Malta's Guns

by Sam Barone

  “That he has.” Martin recognized all the signs of a hard-fought battle. “Let’s hope that we don’t look as bad in a few days. With St. Elmo’s capture, the fort here will be the Turks’ next target.”

  “The Knights won’t let us just sit here and take care of him,” Will muttered. “They’ll put us to work on St. Angelo’s defenses.”

  “We’ll stay as long as we can,” Martin said. “I’d like to be here when Antonio wakes. With the confusion of St. Elmo’s fall, and the arrival of the Relief Force, they may not notice us for a time.”

  “Let’s hope they don’t notice us at all.” Will crossed himself in prayer as he said the words.

  Chapter 41

  June 24

  The voices, faint but insistent, intruded on Antonio’s fitful slumber. He wanted to remain asleep, to get the rest his body craved. But the whispers – the low-pitched murmurs that plagued his exhausted attempts to slumber – refused to be denied. They spoke of the dead and dying, of suffering and pain, and of the bestiality and horrors of battle. Images, sounds, even the smell of conflict churned their way through his half-conscious thoughts.

  The little fort of St. Elmo’s had resisted its besiegers far longer than anyone had expected, but with each day that passed, the fighting grew more and more brutal. Soldiers on both sides cast aside any veneer of civilization they might have once possessed and fought like animals. Face to face, men on both sides of the fortress walls screamed meaningless curses while they contended for the chance to kill yet one more infidel in the name of their God.

  Heaps of dead Turks had filled the ditch surrounding St. Elmo, and the stench of the unburied corpses poisoned the air. Not even fresh sea breezes could drive it away for long. Barbaric warfare such as this had not been seen by mankind for more than a thousand years. Both attacker and defender transformed into savage animals who lusted only for the death and destruction of their enemy. Nothing Antonio had ever heard of or imagined could have prepared him for this conflict. The sea battle aboard the Pinnace, only a few months ago, seemed gentle and civilized in comparison.

  Glimpses of the hideous faces mixed with visions of his murderous deeds flowed through Antonio’s mind, changing from one to another as he watched. Worse than the images was the inability to set them aside, explain them away, or even justify his own deeds. He had killed, and though he had not seen all the faces of those he slew, their memory remained fresh in his mind.

  A groan banished the murmuring that troubled Antonio’s rest. Then to his surprise, he recognized the moan of pain as coming from his own throat.

  He opened his eyes and saw nothing but blackness. The aching remained, however, spread over his bruised body. For a moment Antonio thought he was back deep beneath the rock walls of St. Elmo, surrounded by gunpowder in the fort’s magazine, where only a few lanterns provided feeble illumination against the Stygian gloom.

  Antonio remembered the fear that had swept over him a few days earlier. A Turkish cannonball had struck the fort directly overhead with such force that even the candles burning within their glass enclosures had gone out. The shot’s impact had plunged the magazine into the darkness of a long-buried tomb.

  At that moment, waiting for the explosion, Antonio thought he would die. The remains of his body would never be found, blasted to bits and forever buried beneath tons of rock and dirt that had once been Fort St. Elmo, brave guardian of Malta’s Grand Harbor. But he had not died that day. Instead, coughing up the rock dust shaken loose from the chamber’s walls, he’d managed to crawl across the stone floor and relight one of the lanterns. With the first feeble glow, Antonio discovered to his surprise that both he and the magazine had survived another brush with death.

  No, Antonio now remembered, he’d died three or four days later. The Turks had attacked once again, and even Antonio’s guns hadn’t kept the fanatics from overwhelming what remained of the ravelin, crossing the ditch, and swarming over St. Elmo’s crumbling walls. He’d directed his two cannons as long as he could, then fought alongside the Knights, using his sword to stab and thrust again and again at the sweating faces, teeth bared, that swarmed the wall and tried to overcome the defenders. Many of the Knights and soldiers manning the ramparts had died in the attack, but somehow the heathen zealots had been driven back yet again.

  All the same, Antonio had survived, whether by luck or God’s grace, he didn’t know.

  Scarcely had the Turks abandoned their attempt to overwhelm the defenders, than the enemy guns had resumed their barrage. He vaguely recalled that a few days had passed before a cannonball had smashed into one of the remaining walls, slamming him face down in the rubble. One of the blocks of stone, shattered and torn loose from its mortar, must have struck him or fallen atop his prostrate body. However the blow landed, it crushed his head and sent the wave of death through him. Death had come for him at last.

  Or so he thought. From then on, Antonio remembered little. The few moments when he regained consciousness were filled with pain and darkness. Always darkness. Neither death nor life.

  He groaned again, and this time someone lifted his head and held a cup of warm water to his parched lips. Antonio managed two mouthfuls before he started coughing, spitting up much of what he’d just drunk. But the hand returned the cup to his mouth and again he drank. This time he managed to keep it down. The hand lowered his head to the blanket, taking care not to touch the swelling at the back of Antonio’s head.

  The soft voices returned, this time calling his name. He knew he was dreaming because the voice spoke in English. On Malta, only Sir Oliver used that language, and the Knight remained at the Fort of Saint Angelo.

  “Antonio, it’s me, Martin. Can you hear me?”

  Of course he could hear. But who was Martin? Antonio recalled the Martin who had accompanied him on the journey across France and Italy, but that Martin was far away, on the Venetian island.

  With a start, Antonio realized that he yet lived, wounded perhaps, but still able to breathe and feel the weakness in his body. He was alive. Tears filled his eyes and he couldn’t stop his body from trembling.

  “Antonio! Listen to me. It’s Martin. And Will is here with me. We came to Malta to find you.”

  The words registered in his brain, but Antonio struggled to make sense of their meaning. “Martin. Is it really you?”

  “Thanks be to God,” Martin whispered to Will. “He knows me.” Martin raised his voice. “Yes, Antonio. When you failed to return to Venice, Will and I set out after you, first to Brindisi, then Sicily, and thence to Malta.”

  Antonio stretched out his hand and found his own weak grip clasped by Martin’s powerful muscles. “How did you get to St. Elmo? How were . . .”

  “You’re not in St. Elmo, Antonio. You were wounded two, no, three days ago, and returned to St. Angelo. We just arrived at St. Angelo today, just after daybreak.”

  “The fort.” Antonio tried to absorb the news. “What of . . . St. Elmo?”

  “St. Elmo fell two days ago, the morning after you left.” Martin’s voice conveyed the sadness only a fellow soldier could understand. Defeat, no matter how bitterly resisted, no matter how nobly fought, always carried the taint of personal failure.

  So all those Antonio fought alongside were dead, dead or captured. Poor Sachetti, dead as well. Antonio hoped all his comrades had perished in the fighting. To be taken alive by the Turks after such a savage encounter . . . better to die in battle, the very end the Knights of St. John craved.

  “Martin, where am I? What’s the hour? It’s so dark, I can’t see anything.”

  Antonio heard Martin take a deep breath. Something was wrong.

  “It’s well past midmorning, Antonio. You’re in one of the hospital wards beneath St. Angelo.”

  For the first time, Antonio recognized the ever-present yet pitiful voices that had haunted his dreams. Not demon whispers, but the soft cries of wounded men suffering their pain. “But why is it so dark? Can’t someone light even one candle? How can an
yone see?”

  Then Antonio understood. The darkness belonged to him. He’d lost his sight. The Knights of St. Elmo must have perceived the extent of his injuries. Only something as grave as blindness would have relieved him of his duty. At St. Elmo, even the grievously wounded remained at their posts, to do as little or as much as they could before death from their wounds took them. Or until the Turks overran the walls and finished off any survivors.

  He raised his hand and moved it across his face. Antonio saw nothing, even though he felt his breath on the back of his hand. “I’m blind.” The harsh words cut into him. He hadn’t escaped death on St. Elmo, only postponed it. The Turks would finish him off when they captured St. Angelo. They had no use for crippled or blind slaves on their galleys.

  “Antonio, Will and I spoke with Sir Oliver earlier. You suffered a hard blow to the back of your head. It’s possible that, when the swelling goes down, you may regain your sight. So you must not abandon hope.”

  The words brought a fresh surge of pain from the back of Antonio’s head. All the same he heard the laughter in his mind. Don’t abandon hope. Many at St. Elmo had uttered those same words. But fickle hope had indeed deserted him, just as it had all the dead defenders at St. Elmo. Soon enough, those still alive in St. Angelo would suffer the same fate, delivered by the bloody hands of the fanatical Turks. The laughter in Antonio’s thoughts grew louder and stronger, until a wave of even deeper darkness swept him back into the temporary peace of unconsciousness.

  Martin lowered Antonio’s limp hand to the blanket. In moments, Antonio was breathing deeply, already lapsed into a deep sleep.

  “Christ’s body,” muttered Will. “It must have been bad. Six thousand cannonballs a day!”

  “Our last campaign in Ireland didn’t use that many cannonballs in six months.” Martin glanced down at Antonio’s sleeping body. “It must have been like the fires of hell.”

  “And now we’ve joined him.”

  Martin picked his way through the bodies covering the floor. Outside, in the warm sunshine, both men breathed a sigh of relief. They found Sergeant Vittoriosa waiting for them. Beside him stood the woman who moments before had ladled soup into Antonio’s mouth.

  “Martin, this is Darmenia, the wife of Master Gunner Ruvo. She is Maltese and lived in Mdina before she married Sergeant Ruvo. She’s been attending Antonio. Her Italian is not so good. She wants to know if you are friends of Antonio.”

  Martin realized that since he was on Malta, the sooner he learned to speak the local language, the better. “Tell Darmenia yes, and please give her our thanks for what she has done.” He bowed politely.

  Vittoriosa spoke rapidly to the woman, who responded with equal speed. Then he faced Martin.

  “She asks if you could bring Antonio to her home. He was staying there before he went to St. Elmo. Darmenia’s husband would have brought him before, but he’s injured and unable to walk.”

  Anything to get Antonio out of the hospital. Hospitals were places where one went to die. “Please tell Senora Darmenia that we would be glad and very grateful to carry Antonio wherever she wishes.”

  Sergeant Vittoriosa translated that message. “Then I will leave you in Darmenia’s hands. Stay close to your friend for the rest of the day. In the morning have Sergeant Ruvo escort you to Sir Oliver for assignment.”

  A few moments later, Martin stood just inside the hospital’s doorway, wondering how they could pick Antonio up and carry him through the crowded room.

  “Take my pack,” Will said. “It will be easier if I just carry him myself.”

  Will maneuvered through the restless patients with care, scooped up the sleeping Antonio, and carried him in his arms, making sure Antonio’s head rested on his shoulder. As soon as the three Englishmen left the hospital, Darmenia turned and started up the lane, moving swiftly for so small a woman.

  They crossed two more lanes, and by then Martin decided he needed to swap burdens with Will. Before he could suggest that, Darmenia reached a flight of crumbling stairs, climbed them and stepped into an open doorway, the Englishmen following.

  Martin expected to find the usual dim interior, but bright sunshine filled most of the chamber. A glance up revealed that part of the roof had been smashed open by what must have been a Turkish cannonball. Someone had shoved the rubble from the collapsed ceiling into a corner of the room. The rest of the floor had been swept clean. Once inside, Darmenia led the way through the main room and into a smaller, still intact chamber at the rear of the dwelling.

  She pointed to a corner of the room where blankets formed a makeshift bed. Will gratefully deposited Antonio upon it. The boy hadn’t awakened during the brief journey.

  Martin returned to the front of the house and eased Will’s pack to the floor. For the first time Martin noticed a man sitting at a table. Deep shadows darkened one corner of the room and covered most of the table. The man, his right leg, bandaged and braced with a splint, rested on a second chair. A large bruise covered the left side of his face.

  Martin bowed and tried his Italian. “Signor Ruvo, we are grateful for your hospitality to our friend.”

  The man snorted with amusement, then shook his head. “I’m glad you speak Italian, but I would prefer Spanish, if you speak it. My wife understands it more than Italian. Welcome to my home.” He gestured to his surroundings. “What’s left of it.”

  Martin switched his thoughts to Spanish. “When did it happen?”

  “I don’t remember the date, but it was right after Antonio left for St. Elmo’s. He volunteered to take my place, you know. Probably saved my life, for a few more days at least.” He shrugged. “The cannonball glanced off the house next door before smashing into my roof. My oldest daughter, Rusana, saw her husband and their baby crushed by the collapsing walls. I was lucky, only a broken leg.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Senor Ruvo. And now Will and I are in your debt for taking Antonio into your home. If there is anything you need . . .”

  “Nothing. But if the Spanish fail to break the siege soon, we will all be dead. Or slaves.” Something on Martin’s face must have betrayed him. “You just came from Sicily? How many are you? When is the Viceroy coming?”

  Martin shook his head. “The Viceroy has much to do to prepare Sicily for an invasion. I do not know when he will be able to relieve Malta. As for us, there are only 600 men under the orders of 20 or so Knights commanded by Chevalier Goncales de Robles. We landed up the coast, and slipped through the lines last night.”

  “Ah, then Malta remains on its own. Perhaps the Knights of St. John will be able to summon a miracle to save us from the Turks.”

  Martin nodded. “Yes, perhaps. How long do you think the fortress can resist?”

  “The defenses are strong, and the people will fight to the end. But there are many thousands of Turks, and they have brought with them hundreds of cannons.”

  It always came down to the guns, Martin remembered. Without bringing cannons to bear against it, fortifications like these were practically impregnable, as long as brave men manned its walls. But cannons ruled in siege warfare, and the advantage almost always went to the besieger, who could concentrate his fire at any one particular point and reduce it to rubble. Once that was accomplished the final assault would take place, with men pouring through the breach.

  “Then we must fight on, until the Viceroy or the miracle arrives.”

  Ruvo laughed. “They may be one and the same event.”

  Martin joined the laugh. “But until the happy event, Senor Ruvo, please feel free to ask Will or myself for anything you need or want. We are greatly in your debt.”

  “Thank the Knights commanding at St. Elmo. They gambled when they placed Antonio on the last boat. I understand they only had room for so many wounded.”

  “Then that’s who we will repay. Perhaps the Turks will learn that Englishmen are not only hard to kill, but dangerous to confront.”

  Chapter 42

  June 24

  Wh
en Antonio woke that evening, the last of the madness had left him. For the first time since he’d been struck down at St. Elmo – no, even before that, his mind had been so weakened by exhaustion and the strain of waiting for death – he found he could think clearly. He knew where he was and remembered the nameless Knight in the hospital who had tended his wounds and explained Antonio’s injury.

  Once again he heard voices whispering in the dark, real voices this time, but couldn’t make out the words. His head hurt, a dull throbbing that seemed to pulse with every beat of his heart. The voice sounded like Martin’s, but that couldn’t be. A soft blanket covered him, and he pushed it aside. He opened his eyes, but saw nothing, only blackness.

  It was as if he still slept, and heard Martin’s voice in a dream. A feeling of sadness swept over him, as he thought about his dead comrades on St Elmo. Poor Sachetti. He had only gone to St. Elmo because of Antonio. They had fought together, a bond not easily broken.

  His mouth felt dry and suddenly Antonio realized he was thirsty. He called out for water, his voice sounding pitifully thin in the darkness.

  A moment later someone knelt beside him and lifted his head. Antonio groaned at the touch, but a cup filled to the brim with water touched his mouth, and he managed three swallows before he started coughing. When the spasm stopped, the cup returned to his lips, and this time he managed to drink without coughing until his thirst subsided. His head was lowered and once again he felt the softness of a blanket.

  “That’s better, Antonio,” Martin said. “You can have more when you’re ready.”

  This time he recognized Martin’s voice. “You’re really here? I didn’t dream . . . here on Malta?”

  “Yes, and Will is here, too. He’s sleeping now, but he’ll take the watch later. We are in Sergeant Ruvo’s house.”

  “He’s still . . . you’re all alive? How did you get here? The Turks are everywhere.”

  “I’ll tell you how it happened. You just rest. If you get tired, just stop me.”