Simon Scarrow - Sword and Scimitar

The cannon in the fort fired again and this time Richard saw the shot slap into the sea just behind the stern of the boat, throwing up a column of spray and sending a small wave over the transom. Still the officer urged the rowers on and the boat rapidly closed the distance. The next time Richard looked back he was horrified to see the enemy a scant thirty yards away. One of the men in the bows lowered his barrel and took aim, bracing his legs to take account of the movement of the boat beneath him. His right eye squinted as he raised the length of smouldering match up to the pan above the barrel.

At that moment the boat seemed to leap from the sea and lengths of wood and water exploded into the air. With cries of terror the Turks were pitched into the harbour. There was a flurry of splashing as the soldiers thrashed about and wreckage dropped into the water about them. Richard saw the officer struggling to stay afloat as his robes and armour dragged him down. His hands thrashed to the surface before he disappeared, along with the other soldiers who were encumbered by their equipment. But the second boat was still rowing hard, some distance behind.

Richard felt a painful cramp seize his right leg but forced himself to swim on. It seemed that every muscle in his body ached and felt heavy and for the first time he feared that he did not have the strength to reach the far side of the harbour, still some two hundred yards away. He could see men on the walls of St Angelo waving them on and the cannon fired again, aiming for the second boat.

‘Richard. . .’ Thomas spoke feebly, spluttering as seawater washed across his face. ‘Son . . . Leave me.’

‘No.’

‘I am in such pain ... I would rather die. Save yourself.’

‘No, Father, I will not leave you.’

‘I am dead already. I will not survive these wounds.’

Richard tightened his hold on his father and kicked out, using every last reserve of his failing strength to move forward.

‘Leave me.’

‘I will not. You will not die.’ Richard spat out a mouthful of seawater. ‘Think of Maria. She is there in Birgu. Waiting for you. Hold to that thought.’

‘Maria . . .’ Thomas muttered, barely conscious.

‘Sir!’ The Maltese soldier raised a hand above the water and pointed. ‘Look!’

Richard craned his neck and followed the direction of the man’s finger and saw a boat putting out from St Angelo. Sunlight glinted off armour and weapons as the craft surged across the slight swell in the morning sun. Richard took renewed hope from the sight and forced himself to continue on even as his lungs and muscles burned from the effort. As the cannon fired again, he glanced back and saw that the enemy had not given up the pursuit, clearly intent on running down their prey and ensuring that not one man of the garrison of St Elmo survived its destruction. The men on the boat from St Angelo were equally determined to save their comrades and rowed desperately. It was impossible for Richard to guess who would win the contest as he struggled on, with increasingly feeble strokes. The rocks at the foot of the fort and walls rising up still seemed impossibly far away.

Then he heard a voice cry out to them, urging them on, and soon there were splashes close at hand and a surge of water and then the long overlapping planks of the boat filled Richard’s field of vision.

‘Get ’em aboard! Quickly does it!’

Hands grasped his arms and hauled him bodily out of the water, over the side and down. He lay on his back staring into the blue heavens, gasping for breath, his heart pounding in his chest. There was a crash as an arquebus fired, and then another. The fire was returned from the enemy and bullets cracked into the prow of the boat. More shots were exchanged and then a chorus of jeers filled Richard’s ears.

‘They’re bolting! Good shooting, lads. Now, back to St Angelo.’

As he felt the boat turn, a shadow loomed over Richard. He took a deep breath and propped himself up and saw that it was Romegas, the Order’s senior captain.

Romegas nodded grimly. ‘You’re Sir Thomas’s squire.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Your master is in a poor way.’

‘I know.’

‘Are you all that’s left of the garrison? Did no one else get out?’

‘I didn’t see anyone else. There may be some who also managed to hide in rocks or the caves down by the water. I don’t know, sir.’

‘I see.’ Romegas handed him a wineskin. ‘Here. Take this.’

‘Not yet.’ With great effort Richard sat upright and saw his father lying on his back, trembling. Beyond him the Maltese soldier was sitting upright, arms wrapped round his knees. Richard crawled over to his father’s side and took his hand. Thomas’s eyes flickered open and he turned his head with a wince and squinted at his son.

‘We’re safe?’

Richard nodded, averting his gaze from the terrible burns on his father’s body.

‘Safe?’ Romegas shook his head as he turned to gaze across the harbour at St Elmo, battered and ruined beneath the flags and standards of the enemy. ‘The prelude is over. Now Birgu and Senglea will face the full weight of the enemy. Unless Don Garcia comes to our aid soon, I fear the worst is yet to come.’

CHAPTER FORTY

Many days passed before Thomas became coherently aware of his surroundings. He sensed the daylight through his eyelids and heard the irregular boom of artillery and the distant crash of heavy iron shot striking home. His body felt so weak that he could barely move his fingers, and any attempt to move his head caused a sharp stabbing pain down the side of his face and neck. So he lay still and silent, breathing deeply in a steady rhythm as his mind attempted to take stock of his situation. He knew where he was well enough, but the last thing that he could recall in detail was the final assault on St Elmo. The charge of the enemy up into the breach, the deaths of Miranda and Mas, and the burst of fire as the incendiary struck him and set him alight. After that, all sense of time was lost.

He recalled the burning agony that had consumed every fibre of his being, the fleeting impressions of the wounded lying in the chapel, Stokely, his expression waxen, leaning on his sword as he struggled for breath. Then the stench of a dark enclosed space, the relief of the sea as it cooled his burns and then a brief moment of confused serenity as he floated on his back staring into a peaceful azure sky and accepted that he was dying. Then agony as he was dragged from the sea.

After that he lost consciousness and his existence became a long, delirious nightmare of pain and fever. His head was swathed in bandages and there were long days when he lay sweltering in the heat, staring at a plaster ceiling curving overhead and a shaft of sunlight falling through a window behind him. He remembered voices, one that was stern and matter-of-fact as it discussed his treatment, then another, Richard, and last that of a woman, unmistakably Maria. Their words were confused and he could make no sense of what had been said. When he was alone his mind was filled with troubled images of fire, blood, sword and smoke, of terrible injuries. His head swelled with a cacophony of imagined noises of drums and cymbals, harsh cries of men locked in deadly combat and the screams of the dying . . .

Now all of that had begun to fade and Thomas was aware that his mind had emerged from a dark period of chaos. He took a long, deep breath and opened his eyes. At first his vision was blurred and the light coming through the window was too bright and painful and he blinked and closed his eyes. After a moment he opened them again, more cautiously this time. Slowly, the vision in his left eye cleared and he saw the stained white plaster of the ceiling. His right eye merely detected patches of light and shadow without any specific form. He moved his limbs carefully and winced at the tightness and pain that lanced down his left arm and side. Around him Thomas was aware of other men lying on beds, some in silence, while others moaned or mumbled incoherently to themselves. Now and then figures moved amongst them, men in the robes of friars and monks. Finally one came to Thomas and bent down to examine him.