Constantinople- the Last Great Siege, 1453

by Roger Crowley

  The problem, he reasoned, was the chain that guarded the entrance to the Horn. It barred his navy from pressurizing the city from more than one side and allowed the defenders to concentrate their meagre forces on defending the land walls, diminishing his huge numerical advantage. Ottoman guns had destroyed Constantine’s defensive wall across the Isthmus at Corinth in a week, but here, although the great cannon had certainly blasted holes in Theodosius’s ancient structure, progress had been slower than he had hoped. Seen from the outside, the defensive system was too complex and many-layered and the ditch too deep for quick results. Furthermore Giustiniani had proved to be a strategist of genius. His marshalling of limited manpower and materials had been highly effective: earth had succeeded where stone had failed and the line had held – just.

  Closed, the Horn provided a safe anchorage for any relieving fleet and constituted a base for naval counter-attack. It also lengthened the line of communication between the different parts of Mehmet’s army and his navy, as troops were forced to make a long detour around the top of the Horn to pass from the land walls to the Double Columns. The problem of the chain had to be solved.

  No one knows for certain where Mehmet came up with the idea, or how long he had been developing it, but on 21 April he accelerated an extraordinary solution to the chain. If it could not be forced, he reasoned, it must be bypassed, and this could only be done by bodily transporting his fleet over land and launching it into the Horn beyond the defensive line. Contemporary Christian chroniclers had their own ideas about the origin of this strategy. Archbishop Leonard was clear: yet again it was the know-how and advice of perfidious Europeans; Mehmet was prompted ‘by the recollections of a faithless Christian. I think that the man who revealed this trick to the Turks learned it from a Venetian strategy at Lake Garda.’ Certainly the Venetians had carried galleys from the River Adige into Lake Garda as recently as 1439, but medieval campaigns are littered with other precedents, and Mehmet was a keen student of military history. Saladin had transported galleys from the Nile to the Red Sea in the twelfth century; in 1424 the Mamluks had taken galleys from Cairo to Suez. Whatever its origin it is certain that the scheme was already well under way before the 21st; events merely emphasized its urgency.

  Mehmet had one further reason for attempting this manoeuvre. He felt it was important to pressurize the Genoese colony on the other side of the Horn at Galata, whose ambiguous neutrality in the conflict was the source of complaints by both sides. Galata traded profitably with both city and besiegers. In the process it acted as a membrane through which materials and intelligence passed to and fro. There were rumours that the citizens of Galata circulated openly in the Ottoman camp by day, supplying oil to cool the great guns and whatever else could be sold, then slipped across the Horn at night to take their place on the walls. The boom was secured within the walls of Galata and could not be tackled directly, as Mehmet was anxious not to seek open warfare with the Genoese. He was aware that direct hostilities could risk the dispatch of a powerful fleet from the mother city. At the same time he recognized that the natural sympathies of the citizens of Galata were with their fellow Christians; Giustiniani himself was Genoese. The arrival of the relieving Genoese ships had also probably tipped the balance of sympathy, as Leonard of Chios recognized: ‘The people of Galata had been acting very cautiously … but now they were anxious to provide both weapons and men, but only in secret, lest the enemy, who was just feigning peace towards them, should find out.’ The double life of the Genoese community meant, however, that information could pass both ways, and this was soon to have tragic consequences.

  All the land behind Galata, which had originally been covered with vineyards and rough scrub, was in Ottoman hands under the command of Zaganos Pasha. It is probable that early in the siege a decision was taken to construct a road from the Bosphorus at a point close to the Double Columns up a steep valley to a ridge behind Galata and then down another valley to the Golden Horn beyond the Genoese settlement at a place called the Valley of the Springs, where there was a Genoese graveyard outside the walls. Mehmet decided that this should be the route for the venture. At its greatest height this road rose to about 200 feet above sea level and would have presented a tough challenge for anyone attempting to haul ships overland. However, the one thing that Mehmet never lacked was human labour. With his usual secrecy and forethought, he had gathered the materials for this attempt: timber for making a primitive trackway, rollers and cradles to carry the ships, barrels of lard, teams of oxen and men. The ground was cleared of brushwood and levelled as effectively as possible. On 21 April the work on this project was accelerated. Teams of labourers laid the wooden track up the valley from the Bosphorus, rollers were prepared and greased with animal fat, cradles constructed to lift the ships from the water. To deflect interest from these preparations, Mehmet brought a battery of guns up onto a hill just north of the Galata settlement and ordered Zaganos to bombard the ships defending the Horn.

  It is still puzzling to understand how the Christians failed to hear of such a substantial piece of engineering through the intelligence portal of Galata or via Christian soldiers in the Ottoman camp. In the early days, the Genoese probably saw the preparatory groundworks as a straightforward road-building project. Later they were either deterred from watching too closely by the artillery bombardment behind them, or they were guilty of collusion in the project, as the Venetians believed. It is probable too that Mehmet ensured that none of his Christian troops were employed in the project. Whatever the truth, no hint reached the city of what was about to ensue.

  Early on the morning of Sunday 22 April while this gunfire continued and the Christians who were able made their way to church, the first cradle was lowered into the water of the Bosphorus. A small fusta was floated into it, then eased onto the greased wooden rollers on the trackway by means of pulleys. The ever-present sultan was there to witness and encourage the attempt. ‘And having girdled them well with ropes, he attached long cables to the corners and assigned them to the soldiers to drag, some by hand, others with certain winches and capstans.’ The ship was pulled up the slope by teams of oxen and men and supported on either side by further gangs of workmen and soldiers. As it moved up the track further rollers were laid in its path; with the huge resources of animals and manpower organized for the attempt, the vessel inched slowly up the steep slope towards the ridge 200 feet above.

  A favourable morning breeze was blowing off the sea and in an inspired moment Mehmet ordered a skeleton crew to take their places at the oars. ‘Some raised the sails with great shouts as if they were setting sail, and the wind caught the sails and swelled them. Others seated themselves on the rowing benches, took the oars in their hands and moved them back and forward as if they were actually rowing. And the commanders, running about by the mast holders, with whistles and shouts and whips lashing those on the benches, ordered them to row.’ The ships were decked out with coloured pennants, drums were beaten and small bands of musicians played trumpets from the prows. It was a surreal moment of improvised carnival: the flags fluttering, the band playing, the oars moving, the sails billowing in the early morning breeze, the oxen straining and bellowing – a brilliant psychological gesture in the middle of war that was to become a potent ingredient in the Conqueror myth for the Turkish people. ‘It was an extraordinary sight to behold’, recorded Kritovoulos, ‘and unbelievable to relate apart from to those who saw it with their own eyes, the ships being carried over the dry land as if sailing on the sea, with their crews and sails and all their equipment.’ From the plateau nearby Zaganos Pasha continued to bombard the harbour below and two miles further off the great cannons pummelled the land walls at the St Romanus Gate.

  From the ridge the trial ship made its ponderous descent down into the Valley of the Springs. With meticulous attention to detail Mehmet had moved a second battery of guns down to the shoreline to prevent any attack on the boats as they were launched. Well before noon this first ship splashed its way
into the still waters of the Horn with its crew ready to repel any surprise attack, to be followed in rapid succession by others. In the course of the day about seventy boats were lowered one by one into the water at the Valley of the Springs. These boats were fustae – smaller fast biremes and triremes that were ‘of fifteen banks of oars up to twenty and even twenty-two banks’ and probably up to about seventy feet in length. The larger Ottoman galleys remained in the outer harbour at the Double Columns.

  All the fine details of this operation – the timing, the route, the technology employed – remain deeply mysterious. In practice it is highly unlikely that it could have been completed in twenty-four hours. The ergonomics involved – hauling seventy ships a minimum of one and a quarter miles up an eight degree slope and then managing a controlled descent, even with the aid of large numbers of men and animals and the use of winches – suggest a far longer time span. It is possible that the larger ships had been disassembled and rebuilt close to the Horn shore well before 22 April, and that transportation of others had also been underway for some time. It is typical of Mehmet’s secretiveness and deep planning that the truth will never be known, but all the chroniclers are in agreement that suddenly, on the morning of 22 April, the ships rolled one by one into the Galata basin. The whole operation was a strategic and psychological masterstroke, brilliantly conceived and executed. Even later Greek chroniclers gave it begrudging praise. ‘It was a marvellous achievement and a superb stratagem of naval tactics,’ recorded Melissenos. It was to have appalling consequences for the defenders.

  Galata (Pera) and the Golden Horn: the Double Columns are at the top right, the Valley of the Springs is below the windmill on the left

  Because of its protected position within the boom and the immense pressure being applied at the land wall, the sea wall along the Horn was barely guarded at all. There would have been few soldiers about to see the first ship breast the brow of the opposing hill and begin its descent into the water. When they did, panic spread quickly. People ran down the steep streets and watched in horror from the ramparts as one after another the Ottoman fleet slipped into the Horn. It was an extraordinary strategic and psychological riposte to the triumph of the fight in the Bosphorus.

  Constantine immediately recognized the implications for his hard-pressed troops: ‘Now that the wall along the Horn was opened up to warfare, they were compelled to guard it and were forced to strip other defended sectors and to send men there. It was an obvious danger to take front-rank soldiers from the rest of the walls, while those who were left were too few to defend it adequately.’ The Venetians, as commanders of naval operations, were also deeply disturbed. The Ottoman fleet was less than a mile away in a closed strait only a few hundred yards wide; the Horn, which had been a sanctuary against attack, was now transformed into a claustrophobic cockpit where there was no room to breathe.

  When those in our fleet saw the fustae, they were undoubtedly very frightened, because they were certain that one night they would attack our fleet, together with their fleet which was at the Columns. Our fleet was inside the chain, the Turkish fleet was both inside and outside the chain, and from this description it can be grasped how great the danger was. And we were also very concerned about fire, that they might come to burn the ships lying at the chain, and we were perforce compelled to stand to arms at sea, night and day, with great fear of the Turks.

  It was obvious to the defenders that an attempt to destroy the inner fleet was essential and urgent. The following day a council of war gathered in the Venetian church of St Mary, called by the Venetian bailey and the emperor with the express aim ‘to burn the enemy fleet’. Only twelve men were present and they met in secret. Apart from Constantine, the majority were the Venetian commanders and sea captains. There was just one outsider to affairs the Venetians considered their own: Giovanni Giustiniani the Genoese, ‘a man reliable in all matters’, whose opinion commanded universal respect. A long and heated debate followed in which rival ideas were ardently promoted. Some wanted to make a full-scale attack in broad daylight with the whole fleet, involving the co-operation of the Genoese ships. This was rejected on the grounds that negotiations with Galata would be complex and speed was of the essence. Others wanted to deploy a land force to destroy the guns protecting the enemy fleet and then burn the ships; this was considered too risky given the small numbers of soldiers available. Lastly Giacomo Coco, the master of a galley that had come from Trebizond, ‘a man of action, not words’, spoke strongly in favour of a third option: mount a small naval expedition at night to attempt to catch and burn the Turkish fleet by surprise, prepare it in strict secrecy without consulting the Genoese and execute it without delay – time was everything. He offered to lead the attempt himself. This strategy was put to the vote and won the day.

  On 24 April Coco set to work to implement this plan. He chose two sturdy high-sided merchant ships and packed wadded sacks of wool and cotton over the sides to protect them against stone cannon balls from Ottoman guns. Two large galleys were to accompany the merchantmen and repel any counter-attacks, while the actual damage was to be inflicted by a pair of light, fast fustae manned by seventy-two oarsmen each. These were filled with Greek fire and other combustible materials to burn the enemy fleet. Each ship was to be accompanied by a smaller boat with further materials. The plan was simple: the ‘armoured’ sailing vessels would protect the faster boats from gunfire until they were close up to the enemy, then these would dash out from the protective screen and attempt to fire the close-packed Ottoman ships. The vessels were to assemble one hour after sunset and the attack would set off at midnight. Everything was prepared; the commanders gathered on the galley of Aluvixe Diedo, the captain of the harbour, for a final briefing when the plan was unexpectedly stalled. The Genoese in the city had somehow got wind of it and wanted a role in the attack. They pressed hard for a delay to prepare their ships. Reluctantly the Venetians consented. The attack was postponed.

  Four days passed while the Genoese readied their ships. Bombardment of the land walls continued unabated. The Venetians kicked their heels. ‘From the twenty-fourth to the twenty-eighth of this month we waited,’ recorded Barbaro. ‘On the twenty-eighth of April, in the name of our Master Jesus Christ, it was decided to make an attempt to burn the fleet of the perfidious Turks.’ The attack fleet had been slightly modified to accommodate the touchy sensibilities of the Genoese: the Venetians and the Genoese provided one padded merchantman each; there were two Venetian galleys, commanded by Gabriel Trevisano and Zacaria Grioni, three of the faster fustae with the combustible material led by Coco and a number of smaller boats with further supplies of pitch, brushwood and gunpowder.

  Two hours before dawn on 28 April the attack force pulled silently out from under the lee of Galata’s sea walls on the north-east side of the Horn and round the curve of the darkened shore towards the Valley of the Springs, a distance of less than a mile. The merchantmen, with Giustiniani aboard the Genoese vessel, led the way. The attack ships followed in their lee. Nothing moved on the calm water. The only sign of life was a light flaring briefly from the top of the Genoese Galata Tower. No sounds could be heard as they pulled towards the Ottoman fleet.

  The larger sailing ships could only move slowly under oars compared to the swift many-oared fustae they were designed to protect, and whether it was the silence and suspense of the slow approach, a pent-up frustration at the delay of the attack, or a desire ‘to win honour in the world’, is not clear, but Giacomo Coco suddenly abandoned the carefully worked-out plan. On his own initiative he pulled his vessel ahead of the convoy and began to row at full speed at the anchored fleet to launch the attack. For a moment there was silence. Then out of the darkness a volley of cannon fire opened up at the unprotected vessel. A first shot fell near but missed. A second hit the fusta amidships and went straight through it. ‘And this fusta could not have stayed afloat for as long as it took to say ten Our Fathers,’ recorded Barbaro. In a flash the armoured soldiers and the rowe
rs were pitched into the night sea and vanished.

  In the darkness the vessels following were unable to see what had happened and pressed forward. More guns opened up at close range. ‘There was so much smoke from the cannon and from the handguns that one could not see anything, and there were furious shouts from one side or the other.’ As the ships moved up, Trevisano’s larger galley came into the line of fire and was immediately hit by two cannon balls that passed straight through the hull. Water started to pour into the vessel but two wounded men lying below decks acted with great presence of mind to prevent it sinking. Plugging the holes with a store of cloaks they managed to staunch the inrush of water. The crippled galley, though half submerged, somehow stayed afloat and was rowed back to safety with great difficulty. The other ships tried to press home the attack but the intensity of the barrage of rocks, cannonballs and other missiles, and the sight of the damaged galley, induced them to withdraw.

  Dawn was starting to break but in the confusion the two large merchant ships remained anchored in a defensive position according to the plan, unaware of the retreat of the remaining force. Seeing these ships unexpectedly isolated, the Ottoman fleet put out from its anchorage to surround and take them. ‘A terrible and ferocious battle took place … it seemed truly to be like hell itself; there were bullets and arrows without number, and frequent cannon shots and gunfire.’ The Muslim sailors shouted out the name of Allah as their seventy smaller ships swarmed forward to grapple with the enemy, but the two padded transports with their higher sides and skilled crews were able to hold them at bay. Fighting at close quarters continued fiercely for an hour and a half without either side being able to gain an advantage, until eventually they disengaged and returned to their anchorages. The Ottomans had lost one fusta but it was clear which side had won the day. ‘Throughout the Turkish camp there were great celebrations because they had sent the fusta of master Giacomo Coco to the bottom’, recalled Barbaro, ‘and we were weeping with fear, lest the Turks should snatch victory against us with their fleet.’ The Italians counted their losses: one fusta sunk with her crew and more men besides – some ninety skilled sailors and soldiers in all – one galley seriously damaged, the notion of Italian naval supremacy undermined. The roll call of the individual dead was long and the names well known to their comrades: ‘Giacomo Coco, master; Antonio de Corfu, partner; Andrea Steco, mate; Zuan Marangon, crossbowman; Troilo de Grezi, crossbowman …’ and so it went on. ‘All these went down with the fusta and were all drowned, may God have mercy on them.’