergeant Ruvo had shown him yesterday. Lighting the hoop from the gunner’s match, she waited a moment for the flames to circle the wood, then flung the weapon over the wall. As it landed, it burst into flame, and rolled into the charging Turks. The first few managed to avoid flaming wheel, but the ones pressing behind were caught. Their loose fitting garments burst into flame. Fascinated, Antonio risked a glance through the gun port. He saw three or four Turks set on fire from the single device. More women and boys arrived, to hurl more of the hoops over the wall.

  Guns continued firing all along the rampart, but in ones and twos, as the crews reloaded as quickly as they could. The noise was deafening, and Antonio had to shout at the top of his lungs to make himself heard. The screams and cries of the Turks added to the din.

  A glance through the broken battlement showed the Turks still pressing forward, but the ground beneath them was covered with dead and wounded. Ladders slammed against the wall, and the enemy began to climb. One carried a flaming ball that he flung over the wall, and it landed a few paces away. Antonio swept up the swab bucket and doused it. A musket ball from a Turkish arquebusier slammed into the stone a few inches from Antonio’s face.

  “More water,” he shouted, and a boy raced forward, picked up the bucket and dashed off.

  Again and again they reloaded the gun, firing as fast as they could. One of his crew fell dead beside him, struck in the head by a musket ball. A few Turks reached the top of the wall, and Antonio saw a handful of knights rush to the breach, including Sir Otto, who hacked at the enemy with his great sword, wielding the heavy weapon as if it weighed no more than a walking stick.

  Antonio lost count of how many times he fired the gun. His crew slowly shrank in number, some called to service nearby guns, others wounded. Then a cheer went up along the parapet, and Antonio took a moment to peer over the wall. For the first time, he heard the enemy cymbals signal the retreat, and saw the angry Turks, still shouting their war cries, moving away from the wall.

  “Keep firing!” Sir Otto bellowed. “Kil
l them all!”

  The German’s surcoat was covered in blood, and Antonio saw bits of bluish flesh on his arm. It took a moment before he realized they were brain fragments. But not Sir Otto’s.

  The Turks moved back only far enough to regroup, and already their cannons resumed firing shots at the wall and their arquebusiers continued shooting their weapons. A musket ball glanced off the wall beside Antonio, and he ducked down behind the cannon.

  More defenders arrived, to drag away the wounded, and to bring water and fresh powder cartridges. Antonio’s throat was burning with thirst and he gulped a mouthful of the precious liquid as the water boy filled the swab bucket.

  The top of the parapet had been shattered in several places, and all the gun crews kept stuffing their cannons with stone slivers, then firing their guns into the massed troops still within easy range.

  With screams of ‘Allah!’ hanging in the air, the Turks charged again, the men in front carrying ladders as they rushed to the walls for the second time. Again and again Antonio fired the gun, shifting it from side to side whenever greater masses of enemy troops bunched together. For this attack, corpses littering the ground slowed the Turks’ approach, and once again their ladders were thrown down. The enemy retreated a hundred yards or so, regrouped, and launched a third assault. Antonio had to admire their courage as they formed up for another attack, while cannons and arquebusiers fired into them.

  The third charge was no more successful than the first two, and when the retreat sounded, Antonio saw the enemy slumping back, admitting defeat as they scrambled away. Most ran all the way back to their original lines before falling to the ground, exhausted.

  The guns on both sides kept firing. The Turkish gunners kept targeting the wall, but plenty of cannon balls sailed overhead and fell into Birgu, striking the villagers’ homes. Antonio kept firing, but now had switched to the stone cannon balls. He directed his gun at any group of men he saw, and taking time to aim before he put the match to the touchhole.