Malta's Guns

by Sam Barone

  “A most interesting young man,” Oliver said after the two master gunners had left. “And a good Englishman at that.” Oliver was the closest thing to a friend and confidant the Grand Master had, and had served at Valette’s side for more than 20 years.

  “God sent him to us,” Valette said, leaning back in his chair. “But he is more English than Venetian. I wonder whether he is a Protestant or a good Catholic.”

  “Perhaps it would best not to ask that question right now, Grand Master,” Sir Oliver said tactfully. “He’s here, and that’s all that matters.”

  “I’ll wait until after the siege to question him,” Valette said, a hint of weariness in his voice. “Come, there are others waiting to see us.”

  Sir Oliver knew they would get little sleep tonight, like the nights before and the nights stretching ahead of them. Of course, Antonio had no idea of the planning and effort expended by the Grand Master and his staff over the last few months. All of them had worked hard, doing everything that they could to prepare, but always knowing that there was so much more to be done, more than humanly possible.

  The Knights had accomplished near miracles in preparation for the siege, And Valette, despite his advancing years, had worked harder than any of his followers. The Grand Master remained as hard as iron. He had set a pace few of the younger Knights could match, and demanded the utmost from every member of the Order. A gun foundry would have been useful, no doubt, but would have required substantial expenditures in time, money, and men, all of which were desperately needed elsewhere.

  Nor did Malta have any of the natural resources need to operate a foundry. Not much grew here, no large trees for charcoal, no iron, no saltpetre, none of the components needed to create gunpowder. All that Malta had in plenty was rock, and not all of that was of good quality.

  For the hundredth time, Sir Oliver wondered at the Grand Master’s faith that Malta would survive, or that any of them would be alive to question Antonio about his beliefs.

  Nevertheless, Sir Oliver did intend to speak to Antonio about his faith, and at least warn him not to say anything likely to upset the Grand Master’s loyalty to the Pope. Still, it was always a pleasure to speak to someone in his native English, and with Antonio’s promotion, there might be more time for such discussions.

  Chapter 29

  At dawn the next morning, Antonio, Ruvo, and the two master gunners started examining the guns on the Castile post. Though the great number of Turks had landed just east of the harbor, they had already shifted the major part of their troops. Now the walls of Birgu and St. Angelo stood directly in their path. Enemy flags and pennants dotted the hillside to the west and south.

  Fortunately, the Turks showed no signs of repeating their assault for the moment. They had taken heavy losses, and would no doubt regroup and see to their wounded. Whatever the Turks’ reason, the defenders had time to restore the damaged walls, and Antonio had time to reorganize the guns.

  Castile faced the most likely point of attack from the landward side, and in consequence had the strongest walls and heaviest guns. 62 guns faced the approaches, and the four master gunners inspected every one of them. Antonio carried several scraps of paper on which he listed every weapon, its caliber, and condition.

  When they finished, they identified 11 guns to be removed. Ruvo gave orders to the gun crews, and that laborious task began. Meanwhile, Antonio started grouping the guns by size, to standardize the powder and shot needed for each group.

  By noon sweating crews were dragging guns up and down the ramparts, cursing at the two master gunners under their breath. Moving cannons from one place to another appeared senseless, but neither Antonio nor the other master gunners bothered to explain. The 11 weakest guns were scattered among the other posts, and Ruvo insisted that those sections provide replacements for Castile’s.

  Antonio worked all day with the gun crews, explaining the hazards of the powder, how it should be handled, and the safest way to utilize the weapons. He found that describing what a moment’s carelessness could do held their attention. Some of these men had been working in the fields or on ships a few weeks ago, and knew little about cannons, shot, or powder, let alone the best ways to prevent a deadly accident.

  No one challenged his suggestions, not after Sir Oliver stopped by twice during the long day, to listen briefly and nod approval at Antonio’s brief explanations. Ruvo, meanwhile, began grouping the shot, staging the stone cannon balls so that the proper size missiles were close to the proper guns. Antonio made sure that each gun crew knew where to obtain its supplies, even in the heat of action. He also made sure that the villagers, mostly men and boys, who delivered the gunpowder received fresh instructions in its safe handling.

  By the time darkness fell, the guns of the Castile post were as ready for the next attack as the gunners could make them. Master gunners Pozzo and Zanoguerra had stayed with Ruvo and Antonio until midafternoon, when they expressed satisfaction with all that had been done. They returned to their respective forts, to institute the same procedures as Castile.

  Men had started lighting torches when Ruvo led the way down from the walls and back to his home. He’d invited Antonio to stay with him, rather than sleeping with the common soldiers. Antonio slid into a chair, and accepted a cup of watered wine from Ruvo’s wife, Darmenia. In all his young life, he’d never felt as tired as this. He knew it wasn’t just the physical effort of the last few days, but the emotional drain added to his weakness.

  Decisions he made yesterday and today affected men’s lives, for better or worse, and the responsibility weighed on his shoulders. No sooner had they finished eating dinner than Antonio excused himself to his hosts and stretched out on his blanket. In moments, he fell asleep, ignoring the muted conversation that briefly continued in the common room.

  He slept straight through until Darmenia awoke him. Dawn was still an hour away, but Ruvo and Antonio wanted to make sure everything was ready for another assault. His muscles ached, and he stretched to loosen them. He fumbled with his sword as they stepped out into the still-dark lane and headed toward the battlement. They started at the center of the Castile post, Ruvo going north and Antonio south. When the sun rose, everything was in readiness.

  But while the sun’s rays glinted off the Turks’ weapons, Antonio saw no mass of troops gathering. Like the defenders, the Turks had arisen early as well. Antonio saw plenty of activity, but not what he would have expected if the Turks were planning to attack. He studied their battle line, but saw nothing. The line of guns behind, however, showed movement.

  “They’re taking guns off the line, Sergeant,” Antonio said. That almost certainly meant no attack. If they were planning another assault, they would want every gun they possessed firing at the fort. “They must be planning to attack somewhere else.”

  The village of Birgu and St. Angelo formed a long rectangle that occupied the finger of land protruding into Grand Harbour. If the Turks were not planning to attack on the landward side, their other choices were even worse. The west side of Birgu was protected by Dockyard Creek, and the east side by the Kalkara Creek. The north side, dominated by St. Angelo, projected into the harbor, and could only be attacked by boats landing troops at the base of the fort itself, which the Turks could not do without first seizing command of the harbor.

  “Probably St. Michael’s,” Ruvo said. “Unless they decide they want control of the harbor. For that, they’ll need to attack St. Elmo.”

  Antonio didn’t know much about St. Elmo, only that it was on the other side of the harbor, isolated and near the entrance. A recently constructed star-shaped fortress, its guns controlled not only the northern entry in Grand Harbor, but also a second harbor to the east, Marsamuscetto.

  “Better for us, then,” Ruvo said. “We could use another day or two. Our work with the gunpowder will take time.” He led the way off the wall and down into the village, to the first of three magazines that stored the gunpowder. Two were buried deep in the bowels of St. Angelo,
and the third was beneath the lanes of Birgu.

  Antonio recoiled in dismay when he saw Birgu’s storage chambers, cut from the limestone rock that formed the base of the village. The steps leading down were steep, and it wouldn’t take much of a misstep for someone carrying the explosive to slip and fall. Inside the rooms, he saw kegs scattered haphazardly, grains of gunpowder on the stone floor, and the tables for filling cartridges showed traces of loose powder. Half a dozen men filled the rooms, bumping into each other. Lanterns hanging from wall hooks illuminated the interiors.

  “Mother of God,” Antonio said. “This place could go up at any moment.”

  “Scares me every time I have to come here,” Ruvo agreed, “which is as seldom as possible. To tell you the truth, Antonio, just being in a gunpowder magazine frightens me.”

  They stepped aside as a man carrying a box of charges moved toward them. “I’ve seen enough,” Antonio said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “I thought you wanted to examine the magazine?”

  “Not like this,” Antonio said. Moving as fast as he dared, he climbed the steps until he reached the entrance. Even then, he moved a good 30 paces away before he felt safe enough to stop.

  “Where’s Sir Oliver? We need him.”

  “He’s either at his post or with Valette at the command center,” Ruvo said. “Are you sure you want to disturb him?”

  Antonio insisted. They found the English knight at the command center. It took a few moments before Ruvo dared to interrupt him. Finally Sir Oliver strode across the square to where Antonio waited. “You wish to speak with me, Antonio?”

  “Milord, the Birgu magazine is in danger of exploding at any moment. The men there are careless, traces of gunpowder are everywhere, and they don’t seem to know the proper way to move or handle gunpowder kegs.”

  Sir Oliver frowned. “We’ve never had an accident yet, Antonio. If you’re afraid to work there . . .”

  “Yes, Sir Oliver, I am afraid. Anyone who knows anything about gunpowder would be afraid. If you want me to assist you with the magazine, you’ll need to do as I say. Otherwise, I’ll return to my post on the wall.”

  Sir Oliver stared at him. If Antonio had spoken like that to any of the other knights, he would have been hanged on the spot for insubordination.

  “And what is it you want?”

  “First, you must clear the magazine. Then I’ll clean it up myself. Second, I need to train the workers there. I’ll need three or four steady men, keen-witted ones who can follow orders exactly. I’ll need to talk to them myself, to make certain they are capable. Until then, I’m not going back down there.”

  The frown on Sir Oliver’s face deepened at this near mutiny. “Are you in agreement with this, Sergeant?”

  “In truth, the magazine has always frightened me, Sir Oliver,” Ruvo said. “In the last year, we’ve more than doubled the gunpowder supply, and the storage chambers are crammed to capacity. If Antonio thinks he can make it safer, then I think you should listen to him.”

  “The Turks are moving their guns, Sergeant,” Sir Oliver said, “probably to attack St. Elmo. That will take them a few days. Do whatever you think best.”

  “Thank you, Sir Oliver,” Antonio said.

  “If the magazine blows up, Antonio,” the Knight added, “you’d better make sure you go with it.” He walked away, anxious to return to the Grand Master’s side.

  Ruvo let out a long breath. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “I do. Now we’ve got to get ready. Let’s go back to the English post while we work everything out.”

  An hour later, Antonio, Ruvo, and three men from the English Langue returned to the Birgu magazine. They carried water jugs, rags, and empty buckets. Ruvo called the six men assigned to duties in the magazine, and assembled them in the lane, along with the others who worked there.

  “As of now, by order of Sir Oliver Starkey,” Antonio informed them, “all of you report to me. The magazine below is unsafe, but we will change that. Meanwhile, you will wait here.”

  With the three men from Ruvo’s post whom Antonio felt he could trust to follow orders, Antonio started on the top step. “Take off your shoes. From now on, no shoes will be allowed in the magazine. Wet your rags and sweep the steps like this.” Antonio cleared the first step of dirt and any stray grains of gunpowder, sweeping everything into an empty bucket. “I want to see nothing on these steps but the stone itself. From now on, every time someone goes in or out of the magazine, one of you will follow behind and make sure the steps are clear. Keep your rags wet, unless you want to blow off your fingers.”

  It took time before all the steps were swept clean, but at last Antonio and his three helpers stood on the floor of the magazine, surrounded by the scent of gunpowder. “We’ll sweep these floors, too.” Once again he got down on his knees and showed the men how he wanted the job done. Even with the four of them working together, it took nearly an hour, damp wiping every crack and crevice on the floor, under the tables, even beneath the casks themselves. When he felt the floor was as safe as it could be, Antonio cleared the tables where the powder was mixed and added to the cloth cartridges.

  Only then did he start in on the kegs themselves, removing each one, carrying it to the table, and inspecting its contents. He followed each man as they performed the same tasks, showing them how to lift the casks, how to grasp them, and how to move with them.

  When he was sure his men knew what they were doing, he brought down another three of the original six men assigned. One protested his orders, and Antonio told him to report to Sergeant Ruvo for another assignment.

  That silenced any protests from the rest of the men. Whatever they thought of Antonio’s worries or his orders, they all knew it was safer working in the magazine than manning the wall.

  Ruvo returned, carrying three glass cases, borrowed from the chapel, to enclose the lanterns. These were affixed to the stone walls with care, since Antonio didn’t want any loud noises reverberating within the chambers. The tables, too, were set against the walls and immobilized, so that even if someone bumped into them, a table leg could not scrape against anything.

  “The only thing I want moving in here are your hands and feet,” Antonio explained.

  They worked through the day, all of them stripped to the waist and sweating from the heat.

  Ruvo and two women carried food and wine brought to the magazine’s entrance for the evening meal. They all sat in the dirt of the lane and ate supper together, then returned to the depths of the magazine. Antonio began opening each cask and keg of gunpowder, inspecting the mixture, and estimating the purity and power of each sample. While the Great Arsenal in Venice might boast six purities of powder, in Malta Antonio had to be satisfied with three.

  The quality of the Knights’ gunpowder varied substantially, and he decided to dispense the oldest lots first, as these were most likely to have become less stable over time. With Ruvo’s help, Antonio mixed up a huge supply of cartridges, using the ladles with care to insure the correct amount of the appropriate powder was sewn into each bag.

  When Antonio emerged again from the magazine, the moon was high in the sky, and he guessed it was nearly midnight. Ruvo had established a new guard rotation, so that the magazine entrance remained guarded day and night. Antonio made sure that the guards knew their duties. No shoes allowed in the magazine, no weapons that could scrape against a wall and create a spark, no one not completely sober, and a few more rules that should keep the magazine functioning safely.

  Back at Ruvo’s house, Antonio sank to the floor, rolled himself in his blanket, and fell asleep in moments, knowing he’d again be up well before dawn.

  By noon the next day, Birgu’s magazine was ready for Sir Oliver’s inspection. Ruvo escorted the knight to the entrance, where Antonio stood waiting beside the guard. Sir Oliver moved to the stairs.

  “Wait, Sir Oliver.” Antonio had expected this. The guard had said nothing. “You must remove your boots an
d weapons before entering. The hobnails in your boots might cause a spark.” He explained the reasons why, then turned to the guard. “No one, no one, goes into the magazine wearing shoes or carrying weapons. If you can’t follow orders, you’ll be punished.”

  It took Sir Oliver a few moments to get his boots off, aided by Sergeant Ruvo. Antonio led the way down to the storage chambers. His men waited there, each of them wearing cloth slippers. Antonio explained about the quality of the powder, and what he had done with the varying grades. “This way, Sir Oliver, each gun will function as it was designed, and there will be less likelihood of a burst barrel and a dead gun crew, not to mention the possibility of blowing up a section of your own rampart.”

  The inspection lasted only twenty minutes, but Antonio saw that he made the desired impression on Sir Oliver. They returned to the surface, and Antonio stood there while the Knight pulled on his boots.

  “Sergeant Ruvo, you’ve done well.” Per custom, Sir Oliver gave the praise first to the man in charge. “Antonio, you have my thanks as well. I’ll see that the Grand Master understands what you’ve done and issues the appropriate orders, so that all the magazines in Malta follow the same procedures.”

  “Thank you, Sir Oliver,” Antonio said. “That will help if you need to move men from one magazine to another.”

  “Are you ready to start on the other magazines?”

  “Yes, but Sergeant Ruvo and I need to rest for a few hours before we start.”

  “Good. At least it seems we have a few days. The Turks are apparently moving guns across the island in preparation for an attack on St. Elmo. Perhaps you and Sergeant Ruvo should go there as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, Milord,” Ruvo said. He waited until the Knight had left. “Now you’ve done it. I just hope we don’t get trapped in St. Elmo’s when the Turks start shooting. ”

  “We’ll get in and get out,” Antonio said. “If they only have one magazine there, we should be finished in a day. And we can bring a few of these men with us.”