Malta's Guns

by Sam Barone

  “Watch your step and keep your head down. The infidel arquebusiers are less than a hundred paces away, and they’ll shoot your eyes out. The heathens are devilish good shots.”

  Antonio stumbled over a loose chunk of rock, and decided to pay closer attention to his feet. He imitated the sergeant, who moved in a crouch, hunched over to keep his head below what remained of the inner wall.

  Eight men sat within the bastion, leaning their backs against the crumbling parapet. “Men, this is your new commander, Antonio. He’s the master gunner what stood up to the Commandant last night. Do what he tells you.”

  The sergeant shifted his attention back to Antonio. “This portion of the wall is your station, and these two guns are yours. These four fools without muskets are your gun crews. The rest will try to keep you alive. Your job is to keep the main wall to your left swept of Turks. If they look like they’re about to breach the walls, you’ll have to rush down and help us repel them. God be with you.”

  With that the sergeant was gone, to see to the other men assigned to him.

  Antonio glanced around his assigned position. The demi-bastion long wall faced the enemy lines. A shorter one looked out to the left, toward the main wall or curtain as they called it. Enemy soldiers assaulting the main wall would be subject to flanking fire from here. The bastion contained two sakers, each weighing about 1,600 or 1,700 pounds, mounted on two-wheeled carriages.

  The four soldiers in the bastion had swords, knives, and poles scattered around, as well as matches and a fire pot. Their task would be keep the bastion defended from direct attack. All four of them had taken wounds, and one man had bloody bandages on his left arm and right leg. Everyone in the bastion looked exhausted and no one gave more than a quick glance at their new commander. Antonio doubted they had much fight left in them.

  “Sachetti, make sure the guns are ready and in position. Don’t let any part of your body show above the wall or through the embrasure. The Turks’ sharpshooters are good.”

  While Sachetti saw to the guns, Antonio inspected the hoops and wildfire pots. No trumps waited in the bastion, since what remained of its walls were too high for the weapons to be used effectively. Antonio made sure that the two iron fire baskets contained plenty of wood, since both the gun matches and the other weapons needed a ready source of flame. Ten fire pots and ten hoop weapons were in place along one side of the bastion, ready to be ignited and hurled down at the enemy.

  A Turkish gun boomed out across the marsh, the first shot of the day against St. Elmo. It must have sailed right over the fort, to splash in the harbor below, because Antonio heard no impact. Within moments, the rest of the Turkish guns commenced firing.

  He glanced down at the gun crews huddled behind the guns, trying to keep the iron brutes between themselves and the enemy. These two also wore bandages, one on his leg, and the other across his shoulder. Neither looked as if they would be any use in a fight, and he understood why they’d been assigned to this location. If the Turks got this far into the fort, men such as these were dead. But they could still be useful manning the guns.

  “Are the guns ready?”

  “Yes, and filled to the muzzle with stones and rock chips. They’ll probably explode and kill us all.” Sachetti pointed to a candle stuck in a crack of the wall, the last resort for the matches. It would be lit when the attack began, ready if the fire pots were extinguished. “We’ve fire and plenty of cartridges.”

  The bastion’s height made it a tempting target for the enemy guns, clearly visible about a mile away. Antonio glanced out over what remained of the wall. His sakers should be able to reach . . . A musket ball struck the wall about a hand’s length from his head, sending a stone splinter flying.

  Instinctively Antonio ducked. Sachetti’s eyes were wide with surprise. Another bullet struck almost at the same spot. If the second one had arrived first, Antonio would be dead.

  “Don’t raise your head for more than a second or two,” one of the men warned. “They keep their muskets aimed at one particular spot, and wait for someone to poke their head up.”

  Antonio chanced another glance over the wall and ducked back down. “How close are their sharpshooters?”

  The man looked at Antonio in surprise. “They’re dug in on the ravelin. They captured it two days ago.”

  Antonio’s jaw dropped. The ravelin formed the outer defense fortification of St. Elmo. Its walls were almost as high as the fort itself. If the ravelin were in enemy hands, the fort was doomed.

  For a moment the thought of his death overwhelmed him, and he sagged against the gun’s carriage. But only for a moment. These men had survived many days, and St. Elmo had not fallen. Perhaps it could hold out for one more day. A chance to live another day was worth fighting for.

  The Turkish barrage had reached its maximum, with every gun firing at St. Elmo. As the shelling continued, Antonio tried to get a count of the enemy guns. He knew the Turks took anywhere from two to three minutes to safely load and fire a cannon.

  “Sachetti, count to 120.”

  The boy’s eyes widened, but he started counting aloud.

  “To yourself. I want to count the number of cannons firing against us.”

  The process proved more difficult than it sounded. Cannons sometimes fired together, and the larger ones would be much slower to reload. Nonetheless, when Sachetti announced he’d finished, Antonio had heard at least 51 separate blasts. Of course more than a few cannons would likely be under repair or might even be idle waiting for powder or shot.

  “How many?” Sachetti asked the question, but the others in the bastion showed interest as well.

  “At least 50. Too many to worry about,” Antonio shook his head and forced a grim smile to his lips.

  The Turkish artillery continued shelling the fort for the next two hours. Fortunately, the bastion was not hit. Even before the cannonade ceased, Antonio, huddled behind the wall with the rest of his men, heard the shouts and cymbals of the Turks as they mustered their men for the attack. Most of the defenders ventured a quick peek over the walls or through the gun embrasures. Antonio saw the enemy soldiers moving up the slope. A musket ball from an enemy sharpshooter struck the bastion, sending splinters of stone flying from the ricochet.

  Antonio nodded to Sachetti. “They’re coming.”

  Sachetti and his crew ran the guns up into the openings, while bullets whizzed overhead. Below the bastion, the first guns of St. Elmo began firing at the masses of advancing enemy. Another quick look told Antonio that it would take them only a few minutes to reach the ravelin, join up with the sharpshooters there, and then start the assault.

  “We’ll only get one shot,” Antonio called out. “Then shift the guns to cover the wall as fast as you can.”

  Without waiting for Antonio’s order, Sachetti touched the burning match to the touchhole, and the cannon banged out its sharp retort, followed a few seconds later by the second gun. Antonio had a glimpse of at least half a dozen men brought down by the shot, just as they reached the far side of the ravelin. The heavy recoil slammed both weapons back into the bastion, and the crews swarmed over them. The still-smoking bore was swabbed out, fresh powder cartridges inserted, then rammed home. Rock fragments and debris went into the barrel, almost completely filling the iron tube.

  That was dangerous, Antonio knew, but the guns appeared sound enough to withstand the added pressure for a few shots at least. When it was loaded, Antonio shoved his shoulder against the carriage, and the crew twisted the barrel as far to the left as the embrasure allowed. Sachetti’s crew was even faster, pointing their saker in the same direction.

  Meanwhile, the four arquebusiers had already fired their weapons and were busy reloading. They scarcely needed to aim, just thrust the weapon’s barrel over the wall and touch the burning match to the side of the musket. Meanwhile, the enemy wave had burst around and over the ravelin and stormed toward the wall. But their progress was slowed by the dead bodies rotting in the sun, and they still ha
d to enter and surmount the ditch at the base of the wall.

  That, too, was filled with corpses. Regardless, the screaming Turks jumped down into the filthy ditch, dragging their ladders with them, scrambled over the festering corpses, and slammed the ladders up against the walls. Down below the bastion, Antonio knew more enemy were struggling through the ditch beneath him, to attack the bastion. But those had to wait.

  He took a few seconds to position the gun, aiming it at mass of swords and scimitars waving at the base of the wall to his left. A quick adjustment to lower the barrel, and he twisted away. “Fire!”

  The saker gave a mighty blast, and spewed its debris toward the men. Behind the barrel, Antonio took a moment to see the effect, partially hidden by the smoke swirling from the cannon’s barrel. Two ladders had been knocked down, and what looked like a dozen fresh bodies lay scattered at the base of the wall. Other Turks staggered about, wounded by the fast-moving stones and blocking the advance of their own men.

  “Reload!” Antonio shouted. But now Sachetti would take over the guns. Instead, Antonio grabbed up two fire pots, lit the fuses, and hurled them over the wall. Beneath the bastion, he knew more Turks were scrambling up the ditch. Again and again he hurled fire pots over the wall, this time flinging them directly down the side of the wall. He heard the screams of men touched by the fire. Some would be badly burned by the flaming oil that could not be extinguished. But even those suffering only small scalds would likely be out of the fight.

  In moments, Antonio exhausted his supply of fire pots. The smell of roasting flesh rose up the bastion, and he heard men below crying out in agony as the fire scorched their flesh. The two cannons boomed again, sweeping the ditch to the left. Antonio ignored the guns and concentrated on the fire hoops. He lit two of them, then, using the tongs, tossed them over the wall.

  He managed to throw two more, before the first ladder slammed against the top of the bastion. Suddenly Antonio heard the distinct shouts and war cries of the attackers below, though the sound had probably been non-stop. A face and sword appeared, but one of the defenders fired his weapon, and the ball struck the Turk squarely in the face before he could raise his sword. Even so, a second ladder slammed against the rampart and another blade tip rose over the wall.

  Antonio was the closest. He snatched his sword from its scabbard and thrust it at the horrific face that appeared before him. The point of the weapon found the man’s eye, and shoved his head back. With a cry, the Turk fell backward off the ladder. Something burned along Antonio’s arm before he could jerk the sword back. This time he rammed the point against one of the ladder’s poles, and pushed with all his might. The weight of men on the ladder was too great for one man, but another arquebusier shoved the butt of his weapon against the other pole, and suddenly the ladder twisted and tipped over, accompanied by the cries of men falling through the air and into the ditch.

  The fighting raged everywhere, but no more ladders appeared. Antonio returned to the guns. The gunners had ignored the struggle on the wall and managed to reload the two sakers. When Antonio helped shove the cannon through the aperture, he saw the wall to his left covered with ladders and Turks. Standing on the bodies of their own dead and dying, they leapt onto the ladders. Antonio glimpsed Broglia and three Knights leading the defenders, their shields and armor giving them some protection. His shield held at eye level, Broglia swung his long broadsword at the swarming attackers.

  “Aim for the ladders!” Antonio raised the weapon a trifle, so that its blast would be directed just above the base of the wall. The screaming Turks, sensing their moment, urged their companions upward. Antonio had time only for a quick look to make certain of his aim, before he thrust the burning match into the touch hole.

  With a roar, the gun fired, sending a cloud of smoke and debris out over the rampart. Before the smoke cleared, Antonio was at Sachetti’s side, and together they aimed the second gun. This time he elevated it a little more, aiming at a cluster of ladders ten paces further down the wall. “Fire!”

  Sachetti shoved the match into the touchhole. For a long moment nothing happened, and Antonio thought the gun had misfired. But then the powder caught, and a second blast of rock fragments tore into the besiegers. The smoke cleared in the hot breeze, and he saw two ladders, both full of men, collapsing down into the ditch. “Reload!”

  He returned to the first gun. One crewman had just swabbed the barrel and Antonio shoved the cartridge into the hot metal tube. The crewman reversed his swab and used the blunt end to ram the gunpowder charge down the barrel, the hot metal no doubt burning his arm. Together they shoved more rocks and fragments into the weapon, almost filling it to the top. Antonio primed the touchhole while the other man pushed the weapon into position.

  This time Antonio saw a cluster of men urging the Turks forward, and directing them toward a different part of the wall. With a grunt, he levered the weapon until it pointed toward the group. “Stand clear!” He held the match against the touchhole, and the gun fired at once, the hot metal helping the gunpowder ignite.

  When he looked again, the Turkish commanders had vanished, dead or wounded, and knocked to the ground by a spread of projectiles.

  Again and again, he reloaded and aimed the weapon, losing count of how many rounds the little battery fired. Twice he had to leave the guns to help beat off attackers climbing the bastion’s wall. But finally the Turks had had enough. Now Antonio heard fewer voices urging them to attack, and they began to fall back. The Turks abandoned the base of the wall and scrambled over the dead and dying in the ditch before staggering back toward the ravelin and safety of their own lines, ignoring the screams and cries for help from their fallen companions.

  The moment the attack ceased, the enemy arquebusiers resumed their firing, aiming at anyone who dared to show any part of themselves over the wall. Two bullets penetrated the aperture where Antonio worked the gun, but both missed. With a sigh of relief, he leaned back against the rampart, safe for the moment. The brief rest didn’t last long. The enemy cannons resumed their barrage, and once again the little fort absorbed the weight of enemy cannonballs.

  All the same, Antonio realized the Turks had given up for the moment. Even their rabid fighters had no wish to sacrifice their lives in massed attacks, not when their cannons were slowly pounding the fort into yellow dust.

  When Antonio had caught his breath, he glanced up at the sky. The assault had lasted nearly an hour. The heat from the sky reminded him of his thirst. He gulped a mouth of foul water and used the acrid liquid to clear his throat, spitting the mixture on the ground.

  “Sachetti, stay here and ready the guns. I’ll go to the magazine and start work. Join me as soon as you can.” He looked around. Eight men had been in the tower when the fighting started. One was dead, and another wounded in the arm. Everyone looked like a ghost, covered with the yellow dust raised by the enemy projectiles. “I’ll send food and water.”

  Taking care to stay low, he crept down the two flights of steps and, hunched over, reached the entrance to the magazine. When Antonio entered the slightly cooler interior of the magazine, he managed to catch his breath. At the bottom of the steps, he found himself alone. He helped himself to fresh water, filling his belly with the precious liquid.

  But he remembered his duty and got to work. When Sachetti joined him, Antonio handed him the water jug and told him to take it up to the men. “Bring back the jug. We’ll need it.”

  Antonio returned to the mixing table, and continued assembling more fire pots. His hands shook, and he realized the intensity of the fighting, far worse than what he’d faced on the Castile post, still gripped his thoughts and sapped his strength. His hands still trembled, but the work took his mind off his fear.

  Then he realized that for the first time he had killed men with his own hand. The careful mixing of ingredients became a soothing activity that demanded all his attention. Especially now that Antonio realized the importance of the fire pots, which had actually worked to less
en the attack at the base of his station.

  Sachetti assisted him, and then one of the magazine workers joined them. Antonio ordered the man to descend to the lower depths of the fort and refill the water jugs from the cistern. Water was necessary to swab the guns, as well as to relieve thirst. A good supply needed to be in readiness.

  They worked in near silence, still exhausted by the fighting. Two hours after the battle ended, Commander Broglia clumped his way down the steps. The magazine must be one of the last stops on his post-battle inspection. From here he would visit the sick, then offer prayers in the chapel, thanking God for delivering St. Elmo for another day and begging mercy for the souls of those who died in its defense. Fresh blood on Broglia’s cheek attested to yet another wound. He started speaking as soon as he saw Antonio.

  “How long before you’re ready for another attack?”

  Antonio was too tired to resent the tone of voice. “We’re already replenishing the fire pots, and new gunpowder cartridges have been sent to the walls. Another hour or two, and we should be ready.”

  “Good. See that you are.”

  “More men would help, Commander. Two or three at least.”

  Broglia glanced around, and saw that only the three of them were present. “Some of the wounded may be able to help. I’ll send some men as soon as I can.” He turned to go, then stopped and faced Antonio.

  “Your guns helped break up the attack. You reloaded them much faster than I expected. The devils almost carried the wall.” He hesitated. “Perhaps you should inspect what is left of our defensive positions, and see if we can make better use of our guns.”

  “I will, Commander. As soon as we’ve readied the weapons. Will the Turks return today?”

  “Probably not, but there’s no way to be sure. Don’t waste a moment.”

  He turned and left the magazine, his hobnail boots sounding on the steps, careless of the scattered grains of gunpowder that rested upon them.