Malta's Guns

by Sam Barone

  The few guns from St. Angelo that could be brought into play continued their counter fire, desperately trying to help the besieged soldiers in St. Elmo, but the Turks continued their charge. Before long, the fort’s ravelin, the triangular-shaped detached outwork, swarmed with Turkish soldiers, and Antonio watched as a few defenders scrambled their way back behind St Elmo’s main wall. Meanwhile, from the ravelin the Turks took position and began to pour heavy arquebus fire on the defenders. The fort’s soldiers repelled the initial attack, driving the enemy away from the walls. When the Turks’ attack began to falter, they launched their strongest weapon – a force of Janissaries.

  Blaring trumpets and cymbals sent this new contingent of the enemy straight toward St. Elmo’s walls. Antonio had heard of these fanatical soldiers of Islam. Taken in early childhood from their parents, many of them Christians, the young boys learned only how to fight and die for their leaders. Supremely skilled and highly trained, they were known to be the toughest fighters in the Sultan’s vast army. When Antonio saw them moving to attack the walls, now that the ravelin was in enemy hands, he knew the end had come for St. Elmo’s defenders.

  But the defenders refused to give up. The latest wave of attackers still had to descend into the ditch, now half-filled with the bloody bodies of the dead, before they could surge toward the wall. The ditch slowed their advance, and the defenders countered with every weapon at their disposal. From the battered walls, they heaved firework hoops, which rolled into the advancing Janissaries, setting their loose-fitting clothes afire.

  Wildfire, a combination of fire pots that exploded into flames when they burst on impact, was another important weapon. A third incendiary device used by the Knights were hollowed-out tubes or wood or metal filled with combustible material. When lit, the tubes spewed Greek fire more than 20 feet, allowing the defenders to sweep any area in front of the walls. Called “trumps” because of the loud, snorting noise it emitted, the weapon was deadly to closely packed ranks of men wearing long, thin robes.

  The flames of these weapons could not be extinguished until the fuel exhausted itself. At the same time, the defenders’ cannons poured grape and fragments of stone into the enemy ranks.

  Even the mighty Janissaries could not withstand these incendiary devices. The attack slowed, then halted, and the Turks fell back. Faint cheers erupted from St. Elmo’s walls, to be echoed a moment later by the men watching from St. Angelo’s ramparts, a mighty sound that rose into a din that carried across the water.

  Even as the Turks faltered, the enemy’s cannons resumed their bombardment and the cheers quickly faded beneath the thunder of the Turkish guns.

  Later Antonio learned from Sir Oliver that more than 2,000 of the Sultan’s troops lay dead at the base of St. Elmo’s walls, many of them the cream of the Janissary force. The defenders lost only 70 men and 10 knights, though many more were injured.

  Nevertheless, the captured ravelin remained in Turkish hands. From it, only forty yards from St. Elmo’s walls, now came a steady fire as Turkish sharpshooters went to work.

  For three more days, the bombardment of St. Elmo continued. At sundown, Antonio stared in wonder at the Knights’ banners still flying from the fort’s walls. And each morning, he found them still in place, battered, torn by shot, but still waving defiance at their attackers. But despite their success in resisting the Turks, everyone knew the fort’s position remained grave.

  Word filtered back that the defenders were exhausted, weak, and ready to collapse. The incessant bombardment was taking its toll on the gallant soldiers. Burned by the sun all day, they had to stay at their posts, eating, drinking, and even relieving themselves where they lay crouched behind the nearly ruined walls. The besieged Knights begged Valette’s permission to end their suffering by allowing them to charge their enemies and die in battle.

  Valette refused to weaken, and repeated his orders to defend the fort for as long as possible. Antonio understood the Grand Master’s dilemma. Every day that St. Elmo stood was another day of respite for St. Angelo, and possibly one day closer to the relief force arriving from Sicily.

  Despite the little fort’s heavy losses, Valette insisted that its soldiers continue to defend the walls. He twice forbade them permission to die fighting in one last counter attack. The duty of the Knights had led them to this place and time, and if necessary they would be required to lay down their lives at the Grand Master’s command and in the exact manner he directed.

  June 3

  Late in the afternoon, Ruvo descended the steps into the magazine where Antonio worked, supervising and helping to prepare cartridges for the guns. He looked up from the powder preparation table as St. Angelo’s master gunner approached. It lacked a few hours before sundown, when Ruvo usually appeared to summon him home for their dinner. Antonio’s usual greeting faded into silence when he saw the expression on Sergeant Ruvo’s face.

  “Antonio, I’ve new orders for you,” he began. “You’ll be taking charge of all the magazines and the guns on Birgu and the harbor wall.”

  While Antonio had helped out almost every day with the guns, the official responsibility for the gunpowder storage and preparation in the magazines still remained under Sergeant Ruvo’s authority.

  “What’s happened?”

  Ruvo eased his way onto a stool at the side of the table. “Sergeant Zanoguerra is dead, cut in half by a cannon ball that took two others with him. St. Elmo’s commander requested that another gunner be assigned to replace him. The Grand Master summoned all the senior gunners and asked for volunteers.”

  Antonio couldn’t believe his ears. “You volunteered? How can you do that? You know what will . . .”

  “Someone needed to go, Antonio. The longer St. Elmo can hold out . . .”

  “You’ve a family, a wife and children,” Antonio said. “There are others who can go.”

  Ruvo shook his head. “I am the most senior gunner left in St. Angelo. How would I hold my men’s respect if I failed to do my duty? And who would I send in my place? The other men have families of their own.” He smiled. “Besides, I know St. Angelo’s magazines will be in your good hands.”

  He slid from the stool, and clasped his hand on Antonio’s shoulder. “I’m returning home now, to spend some time with Darmenia. But tonight, you’ll please Darmenia and my family by joining us a little earlier for dinner. The boats to St. Elmo will depart soon after dark.”

  Antonio watched him disappear up the steps, to return to his house. Soon his Maltese wife would be wailing in her grief. Everyone knew that those who departed for St. Elmo did not return, not unless gravely wounded.

  “Not if I can help it,” Antonio swore.

  He finished measuring and stitching up the serge cartridge case. “I’m going to find Sir Oliver,” he said to those still working. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Once out of the magazine and into the lane, Antonio retrieved his shoes, then headed for the command post. At dusk Sir Oliver and the Grand Master usually took a walk around the walls, always ending on the harbor side, at the English post, where they could see across the harbor at St. Elmo.

  But sunset remained a good hour away, so Antonio walked the lanes until he reached the center of Birgu. The Grand Master had moved his command post outside the small house. Two desks covered with maps and lists of names helped Valette coordinate the defense of St. Angelo and St. Michael. Within the house, clerks and senior commanders assisted the commander. Valette had his own house, of course, but he had chosen to make himself seen and heard by the Maltese villagers by taking his station among them.

  By now Antonio understood that this decision had not been made lightly. It was the people of Birgu who needed to rush to the walls when the assaults began. If they thought that the Grand Master and his senior Knights were concerned only with the fortress and its occupants, that the people of Birgu were mere pawns in the island’s defense, they would not fight as bravely.

  He reached the house and presented himself
to the guard. “I want to speak with Sir Oliver.”

  “He’s inside,” the guard answered. He’d seen Antonio enough times by now with the English Knight. Anyone else would have been questioned, even challenged about leaving their post. “But you’d better wait a few moments. There are some Knights inside talking with the Grand Master.”

  It took more than a few moments. A quarter hour passed before three Knights stepped into the lane, all of them speaking in French, their words coming so fast that Antonio couldn’t catch their meaning.

  The guard leaned inside the doorway, and whispered something to the clerk stationed just beyond. A moment later, the clerk stuck his head out the door and waved Antonio inside.

  Though he’d visited the command post before, Antonio never failed to be impressed. Maps of the island, the harbor, the three forts, Mdina, Sicily, and Italy covered the walls. Three large tables filled the center of the room, one used by the Grand Master for his desk, the other two for meetings. Sir Oliver had a smaller desk only a few steps from Valette’s, and six clerks shared three smaller tables where they worked copying orders, and reviewing manifests, storage reports, and all the other paperwork required to fight an organized, large-scale campaign.

  “Ah, good to see you, Antonio.” Sir Oliver’s smile seemed genuine. “You wish to see me?”

  Antonio risked a glance at the Grand Master, hunched over his desk, his face as grim as those of the knights who had just departed.

  “Yes, Sir Oliver.” Antonio moved to stand directly in front of the English Knight’s desk. “I understand you’re looking for volunteers to go to St. Elmo tonight.”

  The Knight’s smile faded. “Yes, we’re preparing another relief force. The men have been selected, but if you wish to join them . . .”

  “No, milord,” Antonio said. “I don’t wish to join them. But I think it would be better for everyone if I went in Sergeant Ruvo’s place. He knows more about St. Angelo’s defenses than anyone.”

  The words hung in the air, and Antonio realized the room had gone silent. He felt the eyes of the Grand Master on the back of his neck.

  “Did Sergeant Ruvo ask you to take his place?”

  Sir Oliver’s question seemed simple enough, but Antonio understood its implication. If Sergeant Ruvo was attempting to avoid his duty, he could be hanged for treason. Would be. Since the siege began, the Grand Master had already hanged four men who had tried to shirk their duties.

  “No, Sir Oliver. Sergeant Ruvo has gone to make peace with his family. He knows nothing of this. But I have eaten with them every night since my arrival at Malta, and how could I face them again if I let him go?”

  Sir Oliver’s eyes turned toward the Grand Master for a moment, then returned to Antonio. “I know you did not come to Malta willingly. If you remain here, you may yet return to your home when Don Garcia’s relief force arrives.”

  From what little Antonio had heard of the Spanish Viceroy’s caution, he knew the relief force might not appear for months, if indeed it arrived at all. “Yes, I understand. But I cannot remain here and watch Sergeant Ruvo die on St. Elmo.”

  “Let him go in Ruvo’s place.” The Grand Master’s voice answered Sir Oliver’s question. “Greater love hath no man, than to lay down his life for his friend.”

  Lay down your life. Antonio knew that this meant his death. To his surprise, he accepted his fate. “Thank you, Sir Oliver,” he said with a bow, then turned to Valette, and bowed again. “Thank you, Grand Master. With your permission, I will go tell Sergeant Ruvo.”

  He turned and strode from the room, his shoulders held high, and he didn’t give in to the weakness in his knees until he was well down the lane and out of sight of the command post. Then he had to pause and lean up against the side of house for a moment, ignoring the stares of those passing by in the lane.

  I’m 17 years old, and I’ll be dead in a few days. He remembered his eagerness to be a soldier, like his brother or even Sergeant Ruvo. The foolish fancies of a boy. Now Antonio realized what Bernardo, what Martin and Will had known all along – that a soldier’s life hung by a thread, and that at any moment capricious fate could snap the slender string that bound soul to body.

  For a moment, he struggled with the temptation to go back to the command post and ask to remain in St. Angelo. But that would show fear, and Antonio resolved that no Englishman would ever show cowardice in front of these French and Italians.

  His mind made up, Antonio pushed himself away from the wall and resumed his way down the lane, heading for Ruvo’s house. I was right all along. I should never have gone to Venice.

  Chapter 35

  Six hours later, Antonio once again stepped onto the tiny dock at the base of St. Elmo, a bag of food slung over one shoulder, and his sword clutched in one hand. The journey across the dark waters of the harbor had taken much longer than the last time. The Turks knew about the nightly reinforcements to the fort, and had already made several efforts to intercept or turn back any boats. Tonight, fortunately, no Turks had noticed their passage, and the three small boats had all landed safely, despite being crammed to the gunwales with men and supplies.

  “At least we made it.” Apprentice gunner Sachetti had joined the volunteers at the last minute.

  “You shouldn’t have come,” Antonio said, not for the first time.

  “I couldn’t let you go by yourself,” Sachetti said. “You know you’ll need me.”

  Like Antonio, Sachetti had volunteered at the last moment, as soon as he learned that Antonio was going to St. Elmo. The gesture surprised Antonio. Apparently the few kind words the two young men had exchanged in the last week or so had created a bond between them.

  They stood aside as the rest of the men carefully disembarked. Only when the last of them had disappeared up the narrow steps did Antonio and Sachetti begin the always delicate process of unloading the gunpowder cargo, divided equally among the boats in case one should be lost, onto the tiny dock’s rough planking.

  A gang of Maltese soldiers descended the steps to carry the precious gunpowder up to the fort. The kegs of explosives were literally worth their weight in gold. Only gunpowder in its various forms kept the Turks at bay. Antonio sent Sachetti up to the fort, to supervise the powder when it reached the top. St. Elmo stood high above the water, on the top of the hill, and climbing the ascent required concentration and strong lungs.

  Antonio handed each keg over to its porter himself, taking his time and making sure there was plenty of space between the men as they ascended. Each of the Maltese looked weary, and that made him even more cautious with the gunpowder. The steps to the top of the hill were steep and twisted back on themselves several times. He didn’t want one man to stumble and take down a whole row of men and their precious kegs.

  It took most of an hour before everything was up in the fort, and Antonio carried up the last keg himself. To his surprise, he found a group of men at the head of the steps, all anxiously awaiting his arrival.

  No lights burned in the fort. The moon provided a dim glow that enabled Antonio to make his way. The Turkish snipers would shoot at any target they could see. Antonio realized the men waiting were the wounded, many of them swathed in bandages, some of them moaning softly in the darkness. Only those too severely injured to fight would be permitted to leave St. Elmo. Most of them would die of their wounds in Birgu’s hospital, despite the best efforts of the Knights to tend to their injuries.

  As soon as Antonio cleared the last step, the wounded began their descent, most being supported by one or two others. Some were so badly disabled that they needed to be carried, another difficult operation on the steep descent to the water.

  Now that he stood within the fort, the odor of rotting flesh wafted over him. The Turkish dead, all of them unburied, still lay in heaps beneath the walls on the landward side of St. Elmo, struck down by musket or burning pitch or whatever other weapon the defenders had brought to bear. The sun’s rays grew stronger each passing summer day, and quickened the de
composition of what used to be human flesh. Antonio felt his gorge rising and he took a deep breath to calm his stomach. The sooner he got used to the stench the better.

  He started toward the magazine, but a hand grabbed his arm.

  “Where are you going?” The voice belonged to one of the soldiers guarding the steps, a sergeant by his tone and demeanor. “All new men are to report to the walls.”

  Antonio shook his arm loose. “I’m Master Gunner Antonio Pesaro, Señor Zanoguerra’s replacement. My place is in the magazine.”

  “Commandant’s orders. You’ll go where you’re told.” He took a fresh grip on Antonio’s arm.

  Antonio’s rage, bottled up since he’d first learned of Sergeant Ruvo’s volunteering, chose that moment to burst through the fatalistic façade he’d maintained. With a sudden twist Antonio jerked his arm free. At the same time, he shoved the man in the chest, knocking him backwards and sending him stumbling to the ground.

  “Keep your hands off me,” Antonio snarled, almost as surprised as the man at his feet. If these were to be his last few hours, he didn’t intend to have anyone push him around.

  “What’s going on here?”

  Another hand gripped Antonio’s shoulder and spun him around. “Who are you?”

  Antonio saw the glint of armor under the white surcoat. One of the Knights. “I’m Master Gunner Pesaro, sent to replace Señor Zanoguerra. Who are you?”

  “I am Sir Luigi Broglia, commandant of St. Elmo. And you will do as you are told from now on, or I’ll put the rope around your neck and hang you myself.”

  “I told him to report to the wall, Commandant.” The soldier had regained his feet.

  “And he will, when everything in the magazine is in order.” Broglia had taken command of St. Elmo after Commandant Miranda’s death from his wounds. Broglia, more than anyone in the fort, understood the need for Antonio’s skills. “Do you know the way to the magazine?”