CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
The horses were spent by the time Thomas and the six men he had brought with him reached the command post of the relief force. They had ridden round the northern harbour, circling behind the Turkish army before making their final gallop across country to join the men forming up on the slope in front of the small village of Naxxar. Their approach had been noted and a company of pikemen had turned to face them, but they moved back into line when they saw the distinctive red surcoats worn by the riders.
Some of the Spanish troops raised a weary cheer as Thomas and the others rode down the rear of the line, but most were too hot and thirsty as they leaned on their weapons, slowly cooking inside their breastplates and helmets. Less than a mile away the Turks were forming up to give battle. Thomas briefly noted that the enemy only had two small squadrons of cavalry, one on either flank. The rest of the army was composed of infantry, mostly Spahis, corsairs and the surviving fanatics, and Janissaries. There was little sound of the drums and shrill pipes that had accompanied their early attacks on the forts around the harbour, and none of the cheering that they had once used to bolster their spirits. The Turkish line extended across the uneven ground, overlapping that of their opponents.
A short distance behind the centre of the position, Thomas saw the Spanish commander of the relief force and his officers, their armour sparkling in the sun’s harsh glare, bright red plumes flicking from side to side like spatters of blood. He steered his blown mount over towards the officers and as they became aware of his approach they turned to stare. Thomas reined in and bowed his head.
‘I have come from Birgu. From the Grand Master.’
‘He still lives?’ asked one of the officers.
Thomas nodded, then looked round briefly. ‘Where is Don Garcia? I should report to him.’
‘Don Garcia is in Sicily,’ a tall officer with a neatly trimmed beard answered. ‘I am in command here. Don Alvare Sande at your service.’ He nodded in greeting before continuing testily, ‘And might I know your name?’
‘Sir Thomas Barrett. I had thought to meet Don Garcia.’
‘The King has ordered Don Garcia not to place the fleet or himself at risk. The Turkish fleet would overwhelm our galleys with ease. Don Garcia was therefore obliged to sail back to Palermo as soon as the army had landed.’ Don Alvare made no attempt to hide his frustration. ‘I have orders to raise the siege and drive the Turks from the island.’
‘I see. Is this all the men you have, sir?’
‘All that could be spared, yes. With these I am expected to sweep aside the Turkish host. As you can see, Sir Thomas, my King continues in his unfounded optimism over what can be achieved with the minimum of resources. But tell me, how goes it with La Valette and his followers?’
‘We still hold Birgu, Senglea and Mdina, sir. St Elmo was lost, but is now ours again.’
‘Indeed.’ Don Alvare’s expression lightened. ‘Then you must have many thousands that you could add to my strength. Is the Grand Master marching to join forces with me?’
‘Alas, no, sir. Half the knights are dead, and many of the others are wounded. Of the rest, only some six hundred of the militia and mercenaries are left. There is also a small garrison at Mdina, but they number a few hundred.’ Thomas turned towards the distant town and pointed out the small force atop a hillock a short distance from the walls of Mdina. ‘There, sir.’
Don Alvare’s gaze fixed on the garrison of Mdina. ‘Ah, I had thought them to be more of the enemy. So we are grievously outnumbered.’
Thomas hesitated a moment and then asked, ‘What are your plans, sir?’
Don Alvare gestured to the small hill upon which his army was formed up. ‘We have the advantage of the high ground. This is where we should make our stand and let the enemy come to us. That is what I would do in the normal course of events. But the Turks seem weak. They have suffered the same privations as you in these last months.’
‘Your men are fresh, sir. Attack now, while they are still forming up,’ Thomas urged.
Don Alvare blinked sweat from his eyes as he considered his options. ‘My men have been at sea for nine days while we waited for a chance to land unmolested. They are still suffering from seasickness. But we may never get a better chance to crush the Turks
‘There is no time to prevaricate, sir,’ Richard said irritably. He thrust his arm out and pointed in the direction of St Elmo. ‘Our comrades died there while we waited for the promised relief force. Your delay has been paid for with our blood, sir. Now you are here, it is time to do your duty. Attack the Turks and drive them into the sea!’
Don Alvare’s eyes blazed. ‘How dare you address me so, you impudent pup!’
‘Forgive my squire, sir,’ Thomas intervened. ‘It has been a hard siege and all our reserves of patience have worn thin. But he is right. The time to strike is now. The longer you wait, the weaker your men will become and the greater the chance of defeat. Strike now, while they still have the heart and strength for it.’
Don Alvare was silent for a moment before he nodded sombrely. ‘Very well. I think we must attack.’
Thomas felt the tension in his heart ease and a great sense of relief wash over him. But he knew he must act before Don Alvare changed his mind or lost his nerve. Thomas spurred his horse away through a gap between two companies of pikemen and emerged in front of the relief force. He felt the blood racing through his veins, hot with desire to strike at the enemy. Drawing his sword, he waved it above his head to draw the attention of all.
‘Hear me! Hear me!’
Despite the soul-sapping sweat that coursed from their brows the men of the relief force turned their attention to him. The line extended along the slope so it was possible for almost all of them to see Thomas clearly. He paused briefly to marshal his thoughts and readied himself to speak.
‘For long months you have waited for this moment,’ he began. ‘And for years before that. I warrant there is hardly a man amongst you whose family or friends have not suffered from the raids of the corsairs who serve Suleiman. They have butchered your brethren and carried many off into slavery. You all know the dreaded names that have frozen the blood of our people — Barbarossa, Dragut . . .’ There were angry shouts and curses at the mention of the corsairs’ names and Thomas indulged them a moment while he drew breath to continue. His chest felt tight and strained under the weight of his breastplate.
‘Now those two demons are dead and gone, and Suleiman’s power is on the wane. The vast host that he sent against Malta was full of Turkish arrogance, ambition and avarice. They thought to make an easy conquest of my brother knights and the people of this island. They thought to wipe us out within a matter of weeks . . . We held them off for four months, at great cost to the base servants of the Sultan! But also at great cost to us. . . Many of my brother knights are gone, and other soldiers known to you all. Captain Miranda for one.’
There were cries of surprise and grief from the mercenaries who had served under Miranda in previous campaigns. Thomas waited until the noise abated before continuing.
‘The noble captain died a hero’s death. As did Colonel Mas.’ More cries of anger rippled along the line.
‘Heroes both.’ Thomas thrust his sword in the direction of the harbour. ‘They died together defending the breach in the walls of the fort of St Elmo. They died, and then their bodies were cruelly mutilated by the Turks. Less than an hour ago, I beheld their heads mounted on stakes as trophies, cut off and left to rot under a merciless sun!’ He stabbed his blade towards the enemy battle line. Again the anger welled up in the throats of the soldiers and the relief force began to edge forward, down the slope.