Sword and Scimitar

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Very good. That at least is one line of defence we can count on.’ La Valette turned his attention back to Colonel Mas. ‘Assuming that the enemy does decide to attack St Elmo first, there should be enough time to prepare the defences of Birgu and St Michael. With the unfinished condition of the fortifications on this side of the harbour it is essential that we delay the enemy at St Elmo. How long can the fort hold out?’

  Mas thought for a moment before he responded. ‘From the time the enemy invests the fort? Say ten days to cut approach trenches, then another two days to construct gun batteries. After that it’s a question of how much weight their guns can throw against the walls before they create a breach large enough to risk an assault. With the poor design of the fort and the weakness of the ravelin, I’d say that the Turks will reduce St Elmo within three weeks.’

  The Grand Master sighed with frustration. ‘That’s not long enough. If we need a month to complete the defences on this side of the harbour now, then that will only take longer once the enemy can harass our work parties. St Elmo must hold for longer than three weeks, whatever it costs.’

  Mas puffed his cheeks. ‘We can pack the fort with troops and should be able to ferry reinforcements over and evacuate the wounded under cover of darkness, and keep our men supplied with gunpowder and food if they run short. That’s assuming that they hold out long enough to exhaust the thirty days of provisions we’ve already placed there.’ The colonel paused. ‘Of course, we must recognise that every man we feed into the fight for St Elmo is one man less to defend this side of the harbour when the enemy throw their weight against Birgu and Senglea. There will come a point where sending reinforcements will not affect the outcome.’

  ‘Then what happens?’ asked Sir Oliver.

  ‘Then we must decide whether to evacuate the remaining defenders or permit them to surrender or order them to fight to the last. ’

  ‘I see.’

  No man spoke for a moment as they considered the desperate nature of the coming struggle. It was the colonel who broke the silence. ‘Given the importance of holding St Elmo for as long as possible, it would be prudent to place the fort under the command of one of our most experienced officers.’

  La Valette returned to his chair and sat down, clicking his fingers and pointing to the floor. His dogs obediently hurried back beneath the table and lay down. ‘I take it that you are volunteering for the position.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Even though you know the inevitable outcome? It will be a most desperate struggle, Colonel.’

  ‘It is what you pay me for.’ Mas gave one of his rare smiles. ‘And most generously, compared to some of my previous employers.’

  ‘I knew that I needed to recruit the best for this battle,’ La Valette replied with a gracious nod. ‘But I would not care to risk losing you so early in the struggle. I would rather you remain here where your experience will be needed. We can settle the matter of the command of the fort later.’

  ‘As you wish, sir.’

  ‘There is something that occurs to me, sir,’ Thomas intervened, immediately aware of the disdainful looks shot at him from Romegas and Stokely. He had soon grown used to their scorn for the junior member of the war council.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘We are assuming that the enemy will attack St Elmo first. What if they don’t? What is our plan if they decide to assault Birgu or Senglea first?’

  Romegas half turned towards him. ‘That possibility was considered and discounted by Don Garcia when he inspected the defences and gave his advice to the Grand Master. The Turks will make it a priority to secure a safe anchorage in the Marsamxett harbour, and complete the encirclement of Birgu and Senglea. As I recall we all accepted his reasoning and have planned accordingly.’

  ‘That is so,’ Thomas conceded. ‘But the question remains, what do we do if the Turks strike at the fortifications on this side of the harbour first?’

  ‘And why would they do that?’ Romegas asked scathingly. ‘It makes sound tactical sense to take St Elmo first.’

  Stokely cleared his throat and interjected, ‘Grand Master, this kind of comment is further proof of Sir Thomas’s ineptitude in military matters and, again, I question his fitness for membership of this council.’

  ‘I second that,’ Romegas added.

  ‘Enough!’ La Valette slapped his hand down on the table. ‘I will not have you question my decision over the inclusion of Sir Thomas. Do not raise the matter again.’

  ‘In any case, Sir Thomas is right,’ said Colonel Mas. ‘Just because it makes sense for your enemy to proceed in a certain manner does not mean that he will do so. We need to be ready to respond to any contingency, sir. However unlikely.’

  La Valette thought for a moment and then nodded. ‘Very well, Colonel. Then I want you to draft a plan for us to meet such a threat. You can present it at tomorrow’s meeting.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The Grand Master turned to Stokely. ‘Which brings me to our final matter. The preparedness of the rest of the island.’

  Stokely bowed his head in acknowledgement and quickly glanced over the list of notes on the sheet in his lap before he responded. ‘The Mdina garrison reports that all is prepared. Most of our cavalry has transferred into the stables of the citadel. There’s enough fodder for six months. The cisterns are almost full and the town is provisioned for the same period. The knight you appointed to take command, Pedro Mesquita, has moved into the citadel with his staff and has orders to use his cavalry to harry the Turks whenever the opportunity arises.’ Stokely looked at Thomas. ‘Assuming that the enemy does not decide to attack Mdina first, that is.’

  ‘They will be coming to take the harbour and destroy the Order,’ Thomas replied patiently. ‘Mdina lies in the heart of the island, It is irrelevant to the enemy’s main purpose.’

  ‘Sir Thomas is right,’ La Valette cut in. ‘Please continue.’

  Stokely frowned briefly before he turned to his notes again. ‘I have managed to evacuate some of the population of Mdina but most refuse to leave their homes and farms. Some even within my own household have been adamant that they will not leave, even when encouraged in the strongest terms.’ He glanced quickly at Thomas. ‘Those that remain have yet to obey the directive to harvest their crops early and move their grain and animals into the city. The same is true of the farmers close to the harbours. And so far no steps have been taken to make the wells unusable.’

  As he had been speaking, the Grand Master’s expression had darkened and now he raised a hand to stop Stokely.

  ‘This is not acceptable. The people mistake my instructions for advice. My directives are not to be flouted. This is your responsibility, Sir Oliver. See to it that those peasant fools are made to do as I command. I want the last of them safely billeted within our walls before the week is out. Then their farms are to be torched and their wells poisoned and not a living thing or a handful of grain is to be left in place to offer shelter or food to the Turks. Is that clear? Use force to ensure that it happens if that becomes necessary. I will have complete discipline over the islanders as well as my soldiers. It is the only way we shall all survive what is to come. Tell them that, and brook no protests. If you can’t enforce my orders then I shall have to find a knight who can.’

  Stokely nodded, his face flushed with shame at having been so roundly criticised in front of the others. ‘I will do as you command, Grand Master. At once.’

  La Valette’s stern expression gradually softened and when he spoke again his voice was gentle. ‘Sir Oliver, you are a fine administrator. I have known no equal in all my years in the service of the Order. But we are no longer waging war against the enemy’s trade routes — they are bringing the war to us. Your skills are needed as never before but the people you command will need a firm hand. They will look to you for orders and inspiration and you must assume a steadfast countenance. From now on, everyone is a combatant under my direct command, and military discipline will be applied. Th
ere are no longer any civilians on Malta. Every man, woman and child must play their part in defending the island. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Grand Master. I apologise, sir. I will not disappoint you again.’

  La Valette smiled warmly and was about to speak when the flat roar of a cannon sounded in the distance, then again, and a third time. Before the sound had died away, every man in the room was on his feet and hurried across to the window.

  ‘Where did the shots come from?’ La Valette demanded, straining his eyes as he looked towards the open sea. Beside him Thomas was also scanning the strip of horizon that was visible between Gallows Point and the tip of the Sciberras peninsula. As yet there was nothing to see, just the flat line separating the sea from the sky.

  ‘It came from beyond St Elmo,’ decided Colonel Mas. ‘The signal guns at one of the observation stations.’

  Even as he spoke there was a flash from the keep of St Elmo, and a jet of smoke and flame ripped through the morning air. A second cannon was fired and a moment later the sound of the first echoed off the walls of St Angelo. As the third gun fired, there was no longer any doubt about the reason for the firing of the signal guns. La Valette drew a deep breath and continued to stare out across the harbour as he addressed the members of the war council. ‘The enemy has arrived . . .’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  By the time the five men had climbed to the top of the signal tower of St Angelo, the streets of Birgu were filled with people running for the walls of the town and any natural vantage point to see the approach of the Turkish fleet for themselves. Thomas was the first to reach the platform and saw one of the younger knights in the company of an elderly-looking soldier staring intently towards the eastern horizon. A faint dawn haze still lingered out to sea, concealing the separation of sea from sky.

  ‘Do you see them?’ asked Thomas.

  The two men looked round and then stood to attention as they spied the Grand Master and the other senior officers emerging from the staircase behind Thomas, breathing hard.

  ‘No, sir,’ the knight replied.

  ‘Then where did the signal fire come from? Which direction?’

  ‘Further up the coast, to the north.’

  Thomas raised his hands to shield his eyes against the glare of the low sun and tried to pick out anything in the haze, but as yet there was nothing, just the dull gleam of a gentle swell and the specks of gulls swirling above the surface as they fed on a shoal of fish. La Valette and the others joined him along the waist-high wall and stared into the distance. In the background the same pattern of signal guns rumbled as the warning spread along the coast and inland. Besides the occasional sound of cannon, a hush had descended on the island. The usual hubbub rising from the narrow streets and the faint sound of picks had died away and there was a stillness as the men of the Order and the islanders waited for the first sight of the enemy. It felt to Thomas as if the world around him was holding its breath, waiting for the sign that would forever change the lives of those caught in the thrall of that moment.

  Sir Oliver hissed, ‘If some fool has raised a false alarm I’ll have him flogged . .

  ‘There!’ The old soldier thrust his arm out and pointed to the north-east. At once the other men’s heads turned to stare in the direction indicated, trying to pierce the haze for a sign of the enemy ships.

  ‘Where?’ La Valette growled. ‘I see nothing.’

  ‘I see it now,’ said Thomas. ‘There, just beyond the end of Gallows Point. A sail.’

  Stokely muttered, ‘Just as long as it isn’t a single ship, or even a flotilla of corsairs setting out on a raid.’

  ‘We’ll know soon enough,’ Romegas said, then looked towards the old soldier with an openly impressed look. ‘Your eyes are keen. Especially for one of your age. What is your name?’

  ‘Balbi, sir.’ The man bowed his head. ‘Francisco Balbi.’

  ‘Italian, eh?’ Romegas sized him up. ‘One of the mercenaries recruited by the colonel then?’

  Mas glanced over at Balbi. ‘Yes, you were the one claiming to be a poet as well as a soldier of fortune.’

  ‘That’s right, sir.’

  ‘A poet?’ Romegas chuckled. ‘Well then, Balbi, I’ll wager you’ll find enough material for an epic in the days to come. Make us all famous, eh?’

  ‘Enough!’ the Grand Master snapped. ‘I can’t see any damned ships. Where are they?’

  Thomas was surprised by the anxious tone in La Valette’s voice and deliberately responded as calmly as he could. He raised his hand and pointed directly towards the single vessel that was visible. ‘There, sir . . . And there . . . Oh . . .’

  As if a fine silk veil had been stealthily drawn aside, the first sail was suddenly joined by others, one by one, until scores of them appeared on either side, spreading out along the edge of the fading haze.

  ‘Good Lord,’ Sir Oliver muttered.

  The others kept their silence, as did the knights, soldiers and civilians pressed together along the walls of St Angelo and every vantage point of Birgu. Across the harbour Thomas could see the heads and shoulders of men lining the walls of the fort. Several had climbed up on the parapet for a better view.

  It was La Valette who broke the spell on the tower. He lowered the hand that had been shielding his eyes and turned abruptly towards his advisers. ‘There’s no question of it. That’s the invasion fleet. It’s too big for anything else. We must not tarry. The first enemy troops could be ashore well before nightfall. Every civilian has to be safely behind walls before then. Sir Oliver, you will take charge of that with respect to Birgu and Senglea.’ He turned to Romegas. ‘You will ride to Mdina and inform Mesquita of the situation and ensure he clears the centre of the island. Colonel Mas, take a party of horsemen and see to it that as many of the wells are spoiled as possible. And fire any farms or buildings you encounter, anything that can provide shelter to the enemy. Be back here by nightfall.’

  ‘What of the estates?’ asked Sir Oliver. ‘Surely you can’t mean to destroy them as well?’

  ‘The estates particularly. Would you want to return to your home after it had been despoiled by some Turkish officer and his companions?’ La Valette did not wait for a reply and turned to Thomas. ‘You will take a boat across to St Elmo and ensure that the garrison is ready to fight. Also, there are bound to be many islanders who make straight for the fort. I gave orders for all to make for Mdina, Senglea and Birgu, but some will panic and make for the closest shelter. There’s no space for them at St Elmo and they will need to be ferried across the harbour before the Turks make that impossible. See to it.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Thomas nodded.

  La Valette took a last look at the horizon, squinting as he struggled to make out the vast force bearing down on the coast. Hundreds of vessels were now visible: galleys, galleons and many smaller cargo vessels, a clear sign of the Sultan’s determination to take the island and obliterate the Order of St John that had plagued the Islamic world for the past three centuries. The Grand Master took a deep breath.

  ‘You have your instructions, gentlemen. May God have mercy on us all. Now go.’

  The garrison of the fort were still standing watching the approaching fleet when Thomas and Richard entered St Elmo. The small courtyard was piled with baskets of apples and oranges, sacks of flour, roundles of cheese and kegs of gunpowder just arrived from the powder mills on Senglea. Thomas’s brow furrowed as he beheld the disorganised scene and he stopped a small party of Spanish troops crossing the courtyard to get a better view of the enemy from the keep.

  ‘You there! Why are all these supplies still left out? Get them into the storerooms at once! Where is your commander?’

  One of the sergeants who was with the party pointed towards the keep. ‘Up there, sir. I saw Don Miguel on the tower.’

  ‘Right.’ Thomas gestured towards the kegs of gunpowder. ‘Start with that before some panicky fool sets the lot off.’

  Thomas left the sergeant to bark out h
is orders and strode across the courtyard to the entrance of the keep. There was a large hall beyond the door where several long tables were still littered with the meals abandoned when the signal guns had sounded across the island. A serving boy was busy filling his pockets with bread rolls and looked up guiltily as the knight and his squire entered.

  ‘Where are the stairs to the top of the tower?’ Thomas demanded. The boy looked at him fearfully and shook his head. Richard spoke quickly in the local tongue and the boy turned to point to a doorway to one side of the hall. They hurried past him, through the arch, and found a short passage ending where the stairs climbed up in a series of flights. At the top, fully a hundred men were crowded along the parapet, gazing out to sea. Some wore the red surcoats with the white cross of the knights of the Order. There was no time to single out the commander and Thomas cupped a hand to his mouth and bellowed, ‘Don Juan de La Cerda! Don Juan!’

  Faces swivelled round towards the shout, some with startled expressions. A knight stepped back from the parapet and approached Thomas.

  ‘I am Don Juan de La Cerda.’

  He was one of the older knights, thin and gaunt with a fringe of grey-streaked hair around a bald crown. He frowned as he looked Thomas over. ‘Who are you? I’ve not seen your face before.’

  ‘Sir Thomas Barrett.’

  The knight’s eyes widened as he recognised the name. ‘The English knight.’

  ‘One of them.’

  ‘The one who has been much on everyone’s lips since he arrived.’ Thomas ignored the comment. ‘I am here on the authority of the Grand Master to take charge and ensure that the fort is ready for action.’

  There was a brief look of surprise before La Cerda responded with a haughty air. ‘My garrison is ready. We don’t need you.’

  ‘Ready?’ Thomas shook his head. ‘The courtyard is in chaos, and soon a small horde of terrified locals are going to come pouring through your gate seeking shelter — while you and your men sit here and take in the scenery.’ He spoke loudly so that all might hear his words and the scorn in his tone. ‘Ready? If this is what you consider ready then the battle is already as good as lost. The Grand Master needs you and your men brought to order at once, Don Juan. I want half your men clearing the courtyard. Everything must be placed in the storerooms before the Turks land. The other half of the garrison is to form into parties and leave the fort and gather in every civilian between here and the approaches to Mdina. If they are too old, or infirm, then your men will carry them. They are to bring back any useful tools and portable stocks of food that they find. Anything else is to be destroyed. Leave nothing that will be of use to the Turks. Understood?’