Malta's Guns
Page 37
“So we’re safe for the rest of the day?”
Antonio smiled at Sachetti’s hopeful words. “Maybe. But we won’t rest until we’re ready. Then I’ll inspect the guns. I think Broglia knows we saved his position today. That was his way of saying thanks.”
“Good. I could use some rest.”
Antonio felt just as exhausted. “Just be grateful we’re not up above, baking in the heat of the sun.”
Another cannonball slammed into the fort, landing somewhere nearby, and shaking the magazine from its impact. They both held their breath, wondering if the magazine would explode. A concussion from a near miss might ignite the gunpowder. If one did, at least they would be out of their misery in an instant.
At least they had survived another day. Antonio wondered how many more days they had before the Turkish guns breached the wall beyond repair and the infidels overran the defenders.
Chapter 37
June 8
When dawn broke over the fort the next morning, every man in St. Elmo waited in his assigned position, ready to repel another attack. The two cannons in the crumbling bastion had been cleaned and loaded. Antonio used the early morning light to make sure Sachetti had properly sighted the weapons. He also checked that a sufficient supply of powder cartridges waited beside each weapon. Fire pots and hoops rested alongside the walls nearby. All these explosives crammed together in every available space meant that sooner or later the bastion would likely blow itself up. Hopefully, not today.
Though everyone told Antonio that the Turks had never attacked two days in a row, today might just be the day when they decided to catch the defenders by surprise. But the land beyond the walls remained bare of men assembling for another assault. The Turkish arquebuskers manned their positions on the ravelin, and Antonio heard the crack of a musket and the ping when the ball struck the wall. At least this time the Turk had missed his target.
The first cannon boomed out over the Marsa. Antonio ducked his head, and like everyone else on the wall, muttered a prayer that the missile didn’t land on his position. More and more enemy cannons saluted the new day, but Antonio soon decided there would be no attack this morning. Within the hour, the cannons would be firing non-stop, and he wondered how many thousands of cannon balls would strike St. Elmo before the sun went down.
“I’m going back to the magazine,” Antonio told Sachetti. “Join me when you’re sure everything here is ready, and they aren’t planning a surprise assault.”
Back in the magazine, Antonio found himself alone. Privacy on St. Elmo was non-existent, and he used the time to think about his plight. Soon he would be dead, either when the fort fell to the Turks’ assault or when some cannonball smashed him into bloody jelly. Perhaps an enemy marksman would be the one to end his life. If the stress of battle grew too strong, it would be easy enough to stick one’s head above the wall for a few moments. It wouldn’t take long for some Turkish marksman to adjust his aim and fire. He wondered if any of the many dead had taken that course.
With a curse, Antonio banished such thoughts from his mind. He wasn’t dead yet, and maybe a miracle might happen. The Spanish could land an army tomorrow and break the siege, and he would be foolish to end his life before the last chance of rescue had faded. He went into the back of the magazine, gathered the combustible materials, and set out to make fire hoops on the big table.
Before long footsteps sounded on the stair, and Sachetti arrived, breathless as usual. The boy darted about from place to place, and hadn’t learned how to pace himself for a long day.
“Start with the hoops,” Antonio said. “The more of those we have, the happier Broglia will be.”
Antonio began on the firepots himself, mixing the combustible material with care. The pots made him uneasy. In his mind they represented the greatest danger to the magazine. If a pot broke and caught fire, there would be no way to put it out and the whole place might go up. Gunpowder for the charges was easier and safer to mix, but the Knights trusted the fire pots. By now, Antonio had to agree they worked well with closely-packed enemy soldiers dragging themselves through the ditch.
Covered with sweat from the oppressive heat, he and Sachetti spent the rest of the day working. June in Malta could be brutal. Nor did they dare go up out of the magazine to cool off and relax for a few moments. Anyone not manning the wall or working at some task was required to join the crew of masons, mostly Maltese, down in the depths of the fort, chipping out new blocks of stone and transporting them up to whatever section of the wall needed them most.
The work was exhausting, but the replacement stone blocks were critical to protect the defenders. Antonio had descended into the ever-growing chasm beneath the fort only once, but that one look made him grateful for the relatively light work in the magazine, where the worst that could happen was explosion or fire.
Time passed, and Antonio only knew of the lateness of the hour when Commander Broglia’s thick boots announced his entrance to the magazine.
“Is everything in order?”
Antonio met the man’s hard eyes. He could see that Broglia was exhausted. The strain of command rested on his shoulders, a burden made even heavier when you knew the end was near. “Yes, Commander. Everything is ready to distribute, and we have a sufficient supply of fire pots and hoops.”
“Good.”
Broglia turned to go, but Antonio stopped him. “Commander, we are running low on supplies for the fire pots and hoops. Another attack like the last one will leave us with almost nothing. The stock of gunpowder is also low, but we have enough for another few attacks.”
The Commander took the bad news with a shrug. “Nothing more is coming from St. Angelo. Since the cursed Dragut arrived, the Turks have their own boats in the harbor and guns covering the approach. No more supplies, no more men. You came with the last supplies we’re likely to get.”
Without constant resupplies of men and munitions from St. Angelo, the fort of St. Elmo could not hold out for long. When the magazine’s supplies were expended, the Turks would swarm unchecked over the walls.
“I understand, Commander. Is there anything I can do?”
Broglia smiled, but whatever comment he might have been tempted to make was withheld. The smile vanished. “Yes, perhaps you could check the positions of the guns once again. We need to kill as many as possible with each shot. Show the men how to use the fire pots without wasting them. Too many are thrown over the wall and never ignite.”
Antonio had seen that happen for himself. The pots were fragile, but if they landed on a body, the pot might not break. If the fuse remained lit, the attackers might pick it up and heave it over the wall. “I will, Commander Broglia.”
Without a word, Broglia turned and stomped back up the steps. When the sound died away, Sachetti let out a sigh of relief. “Broglia frightens me, Antonio.”
“Me, too,” Antonio agreed. “He bears the weight of all of us, and he knows what’s coming. He’ll fight to the last man. I hope the Turks don’t take him alive.”
“Would you surrender if they capture the fort?”
Antonio had thought about that. “No. Anyone who survives will be tortured before being killed. That’s what Mustapha has sworn. Better a quick death. So I intend to go down fighting.”
“We’re not likely to survive, are we?”
“There’s always hope, Sachetti.” But in his heart, Antonio wondered if there truly remained any chance at all.
***
The Turks didn’t come again for three days, but their bombardment pounded St. Elmo from dawn to dusk. Antonio had almost decided they might never come, instead relying on their guns to turn the little fort into dust.
But on June 15, they launched another assault. The barrage preceding the attack lasted until nearly noon, before the Sultan’s soldiers received the order to advance. Luck had allowed the remains of the bastion to escape another hit, though it had been damaged two days ago. Fresh blocks of stone had replaced part of the smashed tower.
The garrison of men within St. Elmo now numbered less than 200. Broglia still had 12 Knights, and their armor bore the brunt of the close-in fighting. Brave beyond belief, they waded into the enemy, hacking left and right, and trusting to the strength of their arms and the weight of their armor to protect them.
“Hurry!” Antonio shouted at Sachetti and the gun crew. If they rushed, they would get at least one more shot at the approaching enemy before they reached the ravelin. After that, Antonio would shift the guns to cover the main rampart to his left. Other guns in the fort were firing as well and the din of battle once again drowned out all sounds. The second shot roared out from Antonio’s gun, joined by the crack of the arquebusiers shooting into the mass of approaching infidels. With so many pressed together, every shot likely struck an enemy.
“Load with stones!” Some of the enemy had reached the ravelin, and that was close enough range for the rocks and fragments to be deadly. He joined the others in ramming the gun forward. The charging soldiers saw the cannon’s barrel and veered to the left and right of the gun’s aim.
With an oath, Antonio shoved his shoulder against the rear of the carriage, shifting the barrel to the left. The moment he cleared the gun, Sachetti jammed the burning match into the touchhole.
The gun roared and spat out a barrel full of stones. Dust from the smaller fragments added to the gunpowder smoke, creating a haze that floated over the bastion. “Yes!” Sachetti’s cheer marked another bloody swath of dead and wounded.
“Work the gun, damn you!” Antonio shouted. He’d already moved aside, preparing the fire pots and hoops. By then the enemy had reached the ditch, a loathsome place filled with the dead and rotting corpses baking in the sun’s heat. The rush of the attackers slowed. The decomposing bodies slipped and shifted under the weight of the Turks, and it gave the defenders time to hurl the firepots.
By now Antonio knew to keep the fuses short on the firepots. He flung two, throwing them down with all his strength so that the pots would break even if they struck a charging soldier or a dead body. All along the wall, the defenders did the same, and soon the smell of burning flesh mingled with the agonized screams of those caught by the combustibles.
“Antonio!”
He glanced at Sachetti, who motioned toward the left wall. A few of the Turks had managed to cross over the ditch, and already ladders were being flung up against the wall. But only a few, so Antonio still had time to ignite one of the hoops, grasp it by the tongs, and fling the flaming wheel over the wall. Without waiting to see the result, he moved the first saker, aimed it at the largest cluster of attackers, and shoved the match into the gun.
The charge of stones and wall fragments blasted out of the barrel. He glimpsed at least seven or eight men struck by the deadly projectiles, and one ladder tumbled down. By now the men in the bastion knew what to do. Sachetti directed the crews on the two sakers, giving Antonio some time to use the fire weapons.
A few musket balls rattled through the embrasures, but he ignored those. All that mattered now were the guns. Without their enfilade fire, the base of the wall, where Commander Broglia directed the largest contingent of his men, would be overrun in minutes.
Antonio fired the second saker, just as he heard the rasp of ladders being slapped against the bastion. Once the tower had stood six feet higher than the main wall, and the enemy would have needed longer ladders to try and ascend. But now the bastion had been battered and repaired so many times that what remained was less than three feet higher.
“Load the guns!” Antonio grabbed his sword and moved to the wall. The three arquebuskers were frantically reloading their weapons, so for a moment he stood alone. The first head appeared and Antonio shoved the point of his broadsword right into the man’s forehead. The head snapped back with a scream, and the man lost his grip on the ladder and tumbled down.
But another head appeared beside the first one, and this time it was preceded by a sword arm. Antonio struck again, lunging forward with all his strength, knocking the blade aside and penetrating the base of the man’s throat.
Antonio jerked the blade free. Another screaming Turk from a third ladder swung his leg over the wall, but a musket ball cut him down. Nonetheless, the enemy kept the ladders full. They knew they only needed to get a handful of men over the wall for a few moments to overwhelm any resistance. Only the height of the wall, the fire weapons, and the cannons kept the Turks at bay.
The musket men had reloaded, and two more Turks were blasted from the wall, struck by a half-inch bullet at point-blank range with enough power to blast right through a man’s skull. Antonio helped with the sakers, always keeping one eye on the wall, lest the attackers make it over the top. But both guns were finally ready, and he helped shove the first one back into position. A glance down the barrel showed a mass of Turks struggling out of the ditch and standing at the base of the wall.
He aimed at the thickest concentration and fired another load of fragments into their midst. “Reload!” He gave the command while he shifted to the second gun. Two ladders were in close proximity. Antonio took a moment to align the gun, then jumped back and shoved the burning match into the touchhole.
Before the smoke dissipated, he heard Sachetti’s scream. The Turks were mounting the bastion wall again. Antonio dropped the match, snatched up his sword, and lunged forward just as three Turks, their faces contorted with battle lust, swung over the wall. He ran the first one through before the man could regain his feet. But the second man met Antonio’s sword with his own scimitar, the curved blade blocking the thrust.
Antonio used his size and speed to duck low and lunge upward, catching the man on the sword arm. The third Turk had managed to get to his feet, but one of the gun crew swung the swabber at him, and knocked him back against the wall. Antonio attacked again, finishing off the Turk he’d wounded, and then, fully extending himself in a lunge, drove the point of his sword into the third man’s thigh.
The Turk screamed, as the thick blade ripped through flesh and struck bone, knocking the man back and down in a heap. Antonio had no time to finish him, as more attackers had reached the top of the wall. Without stopping, he hacked at first one, then the other, wounding each one enough to make them fall from the ladder.
Another Turk rose up, but one of the arquebusiers had reloaded, and he fired a musket ball into the man’s chest.
“Ready guns!” The three surviving gun crew members had reloaded the cannons. Antonio snatched up the match, still smoldering, and whirled it back into a hot flame. By chance, the first gun pointed at a thick mass of men surrounding three ladders, every one full of men eager to get over the wall.
He touched the match to the vent hole and watched the hail of death strike the enemy. The second saker’s aim needed to be adjusted, but with strength he didn’t know he possessed, Antonio slewed the gun around enough to get a good target, then fired the weapon.
The fighting raged on. Antonio lost count of how many times he loaded and fired the sakers. He exhausted his supply of fire pots and hoops. One of his gun crews died from a musket ball when he exposed too much of his body through the embrasure. An arquebusker perished the same way.
Along the main rampart, Commander Broglia and his men were holding the Turks at bay. Suddenly Antonio heard the trumpet sound, the call for all possible men to rush to the wall.
With a curse, Antonio snatched up his broadsword. All the others were needed in the bastion to man the guns. “Sachetti, keep the guns firing!” He dashed down the steps, trusting to his speed to avoid being killed by a musket ball. He dashed over the rubble and mounted the steps to the main rampart. He and
two others reached the top level just as a mass of Turks swarmed over the wall, killing or driving back the few defenders.
Antonio’s arrival caught the Turks from the side. He stabbed one man and swung the blade at another. Staying low, he managed to reach the wall, and ran another Turk through the throat just as he swung over the wall. Antonio’s muscles were relatively fresh, and he moved and dodged, striking and darting back, always trying to return to the wall to keep more Turks from entering.
With a shout, Broglia led a handful of armored Knights in a counterattack right into the mass of Turks. The Knights wielded their broadswords, all of them much longer than the one Antonio used, with such skill that in moments the Turks were staggering back. The Knights’ armor gave them an advantage: Their plumed helmets with closed visors struck fear in their shorter and unarmored foes. More defenders joined in, and the Turks were cut down.
Antonio glimpsed one of the Knights attacking three Turks. The Knight, tall and blond, killed two men with as many strokes. But the third ducked low and drove a sword into the Knight’s abdomen. It was a killing blow, but the Knight had strength enough to hack his opponent at the side of his neck before he staggered and fell atop his killer.
The fighting raged on, but now the Turks who made it over the wall were either dead or dying. The defenders returned to the battlement, killing and striking those still brave or foolish enough to mount the ladders. Antonio heard the blast of Sachetti’s sakers attacking those at the base of the wall. But then a horn sounded from beyond the ravelin and the Turks fell back. This time Sachetti’s guns kept firing, following the retreating Turks for as long as they could.
Antonio sagged to his knees, exhausted and dripping sweat. The sun’s heat had drained him, and the smell of death turned his stomach. Blood covered the ground, but he no longer noticed or cared. The heavy broadsword fell from his hand. He hated the clumsy weapon.
Broglia and the other Knights moved about, slower now, but still on their feet. Once again Antonio wondered how any of them could stand after such efforts, especially wearing their heavy armor. He shook his head in disbelief.