by Sam Barone
Valette, however, displayed nothing but calm on his face. To Antonio, he seemed no different than that first day on St. Angelo’s rampart. The Grand Master, not particularly tall, moved to a small platform that had been placed in front of the command table where he usually sat. From the little podium, he could see all of the members and everyone could see him. When he spoke, his firm voice carried to all those attending, and even Antonio and Ruvo, standing as far away from the table as any, could hear every word.
“My fellow Knights,” Valette began, “I want to inform you of what we face. A few days ago, I told the Council that we could look for no succor from Sicily. Viceroy Toledo is still unable or unwilling to come to our aid. Except for God’s help, we stand alone against the Sultan’s army.”
He paused a moment, to make certain the members of the Order understood his words. “Last night, the five most senior Knights of our Order suggested that we abandon Birgu, Senglea and St. Michael, and withdraw all of our fighting men to the Fort of St. Angelo. They advised that, with so much of the villages in ruin, we will not be able to withstand another general attack. They pointed out that the walls of St. Angelo are still intact, and our position there would be strong. Before I give you my decision, I thought everyone should know what we face.” He turned to Sir Oliver.
The English Knight stepped forward, to stand at Valette’s side. “Water Master Donato, how long would our supply of water last?”
The gray-haired man shifted his feet uncomfortably. He chose his words with care and spoke with a thick Italian accent. “In St. Angelo, we would only have what remains in our cisterns. We would not have access to the creek in Birgu, nor the cisterns beneath Senglea and St. Michael. Your pardon, Grand Master, but with everyone crowded together within St. Angelo, the water supply would not last long, perhaps 10 days. If we filled every barrel and keg we could find, we might have enough for another seven or eight days.”
“Is there anything else we could do, Master Donato?” Sir Oliver’s question showed that the water situation was not unfamiliar to him.
“We should poison all of our water stock before we retreated,” Donato said, “so that the Turks do not gain the use of water. Their lack of fresh water, water of any kind, has helped weaken their strength. Of course, we would not be able to poison the creek. Perhaps we could blow it up before we left.”
At the mention of explosives, everyone turned toward Antonio and Ruvo. The sergeant swallowed and cleared his throat. “Grand Master, I have never blown up a creek before, and it may be possible. But water that flows like that might find another way to the surface, and surely the Turks could dig out a fresh channel. In a few days they would have a source of clean water.”
“Thank you, Sergeant Ruvo,” Sir Oliver said. “Antonio, do you have anything to add? Can the creek be completely blocked?”
Now it was Antonio’s turn to hesitate, as he felt all eyes turn to him. But weeks ago he had decided to speak his mind, and he had no intention of holding back. “No, Sir Oliver. You might block it for a few days, but the Turks would surely restart the flow. It would be a waste of precious gunpowder.”
“Thank you, Antonio. Tell us about the stock of gunpowder.”
Once again Antonio took the plunge. “We have enough powder for one more major assault. After that, we will not have enough to work more than a few guns in each location.”
“But if we withdraw into St. Angelo, how long could the powder last?”
Antonio considered the problem. “We would have to abandon many of the guns, spike them so the Turks could not use them against us. That would only slow them down, and they would soon get most of the guns repaired. And moving everyone into St. Angelo would reduce the number of guns by at least two-thirds. That would give us sufficient gunpowder for two or three attacks.”
The more Antonio thought about it, the more he liked the idea of withdrawing into the fort. That sentiment, he realized, must be held by most of those present. The idea of having strong walls around him once again seemed like a dream come true. The Grand Master’s original strategy of defending all four sites might have been correct when the siege began, but now it seemed foolish to try and defend everything. If the Turks concentrated their forces either on Birgu or Senglea, Antonio doubted even the valor of the Knights could save them.
While Antonio thought about St. Angelo, Sir Oliver questioned the supply master and the chief mason. All the remaining food stocks could be carried into St. Angelo. The chief mason agreed that his men could dig down and carve out blocks even from the hard underground beneath St. Angelo.
After a few more questions, Sir Oliver turned back toward the Grand Master.
“All of you must understand,” Valette began, “that if we withdraw into St. Angelo, we will not be able to bring everyone from the villages with us. There would be no room for so many. At least half of the Maltese would be left behind.”
Antonio had forgotten about the Maltese, the inhabitants of Birgu and Senglea. So many of them had died in the siege, fighting for the Knights. Leaving behind at least 1,500 villagers was almost too grim to contemplate. Who would choose? But if the Knights wanted to survive a little longer, it might have to be done.
There were a few more questions, but nothing of significance. All eyes went to the Grand Master.
“Fellow Knights,” Valette said, “I have given much thought to your words, and now I will give you my decision. First, let me say that I will not abandon any of our Maltese allies. They have fought and worked as hard for Malta as any of us, and we would fail in our duty if now, in our most desperate hour, we left them behind. But even more important, if we are trapped within St. Angelo, the Turks would position every one of their guns against us. It would be worse than St. Elmo. With so many guns directed against St. Angelo, our strong walls would not shield us for long. We would be sealing our fate.”
The Grand Master turned his gaze toward Ruvo and Antonio. “Sergeant Ruvo, how long do you think it would take the infidels to reduce St. Angelo and mount a successful assault?”
Ruvo, caught by surprise, felt every eye on his. “I . . . I do not know, Grand Master.” He turned toward Antonio, as if seeking help. “I would need to consider . . .”
Sir Oliver saw Ruvo’s glance. “Perhaps Antonio can help us. You were the last Master Gunner at St. Elmo. What do you think, Sir Antonio? How long could St. Angelo hold out?”
Antonio, still struggling with the idea of not taking all the Maltese into the fort, hesitated even longer than Ruvo. But Antonio knew what the enemy gunners would do, what he would do if he commanded the Turkish cannons. As always, it came down to the guns.
“Sir Oliver, if all the cannons the Turks possess . . . if Birgu and Senglea were in their hands, they could move every gun that they have within 200 yards of St. Angelo. At that range, they could not fail to hit their target. They could even use those Maltese left behind as slave labor to move the guns. Within a day or two, they could have every gun in position.”
Already Antonio could envision such a bombardment. “It would be far worse than St. Elmo, where most of the enemy guns were firing from half a mile away. But if the Turks lined up 60 or 70 guns at St. Angelo’s west rampart, it would probably be destroyed in no more than two or three days. Every shot fired would hit its mark. There would be no way for repairs to keep pace with the destruction delivered by so many weapons all aimed at the same place.”
“And once the outer wall was demolished?” Sir Oliver asked the question, but everyone already knew the answer.
“The Turks would pour through the breach. There would be no ditch filled with the dead to slow them down, and this time the rubble would not stop them. Nor would we have enough guns or powder to drive them back.”
Sir Oliver looked at the Grand Master for a moment. “Thank you, Sir Antonio, Sergeant Ruvo.”
Once again Grand Master Valette stared at the faces of his Knights. “If our cause is hopeless, then we will fight and die alongside our Maltese allies,
defending their villages and homes as much as our own bastions. As long as we can fight there, we have at least hope. But once we retreat behind St. Angelo’s walls, we will be overrun within a few days. So our choice is simple. We will keep our honor, and we will fight to the death to hold what we have, trusting in God’s wisdom and protection. God’s blessing on you all.”
With that, the Grand Master, moving lightly for his age, stepped down from the podium and moved through the crowd, Sir Oliver trailing just behind. In moments they disappeared down a lane. Antonio heard the Knights resume breathing, as if they had held their breath during his entire speech.
“Mother of God,” Ruvo said. “We are finished.”
Antonio shook his head. “No, not yet. St. Elmo sustained far worse damage than Birgu, and it held out far longer than anyone expected. We are not finished, not yet.”
“But without hope from Sicily . . .”
The Grand Master’s words regarding the Spanish Viceroy’s arrival were grim. But Antonio had heard Martin’s description of the situation at Messina, and had expected no help from that quarter.
“As Valette said, we are on our own.” Antonio could smile at that. Once again, the Turks would be trying to kill him. Even so, he had survived St. Elmo. Perhaps another miracle might occur.
Later, back in Sergeant Ruvo’s house, Antonio related what had occurred at the Council to Martin and Will.
“When the Grand Master mentioned withdrawing in St. Angelo,” Antonio said, “I was happy, thinking it would be a place of safety. But after Valette spoke, I realized that what seemed the easiest and safest course would be the most dangerous.”
“It must have taken much courage,” Martin said, “for Valette to resist the advice of every one of his senior Knights.”
“Yes, that’s why the Knights love him.” Antonio had never thought of the Grand Master being loved, but tonight the looks on the faces of the Knights showed their respect. “Not one voice was raised to challenge him, or to suggest another course. At that moment, any of us would have died to protect him.”
“So what do we do next?” Will asked.
“We fight as long as we can,” Antonio said. “If they drive us back into St. Angelo, so be it, but we’ll take every single Maltese with us.”
“Maybe the Turks will give up,” Martin suggested. “They must be reaching the end of their supplies, and the rainy season is coming soon.”
The Mediterranean in fall and winter was subject to dangerous winds, and the fragile galleys could not withstand them. By October, every galley would be in port, venturing out only for short distances and hugging the coastline. Even the pirates who roamed the Mediterranean in Julius Caesar’s day stayed close to their secret refuges during the winter season.
Antonio had his doubts as to whether Malta could hold out until October. “Rain or not, the Turks can’t last much longer. They’re running low on food and gunpowder, and many are sick from lack of fresh water.”
“So it’s a question of who can last the longest,” Martin said. “Us or them.”
“As long as Grand Master Valette is alive, no one on Malta will give up. Everyone knows what their fate would be if the Turks succeed.”
Mustapha Pasha had promised to kill every single person on the island, excepting the Grand Master. Valette would be brought in chains before the Sultan, to be put to death at his leisure.
“So we fight,” Will said. “Not much else we can do anyway.
Tired and exhausted, the three Englishmen lay down to snatch whatever sleep they could. But each one wondered, just before falling asleep, how many days of life he had left. Or whether one more miracle might save them.
Chapter 50
The next morning, Antonio lay on his stomach atop what remained of Birgu’s rampart, watching the Turks on the distant hillside as commanders assembled two large troops of soldiers. At that distance it was difficult to see exactly what they were doing.
First he thought that the enemy might be withdrawing some troops from the siege of Birgu, but plenty of soldiers remained in their positions and the cannonade continued, though at a slower pace than yesterday. Clearly some guns were not being employed, and Antonio saw some of the smaller pieces being dragged up the hillside.
“What does it mean?” Sir Otto, who had recovered from his wounds and resumed his command, lay beside Antonio. The German had summoned him at the first sign of the unfamiliar activity. “Are they breaking off the siege?”
“I don’t think so, Sir Otto.” Antonio scanned the plain one more time before sliding back behind a block of stone. The enemy snipers had slackened their fire over the last few days but a few remained out there, and it wouldn’t be wise to tempt fate. “If they were pulling out, they would start with the biggest guns. Soldiers would be the last to move.”
Sir Otto grunted. “Then they are repositioning their infantry, perhaps to attack Senglea?”
Antonio agreed with the doubt in Sir Otto’s voice. “Doesn’t seem likely. Why would they move the guns up the hillside? It would be easy to move the cannons and soldiers directly across the plain. And why take guns from here? They already have more than enough pointed at Senglea.”
“Then they are going somewhere else. Mdina perhaps.” Sir Otto grunted. “Mustapha should have attacked there first, before St. Elmo. Any fool with a map would have known better than to ignore that place.”
Antonio knew that the small city of Mdina, less than 10 miles from Grand Harbor, had not been assaulted, to the Knights’ surprise. In the early days of the siege, a few Maltese had slipped between Senglea and Mdina. The enemy had cut off all access after the Little Relief Force slipped through. Since then, they guarded all approaches.
“If they had attacked and taken Mdina early in the campaign,” Antonio said, “then the assault on Senglea would have succeeded. Mdina’s cavalry would not have been able to storm the Turkish camp. Can the city hold them off?”
Sir Otto thought about that for a moment. “Have you been there?”
Antonio shrugged. “I haven’t been anywhere except here.”
“It’s a small city, a walled fort really, on top of a hill. Only one way to approach it, which is good.” Sir Otto shrugged. “But there are only a few hundred Maltese men, with a handful of soldiers and Knights there, and not many cannons. Those they have are old. Mdina won’t be able to hold out for more than a few days. It’s not St. Elmo.”
Sergeant Ruvo, Antonio recalled, visited Mdina right before the siege began. He had mentioned that the gunpowder stores there were very small and the cannons almost obsolete.
“If that’s where they’re going,” Antonio said, “at least there won’t be any attacks here today. We can use the time to rebuild some of the wall.”
“Yes. Go to the command post, Antonio, and tell the Grand Master what we think.”
For a moment Antonio considered asking Sir Otto to go, but the German had been placed in command of Birgu’s outer wall, and he would not leave his station, even if no assault seemed likely. If the Turks attacked while he was gone, his honor would forever be besmirched. Better to die in an assault than be caught away from his post.
At the command center, Antonio reported what he and Sir Otto had discussed, but the word had already reached Sir Oliver and the Grand Master. Chevalier de Clermont was also there. Looking at their faces, Antonio decided they had little hope for Mdina.
That afternoon, Antonio heard the rumble of distant guns. For the sound to carry nine miles, he knew that at least several cannons were being worked. The noise didn’t continue for long, less than an hour.
“Could Mdina have fallen so quickly?” Martin and Will had joined Antonio on Birgu’s wall, and the three of them huddled together behind a 24-pounder. Fresh blocks were being levered into place and Antonio was repositioning some of the guns, to take better advantage of the new protection.
“Hard to believe the Turks could take it in a few hours,” Antonio said, thinking out loud. “I wouldn’t think they c
ould get their guns set up so fast. Maybe the Turks are still moving into position.”