Malta's Guns

by Sam Barone

  De Bracy sat at the head facing forward, with de Clermont at his right. Five of the Knights joined them, but the sixth remained on the poop deck, armed for battle, and ready to guide the ship should danger arise.

  Antonio sat at the far end, on the same side as de Clermont. Facing him was the youngest of the captain’s Knights, Sir Guiscard Leclere, a Norman.

  After the men at arms had served the Knights, de Bracy led the thanksgiving prayer, giving special thanks for Malta’s deliverance. Then the watered wine was poured and the meal began.

  De Bracy had many questions about the siege, and de Clermont, who had helped man St. Michael’s walls, answered each one as fully as he could. Every fact might help the Captain and his crew in some future battle. The other Knights listened with care and kept their eyes on de Clermont.

  Antonio’s French wasn’t up to his Italian or Spanish, and the details of the siege held no interest for him. He worked on his hard bread and dried meat, helping the chewing with an occasional sip of wine. After a quarter hour had passed, Antonio wondered how much longer he had to wait before he could leave the table. The first time de Clermont called his name, Antonio didn’t hear it, and Sir Guiscard repeated it to get his attention.

  “Yes, Sir Annet?” Suddenly everyone’s eyes were on Antonio and he had no idea what had just been said.

  “Captain de Bracy tells me that, in the last five months, the San Giovanni has sunk two Turkish galleys, and two supply ships that were bound for Malta. I mentioned to him that you had some experience with sinking galleys yourself. Perhaps you could inform our host about your battery.”

  Of course the polite request could not be refused. Antonio cleared his throat. “Please excuse my poor French, Captain. Sir Oliver Starkey and Chevalier de Guiral summoned me. They had information that the Turks might launch some galleys filled with soldiers at the harbor wall of Senglea. We established a battery outside St. Angelo and were able to prevent most of them from reaching the wall. We were very fortunate, and . . .”

  “No, that will not do, Antonio.” De Clermont’s firm voice cut right through Antonio’s words. “You need to tell the captain and these Knights everything, from the very beginning to the very end, exactly as you proceeded. Omit no details, none of your thoughts, as someday they may help those of us, myself included, who were not there.”

  Feeling even more nervous, Antonio hesitated. But then he saw the complacent smile on de Bracy’s face and his qualms vanished. “Well, it all started on July 8, when Chevalier de Guiral went to Sir Oliver with his concern. He had detected a weakness in Senglea’s harbor defenses and we knew the Turks had dragged 10 galleys over the mountain and into Grand Harbor . . .”

  Antonio spoke for more than 30 minutes, explaining in detail the problem, the plans for the hidden battery, and the work that went into its construction. He detailed the preparations for the attack, the Turks’ strategy, and the general storming of Senglea.

  “When the galleys were launched, Chevalier de Guiral had only 40 men on the wall, and the Turks intended to land 1,000 Janissaries against him. Our battery sank nine of the ten galleys. One managed to turn around and escape back across the harbor. Only three were able to beach themselves on the rocks before sinking. We loaded with grapeshot, then with stones, and swept the base of the wall clear. Not a Turk survived, and not a defender was lost.”

  When Antonio finished, the only sounds came from the wind against the sails and the water running against the hull. Some of the Knights had not even finished their meal, staring open-mouthed at the speaker.

  “So, according to Sir Oliver’s report to the Council,” de Clermont finished up, “Antonio’s battery sank nine galleys in less than two minutes, killed at least 900 Janissaries, and probably another 300 or 400 Turkish sailors, and sent all their guns and equipment to the bottom of the harbor. Sir de Guiral did not lose a man, and not a Turk reached the top of Senglea’s rampart. A good accomplishment, don’t you agree, Captain?”

  De Bracy, as astonished as any of his Knights at the tale, rose from the table. “I have never heard of such a victory in my life. You may have saved Malta.” He lifted his wine cup. “To Sir Antonio Pesaro, Knight of Grace in the Order of St. John.”

  The entire table stood, including de Clermont, all of them echoing the toast. Antonio felt his face redden. As the Knights resumed their seats, Antonio stood and lifted his own cup. The captain’s words had been honest praise and warranted an honest reply. “Many brave men, fighting face to face with the enemy, saved Malta that day. A single defeat anywhere in Birgu or Senglea would have meant the end, and surely God smiled on us. To those who did not survive, and who gave their lives to keep Malta free.” He drained the last few drops of wine

  De Clermont’s voice rose over the murmurings. “Sir Antonio has other stories to tell us, but those can wait for another day.”

  Everyone took their seats. Antonio found Sir Guiscard Leclere’s eyes on him. “My felicitations to you, Sir Antonio. Some of us felt that your honorary rank did not entitle you to sit at this table. Now we understand why the Grand Master appointed you to the Order, and we are honored that you joined us.”

  “Thank you, Sir Guiscard.” Mercifully, the dinner ended, and Antonio returned to his companions.

  “You told the story well, Antonio,” Martin said as they took their ease on one of the empty rowing benches. “Many of the men-at-arms and some of the crew heard your words, and by tomorrow every man on the ship will know what you did.”

  “That’s not always a good thing,” Antonio said. “The less attention from these Knights the better.”

  Martin laughed. “No, you’re past that. You are one of them now, and any of them would stand and fight at your side and think it an honor.”

  “De Clermont did it deliberately,” Antonio mused. “He wanted the Knights and the crew to know what it was like on Malta, and he couldn’t very well tell the story himself without sounding . . . condescending.”

  “Time to get some rest,” Will said. “Our turn at the oars comes in an hour.”

  “And this time I’ll be joining you,” Antonio said. He stretched out on the bench, closed his eyes, and fell asleep in moments.

  Chapter 55

  They were back at the oars soon enough. The helpful breeze died away and de Bracy soon had everyone pulling his weight. But each stroke of the oar moved them farther from Malta and closer to Italy.

  Three days later, the San Giovanni, taking advantage of a favorable breeze, glided smoothly into Brindisi, arriving just before midday. This time the galley went straight to the docks. The Knights had no fear of anyone deserting. Regardless, all the crew not on duty remained on the wharf, able to do little more than stretch their legs and gossip with the locals. Meanwhile, de Bracy organized a supply party to visit the market. In less than an hour, the first supplies of fresh water and food arrived.

  De Bracy’s crew had not enjoyed fresh food for weeks, and the survivors of Malta for even longer. The captain did not stint on the supplies, and even the slaves received extra rations.

  The mood in Brindisi was festive. Even before the ship reached the dock, Antonio heard the noise of the city’s celebration. A galley from Sicily had arrived a few hours earlier carrying news that the siege of Malta had ended with a victory.

  No doubt every citizen of Brindisi breathed a sigh of relief. The Turkish defeat meant there would likely be no attack on the rest of Italy or Sicily this year. The glad tidings also meant de Clermont would not be answering endless questions about the siege.

  Three hours after the San Giovanni arrived, the galley splashed its way out of the harbor, turned north, and headed for Venice. Every available space in the ship’s hold and on deck now contained fresh food and water. De Bracy’s hard currency had emptied the city’s marketplace of vegetables, bread, and chickens, while the warehouses had contributed their share of cheese and dried meats.

  The crew would have preferred to remained in Brindisi to partake of the merriment
. But the Captain insisted that the urgency of de Clermont’s mission required as rapid a trip as possible. He promised his men that they could celebrate once they reached Venice.

  For Antonio, the brief stopover was a blessing. In all likelihood the San Giovanni would bring the first news of Malta’s victory to Venice. Certainly they were traveling much faster than any horse and rider on the mainland.

  Back on the open sea, Antonio resumed training. Despite his status, he persuaded de Clermont to let him row with his companions. That actually allowed Antonio to spend more time training, since they had the same schedule. He trained with sword and knife, and often a crowd of idlers would watch, offering advice and even betting on who would score the next point.

  Occasionally, the Knights watched Antonio as he trained. The day after the galley left Brindisi, Antonio noticed Sir Guiscard speaking with one of the men-at-arms who had seemed especially interested in Antonio’s efforts. He remembered that particular soldier had often joined those watching, though the retainer had never made any comments. As Antonio was finishing for the morning, Sir Guiscard and the man descended from the poop deck and approached.

  Wiping his perspiring face, Antonio nodded to the Knight, who smiled in return.

  “Antonio, Vincenzo and I were watching you practice your skills. You’ve done quite well. But Vincenzo has some comments, and I suggested that he speak with you. He has some skill with a knife, and might be helpful to you and your companions.”

  “Then I am glad to meet you, Vincenzo.”

  The man bowed. “I have watched you several times, Sir Antonio. You handle the knife well and your footwork is very good. But I think you can improve. Sir Guiscard said you might have to face a man skilled with a knife.”

  The words, in Italian, were delivered humbly, as if Vincenzo were hesitant to intrude on Antonio’s time. He guessed by the man’s accent that he grew up in central Italy, most likely Rome.

  “I would be grateful for any assistance, Vincenzo. And please call me Antonio. Here on the lower deck, it seems more appropriate.”

  “It seems to me,” Vincenzo said, “that you and your companions are treating the knife as if it were a small sword. You lunge, retreat, then attack, just as if you were fencing. A knife can be much more than a short sword.”

  Antonio thought about that for a moment and decided that Vincenzo was probably right. “But how else can you wield a knife?”

  “Perhaps you will practice with me, Antonio? I have not the words to explain, but I can show you some things that I have learned.”

  Antonio glanced at Martin and Will, who had moved closer to hear the conversation. “Of course. Martin, can he borrow your knife.”

  Martin handed the wooden knife to Vincenzo, then leaned in to whisper in Antonio’s ear. “Watch him. He looks dangerous.”

  Vincenzo didn’t look all that menacing. He was shorter, and carried less muscle despite his time at the oars. Nevertheless, Antonio decided not to take any chances. Holding his knife up, he stepped backward and shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, holding the knife at waist level. Vincenzo moved to face him, and Antonio saw that the Italian held his weapon in a reverse grip, with the heel of his hand against the hilt.

  That grip limited your extension, Antonio knew. It might be good for stabbing a man from behind or on the ground, but not for man to man. He decided to strike quickly and see how Vincenzo reacted to being on the wrong end of a lunge. But before he could attack, Vincenzo started moving. He held the knife high in his right hand with his thumb about level with his chin. His left hand, however, was held close to the right. Vincenzo kept both his hands and feet moving.

  Antonio feinted a motion to his left, then lunged forward, driving the blade toward Vincenzo’s chest. But the weapon never reached its target. Vincenzo pivoted to his left and struck down with the knife. His grip allowed him to use all his muscles, and despite the strength of Antonio’s lunge backed by his body weight, his forearm was knocked aside.

  Not only knocked aside, but with the man’s blade. If the knife had been real, Antonio would now have a nasty cut on his right arm. And from the force of the blow, the deep cut might have caused him to drop the knife.

  Before he could recover, Vincenzo had stepped inside, caught Antonio’s knife hand at the wrist, blocking Antonio’s right arm from striking back and rammed his knife downward against Antonio’s stomach. And then Vincenzo was gone, leaping backward and out of the way.

  The dozen or so onlookers went silent. Both fighters had moved with speed, but only one had achieved a hit. Not just a cut or a slash, but a killing blow.

  “One point for . . . Vincenzo.” Will sounded as surprised as anyone.

  Antonio started circling again. Even Martin’s strong arm would not have deflected Antonio’s lunge that much. But before he had time to wonder, Vincenzo was shifting again, both hands close together, knife hand at chin level. He kept up a weaving motion with both hands, moving the knife up and down, changing the angle of the blade, moving his left hand, distracting Antonio’s eyes and forcing him to move in response.

  Once again Antonio lunged, but this time he rolled his blade in a circle, a coupé. Vincenzo ignored the thrust, twisting aside and slashing his blade toward Antonio’s face. Nearly fully extended, Antonio could not dodge the attack. Vincenzo’s blade brushed his cheek. Not a killing blow, but a real knife would have cut to the bone, and blood would be pouring down Antonio’s cheek.

  “Two points for Vincenzo.”

  Antonio tried again, again lunging toward his opponent’s face, but the result was the same. Vincenzo knocked the blade aside and once again his counter stroke landed on Antonio’s right arm.

  Breathing hard, Antonio realized that a lunge wasn’t going to work against this type of defense. A sword would be different, but the shortness of the knife’s blade meant you had to get in close, and Vincenzo had proved too fast with his movements and too strong with his odd defense. His unusual way of holding the knife, never seen in Antonio’s training, made him cautious, too cautious.

  The two men circled each other. Up to now, Vincenzo seemed content to let Antonio take the initiative. “When your opponent grows tired or hesitant, it is time to attack,” the Italian said.

  Suddenly the knife in his hand shifted, fingers against the hilt in the traditional grip, with the thumb on the guard. Vincenzo moved in, not with a lunge, but with a slashing stroke that started at Antonio’s left shoulder and crossed down to his right hip. Antonio managed to parry the stroke and move backward, but Vincenzo pressed him, his knife never stopped moving, and his knife now slashed from Antonio’s right shoulder to his left hip. This time he couldn’t avoid the stroke, and the wooden tip raked across his stomach.

  Again, not a killing blow, but Antonio knew he’d be bleeding like a stuck pig. And the cut would be painful enough to slow his movements and affect his attack.

  “Point for Vincenzo.” The growl in Will’s voice showed his disapproval. If this were a real fight, his pupil was being cut to ribbons.

  After Vincenzo had scored seven points in a row, Antonio gave up. He lowered his weapon and bowed. “I yield to my opponent.”

  “You did well, Antonio, better than I expected.” Vincenzo tone was both serious and courteous. “Twice you nearly reached me.”

  Antonio wasn’t even sure he agreed with the man. “How is it that I have never seen anyone use a knife like that?”

  “Not many have the skills to use it this way, or the time to practice it. When I was in Rome, I. . . ah . . . found reason to learn the skills from my master. In a crowd, in the piazza, in a bedroom, even a dark alley, a knife is much more useful than a sword. Is your opponent skilled with his weapon?”

  By now, most of the crew knew that Antonio intended to challenge his foe. “I don’t know, Vincenzo. He may be.”

  “Then perhaps I can show you how to defend against such tactics. You have the strength and the quickness needed for a good knife fighter. If Sir Guiscard, who i
s my master, permits, I would be glad to teach you what little I know.”

  If Vincenzo possessed only a little of these skills, Antonio intended to avoid anyone with more, not unless he held a sword in his hand and room to use it. “I would be most grateful for your help, Vincenzo. If payment for your time would help . . .”

  “No, not for a Knight of St. John. Anything to advance the Order against the Turks.”

  Antonio bowed again. Once again, he would be a pupil in training.

  ***

  On the poop deck, Captain de Bracy and de Clermont watched the session from a distance, trying not to appear too interested in the match. But Vincenzo’s skill was formidable, and of course anything to do with weapons or fighting interested the Knights. Knife fighting, however, possessed the taint of the commoner, something beneath the dignity of the Knights.

  “If Antonio’s target is as skilled as Vincenzo, you may need another negotiator.” De Bracy uttered the words in all seriousness.

  De Clermont’s thoughts had run along the same lines. “We won’t reach Venice for four or five days. That may give Vincenzo enough time to teach Antonio how to defend against such tactics or perhaps even learn how to use them himself. Perhaps you could speak with Guiscard and arrange Vincenzo’s time at the oars? I would not want to do without Antonio’s negotiating skills when we deal with the Venetian merchants. For him to get killed in some tavern brawl would be unfortunate.”

  As captain, de Bracy had control over every man’s duties aboard ship. The polite request from de Clermont, however, was as much of an order as the Knight could give.

  De Bracy laughed. “Of course, Sir Guiscard already suggested it. It was he who urged Vincenzo to step forward. And now that I have seen them both fight, I want to see more.”

  “Perhaps Sir Guiscard will also allow Vincenzo to accompany Antonio during his time in Venice,” de Clermont added. “In fact, I think his two English companions may not be enough to protect him, especially in the crowded lanes and Piazza. I will ask my squire to guard Antonio as well. Marcel is the one who whipped this Olivio on the journey to Malta, so he knows what the wretch looks like. I will also suggest that he take Jacopo Chiappi, another of my men to act as a second guard.”