Tomas rode north to the Harbour from Marsaxlokk, having
secured his men there with enough arms to withstand at least a quarter of the
supposed 192 ships. About 700 men were
in base, in tents, with some rock and stone battlements. He also had men at
Marsamxett which was a real harbour and not merely a bay, in case the ships of
the Suleiman moved north. This was highly expected by Vallette, as noted, and
he was prepared as far north as St.
Paul’s Bay, without endangering his army at Fort St. Elmo, so
he thought. The southern bay seemed an unlikely place for a landing, but the
avoidance of the winds and sandstorms could mean that no ships would come
around the western or far northern side of Gozo, as the Sahara storms blew
fiercely up through Sicily and even into Italy, where many in Rome took sick
this year because of the unusual length of the siroccos.
The winds circled around like dervishes, confusing those who
were caught up in the desert storms. Tomas, like his son fifty miles away,
covered his face with a loose, white collar around his tunic. His horses had
been trained to move as quickly as possible in the siroccos, and this horse, a
large black stallion, had no trouble withstanding the coming storms. The horse
was large and stocky, capable of holding a man in full armor, and a prize on
the island. Both Frederico and Tomas had brought horses from England,
trained in the warfare of knights, at their own expense. These hefty animals
were unlike the smaller, faster stallions of the East, the famous Arabians,
which could run like the wind accosting Tomas’ face.
His own steed, called St. Tomas for its stubbornness and
strength, was one of twelve, all named after the apostles, except for Judas. The
twelfth was named Matthias. Today, Tomas rode St. Tomas, and he has given one
of his few, rare Arabians to Immanuel, who did not need to wear armor.
Immanuel’s horse, named St. Dimitri, was a sleek, white
beauty, the fastest on the island. It could race over the rocky terrain as if
it were a light breeze. Tomas loved this horse and gave it to his son for good
luck.
The armies of the Maltese would need more than luck. Their
numbers counted far short of those of the Turks. Tomas could see the ships
moving now into range of the forts. He could count at least seventy from his
view on a small hill close to the promontory. The ships had good wind and were
moving into range of Fort St. Elmo and the mountain, Sciberras. So, the men in
that Fort will be hit with the big guns from the mount, once it was taken, and
with the invading armies. Tomas spurred his horse. He had left the south bay to
ask Vallette in person what the plan was to defend Mdina, as well as keep the
enemy from landing anyway on the far northern coasts. A handful of farmers had
been armed, but most of the Knights had their men on the eastern coast. Tomas
feared that the landing parties in the south and west would find little
resistance.
From his small hill, Tomas then saw ships split from those
going into the Harbour to the north-Vallette was right, either in his
instincts, or through his spies on the continent and in the ancient capital of
Constantinople. Marsamxett could be hit. However, what he
did not know was the confusion among the leaders of the enemy.
Piyale Pasha
had fought with Kızılahmedli Mustafa Pasha as to where to anchor the fleet. Piyale
wanted to go to Marsamxett, which Vallette anticipated. But, Kizilahmedli
insisted on both taking
Fort
Elmo first as well as
going south in order to invade Mdina. The ships at Marsaxlokk were intended to
destroy the holy city.
Tomas changed his own plans and pulled his horse back
towards the interior. He would go to the north and stand with his men there.
Half of his orders contained that duty, and now, he could see that a battle
would strike this quiet harbour. He grieved at the ready loss of his other men
at Marsaxlokk.
As he rode, Tomas saw a horseman approaching him from the
west. He recognized a servant of Frederico, Paulo. The man was Arabian himself,
a convert, and a brilliant horseman. He rode one of Frederico’s Arabian’s, a
coal black, small animal, with fire in its nostrils, Tomas thought.
“Sir Tomas, stop. A message from your brother. Here, in this
scroll.”
Tomas rode alongside Paulo, pulled up his horse and took the
scroll.
“Tomas, we see ships as far as off in the sea as Hagar Qim,
near the ruins. How they passed your men in Marsaxlokk, we do not know. But,
there is a fleet now settled in the bay which I hear you were to leave. At least one-third of the ships seem to be in
Marsaxlokk. We should have received word
from the watchers on the bay. They may be dead. Send some of your troops from
your reserve to us near Rabat.
We may be attacked there and I shall take my men into Mdina as soon as I can.”
Tomas mused on this information. How did his men not see the
ships move around to Marsaxlokk? One has a clear view of the sea from there.
Would the Suleiman have sent ships farther south in the sandy winds? He had
only left his men and the bay a few hours before. How could the ships have
landed so quickly? Was God on the side of the Knights?
He spoke quickly to Paulo. “Do you have a quill and ink? I
shall not give a verbal order.”
“Yes, Sir Tomas, I carry these and sheets always in this
pouch. Dictate and I shall write down what you desire.”
Tomas spoke hastily. “To Captain Filip of France at Fort Michael,
my brother in arms, take my 500 men to Mdina. Marsaxlokk has been taken behind
my back. Act with haste. Ships have been seen on the western side. Tomas of St. John.”
Paulo wrapped up the sheets in leather and raced away, after saluting
Tomas. He rode so quickly that Tomas had to watch him disappear like a ghost.
Now, he decided to not to turn to the southern bay and perhaps face a useless
death, but felt in his gut he should go north. He desperately wanted to be with
Frederico, for some reason, as Tomas was not a sentimental man. He sensed in
his high sixth-sense, real danger for his brother. But, he had to go north to
help organize any attack either at Birgu or Marsamxett, so he spurred St. Tomas
on. He had to reach his men in the north. But, he hesitated. He wanted to help
Frederico, who he knew would move into Mdina.
Frederico had men stretched out at various high points on
the western shores. His tent city edged the cliffs on the western shores. He
had sent some of his men to Marsaxlokk. They watched the seventy ships, not
highly armed with large guns, but full of troops, as those on the hills could
see. So, a landing party was scheduled for this side. Perhaps Rabat and Mdina, the holy city, were to be
targets, most likely having to face land troops from Marsaxlokk. Frederico sat
in his tent looking at two maps, one of the terrain and one, a secret map with
codes, of his own army’s movements. Suddenly, a huge wind moved the tapestry
over his tent and in raced a person he did not expect to see, Immanuel.
“They have landed, Uncle, I have seen Turks creeping up the
rocky hills south of the ruins. They have guns. I was on my way to Father, but
raced back to you. I do not know where Father is.”
Frederico stared at the sunburnt face of Immanuel. He seemed
older, more confident than his years. “Have something to drink, Immanuel. I
have a letter from your Father that he is sending reinforcements from St.
Michael’s Fort. This tactic surprises all. And, we have word from Vallette that
St. Elmo’s is even now under fire.”
“Yes, the large guns are on the galleons in the Harbour. The
Turks do not even have to land, but merely sail up and use their artillery.
However, I expect landings beneath the fort as well. I they take the mountain,
they can use heavy guns from there. I think this will happen”
“So do I. God help those men. There cannot be more than
3,000 on the mountain, the promontory and in the Fort, all together. Immanuel,
can you do one more thing for me?”
The young man sat down, “Yes, of course. Anything.”
“Run like the wind, the wind which moves your stallion, and
warn Rabat and
Mdina. The people must be warned.”
“Of course, Uncle.” Frederico took a weapon from a carved
case behind him. “Take my best gun. You know how to use this, I know. You were
always my best pupil.”
“Thank you., Uncle, but I hope I do not have to use it. God
bless you. “ And, like the young man he was, Immanuel was on his horse and gone
before Frederico reached the opening of his tent.
“God be with you, Immanuel.”
The sunset in Malta fell quickly, as usual,
forcing the land into darkness without the long twilights of more northern
countries. Immanuel travelled in the night, the stars above his head guiding
him to the heights of Rabat
and Mdina. He raced up the hills and onto the bridge into the city of monks and
the Cathedral. The guard at the gate recognized him.
“You come here with fire in your eyes, Immanuel. Trouble?”
“We have Turks on this side, land troops, armed, about 2,000
at least, as there are many ships in Marsaxlokk, already anchored.” The guard
blanched hearing the number, but his white face was hidden in the darkness.
“This is, indeed, serious. Come in. We must warn all the inhabitants and the
surrounding farms.”
Mdina had two signs of warning for those in the countryside.
One was a flag, which could not be seen at night, with a Maltese Cross marked
with a raven. The other sign involved the ringing of the great bells of the
Cathedral. The time now demanded the use
of the bells. Within minutes, the peel rose out of the walls of Mdina and was
hurled across the lands surrounding the Cathedral, like a death shroud. Fires
could be seen being lit across the land, fires like a long dragon, winding its
way through the now-harvested fields and fruitless orchards. The soldiers
within the walls moved into position of warfare and the siege began in the
west.
Immanuel notified, Mathurin
Romegas, who was temporarily in Mdina before going back to Fort Elmo, but the
famous Knight wanted Immanuel to stay. However, the young man insisted
on moving farther east, across country, to Marsamxett. He wanted to survey the
entire scene of the battle for Malta,
and spread the word of an attack from the west as well as the east. As Immanuel was not a Knight under orders,
Romegas could let his go his own way, within reason. Leaving at once, Immanuel
spurred his horse onward, after giving it water and only a few oats. He would
stop in a small farmhouse with which he was familiar on the way to the
harbour. This small, humble house of two
rooms sat half-way between Mdina and Marsamxett, and in it dwelt his own
mother, Isabella, a woman long forgotten by Tomas. Years ago, Immanuel had
discovered this woman and identified himself as her son. The two secretly saw
each other at least twice a year. Immanuel grew to love the quiet lady of a
strange northern race, once, obviously, a great beauty, but now a woman
bedridden with a wasting sickness. She looked older than her forty years and
her blond hair hung limp and fading.
Immanuel would rest his horse in her garden and wait for
pre-dawn. Both he and his Arabian needed rest and food. A woman who tended
Isabella met him at the door, and escorted both man and horse into a very small
walled garden in the back of the house. The house was surrounded by trees and a
short wall made of ancient stones. The house rested on a crest of a hill, from
where one could just see the sea, like a blue line, far away.
Isabella’s maid, paid for by Immanuel, as was all her keep,
took him into the kitchen for some late dinner, and then she took oats out to
the horse, mixed with a strange grass. Immanuel understood that the maid knew
the way of the Arabs with their horses.
Interesting. Immanuel wondered where Rebecca had learned the
art of caring for horses. But, he could not think of this now.
Isabella’s voice, weak and soft, called from the back room.
One window faced the northeast and the moon shown into the small bedroom.
Isabella held out her hands for Immanuel. “There is danger. I can feel it. I
heard the bells from Mdina and now, with you here at this hour, I know it is
the Turks. We have begged Our Lady for protection.”
“Mother, do not be afraid. If necessary, I shall carry you
away from here into Fort
Angelo. But, for now,
stay, as I cannot believe that the land troops will come this far immediately.
I can send for you and Rebecca as soon as I finished my journey.”
Isabella looked at her son with her large, blue eyes.
“Immanuel, I do not fear death, or even suffering. But, Rebecca, being young
and comely, must leave. They may take her.”
Immanuel stood up. “No Maltese woman will be taken. None. We
men shall all die first.”
Isabella smiled in the darkness. She was so proud of her
beautiful son. She was grateful to God that he resembled her, and, indeed, that
he looked like her father so long dead and gone in a far away country in
northern Europe. She had been a rebellious
child and run away from her parents when asked to marry someone she did not
love. She ran and ran and ran until she found a way to a boat from France to Sicily
and then to Malta.
Then, she stopped running, and became a lace-maker for a living, learning the
trade from a kind woman who took her in and taught her not only lace, but the
language of Malta.
Isabella grew to be a great beauty, unusual with her blond hair, tall frame,
and sea blue eyes. Tomas found her and kept her until the son was born, when he
took Immanuel and left Isabella forever. But, unlike the father, the son had a
heart, the heart of a Christian son, and he searched for her until he found her.
Immanuel supported her since he was thirteen years of age. At that time, she
was only 28, and still lovely, but illness came like a thief in the night and
stole her health and beauty all at once. Isabella accepted the wasting sickness
willingly, believing it was punishment for her former life of sin. She had been
forced to be in bed for twelve years.
“I shall send a servant and perhaps another will come within
the day. Rebecca and you shall be taken into the fort, and there stay until the
danger is over.”
Isabella nodded weakly. She did not want to tell her son
that she would never survive such a journey. She knew in her heart that her
time for travelling even with help, was over.
“Wait for the servant. Goodbye, Mother.” Then, as if he,
too, sensed they would never meet again, Immanuel bent down and kissed his
mother. “I bless you, dear son. Now, go.”
Horse and youth, rested and fed a little, sped on to the
coastal fortifications, hastily built, and marked by a tent city. About 1,000 Maltese
troops now resided at Marsamxett, more could not yet be spared. Immanuel needed
to seek out the commander, get a servant or two to return for Rebecca and
Isabella.
He pushed his horse through the crowds of men, making his
way to the main tent. Light was coming out of the Middle Sea, an eerie light,
as if the sea itself was on fire, only with a green fire. Several men were
pointing to the mysterious light, shimmering in the darkness. Some were
speaking as if it were a good omen, some as if it were a bad one.
Immanuel stared at the light, and then, proceeded to the
commander’s tent. The famous
Jean de la Cassière was here, ordering the
units of Knights into strategic positions overlooking the harbor, preparing for
a large invasion here, perhaps only second to the one at the Harbour. de la
Cassiere met Immanuel, and answered his first plea to send two men to take
Isabella and Rebecca into Fort
Angelo near Birgu. de la
Cassiere asked no questions. He was a man of reflection, as well as action, born
with a sensitive, romantic nature. His tall, fair frame inspired not only
confidence, but trust. And he gave trust as well as demanded it. Like Isabella,
de la Cassiere was from a handsome northern family, the proud bearers of a long
line of a noble name.
“Immanuel, I think your ladies
should not go to St. Angelo’s but be brought here to this camp. I think this is
a safer place for them. I sincerely hope your honorable father is aware of the
three actions about to commence. We have had word of the ships in the Harbour
beginning to attack Fort
Elmo, and if you stand by
the cliffs, you can hear the guns even now, in the early morning light.”
As de la Cassiere said, the
booming of artillery grew more persistent, indicating the siege had begun in
earnest. Immanuel feared for the men at Fort Elmo.
“I agree for the women to be
brought here. There was disagreement among the commanders as to the attack on
Mdina.” Immanuel was not blaming anyone, but he needed to remind the commander
of the immediate danger to the west.
“Yes, yes, I know, and now we have
the three prongs of the triton of satan at our necks. Thank God for Vallette’s
far-sighted plans to the building of the forts.
Look, you can see this strange
light in the sea. What do you make of this? One wants to write a ballad and
place this light at the center of some great mystery which will lead to our victory.
Perhaps, I shall call this light the hem of Mary, as she leads us, does she
not, our Queen?”
Immanuel bowed as the commander
referred to the Lady of Malta, Mary, the Mother of God.
“But, we do not see the entire
fleet here. And word from St. Elmo’s indicates that the Ottomans have split
into three. This is a mistake, mark my words.”
Immanuel agreed with a nod.
Only God was in charge, neither lights
nor demons. Immanuel’s faith transcended superstition and fear. And, his faith
and love for the Madonna reassured him as he sat down, finally exhausted with
his full twenty-four hours of riding. He was sure St. Dimitri had earned its
extra oats, grasses, fresh water and rest as well. Now, he could sleep for a
while, and as soon as de la Cassiere gave him his own tent, Immanuel fell onto
the blankets on the ground and immediately fell asleep, as if he were an
experienced Knight of Malta. But, before he lay on the soft coverlets from de
la Cassiere’s own tent, he laid the gun of Frederico on the side of his bed.
The young man had the instincts of a Knight, but perhaps, because of Tomas and
Isabella, not the rights. His sleep was dreamless.
To be continued…
