by Sam Barone
“You tell him. I will stay with my men. What else should I do?”
That required some thought. “Some of the enemy gun emplacements are visible. See if any of them are missing, or have any unusual movement. Like men moving back and forth, or carrying burdens. Meanwhile, I’ll visit the other positions, and see if there is any lessening of fire at Senglea or St. Michael. But first I will report to the Command Post.”
“Good. Go.” The German eased himself down from the wall.
Ten minutes later, Antonio stood in line at the Grand Master’s Command Post. He had to wait his turn, since his information was not urgent. But eventually he reached the table where the Grand Master and Sir Oliver sat processing the morning reports.
“Yes, Antonio,” Sir Oliver said. “What brings you here?”
“Sir Otto summoned me this morning. We spent some time on the wall, listening to the enemy guns. He thinks, and I agree, that the Turks are removing their large-caliber cannons from Birgu. It may be that they are transporting them back to the galleys. If you approve, I would like to visit some of the other positions, talk to the defenders, to see if the same thing is happening anywhere else.”
Antonio noticed that neither Grand Master Valette nor Sir Oliver looked at each other. The two Knights might already know about this. But they had not heard it from Sir Otto. They must have another source of information.
“Yes, Antonio,” Sir Oliver said, “perhaps you should explore this. If you approve, Grand Master.”
“Of course,” the Grand Master said, “that would be most welcome news. But do not spread the word as yet. The Turks might still attack again.” His eyes went to the next person in line.
Antonio understood the dismissal. “Thank you, Grand Master, Sir Oliver.”
By nightfall, Antonio had visited four other locations, two in Senglea, and two in St. Michael. All reported a reduction in the enemy cannon fire.
Back at Sergeant Ruvo’s house, Antonio discussed his ideas with his companions. “I think the Turks are pulling out. They’ve started with their heaviest guns. Those would be the hardest to move. It may be that the siege is lifting.”
“By God, that’s the best news I’ve heard since the day we landed on this cursed rock,” Will said.
“Taking guns off the Birgu line would be a major effort,” Martin said. “They’ve got the farthest to travel, and they would have to move the guns over Mount Sciberras at night, to get them down to Marsamuscetto Bay.”
“Why wouldn’t they just move them during the day?”
Will asked the question that Antonio had asked himself earlier. “Because they know we might concentrate our fire on them as they move up Sciberras. Or maybe they just don’t want to let the Knights know they are leaving, to avoid a counterattack.”
Everyone laughed at that idea. “If we have the strength or men for a counterattack, I haven’t seen them,” Martin said. “We’ve barely got enough men fit to stand duty.”
True enough. The Turks might be sick and exhausted, but the defenders were only slightly better off. Almost four months into the siege, the only advantages Malta’s defenders possessed were their supplies of food and clean water, plus the quality of the medical care. The magazines held no more gunpowder. And little more than five hundred defenders remained fit to fight. As for leaving the forts to chase after the Turks, Antonio doubted more than a handful of the battle-crazed Knights would support such an effort.
“We’ll know more tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll visit the forts again. If there is any further slackening, we’ll know they’re pulling out.”
“Be careful, Antonio,” Martin said. “If the siege is indeed ending, you don’t want to get killed now.”
“I’ll take extra care, I promise you. I still have to return to Venice and finish off Olivio.”
***
The following night, Antonio and his companions joined Sergeant Ruvo at his table amidst the ruins of his house.
“The cannon fire is definitely dropping off all across the island,” Antonio said. “And there’s no increase in fire anywhere, so they must be taking the guns off the line and moving them back to the galleys.”
“Mother of God,” Ruvo said, “we did it! We held off the might of the Turkish army. I never believed we could survive.”
For the first time since the Turkish fleet arrived, doubts could be expressed.
“What did the Grand Master say when you told him?” Martin asked.
“I think they knew. Perhaps they have spies among the Turks, or they received information from Sicily. Or from another deserter.”
Throughout the siege, the Knights had somehow managed to stay in communication with the Viceroy in Sicily. Maltese fishermen had slipped through the Turkish lines, traveled north to the fishing villages, and taken boats out to sea, where they met with the Knights’ galleys. By this slow and dangerous route, occasional information on the Viceroy’s activities, or lack thereof, had reached Malta.
“What will happen next?” Ruvo said the words, almost to himself.
Antonio glanced at each of his companions. Each was gaunt, filthy, and covered with scabs and bruises. All were shrouded in the ever-present rock dust that hung in Malta’s air. But every one of them had proved one thing – that they had what it took to survive.
“If the Turks leave, the Spanish troops will land, and that will be the end of the siege.”
“The end of the siege,” Will said. “Thanks be to God!”
That night, Antonio slept soundly, better than he had for many months. When they left Ruvo’s house in the morning and stepped out into the lane, Antonio could see that the news had spread. Not that words mattered. By now, everyone could see for themselves. Turks were pulling guns off the firing lines, grunting under the effort to drag the heavy brutes back toward their galleys. The sniper fire died away by noon, as every enemy soldier who could walk was needed to help move the guns.
From the height of St. Angelo’s wall, Antonio peered over the rampart and watched the spectacle. Men struggled to move the guns up Mount Sciberras. When the Turks had landed, horses assisted by the soldiers had done the work. But four months later, almost all of the horses had died, no doubt many of them eaten. Those that remained belonged either to officers or the Turkish cavalry, still needed in case the Spanish arrived, and were too precious to risk dragging cannons over rough ground.
“Why aren’t we firing at them?” Martin asked.
“We’re so low on powder, and I think the Knights would rather get the Turks off the island than kill a few more.” He glanced to his left. Fifty paces away, Grand Master Valette, Sir Oliver, and Sir Guiscard stared at the departing Turks. The Knights still wore their armor, and all three looked as hard and ready for battle as they had when the siege began.
Martin followed Antonio’s gaze. “Thank God for Valette. He kept morale high when everyone else looked ready to surrender.”
“He did, indeed,” Antonio agreed. “He sacrificed St. Elmo, but that gambit saved the rest of Malta. All those who died there, at least they did not give their lives in vain.” He thought of Sachetti, and offered a silent prayer that the always-smiling boy had died swiftly.
“When do you think we’ll be able to leave Malta?” Martin said. “I still have to keep my promise to get you back to London.”
“I’m not going back to London, not until after I’ve finished up with Olivio in Venice.”
“Are you really thinking about risking your life again, just for that fool? We did break his nose, you know.”
“You and Will don’t need to guard me any longer,” Antonio said. “You should both go back to England. Tell my father that I will return when I’ve finished my business in Venice.”
Martin snorted. “Not bloody likely. We’ve come through too much together to leave you behind now. Besides, I promised Gianetta that I’d take care of you.”
Antonio could smile at that. He’d thought about Gianetta almost every day since he read and reread her let
ter. She might be a child, but she loved him, probably much like a big brother might be adored by a little sister. Even so, he looked forward to seeing her.
Two days later, on September the 8, the Turks began loading their troops onto the galleys. That same day, the Spanish Viceroy landed on the other side of the island, at the head of 6,000 troops. For the first time, men and women stared out over the ruined walls of Birgu and Senglea, and saw nothing but barren and ravaged ground, littered with the rotting carcasses of Turkish dead.
No cannons roared, no muskets fired, no cymbals or men shouted from the hilltops. By midday, the inhabitants felt safe enough to wander through the no-man’s-land, ignoring the miasmal stench that emanated from the ditch and hovered over the ground. Despite that, for some it felt like a holiday.
The Turks, still in the process of getting the troops back aboard the galleys, had left almost nothing behind but a few old or damaged guns standing alone amid the refuse of a retreating army. Some of the Knights led a small force of men out of St. Michael, intending to link up with the approaching relief force and harry the departing enemy.
Antonio had no interest in chasing after a vanquished foe. When the Knights had called for volunteers, many simply shook their heads, too exhausted and war-weary for such an effort.
“Let the Spanish drive them off,” he said. “They’ve done nothing for four months.”
There would be one more battle that day on Malta. When Mustapha saw how few were the numbers of the relief force, he ordered four or five thousand of his soldiers, probably all that could still stand, to disembark and attack the six thousand Spaniards.
However, embarking and then disembarking turned out to be an exhausting and chaotic task for the weary Turkish troops. By the time they formed up on shore and started marching inland, they could barely walk. Only a foolish general desperate for a victory would send such men into battle.
Worse, Mustapha’s troops had lost whatever fervor for battle they once had. The tough Spanish troops, in a brief but bloody fight, routed the Turks and drove them back onto the beach. Those who survived the attack scrambled to get back on the boats, throwing away their weapons as they fled. Many died in the attempt, and many were left behind, to be slaughtered by the Viceroy’s troops. It was the final humiliation for Mustapha and the all-conquering soldiers of the Sultan.
By sunset, the last of the Turkish ships disappeared over the horizon. The siege of Malta had ended.
That night, Antonio and Ruvo visited the main magazine in St. Angelo. Except for a few kegs, all the powder and shot had been consumed. For once, there was no need to construct fire hoops or fill cartridges with gunpowder. They cleaned up as best they could, made sure a sentry remained on guard outside the entrance, and returned home.
Despite feeling the joy of relief, everyone felt exhausted. Antonio and his companions joined Ruvo in going to sleep early. That had not happened since the start of the siege. Antonio slept more than 10 straight hours, and didn’t wake up until well after dawn, the best night’s sleep since he arrived in Malta.
The morning brought more good news. Two of the Knights’ galleys, which had not been able to get to Malta before the siege began, arrived in Grand Harbor. From St. Angelo’s wall, Antonio watched a dozen or so Knights disembark from the ships, many with tears streaming down their faces, as they embraced their surviving comrades in arms. The anguish of the new arrivals stemmed from the fact that they had not had the opportunity to fight and perhaps die with their brothers.
For Antonio, the sight of the galleys meant only one thing – soon those ships would put back to sea, and it was likely that at least one of them would be heading for Sicily or Italy. When one did, he intended to be on board.
Chapter 52
Antonio spent the first part of the morning in St. Angelo’s magazine, leisurely restacking cartridge bags returned from the wall, examining the last of the gunpowder, and then cataloging the usable remains. The task didn’t take long, and with the Turks gone, he had a new luxury – plenty of time. Sergeant Ruvo would undertake a complete accounting in the next few days. When Antonio finished, he estimated the supply of gunpowder would have lasted another day at most.
Sergeants Ruvo and Pozzo were performing similar work at the other magazines and coming up with the same results. If the Turks had continued their attacks for another day or two, the defenders would have been helpless. Without the cannons, the few defenders remaining would be unable to stop even a lackluster assault.
He spent the rest of the morning taking his ease, talking with Martin and Will. Just after midday, they went down to Birgu’s spring, joining the women there washing clothing, another wonderful opportunity that had not presented itself for four months. The three companions first washed their own tattered garments, then bathed themselves. When they finished, Antonio felt clean for the first time since leaving Venice.
The afternoon sun had started to descend toward the sea when he climbed up the steps to the fort’s main level. Antonio wanted a few minutes to himself, so he returned to St. Angelo’s ramparts. He’d helped secure the cannons there yesterday, and today only a few guards patrolled the walls. Gazing down into Dockyard Creek, he watched the Knights’ two galleys as they readied themselves to put back out to sea. Brisk footsteps echoed along the wall, and he turned to see Sir Oliver approaching.
“Antonio, I’ve been looking for you.” The departure of the Turks notwithstanding, Sir Oliver continued to make the rounds of his assigned position. “The Grand Master wishes to speak with you.”
“Yes, Sir Oliver.” The Turkish threat might be gone, but Valette’s word remained the law on Malta. “About what?”
Sir Oliver smiled. “Ah, he will tell you himself. But I can prepare you for your meeting. Can you wait here until I finish my inspection?”
For the next 15 minutes, Antonio stared down at Dockyard Creek or out toward the sea, thinking about his future. Home, he decided, that was what he wanted, with only a brief stop in Venice. Yet the ruins of St. Elmo always drew his eye, and his thoughts returned to the horrific suffering of the brave men who fought and died there.
His rounds completed, Sir Oliver returned. “Antonio, walk with me. Have you visited the Grand Master’s house?”
“No, Sir Oliver.” Antonio hadn’t even known the man had a house, though of course he must have a residence. During the siege, Valette was either at the Command Post in Birgu or walking the walls of the forts. Since the arrival of the Turks, he had probably been the first to awake and the last to retire for the night.
The Knight led the way down from the ramparts, past the Command Post, and along a narrow lane that Antonio had seen but never traveled. It ended at a small cottage, built right up against the base of St. Angelo’s wall. A single guard, his left arm in a sling, kept watch on the entrance.
Stepping inside, Antonio found himself in a small parlor that contained a desk and a good sized table that took up most of the room. A single clerk was at work, arranging papers at the desk. He glanced up and greeted Sir Oliver.
“Good evening, Ruffio.” Sir Oliver nodded to the clerk. “This is Sir Antonio Pesaro.”
“Good evening, Sir Antonio.” That polite courtesy rendered, Ruffio returned to his work. The siege might be over but the drafting of documents apparently had no end.
Glancing around, Antonio saw a long shelf on the wall that held documents of varying size and what had to be a collection of maps. Sir Oliver selected one, rolled up and tied with a large green ribbon. Moving to the table, he unrolled it, then placed four red quartz stones on the corners to hold it fast.
Antonio leaned over. He recognized the map’s familiar outlines of Malta’s Grand Harbor and the surrounding hills. But a second look revealed that the usual details of Senglea, St. Michael, Birgu, and St. Angelo had gone. St. Elmo had vanished as well, but the entire peninsula where the little fort had stood had been replaced with something new – a walled fortification that occupied all the ground of Mount Sciberras.
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