by Sam Barone
“The Turks must have several hundred men digging. How can a few Maltese stop them?”
“They probably can’t,” Antonio said. “Sooner or later, the Turks will get a tunnel close enough to the wall, stuff it with gunpowder, and blow it up. It will all depend on how well the tunnel is placed and how much gunpowder they use. If they get it right, they will bring down the wall, or at least part of it.”
Five days later, on August 14, the Maltese miners broke into a Turkish tunnel. Using picks, shovels, and knives, they attacked the Turks, killed a handful, and drove the rest back. Then they collapsed part of the passageway. But that victory lasted only a few hours, before the Turks returned in force, reopened the tunnel, and drove the Maltese back.
Once Antonio got the workers in the magazines working smoothly, he returned to Sir Otto and helped position additional guns to help repel the expected attack. The German explained what fields of fire he wanted from the cannons. After their confrontation, Antonio had expected problems dealing with the Knight, but Sir Otto remained as calm as ever, as if the incident between the two had never occurred.
***
On the morning of August 18, the morning bombardment increased in intensity, and everyone knew another attack was coming. After three furious hours, the Turks had started massing their troops. It appeared that once again, Mustapha would send his fighters against all the Knights’ positions at the same time.
Antonio was working a gun, trying to disrupt the enemy’s concentrations of men. By now, Martin and Will each commanded their own guns. Under Antonio’s tutelage, the two Englishmen had grown as proficient as any gunners in Malta. They were readying themselves for the attack when the Turks exploded the mine.
The massive explosion demolished part of the wall and a bastion, killing many of the defenders and dismounting several guns. The blast also signaled the Turks to charge, and they poured across the blasted plain littered with their dead and into the ditch, heading straight for the gap in the wall. Within moments, they had gained a foothold, their banners waving on the remnants of the shattered wall.
The Knights regrouped and tried to push them back, but the Turks, jubilant with their success, forced the defenders back. Already the attackers had reached the first lane, screaming and shouting their victory cries.
Antonio saw the growing chaos below his position. “Come! We have to drive them back!”
Without waiting, he jumped down from the wall and raced to the lane, where he saw Sir Otto’s figure fighting with the enemy. Even before he reached the defenders, another call arose.
“The Grand Master! The Grand Master is coming!”
Antonio reached Sir Otto’s makeshift battle line. He dodged a scimitar and drove his gladius into the man’s stomach. Behind him, he heard Will’s voice rising up. “England! England!”
Then a press of reinforcements arrived, led by the Grand Master. A few steps behind him was Sir Oliver, struggling to reach his master’s side. But the people of Birgu heard the call and saw the Grand Master leading the fighting. Cries of “St. John!” filled the air.
The soldiers rallied to Valette’s side and all the villagers joined them, wielding whatever weapons they could find. They attacked the invaders, and in a few minutes of desperate combat, the momentum shifted. The Turkish advance halted, and then slowly the infidels began to give ground, pushed relentlessly by the armored Knights.
Dodging and weaving, thrusting and stabbing, Antonio struck down two enemy soldiers in as many strokes. He managed to reach Sir Oliver’s side. The battle madness, the desire to kill, swept over him, just as it had in St. Elmo. Sir Oliver, fighting against two foes, was saved only by his armor, which as Antonio watched, deflected a wild swing from a Turkish scimitar.
Will and Martin reached the front ranks and added their swords to the press. Antonio lunged forward and low, to stab one of Sir Oliver’s attackers in the thigh. Before he could rise, Martin shoved his way in front of Antonio and two more Turks went down. But it was Antonio who finished off Sir Oliver’s final attacker, stepping in front of the English Knight, first parrying an overhand swing with the gladius’ hard steel, then smashing the pommel of his sword into the man’s face.
Villagers pushed their way past Sir Oliver and even the Grand Master. Voices cried out, urging him to fall back, get out of danger. But Valette refused, and kept moving forward to the attack.
Whatever the chaos, the Turks began to fall back, surprised by the unexpected ferocity of the defenders. Suddenly fear of being trapped inside the walls swept over them. They turned and ran, jumping down into the new ditch formed by the explosion or scrambling over the ruins of the collapsed wall. A wave of defenders hounded them, and at last the Grand Master ceased his efforts.
“Back to the guns!” Antonio shouted, and raced back to the wall. Two members of the gun crew were already there, and soon they had the gun loaded and run up. The match had gone out, but fortunately the fire pot that was always kept burning remained. The cannon boomed, sending a wave of fragments into the disorganized Turks.
A few moments later, Will and Martin added their cannons to the carnage just outside the wall. If the Turks were not driven away, they might gather their courage, regroup and attack again. Antonio saw an enemy commander waving his scimitar and even striking those who tried to turn away from the assault.
“Hurry, damn you!” He swore at the gun crew, but soon he had the weapon ready and this time he aimed the 18-pounder with care. The gun blasted out its spread of deadly fragments, and a dozen of Turks went down, dead or wounded, the Turkish commander among them.
By now other guns had been brought back into operation and more blasts struck the besiegers. Ignoring those who tried to urge them forward into the breach, they fell back and soon were running for the safety of their own lines.
Gasping for breath, Antonio peered out over the rubble of what had been the Castile wall, now covered with the bodies of hundreds and hundreds of dead Turks.
“My God in Heaven,” Martin said. He held his right hand over his left arm. Blood was oozing through his fingers.
Antonio glanced at his companions. He couldn’t believe they were all three still alive, Sir Oliver was alive, even the Grand Master had survived. “Will, get Martin to the hospital and get that wound cleaned and bandaged. I’ll stay here and help rebuild the defenses.
He looked around and saw nothing but destruction. But then Sir Otto’s figure, limping through the rubble, came over to Antonio’s position.
“You will take charge of the repairs.” The big German swayed on his feet. “I will . . .” He staggered to the ground, his leg unable to support him.
“Take him with you, Will,” Antonio shouted. He looked around, not even sure where to start. But then others joined him, and they fell to work, only a few minutes after the fighting stopped.
By nightfall, a crooked wall consisting of fresh blocks and chunks of the old wall stretched across the gap and overlooked the crater formed by the enemy mine. The stone masons would labor through the night, but already a row of guns looked out over the fresh Turkish dead. Another Knight arrived, and informed Antonio in halting French that Sir Otto was too wounded to return and would need at least a few days to recover from his wounds.
The new commander was another German, Sir Gerhaus Eisenberg. Antonio had seen him during the fighting when they trapped the Turks inside the killing box, but had never spoken to him.
“Sir Otto ordered that I should listen to you . . . to your suggestions. Where should we begin?”
At least Gerhaus spoke better French than did Sir Otto. However Antonio knew that he had received another compliment from Sir Otto. He decided to visit the big German in the hospital as soon as he could.
“Sir Gerhaus, I’ve started positioning guns to cover the approaches.” Antonio went on, and soon Gerhaus was busy sending men where they were needed. The work went on under torchlight. Finally, near midnight, Antonio and Will, who had returned from the hospital, stumbled back t
o Sergeant Ruvo’s house and practically collapsed from exhaustion.
But the battle of August 18 marked the worst of the siege. The villagers claimed it was another miracle, that God had driven off the Turks. But the price had been high. The village of Birgu lay in ruins from the constant bombardment, as did Senglea. The fort of St. Michael was hardly better, but its walls still stood.
The next day brought no new attack, though the Turkish bombardment resumed. By the end of the day, the patchwork defenses of Birgu were as ready as the stone masons and soldiers could make them.
That night, Antonio had enough strength to talk with his companions and Sergeant Ruvo. “I think it will be several days before they can attack again. They are losing their will to fight. Those eager to die for Allah have been granted their wish. From now on, they will have to be driven into battle by their masters.”
“Seems like they could just walk into Birgu,” Will said. “There’s almost nothing left of the original wall.”
“The debris is almost as effective a barrier,” Antonio said. “First they have to pick their way over the dead and then cross the rubble, all in the teeth of our guns. This is what it was like at St. Elmo. The more they knocked down the wall, the harder it became to scramble over its remains. And by now all the bravest or most foolish Turks are dead. Those still alive probably want to stay that way.”
“Perhaps they think that God is with Malta,” Will offered.
No one laughed at the suggestion. There had been too many miracles, too many strokes of luck in the fighting. Defenders and attackers both knew that Malta should have fallen by now, but somehow it still stood and still fought.
“As long as the Grand Master commands the defenders,” Antonio said, “they won’t yield. I still can’t believe he led the counter attack after the mine blew.”
Martin nodded. “For an old man, he fought well, and right in the front line.”
“Perhaps that’s why they wear their armor all the time,” Will said. “So they can fight at a moment’s notice.”
“Still, if he’d been killed,” Antonio said, “the people would have lost heart, and the Turks might have won.”
No one else had anything to say. The three Englishmen turned in, each one thinking for the first time about the possibility of getting off Malta alive.
Chapter 49
August 21
Mustapha Pasha, however, remained determined to capture Malta. No doubt he feared returning to the Sultan and reporting failure. He might not have enough food and water for his remaining troops, but he still possessed plenty of gunpowder. So the bombardment continued.
All the same, for the first time the defenders started to think about survival. Mustapha might abandon the siege. The Viceroy of Sicily might yet arrive, or a late summer storm might wreck Admiral Piali’s galleys, cutting Mustapha’s supply line. By now, Piali must be worried about his ships. They had been at sea for months, much longer than anyone anticipated. Morale aboard the galleys would have plummeted, aggravated by disease and exposure.
The Turks clearly had problems. Such thoughts gave the defenders hope. But hope, Antonio decided, was only for the hopeless. It was all they had.
The Turks launched another major attack on August 20, concentrating on Birgu. But despite the weakened condition of Birgu’s walls, the defenders held their positions. None of the attacking soldiers reached the walls.
With almost all the original walls demolished, Antonio, with Sir Gerhaus’ approval, had repositioned the guns, concentrating them on four areas in front of the ditch – the most likely places where the Turks would try to cross the rubble. In other places where the rubble made access difficult, he located only a few guns. The simple strategy worked. The enemy soldiers, looking weary even from a quarter mile away, moved toward the places where the path to the walls looked most approachable.
Antonio’s gunners waited, matches lit and cannons loaded. When the enemy entered the killing ground, half of the guns were fired. The Turks were cut down and their approach nearly halted. But they rallied and surged forward again. The other half of Antonio’s guns fired. By the time they absorbed their losses and reacted, the first set of cannons were ready to fire again.
That tactic kept the rain of grapeshot and stones striking the enemy nearly continuously. The advance ground to a halt, and those in front began to fall back, disrupting those advancing behind them. The defenders, spared for once the dreaded hand-to-hand combat, had plenty of time to work their muskets. As the Turks retreated, the defenders had the strength to jeer at the retreating enemy.
The Turks never solved the problem. If they had shifted their main assault to the more difficult approaches, there would not have been enough cannon fire to hold them back.
A simultaneous assault on Senglea was also repulsed in much the same way. The ruined walls of the once-mighty villages, though practically destroyed, still served to hold off the enemy. In only a few places did the enemy reach the walls, and the defenders, under Chevalier Robles, cut them down.
For Antonio, the sight of discouraged Turks retreating brought satisfaction. He and Sir Gerhaus had gambled on the best way to use the cannons, and it had worked. And he had survived another battle.
But later, after he returned to the magazine, he realized the remaining stocks of gunpowder had reached the critical level. Antonio and Sergeant Ruvo discussed the situation, and reported to Sir Oliver. He shook his head at the bad news.
“So, if we are careful, we have enough powder to resist one more assault? Just one?”
“Yes, Sir Oliver,” Sergeant Ruvo said. “Antonio and I visited all the magazines and calculated what remains. The same is true for the arquebusiers. They are running low on both bullets and powder.”
“I suppose it had to happen sooner or later. I’ll inform the Grand Master. My thanks to you both.”
Later, Antonio explained the situation to Martin and Will. Both men took the news hard. It was one thing to fight the enemy, but when the means of resistance were consumed, only defeat would remain.
The good news, if indeed it could be considered good, was that the Turks showed no sign of preparing for another assault any time soon. Three days passed without any attack, only the bombardment continued, and even that showed signs of slackening. Antonio decided that more than a few of the Turkish cannons had begun to break down.
The enemy weapons had been continually firing at least 12 hours per day for more than three months. Under those conditions, it was inevitable that guns failed and had to be taken off the firing line. Nor could the damaged weapons be easily repaired, since the Turks probably possessed less in the way of facilities than did the Knights.
Over the next few days, Antonio and his companions struggled through the exhausting labor of preparing the guns and helping repair the walls. And when Antonio lay down to snatch a few precious hours of exhausted sleep, he wondered if the Turkish gun crews were half as tired as he was.
On August 23, Sergeant Ruvo and Antonio received a summons to the Grand Master’s council that evening. The meeting took place at what remained of the center of Birgu, in front of the command post. To Antonio’s surprise, all the fighting Knights and senior members of the Order were in attendance, though that number had been reduced to less than 150.
“Why are we here?” Antonio whispered to Ruvo.
“If it were for Knights only, I would not have been invited,” Ruvo said. “It must be they want a report on the gunpowder stores. And I see the chief mason and the water master are here. So something is happening.”
“Telling them about the powder won’t take long,” Antonio answered. “I’d like to get some sleep tonight.” Glancing around, he saw nothing but somber faces. Chevalier de Clermont, de Robles, Sir Otto, even Sir Oliver, all appeared subdued. More bad news, Antonio decided.
When the last of the members arrived, Sir Oliver led the evening blessing, and then turned to face Grand Master Valette.