‘That is true,’ Thomas admitted.
‘And your arrival has reopened Sir Oliver’s wound.’
Thomas nodded his understanding and felt a great weariness settle upon him. He was tired of this life with its ceaseless burdens of suffering and memory. He craved to forget and begin anew, or simply to have an end to it all. He closed his eyes and lowered his head into his hands.
‘Leave me, old friend. I must rest.’
‘Yes, sir. I know.’ Jenkins rose stiffly from the chair and made to pick up the cups and jar, hesitated a moment and then left them alone and quietly made his way towards the door. He glanced back at the knight wrapped in his inner torment, and then closed the door behind him.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Shortly after first light the next morning Thomas and Richard were roused by a servant of La Valette with an order to attend the Grand Master at his headquarters. Sir Martin was still snoring as they hurriedly left the auberge and made their way through the quiet streets and across the drawbridge into the fort of St Angelo. Don Garcia was with the Grand Master, impatient to begin his inspection of the defences. While La Valette’s expertise lay in naval warfare, Don Garcia had considerable experience of the battlefield and siegecraft.
They started with the fortifications of St Angelo which commanded the harbour approaches to the Birgu promontory. Don Garcia had insisted on climbing every tower, and then descending into the bowels of the fort to examine the store chambers and cisterns before he announced his satisfaction.
‘A well-founded structure. If the Turks break into Birgu, then the remaining knights can fall back here and hold out until relieved.’
‘Or until they — we — are pounded to pieces by the enemy’s cannon,’ the Grand Master responded.
Don Garcia ignored the comment and requested to be shown the defences of Birgu. These he was much less satisfied with. Work parties of galley slaves, chained together, were labouring to raise the height and depth of the walls and bastions that protected the base of the promontory. More slaves, under the watchful eyes of soldiers, were busy breaking up the rocky ground outside the wall to deepen the shallow ditch that lay in front of the defences.
A short walk to the south brought the party to the ditch and wall that protected the Senglea promontory. Behind stood the fort of St Michael, guarding the bare finger of land that stretched out beside the creek where the galleons, fishing boats and the Order’s seven galleys lay at anchor. Once again, Don Garcia thoroughly explored the fort and made his observations about the defences from the tower that afforded the best view.
‘The weak point is that shore facing those heights over there.’ He pointed across the strip of water known to the locals as French Creek. Beyond the water the ground was level for a short distance before it rose steeply a quarter of a mile from the fort. ‘The Turks could mount heavy guns there to enfilade the outer defences. There’s not much that we can do about that.’
Thomas cleared his throat. ‘There’s a rather bigger danger, sir.’ Don Garcia turned to look at him with a slight frown.
‘What’s that?’ asked the Spanish commander.
Thomas pointed towards the shore of the Senglea promontory facing the heights. A few small redoubts constructed from rock were spread along the water’s edge. ‘There’s not much to stop a landing there. If the Turks seize the point then they can land cannon and bombard St Michael from the rear. They will also be able to destroy the ships in Dockyard Creek and fire on Birgu.’
‘You’re right.’ Don Garcia stroked his beard. ‘It would be a disaster.’
‘The threat has already been taken in hand,’ La Valette intervened. ‘I have given orders for a line of stakes to be driven into the seabed ten paces from the shore. There will be an iron loop on each stake for a chain to pass through. Any boats attempting a landing there will run up on the chain and those on board will have to swim ashore.’
‘That’s good, very good,’ Don Garcia said. ‘Though you will still need to defend the shore. Even if your chains prevent them landing, you must be able to contain them on the beach so that they can be cut down by fire from your cannon. You will need to construct a parapet there.’
The Grand Master gestured to his clerk to make a note.
Don Garcia looked slowly round to survey the Grand Harbour and the surrounding landscape. ‘The trouble with the entire position is that every fort is overlooked by higher ground. You may have a fine base for your galleys, Grand Master, but it is a poor situation to defend in a siege where the enemy will have cannon, and no doubt plenty of them. The main aspect in your favour is that the Turks will be obliged to attack on narrow fronts, whichever fort they attempt to take.’
‘Which is just as well, given how few men I have.’
Don Garcia pursed his lips thoughtfully. ‘The question is, which will they attack first? If I was the Turkish commander I would begin there.’ He raised his hand and pointed at St Elmo. ‘It is the smallest of the forts and it is isolated from the rest of your defences. It should be the easiest one to capture. If St Elmo falls then the enemy commands the approaches to both harbours and can safely anchor his ships in the Marsamxett. Moreover he will be able to fire across the Grand Harbour and bombard both these promontories. It will also deliver a blow to your morale while raising the spirits of his own men.’ Don Garcia weighed up his observations and then nodded. ‘Yes, that is where he will attack first, I am certain of it. Therefore it is vital that St Elmo holds out for as long as possible. Let us see that fort now
Even though it was early in spring and the air was still fresh, Thomas, Richard and the other officers in the small party were perspiring freely as they climbed the stairs of the cavalier tower rising to one side of Fort St Elmo and looking north-east out to sea. Thomas emerged at the top and stood to one side for a moment to catch his breath. The Grand Master stood by the parapet, leaning against the cut limestone to recover. Don Garcia’s face was also flushed with the effort and for a moment no one spoke on the platform of the tower. Beyond the parapet the cavalier tower dropped down towards the rocky end of the peninsula where the sea began. There was no wind and the surface of the sea looked smooth and grey as it stretched out towards the horizon like a sheet of cold steel.
Richard looked at the other officers around him calculatingly before he muttered, ‘There are too many old men here, Sir Thomas.’ The knight shot him a black look but did not trust himself to reply without gasping and proving his squire’s point.
‘Look at them,’ Richard continued. ‘The Grand Master is a relic from an old war, and so are most of the other senior knights. How can they hope to hold Malta with a band of greybeards and the natives of the island? Even if they can find some mercenaries foolish enough to take their coin, it would still be a hopeless situation.’ Thomas licked his dry lips and sucked in a deep breath. ‘Never underestimate the value of. . . experience. These men, and I, were fighting the Turk long before you were born. When the time comes, the value of such experience will be clear to all. If the enemy make the same mistake as you and misjudge the quality of the knights of the Order,’ Thomas smiled grimly, ‘both you and the Turks will be in for a surprise. Mark my words.’
He turned and walked steadily across the platform to join the other men clustered around Don Garcia and La Valette. The Spaniard was tutting to himself as he looked down on the rest of the fort. The tower afforded a clear view into the heart of St Elmo where a Maltese militia company was being drilled by a Spanish sergeant, bellowing out his orders for a swarthy local to translate in a pale imitation of the sergeant’s ferocity and volume.