Malta's Guns

by Sam Barone

  “At least no one will see us,” Will said. “Perhaps it is God’s work.”

  Whatever it was and from whence it came, the sirocco soon shrouded the landscape, and helped muffle the sounds of the soldiers’ passage. So much moisture accumulated on the vines and olive trees that the drip of water could be heard. The soldiers followed gravel lanes and narrow paths, many bordered by rock walls.

  Twice the order came down the column to halt. The first time, nothing much seemed to happen and they soon resumed their journey. Even before the landing, every musket had been unloaded and inspected, and no one carried a lighted match of any kind. Not that anything could have remained lit in this mist. If they were attacked, the relief force would have to rely on cold steel to defend themselves.

  The second halt lasted only a few moments, and after this one, a change in direction occurred. The column moved more to the southwest, heading toward the small fishing village of Kalkara, where a little creek provided access to the fortified village of Birgu.

  By now Martin could make out the watch fires from the walls of Birgu. “We’re almost there, Will.”

  “Surprised the Turks haven’t heard us by now,” Will whispered back. “We’re making enough noise to wake an army. Some guards may lose their heads in the morning.”

  Nevertheless, whether because of the lateness of the hour or the heavy mist carried on the breath of the sirocco, no enemy saw or heard the Little Relief Force’s passage. In moments, they had reached the creek and splashed across. There scouts from Birgu waited for de Robles and his men, then hurried them along a narrow path, through a heavily guarded gate, and into the village of Birgu.

  Martin was the last of the Little Relief Force to step through Birgu’s gate. He took a moment to glance at the landscape behind him. Dawn was breaking and already enough light reached the ground to illuminate the enemy camp. They had passed unnoticed within a hundred yards of the nearest Turkish soldiers.

  The gatekeepers pushed Martin aside, as they swung the heavy oak postern gate closed. Six men fell to work sealing the entrance, using not only wooden beams, but large barrels filled with sand to reinforce the barrier. Another gang of men moved up a wagon, to block the entrance. In a few moments, no one would be going in or out of the gate.

  For better or worse, they had arrived in Malta. Now all they needed to do was find Antonio. Assuming that he was indeed here and still alive.

  They moved through the narrow lane, ignored by the soldiers of the relief force as well as the defenders and villagers. All the other contingents of Chevalier de Robles’ troop were already being led away by their sergeants, either to assigned posts, or to visit friends.

  But Martin and Will, as gentlemen volunteers, belonged to none of the usual Spanish or Italian posts. Lugging their heavy packs, they moved through the lanes, heading in the general direction of Fort St. Angelo, whose walls they could now see rising up over the village of Birgu.

  Behind them, a distant cannon boomed. No one paid much attention as the Turks resumed their daily bombardment.

  “Doesn’t look as though there’s much damage.” Will had seen the effects of English cannon on Irish castles and villages.

  “Probably the Turks have most of their guns directed at St. Elmo.”

  Suddenly, a tall man with sergeant stripes on his jacket and a worn and dented breastplate, blocked their path. “Why aren’t you two at your posts?” The loud words, spoken in Spanish, stopped the two companions

  “We just arrived, sergeant,” Martin said, “with the relief force. We’re looking for our master, Antonio Pesaro. He’s a master gunner from Venice.”

  “Never heard of him,” the sergeant said. “But the Knights’ Command Post is just up that lane, in the center of the village. Inquire for your master there. And hurry. If anyone sees you strolling along, you’ll both be whipped. There’s only one rule in Malta – everyone works, and everyone fights.”

  Martin and Will exchanged glances as the Spaniard strode away. “We’d better get moving. I don’t fancy the idea of being whipped.”

  “I’ll set the pace, then,” Will said. His long shanks covered well over a yard with each step.

  They found the Command Post without any difficulty. Crowded with Knights clustered together in small groups, all talking and exchanging information about conditions within Malta, and the situation in Sicily. No one seemed to notice the occasional cannon ball that ripped through the air overhead.

  Martin saw four long tables, every one holding a map of some kind. Clerks hovered about, and at the largest table, a few of the Knights pointed at various positions on the map.

  “They’ll have to distribute the new soldiers.”

  “I don’t think we want to talk to those Knights,” Will said. “Could that be the Grand Master?”

  Before Martin could reply another sergeant thrust himself in front of the two companions. This one also wore a Spanish breastplate and spoke in that language.

  “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

  “We’re Englishmen who just arrived with the Relief Force,” Martin said. “We’re looking for our master, Antonio Pesaro. He’s a master gunner who came down from Venice with the . . .”

  “I know who he is,” the sergeant said, softening his tone. “I met him the day after he arrived. My name is Vittoriosa. Antonio was assigned to the English Langue.”

  Something in the sergeant’s face warned Martin of what was coming. “Where is he?”

  “He went to St. Elmo almost 10 days ago.” Sergeant Vittoriosa’s words had a finality about them.

  Martin refused to give up hope. “How can we get to St. Elmo?”

  Vittoriosa shook his head. “St. Elmo fell yesterday morning, and the last few survivors of the garrison were butchered by the Turks.” He saw the blank looks on the two companions’ faces. “The infidels were bombarding St. Elmo for the last month. Antonio volunteered to join the garrison there, to replace their master gunner. They held out as long as they could, but the Turks pounded the fort into dust before the final attack. I’m sorry.”

  The sergeant’s fist could not have struck a harder blow. Martin felt the weight of failure on his heart. He had sworn he would protect the young man, and now Antonio was dead.

  “Come with me,” Sergeant Vittoriosa said, seeing the effect of his words. “You should talk to Sir Oliver. He’s the Knight in command of the English Langue, and Antonio spent much time with him.”

  Taking Martin’s arm, Vittoriosa led the unresisting Englishman through the throng. They halted in front of a smaller table, just to the side of the map table. An older Knight and two clerks were huddled head to head, examining some document.

  Martin started to speak, but the sergeant held him back. The three stood there, patiently waiting until one of the clerks murmured something, and the Knight nodded. The scribe scooped up the paper, and carried it off. The Knight glanced up, and saw the three men waiting to speak to him.

  “Yes, Sergeant Vittoriosa. How may I help you?” The words, spoken in the Spanish of Castile, were gentle, but carried authority nonetheless.

  “Sir Oliver, these men were servants of Antonio Pesaro. They arrived last night with the Relief Force. I told them about the fall of St. Elmo. Since they claim they are English, I brought them to you, my lord.”

  Sir Oliver turned his gaze to Martin, studying his features, and as Will would later say, peering into their souls. He took his time, and subjected Will to the same scrutiny. “Are you indeed English?”

  Martin bowed as low as any Englishman would to the Queen. “Sir Oliver, we are both English soldiers who have fought for the Crown. We accepted service with Antonio Pesaro’s father, to safeguard his son on his journey to and from Venice. In that, our duty, we failed. Somehow Antonio took ship to Malta to deliver supplies and never returned. So we journeyed to Messina and on to Sicily, seeking a way to reach Malta and rejoin Antonio.”

  “Bold men, indeed, to risk such a journey. Are there other English
men with the Relief Force?”

  “No, Sir Oliver. Only we two. The Chevalier de Robles allowed us to join the expedition.”

  “You knew the risks coming to Malta? After word gets out that the Piccolo Soccorso slipped through the Turkish fleet, it is not likely that any more galleys will be as successful. Coming or leaving. Not for some time.”

  “We understand the situation, my lord,” Martin said. “Sicily has its own problems. But we had our duty. Now that we’re here, we’ll help you resist the Turks. Both Will and I are veterans of the wars in Ireland.”

  “What are your names?”

  Martin opened his mouth, then hesitated for a brief moment. Better, he decided, to tell the truth. “The name on my letters of introduction is John Smith, my lord. But my real name is Martin Hedley. And my companion is listed as Edward Stanley. His name is Will Chatham.”

  Sir Oliver declined to ask any embarrassing questions, especially not to any of the “gentleman volunteers” who had accompanied the relief force. Nor did he ask to see their papers.

  “Names and pasts matter little here,” Sir Oliver said. “But first let me allay your grief. Antonio is not dead, though he is grievously injured. The commander at St. Elmo ordered your master placed on one of the last boats to depart carrying the wounded. One was sunk by the Turks inside the harbor, but the two others managed to cross the water to safety.”

  Martin felt the weight of despair slip from his shoulders. “Antonio’s alive!” He turned to Will, who stood there grinning at the news. For more than a month, both men had worried about the chance of finding Antonio alive, knowing he could have died upon his arrival at Malta, or any time afterward. Then Martin remembered.

  “Sir Oliver, you say he is wounded? What is his injury?”

  A man wounded in battle stood a very good chance of dying from infection or the vapors, or any of the myriad of other problems that plagued the battlefield after the fighting ceased.

  “Aside from a broken nose, he received a heavy blow on the back of his head, from a chunk of stone bastion shattered by a Turkish cannon ball. He was taken to the hospital inside Fort St. Angelo as soon as he arrived, and has been unconscious most of the time. But even in his few moments of consciousness, he was unable to see anything. Such injuries to the back of the skull often result in blindness, but there is hope it may be temporary. Once the swelling subsides, he may regain some or all of his vision. His eyes appear to be uninjured. There were no fragments of rock or steel in them. Now it is up to God’s wisdom whether he ever sees again.”

  Martin reminded himself that the Knights of St. John Hospitaller were originally established as a nursing brotherhood, to help the sick and injured pilgrims on their way to Jerusalem. Antonio could be in no better hands. Then he realized that Sir Oliver possessed a good deal of knowledge about a wounded young man.

  “My Lord, I thank you again for your words, but may I inquire how you know so much of Antonio and his condition?”

  Sir Oliver smiled. “He is assigned to my Langue, the English Langue. Antonio is one of the few Englishmen on Malta fighting against the infidels, and I enjoyed the chance to speak with him. But to your question, I always visit the sick and wounded from my Langue. More important, Antonio has been very helpful to Malta’s defense. We have lost several master gunners, and he took charge of St. Angelo’s gunpowder magazine.”

  Martin should have expected that. Antonio’s skills were far too precious to be wasted as a mere soldier manning the walls.

  “Antonio has mastered his trade. Even the arrogant . . . the master gunners at the Arsenal in Venice recognized his skills.”

  “I understand he fought bravely in St. Elmo’s defense,” Sir Oliver said. “The battle there was as fierce as any of our Brothers have seen. The fort withstood the full force of the infidels for 30 days, a miracle in itself. The Turkish cannonade was worse than anyone imagined. On most days, between 6,000 and 7,000 cannonballs struck St. Elmo. Only God could have given its defenders the strength to resist for so long.”

  Martin caught his breath, at a loss for words. He’d never heard of such a barrage. While he stood there stupefied, two more clerks arrived, papers in their hands. Martin bowed again. “We have taken too much of your time, my lord, especially today. May we visit Antonio in the hospital?”

  “Yes, of course. Perhaps Sergeant Vittoriosa could take you. Otherwise you would not likely find your way there.”

  “With pleasure, Sir Oliver,” Vittoriosa said, bowing his head.

  “After their visit, have them report to Sergeant Ruvo.” He turned again to Martin. “As Englishmen, you will probably be best utilized in my Langue. I will add your names to the roster. We will speak about your duties later. God’s blessing on your both.”

  The sergeant led them away, and Martin saw that a line of men had grown behind him, all apparently anxious to speak with Sir Oliver.

  “Sergeant, who is Sir Oliver? I mean, what rank does he hold?”

  Vittoriosa laughed. “Sir Oliver is the Grand Master’s Latin Secretary. He attends Grand Master Valette, so you could say Sir Oliver is second in command. But aside from offering his counsel, he commands only a small Langue of his own, the one that guards the harbor behind the fort. Since that’s the least likely place to be attacked, it’s the Langue where all the misfits go. Like Antonio, like yourselves.”

  “It’s called the English Langue?”

  “Yes, but there’s only a handful of Englishmen in Malta,” the sergeant replied. “I met Antonio here, on his first day. He was unescorted, so I shoved him along and he nearly knocked me down. We were about to have a good fight when Sir Oliver happened by.”

  “That sounds like Antonio,” Martin said. “Trouble seems to follow him like a hound.”

  Vittoriosa guided them through the lanes and passed them through the gate of Fort St. Angelo. Then he took them down a series of steps, deeper and deeper inside the fort, until they reached their destination.

  Martin recognized the hospital even before entering. The moaning of men in pain, the whimpers of the dying, the curses of those who lay injured and helpless. He’d heard the same on many battlefields. Always he wondered the same thought – how men so stoic with their comrades could weep from their pain as soon as they reached whatever patch of ground or empty barn that held the wounded. Perhaps they realized that every hospital usually provided nothing more than the last way station before the grave.

  On Malta, at least, the wounded were well attended to. Clean bandages were visible. Women moved among the patients, wiping the sweat from their brows, offering water to those who thirsted, and sometimes simply holding the hands of the dying. Martin saw three of the Knights, two still wearing their armor, helping the injured by setting broken bones, applying bandages, and deciding what lives were worth trying to save. All of them gave what comfort they could to those entrusted to their care.

  The Sergeant inquired, this time in Italian, for those patients who had escaped from St. Elmo. A brief discussion followed, and Martin heard Antonio’s name repeated several times.

  “Antonio is recovering with those who are not seriously wounded.” He guided them back outside, then a few steps farther down the lane, where they entered another doorway, this time descending deeper into the fort.

  They entered a large chamber, with cots jammed together on one side of the room, and blankets and bedding on the floor of the other side. Martin had seen hospitals before, but never one like this. The floors were swept clean, and the patients properly bandaged. Several Maltese women and a few lightly wounded men attended to the patients. The stench of urine, feces, and blood, so overpowering in English and Irish hospitals, was scarcely noticeable. The Knights of Saint John followed their Order’s main tenant – to care for the sick and dying. Almost all those moaning in pain had someone tending them, trying to ease their suffering.

  The sergeant again made his inquiries, but Martin had already spotted Antonio, lying on his back on the blanket side of the room. Mar
tin edged his way through the wounded, taking care not to step on anyone. But most of the patients were asleep or unconscious, and he and Will soon reached Antonio’s side.

  A woman with wide streaks of gray in her hair knelt beside Antonio, holding his hand while she bathed his forehead with a damp rag moistened from a small water bowl. A second bowl contained crumbs of bread and a baby’s wooden spoon. She halted her ministrations and lifted her head. Dull eyes studied the two men for a moment, and then she spoke a handful of words. But Martin didn’t recognize the language.

  “How is Antonio?” Martin’s Italian brought forth little better response.

  “Antonio. Si, Antonio.” The woman sagged back on her heels. “He not good. Are you friend?”

  Her Italian was barely intelligible, and Martin guessed that she was a native of Malta.

  “Yes, signora, we are Antonio’s friends. We will watch him.”

  Whether she understood or not, she nodded. She started to rise and accepted Martin’s arm to help her upright. She collected her two bowls. “Food. Midday.”

  He nodded, and she moved away, stepping cautiously between the rows of injured men.

  Martin went down on one knee and studied Antonio’s face. A pillow, stained with dried blood, supported his head. A nasty gash across his forehead would definitely leave a scar. From the large bruises underneath Antonio’s eyes, Martin saw the boy’s nose had indeed been broken. But someone had straightened it out well enough and it should heal properly.

  Nicks and scabs covered Antonio’s arms and hands, and what looked like a recent burn had reddened the skin above his right wrist. His clothes were in tatters, one step removed from being tossed as rags. The flesh on his knees had been rubbed raw, bloody scabs still forming.

  “He’s been in a fight,” Will said. He squatted down and moved what remained of Antonio’s shirt aside. A large bruise just above the left hip revealed itself.