Malta's Guns

by Sam Barone

  Surprised, Antonio paused to consider his future. “Yes, Sir Oliver, I will always feel that England is my home and that I must return to my father. He grows older and will soon need me. But for now I feel comfortable in Venice, and Gianetta is there. If I find she still cares for me, I will ask her uncle for her hand in marriage. If he permits and our courtship leads to the altar, then I would want to bring her to safety in England, away from these cursed Turks.”

  Now it was Sir Oliver’s turn to think. “Antonio, I know the Grand Master will want you to remain in our service. But when the time comes, after you have done all you can for the Order, I think you should return to London. England will need your skills and the knowledge you possess. The Grand Master may be disappointed, especially that you should return to a Protestant land ruled by a heretical Queen. But you must always remember that you are a true son of England, no matter where you were born or how you worship. Our beloved country and Queen will need you one day.”

  The words caught Antonio by surprise. First Malta, then the Doge, and now the Queen of England. He was moving up in the world. “That is my plan, Sir Oliver, to take Gianetta far from the danger of the Turks. I have not thought much about England, but there may be much I can do for my father and for our country.”

  “Good. Then for now we will speak no more of our fair country. And I will pray for you, pray that God protects you until the happy day you and your bride set foot on England’s shores.”

  Antonio glanced up at the sun. Soon it would be time to join his companions at Dockyard Creek. “Before I go, I was wondering whether the Grand Master had proposed a name for his new city.”

  Sir Oliver smiled. “Oh, yes, there was much discussion about that. The Council chose a name, though the Grand Master protested strongly. The new fortress on Mount Sciberras will be known as Humillima Civitas Valettae – the Most Humble City of Valette.”

  Antonio laughed. “A fine name. Soon everyone will know the wonder of . . . Valetta.”

  They continued their inspection, riding back down Mount Sciberras’ north slope. When they finally returned to the Marsa where they had started, Laparelli had collected several sheets of Antonio’s comments and suggestions.

  “I will complete my notes as soon as we return to the Grand Master’s house, Signor Laparelli,” Antonio said. “Sir Oliver’s clerks can make copies for you and your son. Then you can review them with the Grand Master.”

  “I have already decided to include your ideas, but your written report would be most helpful.” Laparelli paused a moment. “Sir Antonio.”

  Chapter 54

  Three hours later, Antonio and his companions boarded the galley San. Giovanni. Within moments, the sleek vessel slipped out of Dockyard Creek, moved into the harbor, and passed beneath the ruined fort of St. Elmo before meeting the open sea. Captained by Chevalier Emile de Bracy, the ship had entered Grand Harbor even before the last of the Turkish fleet had vanished over the horizon. Now, two days later, the galley returned to the sea, its prow toward the northeast, its destination Venice with a stop at Brindisi.

  Antonio stood on the poop deck, and stared up at the shattered rubble, all that remained of St. Elmo. When the Turks finally overwhelmed the fort, they captured a handful of its defenders, tortured them, then hung their corpses from the rocks overlooking the harbor.

  For the next three months, the grisly sight provided a reminder that no mercy would be given. As soon as the siege was broken, the Grand Master had ordered those bodies cut down and given decent burial. He insisted that none of the dead within the surviving forts would receive Christian rites until after the helpless victims at St. Elmo were laid to rest.

  For Antonio, St. Elmo would always be the greatest challenge of his life. Whatever the future might bring to him, nothing could be as dreadful or deadly as the days of battle there. Nor had that threat ended.

  As the headland disappeared in the distance, he swore that he would help avenge those who died there. The Grand Master had bent Antonio to his will, but the decision had clarified Antonio’s purpose. His fight against the Turks had not ended – yet. They would pay for their brutality – after he finished with Olivio.

  As the galley clove through the water, Antonio felt self-conscious on the crowded stern. Knights and their squires filled the poop deck. He squeezed himself against the starboard rail and examined the ship below him.

  The San Giovanni had 30 rowing stations on each side, and galley slaves manned the first 20, chained three to an oar. Aside from a few criminals, the slaves were Turks captured in fighting over the years. In addition to his sailors and gunners, Captain de Bracy had six Knights and 30 fighting men aboard, a strong enough force to fight any ship. When needed, these men worked the oars unoccupied by the slaves. For this voyage, the soldiers also provided protection for its passengers.

  As soon as they left Grand Harbor, De Bracy had ordered all the men at arms to the oars, at least until the ship had traveled a safe distance from Malta or a favorable wind sprang up to relieve them. Martin and Will had taken their places on the benches. When Antonio went to join them, Sir Annet de Clermont had ordered him to remain on the poop deck with the other Knights.

  The well-known and bold Captain de Bracy might command the ship, but Chevalier Annet de Clermont commanded the mission. He traveled with his own escort, 10 men-at-arms, as well as Antonio and his English companions. By direct order of Grand Master Valette, de Clermont hastened to Venice with 20,000 Spanish gold reals in two small chests, enough currency to arm a small army. Valette had assigned de Clermont the task of negotiating with the Venetians for fresh stores of arms and ammunition.

  Only last night Antonio had agreed to the Grand Master’s request. Today he was the Deputy Ambassador to Venice. De Clermont carried the official document attesting to Antonio’s new position. That duty required that he assist de Clermont in his dealings with the Republic. Had Antonio not yielded to Valette’s persuasive words, it was likely that he and his companions would not have been allowed to board the galley.

  “You and the Knights will take your turn at the oars, Antonio,” de Clermont said. “But not yet. The captain expects to strike a favorable wind soon enough, and if we run into Turkish pirates this close to Malta, the Knights will need all their strength to fight them.”

  That argument sounded a little dubious to Antonio, but he accepted that his friends were straining at the oars while he stood idly watching the sea. “In that case, Sir Annet, would it be permitted for me to inspect the forward guns?” Antonio felt awkward doing nothing while others labored.

  “Of course, if that is your wish. As a Knight of Grace, you are free to go where you please, unless the captain orders otherwise. Just take care not to interfere with the crew.”

  Antonio’s brief introduction to de Bracy had included his Knight of Grace title. Now Antonio realized that his rank in the Order might prove more significant aboard ship than in Malta. Certainly de Clermont acted as if it mattered.

  Descending from the poop deck, Antonio crossed the open space below the stern, then climbed the three steps that took him onto the walkway that extended all the way to the prow. Three slave masters, whips in their hands and swords at their belts, kept their eyes on the slaves, ready to lash anyone who failed to keep stroke or slacked his efforts.

  The overseers, pacing back and forth along the walkway, ignored Antonio as he walked by. The slave stink already hung in the air, despite the fact that both the galley and its rowers had been hosed down with seawater while the San Giovanni lay at anchor in Dockyard Creek.

  When he reached the raised deck that rose above the prow, Antonio examined the guns. Since the vessel could be attacked at any moment once it had passed out of Grand Harbor, the gun crews remained in place. The San Giovanni carried only two forward guns, both 18-pounders. They were bulkier than his father’s equivalent would be, but they seemed more than adequate for the galley.

  He leaned down to inspect the gleaming bronze weapons, a matched pair
with Spanish markings. The carriages, ropes and iron shot stacked beside them were in perfect condition. He guessed the gunpowder charges were stored in closed chests underneath the gun deck.

  “May I help you, senor? I am the chief gunner for the San Giovanni.”

  Antonio turned to face the speaker. The man spoke French, but with a strange accent. “Good morning. I just wanted to see the guns and perhaps ask a question or two. My name is Antonio Pesaro, and I was a master gunner at St. Angelo.”

  The man’s eyes widened in surprise. “Then you survived the siege? God’s blessing upon you. My brother, may he be at peace in heaven, died in Senglea. My name is Caetano. May I ask, why are you not at the oars?”

  “I offered, but Sir Annet de Clermont told me to wait my turn with the Knights.” He saw the look of confusion on Caetano’s face. “I was awarded the rank of Knight of Grace in the Order during the siege.”

  “Ah, you must have fought bravely.”

  He shrugged. “I fought, like any other.” Antonio felt uncomfortable talking about bravery. He remembered the constant fear of death that at times had nearly overwhelmed him. “Perhaps you can tell me about the guns? I would have thought, with only two forward guns, they would be at least 24-pounders. I saw much larger ones on a Spanish galley in Genoa.”

  “A Spanish galley?” Caetano’s dismissive tone told a story. “They sit in their harbors, safe and snug. The San Giovanni, like the other galleys of the Knights of St. John, is built for speed. When the Turks see our flag, they run for their lives, tossing their cargo overboard.”

  “Do they never fight?”

  “Oh, yes. If they outnumber us, sometimes they will fight. So we must be faster, and our guns more accurate and quicker to reload. I myself have sunk a Turkish galley that turned to attack us with a bow shot at more than 200 yards.”

  A bow shot at the water line would flood a galley within minutes, as the forward motion of the ship would force the water aboard even faster. “I would like to hear about that.”

  For the next hour, Antonio listened to Caetano’s tales of sea battles and captured prizes. Born in Portugal, the man had been a fisherman from the village of Nazare until the Turks sank his boat and chained him to an oar aboard one of their supply ships. A year later, the Knights had rescued him after capturing the enemy vessel.

  “That whole time as a galley slave, I prayed each day for death. The moment I was freed from the chains, I determined to serve the Knights of St. John in their fight against the Turks. They took me in and I learned how to fight and how to serve at a gun. Now I have been a master gunner aboard this ship for the last five years, and every time we sink or capture an infidel’s ship, I give thanks to God for the chance to free the Christian slaves onboard.”

  Antonio could have spent the rest of the day with Caetano, but a sailor with a summons from de Clermont arrived. De Bracy wanted to get as far north of Malta as he could, to avoid the possibility of encountering any Turkish galleys still lurking about.

  That meant that everyone rowed. Antonio took a place on the bench and pulled an oar with the Knights and the rest of their retainers. The brutal pace, marked by the steady beat of the drum, strained Antonio more than the row down from Venice. But he gritted his teeth and pulled as hard as any of the Knights.

  His hands soon hurt, and he felt the muscles in his arms and legs tightening. But the thought of what awaited him in Venice – Olivio – drove him on. The first day he awakened on Malta, Antonio had sworn to kill the cowardly Venetian. Nightmares with Olivio’s hands around his throat had haunted Antonio’s sleep many nights. During the long siege, the possibility of actually reaching Venice had seemed slim indeed. Now fate might put the opportunity of avenging Olivio’s treachery in Antonio’s hands.

  Unfortunately, he could not simply murder the man. That would be a crime, even in Venice. Nor could Antonio publicly denounce the coward. A trial in Venice would likely see the well-connected Olivio escape justice. No, Antonio had to accuse Olivio of his crimes, challenge him, and then fight him man to man.

  Olivio stood five inches taller and his thick body held plenty of muscles. Skilled at the street brawls that frequented Venice, the man knew how to fight with his fists, and had killed at least two men in knife fights. Bare-handed, Antonio would have no chance against him. But with sword or knife, Antonio felt comfortable. Nevertheless, he intended to leave nothing to luck. So he pulled on the oar, knowing that every beat of the drum would harden his muscles.

  They rowed for nearly two hours before a favorable breeze arose. The two big sails went up and the drum beat slowed to an easy pace. As the wind strengthened, the rowers ceased their labor and the captain gave the order to run in the oars. Antonio stood and stretched, as did many of the others. The galley’s slaves simply slumped on their benches, exhausted.

  Martin and Will joined him. They relaxed for a few moments, but Martin had more than rest on his mind.

  “You need to practice with knife and sword, Antonio. We’ll probably reach Venice in eight or nine days, and you had better be as fit and well trained as we can make you. If you approve, of course.”

  Ignoring the protests from his tired body, Antonio agreed. “But I’d better ask de Clermont first. We don’t want to disturb the crew. I’m sure the Knights and men must spend time practicing with their weapons, so it should be possible.”

  But de Clermont frowned when he heard Antonio’s request. “You still intend to find that man and kill him? You gave your word to the Grand Master to assist me in the negotiations, and you can’t do that if you are dead.”

  “I don’t intend to let myself be killed, Sir Annet. And I accepted the Grand Master’s offer only if I was allowed to finish my business with Olivio.”

  “As I remember the coward, he is much bigger than you are, Antonio. He won’t fight you with a sword. He’ll use his hands or a knife. Unless you let Martin kill him.”

  “I intend to kill him myself. That is why I would like time to practice.”

  Sir Annet let out a deep breath. “I am sure it is permitted. But you should ask the captain first.”

  “Of course, Sir Annet.” Antonio bowed and started to move off.

  “Still, I would prefer if you delayed your challenge until the Order’s business is well started. That will only delay your vengeance a week or two.”

  “No, I must seek him out the moment we reach Venice.” Antonio had let his voice harden. “This ship will carry the first news of Malta’s victory. If he learns I am alive, he may disappear, or seek refuge with his powerful friends. I’m sure he has many relatives on the mainland.”

  Antonio found de Bracy standing beside the tiller, scanning the horizon. The captain shrugged at the request but said that Antonio could spend his free time as he wished, and that he could use the deck area below the poop deck. However, he warned that the crew might need to use the open space at any time. Antonio promised not to upset the ship’s routine, thanked the Knight, and returned to his companions.

  “Good. Then let’s get to work,” Martin said. “I’ll start with you. When I think you’re ready, we’ll use Will to stand in for Olivio.”

  Before they left Malta, Martin had obtained a pair of wooden practice knives. They faced each other. Both raised their knives in the traditional salute. Will gave the command to begin – en garde.

  Antonio had not faced Martin in training for months. But Antonio’s days of being a pupil had passed. Now he trained not to perfect his skills, but to kill more efficiently. That mind set had helped him in St. Elmo and Birgu. Without realizing it, Antonio had become a killer, skilled with weapons and interested only in the death of his opponent. Nothing else mattered in combat, not even your own life.

  He moved back a step and lowered the knife. Martin moved forward and Antonio struck, moving to the right and lunging with his knife. The wooden tip caught Martin’s right shoulder, and before Martin could counterattack, Antonio had leapt back and away.

  “Point for Antonio,” Wil
l laughed.

  Martin tensed himself up and approached more warily this time. The wooden knives wove back and forth. Martin was taller and stronger, but Antonio’s months of moving cannons and carrying powder kegs had toughened his muscles. He drove his blade toward Martin’s face, then ducked beneath the man’s still-rising arm to strike at the stomach.

  “Point for Antonio. That’s two.” The grim look on Antonio’s face forestalled any more laughter from Will. “En garde.”

  “You’ve grown quicker and lighter on your feet, Antonio,” Martin said, moving closer. “Let’s see how strong you are.” He lunged forward, fully extending his body and arm, the classic fencing move. Antonio met the blade with his own, knocking it off line, then counterattacked. This time Martin riposted, and the tip of his blade found Antonio’s side.

  “Point for Martin. En garde.”

  But Antonio scored the next two points. Both men were breathing heavily, each trying to move into the best attack position. Again and again each one lunged, the blades often striking each other. Martin tried to use his arm strength to push Antonio’s knife aside, but in the last four months Antonio’s arm strength had grown and nearly equaled Martin’s. Coupled with Antonio’s quicker reflexes, the contest was roughly equal.

  When Will finally called a halt, both fighters were breathing hard and sweating in the warm afternoon sun. “Tied at ten points each.”

  Martin lowered his weapon. “That’s not good enough. You need to be better than that.”

  Antonio nodded. “I will be. Let’s go again.”

  But one of the squires jumped down from the quarter deck to interrupt the session. “Captain de Bracy asks that you cease. It’s nearly time for the evening meal.”

  “Very well,” Antonio said, still trying to catch his breath.

  The evening meal for the Knights was served on the same flat space where Antonio had practiced. A table was assembled and covered with a red linen cloth. Small camp stools provided the seating.