by Sam Barone
Nevertheless, the enemy positions weren’t much higher, and the slightest increase in elevation might bring them within reach. A few accurate weapons might inflict quite a bit of damage to the Turks’ cannons. Antonio began the calculations in his head, estimating the height and trajectory needed to reach across the harbor.
“Antonio!”
It was the second time someone had called his name. He turned to see Sir Oliver and the others facing him.
“Have you any suggestions?” Sir Oliver asked. “Anything we can do?”
The Grand Master and the others looked grim, but de Clermont smiled as he studied Antonio’s face.
“Yes, Sir Oliver,” Antonio said. Ruvo obviously had offered no practical suggestion. “You need about 25 more feet of height for your guns. If you can construct an additional rampart there,” he indicated a place on the rampart about 30 feet away, “you should be able to reach those guns. I’d use 32-pounders for the new battery, the most accurate ones you can find, and start at 30 degrees of elevation.”
“If we raise a new rampart here,” Sir Oliver said, “every Turkish gun will be targeted at it.”
“Yes, sir,” Antonio said. “Any guns that can’t help St. Elmo will have to give counter-fire.”
“Anything else, Antonio?”
“For this rampart, you’ll need to use your thickest granite blocks, good ones, not like those used at St. Elmo. And they’ll need to be firmly anchored as well. Otherwise, when they take a hit, the blocks will be as dangerous as the cannon balls.”
Everyone turned to the Grand Master. Raising a new rampart would certainly attract the Turks’ attention. They would be firing at them the moment they saw a new battery aimed at them.
“You think you can reach them from here?” Valette’s voice remained soft.
Antonio understood the question. Men would die building and manning the battery, and if it couldn’t disrupt the Turkish guns, they would be dying in vain. “Yes, Grand Master. But you’ll need at least two guns, three would be better, if you want to have any effect on the enemy’s guns.”
Grand Master Valette didn’t hesitate. “Build the young man’s rampart, Sir Oliver. But just large enough for two guns. And try not to reveal what you’re doing until you have everything in readiness. No sense giving the infidels more time to stop us.”
Antonio turned to Ruvo, wondering whether the older man would be offended at his plan.
Ruvo smiled back. “It’s a good idea. And Antonio probably knows more about building a rampart than I do,” he added. “But I’m sure we can build something high enough to give the Turks a few hits.”
Sir Oliver stepped closer to Antonio. “Tell me what you’ll need.”
Antonio spent the rest of the day working with Sir Oliver. First they assembled a crew of masons, who started moving the stone blocks up to the rampart. Another crew of carpenters prepared the planks and beams needed to anchor the guns. Ropes and tackles were brought up from Dockyard Creek to help with the heavy lifting. Antonio walked the ramparts, examining the guns, and located three bronze 32-pound cannons that he thought would throw an accurate shot.
There would be no way to tell for sure, until the guns started firing. Ruvo selected a stock of gunpowder for the cartridges, and persuaded Sir Oliver to allow use of the Knights limited supply of iron cannonballs. Since the iron balls tended to fit the gun barrels more accurately, the knights preferred to save those for use on any ships that dared to enter the harbor. But the English Knight gave his approval, and a hundred of the precious iron cannonballs were moved up to the rampart by crews of sweating men and women from the town.
Soon Antonio found he had more than 60 men, and a quite a few women and children, coming to him for instructions. He faced a dozen men of all ages, and explained what he wanted them to build. A rough sketch of an “E-shaped” bastion, the long part of the “E” facing Mount Sciberras, would give the best protection to the two gun emplacements.
Extra blocks would be inserted wherever possible, to provide as much strength and security to the men who would be operating the guns. Since most of the masons were native Maltese, Ruvo acted as a translator, and made sure everyone knew what they had to do. When Antonio felt satisfied, everyone got to work.
The sweating masons manhandled the first row of blocks into position, pounding iron pins into the base of the rampart. Another back-breaking job, but the thick iron rods would help secure the new bastion, and prevent it from shifting when hit by enemy cannonballs. They added the second row, sealing the joints between them with fresh mortar.
Before long, the sun began to dip below the horizon, but everyone kept working. Women brought food and water to the men, and the darkness helped hide the construction, though it slowed down the effort. Torches would have attracted too much attention, but a few well-shielded candles gave some light, and the moon soon provided a bit more.
Each block to be inserted rested on a thick plank, a rope threaded through holes in the wood. Two men dragged the block, while two others pushed from behind, everyone grunting with the effort. Four men were just strong enough to lift each block and set it in its place. The steady scrape-scrape-scrape of the masons mixing and applying the mortar continued even as the new rampart rose higher.
More mortar coated the exterior facing of the battery, and another thick layer on the interior. Everything to help strengthen the wall was done, and even the row of blocks that would separate the two guns was cemented into place. It would take a few days to harden properly, but the more that could be done, the better.
Even before the new rampart was finished, Ruvo had men moving the guns into position. Planks to support the carriages and smooth the recoil were laid and leveled by the carpenters inside each bastion, and another long line of men, each carrying an iron cannonball, ascended the last set of steps to deliver their burden. Gunpowder as well, though not so much of that. Too much powder was dangerous, and Antonio preferred to keep the powder supply out of harm’s way.
“They’ll be done soon,” Ruvo said. “We might as well get an hour’s sleep before dawn.”
“Go home,” Antonio said. “I’ll sleep here, in case they need me.”
By now Antonio’s Italian and Spanish, combined with a dozen words in Maltese, were usually sufficient to respond to any questions. He moved away from the men still laboring and curled up against the main rampart, finding a place between two cannons. In moments Antonio fell asleep, exhausted by the long day and night’s work.
A Maltese woman shook him awake just before dawn. “Food and water,” she said, thrusting a loaf of bread into his hands.
It took him a moment before he understood her odd Italian. Antonio still wasn’t used to the lilting accent the Maltese added to their words.
“Thank you,” he said, pushing himself into a sitting position. He took the water jug and drained half of it, before he turned his attention to the bread. Just as he finished, a glint of armor moved toward him.
“Good morning,” Sir Oliver said, his voice as calm as ever, and his armor and surcoat impeccable. He could have been going to meet the Queen of England at the Palace. “Did you get some rest, Antonio?”
“Some, my lord,” Antonio said. He climbed to his feet, still holding the last of the bread in his hand.
“The Turks are already moving about on Mount Sciberras,” Sir Oliver said. “Are your men ready to open fire?”
Antonio hadn’t thought of them as his men, but the gun crews Ruvo had handpicked would certainly be expecting him to take charge. “I’ll see to the guns, Sir Oliver.”
Four men to each gun, and another two to carry powder and shot. They waited beside their weapons, some looking as tired as Antonio felt. The first rays of the sun lifted over the horizon as Antonio greeted them.
“Load your guns,” he said.
They took their time. There was no reason to rush now. They wouldn’t fire until they could see the fall of the shot. From Mount Sciberras, a cannon boomed, the Turks’ firs
t shot of the day directed toward St. Elmo’s. The Turks didn’t need to see where their shots fell. Their guns were already sighted on the little fortress. Another gun boomed, and another, as the Turks commenced the day’s bombardment.
Antonio checked the trajectory, using Ruvo’s gunner’s quadrant, the L-shaped instrument that was used to set the elevation and aim the weapon. By the time he’d aimed both guns, sunlight flooded the sea to the east. When he was satisfied with how the guns lay, he marked the position of the back wheel of each carriage with a bit of chalk. When he finished, he saw a group of Knights watching him. Sir Oliver, the Grand Master, and de Clermont stood behind him, all wearing their armor. Ruvo joined them, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
Antonio had named the cannon on the left Gun Number One. “Fire One,” he ordered.
The gun captain applied the burning match to the touchhole, and the bronze gun roared out its challenge, the first shot fired from St. Angelo that day.
Antonio watched the ball arch out over the harbor, a minute black dot with a small tail that streaked across the sky. His eyes were good, and he could just follow the tiny black line that marked the shot’s passage. He lost it against the shadow of Mount Sciberras, but saw the dust cloud that rose from its landing, then a second puff of dust from the ricochet closer to the top. Too short.
“Fire Two,” he ordered.
Again he watched the passage of the ball, as this one, too, landed short.
“Reload One and Two.” He supervised the loading, and made sure the guns remained aimed at their original targets and in alignment with his chalk marks. It took another few moments to change the elevation on both cannons to 32 degrees. Antonio wanted the cannon balls to just cross the top of the line of hills, so their trajectory would flatten out as they traveled down the line of Turkish guns. They would almost certainly hit something as they bounced along.
Two more shots fell short, and Antonio added another degree of elevation. The bronze barrels roared again, and both shots cleared the hill, one shell brushing dust from the top of the hill into the air in its passage before it landed amid the Turkish gunners. A cheer went up from the bastion, and that was echoed along the main rampart. Antonio saw some of the gun crews watching in awe. That was good shooting, to find the range so quickly. And more than a bit of luck, he decided.
“Hold the elevation at 33 degrees, men,” he shouted, making sure he sounded confident. “And keep the aim true. The slightest shift will move the trajectory.”
For the next hour the two guns boomed, first one, then the other, and every two minutes another iron cannonball shrieked its way across the harbor. The Turks noticed, of course, and they soon turned a few guns to fire at this new menace.
Once again Antonio thought about the men trying to kill him. On board the Pinnace, the French hadn’t singled him out, and until now the Turks had targeted the fort of St. Elmo. Now enemy gunners were aiming their weapons right for the bastion where he stood, directing the fire of the battery. But the other cannons on St. Angelo’s fired back, and so far the new rampart hadn’t been hit.”
However Antonio and his little battery remained targets, and he found the experience unnerving. Nevertheless, he refused to show any trace of fear in the presence of the Knights, or his own men for that matter. By now he felt assured that his gunners knew what was needed. He moved off the bastion and strode over to Sir Oliver.
“My lord, may I suggest we change the guns and crew every hour. Sooner or later the Turks will land a shell here. At least this way the men will know they have a chance to avoid being hit.
“A good suggestion, Antonio,” Sir Oliver said. “Make whatever arrangement you feel are needed.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And as soon as you can, assign new gun captains as well,” the Knight added. “I’d rather have you working with Sergeant Ruvo in the magazine. We’ll need your skills again, I’m sure.”
Ruvo arrived at that moment, with two fresh gun crews.
“I’ll find another bronze gun,” Antonio said, as relieved as he could allow himself to be at the chance to avoid spending the whole day in the bastion. With luck, he might yet live through the day. “The guns will need to cool down as well.”
No gun ever cast could fire every few minutes for more than an hour or two. The metal would expand from the rapidly increasing temperature, affecting its accuracy, and the intense heat would weaken the reinforcing bands holding the sections of barrel together.
Mid-morning arrived before Antonio descended from the bastion, satisfied at last that all the crews knew what to do. Once again, he found Sir Oliver waiting for him.
“A good job, Antonio. The Grand Master is pleased that God has sent you to us.”
Antonio thought it more likely that Olivio and the devil had contrived to trap him on Malta. “I’m glad to help, sir. But I’m not sure we’re having much effect. The Turks keep adding more guns to pound St. Elmo. With so many guns firing, I’m not sure St. Elmo can withstand such a bombardment.”
“Whatever you’ve done helps St. Elmo. Without this battery, the number of shots falling on the fort would be even greater.”
A cannonball from Mount Sciberras whistled over their heads, missing the bastion by only a few feet. Instinctively, Antonio ducked his head, though he knew the shell was long gone by then, passing over the walls of St. Angelo and landing somewhere in the middle of the village. A cloud of dust rose up to mark its landing, followed by the screams of a woman. Antonio wondered how many villagers had just died. Sir Oliver didn’t flinch, and he pretended not to notice Antonio’s movement.
“There’s nothing more for you to do here, Antonio. Better return to your regular duties.”
“If you don’t mind, Sir Oliver, I’d like to remain here with the guns. I need to know as much as possible about our cannons, how they shoot, how the crews work, all the little things that make for good shooting.”
“Very well. Stay as long as necessary,” Sir Oliver said. “May God keep you safe.”
Another shell struck the main rampart directly below Antonio’s battery. The cannon ball didn’t penetrate the thicker wall of the main rampart, so it must have been fired from one of the Turks’ smaller field pieces, probably a culverin. If one of their big cannons firing a 40 or 50-pound cannonball had struck in the same place, a portion of the wall would have been demolished.
Antonio’s luck held throughout the day. No shells managed to strike the tiny battery, and its two guns continued to annoy the Turks firing on St. Elmo. On the downslope of the hill, the Turks would be forced to build more ramparts to try to deflect this new battery, which would take time and effort. Sadly, Antonio guessed his efforts hadn’t reduced the shelling of St. Elmo by more than five or ten percent. But that slight reduction today might have saved some lives in the small outer fort, so he took comfort in that.
Chapter 32
Venice, May 26
Rumors swirled through Venice – the Turks had landed at Malta, they had captured Malta, the Turks had blockaded Palermo, the Turks were attacking every harbor in the Mediterranean. In the Piazza San Marco, groups of men stood gesticulating as they repeated the latest speculations, all coming from someone who knew somebody close to the Signoria.
Nearly every account ended with the Turks about to anchor off Venice’s harbor and cannonade the city. Each new flight of fancy swept through the Republic’s citizens and replaced the one before it, and each proved as empty of facts as the last. For Martin and Will, only one truth remained – 15 days had elapsed since Antonio departed for Malta, and he had not yet returned to Venice.
One by one the days had dragged by. Each evening, as soon as the sun went down and no more ships were expected, Martin paced back and forth in their tiny courtyard, a grim look on his face. In the morning he and Will rose before dawn and watched the sun rise over the Adriatic. They spent the last five days standing on the southernmost breakwater wall, waiting and hoping. Their eyes searched the sea channel for
any ships returning from Malta.
Antonio had departed on the 10th day of May, just as the first rush of rumors about the Turks swept through Venice. The two Englishmen weren’t the only ones wondering about the voyage of Captain Bredani and his three galleys. Most Venetians speculated about his fate at every opportunity. Not to mention that several members of the Signoria had invested heavily in the cargo the three ships carried. If those galleys and the arms they carried were lost at sea or captured by the Turks, more than a few investors would feel a heavy financial loss.
Not that Martin cared about merchant Rambaldo or the amount of ducats he gained or lost. Nevertheless, others scanned the same horizon for the same ships and worried just as much about Bredani’s fate. A little after noon on May 26, a lookout in his perch high above the rampart rang the bell that signaled ships in sight. Ten more minutes passed before Martin spotted the vessels, three galleys moving slowly toward the lagoon.
“Think it’s them?” Will stood beside his friend and shared Martin’s anxiety.
“Could be. They’re at least two days overdue.”
A crowd of people had rushed to the ramparts, all eager for news. Many had friends or family members aboard, and losing five hundred men and three war galleys would be a serious blow to the people of Venice. Even if the approaching ships were other trading galleys, they might bear news of Malta, the missing galleys, or the Turkish advance.
“It’s Bredani! It’s Bredani!”
The excited voice started a roll of shouting and cheering. Now each pull of the oars by the lead galley seemed to confirm the news. Whether wishful thinking or good luck, the sighting turned out to be correct. Soon enough, everyone could see Rambaldo’s ensign waving from the mast of the first ship. Captain Bredani and his ships had returned.