by Sam Barone
“For my wife’s sake, I hope you’re right,” Ruvo said, crossing himself. “Something about St. Elmo frightens me.”
Chapter 30
May 23
A small skiff rowed by six Maltese seamen ferried Antonio and Ruvo across Grand Harbor. A Sicilian apprentice gunner named Sachetti accompanied them, carrying the cleaning and filtering tools Antonio thought might not be readily available in St. Elmo. Bags of cargo lay at their feet, mostly food, from what Antonio could see. He expected to pull an oar, but the powerful Maltese oarsmen knew more about the boat and the local waters, and didn’t want some land-lubber upsetting their rhythm. One acted as captain of the boat, giving orders with a soft voice in their native language.
Two larger skiffs had pushed off moments before, carrying men and supplies to reinforce the garrison. The long pull across the harbor took time, and Antonio wondered if the Turkish lookouts had seen them depart from Dockyard Creek. So far the Turks had done nothing to hinder boats passing between the two forts, but that seemed unlikely to continue.
“A few guns up on the bluffs, and they’d blow us out of the water,” Antonio said.
Ruvo glanced up at the towering cliffs, no doubt thinking the same thing. “Any guns in position to shoot at us would be under fire from St. Angelo.”
Antonio stared at the rock face. “They could establish batteries there at night, dig them in to cover this approach. It would take a lot of fire from St. Angelo to knock them out.”
The skiff bobbed up and down, and Antonio’s stomach felt queasy. He’d taken Ruvo’s advice and eaten a hearty meal before departing, a suggestion that now seemed unwise. Antonio stomach churned from the boat’s motion. He had no experience in a boat this small before. The Pinnace and the galley that brought him to Malta had been large craft. Here he could stretch his hand over the side and feel the cool water.
Nevertheless, he managed to hold his breakfast down, and soon the sweating oarsmen eased up on the stroke, and the boat bumped against the small dock. The three men climbed out of the boat, then assisted unloading the supplies. The sun had set, and Antonio could just make out a flight of steps carved into the rocks that led upward, but there were no lights to guide their way.
“Watch your step,” Ruvo cautioned, as they began their trek upward.
The climb was long, more than a hundred feet up, and the narrow steps steep and uneven. Antonio was running short of breath when the walls of the fort loomed up over him. They slipped in through a thick postern gate defended by two men with muskets. Every step of the climb could be covered from the walls. He found himself in a crowd of men. The sound of hammering was everywhere, and he heard rocks splintering.
“What are they doing?”
“They’re reinforcing the battlements,” Ruvo said. “They quarry the rock from the interior of the fort itself, and use the blocks to strengthen the walls.”
Ruvo led the way into the fortress and down a flight of steps as they descended deep into the ground. Sachetti, carrying all the supplies, brought up the rear. Antonio congratulated himself once again on finding Sachetti, a boy from Palermo who’d actually been apprenticed to a foundry. Unfortunately, Sachetti had only managed to remain a year before getting into some trouble and running off, but at least he knew which end of a heated iron to grab.
Eventually Sachetti had reached Malta, where the defenders welcomed anyone who could work, and with no questions asked. He and Antonio were about the same age, though Antonio had a few inches in height and more muscle on his frame than the diminutive Sicilian.
Zanoguerra waited for them in the powder room, with two assistants of his own. “I’m glad you could come, Antonio. I heard you’ve done well in Birgu. The shelling will soon start, and I want everything in the magazine prepared.”
Antonio looked around. Unlike the magazine at Birgu, St. Elmo’s was relatively new and significantly larger, the fort having only been built a few years ago. A common area, where they now stood, fronted two chambers, both filled to capacity with gunpowder kegs and a huge stock of incendiary devices, fuels, and materials. Antonio wondered how much of the organization he saw had happened in the last 24 hours. Zanoguerra guided Antonio and Ruvo through every part of the magazine, and discussed each weapon, its use, quantity, and particular hazard.
“You’ve done well, Signor Zanoguerra,” Antonio said. He’d remembered one of his father’s sayings – always give a compliment before you give criticism. “But there are a few things I think you might consider.”
The few suggestions turned into quite a long list. They worked through the night, cleaning, opening kegs and inspecting the gunpowder, all the things Antonio and Ruvo had done back in Birgu. A few hours before dawn Antonio fell asleep, lying on the cool stone of the magazine, too tired to climb the steps.
A rumbling sound awoke him. Antonio didn’t recognize it, but Ruvo did. “Mother of God, they’ve started shelling the fort!”
Like the others, Antonio moved up the stairs, caution forgotten in the rush to see what was happening above. Leaving the powder magazine, he saw that dawn had just broken. He followed Ruvo up the steps to the nearest rampart on the north side. They pushed their way through to the wall and stared out at the Turkish battle line. With so many guns firing, the sound was nearly continuous, with an occasional thunderous roar from a Turkish basilisk rising up over the regular cannonade.
The Sultan’s guns formed a line across the peninsula, about halfway up the crest of Mount Sciberras. That position put the Turks’ cannons less than a mile away, well within range of the smallest weapon. Even as the Turks worked their guns, a mass of men, soldiers or slaves, Antonio couldn’t tell which, continued digging ramparts around the weapons, excavating the earth in front of them and piling up the loose dirt to protect the gunners. No doubt they’d worked non-stop since darkness fell last night.
Even as he watched, more Turks dragged up additional guns. A cannon a dozen paces from where Antonio stood discharged the first answering shot, as the defenders returned fire. Soon every cannon on the wall was firing, and guns from St. Angelo and St. Michael joined in, though the hilly terrain of Mount Sciberras somewhat sheltered the enemy guns.
For St. Elmo, the line of Turkish cannons held at least five times as many guns as the fort could bring to bear. Sooner or later, Antonio realized, the enemy would knock out every gun on the wall, then pound the fortress into rubble. It might take a week or ten days, but with so many guns, the end would be inevitable.
Ruvo’s face showed that he had reached the same conclusion. “Where did they get so many guns?”
“Each of their galleys must have unloaded two or three of their own guns. Add those to whatever siege weapons they brought to Malta in their supply vessels . . . they came well prepared to destroy the forts.”
“The Turks are masters of the art of siege warfare,” Ruvo commented. “God knows they’ve had a hundred years of experience, attacking every fort in Europe and the east.”
“Everyone not working a gun, get off this rampart,” a voice shouted.
A French Knight, wearing all his armor, strode up and down the rampart, pushing the gawkers away. He took no notice of the cannon balls screaming overhead. A few had already struck the walls, and one had landed within the fortress, knocking part of an interior wall into rubble and a cloud of yellow dust.
“Let’s get out of here,” Ruvo said. “There’s nothing for us to do here. At least we can help in the magazine.”
Down in the magazine, Antonio and Ruvo helped wherever they could. Unlike St. Angelo, there were few boys and no women to carry the charges, so the tasks fell to anyone not needed defending the wall. Several times each hour, Antonio brought up the cartridges himself, and each time paused to look around.
By now a cloud of yellow dust hung over St. Elmo, and he realized that every time a cannon ball struck the blocks of limestone that formed the wall, part of the stone disintegrated, turning into a fine powder that drifted in the still and sultry air. Part
of the wall had already crumbled under the bombardment, and men worked furiously to make repairs. Fresh stone from deep inside the fort was hauled up from the depths, dragged to the damaged area, and levered into place by the sweating soldiers and laborers.
Despite any hits they might have received from the Christian forts, the enemy had increased the number of cannons firing at St. Elmo.
“They’re concentrating all their firepower at this little fort,” he told Ruvo back in the magazine.
“I suppose they had to attack someplace, and St. Angelo is too strong,” Ruvo said.
“And the walls crumble to dust at every impact,” Antonio said. “At the Castile post, the granite was so strong some of the enemy’s cannon balls bounced off.”
“Ah, Sir Oliver commented about that once,” Ruvo said. “All the Knights were worried about the quality of the stone used building St. Elmo. It was quarried here, because they didn’t have enough time to drag stones from the interior of the island. The stone used at Birgu and the other walls came from a different quarry in the middle of Malta.”
So the smallest, most exposed fort with the softest walls would take the brunt of the first attack. Antonio’s father had told him once that every stronghold had its weaknesses, but this place seemed poised to hand the Turks a quick victory.
“I hope it holds together until tonight,” Antonio said, “and we can get back to St. Angelo.”
“Amen to that,” Ruvo agreed. “Let’s hope they don’t have guns covering the harbor by then, either.”
They labored without stopping for the rest of the day. By sundown Antonio was sweeping the steps and floor every hour, as yellow dust drifted down into the depths of the fort. The sun finally set, but the Turks kept firing. They’d had all day to work out the range, and a row of torches gave them enough light to work their cannons.
Zanoguerra came over, a list in his hand. “The supply boats are on their way, and they’ll take off the most seriously wounded. You two must return to St. Angelo. Make sure you explain to the Grand Master exactly what we need. We’re firing shot as fast as we can, so we’ll need to be resupplied. If the guns fail, we’ll never stop the assault when it comes.”
“You think you can hold out?” Antonio said, unable to keep the words back.
Zanoguerra laughed. “Longer than those Turks think. Now, get down to the dock before someone else takes your places in the boats.”
He didn’t have to repeat his words. Antonio gathered up his shoes, shirt, and sword, and hurried up the steps, to emerge into the center of the fort. Rubble littered what had been the smooth stone of the inner courtyard. He and Ruvo went toward the steps, but a guard with a musket stopped them.
“No one leaves the fort without permission from Commander Miranda.”
Antonio hadn’t met Sir Jose Miranda, the Knight in charge of the fort, but he had glimpsed him several times during the day.
“We have permission from Master Zanoguerra,” Ruvo said.
The guard shrugged. “Only Commander Miranda,” he repeated.
Ruvo knew better than to argue with a soldier doing his duty. “Come, we’ll have to get Zanoguerra to speak to the commander.”
Before they could turn away, Miranda appeared, leading a group of soldiers assisting at least a dozen wounded men. “Who are these men?” he snapped.
By now Antonio realized that they would be considered cowards abandoning the fort while it was under attack.
“Commander Miranda,” Ruvo said, speaking quickly. “We are the master gunners of St. Angelo and Birgu. We arrived last night to assist Signor Zanoguerra. Now we must return to our duties there and present Signor Zanoguerra’s requests for supplies.”
Miranda needed only a moment to recall their orders. “Pass them down,” he ordered the sentry. “I just hope there’s room in the boat for both you and the wounded. Meanwhile, you can help carry the injured.”
“Thank you, Commander,” Ruvo said. He put his arm around the waist of the first wounded soldier, who had a bloody bandage wrapped around his head, and together they started down the steps. Two soldiers supported the next man, and Antonio took the place of one of the soldiers. The injured man kept slipping in and out of consciousness, and Antonio thought they would never reach the boat dock without falling down the steep stairway.
Three skiffs bobbed up and down at the tiny jetty, having just unloaded their cargos. Antonio helped hand the wounded men down into the vessels. The boat captain came over. “You two take your place at the oars,” he ordered in Spanish. “And keep stroke, or we’re liable to end up on the bottom.”
At last they pushed off. The skiffs were dangerously overloaded. Wounded men were crammed into every available space, and the oarsmen bent their backs against the seemingly unmoving water. Yard by yard, they crept out into the harbor.
“This is worse than the galleys,” Antonio muttered to Ruvo, seated across from him.
“Shut your mouth and row,” the boat captain ordered, pulling on his own oar.
Antonio gritted his teeth and pulled. When they were well out into the harbor, a breeze came up, and the captain put down his oar to raise the tiny sail. The breeze wasn’t much, but it gave the skiff enough help so that the rowers weren’t doing all the work. But the oars never stopped, and pull by pull, they worked their way across the harbor. Halfway across, the Turkish guns ceased firing.
“Why don’t they keep firing?” Antonio kept his voice low, so as not to annoy the boat captain further.
Ruvo shook his head. “Probably want to see where their shots are falling, so they can concentrate their fire. They’ve got plenty of time. I suppose they’ll resume at first light.”
The little fortress was hopeless, Antonio knew. Another few days of such a bombardment, and the walls would be leveled.
At last the looming bulk of St. Angelo rose up before them, and they slipped into Dockyard Creek. They were the second vessel to reach safety, but there was plenty of room on the jetty. More than a dozen men waited there to receive the wounded. When Antonio stepped ashore, he breathed a sigh of relief, and felt as though he’d come home. Anyplace, he decided, was better than the doomed fort of St. Elmo.
Chapter 31
May 25
The streets of Birgu felt peaceful, a safe refuge after the pounding of the guns at St. Elmo’s. They hurried to Ruvo’s house, where his wife, Darmenia, and daughter Rusana wrapped their arms around Ruvo, both unable to stop the tears from coming at his safe return. Rusana’s husband, Leo, offered Antonio a slice of bread. “How bad is it over there?”
“Bad.” Antonio answered between mouthfuls. The bread disappeared before everyone sat down at the table. “St. Elmo’s limestone walls are weaker than those of Birgu.”
Darmenia ladled a portion of stew from the cooking pot onto her husband’s plate, serving him first. Ruvo offered a hurried grace, as Darmenia moved to Antonio and filled his. One bite, and Antonio remembered he hadn’t eaten the entire day. He inhaled the rich aroma of chicken that had been stewing since noon. He had to restrain himself to eat no more than his share.
Everyone felt the first pangs of hunger. Birgu was already on short rations. From now on, there would be a bit of bread and cheese for breakfast, which would have to keep the men going until supper. Antonio noticed that the women gave their men most of the food.
What little conversation occurred was in Maltese, and Antonio didn’t bother trying to follow the discussion from the few words he understood. He wiped the last bit of stew off his plate with the last crust of bread. A moment later, he stretched out in his corner of the common room, his head already nodding. Ruvo and Darmenia went off to their room, and Rusana and Leo had a small alcove with a curtain that gave them some privacy. The baby and Ruvo’s other children slept in the common room.
Just before Antonio’s eyes closed, Ruvo’s youngest son, dragging his small blanket, curled up against Antonio. He wrapped his arms around the six-year old and they fell asleep together.
**
*
Ruvo shook him awake. Antonio glanced at the open door and saw nothing but blackness. Dawn was still an hour away, but he pulled on his brigandine jacket, gathered his sword, and followed Ruvo back to the magazine. A soldier stood guard over the entrance, but passed them through with a nod of recognition.
Deep underground, a single glass-enclosed lantern shed a dim light that showed other men arriving, some still rubbing the sleep from their eyes. Antonio inspected the magazine, looking for loose grains of gunpowder. When he found nothing amiss, he began preparing the charges. He felt the vibration, and knew that dawn had arrived, bringing with it the resumption of the enemy’s guns firing on St. Elmo. Soon the sound of St. Angelo’s guns returning fire filtered down into the magazine.
Around midmorning, one of the Maltese who carried the charges to the walls came down the steps, his bare feet pattering. “Sergeant Ruvo, Sir Oliver wants you and Antonio to come to the rampart.”
The rampart meant the highest part of St. Angelo, the very place that Antonio had climbed on his first day here. Antonio didn’t bother to ask Ruvo what the Knight wanted. Instead, he gathered his shirt and jacket, and followed Ruvo up the steps.
The sun shone brightly as they reached the street, hurrying along the base of the wall, then up the steps. Sir Oliver waited for them, a hint of impatience showing in his tight lips.
“Come, the Grand Master wishes to see you,” Sir Oliver said.
He led them across the rampart to where Valette stood facing north, staring out across the harbor toward Mount Sciberras. De Clermont and a German knight Antonio didn’t recognize flanked the Grand Master.
“Commander Ruvo,” Valette said as they approached. “The infidels’ guns are pounding St. Elmo, and most of our guns are unable to bear on them. Is there anything you can do to lessen their fire?”
Ruvo started talking, but Antonio ignored them all, stepped to the wall and stared across the harbor. This portion of the rampart provided the best sight on the two lines of Turkish cannons stretched along the peninsula, all facing St. Elmo. The enemy’s guns were somewhat higher than St. Angelo’s tallest battlement, and the angle of the Turkish hillside meant that only this section of the wall had a favorable position for firing upon the Turks’ emplacements.