Malta's Guns

by Sam Barone

  “At least it buys us some time,” Will said. “Let’s hope Mdina holds out a month.”

  “Maybe it will be another miracle,” Antonio said.

  They learned nothing further the rest of the day. In the morning, Sir Otto again summoned Antonio from the magazine. The two crouched behind a pile of rubble, not the same protection they had used yesterday. They both knew better than to establish a predictable routine.

  Sir Otto didn’t waste any words. “Soldiers. They are returning to their positions.”

  A quick glanced confirmed the Knight’s words. A straggling line of soldiers, all bearing weapons, moved down the hillside. Even from Birgu, Antonio thought they looked weary, perhaps dejected. The swagger and shouting of the early days of the siege had vanished completely.

  “Could they have captured Mdina, and are just returning to the siege?” Even as Antonio asked the question, he didn’t believe Mdina had fallen. “Wouldn’t they stay for a day or two, to empty the fort and celebrate?”

  “Mdina still stands,” Sir Otto said. “I’ve seen that look before. They are beaten men, not ones who captured a fortress. The Maltese must have driven them off.”

  The command post didn’t learn what happened until midnight. While Antonio and his companions slept, a deserter from the Turks, a Christian slave, escaped his master and managed to cross the lines and reach the safety of Senglea. He brought news of Mdina.

  Chevalier de Robles spoke with the man, and thought his story important enough to wake the Grand Master.

  Antonio heard all about it in the morning, when Valette briefed the senior Knights. Antonio happened to be there, reporting to Sir Oliver. Mustapha Pasha had led 8,000 soldiers up the road to attack Mdina. But even before they got within range, guns from the fort opened up, and the ramparts were crowded with soldiers and townspeople, all waving weapons. Muskets, too, were fired, a waste of gunpowder at that range.

  The Turkish soldiers took one look at the steep road up to the main wall of Mdina, saw the large number of defenders, and halted. “It’s another St. Elmo!” The words swept through the ranks, and the soldiers refused to advance. Facing what appeared to be a strong defensive position, Mustapha halted his approach. He consulted with his commanders and they decided not to attack.

  After hearing the good news, Antonio returned to the magazine and related the tale to Martin and Will.

  “So not only did Mustapha fail to capture Mdina, his men nearly revolted. They realized that Mustapha just wanted some kind of victory for the Sultan, and was willing to sacrifice another few thousand more men to obtain one. They took one look at the walls and its defenders, and refused to go forward.”

  “How come they have so many men and guns in Mdina?” Martin had a puzzled look on his face. “We could have used those men here.”

  Antonio laughed. “Sir Oliver explained that. It must have been a bluff by Don Mesquita, the garrison commander. He’s Portuguese. Don Mesquita had only a few men, some old guns, and not much powder. But he must have gambled that a show of force would discourage the Turks. And it worked. They turned around and retreated without firing a single cannon.”

  “Another miracle for the Knights,” Will laughed. “Maybe for once God is on our side.”

  “There’s more,” Antonio said. “The deserter said the Turks are not only exhausted, they’re sick from dysentery and other diseases. Half of Mustapha’s men can barely stand. At least 10,000 are already dead. Water is scarce and food shipments are no longer arriving each day.”

  “We forgot about that,” Martin said. “Armies in the field always get sick if the campaign drags on. In Ireland, we had more than a third of our men too sick to fight after the first month.”

  “And that’s without this bloody heat,” Will added. “By now the Turks must be on their last legs. Maybe we can hold out a little longer.”

  “This news will give everyone strength,” Antonio said. “As long as we have enough gunpowder, we should be able to hold them.”

  As always, it was going to come down to the guns.

  Chapter 51

  September 1

  On September the first, the Turks launched another assault against Birgu and Senglea. This time the bombardment lasted until noon, with the defenders huddled behind whatever shelter they could dig out of the rubble. Once more the cymbals and drums ordered the Turkish infantry to advance. Antonio and Sir Otto, taking notice of what had occurred at Mdina, started firing the guns the moment the soldiers came within range. Every cannon managed to fire at least three rounds of solid shot before shifting to the rock fragments.

  All of Sir Otto’s Knights, every soldier on the wall, every Maltese readied themselves for what was coming. But today everyone knew about the weaknesses of the Turks and what had happened at Mdina. For the first time, the attackers appeared more weary than the defenders.

  The cannons boomed out, and rock fragments disrupted the advancing enemy. Antonio, sweating as he worked one of the guns covering the most likely approach, glanced over the gun’s barrel. On each side, Martin and Will commanded their own guns. The Turks had not yet reached the ditch, and they approached at a slower pace. None seemed eager to rush forward and descend into the rotten and decaying flesh.

  The gun crew rolled the cannon forward. Antonio, the lit match glowing in his hand, risked another look at the approaching soldiers. Their commanders herded them forward, many using the flat of their swords to drive the men.

  “Martin! Will! Aim for the leaders. Pass the word!”

  Antonio looked down the barrel of the 24-pounder. Two enemy commanders were at the ditch. He threw his shoulder against the carriage, and the weapon shifted a few inches to the left. Then Antonio leapt aside and touched the match to the touch hole.

  When the smoke cleared, he saw men staggering about. The fragments had torn a deadly swath through the men. Both commanders were hit, still standing but stumbling about. Other guns roared out, and with each blast inflicted death or wounds on the enemy.

  Even before Antonio could reload, the attack faltered. Men turned away, unwilling to enter the ditch filled with the corpses of their comrades. The second load of fragments found only one commander, but Antonio knew that every gun crew would be doing the same targeting, searching out those who urged their men forward.

  Then the retreat began. Men turned their backs to Birgu and ran, many pushing aside those who still wanted to move forward. In moments, the fear swept through the mass of men. In spite of their leaders, panic spread and the rout began, with every man running to the rear, intent on saving his own life.

  Antonio managed to fire only two more loads of fragments before most of the Turks staggered out of range. “Cease fire! Cease fire!” There was no sense in wasting precious gunpowder, and switching back to stone cannonballs would have little effect at the longer range.

  One by one, the guns ceased firing. This was the first time that the Turks had failed to climb up out of the ditch. Only a handful of defenders had taken wounds.

  “My God,” Will said, dropping down beside Antonio. “We drove them off! We did it!”

  Sight of the retreating Turks at Birgu must have disheartened those attacking Senglea. That attack was beaten off and there, too, the Turks turned and went running for the safety of the hills.

  “We did it, Antonio.” Martin, covered with sweat, joined them.

  “The guns did it.” As he said the words, Antonio glanced at the gunpowder. Only two cartridge bags remained for his gun, and probably the same number for most of the rest. They had driven the Turks back, but next time there wouldn’t be enough powder to slow them down, let alone stop them. But that was for tomorrow or the day after. Today the defenders won another victory. Today was another day of life.

  ***

  “Wake up! Are you Master Gunner Antonio Pesaro?”

  The harsh voice and the rough hand on his shoulder woke Antonio from another exhausted night’s sleep. When he opened his eyes, he saw the darkness of night had not y
et surrendered to dawn. A shadow loomed over him, no doubt bringing yet another crisis. “Yes, what is it?”

  “Sir Otto requests that you join him on Birgu’s wall as soon as possible.” The stranger spoke in the mixed dialect of Maltese and Italian common to many of Birgu’s defenders.

  Antonio sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. A glance at the stars peeking through the shattered roof told him he had lost the opportunity for another few minutes of rest. “I have to report to the magazine. Tell Sir Otto . . .”

  “Sir Otto has already dispatched a messenger to the command post, requesting your presence. I am to bring you back with me.”

  “Damn!” The useless curse did nothing to soothe his annoyance. He dragged the ragged blanket aside and pushed himself to his feet. Martin was also up and about, looking as tired as Antonio felt. The stranger would have awakened him first, since Martin slept in the ruins of Sergeant Ruvo’s main room, close to the door.

  “Martin, when you get to the magazine, tell Sergeant Ruvo that I’m going to Sir Otto and the Castile post.”

  He pulled on his boots, gathered his sword and brigandine jacket, and stumbled through the house and out into the lane, following his guide. Five minutes later, he joined Sir Otto, not at the Knight’s command post, but up on the remains of the ruined wall. By then, the first light of dawn revealed the big German huddled behind a section of the original wall, one of the few places not yet been demolished by cannon fire. Crouching down, Antonio squatted beside the Knight.

  “You sent for . . .”

  “I want you to listen to the . . . bombardment.” The German knight had to pause to find the right word. “I think the cannon fire has lessened since yesterday. During the night, only five guns were fired at Birgu. No one else has noticed.”

  Antonio was about to ask what did that matter when he realized the importance of the Knight’s request. At dawn, the Turkish cannon fire always increased, with every available gun freshly cleaned and cool after the evening’s rest, starting the day’s bombardment. Never had it slacked off. If that were the case, then it might mean . . . might mean anything. He slumped down beside the Knight, leaned against the wall, and closed his eyes.

  Only three days ago, on September 1, the Turks had attacked and been driven off. Antonio had noticed the lack of will among the enemy soldiers. They no longer rushed the walls with the same abandon, eager for victory, or death and the reward of martyrdom. The lackluster attack had been repelled with relative ease, and not once had the infidels reached the walls of Senglea or Birgu, the defenses that bore the brunt of the attacks.

  After another in the string of Turkish defeats, Antonio had not expected another attack for several more days. The enemy, weakened by disease and suffering from lack of food, required longer time to recover and prepare for the next assault.

  But cannon fire should not have been affected, and if Sir Otto detected a slackening, it might be significant. Antonio had fought in this section of Birgu many times, and by now he knew the sound of the various guns. Unlike most of the defenders, Antonio could usually tell by the sound of the gun its approximate size, even the type of cannon being used.

  Now he listened carefully to the morning bombardment, which was always larger than the desultory fire the Turks kept up throughout the night.

  Daylight arrived, but the two men remained where they were, both listening. The sun cleared the mountains to the east and started to climb higher in the sky.

  Sir Otto grunted. “I must return to my post. You stay here?”

  “Yes. Please send word to Sergeant Ruvo that I will return in a few hours, unless he needs me.”

  With a grunt, the German slid down the rubble of the wall, making sure he was well below the line of fire, and headed off to join his sub-commanders. A handful of Turkish marksmen still targeted anyone visible on the wall. Once again, Antonio closed his eyes and listened to the sound of the guns. Birgu had always received the heaviest barrage from the Turkish guns. The sun rose higher in the sky, but the pace of enemy fire scarcely picked up.

  Noticeably absent was fire from the larger cannons. To overwhelm Malta’s defenses, the Turks had landed many large cannons. Targeting Birgu, Antonio was aware of at least two 60-pound culverins, ten 80-pounders, and one monster basilisk that fired solid iron shot weighing 160 pounds.

  Since early in the siege, that basilisk had directed its fire at Birgu, usually firing four to five shots each day, starting at dawn. That particular weapon remained slow and dangerous to load, and its aim was unpredictable due to the large amounts of gunpowder needed to propel such a weight of iron. Of course, when it struck the walls, the damage was immense. But as Antonio knew, very few actually hit Birgu’s walls. Most fell short, or landed in the village itself.

  The gun probably required a 20 man crew, and devoured gunpowder by the barrel. If the shot landed near you, the danger was great. But to Antonio’s thinking, a 32-pounder, firing much faster, would do much more damage in the course of a day. The basilisk usually fired at first light, so he should have heard its opening salvo by now.

  Of course, the gun could have exploded or suffered some minor mishap that put it out of commission. Yet so far this morning, Antonio had not heard any of the 80-pounders firing, either. That was odd.

  By midmorning, Sir Otto returned to the wall and lowered his bulk beside Antonio. “Have you noticed anything?”

  “Yes, Sir Otto, I think you are correct. The basilisk has not fired once, and I haven’t heard any of the 80-pound guns. And the remaining guns are firing much slower. Here at Birgu, the bombardment is slackening.”

  Sir Otto chose his words with care. “What do you think it means?”

  Antonio had pondered that very question since he’d arrived at the wall this morning. “It’s unlikely that so many large cannons are suffering problems at the same time. Either the Turks are running low on gunpowder, or they’ve started moving the guns.”

  “Where would they move them? Why would they move them?”

  “I don’t think it makes sense to relocate them. All our defenses are in bad shape, and a few more guns firing into any one location won’t make the next attack any easier.” Antonio stared into the Knight’s eyes. “I think they are moving them back to the ships, to transport them off Malta. Those big guns take days to move and plenty of manpower. If they’re planning on loading them on the galleys and transports, they would start with the largest guns first.”

  “And that is what you think?”

  Not the time to hedge, Antonio decided. “Yes. Those guns are very valuable, worth much more than the soldiers. The Turks wouldn’t want to leave them behind. Perhaps Mustapha has received word that the Spanish are on the way. Or he may just have given up. Extricating those guns would be his first priority, even more urgent than saving his men.”

  “The Spanish!” Sir Otto spat on the ground. “The Grand Master says they are still gathering their forces. We’ll be dead of old age before they arrive.”

  Every defender felt much the same, Antonio knew. “Perhaps. But there are other reasons why Mustapha might want to break off the siege. He’s lost thousands of soldiers, and now dysentery and cholera are ravaging his men. Who knows how many can still fight?”

  “More likely,” Sir Otto said, “Admiral Piali fears the winter weather is coming and wants to save his precious ships. After all, it won’t be his head if Mustapha fails.”

  Antonio had forgotten about Piali, the commander of the Turkish galleys. He shared command of the expedition with Mustapha. If Piali decided to sail back to Turkey, Mustapha would be trapped here on Malta, and the Spanish, if they ever arrived in force, could easily finish off his battle-weary, hungry, and disease-ridden soldiers.

  “You should tell the Grand Master what we think, Sir Otto. It may be important.”