Tarver's Treasure

by Malcolm Archibald

‘Don’t fire until I give the word, lads!’ With his sword balanced over his shoulder, Cockburn strode forward. Jack realised with a shock that the lieutenant was singing ‘Happy Tawny Moor’, one of Bethany’s favourite songs.

  The sounds from the ships had merged into an awful cacophony of cracks and yells, and then the Rowan was hissing past, her starboard bow only yards from the Frenchman’s stern. Looking over, Jack saw its name painted in bright gold letters: Avanture.

  Cockburn was walking slowly aft, touching the shoulder of each gun captain and giving soft orders. ‘Now, fire!’

  The first cannon crashed out and leapt back against the ropes that restrained it. The sound was horrendous, deafening, but Cockburn had moved on, walking the length of the deck and giving the same order, so the entire weight of the Rowan’s starboard battery slammed against the unprotected stern of the Frenchman. Jack could not imagine the damage that these cannonballs were doing, as they smashed the full length of the French ship, tearing down bulkheads, destroying fixtures, killing and maiming men on their terrible passage.

  And then the Rowan was past, leaving Avanture behind. But then Cockburn was giving more orders, bringing the frigate about with a superb display of seamanship. She turned in a circle of taut canvas and rattling lines to crash her larboard side against the shattered stern of the Frenchman.

  ‘Boarders away! Follow me, lads!’

  Hacking a hole in his own boarding netting, Cockburn was first onto the French ship, swinging his sword as his men followed, so a torrent of British seamen with cutlass, pike and pistol rampaged along the enemy deck.

  ‘Look at that, Jack! Is it not glorious? Is Lieutenant Cockburn not just as a British seaman should be?’ Her eyes bright, Bethany grabbed Jack’s arm and gripped tightly. ‘He’s the younger son of an earl, you know, and still he risks his life for the country! Is that not just grand? Oh sometimes I do wish that I was a man!’

  Jack watched as the Rowan’s crew surged along the French deck. He had expected a mad, slashing disorganised charge, but Cockburn’s attack was highly organised, with sections of men taking charge of different parts of the ship. He saw some French resistance, but that single punishing broadside seemed to have taken the fight from them, so most threw down their arms at once. A few tried to return from the other vessel but, faced by thrusting pikes and cracking pistols, they also lost heart and surrendered. Within ten minutes, the French flag was fluttering down and the multi-crossed flag of Union was up in its place, as the crew of the Rowan cheered.

  ‘That’s how it’s done, Jack!’ said Bethany, laughing outright. ‘That’s how the Royal Navy rules the waves. Men like Lieutenant Cockburn!’ Gripping Jack’s arm, she spoke excitedly: ‘He is the Honourable Lieutenant Cockburn, in more ways than one!’

  As if he had heard his name, Cockburn turned and bowed to Bethany. His hat had fallen off and a shaft of sunlight penetrated the smoke to gleam from his dark red hair, momentarily creating the image of a halo. To Jack, the dashing lieutenant looked almost godlike, and he hated the entranced expression on Bethany’s face.

  The aftermath of battle was more harrowing than the action itself, for once the excitement had died there were the dead to bury, the groaning wounded to care for, the prisoners to guard and the ships to repair. The reality of Britain’s naval supremacy lay in the long row of canvas-covered corpses that were slid slowly into the sea, and the terrified injured who pleaded to escape the surgeon’s knife. Jack had never imagined what horrors iron shot and wooden splinters could inflict on a man’s frail body, but he learned anew just how strong Bethany was, as she volunteered to nurse the casualties.

  ‘They’re just men,’ she said as Jack protested her presence, ‘and they need help.’ Her smile did little to reassure him.

  Nearly as disturbing was the influx of incomers aboard the Rowan. While her broadside had not caused as much damage to the French frigate as Jack had expected, the third vessel had been crippled and was under tow. She proved to be a Russian brig, en route from St Petersburg to join the Russian squadron based at the Ionian Islands, but touching at Malta on some diplomatic errand. The more eminent of her passengers were transferred to the Rowan.

  ‘I am afraid that we will be more crowded for the remainder of our voyage,’ Cockburn said, as they stood on the quarterdeck. ‘For we have some Russian guests to accommodate, and there was one British prisoner of war on board the French vessel.’

  Jack nodded. ‘He will be pleased you happened along, Lieutenant Cockburn.’

  ‘More than pleased, I would say,’ Cockburn agreed. ‘He was shackled in double irons down in the orlop. The French must have thought him extremely dangerous, or very important.’ He glanced over his shoulder as the gig bumped against the hull. ‘Here he comes now.’

  As one seaman attached a boat hook onto the Rowan’s rail, another assisted a tall man through the entry port and onto the deck. Although he was bearded and filthy, as soon as his feet touched the scrubbed pine planking of the deck he shook off the seaman’s hand and, holding himself erect, muttered, ‘Leave me be, damn it! I can manage myself.’ Taking a deep breath, he looked around him, then he started and bowed as he spotted Bethany.

  ‘Good God, a gentlewoman! I did not expect to see such a thing on a British frigate!’ His voice was as cultured as any British nobleman.

  ‘Oh!’ Bethany covered her mouth with her hand before she remembered her manners and dropped in a curtsey. ‘Well, sir, the Royal Navy has many surprises, I am sure.’

  ‘John Dover, ma’am, at your service,’ the bearded man bowed.

  Jack glanced from Bethany to Dover and wondered exactly what this woman was who he had married.

  Chapter Three

  Enter John Dover

  Lieutenant Cockburn wasted no time in taking over the captain’s cabin and he invited a shorn and washed Dover to join him, along with Jack, Bethany and a few of the officers. It was the first time Jack had been in the captain’s cabin and he was surprised by how large it was compared to the quarters endured by the rest of the crew and how splendidly it was furnished.

  With a Turkish carpet on the deck and original oil paintings hanging between the canvas-shrouded carronades, the cabin revealed Captain Edwards’ artistic tastes, while the crystal decanters and silver cutlery that adorned the splendid oak table showed his wealth.

  ‘We had to douse the galley fires during the action,’ Cockburn explained, ‘so there can be no hot food this evening, I am afraid, but we can make do with cold ham and chicken and a duff made from ship’s biscuits.’

  The ham was well salted, and the duff still contained fragments of weevils, but Jack noticed that Bethany did not complain. Lieutenant Cockburn waited until the quiet steward had poured generous measures of brandy into the glasses before he started the conversation.

  ‘That was an excellent action, gentlemen, and I believe congratulations are in order.’

  The officers looked at each other. Used to Captain Edwards’ morose leadership, this openness was obviously something new. Midshipman Wetherall – stocky, freckled and irrepressible – grinned. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Lieutenant Cockburn then addressed Dover: ‘And now, sir, we are all agog with curiosity. We would dearly like to know who you are and why the French wanted your company so badly.’

  ‘All in good time, sir,’ said Dover, giving a small bow across the table. ‘First, I would dearly like to know more about this most attractive woman.’ He nodded to Bethany, who smiled in return.

  ‘Oh, I am Mrs Tarver,’ Bethany told him, ‘and you are too bold by half, sir.’

  ‘Or just bold enough, perhaps.’ Dover sipped at his brandy, his eyes challenging her over the rim of the glass.

  Jack took a deep breath; he could not allow this exchange to continue. ‘You are bold enough to insult my wife, Mr Dover, but are you bold enough to face a man?’

  Bethany said nothing, as every officer present concentrated his attention on her husband.

  Dover gave a sudd
en grin. ‘You are a civilian, sir, with no knowledge of me, yet you are challenging me?’ He shook his head. ‘You are a brave man, Mr Tarver, but I am sure that Mrs Tarver will appreciate your company for a little longer. For that reason, I will ignore your most natural indignation.’ Turning to Bethany, he bowed again: ‘Well, now, Mrs Tarver. Now that the pleasantries are over, I can tell you what I was doing on that French ship, if you are really interested.’

  ‘I believe we are all interested, Mr Dover,’ Lieutenant Cockburn said. ‘Once you have apologised to Mr and Mrs Tarver, you are free to inform us.’

  Dover’s grin broadened. ‘I apologise most humbly and freely, Mr Cockburn, both to Mr and to Mrs Tarver.’ Turning once more to the newly married couple, Dover asked, ‘I believe you are an engineer, sir?’

  ‘I am, sir,’ Jack agreed. He was not quite sure if he should accept the apology or insist on meeting this man over the barrel of a pistol, but he hoped the former was the correct course. He was anything but an expert with the barkers, while this Mr Dover seemed very sure of himself. ‘And pray tell us all what exactly you are, sir?’

  The grin faded slightly. ‘All in good time, Mr Tarver, and when I have explained myself perhaps you could tell me why a King’s ship is acting as a ferry to an engineer?’ Dover barked a short laugh.

  Lieutenant Cockburn gave Dover a look that would have brought his junior officers to instant heel. ‘The private affairs of a lady will always be respected on this ship, and I will thank you all to remember that. But now, Mr Dover, we are all agog to learn why the French appear to dislike you so intensely?’

  Sipping his brandy, Dover shook his head. ‘You will have surmised that I am not an ordinary civilian and you will understand that I cannot say much, Lieutenant Cockburn. For that I must beg your indulgence and forgiveness. However, I can say that the work on which I am engaged is of vital importance to our position in the Mediterranean, and perhaps for the continuance of the Third Coalition.’

  ‘Oh?’ Bethany arched her eyebrows. ‘It would seem that you failed then, Mr Dover. If Lieutenant Cockburn had not captured that French ship after a most gallant action, then your oh-so-vital work may have ended on the guillotine.’

  ‘A fact for which both I and the country will be eternally grateful.’ Dover bowed across the table to Cockburn. ‘And you, Mr and Mrs Tarver? You still have not explained why the navy is giving free passage to jobbing engineers.’

  ‘We are bound for Malta,’ Bethany replied, closing a hand over Jack’s arm. ‘Where my husband is to build a road.’

  ‘I see.’ Dover looked up sharply, and then looked away as if uninterested. ‘Your husband is to build a road? A very worthwhile occupation, I’m sure.’ His tone of voice suggested the opposite of his words.

  ‘And where did the French capture you, Mr Dover?’ Once again Lieutenant Cockburn ignored the by-play between Dover and Bethany. ‘If it was at sea, it may be of concern to the navy.’

  Dover shook his head. ‘On land, Lieutenant. I was working in Calabria.’

  ‘Calabria?’ Cockburn frowned. ‘I was unaware that we had forces there. Have we landed on the Italian mainland while the Rowan has been on passage from Gibraltar?’

  Dover shook his head. ‘I must ask you all not to repeat what I have just said. No, sir, we have not returned to southern Italy. Our army remains in Sicily, guarding the Straits of Messina, but …’ His glance at Bethany was significant. ‘I think I should refrain from further explanation – there is a lady present. And a road builder.’

  Two of the officers laughed as Bethany coloured, but again Lieutenant Cockburn stepped in. ‘Your caution may be for the best, Mr Dover. We should not expose Mrs Tarver to such dangers as excess information may cause.’

  Bethany’s curtsey to the lieutenant was as much an acknowledgement of his tact as his courtesy. They smiled to each other, like co-conspirators or old friends, as Jack glowered at Dover, who met his eyes, quietly musing, and saluted him with his brandy glass. Jack did not trust the half-amused smile on his mouth. He half wished he had pressed for a duel. Nevertheless, he might have had the satisfaction of seeing Dover along the wrong end of the barrel of a pistol yet, he mused.

  The great bastions of Valletta welcomed them with a blast of reflected heat as the sun bounced from the pale limestone.

  ‘Don’t you feel proud, Jack?’ Bethany asked, pointing to the white ensign that fluttered above the tricolour of Avanture. The Russian brig, jury rigged but afloat, limped in a few cables length astern, with her hull showing signs of her recent battle and her pumps working ceaselessly to discharge the water she had taken on board.

  ‘Oh!’ Bethany jumped, as the first of the Rowan’s cannon bellowed. She put a hand on Jack’s arm for support.

  ‘It’s all right, Mrs Tarver,’ Lieutenant Cockburn explained, sparing time for a wide smile and a slight bow. ‘We’re just saluting the fortress. There is no ball in the guns.’ He stepped closer. ‘I would never dream of doing anything to cause you any alarm.’

  ‘I see,’ Bethany replied, rewarding him with a brief curtsey, but she continued to cling to Jack as she enjoyed her first sight of Malta. ‘Does this not look very exotic, Jack? It is quite different from Hereford, or even Wales.’

  Jack nodded. Bethany had used these exact words when they had put into Gibraltar with dispatches. He wondered, uncharitably, if she was going to say that every foreign port was exotic, before he shook away his own ill temper. He did not know why he felt like this when he was on the verge of what promised to be a lucrative period of employment, for the terms Admiral Blacklock had outlined were generous indeed, if he only completed the road in time. Perhaps he felt so disconsolate because Mr Dover was on board; the man had an unsettling presence.

  The capture of the French frigate had been the only incident in what had been an enjoyable voyage, and Jack had used any time not spent with Bethany in learning all he could about road building, for it was a branch of engineering about which he knew very little.

  According to the packet that Admiral Blacklock had given him, he was to engineer a road from a harbour on the south coast of the island to the central town of Mdina. The technical difficulties would be interesting, but Jack had little doubts about his professional ability. If it was possible for a road to be built, he could build it, given enough time and sufficient labour.

  The time factor was important, however, as Admiral Blacklock had insisted the road should be built before winter set in. He had a mere six months to survey and lay out the road, then hire labourers to complete the construction.

  Leaning over the bulwarks, Jack watched the cannons of the fortress continue to blast their salute. This was not quite the beginning of his marriage as he had intended, but he had a host of memories at which to smile. He looked sideways at Bethany, admiring her shape as the offshore wind thrust the simple muslin dress against her body. Since their marriage he had become far more aware of her curves and feminine charm. She was so much more than just the interesting companion and lively mind of their youth, and he would remember this voyage for the rest of his life.

  All the same, he was looking forward to being back on land after the confinement of the ship. He would also be glad to ease Bethany away from Lieutenant Cockburn, who had paid her far too much attention, particularly since the death of Captain Edwards. He was a tall, good-looking and exceptionally charming man, with a hint of Scottish fire and a touch of the devil-may-care that Bethany seemed to find exceptionally attractive. Extremely aware that marriage had awakened Bethany’s sexuality as much as his own, Jack was equally conscious she could also magnetise other men.

  But what if she preferred them? He reflected on his own personality. He felt that he had little to offer: no money, no fount of anecdotes, certainly no dashing personality. Jack sighed, shaking his head. How could he keep Bethany’s interest when she met men such as Lieutenant Cockburn? How could he retain such a beauty when he did not even know his own background? Bethany had gleefully told him that Co
ckburn was the younger son of a Scottish earl, so he was a man used to the best that life could offer, a man with boundless confidence in himself and his abilities. How could he compete?

  ‘Is this not the most beautiful place you have ever seen in your life?’ Bethany broke into his introspective uncertainties. ‘Just look at all the colours, Jack! It is like a picture, except alive.’

  As the white smoke from Fort St Elmo cleared, HMS Rowan glided past Ricasoli Point under topsails only and entered the Grand Harbour, with its surrounding high walls and magnificent palaces. Bethany was correct: from the brilliant blue of the sky to the sparkling azure seas and the pale limestone buildings, the harbour was a palette of perfection.

  ‘And look at these strange vessels. I’ve never seen the like!’ Fastening the tie of her sun hat, Bethany nodded to the multicoloured boats with the high curved prows and straight sternposts that lay secure in the protection of the fort and the Royal Navy. ‘Are they not exotic?’

  Jack nodded, but he was more impressed with the safe anchorage, right in the heart of the Mediterranean. By snatching the island from Bonaparte’s claws and holding onto it despite his threats, Great Britain had acquired what was unquestionably an exceptionally fine harbour.

  Bethany surveyed the skyline, with its towers and domes. ‘This is Valletta,’ she told Jack, ‘once the home of the Knights of St John. Is it not romantic? Are you not glad that we are here, Jack?’

  ‘I am indeed,’ Jack agreed.

  ‘You don’t appear to be glad. Indeed, you look as if all the world has used you ill with that Friday face you are wearing!’

  Jack forced a smile, for he had no need for sorrow. He was with his wife, in a new and fascinating place, and on the verge of an honourable and lucrative position. He had every reason for satisfaction, and none for gloom. Chasing his fantastic concerns away, he pulled her close. ‘I am always glad when we are together, Mrs Tarver.’

  ‘And so you should be, Mr Tarver.’ Her smile held no subterfuge and he tried to dismiss his fears. This was his Bethany and his fantasies were foolish.