Malta's Guns

by Sam Barone

  “Now. Take your time, and make certain of every measure of powder and shot.”

  Martin and Will were the first to obey, with Sergeant Ortiz joining them. No one spoke, and the weapons were loaded with the powder cartridges. Each charge was carefully pushed home and packed tight with the rammer, and then the cannon balls gently rolled down the barrels. The rammer now added a bit of rag to hold the ball in place, then pushed the round shot firmly against the cartridge. Since the barrels were slightly depressed, it would be embarrassing if the cannon ball rolled back out of the barrel.

  When the crews finished, Antonio went from gun to gun, inspecting each weapon, and making sure of the aim. Everything was ready. “Light the fire pots.”

  As he gave the final order to ready the battery, a trumpet sounded from Senglea, followed by one from St. Angelo. Antonio glanced up at Senglea’s rampart and saw the Chevalier waving his arm. The galleys had left their shelter and started across the harbor.

  “Martin! Climb up and tell me what you see.”

  Without hesitation Martin scrambled up the rocky wall and looked out over the harbor.

  “Ten galleys, five and five. Coming at full speed.”

  “Get back to your gun.”

  Antonio went to his gun, one of the twenty-four pounders. Located closest to the walls of St. Angelo, it would be the first to engage when a galley emerged into the field of fire.

  “Light your matches.” This time it was Sergeant Ortiz who bellowed the order. In moments, seven matches were burning, one at each gun and two more in reserve. The battery became a dangerous place, with gunpowder and fire in close proximity. Any mishandling might cause an explosion that could blow them all to pieces.

  A gun went off above them, and every man in the battery jumped at the sound. Antonio glanced at Senglea and saw the first of the Chevalier’s cannons fire. Without seeing, he pictured in his mind the 10 galleys racing across the harbor.

  Onboard, the overseers would be lashing the slaves, and the beat of the drum would be demanding maximum effort and driving each vessel to its fastest speed. The galleys would crash into the rocks, absorbing serious, possibly fatal damage, but allowing the Janissaries to disembark as soon as possible.

  He couldn’t hear the galleys, but he knew they were close. Antonio knelt behind his gun, took hold of the slow match, and waited. Suddenly the prow of the first galley entered his view. A single glance along the cannon’s barrel told him no aiming adjustment was needed. He moved aside and touched the match to the vent. A sizzling sound lasted only an instant before the roar of the gun drowned all other sounds, the noise enhanced by the high walls of the fort.

  The recoil slammed the gun back about four feet, but the check ropes, anchored to the platform, jerked it to a standstill. Immediately, Antonio and two of the crew started reloading. The swab hissed down the barrel, but Antonio ignored that, checking to make sure the gun was in its proper alignment, using the second position to shift the gun more to the left. One by one, the other guns went off.

  The gunner shoved the priming iron into the vent, to pierce the freshly loaded powder cartridge. The moment he finished, another crewman primed the weapon. The whole process took less than 40 seconds. For the second time, Antonio lifted his gaze to the patch of water. There was no galley in his gunsight, so he had time to take in the destruction his guns had caused.

  The first galley must have been hit just below the water line. The 24-pound ball, traveling over 1,700 feet per second, would have punched a three or four foot hole in the thin hull, enough to sink the galley almost immediately. But the cannon ball had continued through the vessel, and must have hit a main rib on the far side. The damage, combined with the ship’s momentum, had torn the galley nearly in two, instantly flooding the vessel.

  But the helpless rowers had kept up the stroke for a few moments, and the galley had twisted away from the battery. A second vessel, following closely behind, had then plowed into the first, the banks of oars snapping like twigs. Of the first five galleys to enter the killing ground, four had been hit in the first volley from the battery.

  The lone survivor of the first wave had turned slightly to dodge the damaged boats, and now the ship moved into Antonio’s sights.

  Once again, he jammed the match against the vent hole, and the cannon blasted out its roar. A water spout sprang into the air alongside the hull, and Antonio knew he’d struck the vessel. The second wave of galleys, unable to stop or under orders not to, came into view.

  This time, however, the captains were trying to steer around the damaged vessels. The battery’s guns banged out again. At practically point-blank range, less than 140 yards, the long sides of the galleys presented the perfect target. At least four galleys of the second wave were also struck.

  Despite the battery’s accurate fire, three of the galleys, ignoring the damage and lashing their slaves, managed to reach the rocky base of Senglea.

  “Load the grapeshot!” Antonio shouted, as he adjusted the cannon once more.

  A few Turks jumped from the sides of the galley, arquebuses held above their heads. For some, that meant a drop into 12 feet of water. Many were pulled down by the weight of their weapon and its powder and shot carried in each man’s belt. And most carried a sword. Many would simply drown. Others, however, jumped from the bow directly onto the rocks.

  His gun crew completed the loading. “Stand back,” he shouted, and once again shoved the match into the vent. This explosion sounded somewhat different, but the nine solid iron balls and hunks of the metal frame that had held them together, blasted down the barrel, across the water, and into the mass of men scrambling through the rocks.

  Just as Antonio had the galleys broadside to him, the Janissaries were struck down by this enfilade fire, attacked from the flank. At this short range, the iron balls passed completely through a human body and continued on to the next victim.

  The Janissaries, caught by surprise by the battery, had no place to hide. The low rocks, gravel really, provided no protection, and at least a dozen went down, dead or wounded. Already the galley that had delivered the first enemy contingent to the base of Senglea was slipping below the water, damaged by the cannon fire and the crash against the shore. Each of the three galleys carried at least 100 Janissaries, but not all of them reached land, many drowning before they could free themselves from their weighted belts.

  The other guns had all fired, but Antonio had no time to assess the situation. His gun crew, having been the first to open fire, continued to lead the way, every man doing his task as fast as humanly possible. Another blast of grapeshot raked the disorganized survivors of the galleys. By now all the guns had shifted to grapeshot, and the iron balls cut down the Janissaries.

  The battery soon expended the grapeshot and now the loaders poured the smooth granite rocks down the hot barrels. In the heat of battle, the barrels were overloaded with the stones. The water was filled with bodies, many still struggling to get ashore. When Antonio’s gun blasted the first cannon load of stones, he managed to catch a glimpse of the result. His first impression was that of a boy throwing a handful of pebbles into a pond, watching the scattering send out ripples in the water. But these were no pebbles, and for the Janissaries caught in the water and still trying to reach the base of Senglea, it meant death.

  The other guns repeated the process, sweeping the base of the walls, the rocky shore, and even the water, any place that showed movement. There was no escape for the Turks. Arquebus fire from the walls had joined the fray, and the women on the walls of Senglea heaved rocks onto the piles of bodies. Corpses filled the shoreline, most of those pulled under when the galleys sank and held beneath the water by the weight of their weapons.

  Incredibly, the entire attack had lasted less than 10 minutes. One galley had managed not only to turn aside, but against all odds made its frantic escape all the way back across Grand Harbor, saving itself and its contingent of Janissaries. But for the rest, nine galleys had sunk. More than 900 Janis
saries had perished, along with the galleys’ crews and the slave rowers.

  The moment that all enemy movement ceased at Senglea, Antonio climbed over the battery’s protective wall and headed for the shore alongside Dockyard Creek. A few Turkish survivors, possibly helped by the currents within the harbor, had tried to swim ashore at St. Angelo. As he strode toward the struggling swimmers, Antonio drew his sword.

  A Janissary, exhausted by his ordeal, had flopped down on the rocks. He had no weapon, but he lifted his head and tried to climb to his knees. He raised his hands in surrender, but Antonio raised his sword and struck the man at the base of the neck, wrenching a cry of pain from the helpless man before he died. Another Turk had just reached the shore when Antonio plunged the tip of the blade into the man’s throat.

  Blood from the slaughter below Senglea’s wall now washed over the rocks at the edge of Dockyard Creek. The rest of the gunners rushed past Antonio, eager to finish off the few survivors and loot the floating bodies of the dead. Laughing, they splashed into the water, and began collecting knives, jewels, anything of value from the fresh corpses.

  Antonio stood there, ignoring the looting, his eyes searching the water for anyone playing dead. However, the carnage had ended. The danger to Senglea had passed.

  “Antonio, you can put away your sword,” Martin said. He and Will had followed Antonio down to the water. “They’re all dead. Maybe you should have taken one or two alive.”

  “No. After St. Elmo, there is no mercy for the infidels. Besides, the Knights have no food or water to waste on prisoners. Better to just kill them.” Antonio looked at his companions. “We’d best secure the guns.” He dipped his sword into the water to cleanse away the blood, then turned and walked back to the battery.

  ***

  Martin looked at Will, who shook his head. “He’s become a killer of men.”

  “I still can’t believe what the guns did,” Will said. “A few shots, and more than a thousand dead.”

  “As Antonio always says, it’s all about the guns. But you’re right, I’m as amazed as you are. I thought we might sink a galley or two, but this . . .”

  The sound of cheering interrupted them. At first Martin thought the defenders inside the forts were celebrating the battery’s success, but from the volume and intensity, it had to be all the defenders.

  “Sounds like the Knights have driven off the Turks.” Will shook his head again. “When I woke up this morning, I thought we’d be dead or captured by sundown.”

  Martin had thought much the same. “Our luck held. I think the Turks won’t be back for a few days. So we’ve extended our stay on earth.”

  “Every day alive is a good day,” Will said. “From now on, I’ll thank God for every one I can get.”

  “Amen, and may God bless England, that she never sees butchery such as this.”

  Chapter 46

  July 15

  Sir Oliver’s clasped hands rested on the table, not because he felt comfortable, but because he was afraid that they might tremble. Exhausted by the day’s attack, Sir Oliver knew the Knights had repulsed the ferocious Turkish assault, but just barely.

  Throughout the long day, Sir Oliver had remained at Grand Master Valette’s side, doing everything he could to prevent the man from risking his own life. The responsibility that rested on the Grand Master was immense. All of Malta depended on him. Without his leading the Knights, today’s battle might have been lost.

  Now the senior Knights of St. John had gathered at the command post, to report on the day’s successes and failures, and to prepare for the next day. The Supreme Council, under Grand Master Valette, made all major decisions for the Order of St. John. Already almost two hours had passed, but at last all the commanders, despite their near exhaustion, had reported their status, and the number of dead and wounded.

  The findings were grim. Senglea had almost fallen. Twice, Turkish fighters attacking from the landward side had reached the ramparts. For a few minutes, the green banner of Islam had waved above the walls.

  Chevalier de Robles, in charge of the landward side of Senglea, had nearly finished his report. “The Turks breached the walls twice. If the reinforcements from St. Angelo had not arrived to help us throw them back, Senglea would have fallen. Without the bridge between the two, reinforcements could not have arrived in time.”

  Weeks ago, the Grand Master had foreseen such a possibility and ordered the construction of a pontoon bridge, using the three galleys trapped in Dockyard Creek as the base. Today it had proved its worth.

  “Sadly, we lost over 350 men, including many Knights,” de Robles continued. “Much of the outer walls and most of the houses within Senglea are in ruins. The masons will labor through the night, but the damage is so great, we may not be able to reconstruct the walls. Fortunately, the rubble will slow any attackers down. But we will need to remount many of the guns to cover the most vulnerable approaches.”

  Chevalier de Robles sagged back in his chair, as exhausted as any man in Malta. He had fought on the wall for most of the battle, and had led his men in both counterattacks that drove the Turks off the wall.

  “Thank you and your men, Chevalier.” The Grand Master Valette had also rushed to the walls in Senglea’s defense and knew precisely how hard de Robles’ men had fought. “Is there anything else?”

  The weary Knights needed to return to their duties, but another voice, silent until now, made everyone turn their heads.

  “Yes, Grand Master.” Sir Oliver rarely spoke at these discussions, confining himself to assisting the Grand Master and recording facts and decisions. For Sir Oliver to bring up an issue indicated its importance. “The Turks also launched an attack on Senglea from the harbor. Chevalier de Guiral bore the responsibility for that section of the walls, and his brave defense should be noted. Chevalier, please give us your report.”

  Chevalier de Guiral appeared nervous. The youngest Knight at the table, he was only there because Sir Oliver had ordered him to attend. However, he took a deep breath and started.

  “Grand Master, two weeks ago, Sir Oliver placed me in command of Senglea’s harbor walls. Eight days ago, we noticed that the Turks had concealed a force of 10 galleys across Grand Harbor. From a deserter, we learned that a detachment of 1,000 Janissaries also had been quartered near the galleys and out of sight from our sentries. After many inspections of Senglea’s harbor defenses, I thought it likely that the Turks would launch a seaborne attack at the walls of Senglea.”

  The Chevalier cleared his voice, hoarse from the day’s shouting. “We discovered a weakness in our defenses that indicated the 10 galleys could land at the base of Senglea’s wall, near Dockyard Creek, and that our guns might not be able to stop them. Sir Oliver and I discussed the problem, and he suggested that we enlist Antonio Pesaro, the Venetian master gunner, in our efforts to find a way to stop such an attack.”

  Most of the Knights present had not heard of Antonio Pesaro before, but the Grand Master remembered the name, and that Antonio had constructed another battery that had slowed down the first bombardment of St. Elmo. Another Knight, Sir Annet de Clermont, remembered Antonio from the journey from Venice to Malta.

  “I asked Antonio to study the problem,” de Guiral said, “and see if he could devise a solution. Antonio suggested that we construct a secret battery outside the walls of St. Angelo that could provide cover for the base of Senglea. Sir Oliver accepted Antonio’s idea, and so five days ago, working at night, a hidden battery of five cannons was assembled outside of St. Angelo.”

  The Chevalier halted for a moment. “In truth, Grand Master, I did not have much hope that the battery could do much to stop an assault. Even if only five galleys reached the base of Senglea, at least 500 Janissaries would be assaulting the wall. At the time of the attack, we had less than 50 men defending the wall, along with a few dozen women and boys.”

  The Knights seated at the table understood the implication. So few defenders could not have resisted so many of the feroci
ous enemy.