Richard was steering Thomas towards the steps that led down to the jetty when he heard the scrape of boots on rocks. A figure stepped out immediately in front of them and Richard’s hand flew to his sword handle. Then he let out an explosive sigh of relief as he saw it was one of the Maltese militiamen. The man stared wildly at the two Englishmen and then turned towards the sea.
‘Wait!’ Thomas called after him in Maltese. ‘I need help.’
‘Too late,’ the man replied. ‘It’s every man for himself now.’
‘Help me,’ Richard pleaded. ‘For pity’s sake, help me.’
The man hesitated and then stepped to the other side of Thomas and lifted his arm before Richard could stop him. At once Thomas threw his head back and let out a cry. Before they reached the top of the steps a voice called down to them from the wall. ‘Don’t look back!’ Richard hissed. ‘Keep moving.’
The voice called out again, louder this time. Then there was a short pause before a challenge was shouted down to them. They kept going, Thomas’s feet bumping down the steps between the rocks until they reached the jetty.
‘Oh no . . .’ Richard muttered in despair. There were no boats moored alongside the jetty. Only the bows of a sunken craft bobbed low in the water, all that remained of a boat pounded to pieces by the enemy guns that had been sited to sweep the sea between the Christian forts. There were more shouts from the direction of the wall and Richard glanced over his shoulder, but there was no sign of a pursuit yet. They continued to the end of the jetty and set Thomas down against a post before stripping off their clothes, down to their loincloths. Then Richard did the same for his father, wincing as he saw for the first time the full extent of the bums on the exposed flesh. Much of the right side of Thomas’s face and neck was raw and red, like freshly butchered meat. So was most of the left side of his body. Patches of skin had peeled back and now lay on his flesh in puckered skeins of white and grey. The removal of most of his clothes caused fresh agonies and Thomas bit down as hard as he could to fight the urge to cry out.
‘We’re going to have to swim for it,’ Richard said.
‘Leave me,’ Thomas said through his teeth.
‘No. Not now.’ Richard shook his head and forced a quick smile. ‘I would not lose a father so soon after finding him.’
Then he took Thomas’s right arm and leaped into the sea. The Maltese soldier dived in close by. The water closed briefly over Thomas’s head and then his face burst clear of the surface. The water was cold and instantly dulled the sharpness of his agony. Even so he could not move his left arm or leg to swim without being tormented by pain.
‘I can’t make it, Richard. Please . . . please save yourself.’
‘Float on your back,’ Richard ordered. ‘You there, take his other arm, and let’s get moving.’
Thomas lay staring up as his companions struck out for the far shore, some four hundred yards across the harbour. For a while Thomas let himself be borne slowly along, then he strained his neck and looked towards St Elmo. He could see the full extent of the side of the wall facing Birgu and Senglea. The parapet was filled with figures shaking their swords and spears in the air, shadows against the morning sunlight. A few thin trails of smoke lifted a short distance into the sky before dispersing. Then, as he watched, the flag of the Order gracefully billowed away from its staff, and was pulled down rapidly. A short moment after, the green flag of Islam rose up above the fort to renewed cheers.
‘What happened to Sir Oliver?’ Thomas blurted. ‘Where is he?’
Richard lifted his head clear of the water to reply. ‘Dead. He made his stand in the chapel.’
The three men edged across the channel and were already a hundred yards from the jetty when Thomas saw a party of Turks armed with arquebuses running down the steps. They rushed to the end of the jetty where two of them set up the stands for their weapons and took aim. A small cloud of smoke engulfed the first man and the bullet slapped into the sea six feet to Thomas’s side, throwing up a tall plume of water. The second shot was closer, in line, but overhead and it struck the surface some distance in front of the swimmers. More shots followed, some missing by a wide margin while a handful struck close by.
The Maltese soldier suddenly cried out, ‘Look there! The Turks are coming!’
Richard craned his head and stared across the light swell. A boat had set out from one of the small batteries running along the shore of the Sciberras peninsula. There were men armed with arquebuses on board. More were filling a second boat.
‘Damn,’ Richard growled. ‘They’re certain to reach us before we gain the other side.’ He turned to the Maltese man. ‘Swim for your life!’
They struck out, dragging Thomas through the sea behind them, his mind slipping in and out of lucidity. They were halfway across when there was a rolling boom from the direction of St Angelo and Richard looked up to see a cloud of smoke swirling from one of the towers. He turned his head quickly and saw a pillar of water collapse close to the nearest of the Turkish boats, less than a hundred yards away. The near miss shook the men at the oars and the drag on the blades to one side caused the boat to swing round. The soldiers crowding the bows struggled to retain their balance and one dropped his arquebus which bounced off the side and splashed into the sea. An officer drew his sword and shouted orders at the crew. They swiftly took up their oars again and the boat turned back towards the swimmers and resumed the chase.
The cannon in the fort fired again and this time Richard saw the shot slap into the sea just behind the stern of the boat, throwing up a column of spray and sending a small wave over the transom. Still the officer urged the rowers on and the boat rapidly closed the distance. The next time Richard looked back he was horrified to see the enemy a scant thirty yards away. One of the men in the bows lowered his barrel and took aim, bracing his legs to take account of the movement of the boat beneath him. His right eye squinted as he raised the length of smouldering match up to the pan above the barrel.
At that moment the boat seemed to leap from the sea and lengths of wood and water exploded into the air. With cries of terror the Turks were pitched into the harbour. There was a flurry of splashing as the soldiers thrashed about and wreckage dropped into the water about them. Richard saw the officer struggling to stay afloat as his robes and armour dragged him down. His hands thrashed to the surface before he disappeared, along with the other soldiers who were encumbered by their equipment. But the second boat was still rowing hard, some distance behind.
Richard felt a painful cramp seize his right leg but forced himself to swim on. It seemed that every muscle in his body ached and felt heavy and for the first time he feared that he did not have the strength to reach the far side of the harbour, still some two hundred yards away. He could see men on the walls of St Angelo waving them on and the cannon fired again, aiming for the second boat.
‘Richard. . .’ Thomas spoke feebly, spluttering as seawater washed across his face. ‘Son . . . Leave me.’
‘No.’
‘I am in such pain ... I would rather die. Save yourself.’
‘No, Father, I will not leave you.’
‘I am dead already. I will not survive these wounds.’
Richard tightened his hold on his father and kicked out, using every last reserve of his failing strength to move forward.
‘Leave me.’
‘I will not. You will not die.’ Richard spat out a mouthful of seawater. ‘Think of Maria. She is there in Birgu. Waiting for you. Hold to that thought.’
‘Maria . . .’ Thomas muttered, barely conscious.
‘Sir!’ The Maltese soldier raised a hand above the water and pointed. ‘Look!’
Richard craned his neck and followed the direction of the man’s finger and saw a boat putting out from St Angelo. Sunlight glinted off armour and weapons as the craft surged across the slight swell in the morning sun. Richard took renewed hope from the sight and forced himself to continue on even as his lungs and muscles burned from the e
ffort. As the cannon fired again, he glanced back and saw that the enemy had not given up the pursuit, clearly intent on running down their prey and ensuring that not one man of the garrison of St Elmo survived its destruction. The men on the boat from St Angelo were equally determined to save their comrades and rowed desperately. It was impossible for Richard to guess who would win the contest as he struggled on, with increasingly feeble strokes. The rocks at the foot of the fort and walls rising up still seemed impossibly far away.
Then he heard a voice cry out to them, urging them on, and soon there were splashes close at hand and a surge of water and then the long overlapping planks of the boat filled Richard’s field of vision.
‘Get ’em aboard! Quickly does it!’
Hands grasped his arms and hauled him bodily out of the water, over the side and down. He lay on his back staring into the blue heavens, gasping for breath, his heart pounding in his chest. There was a crash as an arquebus fired, and then another. The fire was returned from the enemy and bullets cracked into the prow of the boat. More shots were exchanged and then a chorus of jeers filled Richard’s ears.
‘They’re bolting! Good shooting, lads. Now, back to St Angelo.’
As he felt the boat turn, a shadow loomed over Richard. He took a deep breath and propped himself up and saw that it was Romegas, the Order’s senior captain.
Romegas nodded grimly. ‘You’re Sir Thomas’s squire.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Your master is in a poor way.’
‘I know.’
‘Are you all that’s left of the garrison? Did no one else get out?’
‘I didn’t see anyone else. There may be some who also managed to hide in rocks or the caves down by the water. I don’t know, sir.’
‘I see.’ Romegas handed him a wineskin. ‘Here. Take this.’
‘Not yet.’ With great effort Richard sat upright and saw his father lying on his back, trembling. Beyond him the Maltese soldier was sitting upright, arms wrapped round his knees. Richard crawled over to his father’s side and took his hand. Thomas’s eyes flickered open and he turned his head with a wince and squinted at his son.
‘We’re safe?’
Richard nodded, averting his gaze from the terrible burns on his father’s body.
‘Safe?’ Romegas shook his head as he turned to gaze across the harbour at St Elmo, battered and ruined beneath the flags and standards of the enemy. ‘The prelude is over. Now Birgu and Senglea will face the full weight of the enemy. Unless Don Garcia comes to our aid soon, I fear the worst is yet to come.’
CHAPTER FORTY
Many days passed before Thomas became coherently aware of his surroundings. He sensed the daylight through his eyelids and heard the irregular boom of artillery and the distant crash of heavy iron shot striking home. His body felt so weak that he could barely move his fingers, and any attempt to move his head caused a sharp stabbing pain down the side of his face and neck. So he lay still and silent, breathing deeply in a steady rhythm as his mind attempted to take stock of his situation. He knew where he was well enough, but the last thing that he could recall in detail was the final assault on St Elmo. The charge of the enemy up into the breach, the deaths of Miranda and Mas, and the burst of fire as the incendiary struck him and set him alight. After that, all sense of time was lost.
He recalled the burning agony that had consumed every fibre of his being, the fleeting impressions of the wounded lying in the chapel, Stokely, his expression waxen, leaning on his sword as he struggled for breath. Then the stench of a dark enclosed space, the relief of the sea as it cooled his burns and then a brief moment of confused serenity as he floated on his back staring into a peaceful azure sky and accepted that he was dying. Then agony as he was dragged from the sea.
After that he lost consciousness and his existence became a long, delirious nightmare of pain and fever. His head was swathed in bandages and there were long days when he lay sweltering in the heat, staring at a plaster ceiling curving overhead and a shaft of sunlight falling through a window behind him. He remembered voices, one that was stern and matter-of-fact as it discussed his treatment, then another, Richard, and last that of a woman, unmistakably Maria. Their words were confused and he could make no sense of what had been said. When he was alone his mind was filled with troubled images of fire, blood, sword and smoke, of terrible injuries. His head swelled with a cacophony of imagined noises of drums and cymbals, harsh cries of men locked in deadly combat and the screams of the dying . . .
Now all of that had begun to fade and Thomas was aware that his mind had emerged from a dark period of chaos. He took a long, deep breath and opened his eyes. At first his vision was blurred and the light coming through the window was too bright and painful and he blinked and closed his eyes. After a moment he opened them again, more cautiously this time. Slowly, the vision in his left eye cleared and he saw the stained white plaster of the ceiling. His right eye merely detected patches of light and shadow without any specific form. He moved his limbs carefully and winced at the tightness and pain that lanced down his left arm and side. Around him Thomas was aware of other men lying on beds, some in silence, while others moaned or mumbled incoherently to themselves. Now and then figures moved amongst them, men in the robes of friars and monks. Finally one came to Thomas and bent down to examine him.
‘You’re awake again.’ The monk spoke French and smiled as he dabbed at the sweat pricking out at his hairline. ‘And your fever finally seems to have broken.’
‘Finally?’ Thomas frowned and tried to speak again but his throat was too dry and he could only make a soft croaking sound. ‘Where
‘You’re in the infirmary of St Angelo. Quite safe. Here, let me help you.’
There was a faint gurgle of liquid and then the monk gently slipped a hand under Thomas’s head and raised it slightly. With the other hand he held a brass cup to his patient’s lips and helped him to drink. Thomas gratefully swilled the water around his dry mouth and swallowed. He took a few more mouthfuls before he nodded and let his head slump back. The monk eased it down on to the bolster and withdrew his hand and placed it on Thomas’s forehead.
‘Yes, the heat has gone from your brow. That’s good.’ He smiled again. ‘When you were first brought in here 1 was certain that you would not survive. Your burns are severe and there is a bullet wound to your leg. It seems you were struck as they pulled you from the water. Between the bums and the loss of blood I fully expected you not to survive through the night. You have a strong constitution, Sir Thomas. Even so, it was a close thing. You developed a fever and for many days I feared we might lose you. That you survived is due to the tireless efforts of the woman who nursed you.’
‘Woman?’
‘She’s the widow of the late Sir Oliver Stokely, as I understand it. She also claims to be your friend.’ The monk tried to stifle a knowing smile and Thomas felt a passing irritation at the man. ‘What is your name, brother?’ Thomas asked huskily. ‘Christopher.’
‘Well then, Christopher, Lady Maria is indeed my friend, and a woman who is beyond reproach.’
‘Of course. I meant no offence.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Resting. She has hardly left your side these last weeks. She saw to all your needs, though she did have the help of your squire from time to time, when he could be spared from his duties. She fed you, washed and bathed you and changed your dressings. The poor lady is exhausted. Once I saw that your fever had abated I sent her home to rest. That was this morning. She said she would return at dusk.’
Thomas nodded. Then he looked at the monk. ‘You said weeks. How long have I been here? What date is it? What month?’
‘Why, it is the twenty-second day of August, sir.’
‘August?’ Thomas started in alarm. ‘Then . . . then I have been here almost eight weeks.’
The monk nodded. ‘And for four of those weeks it was doubtful that you would live, despite your solid English constitution. For the last two w
eeks we have been fighting your fever. It was only a few days ago that I became confident that you would recover. Though when I say recover, you will have to live with the consequences of your injuries.’
‘But what of the siege?’
The monk pursed his lips. ‘The Turks are pounding us from all sides. At night they fire into the heart of Birgu and have killed scores of women and children. We still hold every one of the bastions and the wall, though barely. The Grand Master has less than a third of the men with which he started. Food and water are running short and morale is poor. There was a rumour that Don Garcia and his army would land at the end of July, but nothing came of it. And every day the guns continue to reduce the walls. Each time the Turks open a new breach they launch an assault, and we throw them back.’ The monk paused and shook his head in wonder. ‘God knows where they get the courage to hurl themselves on us time and again. They’ve tried everything. They even hauled their small galleys over the Sciberras ridge to attempt a landing on Senglea. They were cut to pieces along the shore, and their boats blasted by our cannon. Those we didn’t cut down, or shoot, drowned in their hundreds ... At least morale is as much a problem for the Turks as it is for us. According to the prisoners we’ve taken, Mustafa Pasha is finding it increasingly difficult to get his men to attack. There is sickness and hunger in his camp. Soon I fear that the dead will outnumber the living on this Godforsaken rock.’ He closed his eyes briefly and rubbed his jaw wearily. Then he sighed and forced a smile. ‘But enough of the siege. You need to rest.’
‘No. I need to know about my wounds. When will I be fit to fight again?’
‘Fight?’ The monk seemed taken aback.
Thomas felt a chill course down his spine. He struggled for a moment to sit up in order to see his body but he was too weak and slumped back with a hiss of frustration. He reached out with his left hand and clasped the monk’s arm. ‘Tell me.’
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