Malta's Guns

by Sam Barone

  He found himself wishing for one of his father’s bronze guns that could be aimed almost like a musket. Instead, Antonio observed the fall of every shot, and soon had a feel for the gun, compensating for its peculiarities, the wind, and even the temperature of the weapon.

  The ground where the Turks had massed helped as well. The hills were mostly rock, and the stone balls splintered and shattered when they landed, instead of being swallowed up in the earth as they plunged downward.

  Finally the Turks withdrew their guns behind the hill and led their soldiers out of range. All along the wall, Antonio heard the order to cease fire. Cheers went up from the defenders, a thin sound after the thunder of the guns. He slumped to the ground, exhausted, his throat parched from breathing the smoke and burning powder. Antonio felt a twinge of embarrassment at his weakness, until he glanced around and saw everyone doing the same. Some of the soldiers looked ready to collapse.

  Looking up at the sun, Antonio guessed about two hours had passed. The sea battle had lasted longer, but there had been many gaps in the fighting, periods when a man could catch his breath, drink some water, and ready the guns. The assault here at the post of Castile had been relentless, with little time to rest or recover one’s strength.

  Fresh orders were passed down the wall. Secure the guns, replenish the gunpowder and shot, make repairs to the wall. With a shock, he realized that he had new duties to attend to. Antonio pulled himself to his feet and examined the cannon.

  Men grasped the carriage ropes – the gun remained to hot to touch – and rolled it back from the wall. Maltese from the village ascended the parapet, carrying supplies, while women brought up water, bread, and wine. Antonio paused to snatch a thick hunk of bread from a smiling Maltese woman with long gray hair floating in the breeze. Another elder held out a pitcher of wine, and Antonio dunked the bread into it, then wolfed it down. It helped soothe his throat. A huge drink of fresh water almost cleared his head. He saw Ruvo striding across the rampart.

  “Antonio,” Ruvo said, “is everything all right?”

  “Yes. Should I return to our post?”

  “No, they need the help here,” the sergeant said. “Stay and help them with the guns. Check them all. There were several guns that failed to fire. Some may still have charges in them that need to be cleared. Better you and I do it than some fool.” He started down the rampart. “And don’t blow your hand off!”

  Antonio began at the western end of the wall, inspecting each gun, looking for cracks in the iron. The Castile post had plenty of guns mounted, at least 40 or 50, he estimated. But most were older pieces, and nearly all were mismatched. That made for differences in powder and shot. They weren’t even grouped by approximate size or age, or any factor Antonio could discover. More than a few needed repairs to the touch holes.

  Each shot fired vented hot gases out of the touch hole, and eventually that opening widened sufficiently to reduce the gun’s effectiveness, and possibly endanger the gun crew. When that happened, a new touchhole had to be made. A length of cord was fed through the touchhole, then fished out of the barrel. A hollow iron plug, flanged at the base, was connected to the string, which was then pulled back down the barrel and up into the touch hole. To seat the new plug, one or two half-charge cartridges were then fired. Once installed, the plug became the new touchhole, and the weapon would be good for another 100 firings.

  Antonio counted four weapons still loaded. It remained a dangerous and difficult business to remove the wadding, coax out the projectile, then gently try to fish out the powder charge. Ruvo hadn’t spoken in jest about blowing off one’s hand.

  The gun crews were more than willing for Antonio to do the job. By now no one questioned either his experience or his orders. He’d started working at the third gun before he realized that he needed help. “Where’s your master gunner?” he asked one of the gun crew.

  “Dead. Took a shot from a musket in the neck,” was the answer from one of the soldiers. “Took his time dying, and we had to carry him off the rampart.”

  Whoever the dead man was, he had not made many friends, Antonio decided. The poor quality of the guns at Castile surprised him. The guns at the English post were no better, but that position would be very difficult to attack, and he’d expected to find the worst weapons emplaced there. But Castile, where the brunt of any major assault was most likely, should have had newer and better weapons.

  He finished unloading the last weapon, then got started on preparing the cannons for the next attack. Before he had gone through a third of the guns, Ruvo had worked his way back to him. “You’re too slow, Antonio,” he said. “You’ll need to work faster.”

  “These guns are old, Sergeant,” he said. “Some need repairs by a blacksmith. Are these the best the Knights have?”

  Ruvo spat on the rampart. “Yes, these are the best they can do. Guns are expensive, even for the Knights. A few of the bastions have the latest weapons, and St. Elmo has some new pieces. That’s Malta’s newest fort, and the one where the Turks will likely launch a real attack next.”

  “Wasn’t this an attack?”

  “This? This was just a little push, to see what we’re made of. Mustapha needed to blood his soldiers. Now they know they’re won’t be any easy victory here.”

  Mustapha Pasha commanded all the Turkish soldiers. If this attack of his were just a little push, as Ruvo called it, Antonio did not want to see a full assault. He glanced over the wall at the hundreds of bodies that littered the ground. He shivered at the sight, and realized for the first time that he’d been too busy working the gun to be afraid.

  Sir Oliver Starkey strode up. “Are the guns secured?”

  “Yes, sir,” Ruvo answered. “But Antonio thinks some of them need more repairs.”

  Sir Oliver seemed to notice Antonio for the first time. “Then tend to them,” he snapped.

  “I mean repairs in a foundry,” Antonio said. “Some of these guns are ready to burst. The touch holes of many of them need replacement.”

  “There’s not time for that, Antonio.” Sir Oliver’s impatience was plain.

  “Your pardon, Sir Oliver,” Ruvo said, “Antonio isn’t just some gunner apprenticed to a master gunner. His father builds cannons, all sorts of guns, and Antonio’s worked in his father’s foundry all his life. If the English guild is like the Italian ones, they don’t appoint master gunners easily. Antonio even knows how to mix and prepare gunpowder. He was working with the Venetians on that just before he arrived here. We should listen to what he says.”

  Sir Oliver took a deep breath and regained control over his emotions. “Very well. I understand. Do whatever you can here for now, then return to our post. I must see to the Grand Master.” He walked away.

  Antonio hadn’t realized how much he’d told Ruvo yesterday. Too much wine and friendly company must have loosened his usually reticent tongue.

  “I hope Sir Oliver doesn’t take offense at you, sergeant,” Antonio said.

  “Sir Oliver expects every one of his men to speak their minds, especially if it’s about the welfare of the men. This fort has to stand, and the Grand Master needs all the good advice he can get.”

  They returned to work. Dinner was eaten on the wall, more bread-soaked wine supplemented with some dried sausage or strips of beef. As the men got used to seeing Ruvo and Antonio working together, they accepted his suggestions. Many had seen how Antonio operated his gun during the attack, and that proved his credentials more than any title.

  Their labors continued under torch-light. Antonio was surprised to see men and women from the village carrying up fresh stone blocks, masons repairing the wall, and rebuilding the embrasures. Other crews were outside the walls, working on the outer surface of the fortress. Holes had been blasted into the battlement, and large cracks showed where other cannon balls had failed to penetrate.

  The hundreds of dead Turks scattered before the wall remained where they’d fallen. Maltese women and children had already looted the dead of a
ny useful weapons or valuables.

  A messenger dashed up to where Antonio and Ruvo were working on a gun. “Sergeant Ruvo! Sir Oliver wants to see you and Antonio.”

  The boy’s high-pitched voice made Antonio look up.

  “And where would Sir Oliver be?” Ruvo asked.

  “At the Grand Master’s headquarters. In the village.”

  Ruvo stood. “You men keep busy,” he said to the rest of the crew, tossing his hammer to the ground.

  He led the way down the ramp. Antonio had expected the Grand Master’s headquarters to be deep within the walls of St. Angelo. But Valette had placed his command post in the center of Birgu, where all the villagers could see him, and where messages could reach him with the least delay. It also put him within cannon range of the Turkish guns.

  They crossed two lanes, and reached a small house with thick walls, guarded by two men-at-arms and a Knight. Antonio saw a newly demolished house only 50 paces away from the command post.

  The Knight on guard duty studied Antonio with hard eyes as he passed inside, and Antonio wondered what would happen to anyone who tried to force their way in to see the Grand Master.

  The inside of the house was larger than Antonio expected, but it contained little furniture. Two large tables held maps of the island and the three forts. Sir Oliver was there, along with Sir Annet de Clermont. A smaller table served as the Grand Master’s desk. Two other men, common soldiers, stared at Antonio as he and Ruvo approached. Grand Master Valette sat behind the desk, on the only chair in the room.

  “My lord,” Ruvo said with a bow. “You sent for us?”

  “Yes. You and your men fought well today at Castile. Sir Oliver is to be commended for your actions.” Praise for bravery went to the individual’s commander, not to those who actually performed the deed.

  “Thank you, Grand Master.”

  “As you know, Señor Zanoguerra and Signor Pozzo are my chief gunners. They wish to speak with Antonio. Sir Oliver assures us that Antonio is a master gunner, approved by the English guild. Should that be the case, every man on Malta will benefit. As you know, we are desperately short of master gunners.”

  “If I may, Grand Master,” Sir Oliver said, “it may help to relate Antonio’s efforts on the Castile today. He took over command of a dismounted gun, brought it back into action. His was the gun that broke up the Turks massing for the assault on the western side gate.”

  Antonio realized Sir Oliver had just vouched for him, no doubt to forestall any questions about his ability to fight or skill in working guns.

  “You have my gratitude, Antonio,” the Grand Master said. He turned to the two gunners. “Please begin.”

  “You are certified by the English Guild?” the question came from the man named Pozzo, a Roman by his accent. “Yet you are a Venetian?”

  Antonio explained the circumstances that had brought him to Venice, his work at the Arsenal, and his unplanned trip to Malta.

  “The Pesaro name is known to me,” Pozzo said. “They are a family of fine craftsmen who have been making guns for many years. Are you acquainted with Master Roger Hogge?”

  “Master Hogge owns a foundry at Buxted, in Sussex,” Antonio said with a weary smile. “He is a good friend of my father. Master Hogge opened his foundry in 1453, under a commission from King Henry the Eighth. Master Hogge specializes in casting iron cannons for coastal defenses. He happened to be in London when I was certified, and he sat on the board for my final examination.”

  The ease with which Antonio spoke surprised Master Pozzo. “And have you heard of Franceso Arcano?”

  “Master Arcano stayed at our house in London many times,” Antonio said. “He claimed it was the only place in England where he could get decent Italian food. He worked for Master Hogge for three years or so, before he returned to Venice four, no, five years ago. He specialized in building sakers and robinets, if I recall. His death two years ago was a pity.”

  Pozzo glanced at his companion. “If Master Hogge certified Antonio, then I am satisfied that Antonio is indeed a master gunner.”

  Zanoguerra shrugged. “I know no one in the English guild, Grand Master. But if Pozzo accepts him, then I, too, am satisfied.”

  “Then it is settled,” Grand Master Valette said. “Sergeant Ruvo will become the master gunner for St. Angelo, and Antonio will assist him.”

  Valette, ready to dismiss the group, glanced at Ruvo as he spoke and changed his mind. “Is something wrong, Sergeant Ruvo?”

  “No, Grand Master,” Ruvo answered. “But if I may, perhaps the Grand Master is unaware of some of Antonio’s other skills. Unlike Masters Pozzo and Zanoguerra and myself, Antonio understands not only how to operate guns of all calibers, but also how to design and build them. He is also familiar with the manufacture of gunpowder, and has just spent the last few weeks working with the Venetians in their powder factory. I would suggest that Antonio be put in charge of all the gunpowder stocks, to evaluate our storage, and to establish proper cartridge loads. Forgive me for speaking out, Grand Master.”

  Valette waved away the apology. “Is this something you can do, Antonio?”

  Despite the respect shown to Valette by everyone in the room, Antonio had grown tired of constantly proving himself. The battle here against the Turks was not one Antonio would have joined willingly. Nevertheless, he was here, and he knew he would have to fight as best he could, if for no other purpose than to save his own life. The casual assumption that he would accept Valette’s decisions made his voice harsh.

  “Grand Master, many of your guns are old and need repair. And your procedures for bringing shot and powder to the guns during the attack showed poor preparation and training. Your master gunners should have advised you to group similar guns together, so that the proper loads of powder and types of shot could be supplied faster. The crews were slow to load their weapons, and I saw several of them mishandle the powder and matches. Your men at the Castile post were fortunate that there was no explosion caused by their own confusion.”

  “I’m sure Antonio means no disrespect, Grand Master,” Ruvo said, the words rushing together. “He has not fought in a siege before, and may not . . .”

  “I fought in a galleon, where the guns were placed even closer together than they are on the Castile post. The ship’s gun master took every precaution to make sure the crews didn’t blow themselves up. Your gun crews need to learn these procedures, if you want to make every gun and every shot count.”

  The Grand Master sat in silence at the not-so-subtle rebuke, his eyes on Antonio. He glanced at Ruvo, who looked uncomfortable, and Sir Oliver, who also appeared embarrassed by the outburst. The two master gunners’ eyes were wide with astonishment at Antonio’s temerity.

  “Has no one in your foundry explained these things to you?” Antonio said. He decided to get everything off his chest. The Grand Master was in fact the leader of the defense. Besides, the worst they could do to him was hang him from the walls. “Sergeant Ruvo is right. I’ve never fought in a siege before. I may be ignorant of how such things are done. But one careless explosion can trigger others, and it’s the lives of your men that are at risk.” He didn’t add that he’d rather not be killed by someone else’s carelessness.

  “You speak your mind like a Venetian,” the Grand Master said, but he softened the words with a smile. “Unfortunately, we have no large foundries here to make our own guns or powder. So you’ll have to make do with what facilities we have. Please work with Sir Oliver and Sergeant Ruvo, and continue to make whatever suggestions you think useful. We may be attacked again at any moment. You and Sergeant Ruvo may go.”

  Antonio bowed, and left the room, with Ruvo behind him.

  As soon as they were outside the building, Ruvo gripped Antonio’s arm. “No one speaks to the Grand Master like that. Never. The man’s a saint on earth. My God, don’t you know he holds the same rank as a cardinal in the Church?”

  “I’m a good Protestant,” Antonio said. “The Pope and his cardina
ls mean nothing to me.”

  Ruvo’s eyes went wide at the words. “Don’t let de Clermont or one of the other senior Knights hear you say things like that. You’ll lose your head. Every man here is a good Catholic, every man, if you know what I mean.”

  “For speaking the truth?” Antonio didn’t care one way or the other. “Didn’t you see how many Turks were out there? We’re all going to die soon enough.”

  “There’s no reason to rush things, is there?” Ruvo swore under his breath. “I, for one, would like to eat a few more suppers. Come, I need some wine, lots of wine. And something to eat. We have a lot of work ahead of us.”

  “At least you’ve been promoted to Master Gunner for St. Angelo,” Antonio said. His empty stomach rumbled at the prospect of eating.

  “Yes, that’s worth a few more coins in my purse,” Ruvo said. “My wife will be happy to hear that, at least. Assuming I survive the siege. Come, you’ll eat with us again tonight.”

  ***

  Sir Oliver waited until Antonio and Ruvo had departed. “I’m sure the young man meant no disrespect, Grand Master.”

  “Youth is always impetuous,” Valette said. “But he speaks from the heart, I can see that. But is what he says the truth?”

  “We’ve asked for a foundry to be established here before, Grand Master,” Pozzo said.

  “There was never enough gold,” Valette said. “What of the other things he said?”

  “Perhaps the gunpowder storage, preparation, and movement could be improved. Antonio may know more about powder than any of us. We should follow his suggestions, I think.” Pozzo glanced at Zanoguerra, who nodded approval.

  “And shift the guns, Grand Master,” Master Zanoguerra said. “We should have thought of that ourselves. Forgive us, Grand Master.”

  Valette ignored the apology. “Tonight there is much to be done. In the morning, meet with Antonio, listen to what he says, and see if anything makes sense for St. Angelo, St. Elmo and St. Michael. With my thanks, you may return to your duties.”