The Maltese Defence

by Simon Brading

  Curiously, though, the British woman was looking at her with that expression she so often had on her face which meant that someone, usually Bruce, had said or done something idiotic.

  Kitty would have groaned at her own stupidity if she’d had the breath to do so. With the last of her energy she groped for the toggle which inflated the life vest that she’d completely forgotten about in her worry at the landing. She seized it and jerked at it over and over, but she had left it far too late and her movements became more and more sluggish until finally she gave up, stopped struggling and filled her lungs.

  It wasn’t water that flooded in, though, it was deliciously cool air; in her frantic struggling she hadn’t noticed that she’d broken the surface.

  She coughed weakly and choked as she inhaled the water splashing into her face, trying to vomit it back out at the same time as she desperately gulped in huge mouthfuls of oxygen. Finally, she was able to breathe properly again and she closed her eyes and just lay there, bobbing up and down gently, luxuriating in the feel of the sun on her face and thanking whoever was listening for the fact that she was still alive.

  She slowly became aware of a buzzing noise and lifted her head to squint into the sky. Almost immediately she found Farrier’s Spitsteam. The woman was pulling a hard turn around her position, the white of her face showing under her dark blue helmet as she craned her head to peer down at her. Kitty raised an arm so that the young woman would know she was alright and waited until she saw a hand lift in reply before exhaustedly dropping her head back into the water, the effort of holding it up too much.

  A new sound soon drowned out the Spitsteam, though - the chugging of a rather old steam engine - and she twisted around to find the fishing boat she had seen from the air, black smoke pouring from its chimney. There was a man standing in the front of the boat and when he caught sight of her he shouted something she couldn’t hear over the noise of the labouring engine and pointed.

  The boat veered to head directly at her and for a second she thought it was going to run her over, but the fishermen obviously knew what they were doing because it made a slight course correction at the last moment and she passed down its side, close enough to touch it if she’d had the energy to do so. Two men were waiting in the middle of the boat, where the gunwale was closest to the water and she smiled at them, but they were too intent on their job to see. As she drew level with them they reached down for her. Strong fingers grasped her life jacket and they pulled her bodily into the boat as if she weighed nothing and deposited her onto something soft.

  One of the men, actually just a youth, left, but the other, a grizzled veteran of anywhere between sixty and eighty years of age, bent down to offer her a bottle. ‘Drink?’

  Kitty struggled to sit up, then looked at the bottle sceptically. It was a cloudy green, with a round bottom and no label and was wrapped in a decidedly greasy-looking netting. It was the kind of bottle that, in her experience in Mediterranean countries, was filled either with dregs or moonshine from illicit stills.

  ‘Is good!’ The man grinned at her with a mouth that was more gaps than teeth, then took a long swig. He smacked his lips and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then held it out again.

  Kitty contemplated refusing, but she needed to get on the good side of the men on the boat if she was going to persuade them to take her to Malta and that same experience told her that the best way to make friends with Mediterranean people was to drink with them.

  She smiled, took the bottle and saluted him with it, then tipped it up, trying not to think about how the man’s cracked lips had been wrapped around it so recently.

  The drink was surprisingly refreshing, but incredibly powerful and she found her eyes watering, even as a lovely warmth spread through her belly, contrasting nicely with the cold of the water and her clammy leathers.

  She gave the bottle back with a smile and a nod and, as he went to hang it from a hook on the single mast, took a look around.

  She was sitting on a pile of netting, which, unfortunately, had been recently used, was filled with silvery fish scales and smelled to high heaven. The boat itself was metal, with white sides, a red-painted deck, a small white wheelhouse and a black funnel with a red ring around its top. She was no expert on ships, but she knew engines fairly well and could tell by the sound of it that it was coal fired, which made it at least twenty years old, if not more. The boat was filthy, filled with crates of fish, and blood was smeared everywhere, but it had definitely been well looked-after and she couldn’t see any signs of rust.

  The sound of the engine grew and she looked up as black smoke billowed from the chimney. Something occurred to her and she searched the sky for Farrier, but the Spitsteam was gone - understandably the woman had only waited long enough to see her rescued before hightailing it out of enemy territory and heading home to report.

  The boat heeled as it turned and she caught sight of the haze on the horizon that was Sicily, only ten miles or so away. If she was going to persuade the fishermen to go to Malta instead she was going to have to speak to them soon, before anyone watching for approaching vessels caught sight of them.

  The old fisherman reappeared, but before she could say anything he beckoned to her and motioned to the back of the boat. ‘Come. Wet, cold.’

  He pantomimed rubbing his arms and shivering and Kitty nodded. She could feel her body temperature plummeting as the wind of their passage across the water cooled her flightsuit and her within it. It would be prudent to get warm and dry before speaking to the captain; there was no point in getting home if she died of pneumonia when she got there.

  She pushed herself up, but toppled as her legs gave way beneath her. She flailed, trying to reach anything to stop herself from nosediving into the metal deck, but bony hands shot out to catch her, arresting her fall almost before it had begun. Despite taking almost her full weight, the old man barely shifted and when she grabbed his arms to steady herself she felt corded muscle through his filthy jumper.

  She found her feet again, and when she felt secure she pulled back and gave him a smile. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ He gave her another of his broken smiles and shook his head, then beckoned again, but this time he offered her his arm as if they were going to promenade together.

  She laughed and took it gratefully, then stumbled with him past the wheelhouse to the rear of the boat, where there was a companionway.

  The stairs led directly into a small single low-ceilinged room which acted as kitchen, dining room, living room and bedroom. There was a table and four chairs, all bolted to the deck, in the middle of the space, a tiny stove and a sink along one wall, and two sets of bunk beds along another. It was tidy and organised and far cleaner than she would have expected, as were the towel and spare clothes the man pulled from the wardrobe built into the wall between the bunks and gave to her.

  She thanked him and took her life jacket, helmet and gloves off before starting work on her flightsuit. The man’s eyes widened in panic when she began to pull down the zipper on the front and he coloured and spun to face away from her.

  She grinned, amused, but was quite glad he’d turned away when she found that the tight leather was stuck to her - she wasn’t very modest at the best of times, you couldn’t be in a mixed military, but the way she had to wriggle her way out of it, sitting on one of the beds and sticking her legs in the air, was beyond indecent. The exercise was good for getting the circulation going in her limbs, though.

  Soon enough, she was dressed in the clothes - a rough shirt, woollen jumper and canvas trousers - and on her way to being warm again.

  ‘You can turn around now.’

  She wasn’t sure that the man understand the words, but he got their meaning and, after a cautious glance over his shoulder at her, he turned.

  ‘Are you the captain?’

  He gave her a puzzled look. ‘Cosa?’

  ‘Captain. Uh.’ She drew herself up to attention and saluted. ‘Aye aye, C
aptain!’

  ‘Ah! Il capitano!’ He shook his head. ‘No.’ He pointed up, towards the wheel house over their heads. ‘Il capitano there.’

  ‘Can I speak to him?’ When she got another blank look she racked her brain for the words in Spanish, knowing that the two languages were similar. ‘Parlar con el capitano?’

  ‘Ah, yes, yes! Of course!’

  As they came back on deck, Kitty glanced nervously in the direction of land and heaved a sigh of relief when she saw it was still only just above the horizon - the boat was even slower than she’d expected.

  The captain, a weather-worn man in his forties with black hair, was at the wheel with the youth beside him and he smiled at her when she appeared in the doorway of the wheelhouse. He nodded at the boy to take over the wheel, then came towards her with his hand extended.

  ‘Welcome on board the Cassandra. My name is Marco Marino. And you are one of the Misfit pilots, yes? Kitty Hawk is it?’

  ‘Kitty Wright, Hawk was my aircraft.’

  ‘Ah, I am sorry. My son, Orazio,’ he tilted his head in the direction of the youth at the wheel. ‘He has been talking about you non-stop since you came on board and I am afraid I was too busy to listen to him properly.’

  Kitty looked over the man’s shoulder and caught the youth staring in her direction. The man, Marco, glanced over his shoulder at him and grinned, shaking his head, then pointed forward. The boy looked away guiltily and made a show of concentrating on piloting the boat.

  Marco turned back to Kitty. ‘Did my father look after you?’

  ‘He did, thank you.’

  ‘Good. I’m sorry that I can’t offer you any hot food or drink right now; the fire must remain off while we are moving, but we will be in port in an hour.’

  ‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Captain.’ Kitty said, putting on what was, she hoped, her most winning smile. ‘I was wondering if I could persuade you to take me to Malta.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t.’

  ‘Not even for...’ she fished around in the deep pockets of the trousers and pulled out the ten sovereigns she had rescued from the small survival kit that had been attached to her life jacket. ‘This?’

  The man’s eyes widened at the sight of the gold, but it was only in surprise - Kitty couldn’t detect a single trace of greed in his expression. ‘I’m sorry, no.’

  ‘Is this not enough? I’m sure that I can get you more when we get to Malta. How much do you want?’

  The man looked at the money wistfully. ‘That amount of money would keep my family fed and clothed for many years, but I can’t take it.’

  ‘Why? Please!’ Kitty tried hard, but couldn’t keep her desperation from showing in her voice; being delivered to Sicily would mean the end of her war and, with Bertha on the island, probably her death, working as the slave of Hans Gruber.

  Marco shook his head. ‘You don’t understand - it is not because I don’t want to, it is because it is impossible. The Navy keeps close watch on us fishermen, they have regular patrols out and if they catch us going in the wrong direction with a full catch there will be dire consequences for me and my family.’

  ‘Oh.’ Kitty said, her face falling as she realised that there was nothing she could do. ‘I wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to you, or your family.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Marco smiled kindly. ‘That is not the only reason, though; we are down to our last lumps of coal and would not make it even half of the way to Malta - we were already on our way back to port and will barely have enough to get home after turning around and pick you up.’

  ‘Thank you for doing that, by the way.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’ The man shrugged. ‘I would have done the same, even for a Prussian.’

  The man said the word with such vehemence, almost spitting it out, that Kitty couldn’t help but be curious. ‘You don’t like Prussians?’

  The man glanced nervously in the direction of his son, then took Kitty back out onto the deck where his words would be more easily lost in the wind. ‘The Prussians are greedy. They are like children who take more cake than they can possibly eat, just because it is there.’

  ‘But your emperor decided to side with them.’

  ‘Because he is as greedy as they are, but worse, he is stupid. He can’t see that he is being used by the Prussians and when they are done with everyone else they will merely take away what he has gained.’

  ‘If they win.’

  ‘If?’ The man gave her a sad look. ‘It is far too likely, I’m afraid.’

  Kitty shook her head emphatically. ‘The British will stop them.’

  Marco chuckled. ‘I can tell you are American; so optimistic.’ He sighed, his smile evaporating. ‘Ask your British friends if they think they will win this war. I think you will find less hope and more stubbornness - that upper lip of theirs.’

  ‘They stopped the Prussians from conquering Britain and they’ve been held back from Muscovy.’

  ‘But for how long? Muscovy will fall soon enough and then Britain will be alone. Unless your countrymen follow your example and do what is right. However, if I read the newspapers correctly, I don’t think your President Taft is going to let that happen any time soon.’

  Kitty looked impressed. ‘For a fisherman you seem to know a lot about the world. And how come you speak such good English?’

  ‘I studied physical oceanography and marine evolution at Tilbury University.’

  ‘Ah, OK.’ Kitty nodded in understanding. She didn’t have much of an idea about or interest in most British institutions, but even she had heard of the marine university in the London estuary, one of the three great universities, famously founded by Darwin to study and teach about the three natural worlds of land, air and sea. People came from all over the world to study at them, one of her friends from Ohio had gone to Bury University, in the South Downs, to study Dendrology in fact, and Derek was a graduate of Merthyr Tydfil University, up in the Brecon Beacons, which was dedicated to the study of the creatures of the air. ‘Do all Sicilian fishermen have your education?’

  ‘The older generation are not; their education was the sea and their fathers, but men and women of my age were offered the chance to study in France or England after our participation in the Great War and most of us took it. So yes,’ he grinned, ‘I am far too qualified to be slinging a net, but I am happy.’ The man glanced into the wheelhouse to make sure his son was still concentrating on his job before continuing. ‘My son was awarded a scholarship to Tilbury, but the war broke out just as he was due to take up his place, the same month in fact. He is not happy as a fisherman, he wanted more for his life and to be honest, so did I.’

  The man shrugged, then sighed. ‘At least as a fisherman he is protected from being dragged into the war; the armies need food.’

  He turned to stare out across the water towards the approaching land. After a few seconds of silence he seemed to come to a decision. ‘We will be at the dock in just under half an hour. There are no authorities in my village so you will be my guest tonight, but then tomorrow I will have to take you to the police in Vittoria, sorry.’

  ‘I quite understand.’

  He gave her a nod of thanks. ‘We will speak again later, but for now, I must prepare for our arrival. You should remain below; unloading is a dangerous enough job without a famous pilot distracting everyone, especially my son!’

  Kitty grinned. ‘OK, will do. Oh, and while I’m down there, can I have some fresh water to wash my flightsuit in? I should get the salt out before it dries.’

  ‘Of course,’ Marco nodded, ‘we no longer need to conserve it, so use as much as you want. My father will give you what you need.’

  ‘Thank you, Captain, for everything.’

  ‘You are welcome and please, call me Marco.’

  Marco’s father, who turned out to be called Matteo, took Kitty back down into the living area and showed her how to work the water pump which fed the tap in the sink, as well as the tiny
shower in a cubicle under the stairs. She wound it up by hand, refusing to let the old man do it when he offered, then put her flightsuit, gloves and helmet in the sink and ran fresh water on them. It wasn’t an ideal solution to the leather having been soaked in sea water, but it was the best she could do until she got hold of some proper cleaning and conditioning materials.

  After the third rinse, she realised that it was as good as it was going to get and she held up the dripping suit and looked at Matteo quizzically. He took her to the shower and pulled a drying rack out of the wall. Once the suit was draped over it he opened two grills in the walls, one high up, through which could be seen the sky, and the other at the base of the opposite wall.

  Hot air with a whiff of engine oil immediately began to fill the minute space and he frowned and closed the bottom panel more than half way until the air was only slightly warm before grunting in satisfaction. He closed the door and smiled at her. ‘Dry well.’

  Kitty laughed. ‘Thank you!’

  There was a shout from on deck - the youth, Orazio, calling for his grandfather - and Matteo grinned apologetically, then climbed up the stairs to the deck.

  There were small portholes on either side of the cabin and Kitty went to first one, then the other, trying to catch a glimpse of the fishing town they were heading for, but she couldn’t see far enough forwards and could only make out an as yet distant coastline of trees through the cloudy glass.

  She gave up and began pacing up and down the small room, considering her prospects for the future.

  Prisoners of war usually made their way home either through exchange or escape. By far the most likely in her situation would be an exchange and she had no doubt that Dorothy Campbell would already be preparing to contact the Italians. However, her status as an American national complicated things somewhat. If things were kept unofficial, as she was sure Campbell would try to do, there would be no problem, but if things moved into official channels then difficulties would almost certainly arise because of her status as an American national. She wasn’t sure if the British could even legally negotiate for her and if they weren’t and it was left up to her own countrymen then her prospects became less than encouraging; the American government had made it perfectly clear that her involvement both in the Iberian conflict and with the RAC was unsanctioned and that she was on her own. Which meant they wouldn’t lift a finger to liberate her, no matter who her grandfather was.