‘They threw stones at you?’ Bethany shook her head across the pillows. ‘Well, what do you expect? They’re not used to us yet and here we are, thundering all over their country, changing things. Give them time, Jack, and they’ll come round.’ Her grin was more mischievous than helpful. ‘After all, it took me years to like you and sometimes I’m still not sure.’
Jack looked away and scratched at the mosquito bites that itched irritatingly. He was not in the mood for Bethany’s teasing. ‘Maybe I should start from the Mdina end.’
‘Maybe you should,’ Bethany said, peering into his face. ‘Are you all right, Jack?’
‘I never was in better health.’ Turning away, Jack closed his eyes and tried to fight the pounding in his head. For once, he ignored Bethany’s wifely hand, as it sneaked across his stomach.
‘I don’t think you are,’ she said, but withdrew her hand and turned on her side.
Working from first light to nightfall, it had taken Jack a week to detail the best route for his road, and long before then he had realised that the original tracks had been well laid out. When they wound round an obstacle, they detoured by only a few yards and he reasoned that it made sense to improve the existing paths rather than build a completely new road. If he could find a supply of decent building materials and a willing workforce, he would be ready to start work.
‘Today’s the day,’ he told Bethany, who, uncomplaining, had watched him walk out at dawn and return after dark, sweat-stained and tired, to a quick supper and a deep sleep. ‘Today’s the day I begin recruiting men.’
Bethany looked closely into his face. ‘You look exhausted. Are you sure you’re all right?’
‘I’m fine,’ Jack said shortly. He could feel the furrows between his eyes but that was only because of this persistent headache.
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ Bethany glanced around the house she was steadily fashioning into a home. ‘I can easily leave this behind.’
‘Not at all.’ Jack shook his head. ‘I’ll just ask around.’
‘Good luck, then,’ Bethany said, as she watched him stumble outside.
Soon Jack realised that it was more than luck he needed. Despite all his efforts, he found that nobody was willing to work for him. He put up posters in Maltese and English, he asked people in Mdina and Rabat, he offered good wages, all with the same effect. The road, mapped and ready on paper, remained unmade as the days trickled away.
‘I only have six months,’ he told Bethany as, for the first time, they sat on the roof, swatting mosquitoes and watching the fading sun burnish the fields and church domes of the island. ‘And the first month is half gone already.’
‘I know,’ Bethany was eager to prove her sympathy. ‘But Mr Egerton has the same problem, remember? Maybe we could ask Sir Alexander to lend us some of the garrison. There are plenty of soldiers sitting around doing nothing.’
‘It’s very frustrating – these people just do not like me. I have the route worked out, and I know exactly how I will build the thing. There is good quality limestone for material, but I can do nothing without labour.’
‘They’ll come,’ Bethany said. ‘Give them time and they’ll come.’ She smiled across to him. ‘People need to learn to trust you, Jack. Remember, I found it hard at first.’
‘Thanks for the reminder!’ Jack could not help the bitterness in his voice. ‘My weekly reports to Sir Alexander all say the same thing. The road is mapped, but I cannot find labour. What will I say in the monthly report? That I have not got a single yard of road made yet but people might trust me soon?’
‘Don’t think about it just now,’ Bethany soothed. ‘Just enjoy the evening. Look, over there is Mdina, with its walls and cathedral. And over there on the left is Mostas, and everywhere are these small fields. Is it not just exquisite?’
‘Very nice,’ Jack said. He knew that Bethany was trying to jolly him out of his bad mood, but he refused to smile. ‘But it is hardly relevant. What good is all this if I can’t work?’
‘No good at all, if you can’t work,’ Bethany agreed. ‘But just look at all these twin-towered churches. Have you ever seen the like?’
Jack grunted. The sombre din of the church bells, so different from the melodious peals of Hereford, did nothing to help his headache.
‘And the names: Zebbug, Qormi, Birkirkara …’ She looked at him, suddenly narrow-eyed. ‘Are you really desperate to do some work?’
‘Of course.’ Jack fell headlong into her carefully baited trap.
‘Oh good, then I can trust you to do a little engineering work around the house.’ Bethany’s smile was as sweet as Comino honey. ‘After all, I’ve hardly seen you recently and, even then, you’re insufferably out of humour.’
Jack grunted again. ‘So what do you want, then?’
‘Could you check the well? There’s hardly any water in it, but there’s plenty in the cistern.’
‘Probably a blockage,’ Jack replied, analysing the problem in seconds. ‘I’ll have a look.’
After days of measuring, mapping and trying to drum up labourers, it was good to have something practical to do. Secretly acknowledging that he was constantly in a Hogmorton mood, Jack thought it time to mollify Bethany. Lifting the stone hatchway that gave access to the cistern, he eased down the half dozen small steps. It was obvious that the cistern had been hacked from the solid limestone and then lined with clay to make it impermeable. He nodded his approval – it was a simple but solid piece of engineering.
‘Are you all right?’ Bethany’s voice echoed in the stone chamber.
‘Fine, I have to locate the outlet from the cistern into the well.’ The builder had left a handy three-inch footway around the interior of the cistern and Jack edged along it cautiously. ‘Could you get me a lantern?’
The flickering light reflected weirdly on the water, bouncing back from the limestone roof, with its marks of pickaxe and hammer. Propping the lantern up beside him, Jack balanced on the footway, feeling for the outlet. It would be on the side nearest to the well, and probably fairly low down, he had calculated, so he leaned into the water, splashing with his hand as he followed the line of the wall.
‘I hope there are no snakes or anything,’ Bethany shouted. ‘There are plenty of lizards up here.’
‘Thanks,’ Jack said quietly. ‘The mosquitoes are bad enough.’ He jerked back and cursed as something sharp lanced into his finger.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing, something stuck into me.’ The blood dripped slowly to spread along the surface of the water. Shaking his head, Jack resumed his search, probing more carefully for the blockage until his fingers slipped around something hard and sharp. ‘Got it!’
‘Is it clear now? Is the well filling?’
‘No, but I’ve found the thing that jabbed me.’ He hauled it out. ‘It’s some sort of knife. Somebody must have dropped it in the water.’
‘Fascinating … but can you just clear the blockage, please, so we can have water in the house?’
Jack sighed. Clearly, Bethany did not care a fig about his injury. ‘All right, Bethany. Don’t set up your bristles!’
‘Whatever is the matter with you, Jack Tarver? You’ve been in high dudgeon since you arrived in Malta!’
Sighing, Jack thrust his arm into the water and clawed until he found the outlet pipe. ‘Here we are. As I said, it’s a simple blockage.’ He dragged out what seemed like a bundle of rags. ‘Somebody’s been working here and their clothes have fallen in. The suction of the outlet must have pulled them. Check the well, could you?’ He could hear the water rushing past, as it flowed from the cistern to the well, but he wanted confirmation from Bethany.
‘It’s filling!’ Bethany shouted. ‘You can come out now.’
Holding the rags, Jack ascended the steps and pulled himself back to the yard. Bethany was looking at him, smiling and shaking her head. ‘There, you see. I knew you were still useful for something.’
Sodden from the knees down, Jack began to squeeze away the wet, but Bethany only shook her head. ‘No, no,’ she said. ‘Just take them off.’ She stepped closer. ‘Here, I’ll help.’ Her grin was mischievous, as her hands slipped around his waist.
‘No.’ Jack stepped back a pace. ‘No, Bethany.’
‘No?’ The dismay in her eyes hurt him. ‘Jack, what’s wrong?’
Shaking his head, Jack withdrew further.
‘Jack!’
But he walked away, leaving a wet trail across the courtyard.
‘You found what?’ Mr Egerton looked up from his glass of wine. ‘You found a dagger?’ He seemed unreasonably excited. ‘May I see it?’
Bethany had invited both Mr Egerton and Joseph Borg to her house, hoping to cheer Jack up by finding a solution to his labour problems. After feeding them, she sat everybody around the table and poured out wine, while she related everything that had happened.
‘I cut my hand open on it,’ Jack showed the wound, now neatly dressed by Bethany.
‘I have a fascination for antiquities,’ Mr Egerton said. He was actually trembling with excitement as he examined the dagger. ‘Was this all you found?’
Bethany looked at Jack and gave a tiny shake of her head. ‘That was all,’ she said. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘No reason, no reason.’ Mr Egerton was turning the dagger over in his hand. ‘This is beautiful craftsmanship.’ He looked up. ‘May I have it?’
Jack was about to assent when Bethany forestalled him.
‘I rather like it myself,’ she said. ‘I think I’ll keep it as a souvenir of Malta.’ Her laugh was unnaturally brittle. ‘After all, unless we can find some workers, we’ll get nothing else from this island.’ Reaching over, she retrieved the knife.
‘Yes, yes. I see,’ Mr Egerton said. ‘We share that problem. Every time I go near the bay, the local villagers threaten me or chase me away with sticks and stones.’
‘You were lucky it was only sticks and stones. Somebody aimed a musket at me,’ said Jack, then explained about the terrace.
Borg sipped his wine and touched the strangely shaped charm he wore around his neck. ‘There’s a religious site along that ridge,’ he explained quietly. ‘And with you not being a Christian, the people won’t let you near.’
‘I am a Christian,’ Jack exclaimed. ‘I’ve been Church of England all my life!’
Borg gave his usual solemn nod. ‘Yes, Mr Tarver, but this is a Roman Catholic island. Some of the more traditional among us don’t consider Protestants as real Christians.’ He looked squarely into Jack’s eyes. ‘Indeed, Mr Tarver, there are some of us who do not consider Protestants as Christian at all.’
‘But that’s fustian nonsense!’ Jack rose from his chair to protest before Bethany put a restraining hand on his arm.
‘Thank you for your intelligence, Mr Borg,’ she said, smiling politely. ‘Of course we have no wish to offend the religious susceptibilities of the Roman Catholics. Is there any way we can persuade the people of Malta that we are every bit as Christian as they are?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Borg said blandly. ‘You could always convert.’
Bethany glanced at Jack. ‘We won’t do that,’ she said. ‘But I have no objections to attending a Catholic service, if the congregation don’t mind.’
A small smile softened the sides of Borg’s mouth. ‘We’ll make you Maltese yet, Mrs Tarver. There will be no objections, but I do not think that even your presence will encourage men to work for Mr Tarver. That is your intention, is it not?’ His solemn eyes mused over Bethany, who coloured up.
‘I hope to show the local people that we are trustworthy,’ Bethany said. ‘And if we attend a Catholic church it might show people that we share a Christian heritage.’ She faced Borg across the width of the table. ‘I know that you do not trust us, Mr Borg, but I assure you that we only want what’s best for Malta.’
Borg’s smile faded. ‘No, Mrs Tarver. I can assure you that you only want what’s best for Malta as long as that also benefits Great Britain.’
‘At present, Mr Borg, the two are the same.’
‘At present, perhaps,’ Borg agreed guardedly. He lifted his glass in salute. ‘Until Sunday then.’ He put his hand on the dagger and held Bethany’s eyes for a long second. ‘You’d better look after this, Mrs Tarver.’
‘But it’s a Roman Catholic Church!’ Jack protested again, as Bethany donned her best clothes.
‘It’s a church, Jack, with the same God and the same ideas. Only the administration is different!’ Bethany smoothed a hand disconcertingly over her flanks. ‘Is this dress all right, Jack? I can’t see myself properly without a pier glass.’
‘It’s fine.’ Jack made the same mistake as thousands of new husbands before him. ‘You look fine whatever you wear.’
‘Only fine?’ Bethany tried to peer at herself over her shoulder. ‘How does it hang on my hips? Do they look wide?’
It was so obviously an invitation that Jack had to move closer and place his hands on her. ‘They look lovely,’ he said.
‘Jack! This isn’t the time.’ Wriggling free, Bethany pushed him aside, although her eyes were not unfriendly. ‘You’re surely feeling better today.’
Taking a new straw bonnet from its peg on the wall, she pulled it onto her head and adjusted it. ‘I haven’t been to church for weeks, Jack, and there’s no Church of England here, so it will have to do. And you’re coming too, Jack Tarver. Partly because it might bring you workers, and partly because you’ve been bad tempered for weeks, so it’s time you thought about your soul. Anyway, my mother was Catholic.’
‘And you did not like her!’ Jack reminded her forcibly, as his head began to pound again.
‘I did not like her! Not her religion!’ Bethany looked sideways at him. ‘That was one reason she argued with father, though. We shall have to be careful of religion, Jack.’
‘Exactly so, Bethany. It would be better if you kept to our own church.’
They glared at each other for a moment until Bethany started to laugh. ‘Really, Jack, you do take on so! I did not think that you cared a whit about what church people go to.’
Jack shook his head. ‘I don’t really, but …’
‘Well then, get your best clothes on and come along.’
When Bethany smiled at him like that, with her head slightly tilted and that rebellious curl of hair escaping from her bonnet, Jack would walk through the fires of Hell with her, never mind into a Catholic church, so he was at her side when they left the house and walked the short distance to St Paul’s. Jack looked in apprehension at the impressive dome.
‘I won’t know what to do,’ he whispered.
‘Just do what I do,’ Bethany said, her eyes washing over him. ‘And Jack’ – she hesitated for just a second – ‘try to make yourself agreeable.’
Used to the simplicity of Bethany’s own church at Merrington-on-Wye, Jack found the blazing splendour of the Church of St Paul overwhelming. He stopped as soon as he stepped inside the door, gazing in astonishment at the ornate stained-glass windows and the riot of colour that seeped into every corner. From the elliptical dome to the brilliantly colourful fresco paintings and the carved decorations that glinted their golden glory to the dominating crucifix, everything was light and colour and spectacle. There were silver filigree monstrances and reliquaries, silver salvers and silver wall brackets, but with some gaping holes on the wall where some fitments had obviously been wrenched free. On the High Altar silver statues of the Apostles flanked another elaborate crucifix, but the altar front, although beautifully worked and impressively embossed, was black as any northern coal pit.
‘Jack!’ Bethany’s elbow, digging sharply into his ribs, brought him back to reality.
Very aware that about half the congregation were watching, Jack stumbled to follow Bethany’s lead, kneeling when she knelt and trying to follow her responses to the priest. He did not understand much of the service, so in between the powerful singing his attention wandered to the congregation. Most seemed to concentrate on what was being said, but he noticed that many of the young men were paying more heed to the demure young ladies than to the priest. That much was similar, then. All the same, he was glad when it was over and the great doors opened to allow him to escape into the heat of the countryside; however, neither the priest nor some of the parishioners were content to allow him such freedom.
‘Mr Tarver, Mrs Tarver,’ Joseph Borg was at the priest’s side. He bowed to them both. ‘As you see, since the French destroyed the church at Fiddien, I also worship here.’ He looked directly at Bethany. ‘I am glad you persuaded your husband to come, Mrs Tarver.’
‘We were pleased to come,’ Bethany said. ‘It was a beautiful service.’
‘We think so,’ Borg bowed his appreciation. ‘And you, Mr Tarver?’
Jack nodded. ‘I cannot recollect a service I enjoyed more,’ he said. ‘But pray, tell me why the silver altar front is black and all the rest is highly polished. Is that a Catholic practise?’
Borg smiled and touched the charm around his neck. ‘When the French came, they looted everything they could, but we hid what we could from them and disguised other things. The black paint disguised the silver. The French were interested in portable gold, not in black lead.’
‘So you hid the treasure from Bonaparte?’ Bethany’s smile could not have been wider.
‘We hid what we could,’ Borg said cautiously.
‘How wonderful!’ Bethany approved. ‘I would not have let those atheistic wretches have anything!’
Borg’s bow was deeper than before. ‘I am glad to hear you say that, Mrs Tarver. Perhaps we could convert you to the true faith?’
‘Perhaps you could,’ Bethany said. ‘That service was exceedingly good.’
‘Even although you did not understand it?’ Borg lifted his eyebrows.
‘I understood the spirit of it,’ Bethany told him.
Borg’s slow smile was warmer than usual. ‘And you, Mr Tarver? Could you become a Roman Catholic?’
‘I am afraid not,’ Jack said, his respectability and his severe Wolvington upbringing not allowing him even the vestige of a lie.
‘My mother was a Catholic,’ Bethany said quietly. ‘Jack is Church of England, but without prejudice of any kind.’
Borg held Jack’s eyes for a second, then extended his hand to a silent woman, who joined him. In common with many of the women present, she wore the faldetta, the Maltese hooped head dress, but when she flicked back the veil Jack saw her face was plump and pretty.
‘This is my wife, Maria,’ Borg said, and everybody either bowed or curtsied.
‘Maria! That’s Bethany’s middle name,’ Jack exclaimed, then waited for Borg to translate to his wife. Both women laughed at the coincidence and curtsied again, as Borg raised his eyebrows towards Jack and indicated that they should step aside.
‘Now that people have seen you here with your wife, there may be some who will work on your road.’ He glanced around at the respectably dressed Maltese, who Jack had only known as grafting farmers. Here everybody wore their Sunday best, with dark suits for the men, and black and white linen for the ladies. The atmosphere was of piety and family, with husbands attached to wives, sons to fathers, and daughters to mothers.
‘I would like to think so,’ Jack told him. He winced as the bells began again, deep and sonorous, each peal thrusting into his head.
‘I will see what I can do,’ Borg said, though he held up a warning hand: ‘But I will make no promises, Mr Tarver.’
‘I understand, Mr Borg, and I thank you for any help you may be able to provide.’
‘However, I must remind you, Mr Tarver’ – Borg’s face resumed its habitual solemn expression – ‘that not everybody in this island welcomes the British presence.’
Jack looked at this very average-looking man with the dark, sombre eyes and suddenly understood why Bonaparte had been unable to tame this small island. There was a dynamic force behind the respectability, a vein of deep violence into which he had no desire to delve.
He straightened his back and deepened his own voice. ‘Thank you for your advice, Mr Borg, but I must attempt to fulfil my contract. I have a wife to support.’
‘Of course,’ Borg agreed. ‘You must do what you must do, as must I.’
They shook hands again, with Jack both respecting and liking this man who was so obviously opposed to his ideas.
‘Oh dear Lord!’ Bethany stepped inside the arched doorway within Ta Rena. ‘Oh Jack! Look at this!’
Jack followed her, stopped and swore.
The inside of the house, which Bethany had spent many hours cleaning, polishing and organising so that it met her exacting standards, had been wrecked. Somebody had gone through every drawer, lifted every carpet and broken every piece of furniture.
‘It’s the same in here,’ Bethany called from the bedroom, where her clothes were scattered around the floor and Jack’s precious equipment lay in a heap on the upturned bed.
‘What in God’s name? We’ve nothing worth stealing!’ Jack strode to his theodolite. It was scraped but miraculously unbroken. He breathed a sigh of relief, for it was unlikely he could buy such an item in Malta. ‘If only we had not gone to that foolish church, Bethany, this would never have happened!’
‘Well, we did and it has!’ She faced him then, instantly angry, but he saw the tears behind the fury and backed down.
‘Indeed. ‘What the deuce could they have been searching for?’
Righting one of the chairs, Bethany sat down and took a deep breath. ‘Do you remember the first day we came to this house, Jack? When I thought I saw a man here?’
‘I remember.’
‘Well, what was he after in an empty house?’
Jack shook his head. ‘I’m sure I cannot imagine.’
‘Well, Jack, I’m sure I can.’ Bethany looked at him. ‘Sit down, Jack, for there are things that must be said.’
Jack did so, and they faced each other across the wreckage that had been their bedroom, with Bethany’s clothes an untidy pile on the floor and a small green lizard watching them from the top of Jack’s theodolite.
‘There’s something very smoky going on here, Jack, and it seems that we are in the middle of it.’
Jack nodded. ‘I agree with that.’
‘I know you do,’ Bethany said quietly. ‘Now, you don’t like it, and nor do I, but I am afraid there is no help for it, so we must face things as they are and just get on with it.’
Jack nodded. ‘Pray continue, Bethany.’
‘I am. Now, Jack, you have been busy with your engineering, but I have had time to think. Now, listen …’ Settling herself in the chair, Bethany pressed one finger against her knee. ‘One, there is the presence of Mr Dover, or whatever he calls himself. Why is he here?’
‘He was checking the French army in Calabria,’ Jack began.
‘Stuff and nonsense,’ Bethany interrupted. ‘Calabria is full of people who will tell us exactly what the French army is doing. He was spying on something, but I do not know what.’ She pressed another finger against her knee. ‘Then there is the navy carrying us out here. I know that we are important people,’ her smile gave the lie to that statement, ‘but we hardly warrant that sort of treatment. Admiral Blacklock sent us here for quite another reason than to build a road from a no-longer-important town to a cove that nobody ever uses.’
‘Perhaps,’ Jack said doubtfully, ‘Sir Alexander mentioned the diplomacy.’
‘So there is. We have to be diplomats without knowing a word of the language.’ Bethany shook her head. ‘I hardly think so, Jack.’ She pressed a third finger against her knee. ‘And then there was the knife or, more importantly, Mr Egerton’s reaction to it – and Mr Borg’s.’
‘Mr Egerton was a trifle excited,’ Jack agreed.
‘He was in a prodigious fever of excitement,’ Bethany amended. ‘And Mr Borg said nothing at all. He pretended no interest, but I saw his eyes.’
A fourth finger joined the preceding three. ‘And now we come home to this.’
‘A thief,’ Jack said.
‘That cock won’t fight,’ Bethany scoffed. ‘If they were trying to steal, they would have taken your theodolite. An instrument like that would fetch a good price in Valletta. No, Jack, whoever was in here was after something more than milk-and-water thieving.’
Jack looked at her. ‘Yes, maybe so, Bethany, but what?’
‘The knife that Mr Egerton so greatly esteemed,’ Bethany told him. ‘And remember that Mr Borg specifically instructed me to take care of it? He did not want Mr Egerton touching it.’
‘I wonder why,’ Jack said. ‘And where is it now?’
‘As to the why,’ Bethany said, ‘I am sure I do not know, but I’ll wager a lot of your money that it means a great deal to somebody. I do not know who, and that is the most smoky thing, but as to the where, I know very well, and I assure you that nobody else does.’ The mischief was back in her smile.
Jack glanced around the room. ‘Where is it Bethany? Did you return it to the cistern?’
She pulled a face. ‘Do you think you’d catch me crawling about in there? I leave that sort of thing to you, husband dear. Oh no, much more sensible. Now watch closely.’ Bending her knee, Bethany slowly lifted her skirt, sliding it up her left leg until it was well above her knee. Raising her eyebrows she smiled to him. ‘I hope you are only looking at the knife, Jack, my man!’ Secured by a strap of linen, the dagger sat snug against the white flesh on the inside of her thigh.
‘What a resourceful little vixen you are,’ Jack told her.
‘Now nobody would ever find it there.’
‘No, that’s for certain.’ Jack tried to smile. He watched as Bethany replaced her skirt. ‘But why? Why hide it? Did you know somebody would look for it?’
Bethany shook her head. ‘Of course I did not know, Jack, but I thought they might. I don’t trust that Mr Egerton half an inch, and Mr Borg is not all he seems either, with his pretended piety. You mark my words, Jacko, there’s something very smoky here and, as I said, we’re right in the heart of it.’ She leaned back. ‘Our good friend Admiral Blacklock has landed us in some very deep water, Jack, and I intend to find out what it is all about.’
Jack looked at her, seeing the utter determination of her face. He felt a renewed surge of affection, but could not smile with that constant hammering inside his head.
‘I think the good people of Malta are in for a fright, Bethany.’
Despite Borg’s encouragement, Jack walked to the site of his proposed road next morning with no expectation of finding any workers. He stood at the spot he had arranged as a rendezvous just as the sun cracked open the horizon and the Mediterranean morning brought the heat of the day. The countryside spread around him, rugged, hard, segregated by tiny fields and with the thin scar of the track an aching reminder of his inability to fulfil his obligations. He knew that nobody would come, that he was doomed to be a failure, to himself and to Bethany.
The man walked so slowly that Jack barely realised he was moving until he stood at his side. He was small, dark and morose, with a brass ring in his ear. He leaned on a heavy walking stick and indicated the shovel balanced over his shoulder.
‘Work?’
‘Do you want work?’ Jack was more than slightly surprised. He did not mention the man’s need of support.
The man nodded and brandished his shovel.
‘Then we shall build a road together, you and I.’ Jack told him. ‘First we shall dig the foundations, then we will find the material, and finally we’ll put them together, shall we not?’
The man nodded, unsmiling, as Jack stripped off his jacket, took hold of the spade that he had brought and thrust it into the hard ground. ‘By God,’ he said. ‘If I only have one man, I’ll build this damned road.’
‘Yes,’ the one man said and, balancing awkwardly on his good leg, attacked the ground in perfect imitation of Jack.
Within five minutes, the sweat was sliding from Jack’s forehead and his shirt was damp. He kept on, fighting his increasing dizziness, swearing softly at the enormity of the task before him and watching the swarthy Maltese hack at the iron ground.
The singing had been continuing for some time before Jack was aware of it, but when he looked up he saw a third man working beside him, and others appearing, coming from different directions with spades or pickaxes to work at his side.
By mid-morning, there were twenty men working on the road and Jack could spend time organising rather than labouring. The voyage out had given him a splendid opportunity to study the most modern practices of road building and he was now keen to put the theories into practice.
‘We want this road as level as possible,’ he shouted. Every British subject knew that it was necessary to speak loudly to get plain English into foreign heads. ‘And then we will dig drainage ditches along the side.’ He knew that Thomas Telford always dug drainage ditches, so he would do the same. Looking up at the burning sun, he could not imagine a time when floods of rain would descend, but perhaps Malta had a wet winter. He would have to ask Bethany to find out.
When the men seemed not to understand, however hard he shouted, Jack hefted a pick and shovel and showed them exactly what he wanted, and then they followed his lead, uncomplaining in the heat.
Jack and the men worked hard all day until dusk, when he thanked them and told them to go home. When he eventually returned to Bethany that evening, exhausted but exhilarated at the day’s work, he told her, ‘It was amazing! One minute I had nobody at all and the next there were twenty men all working like beavers.’
‘And more importantly, it’s lifted some of that Friday face of yours, Jack Tarver.’
Jack nodded. He had hoped that progress with the engineering work would have made him feel better, but his head still ached and he constantly felt tired. It was the heat, he told himself. He preferred a cooler climate.
‘They only came because we went to church, of course,’ Bethany said smugly. They were sitting on the roof again, looking across the island, as she poured out the wine. ‘I could get accustomed to this life!’
‘So you forced me to church as a ploy to get me workers!’ Jack shook his head. ‘I had no notion you could be so circumbendibus.’
Bethany did not attempt to hide her ‘I told you so’ smile. ‘Not circumbendibus at all, Jacko. Long-headed, perhaps. I went to church because I wanted to, but I thought that you accompanying me would persuade the Maltese to accept you.’ Her laugh was open and unashamed. ‘I told you we were a partnership, Jack. You do the hard work and I’ll provide the brains.’
‘I didn’t think that ladies lowered themselves to using their brains,’ Jack said, ducking her retaliatory slap. From the rooftop, he could see the road he had been making. The scar was raw in the ground, but he nodded with satisfaction. ‘We made fine progress today,’ he said, then glancing over: ‘Five months? I’ll have this road built in half the time – until we reach the cliffs.’
‘And then?’ Bethany asked.
‘And then things will become much trickier. Engineering some sort of road down the cliffs will be complicated, and then there is the attitude of the Maltese.’
Bethany leaned forward and patted his sleeve. ‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.’ She smiled. ‘Between the two of us, I’m sure we will work something out.’
The same twenty men turned up for work the next morning, and the one-legged man volunteered to act as translator.
‘My name is George,’ he said.
‘Why did you not speak English yesterday?’ Jack wondered. ‘I needed a translator then, too.’
George shrugged. ‘Why did you not ask me?’ He looked over the gathered men. ‘These are all farmers’ sons and the like, but I have seen the world. I know Gibraltar well, and the Channel.’ His smile was more knowing than Jack liked. ‘I sailed with Joseph Borg.’
‘Sailed with him?’ Jack frowned. ‘I did not know that Mr Borg was a seaman.’
‘Oh yes,’ George nodded. ‘We worked on an American ship.’ He grinned again, revealing a lack of teeth. Jack wondered if his injuries were a result of his seafaring life but decided not to ask. ‘That was before you were born, Mr Tarver.’
So Mr Borg had shipped with Cousin Jonathan? Jack stored away the information in case it could be useful later. That would explain Borg’s command of English and, now he thought about it, there was a faint transatlantic twang to Borg’s accent.
With a translator to ease Jack’s throat from constant bellowing, the work went well. The men were willing and, although they had no skill, they were fit and strong enough, and were obviously used to handling spades, if not pickaxes. Jack marked the first 300 yards of his proposed road with ropes and showed his men where the drainage ditches were to be dug.
George grunted. ‘Drainage ditches?’
‘For winter rain,’ Jack explained.
‘There is really no need,’ George told him, and Jack realised he should have sought local advice before embarking on such a project. He cursed his own lack of professionalism, then glanced backwards towards Ta Rena, hoping Bethany was all right in the house.
‘We’ll still have them,’ he decided, ‘for if it rains, the water will not sink into this hard ground, so we’ll need a channel.’ He watched them shrug in disgust and continued. ‘And then we’ll work on the foundations.’ Their obvious dismay made him relent slightly. ‘I doubt we’ll have to make them very deep either, not with ground as hard as this.’
‘How deep?’ George asked, and Jack wondered if the question was genuine or if he was being made a game of.
‘Let’s see …’ Hefting a pick, Jack chose a section of virgin ground and swung hard. The surface was iron hard, bouncing the axe head back at him and rattling his bones, but he persevered. It took just a few moments for the sweat to start from his body, and he swung again, lifting the limestone with some difficulty. After twenty minutes he had dug fairly deep and the ground became softer. It was still limestone, but away from the baking effect of the sun it was much more friable, easier to work.
‘You see?’ He stopped to rest, very aware of the streaks of sweat running down his face. ‘Go down to this depth …’ He showed them how far he wanted. ‘And dig it level between the ropes I have laid.’
George nodded and translated for the rest, who watched Jack as if he had just escaped from Bedlam. Clearly, such thorough road building was unknown on the island.
‘Once the foundations are dug,’ Jack explained, ‘we’ll lay a solid pavement of large stones, with the broadest end downward to create a firm foundation for an upper layer of small stones that will be the actual surface of the road.’
The blank faces of his labourers stared at him.
‘In time, the passage of people and carts will compress the stones together,’ Jack finished, ‘and create a smooth and lasting road.’
The stares did not waver.
‘You just dig the foundations,’ Jack said, ‘and let me worry about the whys and wherefores. George, I’ll leave you in charge while I find some suitable stones.’
Jack escaped with some relief, for while British labourers might curse and complain, they would accept that their social superiors knew best. These Maltese saw him as only a foreigner interfering with their culture and resented him as such. However, his absence was genuine, for he would need building stone and there was an old quarry marked on the map a bare quarter mile from where he stood. Jack blessed Malta’s architectural tradition, which had created a legacy of excellent stone quarries.
‘There is plenty rock in Malta,’ George had informed him, with that knowing grin. ‘But be careful where you go.’
Jack acknowledged him with a wave of his hand, but he wondered if that had been friendly advice or a warning. He had not forgotten the musket man on the cliff terrace.
This area of the island was broken up by a number of rocky ridges and he clambered up the nearest, easing between two stone walls as he searched for the quarry. If the stone was suitable, he could negotiate a decent purchase price with the owner and that would be another problem solved.
The map was accurate, for there was a depression cut into the side of the ridge where stone had been removed. Jack smiled; for the first time since he’d arrived in Malta, things seemed to be going in his favour. He had a willing, if small, workforce and now he had found a source of raw material. Whistling ‘Happy Tawny Moor’, he took a small hammer and chisel from his bag and prepared to cut out a chunk.
He was not aware of the man until he spoke. ‘Jack Tarver?’
Jack could not place the accent – not Maltese or Italian – then realised it was French. ‘That’s me,’ Jack replied. ‘Have you come to help make the road?’
In reply, the man pulled a long pistol from beneath his cloak and thrust it savagely under his chin.
‘What?’ Jack stared, momentarily unable to comprehend what was happening. ‘I’m an engineer,’ he said, foolishly. ‘I don’t carry any valuables.’
‘So where did you put it?’ The man was slight, with intense blue eyes above a small but immaculate moustache. He ground the pistol deeper into Jack’s throat.
‘Put what? The money? I’ve hardly a penny to scratch myself with.’ Jack tried to step back, but the man shoved him against the wall of the quarry.
‘Don’t be coy with me, Mr Tarver.’ The muzzle of the pistol retracted a fraction of an inch and the man thumbed back the hammer. The easy click showed that the mechanism was well oiled. ‘I can kill you now and ask your wife.’ The man’s grin revealed perfect teeth. ‘I’d enjoy that, Mr Tarver. I’d enjoy that very much.’
‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ Jack said, but the pistol rammed back into his throat.
‘I find that hard to believe. So tell me now and it will end here, Mr Jack Tarver. Where did you put it?’
‘Put what, sir? If you are after my money, I have already said you will be very disappointed, but I will give you what I have if you please remove your pistol from my throat!’
Strangely, Jack felt no fear for himself, but the threat to Bethany had evoked a combination of anger and terror. For a moment, he wondered if he could overpower this man, but the pistol muzzle thrusting under his chin convinced him to cooperate.
‘So be it,’ the man said, ‘I shall speak with Mrs Tarver.’ The pressure on the trigger was increased so the hammer eased forward just a fraction, preparing to slam downwards and send a half-ounce lead ball through Jack’s throat.
‘No!’ Jack twisted aside and tried to wrestle the pistol out of the man’s grip. ‘Leave Bethany out of this!’
‘Stop!’ The word cracked out and a second figure swung over the lip of the quarry. Jack had a momentary vision of a rippling cloak, the flicker of a sword, and then the newcomer leapt on top of his attacker. There was a flurry of blows, the sound of somebody gasping in pain, and then his attacker was gone, disappearing among the confusion of walls and small fields.
Picking himself up, the newcomer replaced a wide hat on his head and grinned to Jack. ‘Well, Mr Tarver, you seem to have got yourself in trouble!’
Jack stared into the sun-browned face of John Dover.