Malta's Guns

by Sam Barone

  He glanced down, and noticed the sword that had killed the blond Knight. Unlike the usual scimitar, this weapon had a thick, straight blade, and was much shorter than the Turks’ usual blades. A thick iron ball served as a counterweight, and a simple cross for a hilt.

  Idly, Antonio stretched out his hand and picked up the weapon up, ignoring the blood still dripping from the blade. To his surprise, the weapon felt comfortable in his hand, lighter and much better than the sword he’d been using.

  He got to his feet and swung the blade, trying to get a feel for the unusual weapon. A short, stabbing weapon, Antonio decided. Yes, for this kind of fighting and for him, this would be a much better blade. He left the broadsword where it had fallen and headed back to the bastion, carrying the new weapon and once again crouched over to avoid the Turkish marksmen.

  Somehow the fort’s defenders had held off the enemy. Once again the discouraged Turks, no doubt promised an easy victory, had turned and run. But as soon as they got clear of the walls, the enemy marksmen behind the ravelin began shooting again, targeting anything or anybody that moved. The enemy guns had already resumed their bombardment.

  Back in the bastion, Antonio sagged down, his shoulder resting on the gun carriage. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath, and his hands trembled. Meanwhile, the dead bodies of the Turks were stripped of their weapons and valuables, then heaved over the wall, to join the hundreds of festering corpses in the ditch below.

  Suddenly he realized he was covered in blood from those he had killed. Both he and St. Elmo had somehow survived another assault. Looking around at the ruin of the bastion and the dead men within, Antonio wondered if he’d witnessed a miracle.

  He knew one thing – the men in St. Elmo had shown unbelievable courage. They had ignored their own weakness and exhaustion and fought with all their strength. Time and again, they had flung themselves into the breach against overwhelming odds. Never in his life had Antonio imagined such acts of bravery. But despite their victory, many irreplaceable men had died today.

  The tattered flag of the Knights still flew over St. Elmo. The Turks had knocked it down many times, but it always returned, torn and frayed, to wave in the breeze above the fort, and to tell those in St. Angelo that the Knights had once again proved their honor and trust.

  ***

  The Turkish bombardment continued for four more days. In that time, thousands of shells struck the remains of St. Elmo. By now the outlines of the original walls could scarcely be seen. Men died when walls collapsed or when their position took a direct hit. The number of men available to fight slowly dwindled.

  Antonio did everything he could to make sure the guns were properly positioned. Again and again they had to dig a cannon out of the rubble, move fresh-cut blocks of stone around it, and prepare it for the next assault. All this while the cannonade continued and enemy marksmen shot at anything they could see. His daily routine now included checking each cannon three times a day, to make sure every weapon remained ready to fire.

  Many of the guns were damaged. In a less critical environment, he would have deemed them unsafe. But now if there were a good chance they would fire a few more rounds, Antonio ignored such things. Safe or not, without the guns, the Turks couldn’t be stopped.

  He emptied the magazine of combustibles and constructed all the weapons and powder charges he could. When he finished, he had enough fire pots and hoops for one more assault, and he refused to allow any of them to be brought up to the walls.

  Even Commander Broglia, on June 18, questioned why there were no munitions on the ramparts.

  “Commander, we do not have enough as it is. I do not want to risk any fire pots or even powder charges destroyed by the enemy barrage. When we know an attack is coming, you can dispatch men from every position to come here and take what they can. At least here the pots and hoops are safe.”

  Grudgingly, Broglia agreed. “As long as they are in position for the next attack. Make sure that they are.”

  Antonio nodded. Against all hope, Broglia had held St. Elmo longer than anyone could have imagined. But Antonio knew the end was approaching. With luck, they might beat back one more attack. After that . . .

  He visited every position in St. Elmo and made sure that the defenders knew what was happening. There would not be much time to bring the powder and weapons to the walls, but with so many shells raining down on the fort, no one wanted to chance losing any weapons that might help hold off the next attack.

  June 19

  Antonio lost track of time, as the days dragged slowly past, enduring attacks and bombardment. On the morning of June 19, dawn’s light showed the Turks massing for another attack. Their barrage increased in intensity and defenders rushed to the magazine. Antonio and Sachetti handed out as many of the fire pots and hoops as they could, including those designated for the bastion where Antonio’s men waited.

  The defenders were ready an hour after daybreak, but the Turks kept up the shelling until nearly noon. Then with a mighty roar and the clash of cymbals, the enemy started toward the fort. In order not to waste any ammunition, Broglia had ordered no guns be fired until the first shot from the bastion. He now trusted Antonio’s judgment as to when to begin firing.

  Antonio’s heart sank when he readied the gun. The advancing Turks seemed even more numerous than on the last attack. But he aimed the gun with care, targeting a boldly dressed commander. The moment Antonio fired the weapon, St. Elmo’s other guns joined in. After the second cannonball had blasted its way out of the barrel, Antonio ordered Sachetti to switch to stones and fragments.

  For the last three days, everyone had searched the rubble for the hardest chunks of stone and rock. Antonio wanted to be sure that almost none of the fragments disintegrated when the gun fired. He intended that everything shoved down the mouth of every cannon be expelled toward the enemy.

  The Turks kept coming, pouring across the ravelin and into the ditch, screaming their war cries and calling out the name of Allah. But today they hurled their strength against the main wall, ignoring what remained of the bastion. Apparently they had decided the bastion was too difficult to take, and they knew their fighters had made it over the main wall before.

  Antonio’s sakers roared out again and again. Since there were no ladders on the bastion, he threw half of his fire pots and hoops into the ditch, trying to relieve some pressure on the main point of attack.

  The damage Antonio and the other gunners inflicted on the Turks below the wall was horrific, but always fresh troops stumbled up out of the bloody ditch to replace those killed. The defenders were being overwhelmed by numbers, and once again Antonio saw Broglia’s trumpet sound the signal for everyone to rush to his position.

  With a shout to Sachetti, Antonio sprinted down the bastion’s steps and raced to the main rampart. At the top of the steps he found two Turks fighting one of the fort’s men at arms. Using his new sword, Antonio thrust the wide blade low into one man’s back, where the flesh was soft. Where the broadsword would have penetrated deep into the body, the short stabbing weapon needed only a quick jerk to pull it from the flesh.

  Before the second man could counter this new attack, Antonio thrust again with the sword, this time high, aiming for the man’s face. His opponent raised his scimitar, but Antonio’s weapon slipped beneath and struck the man in the jaw, knocking him off balance. The other defender, recovered now, finished the Turk off.

  With a nod, both men rushed back into the fight. Once again Antonio ducked low under a wildly swung scimitar, and thrust his blade into the opponent’s belly. Without waiting to see its effect, Antonio moved toward the wall, stabbing another Turk about to swing his legs over the rampart. For someone Antonio’s size, the shorter sword was far more efficient in thrusting at heads and throats, and he found he could defend six or eight feet of wall. And where the broadsword had quickly grown heavy in his hand, this new weapon proved lighter and easier to balance.

  Two more booms from Sachetti’s guns finally swep
t the ladders clean, and by now the remaining Knights, still killing machines in their armor, had finished off those Turks who had clambered over the rampart. The enemy retreated, once again running for the ravelin and beyond.

  With a prayer of thanks, Antonio realized that he had survived another battle. His legs trembled, but he ignored his weakness. With luck, the Turks might not be back for a few days. But they would be back, he knew, and the next time there would be even fewer defenders, no combustibles, and only enough gunpowder to fire a few shots. Meanwhile the enemy bombardment continued, taking its toll on the defenders and steadily reducing the fort’s ramparts.

  St. Elmo’s time had nearly run out.

  Chapter 38

  June 22

  Deep in the earth below Fort St. Elmo, the dust from the rock quarry hung in the still air. With no more munitions to tend to, three days ago Antonio had been ordered to join the workers removing stone blocks from beneath the fort. In the underground excavation, he found the Maltese did most of the chiseling, and when Antonio tried to help, his clumsiness with a chisel produced nothing but wasted blocks.

  Instead he joined the laborers – two men could just manage to lift a block – carrying the fresh stone up the steep steps out of the quarry and up into the fort. From there the blocks went to whatever portion of the wall needed them the most. The constant shelling had reduced St. Elmo’s ramparts to little more than rock piles, and if fresh stone did not replenished what the enemy guns destroyed, the walls would have been leveled days ago.

  The brutal work continued night and day, with Antonio exerting himself more than he’d believed possible. Water kept them going, helping against the heat of the day. Whenever he collapsed in exhaustion, others took his place, and the shame of weakness soon had him on his feet again.

  The Knights, in their constant rounds of inspection, made sure that no one got more rest than he needed. Antonio wondered how they managed to keep fighting and toiling, since they seemed never to sleep. He decided that either they were all extraordinary men, or their God gave them strength.

  Commander Broglia labored harder than anyone in St. Elmo. A twice-doomed man, unable to die with honor, Antonio felt sorry for him. He wished he could do more with the fort’s guns, but the garrison had only three cannons loaded, two in Antonio’s bastion, and one at the other end of the main wall. No fire pots or hoops remained either. The magazine stood empty.

  Sachetti took charge of the three guns. His slender body possessed no muscles to move the heavy blocks. When the Turks swarmed the fort, no guns would greet them at the ravelin. Only when they reached the main wall would the three guns spew their rocks, stones, and the last of the fort’s grape shot as well. The effect would be devastating, but would hardly delay the enemy more than a minute or two.

  He had expected the Turks to attack yesterday or today. But Mustapha apparently wanted no more failures. His bombardment continued from dawn to dusk, with a few cannons firing throughout the night, just to insure that the defenders got no sleep. Antonio decided that the Turks had unlimited quantities of powder and shot. Of course if the Turkish general had known St. Elmo’s fire weapons and gunpowder stocks were depleted, he would have attacked at once.

  By ones and twos, St. Elmo’s defenders died throughout the days, randomly killed by cannon fire or picked off by a sharpshooter on the ravelin. Less than a 100 defenders remained, and most of those could barely stand, let alone fight. But he knew they would answer the final call when the time came.

  Antonio no longer cared. Exhausted, he struggled with the heavy weight of each stone, his body covered with the yellow dust that filled the quarry and hung over the fort. Death, when it came, would bring relief from weariness. Fear of dying had long since disappeared. Still, he knew that when the trumpet blared, calling the defenders to the wall, he would fight with every bit of strength, determined to kill as many of the enemy as possible.

  He found his thoughts wandering. His father, Martin and Will, Bernardo and Maffeo – he struggled to recall their faces and the happy times they’d spent together. Another face had joined them – Gianetta’s. While the other memories often brought regrets or sadness, hers gave joy and reassurance. He found himself thinking more about her, about what might have been their future together.

  “Take your load to the main wall.” One of Broglia’s Knights stood at the entrance to the quarry, directing the placement of the blocks.

  Without a word Antonio and his companion laborer – he didn’t remember the man’s name – moved their burden across the rubble of the courtyard. The hot sun blazed down on them, adding to their misery. They needed to crouch down as they carried the block, which meant they couldn’t get a firm grip on the stone. Danger from enemy snipers remained. The surviving walls were not high enough to protect a standing man.

  Grunting with the effort, they moved across the rubble and carefully mounted the steps to the main rampart. Antonio, going first and climbing backward, had nearly reached the top when the enemy shell arrived, though he never saw or heard it coming. A portion of the wall behind him exploded from the impact. Then blackness. There was no pain, and only time for a momentary thought – death had come at last, to end his suffering.

  ***

  Seven hours later, just after darkness had fallen, Commander Broglia glanced over the wall, a brief look that told him the Turks would likely not come tonight. But he knew tomorrow would see them charging toward the fort, and this time there would not be enough guns or defenders to stop them. Tomorrow would be the day of his death. At least Broglia hoped to die in the fighting. What awaited him should he be captured alive was not something to contemplate.

  If it weren’t for the men under his command and his strict orders from Grand Master Valette, he would prefer to end his days charging at his foes, instead of huddling behind a wall. But the Grand Master remained emphatic – St. Elmo must hold out as long as possible, to give those in St. Angelo and St. Michael more time to strengthen their defenses. And for the Viceroy in Sicily to collect his men, though Broglia wondered at the likelihood of that ever happening. If and when the Spanish did arrive, Broglia and St. Elmo would be long dead. The Viceroy was just another piece on Malta’s chessboard.

  Even as a young boy, Broglia’s favorite pastime had been the game of chess, though since he arrived at St. Elmo two weeks ago he had not played. Instead, he was part of a living game between Grand Master Valette and Mustapha Pasha. In this game St. Elmo had become a mere gambit, a chess piece sacrificed to gain an advantage later in the game.

  But this gambit was life and death for St. Elmo’s defenders. They would die so that others might win the game later on. Malta was the prize that had to be defended. Broglia accepted his fate. He intended to sell his life dearly in the final assault.

  He put such thoughts aside. Tonight work remained to be done, preparations to be made, documents to be completed. Broglia entered the chapel, converted since the siege began into a hospital of sorts. He stood in the doorway, hesitant to enter this place of pain and suffering. Once this little sanctuary had seen only the solemn prayers of men and priests. Now it held those too wounded to fight. Those already dying remained outside, where the Prior, Antoine Bonnet, had already administered the last rites.

  “Good evening, Prior,” Broglia announced himself, his usually harsh voice softening in the holy chapel.

  The Military Knights, men like Broglia, comprised the First Division of the Knights of St. John. Their duty was to fight for the Order. All of these men were of noble birth, established back at least four generations. They all swore a most-sacred oath to obey the Grand Master and the Sacred Council.

  But the Second Division of Knights consisted of Conventual Chaplains, members of the Order whose duties included caring for those ill and ministering to their souls. The Chaplains worked in the hospitals and cared for the sick. All were ecclesiastics and could rise through the hierarchy of the Catholic Church to the rank of prior or even bishop.

  Prior Anto
ine Bonnet, like all the others in St. Elmo, had volunteered to succor the sick and wounded. He spent his days and most of his nights in the chapel, tending to the injured, forgiving their sins, and praying for their souls. If those in his care could regain their strength, they returned to the fighting, to do as much or as little as they could. But tomorrow, the holy Prior Bonnet would don his seldom worn armor, pick up a sword, and fight beside his brother Knights on the wall.

  “Good evening, Commander Broglia,” Prior Bonnet answered, rising to his feet and leaving his patient. “Are you still resolved on your plan?”

  This morning Broglia had considered the fate of those too wounded to fight. He could not, would not leave them to the tortures of the Turks. Nor could he simply kill them as a mercy, as that would be against God’s law, not to mention that the Prior would forbid such a thing. So Broglia had devised a plan. St. Elmo still had three of the small craft that had delivered the last men and arms from St. Angelo to the fort. Broglia decided to fill the boats with the severely wounded, and let them pull for Dockyard Creek.

  “Yes, Prior. How many of your charges will you have ready?”

  Broglia still had a handful of Maltese fishermen alive of the men who had guided the boats to St. Elmo. Since they arrived on June 12, they had spent their days fighting on the wall or working in the quarry. A few men more or less would make no difference in the coming assault. The Maltese would take the boats out into the harbor and try to reach the shelter of St. Angelo’s guns.

  Two men could just sail one of the boats. Loaded with seven or eight wounded men, the attempt to reach safety across the harbor was probably doomed from the start. Even if the boat capsized, or was sunk by the Turks patrolling the harbor, that fate would be much preferred to being tortured after the enemy swarmed over the fort.

  “Twenty-one may have a chance to survive the journey,” the Prior said. “If they can get care at St. Angelo, some may yet survive their wounds.”