by Sam Barone
Possibly a 1,000 elite warriors to rush the walls of Senglea during a general assault. The few defenders guarding these walls were mostly gun crews, ready to target any ships attempting to force the entrance to Dockyard Creek. The remainder of the soldiers guarding the harbor walls consisted of inexperienced men and women, or those with minor injuries. Once the enemy reached the base of the walls, the Chevalier’s men would not be able to withstand such numbers without reinforcements.
Antonio listened as Sir Oliver provided a few more facts, but nothing else of significance. By now, the sun had risen. “Let me take a look at the guns, Sir Oliver.”
Without waiting for approval, Antonio strode down the rampart, heading westward. When he reached the corner bastion, he stopped and studied the harbor. For 10 minutes he rested his arms atop the wall, studying the rocks below, the land across the harbor, and the lay of the guns.
The situation was clear enough. In the event of a full-scale attack on St. Michael and the land side of Senglea, the Knights didn’t have enough soldiers to defend the village’s harbor wall. Only cannons could protect the fort and stop so many enemy soldiers.
And if the Turks ignored St. Angelo and concentrated on the promontory at Senglea, they might have discovered a flaw in the Knights’ defenses.
He started walking back to the east, taking his time, and frequently stopping to study the positions of the guns. Finally he reached the easternmost corner of Senglea. From there he stared down into Dockyard Creek.
An enormous chain protected the mouth of the creek and prevented enemy galleys from entering. The chain might be blasted loose at point-blank range, but no Turkish galley would ever get close enough to fire such a shot. The overlapping guns from St. Angelo and Senglea would insure that.
Antonio lifted his eyes and studied the terrain below St. Angelo. Large boulders rose out of the water, but the open strip of rocky ground between the walls and the water, no more than 50 feet wide, provided no cover for any attacking force. But it did give him an idea. He straightened up and realized Sir Oliver and the Chevalier had followed him.
“Sir Oliver, I need to return to St. Angelo. I want to check the guns there . . .”
“You will remain here and get to work!” The Chevalier could no longer restrain himself. Probably only six or seven years older than Antonio, the weight of his responsibilities had stretched de Guiral to the limit. “You’ve done nothing but stare at the harbor! Tell us where to place the guns, you lazy Venetian scum!”
“Do you want me to find a way to defend Senglea or not?” Antonio didn’t bother to conceal his anger.
“You dare to speak to me like that!” The Chevalier raised his fist, as if to strike.
With a speed that surprised both the Knight and Sir Oliver, Antonio snatched his sword from his belt. He held the weapon low, the sharp tip of the blade touching de Guiral’s belly at the place where the breastplate ended. Long before de Guiral could strike with his fist, Antonio’s gladius would have penetrated the Knight’s stomach.
The Chevalier, as shocked as Sir Oliver, stood motionless, unsure what to do. To threaten a Knight meant death by hanging, but that would not help the Knight if he were dead.
“Raise your hand to me again, and I’ll kill you.” Antonio said the words softly, but the menace was clear. The Knight could attempt to draw his sword, or try to step back, but in either case, Antonio’s sword would reach out and rip through the man’s body, a blow both painful and fatal.
De Guiral hesitated. No doubt he’d never been challenged like this before. The speed and smoothness with which Antonio had drawn the weapon caught both Knights by surprise.
“Antonio!” Sir Oliver recovered first. He pushed de Guiral aside and stepped between them. “There will be no talk of killing. Put away your sword.” Sir Oliver turned to de Guiral. “And there will be no more words or threats to Antonio. Chevalier, you will step back.”
Ignoring the sword that still dangled in Antonio’s hand, Sir Oliver put his arm around Antonio’s shoulders and guided him toward the corner of the rampart. “Do you think you can help defend the fort?”
Antonio took a deep breath and sheathed the gladius. “Yes, it may be possible to do something. But I must also inspect the guns of St. Angelo, and I may need to go outside the walls. You will have to approve that, Sir Oliver.”
“Do whatever you must, Antonio. Tell Sergeant Vittoriosa to give you whatever you need.”
“And the Chevalier . . .”
“I will speak to him. He will not threaten you again.”
To descend from the rampart Antonio had to pass within arm’s length of de Guiral. But the Knight did nothing and Antonio kept his face impassive as he strode by. But he smiled as he went down the steps and headed for the bridge. Yes, his days of being pushed around were gone, lost in the yellow dust of St. Elmo.
***
Sir Oliver walked back to the Chevalier, and the look in his eyes would have made older and more senior men flinch. “Géraud, you are young, but you must learn to control yourself. Antonio may have been born in Venice, but he is as English as I am. Do you know that he volunteered to go to St. Elmo, taking another man’s place? And that he fought well there and his name is mentioned in Sir Broglia’s final communication? He was blinded when a cannonball struck the wall near him. The last boat to leave St. Elmo bore him across the harbor.”
“No, Sir Oliver, I did not . . .”
“Perhaps you are also unaware that there are only three master gunners still alive in Malta, and that Antonio is one of them. Or that he has certain skills that the other two do not possess? Do you know that Antonio designed and directed the guns that first fired to help St. Elmo? And that the Grand Master himself praised Antonio for his efforts?”
The Chevalier lowered his eyes. “No, Sir Oliver, forgive me. I did not know any of this.”
Sir Oliver softened his tone. “Antonio is a master gunner, and those skilled in such matters must be treated with respect. Otherwise you will not get the best that they have to offer. If Antonio can think of a way to help you, he must be allowed to do it in his own way.”
“Forgive me, Sir Oliver. I will apologize . . .”
“There is no need to apologize. I’m sure Antonio understands the weight on your shoulders. But treat him with the same respect the Grand Master does.”
“Yes, Sir Oliver.”
“One more thing, and then we will never speak of this incident again. He could have killed you, Géraud. Antonio may be young, but he has learned to kill, and after St. Elmo, there is probably nothing on God’s earth that he fears. Men like that are dangerous, even to a Knight of St. John. Remember that, and include him in your prayers tonight.”
***
As soon as Antonio climbed the last of the steps to the rampart of St. Angelo, he came across Sergeant Vittoriosa making his rounds. “Ah, Sergeant, I need to inspect the guns along the harbor.”
But the Sergeant had his orders, and even though he knew Antonio by sight, Vittoriosa blocked his path. “I heard you had returned from St. Elmo. Are you away from your post again, Antonio?”
Antonio laughed. “No, not this time. Sir Oliver and the Chevalier de Guiral want me to inspect the harbor defenses. Sir Oliver told me you would give me any help I need.”
“As long as Sir Oliver approves . . . what can I do?”
“Nothing now, but after I inspect the guns . . .”
“I’ll be here, making my rounds. And it’s good to see you alive, Antonio. God must have a soft spot in his heart for you, even if you are a Venetian.”
Ignoring the gibe, Antonio started down the rampart, checking the field of fire for each gun, determining how much leeway for each weapon existed, and estimating how much each barrel could be depressed. The wall here was longer than that of Senglea, containing 26 guns, the centerline of each gun port 10 feet apart.
Every gun could cast at least a 20 pound cannonball across the width of Grand Harbor, and any boats attempting to run past
St. Angelo would surely be destroyed. However, the wall itself was slightly angled toward the mouth of the harbor, leaving a gap in coverage that included part of the water near the base of Senglea.
Certainly any Turkish galleys attempting to force their way into Dockyard Creek would be pounded into splinters. But the builders of St. Angelo and Senglea’s walls had always envisioned an attack from the sea, not from inside Grand Harbor.
When Antonio finished his inspection and studied the field of fire of each gun, he leaned over the wall and looked down at the water. He had spotted the narrow strip of land at the base of the walls from Senglea, and now, looking straight down, he saw how it might be used.
He stepped away from the wall and sought out Sergeant Vittoriosa. “Sergeant, I need to inspect the ground below the fort. How do I get down there?”
Vittoriosa rubbed the stubble on his chin. “There is a sally port at the base of the wall. No one uses it, but it’s there in case we have to send men out to repair the wall from the outside. The door is completely barricaded.”
“All the same, I want to see the ground.”
“Be easier to lower you down by rope.”
Antonio considered that for a moment. “No, the Turks might notice and wonder what I was doing.”
Vittoriosa shrugged. “Well, it will take a lot of work, but if Sir Oliver approves . . .”
“You can check with him, Sergeant.”
“I will, later. But we might as well get started. It will take time to open the portal.”
When Antonio stood before the barricaded gate, he understood Vittoriosa’s concerns. Antonio could scarcely see the sally port itself, with so many beams and braces securing it. Even a keg of gunpowder exploded against it might not have opened a pathway.
But Vittoriosa did send for some men, and soon a gang of 10 Maltese laborers arrived and began removing the braces. A quarter of an hour passed before the thick oaken gate creaked open. Antonio stepped through the opening, with Vittoriosa following behind. They found themselves in a slight depression that sloped downward, toward Dockyard Creek.
Antonio took only a few steps before he stopped, his eyes studying Senglea’s harbor wall. Yes, this place was perfect and completely hidden from any Turkish eyes on the opposite shore. He paced the width of the strip of hard rock and estimated only 18 yards separated the fort’s outer wall from the jagged rocks projecting up out of the harbor.
“Sergeant, how far do you think it is from here to the other side of Dockyard Creek?”
Vittoriosa turned to his left and squinted at the creek. “100 yards, maybe 110.”
Antonio’s guess was 120, which was close enough. Then add another 50 yards to the reach the rocky shore where boats could land. Yes, that would be about right, and easy cannon range.
“I’ve seen enough, Sergeant. Thank you and your men for me.” He strode back to the sally port and reentered St. Angelo.
Vittoriosa used words that would have earned him some penance from Sir Oliver, if the good Knight heard them. “Now I’ve got to close the gate again. Another hour wasted.”
But Antonio had already blocked out the sergeant’s voice. His mind raced over his idea. He needed to find Sir Oliver.
Fifteen minutes later, Antonio climbed once again to the highest rampart of Senglea. He found the Chevalier de Guiral waiting for him, but no sign of Sir Oliver.
“Chevalier, I need to speak with Sir Oliver. I couldn’t find him in St. Angelo, and thought he might be here.”
“He is accompanying the Grand Master in an inspection of Senglea’s and St. Michael’s walls. Sir Oliver won’t be back here for another few hours, Antonio.” The Chevalier took a deep breath. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
The Knight’s words were softly spoken, not a trace of the arrogance or impatience earlier displayed. Sir Oliver must have said something to him. Not that it mattered. The Chevalier was the Knight responsible for this section of Senglea’s defenses. As one of the youngest Knights, they had assigned him a place where they didn’t expect an assault. Antonio decided he might as well be courteous, too.
“Chevalier, I believe I have found a way to help defend the walls. Also, I think I know how the Turks will attack. There is a blind spot in the coverage of the guns of both forts. While they can sweep any approach into Dockyard Creek well enough, galleys could approach Senglea from directly across the harbor, and land about 60 or 70 yards above the creek. Only one or two guns would be able to fire on them. And that would require shooting at the bow of the galley, a difficult target. If 10 ships rushed across the harbor to that particular spot, most of them would get there.”
One look at de Guiral’s face, and Antonio felt glad he had spoken politely. The Knight appeared stricken. Not from cowardice, Antonio knew, but from fear of failing to do his duty.
Antonio glanced away, toward the rampart. “Come, let me show you what I found. I may be in error, and perhaps you can guide me.”
Leaning out over the rampart, Antonio described the situation, how the galleys would burst around the point, move southward for a few hundred yards, then turn directly for the eastern end of St. Michael. He pointed to the place where he expected the galleys to beach.
“The galleys will be broadside to the fort’s guns for the first few minutes, but they will be on the other side of the harbor. Once they turn to race toward the walls, only a few guns will be able to attack them, especially if they’re moving at top speed. They will dash across the harbor in less than two, no more than three minutes. Even if your guns score a few hits, they will probably not be enough to sink a galley moving that fast before it reaches the shore. And even if the vessels sink, the Janissaries would still be able to disembark in the shallows.”
“Mère de Dieu,” de Guiral muttered. “It is worse than I thought. Ten ships, each carrying a 100 Janissaries! A 1,000 Janissaries at the base of Senglea. Even if we sink half of them, it will still mean disaster.”
“Sinking five ships . . .” Antonio shook his head. “Perhaps you will get one, two if you’re lucky. The rest will smash themselves onto the shore at full speed. Damage to the ships or the slave crews will be of no concern. With ladders, they could be mounting the wall in less than 10 minutes after they leave the shelter of the point.”
The Chevalier gripped Antonio by the shoulder, and he had to brace himself at the man’s force. Not that de Guiral intended to hurt him. It was just a moment of distress. “Is there anything we can do to stop them? You said you might have a way.”
Antonio acknowledged the use of the word “we.” Now they were two soldiers facing a savage enemy. He leaned out over the wall again. “Look toward St. Angelo. Do you see that little strip of ground between the walls and those rocks that rise up from the harbor? If we put a battery of cannons there, say five, we would have the galleys broadside to the guns. With luck, we could get two shots from each gun before the galleys reached the shore.”
A look of hope flashed for a moment across the Knight’s face. “But you said they would still be able to land.”
“Perhaps,” Antonio agreed. “But the guns will be firing at point-blank range. A single cannon ball amidships might sink two galleys. And even if they land the Janissaries, the battery could rake them from end to end. The Turks would have no place to hide, no cover, caught between the walls of Senglea and the harbor. Firing grape shot and chain, we could cut them to pieces.”
The Chevalier took his time, gazing at the walls, the guns, the strip of land in front of St. Angelo and Grand Harbor. Then he faced Antonio. “If they land, can your guns destroy them?”
“With the right cannons and shot, we can. And you will know where to concentrate your men and guns atop the walls.” Antonio stopped for a moment. He’d been asked a question that needed a direct answer. “Yes, Chevalier, we can stop them.”
“Then tell me what to do and what you need.”
Two hours later, Antonio and de Guiral met with Sir Oliver at the command table in the heart of Bi
rgu. The location remained living proof of Valette’s determination to defend the Maltese inhabitants of the village. He could have ensconced himself within the thick walls of St. Angelo, but this gesture helped raise morale of all the people in Malta.
By now, the Turks had 65 cannons ringing the walls of Birgu and Senglea, all firing as fast as they could be reloaded. The outer walls had suffered plenty of destruction, and it took the efforts of hundreds of men all day and night to continually repair the damage. Maltese laborers working below ground kept cutting fresh stone blocks to replace what the Turkish cannonballs destroyed. The work exhausted everyone, but without the strength of the walls, the defenders had no chance.
“And you think this battery can stop any attack by the galleys on the promontory?”
Antonio knew better than to show any doubts. “Yes, Sir Oliver. They will not be able to mount the walls as long as the guns can fire. I will need as much grapeshot as you can spare.”
Standard grapeshot consisted of nine iron balls, each ball about the size of a lemon, formed into three concentric rings by iron plates and held together by a central rod. When fired, the rings broke apart and the balls and rod spread out over a wide area. At close range, any of the balls or iron fragments would pass right through a human body, and the whole pattern would spread out to cover a wide area.
“We do not have much to spare,” Sir Oliver replied, “since we need them to defend the walls, but I will give you 15. You will have to make do with stones and rock fragments if you need more.”