From Corsica to the Fourth Rome

The red-shirted troops guarding the alarm bell hastily formed a bayonet line. This line phalanx composed of long pole weapons has always been effective against sword-wielding soldiers such as knights.

At the same time, they also sent people to try to cut the thick rope holding the impact block underneath the alarm bell, which would completely render the alarm bell useless.

In the eyes of the British commander, this arrangement was considered to be textbook foolproof.

Facing the more than a hundred sharp bayonets standing in front of him, the young knight who charged forward did not slow down even for a moment. He stepped on the muddy ground and sprinted towards the British phalanx, while waving his sword and shouting:

"Everyone! Focus on breakthrough!"

The British troops in the phalanx couldn't help but widen their eyes one after another. This was the first time they saw an enemy army rushing towards a well-formed bayonet line at full speed.

Phew!

Five or six bayonets were instantly pierced into the body of the young knight. The chain armor on his body had little protection against such stabbing attacks, but even so, the inertia of his charge still overwhelmed the few in front of him. The British army briefly opened a gap in the entire phalanx.

"You damn heretic devils!"

Seeing the blood-stained bayonets inserted into the captain's chest and out from the back, the knights following behind suddenly turned red. They raised their long swords that had not drunk blood for decades. Roaring and vowing to drink the blood of the British today.

The hastily formed bayonet phalanx immediately fell into panic. The knights poured in through the gap opened by their captain with his life, and used their long swords to engage in hand-to-hand hand-to-hand combat with the red-shirted soldiers.

How can these red-shirted soldiers who have only been exposed to simple melee training defeat these knights who have received decades of swordsmanship training in close combat.

The swords of the knights were as agile as snakes and as fast as falcons. Those lone red-shirted soldiers could not walk under such sharp blades for a few rounds before their throats were sealed with a sword, while more British soldiers were Relying on the numerical advantage and using a three-on-one or four-on-one situation, they could not fall behind and counterattack the knights.

Puddles of blood flowed on the ground. The blood of the knights was mixed with the blood of the British, and was carried to the sea by the heavy rain.

"Uh ah ah"

The young knight who was charging at the forefront struggled to get up, but the weakness and pain all over his body made it impossible for him to straighten up at any angle. Only his arms still had the last bit of strength left.

He picked up the sword that fell on the ground, thrust it into the soil, and supported his body to stand up.

"team leader!"

A knight blocked and counterattacked cleanly, and pierced the heart of the soldier in front of him with a precise sword. Then he noticed the captain who was struggling to get up on the ground, and hurried over to help him in his arms.

The young knight vomited a large mouthful of blood with a distorted face, dyeing the black and white octagonal cross mark on his robe red and black, and then used his last strength to point to the big brass bell not far away. Just like the pilgrim who fell outside Jerusalem and finally pointed to the holy place in his heart:

"Go! Ring the bell!!!"

"My captain!"

Even when he followed the captain to charge towards the red-shirted army, the knight never had a trace of hesitation or confusion, but now he is watching the death of his brother who has known him for more than ten years. Instead, unprecedented hesitation and hesitation arose in my heart.

The young knight gasped for air, and with every breath and the rise and fall of his lungs, a large mouthful of warm blood surged from his throat, splattering on his robe and the Maltese soil.

His voice was blurred by the heavy rain, almost like an instinctive roar:

"Ring the bell!!!"

The knight closed his eyes and gritted his teeth tightly. A series of water droplets, whether tears or rainwater, ran down his cheeks and dripped on the young knight's robe.

Then, he suddenly let go of his brother, picked up the sword, and sprinted towards the brass bell resolutely.

A British soldier who was holding a dagger and trying to cut the bell-ringing rope was pierced through the throat by a sword piercing the rain curtain before he could react. He struggled and fell to the ground weakly.

There were only ten knights left on the battlefield who were still fighting desperately with their swords. They also noticed the knight's movements. Without any communication, the ten knights formed a circle with understanding and guarded the bronze bell in the center.

The knight in the center thrust his sword into the ground with both hands, then held the bell rope, took a deep breath, and used his greatest strength to ring the bell that was bought with the blood of his brothers.

A dull bell rang.

This bell is like the lamentation of the mountains and the sea. Even the rolling thunder and the majestic downpour of the sky are inferior to it.

This bell can be heard in nearly half of the island of Malta, and the citizens staying at home listened blankly, as if they were enjoying a sad solo.

When the British commander who was far away on the beach heard the sound of the bell, he couldn't help but froze in place for a while. Then he recovered, shook his head and blamed himself:

"I underestimated these knights. It's not unreasonable that they could repel the Turks two hundred years ago. However, it shouldn't affect the overall situation, right?"

The young knight who fell to the ground used the last bit of strength in his life to turn his head slightly and took one last look at the brothers who were about to die with him.

He quickly closed his eyes in peace and relief. The dull bells reminded him of the first time he came to the monastery in his childhood. He remembered that it was under such bells that he swore an oath to become a guardian of the faith, To save the suffering knight.

The memories of these past events became clearer and clearer, while his own consciousness became weaker and weaker.

The raindrops hitting his face, the blood gurgling from his upper body, and the sound of swords clashing on the battlefield all became increasingly blurry to his senses, as if there was a thick frosted glass between him and the world. .

Soon, the heroic knight exhaled his last breath of air, lay quietly on the ground, and went to where God wanted him to go.

On the battlefield, the last eleven knights were back to back, forming a circular formation with the big brass bell as the center. They held bloody swords and defied the British soldiers who were constantly surrounding and advancing.

At this moment, even if they searched their hearts, they could not find any emotion called fear.

The big brass bell was still vibrating slightly, emitting a small buzzing sound, as if a death knell was playing in its final stage.

The encirclement of the British army is shrinking, and soon, the bayonets will be pointed at the hearts of the knights.

A knight suddenly laughed. He held the long sword in his hand tighter and laughed heartily:

"Die with me, brother!"

This laughter instantly infected every knight, and they all couldn't help but grin, as if they were recalling the vows they had made to each other.

The knights grasped the hilts of their swords and shouted in unison:

"Death together! Brothers!"

The British soldiers at the forefront of the encirclement couldn't help but slow down at this moment. Listening to the last battle cry of these blood-soaked knights, these battle-hardened red-shirted soldiers also felt a faint sense of weakness in their legs. .

The knights shouted, waved their swords and rushed towards the circle of British soldiers.

The long sword with which the oath had been sworn was quickly submerged in the dense bayonet that was ten times their number.

Even though the knights had tried their best, they could not escape from the hands of an entire company of red-shirted soldiers. From the moment they decided to ring the big brass bell, these knights had already put their lives on the line. Gave it to Death.

After another bloody battle, the last knight stared blankly at the tip of the knife that pierced his heart, slowly put down the sword in his hand, and fell backward to the ground.

The commander of this company looked at the corpses and blood on the ground, and his head was dizzy. He never thought that less than twenty knights would kill nearly forty red shirt soldiers.

The big bell that is still ringing slightly stands on the pier, and it has become a monument recording the achievements and glory of these knights.

The company commander glanced at the corpses of the knights, looked at their blood-soaked robes, closed his eyes and ordered:

"Leave one platoon to clear the battlefield, and the rest will continue the attack with the large army. After capturing Malta, bury the corpses of these enemies in the cemetery."

Almost at the same time, on the fortress on the east side of the port.

"What's the noise?"

Grosso, who was dozing against the corner, suddenly woke up with a jolt and looked out the window warily:

"It's the bell, coming from the port."

Laurence and Major Serulier also heard the dull and sad sound of the bells. They looked at each other seriously and immediately stood up and looked out the window in the direction of the port.

It's just that the fog today is too thick. Although the fog has dissipated much compared to the morning under the heavy rain, standing here still can't see the situation at the port terminal clearly.

Grosso frowned, squinted his eyes, trying to capture some information from the fog, and made a judgment at the same time:

"It's unmistakable. It's definitely the alarm bell on the pier. The frequency of the bell is also very rapid. Something is going on."

"It seems that the British really picked a good time." Lawrence glanced at the vast fog outside the window, and solemnly ordered to Major Serurier:

"Inform the soldiers to prepare for battle. Leave one company in each fort to fire with muskets, and the rest have bayonets fixed and are ready to meet the enemy."

"Understood." Major Serurier nodded emphatically, and then left the tower to arrange the army.

More than half an hour after the landing raid, the British troops completely took control of the entire port.

The Red Shirt Army did not stop for reorganization after taking control of the port, but planned to continue advancing while the Knights were still in the stage of organizing a counterattack, occupying more forts and fortresses.

More than a thousand British soldiers armed with bayonets walked through the streets of Valletta Port, splitting into several small units and marching towards several important forts.

According to their limited information, the strength of the Knights of Malta is only two to three thousand knights, most of whom are stationed on Malta's sister island, Comino, in order to guard Fort Manoel.

Therefore, from the British perspective, most of the fortresses on the island of Malta were garrisoned with very few troops or even completely undefended and in a deserted state.

This is why the British commander chose a more risky strategy of dividing the troops, in order to occupy more strategic points in a short period of time.

"Hurry! Hurry! Our goal is the castle in front of us!"

A red-shirted company commander loudly urged his men, leading them at a rapid march towards the castle standing not far away in the wind and rain.

In order to occupy the fortress as quickly as possible, these soldiers did not maintain any formation during the march, and the distance between the head and the tail of the team was very long, almost more than a hundred yards.

And just as these British soldiers were running towards the castle in sight in a scattered formation, a large group of people suddenly turned out from the corner of the street ahead.

The British company commander was stunned for a moment. He did not expect that his troops would be resisted so quickly. In his calculations, those knights should still be in the organization.

However, when the company commander saw clearly the enemy's uniform and the bayonet in his hand, he almost staggered and fell into the mud puddle on the roadside.

Appearing in front of them were nearly two hundred line infantrymen wearing blue and white uniforms and holding bayonets. They were neatly formed, forming a three-line phalanx of spears. It seemed that they were already on guard.

What shocked the company commander was not the opponent's formation and defensive posture, but the familiar blue and white infantry uniform on the opponent.

Every British soldier who has experienced the Seven Years' War will never forget this color and style. This uniform will only belong to their historical enemy for hundreds of years - the French Army.

"What, what's going on?! Why did the French army appear in Malta!"

Not only was the company commander stunned, but the soldiers under him were also wide-eyed and confused, thinking they had seen an illusion similar to a mirage.

The soldiers stopped and did not dare to move forward. The company commander also licked his lips in confusion and shouted to the opposite side in a few fragmentary sentences in French:

"French people! Why are you here!"

So far, the Red Shirts don't know whether these French are enemies, friends, or neutral. Compared with the enemy's confusion, these French soldiers have already received Lawrence's order to move all the French soldiers. The British were expelled from the island of Malta.

The French company made no response, but maintained its formation and launched a hand-to-hand charge towards the red shirts.

"Damn it!" The British company commander looked at the charging French in panic. He turned and glanced at his men. The formation of these British soldiers was like a piece of scattered sand because of their rapid march.

It was too late for the British army to reorganize their troops. Facing the French charge, the red shirt soldiers in the front row almost collapsed at the first touch. The soldiers in the rear also scrambled to throw down their weapons and fled back in a panic.

Such defeats occurred in every corner of Malta. The scattered British soldiers met the French and Corsican troops who were well prepared and had numerical superiority. They fought in hand-to-hand combat for a short time before hastily retreating to the port.

As for the British soldiers who tried to capture the fortress, they did not expect that more than a hundred black-hole guns would suddenly stick out of the shooting holes of the fortress and rain down a deadly hail of lead pellets on their heads.

Scattered fleeing Red Shirt soldiers could be seen everywhere in the Port of Valletta. The British commander's force division strategy also caused the British troops to be defeated one by one. There was no way to defeat the French and Corsican troops who had overwhelming numerical advantages. Make an effective counterattack in front of you.

Soon, of the more than 1,000 Red Shirt Army soldiers who stormed into Valletta Port City, only more than 600 people were left, and they fled back to the port in embarrassment.