‘And no defensive lines to fall back on,’ growled the burly Spanish soldier, Captain Miranda. He gestured around. ‘This is it. This is all we have.’
The knights said nothing. St Elmo was not the proudest of Malta’s fortifications.
The single line of defence was the outer walls, surrounded by a deep ditch. The flat-top walls lacked even battlements and embrasures, they had been so crudely and hurriedly built.
‘A good thing the Ottoman fist is to fall on Birgu,’ said Miranda. ‘This place wouldn’t last two days.’
‘But come come, we are men of stout hearts!’ said Luigi Broglia.
His words fell flat. Even Stanley looked uncharacteristically gloomy. Now he examined the Order’s only outlying fort, under hard clear sunlight, it did indeed look a pathetic piece of military architecture.
The only flourishes were the tall cavalier on the seaward side, a form of free-standing keep connected to the main fort by a narrow drawbridge across the ditch, and the outlying defence or ravelin built to La Valette’s orders, capping one of the star’s points and offering a small platform for enfilading fire down one side.
‘If we should face any Turkish attack here,’ said Broglia, still trying to sound optimistic, ‘we will have full supporting fire from our brothers across the water. San Angelo’s guns are less than half a mile off.’
‘San Angelo’s guns will have other targets to aim at,’ said Smith so savagely that Broglia’s round, boyish face fell abruptly.
Aside from the seaward cavalier and the hastily added ravelin, there were no towers, no high places or vantage points, and the heights of Mount Sciberras rose like a gaunt backbone of rock to the west. Turkish guns and musket barrels might point straight down into the fort.
‘They’ll never lug their guns up onto Sciberras,’ said Broglia.
‘Pray it be so,’ said Smith. ‘As defensive positions go, we might as well be sitting in a cherry tree.’
They prayed that night, and in the morning saw with obscure shame and guilt that the guns had indeed been drawn up against Birgu.
Nicholas could think of one thing and one thing only. A beautiful young girl in a pale blue dress, the most beautiful girl in the world. Her kiss. And the black muzzles of the Turkish guns pointing straight at her.
After the farce of the initial assault on Castile, Mustafa had given the order not to hold back.
‘Let the first salvo be the basilisks,’ he told his gunnery master. ‘Two at once. Let them know the power of our siege guns, let them be dismayed, and let them know we are here to win.’
The Turkish gunners wadded their ears with cotton. The moment the long fuse was lit, they scurried back for cover and huddled near the earth, a good distance behind the beasts. There were numerous tales of those who had remained too close, novices who had taken shelter only just behind the earthed-up wheels of a gun, only for the massive recoil to cause the wheels to erupt backwards, and cut them clean in two.
The detonation was an obscenity even to the gunners themselves. It rattled your very skeleton, hollowed in your belly, stunned your heart and brain. But experienced gunners knew an ominous silence was even worse. It meant a faulty fuse or bad powder, and they would have to return to the breech. It was like going up to the flanks of a sleeping dragon, never knowing when it might awake and devour you.
But the first salvo of the two basilisks fired true. The roar was unbelievable in its power. Even across the water at Elmo, the roar of those bronze monsters was terrible. Nicholas prayed with all his soul.
The waters of the Grand Harbour rippled and stirred, the earth shook, and some inland swore they saw birds flying high overhead knocked senseless and falling to the ground. Others clenched their fists and their jaws, fearing their teeth would shatter in their skulls.
In Birgu it was as if hell was erupting.
In the houses, jars smashed to the floor, plaster flaked from the walls, wine barrels wobbled where they stood. Dogs howled, horses reared and tore at their tethers, cats went stiff and wide-eyed and then crept away into corners, children sobbed, weakened roofs fell in. In Sicily, sixty miles north, they heard the noise a few minutes later and thought at first it was Etna.
The massive balls thumped into the southern landwalls, and when the huge plumes of dust finally settled or drifted away, the besiegers saw that one of the two hits had already caused an ominous crack from battlement to midway down.
‘Hit them again,’ said Mustafa. ‘With all the guns, all day long. Never stop except to rest and cool the barrels. Balls of iron then stone then marble, in steady rotation. You know the drill. Give them hell.’
‘Sire, crack opened up below the post of Provence!’
‘Then bag it up, man. Fortify it with everything you’ve got.’
‘We have done, Sire.’
‘Good. What else?’
The soldier looked around uncertainly. ‘Nothing else, Sire.’
‘Then back to your position.’
La Valette looked out grimly from the post of Castile. How he longed to sally out and cut down those infidel gunners where they worked. Faces already black with powder and smoke, slaves of the Sultan, enemies of Christ. Such lightning sallies by the besieged and beleaguered were always good for morale, and for denting that of the enemy. And morale was of incalculable value. The Turks would never know when the next attack might come, in darkness, or the low grey light just before sunrise … But the knights were too few in number. They could not afford it. And any captive the Turks took, they would torture for information, like De la Rivière. Yet who else would be so brave as he?
He squared his shoulders. They would only win through defence, and faith in Christ.
It was growing dark when the Turkish guns finally fell silent.
The sudden silence was deafening, almost worse than the eight-hour barrage. Ears rang. Women sobbed. Babies cried.
And then the work of rebuilding began.
None of Birgu’s walls was down, but many were shaken, and cracks had opened up in several places. La Valette seemed everywhere at once, inspecting damage, prescribing repairs, his calmness and confidence infectious.
An hour later a messenger found him.
‘Sire, the Turks are retreating.’
He frowned. ‘You are mistaken.’
‘They are pulling back their guns.’
The Grand Master ran up the stone steps to the south wall like a thirty-year-old. It was true. By torchlight and lantern light, the Turkish army was undoing its own vast labours, and pulling its guns back from the heights of Santa Margherita.
Some of the younger knights were foolish enough to begin celebrations, but this was no time to celebrate. La Valette silenced them with a word.
This was no retreat. His eyes roved across the land. This was only a change of plan.
The four Englishmen at Elmo were eating simple rations at dusk when the cry came from the walls above them. It was a cry not of triumph but of desolation.
They immediately ran up the steps to the parapet, Stanley and Smith both carrying scabbard and swordbelt. Nicholas arrived first and looked out.
The Turkish army was clearly visible, moving round the head of the Marsa. It made no sense. Not a gun was being left on the Heights of Corradino or Santa Margharita for the bombardment of Birgu. They seemed to be pulling back. And then as they rounded the calm waters at the end of the great harbour, the mounted Sipahi vanguard turned their horses and began the ascent of Mount Sciberras.
‘So,’ said Smith softly, ‘the Ottoman fist is to fall on us first after all.’
‘What will we do?’ said Hodge, wide-eyed.
‘What we always do,’ said Smith. ‘We will fight.’
Stanley already had his hand on his hilt, his customary stance. ‘Come, brothers,’ he said, ‘let us finish our last peaceful supper.’
When they had eaten, Smith wiped his mouth, cleaned his knife on his sleeve, returned it to his belt and looked keenly at Nicholas and said, ‘I have asked you before, boy, but I ask you again — you do not fear to die? For there may still be time to return over the water beneath the headland.’