Malta's Guns

by Sam Barone

  At least 50 pounds of rock fragments tore into the jubilant Turks. The rocks spread out to both sides, and rose slightly. At least 20 men went down, and the blast area covered almost the entire gap in the main wall. For a moment, the onrushing wave halted, caught by surprise.

  Antonio heard the other guns go off, and knew the devastation from the four cannons would be even worse. Those guns each swept a lane of death throughout the length of the box. Then Antonio was back on the gun. He heard the hissing of the wet swab as it rammed down the barrel. Antonio shoved the powder charges in himself, as always hoping the swabber had done his task properly.

  A mistake might blow his arm off. He then primed the touch hole with powder while the crew stuffed more rocks and stones down the barrel. Then the three of them threw their shoulders against the carriage, shoving the gun back into position. This time the barrel ended up pointed slightly left, but that was just as good.

  He swung the match once in the air, to brighten the flame, then pushed the burning taper into the touch hole. Another endless second passed before the powder flashed and ignited the main charge. In less than 40 seconds, they had reloaded and repositioned the cannon, and again its deadly blast hammered the Turks still seeking entrance into the village.

  In a ragged sequence, Antonio heard the guns on each side of the box fire again. Martin and Will were working their cannons as fast as the gunners at the other end. Aware of the danger, some of the Turks rushed the gun positions, seeking to force their way past the gunners. But Sir Otto’s men were ready for that. With sword and spears, they thrust their weapons into those trying to squeeze past the guns. A Turkish arquebusier managed to fire his weapon at Antonio from six feet away, but the crush of bodies behind him must have disturbed his aim, for the ball smacked against the breech of the gun before ricocheting away. The Turk was dead a moment later.

  For the fourth time, Antonio fired the big gun, the blast alone knocking down newly arrived Turks still eager to get inside the walls and unaware of the death waiting them. Again he and the crew strained to reload the gun, now the only weapon slowing the Turks as they entering the killing zone.

  The other guns fired as well. Another German trumpet sounded, and the defenders who had fled the wall now returned, counterattacking with a vengeance. “Keep firing!” Sir Otto knew those words. But then the big Knight was gone, swinging over the wall, his Knights and men-at-arms following. The sounds that followed were familiar. Antonio had heard the hacking and crunching of the Knights’ swords before, during the assaults on St. Elmo.

  But that didn’t matter. For the fifth time, they wrestled the gun back into the opening, elevating it slightly to target the far side of the breach. Again the cannon boomed out, smoke and dust following the deadly hail of stones. But this time he saw that only a dozen or so Turks went down. The Turks outside the opening had halted their advance into Birgu. They recognized the trap, and despite the urging of their commanders, were reluctant to enter.

  That was fine with Antonio. His crew reloaded the gun, and now he had time to aim it. A shouting Turkish commander wearing a red turban kept waving his sword, ordering his men forward into the gap.

  With a final shove sideways on the carriage, Antonio brought the gun into position, then slammed the burning match into the breech. When the cannon recoiled out of the way, he glanced toward the Turks, but saw none standing. The shot had dropped at least 10, maybe more, of the enemy, including the leader.

  Those outside now began to fall back. The defenders were already back on the wall, and the guns there resumed firing. Antonio leaned forward, to look into the killing zone. Sir Otto and about 30 men were finishing up the survivors. Those still able to fight were overwhelmed by the fresh Knights and their men. Tired from the long run to Birgu’s walls and then the climb up and over the rubble, they were no match for armored knights and their trained retainers, who wielded shield and sword as effectively as the flower of chivalry had done 400 years ago.

  Outside the walls, the enemy fell back, disheartened by another failed attack. In moments, all those who had penetrated the wall were dead. A few of the Knights wanted to pursue the Turks, but Sir Otto would have none of that. He ordered that repairs to the wall be started at once.

  Antonio sagged down on his heels, as exhausted as if he’d been fighting for hours, though he had never drawn his sword. But his guns had helped stem the attack, and perhaps the Knights and Malta would survive for one more day.

  August 8

  “Time to get up, Antonio,” Martin said, accompanying his words with a firm shake on his friend’s shoulder. “Time to go. Ruvo has already left for the magazine.” Martin’s voice penetrated the fatigue that had brought Antonio to near exhaustion last night.

  He had staggered into bed a little before midnight, after completing his rounds and doing what he could for the men in the magazines who would work throughout the night. Martin and Will had arrived only moments before him, but no one had the strength to talk.

  Now, after a little more than four hours’ sleep, a new day had arrived. Antonio ignored the stiffness in his body and pushed himself upright. He hadn’t bothered to undress before falling asleep, but he had managed to remove his boots. It took an effort to get them on again. The three men stumbled about the ruins of Sergeant Ruvo’s house. Darmenia poured fresh water for them, but they would have to get their ration of bread from the cooking station.

  “God, I’d kill for eight hours of sleep.” Will’s voice sounded hoarse in the darkness.

  Antonio no longer cared. Whether he lived or died scarcely mattered. Only that he kill as many Turks as possible before his death. “Perhaps today the Turks will grant your wish.”

  “I thought they never attacked two days in a row,” Martin said, as they left the house and headed toward the cooking tables.

  “They haven’t, not yet,” Antonio said. “But they might.”

  They had to wait in line for a few moments, before each received half a loaf of bread and hunk of smoked meat. They leaned against the ruins of a nearby house while they worked their jaws on what once might have been beef, but now tasted like nothing but leather.

  When they finished, they went to the water barrel and quenched their thirst, each drinking as much as they could hold and wasting not a drop. Water remained plentiful for now, but sooner or later the underground cisterns, laboriously filled over the last six months, would run dry. When that happened, the siege would be ended. Without drinking water, in this heat no man could last more than a day or two, let alone fight.

  For now the Turks suffered even more than Malta’s defenders. The enemy soldiers drank from casks filled days or weeks ago in Africa by the crews of the supply ships, and then delivered to Malta. No doubt many of the casks went bad during that time. If the vessels didn’t arrive on time, the Turkish fighting men went on half-rations. The hot August weather drained a man’s strength as well.

  “At the Council, did the Grand Master acknowledge your work at Birgu?” Martin had finally swallowed the last of his beef. “I mean, we saved the village from being overrun.”

  Antonio had to think for a moment, then he burst out laughing. “No, it never came up. I gave my report to Sir Oliver, with special praise for Sir Otto and his crazy plan. But everyone was talking about Senglea and the miracle that happened there.”

  “Miracle? What miracle?”

  “The news had arrived just before I got to the Council,” Antonio said. “A Maltese farmer had slipped into Senglea after dark with the story. While we were holding them off at Birgu, the Turks attacked Senglea.”

  Mustapha’s plan to seize Malta had the Turks launching assaults at all the Knights’ defenses at the same time. Everyone knew the enemy needed to break through at only one point, and with simultaneous attacks, the Knights would be unable to reinforce the point of attack.

  “Near the end of the day,” Antonio continued, “the Turks made another break in Senglea’s walls, and began to pour through the gap. For once ev
en Chevalier de Robles couldn’t stop them, and he didn’t have enough men to counterattack. He sent a message to the Grand Master, asking for aid, but Valette had just sent every man he could spare to Birgu.”

  “So how did the Knights drive them out?” Martin knew they would all be dead or dying by now if the enemy had taken Senglea.

  “They didn’t,” Antonio laughed again. “Even as the Turks planted their flags on the wall, the recall sounded. Again and again, the enemy trumpets called their men back to camp.”

  “Why would they do that?” Will’s voice sounded suspicious. “Is that the miracle?”

  “Yes,” Antonio said. “While the Turks prepared for yesterday’s assault, the Knights at Mdina were spying on the enemy camp.”

  Everyone knew that a handful of Knights and perhaps 200 men at arms, and all of Malta’s horses, had retreated to Mdina, a small fortified mountain city in the middle of the island, about eight miles away. The defenses there were weak, and many had expected that Mustapha would attack there first. But the Turks had ignored the little city in their eagerness to come to grips with St. Elmo and capture the prize of Grand Harbor.

  “When the enemy had committed all their troops to the attack,” Antonio said, “the cavalry at Mdina attacked Mustapha’s main camp at the height of the assault. Apparently they slaughtered all the wounded, killed the few soldiers they encountered, and hamstrung all the horses they could find. Then they set fire to all the tents. They did so much damage that Mustapha’s generals thought the Spanish had landed and were attacking their rear. So they sounded the alarm and recalled their fighters.”

  Martin and Will both laughed.

  “So a few hundred men attacked 30,000 Turks,” Martin said, “and scared them into sounding a recall. I’ll bet Mustapha didn’t like that when he found out.”

  “Victory was within his grasp,” Antonio agreed. “So I guess it was indeed a miracle. An hour earlier and it wouldn’t have mattered. An hour later, the Turks would have been inside Senglea and probably St. Michael.”

  “With the guns they would have captured, the Turks could have demolished Birgu in hours. Anyone who survived would be hiding behind St. Angelo’s walls.”

  That would mean total defeat. Without the other forts, Mustapha could have directed every gun he had at St. Angelo and leveled it the way he had St. Elmo. Or he could simply wait for the Knights to starve to death.

  “But our fight was at least a small miracle,” Will said. “God knows we were almost overrun ourselves.”

  Antonio shrugged. “Maybe God is on the side of the Knights. And maybe we can hang on until the Spanish get here.”

  “If they’re even coming,” Martin said.

  “Sooner or later, the Turks will run out of men and gunpowder,” Antonio said. “And for the first time, I think we might hold them off. We just have to hang on.”

  Chapter 48

  August 9

  The attack of August 7 might have provided some hope to the defenders, but a single glance over the wall told everyone within Birgu that Mustapha Pasha had no intention of giving up. His artillery continued to bombard the forts, and soon the defenders realized they had another problem to deal with. Mustapha had ordered his miners to begin tunneling under Birgu. If the Turks could not get over the walls, they would go beneath them.

  Antonio knew that undermining the walls of any castle or fort was a tactic as old as antiquity. The Roman legions, masters of battlefield engineering, had used the technique with great efficiency. From Birgu’s walls, he saw the besiegers, carrying their shovels and picks, disappearing into the ground. Sir Otto, still commanding that portion of the walls, ordered Antonio to disrupt their efforts.

  By now, as Sir Otto knew, Antonio could lay a gun better than any man in Malta. For three days, he targeted the miners. But no amount of cannon fire from the walls could stop the Turks. They threw up a dirt berm thick enough to stop any cannonballs, and continued their work.

  On the night of August 9, Antonio used his rank to attend the Council meeting, the first time he had bothered to do so. Sir Oliver noticed his presence and took a moment to greet him.

  “Antonio, what brings you here tonight?”

  One look at Sir Oliver made Antonio forget about his own worries. The English Knight appeared as tired and worn down as any laborer or fighter in Malta, including Grand Master Valette. “Sir Oliver, we must stop wasting men and powder trying to slow down the sappers in front of Birgu. In four days we . . .”

  Sir Oliver raised his hand. The Grand Master had motioned for them both to stand before the Council.

  “Is there a problem with the magazines?” Valette might be over 70 years old, but his voice remained as firm and strong as the first day Antonio had met him.

  Antonio glanced at Sir Oliver, who nodded for him to report. “No, Grand Master. I want to speak about something else. For three days, we have attempted to stop the enemy sappers with cannon fire from Birgu’s wall. We’ve fired hundreds of cannonballs at them, and I doubt we have killed more than half a dozen men. The Turks are well below ground now, and nothing we do from the walls will slow their progress. At the same time, we lost two cannons and 11 men of our own. The wasted gunpowder could be better used elsewhere or held in reserve.”

  Sir Otto sat nearby, and Valette’s gaze shifted to him. To challenge your superior’s orders could be considered an insult, or even insubordination. The penalty for refusing an order could be death. “Did Antonio bring this problem to your attention, Sir Otto?”

  The German’s face remained as calm as ever. Whether under fire or munching some bread, the man showed no emotion. “Yes, Grand Master, several times. The last was a few hours ago. But I thought we should continue to harass the Turks as much as possible.”

  The Council listened in silence. Antonio’s request might also be interpreted as a desire to avoid a dangerous assignment, or even cowardice under fire. The penalty for that was also death, with no exceptions. Only yesterday they had hanged a man for such an offense.

  But the bloody bandage on Antonio’s arm, the large bruise on his cheek, and the red burn marks on the back of his hand proved his courage. And he had fought on St. Elmo.

  The Grand Master waited a moment but Sir Otto had nothing to add. That left the decision up to Valette, who probably made a hundred such every day.

  “What would you do instead, Antonio?”

  “I can be of more help to Malta working in the magazines, Grand Master. Sergeants Ruvo and Pozzo are falling behind in their work and they could use my assistance. Of course, I would return to Birgu’s walls whenever needed.” Antonio met the Grand Master’s eyes without flinching, something not many on Malta could do.

  “Then I think you should apply yourself where you think best.” Valette had no problem making hard decisions. “Sir Otto, do you have any suggestions?”

  “No, Grand Master.” The German’s gruff voice held no hint of rancor. “Antonio has advised me on how to make best use of our guns. Perhaps it would be best for him to prepare for the next assault.”

  The Council relaxed. Sir Otto had not challenged either Antonio or the Grand Master’s decision. And every Knight present knew the island’s supply of gunpowder was not endless.

  “Then you may attend to your duties, Antonio.” Valette’s dismissal was kind enough, considering that the young Englishman had consumed five precious minutes of his time.

  Later that night, Antonio told his friends and Sergeant Ruvo about what had happened.

  “Mother of God,” Ruvo said. “You’ll be hanged yet. To even bring such a matter to the Grand Master, when he has so much to worry about . . . and Sir Otto . . .”

  “What of the Turkish sappers?” Martin had worked alongside Antonio for the last four days. “What will Sir Otto do to stop them?”

  Antonio shrugged. “He’s collected a handful of Maltese stone workers and miners. They’ll try and dig under Birgu’s walls and intercept the tunnels. And he is building a secondary wall behind t
he most likely places of attack.”