Malta's Guns

by Sam Barone

  To fight again another day, Broglia hoped. “Then let us pray that they do. Do any of them require special assistance?”

  “I think only two will need to be carried. Ferdinand and Antonio. But most will need to be helped down to the boats.”

  Ferdinand, a squire whose Knight had died, had fought beside Broglia. He frowned at Antonio’s name. “I thought he was killed.”

  Bonnet shook his head. “No, but he was knocked unconscious. He woke for a few minutes earlier, but his soul has not yet returned. He will need to be carried because he is blind. A stone block or fragment struck him in the back of the head.”

  “Blind! How can you be . . .” Broglia caught himself. The Prior had helped the sick and wounded for more than twenty years. “But he will be no help to Malta, even in St. Angelo.”

  “Perhaps. But in cases such as this, sometimes the injured regain their sight after a few days or weeks. He is young and strong. He may yet serve the Order. But if you think not, I can put him outside with the others.”

  Broglia wondered if he should do just that. Then he thought of what might happen if the Turks captured him. Antonio was a master gunner, and probably knew much about the fortifications of St. Angelo. If the enemy inquisitors discovered who he was, he might be forced to reveal much of what he knew, blind or not.

  “No. In fact, make sure Antonio goes in the first boat to leave. I want him off St. Elmo as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  “Thank you, Prior, for your service. May God receive you in his bosom.” He sighed. “Now I must go and finish my dispatches.”

  Broglia left the chapel and headed for the magazine. He had moved what remained of his desk down there. Now a place of quiet, he could write his final report to the Grand Master. The dispatches would be sealed in a water-proof oilskin and given to one of the Maltese fisherman to deliver, even if he had to swim across the harbor. As he wrote, an odd thought came to him. When he finished the dispatch, it would be the last time he ever signed his name.

  Chapter 39

  Messina, June 7

  In Messina, the two Englishmen stepped ashore and found warm weather and soft breezes welcoming them. Both Martin and Will felt glad to step off the Venetian galley. The captain had tried every persuasion and bribe to entice the pair into joining his crew. Good rowers who didn’t complain all day like the rest of the Venetians were scarce, and professional warriors who knew how to handle a sword even scarcer. But Martin ignored the man as they collected their weapons and trod onto Messina’s docks.

  On their approach, Martin had seen that galleys and ships of all kinds crowded the harbor, most flying the colors of Spain or one of the Italian city states. Now ashore, he saw that Spanish soldiers moved through the crowd wandering about the docks, their hard eyes searching for spies, deserters, or anyone who might be up to no good.

  Martin and Will, each carrying a heavy sack that contained their possessions, had walked less than a 100 steps before a Spanish soldier, a sergeant by the broad stripe on his arm, stepped into their path. Two more soldiers stood behind him, and all three looked hard and competent.

  “What’s your business in Messina?” The sergeant’s truculent words rumbled from deep within his chest.

  “We’re volunteers, come to fight the Turks at Malta,” Martin said.

  “What are you carrying in those sacks?” the sergeant demanded. He spoke Spanish, but Martin was far more proficient in that language than in Italian.

  The man had moved close enough for Martin to smell the garlic on his breath. “Why, gold, jewels, and the pope’s crown, if it’s any of your business.” Martin’s voice sounded as hard as the sergeant’s. “What do you think we’re carrying, if we’re here looking to fight the infidels?”

  “Watch your mouth, English dog, or you’ll find yourself chained to an oar.”

  Other foreigners might manage to conceal their origins, but the English always seem to stand out in any crowd.

  “Ah, sergeant,” Martin answered, “we’re carrying letters of introduction to the Viceroy, Don Garcia de Toledo, signed by the Signoria of the Republic of Venice. If you’ll point the way to Don Garcia’s headquarters, we’ll be properly grateful.”

  The sergeant’s tongue moved about in his mouth, no doubt hunting for a bit of undigested beef from his midday meal. “Venice!” He spat on the ground, almost hitting Martin’s foot. “Those cowards are good at writing letters.”

  “In that, sergeant, we are in agreement. Which is why we’ve come to Messina. It’s said that the Viceroy is organizing a relief force for Malta, and we wish to join.”

  The soldier considered that for a moment. “Show me the letter.”

  Martin let his sack slip to the ground. He reached into his shirt and withdrew a satin pouch. From that, he carefully extracted a thick paper with the seal of the Venetian ruling council. The sergeant reached for it, but Martin held it back. “You can read it, but this letter doesn’t leave my possession.”

  “Not very trusting, are you?” Nonetheless, letters of any kind were usually both important and valuable. The sergeant leaned forward and scanned the paper, his mouth moving as he translated the Italian script into Spanish. He didn’t waste time trying to read the entire document. The seals and the Viceroy’s name at the top were sufficient for his duties. He stepped back and turned to one of his men.

  “Pedro, take these two English dogs to headquarters. Make sure they reach Captain Mendoza.”

  Martin had to strain to follow the man’s rapid words, but he understood the instructions. “Thank you, sergeant.”

  “Don’t thank me yet, Englishman. The Turks may well be on their way here. Malta may have fallen by now.” He barked another order at his remaining escort and they disappeared into the crowd, continuing their search for threats to the Spanish government.

  Without a word, Pedro led the way through the crowd, Martin and Will trailing behind. Both kept their eyes open and both made sure they were headed toward what seemed like the Viceroy’s palace. It wouldn’t have been unexpected for the soldier to lure them down some alley where his friends might be lying in wait, large cudgels in their hands.

  But Pedro led them toward the edge of the city. A makeshift camp had been set up, and hundreds of soldiers and fighting men, along with their women, children, chickens, and other barnyard animals, were all milling about in one confused collection of humanity.

  “Looks like Ireland, only not as green,” Will said, glancing around at the soldiers crammed together.

  “Same smell,” Martin agreed.

  Pedro wove his way through the tents and past the camp sites until he reached a large rambling pavilion ringed with guards, three smaller tents, and more than a dozen tables. Clerks, supply officers, paymasters, all the impedimenta of a large contingent of soldiers were present. The noise of dozens of conversations made it hard to hear.

  “Wait here,” Pedro ordered. He stepped to the table closest to the pavilion and spoke to another soldier there. The two discussed the Englishmen for a few moments, both men waving their hands, before Pedro turned toward them and gestured them forward. His mission accomplished, Pedro headed back toward the docks without a backward glance.

  The older soldier behind the table, another sergeant, bore all the marks of a long-time campaigner now relegated to clerical duties. He demanded their letter of introduction, and unlike the sergeant at the docks, took the time to read the entire document, using his finger to trace each word. When he finished, he copied their names on a long sheet of foolscap and handed the letter back to Martin.

  “You will both sit over there.” He pointed to a place where a few others sat sprawled out on the ground. “Captain Mendoza will see you when he has time.”

  They sat there for most of the afternoon. Martin soon learned that most of those sitting nearby also waited to see this Captain Mendoza, who must function as some aide to the Viceroy. Meanwhile, men came and went into the tent, some unannounced, others with an e
scort. Sometimes a soldier stuck his head out of the tent and called a name. Then the lucky person would scramble to his feet and rush into the pavilion.

  Some visits were brief, and those visitors usually left with a smile. Others went on longer, and these were often accompanied by loud voices raised in heated debate.

  “We might as well relax,” Martin said. “I think we’re going to be here for some time.” He hitched his sword around and stretched out his legs. All around them came the sounds of Spanish or Italian. As usual, they were the only Englishmen present. The hours passed by, church bells tolling every hour.

  “Some of these people look as if they’ve been here for days,” Will remarked. “I’m surprised no one is training.”

  Martin surveyed his surroundings. No training, no military order, not even basic sanitation. “You’re right. In a few more days, this place will be too filthy for a camp.”

  But Will’s words gave Martin an idea. “Come on, Will, get up. Let’s have a little sword practice.”

  “Here? Now, why . . .”

  Martin stood, then drew his sword. “Let’s get going. Nothing fancy, just the basic routine.”

  Will’s mouth went slack, then he grinned. He leapt up, unsheathed his sword, and saluted.

  The first clang of steel on steel drew every eye. Martin and Will went through the same practice routine they’d started Antonio on. First Martin, then Will, took the lead. Overhand stroke, overhand stroke, thrust, parry, retreat. Slowly they increased the pace. The sound of clashing steel echoed around the encampment.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Martin saw the crowd gathering around them. Soon men were shouting encouragement, either that or jeering at them, he couldn’t be certain.

  By now the two men were breathing hard, and the speed of the cuts and thrusts had increased to the point of actual danger. A misstep or a clumsy riposte could result in a serious injury.

  “Halt! Stop what you’re doing this instant!”

  Martin, sweat on his brow, broke off the engagement. With a flourish, he raised his blade to the vertical salute position and bowed. A cheer broke out, and a few bystanders applauded.

  “Who are these men? What’s going on here?”

  Sheathing his weapon, Martin turned to see three Spanish soldiers facing him. One, fists on his hips, wore the emblem of an officer on his loose-fitting white shirt. Tall and spare, his face bore the marks from a serious bout with smallpox.

  “My name is . . . John Smith, sir, at your service.” Martin bowed low, in the continental fashion. “And this is my companion, Edward Stanley.”

  “You will stop what you are doing at once. You’re disturbing the camp.”

  A series of boos and catcalls came from the crowd. Hours and days of boredom had everyone on edge. The officer glanced around, searching for his aide. “Who are these two?”

  A hurried conversation with the soldier calling out the names of those seeking audience resulted.

  “Bring them to me,” the officer ordered. He turned and stomped back toward the pavilion, a chorus of raucous laughter following.

  Inside the tent, Martin found the officer seating himself at a campaign table covered with papers, most held down by stones used as paperweights. A quill and a pot of ink were at the officer’s right hand. Two clerks hovered just behind, waiting to resume whatever tasks had occupied him before the interruption. The Spanish officer appeared to be the only man in the camp actually preparing for war.

  “I am Captain Mendoza, aide to His Excellency Don Garcia de Toledo. Who are you? What do you want?”

  The words came quickly, the pace set by a man with too much work and little time.

  Martin bowed low for a second time and produced his papers. Mendoza set the document on the desk and proceeded to read every word, taking his time. When he finished, he held the paper up and examined it against the light filtering in from the tent’s opening. Satisfied, he shifted his gaze back to Martin. “What do you want?”

  Martin realized that Mendoza had studied the letter of introduction not so much as to read it, but to search for any signs of forgery. Sometimes even the slightest misuse of a word or phrase could give a forged document away. A thorough man, Captain Mendoza.

  “Sir, we are desirous of reaching Malta. My friend and master is there, abandoned by a treacherous Venetian thief. We wish to join him. To do that, we are willing to fight with His Excellency’s soldiers against the Turks.”

  “And how much do you expect to be paid for your valuable services, Englishman?”

  “Nothing, sir. We wish only to fight. Both of us are experienced soldiers and we’ve fought in Ireland and Scotland. We’re ready to fight to reach our friend. We ask only to be aboard the first ship heading for Malta.”

  For the first time, Mendoza raised his eyes and stared at his visitors with something other than anger or annoyance on his features. He softened his tone. “You know the Turks have landed more than 30,000 thousand soldiers on Malta?”

  “Yes, sir. We understand the situation.”

  Mendoza shook his head. “I’m not sure that you do. But your friend must be quite a man. If you were Venetians, I’d order you out of the camp. Those treacherous dogs have been buying peace from the Turks while the infidels raid Spanish towns and villages along our coast. I trust none of them. The English, at least, are not cowards.”

  Martin accepted the slight compliment, if that’s what it was. “I believe the Venetians are frightened, Captain. This time they fear the Turks may come to Venice after they finish with Malta.”

  “Tell your cowardly Venetian friends not to worry. If the Turks are coming anywhere, it’s to Sicily. We’re only 60 miles from Malta to the Sicilian coast. They could be on the island tomorrow.” He sighed, shaking his head. “But if you are sincere in attempting to help your friend, I must tell you, it will be some time before Don Garcia is ready to move against the Turks. We must build up our forces. There are only 6,000 Spanish soldiers here, and this island, which belongs to the King of Spain, must be defended first.”

  Malta, Martin remembered, had been a gift from Spain to the Knights many years ago. It had not been a Spanish possession since then. If the Knights of St. John owed allegiance to anyone, it was the Pope in Rome, not the King of Spain.

  When Mendoza saw that Martin understood, he lowered his voice so that no one outside the tent could hear him. “And, of course, we must first collect a sizable number of transports and galleys. The Turks have more than 200 galleys and cargo ships surrounding Malta. Many of them are patrolling the sea between Malta and here.”

  It took a few moments for the rest of the Captain’s words to sink in. A relief force, in order to be effective, would have to number at least 10,000 or 12,000 men. Any less would be sending them to be slaughtered. To transport so many would require a large force of ships, cargo vessels to supply them, and of course a sufficient number of fully manned war galleys to protect them. Otherwise the infidels could catch the force while at sea and destroy it.

  The unspoken implications of Mendoza’s words were harsh. The relief force for Malta would take months to assemble, arm, and train. During that time, they would consume huge amounts of food and supplies. Meanwhile, galleys would have to be found and manned to escort them. Neither Spain nor Venice had anywhere near that many war galleys.

  And without a strong protective force to shepherd the transports, the risks to the relief force would be great. For anyone quick-witted enough to read between the lines, it meant that despite Don Garcia’s words and promises, the relief force might never get off the Sicilian island. And even if it did, the Knights at Malta probably would have been overwhelmed long before.

  Mendoza waited until he saw Martin had grasped the situation. “You understand, Englishman, I’ve told you nothing that isn’t common knowledge on the island.”

  “Yes, sir, I understand.” He bowed again, this time with more respect. “And I thank you for your courtesy and your time. I believe my friend and I must fin
d another way to Malta.”

  “That may be difficult to arrange,” Mendoza said, this time with a trace of sympathy in his voice. “But I wish you well. And when we are ready to fight the Turks, you will be more than welcome to join us. I need all the fighting men I can find.”

  “In that, sir, I wish both you and His Excellency the best of fortune and good hunting.”

  Outside, Martin led the way back into Messina. As they walked, he explained to Will the full import of what Mendoza had said.

  “So how do we get to Malta?”

  “There must be some way to buy or bribe ourselves onto the island. We just have to find it.”

  “And we’ll find it in Messina?” Will didn’t sound confident.

  “We’ll start by finding a place to stay. Then we’ll talk to anyone and everyone. Someone must know smugglers or fishermen who can get us to the island.”

  They reached the city’s gates and passed through, two more mercenaries from the thousands encamped nearby. No soldiers questioned those who entered or left. Any fighting man wealthy enough to afford an inn or a tavern within the city’s walls was more than welcome.

  They strolled the lanes, looking a decent place to spend the night. Two inns that looked promising turned out to be full. Martin glanced at the sun. Not much remained of a long and discouraging day.

  A jab in the ribs from Will made Martin’s head turn. “What is it?”

  Will inclined his head. “Is that what I think it is?”

  It took a moment before Martin glimpsed what had caught Will’s eye. A tall knight wearing a red surcoat with the eight-pointed white cross on his chest, was moving through the crowd, accompanied by two men at arms. He wore plate armor underneath the surcoat.

  “A Knight of St. John! Very good, Will. We should have expected a few of them to be here.”

  “I thought they were all supposed to be on Malta.”

  “Some had a long way to travel. Not all of them could have gotten there so soon.”