Sitting in the front room of Dover’s apartment in Valletta, with the decanter of wine between them and half a dozen candles throwing flickering shadows against the panelled walls, Jack and Dover looked at each other through steely eyes. Beyond the windows of the veranda, only the footsteps of the occasional passer-by broke the quiet of the street.
‘You are a hard man to pin down, Mr Tarver,’ Dover said, leaning back in his leather armchair, watching Jack over the rim of his glass. ‘I’ve had a man following you for days now, partly to make sure that Adam Kaskrin did not attack you again and partly to see if you had the key.’
Jack nodded. ‘Once again, Mr Dover, I am glad for your presence. Damn you!’ Jack glanced at Bethany, who sat on the far side of the table with troubled eyes.
‘I am damned with faint praise, then,’ Dover said, smiling. ‘But you should be glad, Mr Tarver, and thankful. That’s twice now I have saved your life, and once the life of your wife, for they would have killed her.’ Dover lifted his glass and sipped slowly. ‘I think that you are in my debt, now.’
‘If you had not first put us in danger with your little spying games, Mr Dover, there would have been no need to rescue us.’ Bethany was shaken from her ordeal and obviously in no mood to go easy on Dover. When she spoke, Jack could detect fear in her voice. ‘Now, pray, could you tell us what happened? One moment I was looking at books in a bookshop, then that woman called me over.’
Jack listened as Bethany continued. The woman, Elizabeth, had known Bethany’s name. She had told her about some real book bargains she had, then had bundled her down a side street, where Mr Egerton had been waiting. Bethany looked to Jack. ‘I’ve never been in such a place before.’
‘Nor have I,’ Jack added, sensing an accusation in her voice.
‘I should think not, indeed!’ Bethany tried to smile, but she could not control the tremble of her lips. Jack held her for a moment, until she struggled free, determined to complete her story.
‘That was a terrible building, Jack, and Mr Egerton was there. I never did like that man, but I did not think he was quite such a blackguard! He asked me questions and then I shouted back at him …’
‘What sort of questions?’ Dover asked, interrupting her.
‘What we had found, and where we had put it, and who we had told and where you were.’ Bethany shook her head again. ‘Of course, as we have found nothing, I told them exactly what I thought of them and their questions, and then they stuffed a filthy rag in my mouth.’ She looked away. ‘I heard people shouting my name, but I couldn’t do anything.’ She looked at Jack. ‘I couldn’t even warn you when you came in.’
Dover nodded. ‘I must apologise to you, Mrs Tarver. I was so concerned about Mr Tarver that I quite neglected you. I should have sent a man to watch you, too. It was most remiss of me.’ For a moment, he sounded genuine.
‘There is no need to apologise,’ Bethany relented, as she recovered her composure. ‘For I was very glad to see you, Mr Dover, and you saved us both.’ She curtseyed from her seat. ‘I cannot thank you enough and I apologise for my earlier words.’
Dover’s smile showed Jack that the agent could be a charming man when he chose. ‘Well met, Mrs Tarver. It took some bottom to say that.’ He leaned back, obviously enjoying himself. ‘My man saw Mr Tarver follow Elizabeth Baranov into that, eh, house of ill repute and contacted me, and after that everything was easy. I just whistled up a few military and kicked in the door.’ He shrugged. ‘By then, unfortunately, Mr Tarver had been taken to the boat and it required a second rescue to reunite you once more.’
‘And Mr Egerton? Did you catch him?’ Bethany asked.
‘Alas no,’ Dover shook his head. ‘I was far too busy releasing your husband to pursue my proper occupation. Mr Egerton – and Elizabeth Baranov – both escaped.’
‘He was also asking about the keys,’ Bethany said. ‘What are these keys, Mr Dover, and do you know what his interest in the treasure might be?’
Dover sipped more of the red wine. ‘Who would not be interested in treasure?’ His smile was remarkably pleasant. ‘But the presence of Elizabeth Baranov points us in another direction, and one much more serious than mere personal gain, I fear. She is a colleague of Adam Kaskrin and therefore so must be Mr Egerton.’
‘I knew there was something smoky about that man!’ Bethany looked at Jack with something like triumph. ‘Did I not say so, Jacko?’
‘You did.’ Jack did not remind her that she had thought everything smoky since she had arrived in Malta.
‘I believe these are yours, Mr Tarver?’ Dover pushed his pistols across the polished table. He smiled again. ‘I would advise that you use the pistols next time rather than merely carrying them.’
‘Thank you for your advice,’ Jack said dryly, as Dover lifted and examined the telescope, bought by Bethany earlier that day.
‘A birthday gift, I see. Happy birthday, Mr Tarver.’
‘Thank you again,’ Jack said. He had nearly forgotten that he was twenty-nine that day.
There were a few moments’ silence, then Dover grinned. ‘You two are blundering about like two clumpertons, falling in and out of trouble without any idea what is happening, aren’t you?’
Jack glanced at Bethany and nodded. The words were too true to be denied.
‘Well, then, would you not rather be in control of the situation?’ Dover asked Bethany the question, rather than Jack.
‘Of course,’ Bethany said.
‘Well, then, listen to me.’ Dover recharged his glass, and that of Bethany. Jack had hardly sipped at his wine. ‘You know that there are two keys. I believe that you have found one, although you deny it emphatically. I know who has the second, but he will be difficult to locate. Perhaps if you helped me find this second person, we could combine our skills and solve this mystery. We might even help Britain win this damned war, or at least not continue to lose it so badly.’
‘I have a road to build,’ Jack said, ‘and I swear that we have not set eyes on any key.’
‘So you have and so you say,’ Dover said dryly. ‘But you know now that Mr Kaskrin and Mr Egerton, to say nothing of Elizabeth Baranov, will never allow you to continue in peace. I cannot afford to spend the time dragging you out of trouble every day, Mr Tarver, and I suspect that you will be unable to concentrate on your road, wondering if every stranger is about to attack you.’ He glanced across to Bethany. ‘Also, knowing you as I do, you will surely also be wondering if anybody is attacking Mrs Tarver.’
Again Jack glanced at Bethany, who gave a small smile. Dover’s words were so true that they could not be denied. ‘Maybe you have a point, Mr Dover.’
‘There is no doubt that you have a point, Mr Dover.’ Bethany allowed. She sighed. ‘Pray continue.’
‘You do realise that everything I say must be treated in the strictest of confidence,’ Dover said sternly. He seemed to be enjoying the situation.
‘Of course,’ Jack agreed.
Bethany did not reply.
‘Then I will add to your education, Mr and Mrs Tarver.’ Dover swallowed more wine before he continued. ‘You know that Bonaparte took this island from the Knights and then proceeded to rob the place from Monday to Christmas. And you know that some of the Knights forestalled the ogre by hiding what they could.’
‘We do,’ Jack agreed, surprised that Bethany was allowing him to take the initiative.
‘The Knights were disturbed soon afterwards and had to scatter. That was why the keys were separated. Adam Kaskrin was one of the Knights and he hid his key. I believe he secreted it away in his own house of Ta Rena.’ He glanced at Bethany. ‘I suspect you know more about that than I do.’
‘I have not found any key,’ Bethany told him.
‘So you say.’ Dover looked grim. ‘The second Knight was also a Russian Pole, known to me as Sobczak, and he escaped by sea. I surmise that he hid the key somewhere near the coast.’ Dover held Jack’s eyes as he leaned back. ‘So Mr Tarver, have you anything to add?’
‘What happened to this other Polish fellow, Sobczak?’ Bethany asked before Jack could speak. ‘The whole thing appears to hinge on him. Unless you can find him, it seems that the treasure will never be recovered.’ She glanced at Jack, ‘At least not by key.’
‘Believe me, Mrs Tarver, it must be recovered by using the keys. There is no other way, not on Malta.’
‘Why not?’ Bethany wondered.
Dover shrugged. ‘Religion,’ he said enigmatically.
‘So you must find both keys,’ Bethany continued. ‘Do you have any idea where this Mr Sobczak might be?’
‘I already know where he is,’ Dover told her, ‘but actually getting to him is not quite so easy.’ He grinned to her. ‘My man on Malta will be no use in this case, but I want your husband to help – if you are willing, Mr Tarver?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Until we have the treasure all sewn up, there will be no peace for your engineering project.’
Jack pondered for a moment, although he already knew his decision. Strangely, he had little interest in the treasure for its own sake. He had never expected to be wealthy – and did not see his conscience allowing him to keep any hidden gold, even if he happened to chance upon it. However, he did want to finish his road, and he did not wish Bethany to be at the mercy of Sobczak, Kaskrin or even Mr Egerton. If that meant he had to help Mr Dover, then so be it.
‘All right, Mr Dover. As you have saved my life, and that of Bethany, I can hardly refuse.’
‘Good man!’ Dover held out his hand in a gesture of friendship, which was probably more calculated than spontaneous. ‘We’re working together, Jack, and we’ll strike another blow for Britain!’
Bethany raised a single finger. ‘And me?’ Her voice was small. ‘What about me? Can I help too?’
‘Not this time, Mrs Tarver,’ Dover said. ‘I’m afraid that …’
‘I’m afraid that if Jack is helping, then so must I.’
Dover did not hide his smile. ‘Will you not let the poor man do anything on his own?’
‘My husband may need me,’ Bethany said calmly, ‘and he would prefer me to be at his side.’
‘Not if it is dangerous,’ Jack said, disagreeing.
Dover sighed, looking from one to the other. ‘I have not the time to act as referee for your matrimonial squabbles, so I will decide.’ His smile contained triumph. ‘And as you both owe me your life, I will brook no further arguments.’
He waited for their reluctant nods before he continued. ‘Sobczak is in Calabria, King Ferdinand’s mainland province, marching as a trooper in Bonaparte’s army. I was searching for him when the French caught me – and your Lieutenant Cockburn came to the rescue. That’s where I am going next, and Mr Tarver will join me.’
Jack felt the nausea rise within him. He had given his word, and a gentleman’s word was sacrosanct. He tried to look unconcerned, although he felt sick as a cushion. Gentlemen did not act as spies and he desperately wished to be a gentleman, yet here he was, volunteering to enter a province infested with Bonaparte’s soldiers.
‘Calabria!’ Bethany stared at Dover.
‘Mrs Tarver may accompany us on the ship,’ Dover continued, as if she had not spoken. ‘But she will not go ashore. That way everybody is happy. We call it a compromise.’
‘I agree,’ Jack tried to hide his dismay. Bethany would be safer on a naval ship than she obviously was in Malta, and he could not deny Dover his help. His feeling of helplessness deepened. What must Bethany think of me now? I am a common spy, the lowest of the low. Her opinion must be sinking lower every day.
‘There is a ship due in tomorrow and, in the meantime, if you have no objections, Mrs Tarver, I wish to thoroughly search Ta Rena for the missing key. I can think of nowhere else that it would be.’
After a glance at Bethany, Jack nodded. ‘Feel free, Mr Dover, only don’t leave the place untidy or there’ll be the devil to pay.’
‘Petticoat government already, Mr Tarver?’ Dover did not conceal his sneer.
Jack sighed. ‘Indeed not, Mr Dover. Just married life, I’m afraid.’ His smile to Bethany was less than convincing, as he wondered again to what he had agreed.
Recently promoted Commander, the Honourable James Cockburn, was well suited to command as he stalked the quarterdeck of HMS Rowan with his telescope under his arm, giving quiet orders that the hands rushed to obey.
Bethany smiled to Jack. ‘I am so glad that it’s Captain Cockburn. Do you remember how he captured that French ship?’
‘I remember,’ Jack replied. He would have been happier with a different, less dashing officer, somebody middle-aged perhaps or, even better, an ugly old seadog with a white beard and only one leg. ‘I hope he does not do anything rash.’ He looked up, as the ship shuddered. ‘Did you feel that? Let’s go on deck and see what’s happening.’
‘Maybe it’s a storm,’ Bethany said. ‘I’ve always wanted to be in a real storm!’
Jack shook his head. ‘You are a queer little vixen, Bethany Maria.’
The grey seas of dawn lunged at the frigate, breaking into spindrift and spray against her bluff bow. Jack could see the helmsman steady at the wheel, his jaws working steadily on a quid of tobacco and his eyes hard with concentration.
‘Is there a storm?’ Bethany asked Mr Wetherall, the young midshipman.
‘Just a squall,’ Wetherall replied. ‘But don’t you fret, Mrs Tarver. Captain Cockburn will see us through. He’s a prime seaman.’ He grinned cheerfully, ‘Glad you’re back with us, Mrs Tarver.’
‘Thank you.’ Even on the deck of a warship, Bethany remembered her manners and dropped into a graceful curtsey. ‘And thank you for taking care of us, Mr Wetherall. I was just saying to Jack that I would rather be on this ship than any other.’
‘This is the best ship in the Mediterranean fleet, Mrs Tarver. And under the best captain,’ Wetherall said loyally.
‘Where are we, Mr Wetherall?’ Narrowing her eyes, Bethany peered into the squall, where the long bowsprit dipped low and then rose, accompanied by a white curtain of spray.
There was a moment’s silence before Wetherall replied. ‘At present Sicily is to starboard.’ He jerked a thumb over his right shoulder. ‘That’s Faro Point that you can’t see through the storm.’ He grinned, ‘Although only the captain knows exactly where we are.’
‘I’m looking forward to seeing Italy,’ Bethany said, glancing slyly at Jack, who pretended not to hear. He had no intention of allowing her to set foot on land. Calabria was in ferment, he knew, with a French army some 30,000 strong having invaded the mainland portion of King Ferdinand’s realm; the locals were retaliating with ambushes, murder and torture. How Mr Dover expected to find a stray Polish Knight amongst such mayhem, he could not imagine.
‘Watch your steering, man,’ Wetherall said and the helmsman moved the wheel slightly. The bow rose sharply, riding a wave. ‘There! It’s passing now!’
As if some giant had dragged a cloth across the sky, the clouds cleared completely, revealing a sea and sky of startling blue. Bethany gasped and held on to Jack, as the coastline of Sicily and the toe of Italy appeared, sparkling brilliantly with the recent rain.
‘That’s beautiful!’ she said.
‘It is,’ Jack agreed. At times like this, with the sudden contrast from murk and gloom to pristine clarity, when all the wonders of the world were revealed, Jack could understand the fascination of a life at sea. As they headed north, he gazed at the great brown mountains of Calabria and realised the power of the navy. This ship carried a battery of artillery any army would envy and could cover a landing anywhere on this coast. Bonaparte might control the land, but Britannia’s trident could poke him into impotent rage from the sea.
Of course, the reverse was also true. Control of the land gave Bonaparte all the resources of Europe, and only Britain, and British gold, could halt his mad career. Jack sighed: the treasure was important to the country, and he had to help locate the second key. It was over there, somewhere, in the pocket of a Russian Pole marching in a French uniform, but how in God’s name was he to find him?
Mr Dover would know. That was his occupation, after all.
Commander Cockburn had allowed the hands a make-and-mend afternoon, where they repaired and washed their clothing, and had suggested that Bethany and Jack also take the opportunity to freshen up.
Bethany had demurred at first, unwilling to have her newly washed clothing decorate the rigging of the ship, but Cockburn had convinced her, saying in a kindly way, ‘There is no need to be embarrassed, Mrs Tarver. Most men have mothers or sisters, so the sight of female clothing will only remind them of home.’ His face had darkened slightly. ‘However, if there is even the slightest hint of an improper suggestion, I’ll have them strung up …’
Bethany had smiled and touched his arm far too familiarly for Jack’s liking. ‘Every member of your crew has acted like a perfect gentleman,’ she assured him. ‘It must be your influence.’ Opening her fan, she had tucked it under her chin – like a young schoolgirl flirting with her tutor, as Jack told her sourly.
‘La, Mr Tarver. I do believe you are jealous!’ she said laughing, then walked away. Jack was sure she emphasised the swing of her hips provocatively, so that it was not only Commander Cockburn who watched her.
With the rigging festooned with Bethany’s petticoat and dress, HMS Rowan continued to move north through seas that were now so blue and innocent it was hard to believe that they had ever held anything stronger than a pleasant breeze.
‘Sail ho!’ The hail came from the masthead, and Cockburn immediately ran aloft, his long legs making easy work of the ascent. He extended a spyglass, then yelled a string of orders that altered the ship’s course. A deluge of hands exploded on deck and threw themselves up the rigging, more sails descended and Rowan picked up speed to hurl herself forward, shouldering waves aside in her haste.
‘What is it?’ Bethany sounded worried.
‘Another ship,’ Wetherall said. ‘Three-masted … It’s big.’ He pointed to the horizon.
Extending his spyglass, Jack could just make out a tiny white square that he guessed was the topsail of a ship. As he stared harder, the sail increased in size. ‘It’s coming closer.’
It took half an hour for the vessel to ease fully over the horizon, with every telescope on the Rowan watching it gradually increase in size.
‘She’s breaking out her colours,’ Wetherall yelled. He focused the telescope, but it was Cockburn who shouted next.
‘Union flag! She’s a British warship!’
‘Oh, that’s good!’ Bethany clapped her hands, but Jack knew she was slightly disappointed. She had hoped for a Frenchman and another victory for Commander Cockburn. ‘We’re safe now, then!’
Wetherall nodded. ‘We’ve joined the fleet,’ he said.
From a single ship voyaging on an empty ocean, the Rowan had become only one unit of a fleet sailing steadily north. Orders became crisper, the washing quickly disappeared from the rigging and Cockburn summoned Bethany below.
‘We were fortunate in our prize-taking last cruise,’ he told her, ‘and we have a selection of female clothing that might be of interest to you.’ He bowed again, eyes easing over her. ‘All the finest quality French and Spanish styles, I assure you. In the Rowan, we only loot the best.’
Jack had to still his immediate jealousy, as Bethany disappeared below for twenty minutes, reappearing in a dress of pure satin-silk. Her eyes were bright with pleasure and she laughed with Commander Cockburn, as they exchanged a joke in French. Suddenly, he hated his choice of profession, which left him constantly struggling with poverty. There was nothing he would like better than to take Bethany to the finest shops and buy her exactly what she wanted, give her everything with as open a hand as Commander Cockburn had and watch her choose exactly what she wanted, rather than having her ask about the limits of his purse. He moved further away as Bethany’s conversation continued, but he saw her hand touch Cockburn’s arm and heard her laugh frankly at one of his French sallies.
‘That was a touch risqué, captain,’ she said, glancing at Jack. ‘Perhaps you had better not tell my husband.’ They laughed together, increasing Jack’s discomfort.
‘Annis Yat?’ The name came across quite clearly. ‘If you want it, Mrs Tarver, then why don’t you have your husband buy it for you?’
Jack heard Bethany’s voice drop, and then Cockburn’s sudden bark of laughter, which he knew was directed at the perilous state of his finances.
‘I see,’ Cockburn said, loudly. ‘Purse-pinched, eh? Well, maybe someday.’
Bethany’s glance at Jack must have been significant. ‘Hopefully, Commander Cockburn, as soon as we can afford it.’
‘Now, Mrs Tarver, we’ll have no more of this Commander Cockburn. We’re old friends now, so James, please, and may I call you Bethany?’ Cockburn raised his voice as he looked at Jack. ‘And Jack, of course?’
‘Of course you may.’ Bethany’s smile reached her eyes and she brushed that stray strand of hair from her forehead.
Feeling even more insecure and sick, Jack lurched away. He could not listen to this dashing commander talking to his wife, and still less could he listen to his wife responding so eagerly. He needed somewhere to think and walk, but there was no space in a crowded ship. He looked out to sea with his headache increasing, feeling the most miserable he had been since leaving Wolvington College.
Did Bethany think so little of him that she would discard him for a naval officer? Was their marriage so unimportant? But Bethany had always been a heroine for the navy. Jack cursed his situation: why had he not taken the advice offered to him long ago and followed a different path? He had the education, but he had chosen to be an engineer, working with mathematics and his hands. For the first time in his life, he wished he had joined the Honourable East India Company and gone to Hindustan. He might have returned as a nabob, with a fortune to squander on Bethany and no need to worry about a semi-piratical naval officer. It should be he who handed over satin and silk dresses to Bethany, not this red-haired Scottish sailor.
Despite the pain it caused, Jack listened to Bethany as she laughed at Cockburn’s jokes and spoke in a maddening mixture of English and French; he knew that when they switched to French they were talking about him, laughing at him for his poverty, the pinchbeck buckles on his shoes, the poor quality of his coat.
Cockburn gave an order and the ship altered course, the great yards swinging round to catch the wind, the sails bulging and the whole intricate machinery of the frigate obeying the command of one man: Commander the Honourable James Cockburn.
Jack watched as Cockburn stood on the quarterdeck, immaculate in his blue uniform, with the single epaulette on his shoulder proclaiming his rank and authority and power. None of which I possess. Grudgingly, Jack admitted that he was a handsome devil, with the breadth of shoulder and chest to complement his height, and that undisputable air of command that had strengthened since he had taken over command.
‘Jack! Over here!’ Bethany waved to him from Cockburn’s side, but Jack chose not to notice and moved further away, onto the weather side of the ship, where the wind blasted tears in his eyes. This was where he belonged, among the least considered members of the crew. This was his proper place in society; he was at best a second-rate engineer, at worst a mistake. He did not know who his father was and only charity had seen him through a quality education.
‘Jack! Why are you hiding away?’ Bethany had left the sanctuary of the quarterdeck to summon him. ‘Come along and see Italy with us.’
Jack pounced on her choice of word, deliberately searching for insult and humiliation. ‘Us? I thought we were us?’ He should never have persuaded Bethany to become his wife. She had always been too good for him.
‘What?’ Bethany looked at him through narrow eyes. ‘What a strange thing to say.’ She shook her head. ‘What are you thinking of this weather? Come along and see this. It beats cockfighting any day!’ Taking hold of his arm, she guided him back to the bulwarks at the lee side of the deck, from where the land was visible. ‘See? That is Italy. Is it not romantic, and so exotic!’
Jack looked. ‘It seems very dull to me,’ he said, determined to ruin Bethany’s pleasure.
‘Oh, Jack! I’ve said before that you have all the imagination of an engineer. This is Italy, the home of Caesar, of the Classical sculptures, of opera and … but you are not listening!’
Jack had turned his back to look at the ship. ‘We are making good time,’ he said, ‘wherever we are headed.’
‘We are headed to St Euphemia Bay.’ Bethany’s voice was suddenly cold. ‘As you would have known if you had remained at my side when I asked James … Captain Cockburn.’ The chill deepened. ‘Why are you so acting so strange, Jack? Why have you turned from me?’
‘I am not acting strange,’ Jack replied, feeding his own misery. He watched Cockburn scamper up the mast with all the dexterity of a youth, then stand at the masthead and extend his spyglass.
‘Oh, but you are,’ Bethany said, pulling his arm and peering closely into his face, her eyes concerned. ‘You are behaving in a very strange manner indeed. I swear that I have never seen you like this before. What is the matter, my love? Are you sickening for something?’
‘I assure you that there is nothing the matter with me.’ Now that Bethany was probing, Jack concealed his feelings behind a smile that even he knew to be false. He could feel the skin stretching around his mouth as he grinned, but he could not meet Bethany’s eyes.
‘We will discuss this later, I think, Jack.’ Bethany’s promise was ominous, then she stepped away.
Jack watched her move forward, arriving at the foremast just as Commander Cockburn descended from aloft. They exchanged what Jack knew was a secret glance before Cockburn spoke.
‘Mr Wetherall, have the ammunition hoisted onto deck. I want it ready to be shipped ashore within the hour. Handsomely, now!’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Midshipman Wetherall touched a hand to the brim of his hat and sprinted forward, collecting a bevy of seamen around him. After a moment, Cockburn descended below and Bethany, with a forlorn, appealing glance at Jack, following a few minutes later.
‘Bethany!’ Jack shouted, but she did not reappear and he turned away to look at the approaching shoreline of Calabria. He felt his heart hammering and curled his fists into balls at his side.
She left me here and followed him like a puppy.
‘Petticoat government, as I said.’ Dover had been watching from the shelter of the mainmast. Pulling a brace of long cheroots from inside his dove-grey waistcoat, he offered one to Jack, who shook his head. ‘No? Then I shall smoke alone.’ Dover leaned on the rail and looked out to sea, where the other ships of the British fleet moved in the array of disciplined force that had consistently swept the King’s enemies from the sea.
‘Why do you think I never married, Jack?’ Dover allowed the question to hang unanswered while he puffed aromatic smoke into the air. ‘I know that Bethany’s opinion of me could not be lower, but I am wedded to my country, you see.’ When he looked up, his eyes were quiet and more sincere than Jack had ever known them. ‘I believe in a constitutional monarchy and the rule of law. I believe that our way is the best way. I believe that Bonaparte’s reign can lead only to chaos and terror, as has been proved on the Continent, and I would do anything to stop it coming to Great Britain.’
Dover allowed the words to hang in the warm air for a few minutes before turning to face Jack. Leaning his back against the bulwark, with the tanned canvas sails bulging above his head and the surrounding ships serene against a blue horizon, he said, ‘That’s why I chose this life, this pretending to be one thing and acting as another. Oh, I could have joined the army or the navy, donned a fine uniform and followed orders, but that is not my way, don’t you see?’ He held Jack’s eyes. ‘You may not think much of me, but I work for what I believe to be true.’
Jack nodded, wondering why Dover was telling him such things. ‘I believe you,’ he said.
‘Good.’ Dover turned again and thrust the cheroot between his teeth. ‘A woman, or rather a wife, would only be an encumbrance to my duty.’ He looked cutty-eyed at Jack. ‘As you will understand.’
Jack nodded. He could see the advantages in Dover’s philosophy, only obeying orders, doing his duty to the exclusion of everything else. It must have been easier that way, caring only about King and country, losing one’s responsibility in patriotism. At that moment he heard Bethany’s laugh rising from the cabin below; he hated himself nearly as much as he hated James Cockburn. But he did not hate Bethany; he could never do that, even though she was obviously betraying him with a dashing naval officer.
If only I had chosen the Honourable East India Company all those years ago!
Jack swallowed hard. St Euphemia Bay was hectic with shipping. Carrying a small army, the fleet had arrived and anchored in the swelling waves that splintered on a shingle beach that seemed to extend forever. Dwarfed by the scale of the country, the redcoats waded ashore, some disappearing into the scrubby ground behind the beach. In the far distance, high brown rose to the great blue void of a sky. After so long on the defensive, Britain had extended a nautical finger and poked it in the coast of Europe.
Britain was daring Bonaparte’s hegemony over the Continent, she was planting a trident in strident challenge to the imperial eagle of France, and Jack was part of it. A small, insignificant part, it was true, but here he was, as British as anybody else in the fleet, and as ready to do his bit for constitutional monarchy as John Dover or Commander James Cockburn or any of the cursing redcoats or tobacco-chewing bluejackets who toiled under the broiling Mediterranean sun.
‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ said Dover, motioning to the bay.
Jack agreed. It seemed that half the Mediterranean’s traffic had come to St Euphemia, with merchantmen and transports, warships and coastal craft all competing for space in that wide and warm bay.
Trying to avoid thinking of Bethany and Cockburn, Jack watched the ships unload their cargo onto the wide sands, with boatload after boatload of scarlet-coated infantry nosing ashore, the boats’ oars like the legs of water insects crawling over the blue sea. There were naval officers giving flustered orders, the bellowing of cattle, and sails rising and being lowered in apparent confusion, all against the silent backdrop of Calabria.
‘What’s happening? Is it a full invasion?’ he asked Midshipman Wetherall, who gave another grin.
‘God alone knows, but we’re landing, sure as eggs! You know we’ve held Sicily for years, to make sure that old Boney can’t have it, well, now General Stuart has decided to help the King of the Two Sicilies fight off the French!’
Remembering Sir Alexander’s words, Jack thought of the Knight’s treasure. If Britain had to continue to subsidise King Ferdinand, that wealth was vital. He had to help find the second key, then persuade Bethany to part with the dagger. Although the treasure must be his priority, he was still fascinated by the activity. After all the defeats and withdrawals, after a decade and more of British troops skirting the fringes of Europe and being ingloriously thrust back into the sea, he was watching a British landing on the European mainland.
‘Most of the ships arrived last night,’ Wetherall said, excitedly. ‘Captain Fellowes in the Apollo, that’s the frigate over there’ – a lift of his chin indicated a ship very like the Rowan – ‘had to fire a broadside to clear the beach of Johnny Crapaud.’ He grinned. ‘I believe they were actually Poles fighting for the French, but they scampered off quickly enough at any rate.’ Wetherall shrugged. ‘Somebody said it was the Endymion that fired, but I don’t think so. It doesn’t matter anyway.’
Jack frowned. ‘Poles fighting for the French?’ He glanced at Dover, who was trying to look uninterested, raising his spyglass to study the beach.
‘Boney recruits from every country he conquers,’ Dover murmured. ‘He exploits the manpower as much as he exploits the art treasures and resources.’ His words were spoken so quietly that Jack had to strain to hear him. ‘His idea of fraternity is the brotherhood of death, his liberty is the liberty to rob.’
‘But Poles – Sobczak?’
‘None other,’ Dover said. ‘But knowing where he might be and finding him are two different things. One cannot just walk up to one of Boney’s soldiers and ask for the key to a treasure.’ He threw Jack a sideways glance. ‘And keep your voice down, Mr Tarver, if you please.’
Jack nodded. Despite Bethany’s vehement dislike of Mr Dover, he felt a growing respect for the man. There was no doubting his patriotism, or his dedication to his duty, but he also seemed efficient in gathering information. Sobczak was part of the French army facing Sir John Stuart here in Calabria, but, as Dover had said, finding a single pawn amongst an army, and asking him about the key, would be a very difficult task.
How do I get myself into these situations, when all I want is a quiet life?
Jack forced himself to concentrate on the present situation. ‘So, what’s happening now?’ he asked.
‘General Stuart’s landing,’ Wetherall repeated simply. ‘And we’re helping.’
Jack looked again. The beach seemed to stretch for mile after mile, a great crescent that descended from the north side of the bay, where the landing was taking place, to the south. It seemed an admirable site for an invasion, wide enough for the troops to assemble and flat for the boats to land, while the beach was of sand and shingle, lacking any dangerous rocks.
The small boats were pulling in as far as possible, then the infantry were leaping into the water to wade ashore and form up on the beach. Taking the telescope that Bethany – his Bethany – had given him only a few days earlier, he focused on the beach. The scene jumped closer, so he could see the struggle the infantry were having with their heavy equipment in the high white surf. Some were falling, lumbering in the shallows until their fellows pulled them onto the rough sand.
A tall officer was ordering the redcoats deep into the yellow and brown scrub that could hide skirmishers or ambushing light infantry. Where were the French? Surely, they should be here with their cavalry, pushing the invaders back when they were at their most vulnerable. Jack focused on a fortified tower just at the high-tide mark. ‘The French should have defended that,’ he said. Then he saw that there were Highlanders among the British infantry, the first he had ever seen. Their kilts made them look alien in this landscape and their high feather bonnets appeared cumbersome, but they moved quickly through the scrub, heading inland.
Far back beyond the beach, the brown mountains stood sentinel, the outliers of southern Europe and silent witnesses to this first British probe at Bonaparte’s much-vaunted empire. ‘No coast of iron and brass then, Boney,’ Jack muttered. ‘Not when the Royal Navy decides to land.’
He thought he must tell Bethany what was happening; she would be interested. But Bethany was still not on deck and neither, Jack realised, with sick frustration, was Commander Cockburn.
Sinking against the rail, Jack felt betrayed and shockingly vulnerable. He loved Bethany, he had trusted her and experienced real happiness in her company, and the contrast with this humiliation was unbearable. This entire military business – this invasion, this blow at the French – did not matter a two-penny damn beside the fact that Bethany seemed to prefer the company of Commander Cockburn to his. Jack closed his eyes, facing what he knew was the reality: Bethany was too good for him; she always had been and always would be. She deserved a wealthy man, a man who could give her the life she wanted, with theatres and balls and a home at Annis Yat. He could not give her it. The most he could hope for was a few small engineering projects, with just enough money to keep their heads above water; ahead lay a life of constant anxiety and an old age of poverty.
A first tear slithered down his cheek to rest on his lip in salty warmness. Why have I married? I cannot offer enough to be a good husband. I am a failure, useless. It is no wonder Bethany has chosen somebody else, somebody dashing and handsome, with prospects of advancement. Jack shook his head, trying to fight the dark blanket that threatened to subdue his rational thoughts. Bethany was correct: this was not like him. He must be sickening for something. He ought to face the fact she was gone and life would continue without her.
There was a strange popping sound from the coast, and Midshipman Wetherall leapt excitedly on the rigging. ‘They’re firing! We’ve found the French! Oh, I wish I was there, I wish I was with the lobsters!’
‘You wish you were with the lobsters? You’ll be kissing the gunner’s daughter, Mr Wetherall, unless you attend to your duty! By God, sir, I’ve never seen the like! Get down from there! Get down at once!’ Cockburn was back on deck, assuming command with the kind of flair and natural ability that Jack could only envy. ‘Ready a boat, Mr Wetherall, and take the ammunition ashore. Find Captain McConnell of the Royal Engineers. He is establishing a defensive position on the beach and he’ll need every ounce of powder and every ball if the Frenchies come in force.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Wetherall looked up at Cockburn. ‘Thank you, sir!’
‘Thank you? Don’t thank me, you young blackguard, just do your duty!’ A wink accompanied that last roar and Jack began to see why people liked Commander Cockburn so much. ‘Midshipman of the watch!’ he called.
Another midshipman, even smaller and younger than Wetherall, piped up, ‘Yes, sir?’
‘There’s a signal being sent from the shore. Kindly relate it to me.’
The midshipman stared shoreward for a few minutes. ‘It’s our number, sir. It says: send ashore all supplies and surplus engineers.’
Commander Cockburn nodded. ‘Thank you, Mr Grey.’ He looked directly at Dover. ‘I believe that means you, gentlemen.’
‘It does, Commander.’ Dover nudged Jack’s arm. ‘Come on, Mr Tarver. It’s our time.’
Jack stared at him for a long second, fighting the combination of dismay and fear. ‘I have to say goodbye to Bethany,’ he said, ‘I can’t just leave her.’
‘For King and country, sir, you can. Mrs Tarver knows why we are here. If she cared so deeply, she would not have left your side.’ Dover raised a finger to Commander Cockburn. ‘We shall be going ashore directly, Commander. Please make ready a boat for us. Today, we are both engineers.’ He nodded to Jack. ‘Is that not so, Mr Tarver?’
‘It is, Mr Dover.’ With those words, Jack condemned himself. Although part of him felt utterly sick at the thought of leaving Bethany behind, another part wanted to get as far away from her as possible. The evidence of her betrayal was overwhelming and being near her hurt too much. ‘Let me go ashore.’
A momentary frown creased Cockburn’s face. ‘And Mrs Tarver, sir?’
‘I am sure you know best about that, sir.’ Tarver ignored Cockburn’s obviously feigned astonishment.
‘Very good, Mr Tarver. Mr Wetherall shall take you and Mr Dover ashore.’ Commander Cockburn turned aside, as if his duty were complete. ‘I wish you the best of luck, gentlemen. Handsomely now, Mr Wetherall.’
As soon as he lowered himself into the boat, Jack cursed his impetuosity. What was he doing, sailing ashore without a word to Bethany? She would worry herself sick about him. He turned, ready to say that he had changed his mind, but the cutter was already a hundred yards from the Rowan and was fast approaching the surf, with the oarsmen pulling mightily and Wetherall at the tiller. Balancing easily on a thwart, Dover winked at him and tapped the bulge in the breast of his cloak. He had his pistol with him, a silver-topped cane, a pair of hefty boots and all the assurance of his caste. What else did a British gentleman need when venturing abroad?
‘Ready, men!’ The cutter’s bow rose sickeningly and Wetherall concentrated, his young face taut as the waves took charge and threw them towards the shifting shingle of the beach. There was a long hissing crunch, a judder and the cutter was ashore, with the seamen wading through crashing surf to haul the boat higher up the beach. Wetherall looked relieved but immediately began to give orders.
‘Come along, Mr Tarver! We can’t dawdle here!’ Dover had slipped ashore as if born to a sailor’s life and stood amazingly dry-shod above the tidemark, swinging his cane in utter nonchalance, as he waited for Jack to join him.
Seen close, the beach was even busier, with infantrymen of different regiments forming up or heading inland, scores of bluejackets carrying stores from boats and a handful of local carts creaking over the shingle. Jack heard an argument between an Ulsterman of the 27th and a young kilted Highlander, each speaking his own language and neither willing to back down. A Welsh sergeant of artillery split them up with a volley of oaths in yet another accent.
‘Hey, you two!’ came a harsh voice, directed at them. ‘Civilians! What the devil are you doing here?’ The officer was short and stout, with a bandana around his ample waist and sweat dripping from a red face. His accent was as Irish as the Liffey.
‘We’re here to help the engineers, Captain.’ Dover gave a short bow.
‘Aye? Well, I’m McConnell, so you’re helping me. What can you do?’
‘I’m a trained engineer, sir.’ Jack admitted. ‘Seven-year apprenticeship under …’
‘I don’t care a tinker’s damn who you were apprenticed to,’ McConnell said. He jerked a thumb towards Dover. ‘And who’s he? Your blasted manservant?’
‘My colleague, sir. He’s …’
‘I care even less who he is than I care who you signed articles for, Mr whatever your name is. We’re building earthworks to defend this blasted beach from the blasted French, even although they have already run away. God knows where, or why, but there you are. So grab a section of men – there’s some Swiss over there, and there’s hundreds of Corsican Rangers making themselves disagreeable somewhere. Don’t ask the Sawnies, though. Can’t understand a word of English, damn them.’
‘The Sawnies?’ Jack had never heard the term before.
‘The kilties – these damned Highland savages. Every second one is called Alexander, but they call themselves Sandy – Sawnie. Them and their kilts. Children at play, the lot of them, and about as much use as a Frenchman in a boat, blast them.’
Captain McConnell did not appear to be a happy man.
Beyond the belt of shingle, the beach was composed of rough sand that sucked at the feet of marching soldiers, while further inland dunes of shifting sand made digging impossible.
‘Bloody Italy,’ McConnell swore mightily. ‘Fortify the beachhead, they said, but how do you fortify a bloody beach with only a spade! I ask you, sir, how is it to be done? Wave it at the blasted French? Throw sand at the Cuirassiers? How, sir, you tell me!’
‘Sandbags,’ Jack gave the only word he knew of military engineering, and McConnell agreed.
‘That’s what I said, Mr whatever your name is. Sandbags. But where are they? Nowhere to be seen, that’s where. Nowhere to be seen. So we do as we can with what is available, and that’s bugger all, but lots of it.’ He shook his head. ‘So we dig trenches and make earthworks, Mr … what was your name?’
‘Tarver, sir. Jack Tarver.’ Jack was beginning to realise that military engineering had different rules to civilian work. Things seemed to be done on a shoestring and in a rush.
‘Mr Tarver and your dandy friend there. If you find digging trenches difficult, Mr Tarver, just ask young Lieutenant Boothby for help. He knows what to do.’ McConnell stalked away, shaking his head and muttering about sandbags.
Jack watched him go, brushed away the sweat that was slithering down his forehead and wondered if he should apply to join the Royal Engineers. If he did, he would still be using the skills he had learned, but he would have a regular income. But he was no warrior; McConnell was a captain, hardly a senior rank, yet he was above forty years old. What did he have to look forward to in life? An engineer would not be accepted as a gentleman in anybody’s mess, and Jack knew that most officers had private means to supplement their pay. He had nothing, so life would continue to be purse-pinching poverty, and without the possibility of a permanent home for Bethany. He would travel from posting to posting, growing ever feebler with age until the army decided to get rid of him, and he would beg his living in the streets.
But why was he even thinking about Bethany? She had left him for the dashing Commander Cockburn. And why was he shaking so much? Stretching out his hands before him, he noticed that his fingers were trembling uncontrollably. It was not like him.
‘Are you all right?’ Dover looked concerned. ‘You’ve gone very pale.’
‘I’ll be all right,’ Jack said, forcing a grin. ‘I don’t know what came over me there.’ Rigorous training at Wolvington College had taught him that there was no excuse for bodily weakness. He would continue working until he died, whatever happened. That was one benefit of a public school education.
‘You’d better be all right,’ Dover told him. ‘We have to find Sobczak and we won’t do that here.’ He looked around at the bustling beach. ‘Come on, Mr Tarver. Leave these redcoats to their digging, while we do the important tasks.’ He shook his head. ‘Gentlemen, don’t grub in the sand like blasted colliers!’
With an apologetic glance towards McConnell, Jack took a step after Dover, staggered and righted himself. He seemed to be having difficulty raising his feet above the ground, while there was an unaccountable roaring sound within his head, almost as though he were sinking in deep water.
‘Mr Dover!’ Jack shouted as he saw him stride away. ‘Mr Dover!’
He took another step, but his leg collapsed beneath him, and the ground rose upwards with sand soft and welcoming as he sank into it. He was quite comfortable lying here, with the sun of the morning warm on his back and the sound of the surf gentle in the distance. If only Bethany was here to look after him, he could quite enjoy the experience.
But Bethany had chosen Commander Cockburn – the Honourable Commander Cockburn.
Jack looked up into the concerned face of Lieutenant Boothby just as he realised he had fallen over. He lay still, unable to move, as people swarmed around him, speaking with hollow voices.
‘It’s the fever,’ a whispering Highland voice said, and he was lifted and placed in what passed for shade on that arid beach. ‘Give him water and leave him in peace.’
‘It’s malaria,’ somebody else said in the edged accent of Ulster.
‘Will he live?’ A third man asked, and Jack closed his eyes. He could feel the world whirling around him, sand and sun and soldiers all mingling together in a confusion of scenes and memories and images that tormented his mind: at once he was in the cold study in Wolvington, waiting for the call of ‘F-a-a-a-g’ that demanded instant obedience or terrible retribution;* next he was peering through parish records to try and find his elusive father.
‘He’ll be dead by nightfall,’ came one of the voices again.
He twisted against the confusion of his mind.
Does it matter? Without Bethany, does it matter if I live or die?
Jack gave up and allowed the fever to transport him to a place beyond his imagination.
* ‘Fag’ was used for a very junior pupil at a public school in England. When the senior pupils wanted some task performed, they shouted ‘Fag’ and the junior pupil would have to run to do the senior’s bidding. Failure to appear would mean a severe caning.