Malta's Guns

by Sam Barone

  Days passed, and the brutal labor of rebuilding the defense continued. By the end of July, the Turkish gunners kept up a continual bombardment. Night and day, the villages and forts were under the constant terror of cannon fire. Every block of stone that could be hewn from the earth and moved into position might mean the difference between life and death.

  Antonio now labored in the magazines of Birgu, Senglea, and the two forts. While Sergeants Ruvo and Pozzo remained as the Master Gunners, Antonio now made most of the decisions. Morning and evening he visited every magazine, inspecting the men. He also examined the powder cartridges, the fire hoops, and trumpets.

  When satisfied that everything was in order, he and his companions then walked the walls, making sure that every gun the defenders possessed was in good condition, with a sufficient supply of stone cannonballs. Almost all the iron balls had been expended, and the defenders now made do with rough-cut granite, chipped and chiseled into approximately spherical shape.

  In some regards, the stone cannon balls were superior. When they struck Malta’s hard and rocky ground, they tended to fragment, and pieces of rock would fly into the attackers almost like grapeshot. The diminishing supply of grapeshot, useful for slowing attacks, had grown critical, but at close range the small chunks of granite worked almost as well.

  Antonio spent most of his time in the village of Birgu and Fort St. Angelo. The Turks had more guns positioned to fire on Birgu than any of the other targets. Battered by thousands of cannonballs, Antonio often found it hard to believe the walls still stood. While working on those walls, Antonio was twice hit by fragments, and Martin also received a wound that sent him to the hospital for two days. Despite the heat, Antonio resumed wearing his leather jerkin and helmet for protection.

  By the end of July, Mustapha’s soldiers had completed entrenchments from Mount Salvatore down to Kalkara Creek, sealing the Knights within and making certain that no new reinforcements could reach them. At the same time, the Turks added two more guns to their 16-gun battery on Mount Salvatore. These were basilisks, named after the mythical fire-breathing serpents, that fired stone shot weighing 300 pounds.

  The first time Antonio saw one of them strike Birgu, he gaped in amazement at the destruction. The giant shot reduced two stone homes to rubble in an instant, and killed six Maltese and two Spanish soldiers. Thankfully, the massive bronze basilisks could only fire three or four times per day, since the gun required enormous amounts of powder and was difficult and dangerous to load.

  After seeing the results of the basilisk, Antonio was less than impressed. The weapons must weigh close to 5,000 pounds, and he wondered why the Turks had bothered to transport them to Malta. They would punch a hole through any wall, but the basilisk’s slow rate of fire and poor accuracy meant it could not follow up on any advantage. Five or six 32-pounders would breach the same wall, and each could be fired 10 or 12 times every hour.

  The shelling continued, and on the morning of August 2, the bombardment increased in intensity. That usually signaled another attack, and men, women, and children worked until they could no longer stand, repairing and rebuilding the walls. At midmorning, the Turkish soldiers swept down from their positions and launched their attack. The broad assault was spread out against all the fortified positions.

  Antonio and his companions went to Birgu’s wall. They found a dismounted cannon whose crew had been killed, and managed to repair the carriage and re-mount the gun. After their training at the secret battery, any of them could load and fire the gun as well as any experienced crew. Again and again, the cannon was loaded with rock fragments and spit its deadly contents into the crowded mass of Turkish infantry.

  Antonio had not seen this intensity of battle close up since St. Elmo. Hour after hour passed, and they snatched water every chance they could. The gun grew so hot that to touch the hot metal of the cannon meant burning the skin of your hand. But rubble from the damaged walls was plentiful, and Maltese boys carried fresh loads to all the gunners on the wall.

  They took turns swabbing and loading the gun, but Antonio did most of the sighting. With every roar from the cannon’s barrel, Turkish soldiers died. Once he waited until a score of attackers moved together toward the wall, then cut a swath of death in their ranks.

  Death and destruction surrounded Antonio and his companions. Twice the besiegers reached the top of the wall. Both times Antonio, Martin, and Will joined with the defenders and used their swords to drive them back. Savage hand-to-hand combat ranged over the length of Birgu, but whenever the Turks massed in front of one section of the wall, guns on either side would tear into them. At every slackening of the infantry attack, Antonio returned to the guns. Outnumbered the way the defenders were, only the cannons along the rampart could neutralize some of the attackers’ numerical advantage.

  Finally, after six hours of continual fighting, the Turks withdrew. Smoke hung over Birgu, and after Antonio washed the grit from his face, he saw the same haze drifting away from St. Michael and Senglea. The withdrawal indicated that the Turks had not gained a foothold anywhere. Later he would learn that at Senglea, the Turks had twice breached the walls, only to be driven back by savage counter-attacks, led by the Knights in their armor.

  Like everyone else, Antonio slumped to the ground, too weary even to fire at the retreating Turks. Dead bodies lay everywhere, pushed aside by the living during the fighting. By the time Antonio had caught his breath, the shelling from the Turks’ cannons resumed. The sun had dropped toward the horizon, but the enemy gunners still had time to strike at the defenders.

  He got to his knees, and moved beside Martin. “Are you all right? Will?”

  Both nodded their heads. Like Antonio, they were covered with cuts and bruises. Gunpowder residue marked their arms and faces. But the three of them had survived, alive when many around them had died.

  “Never saw anything like that in Ireland,” Will muttered. “Bloody animals, that’s what they are.”

  “They want to die for their god, for Allah.” Martin shook his head.

  “As long as they die, it’s good enough.” Antonio rose to a crouch. Turkish marksmen were still out there, looking for easy targets. “Clean up this gun, and get it ready. Then come join me in the magazine.”

  As he swung down from the parapet, Antonio realized how fortunate the award of the Knight of Grace had turned out to be. Unless given a direct order by a superior, he could move about Birgu and St. Angelo without challenge. That authority now included Martin and Will, who could claim they were following the orders of their superior, a Knight. The need to justify their movements mattered less now. The two Englishmen followed Antonio about so much that everyone took their presence for granted.

  Ignoring the moans and cries of the dying, Antonio picked his way through the rubble of Birgu. Corpses and bloody body parts lay scattered about. Often there was no time to bury the dead, and those without kin to claim them were simply dumped into the harbor. The flies buzzed incessantly, another annoyance brought about by the siege.

  But after the horror of St. Elmo, Antonio scarcely noticed. He passed through the gate that led into St. Angelo, and descended into the magazine, removing his boots first. Sergeant Ruvo, sitting behind a work table with his injured leg extended, nodded hello but continued working on a fire pot.

  “You drove the Turks off?”

  “Yes, just barely,” Antonio said. “They kept up the attack most of the day.”

  Ruvo grimaced. “Curse them all. But at least we’ll live for another day or two.”

  That was the best anyone on Malta could hope for.

  “Antonio, we’re running low on gunpowder. Can you bring up some more from the reserve? At least 20 kegs.”

  A quick glance told Antonio the stock of gunpowder was indeed running low. The defenders had plenty of food and water, but most of the gunpowder kegs were empty. “I’ll bring it, Sergeant.” He collected a few men and moved deeper beneath the fort.

  This far below ground, th
e air seemed cooler. The low ceiling chamber was packed tight with kegs of gunpowder. Now was no time to get careless. An explosion here might level half of St. Angelo. He selected the powder with care, always taking from the oldest stock first. It might not appear that much cooler down here, but the slight increase in the moisture would eventually contaminate the powder. Best to use the kegs longest in storage first.

  Keg by keg, and always staying a few feet apart, they moved the gunpowder to the upper level. There the contents of the kegs would be poured into different-size cartridge pouches, varying by the size of the gun. A 24-pound cannon required almost twice as much gunpowder as an 18-pounder.

  When the powder had been safely transferred, Antonio eased himself down onto the floor beside Ruvo. “What else do you need, Sergeant?”

  “Nothing, Antonio. How bad was it?”

  “I was in Birgu. The assault lasted almost six hours before the Turks lost heart.”

  “Mother of God.” Ruvo didn’t ask about Martin and Will. If they were injured or dead, Antonio would have told him.

  The rest of the day and most of the night passed in the same manner. Antonio and his helpers moved from gun to gun, checking each weapon and adjusting each one’s field of fire. With so much of the wall ruined, and more than a few guns out of action, the positioning and aiming of each weapon required constant adjustment.

  Mustapha’s artillery kept up the bombardment for another five days, turning Birgu and Senglea into hell on earth. The Turkish general seemed determined to pound the Knights into submission. To Antonio, the horror seemed all too familiar. Death hovered over all of them, every moment of every day on the walls.

  While nothing could compare with the intensity of fire directed at tiny St. Elmo, the Turks were once again firing 5,000 to 6,000 cannonballs each day. No place offered safety. Even when he snatched what little sleep he could, Antonio knew he could be killed just as easily.

  Sleeping in St. Angelo’s magazine provided a little more security from the bombardment. However, the chance that some exhausted man might trip and fall and blow the entire magazine into the heavens made up for it.

  On August 7, the leaders of the Turks launched another attack, concentrating this time on Birgu and Senglea. The two villages had already borne the brunt of the morning’s cannonade. Once again Antonio had joined Birgu’s defenders, taking his station at Castile. He risked a glance over the wall, to glimpse a human sea of Turkish soldiers advancing, most of them heading toward him.

  Observing the devastation caused by their guns and sensing victory within their grasp, the screaming enemy had regained their lust for battle. They knew the men behind the walls were weakening. The attackers headed straight for what was now the weakest point in Birgu, the center of the Castile post. The wall there had taken too many hits, and a section about 30 feet wide had collapsed and slid down into the ditch. Repairs had been made, but the enemy gunners had concentrated their fire, and the position remained weak.

  However, the Grand Master had visited the site every day and seen the devastation. Knowing the Turks would concentrate on the weakest point, he had ordered a secondary barricade to be constructed behind what remained of the main wall. It had taken 48 hours of back-breaking work to shove new blocks into place, then raise them by stacking. The defenders had completed their work only this morning.

  Antonio, working a gun with Martin and Will, felt a powerful hand on his shoulder that pulled him away from the breech of the gun. He looked up to see Sir Otto, the Knight in charge of Castile.

  “Antonio, take charge of laying the guns on the new wall. My gunner was wounded almost an hour ago, and the messenger I sent for you was killed. You must hurry. If we can’t mount some guns there, the barricade won’t stop the Turks for long.”

  It took a few moments before Antonio grasped what the Knight was asking. “Yes, Sir Otto.”

  He leaned over to Will, and shouted in his ear. “Get another gun crew to take your place, and join me as soon as you can.”

  Sir Otto had already departed. Antonio scrambled down the rampart steps and trotted after him. There was no time to build any more gun platforms, but Maltese laborers were pushing more blocks of stone into place behind a temporary wall. But to his surprise, he found only one gun aimed at what would be the center of the breach.

  “We have only five cannon.” Sir Otto had returned. He saw Antonio’s confusion, and the Knight’s heavily accented voice boomed over the battle din. “I want one here to cover the entrance. That way you can slow them down. The other four I want placed on either end of the box, so we can kill everyone that gets through the breach.”

  The inner wall was rectangular, stretching lengthwise parallel to what remained of the outer wall. The crazy German obviously wanted to let the Turks in, trap them in inside, then sweep the Turks from both ends of the box. Antonio shook his head in disbelief. Well, one desperate plan was a good as another.

  Antonio set up the center gun, a short-barreled 32-pound relic that had been removed from the wall because it seemed likely to explode. But it would do for the center gun. At this distance, smaller charges would work just as well. He snatched two cartridge bags and shoved one of them down the barrel. “Load it with rocks, halfway up the barrel.”

  While the grunting Maltese gun crew did that, Antonio ran down to the farthest end of the box, pushing and dodging his way through the ranks of Sir Otto’s gathering arquebusiers. At the southern end of the box, Antonio made sure the two guns, both 24-pounders, had been placed in the best position.

  “Keep the elevation low, just above knee high,” he shouted to the gun crews. “Some of the shot will rise, and you don’t want to hit the gunners on the opposite end. And seal up these gaps around the guns. Otherwise they’ll stick a sword in your ribs while you’re loading. And don’t shoot until you see and hear the center gun fire.”

  More of Sir Otto’s men arrived, getting into position to hold this end of the box. Their sergeant, a squat-bodied blond giant, wore the Teutonic cross on his arm. He said something in German, but Antonio couldn’t understand.

  “Keep the gunners safe,” Antonio pointed to the two gun crews, hoping the Sergeant would understand his French. “Keep the guns firing.”

  Antonio dashed off, racing back past the center gun, and reaching the other end of the box. Martin and Will, both out of breath, joined him there.

  “We’re setting a trap. Sir Otto intends to let them in, then kill everyone inside. Martin, take charge of these two guns and fire them as fast as you can load. Three quarters of each gun filled with rubble. Aim for their knees, or you might hit the gunners on the opposite end. And don’t start shooting until the center gun fires.”

  That was all he had time for. Antonio ran back to the center gun. Sir Otto was there, one foot on the breech, with three other knights. One was covered with blood, but apparently it wasn’t his. The battle cries of the Turks outside the wall increased in fervor as they charged across the plain. They had taken their losses, and now were ready to pay the Knights back.

  A trumpet sounded three strident notes, repeated again and again, evidently to signal Sir Otto that the enemy was upon them. On the remnants of the main wall, gunners and defenders fled to each side of the gap, running for their lives. Then the jubilant Turks burst into the village, scrambling up and over what rubble remained of the wall.

  Crouched down beside the center gun, Antonio peered through a gap in the blocks. The burning match was already in his hand, and without thought he waved it gently back and forth to keep it lit. The Turks rushed down inside the box, their cries of victory already sounding. Seeing the wall straight in front of them, most turned aside, thinking to attack inside the village.

  He glanced up at Sir Otto. The Knight’s visor was lowered, and he held his broadsword in one hand. Sir Otto shook his head. “Noch nicht!”

  Antonio didn’t know more than a few words of German, but he knew those two – not yet. He gritted his teeth. More than a 100 of the enemy wer
e already in the box, with more rushing in every second. Then Sir Otto rapped his sword on the gun barrel. “Jetzt!”

  A new word to Antonio, but he knew what it meant. He shoved the burning match into the touch hole of the gun. One second later, it exploded, sending a deadly hail into the center of the opening. He had time for a single glance at the onrushing enemy, confident that victory was in their grasp.