‘Yes, Sir Alexander.’ Bethany curtsied, but her eyes never left those of the Admiral. ‘It is good to know that the Maltese people desire our presence.’
‘Indeed, it is. It is only a pity that a small minority disagree with their fellows. They are a fine people, Mrs Tarver, and your husband will be instrumental in keeping these islands British and free from Bonaparte’s wiles.’ He smiled: ‘I believe that it is as a British port and arsenal alone that Malta can contribute to check the progress in this quarter of the present common enemy of Europe.’
‘Yes, Sir Alexander,’ Jack agreed. He glanced at Bethany. The Admiral was being so emphatic in convincing them that it was obvious there was some doubt over the matter.
Ushering them to the padded seats around the table, Sir Alexander rang a silver hand bell and called for drinks, even as he unrolled a map of the island.
Weighing down the corners of the map with lead musket balls, Sir Alexander indicated the island. ‘Malta, you see, is not large. At seventeen miles by nine, it is slightly smaller than the Isle of Wight and has around 200 miles of coastline. However’ – he looked up and raised his voice to add emphasis to his next point – ‘it is important for its strategic position in the heart of the Mediterranean. For centuries, it was the home of the Knights of St John, who warred on the Mohammedan powers of North Africa, but now things have changed.’
‘Indeed, Sir Alexander,’ agreed Jack, studying the map, looking for the central town of Mdina and the southern fishing village to which he was to build a road.
‘Bonaparte removed the Knights as a power, but Malta is more important than ever. Whoever holds Malta controls the central Mediterranean, which is crucial to our global strategy.’ Sir Alexander looked up. ‘You may know that the Third Coalition, which we organised and are financing, is not, at present, militarily successful.’
‘Not successful?’ Bethany looked up. ‘I have been led to believe that Admiral Nelson did a thorough job of defeating the combined fleet in October past!’
‘Oh, we can always win at sea,’ Ball agreed, ‘but on land, our record is poor. The armies of the Third Coalition have fared badly, I fear. Bonaparte defeated the Austrians and smashed both them and the Russians at Austerlitz. Great Britain needs a land victory badly, or however much money we throw at Europe we will be left without allies.’ He sighed. ‘But in the meantime, all we can do is buy Continental armies.’
‘But what about our own army?’ Bethany asked. ‘Why can’t we use our own soldiers?’
‘Ah …’ Sir Alexander looked pensive for a moment, then poured from the crystal decanter that a soft-footed servant had brought. ‘Try the wine, Mr Tarver,’ he suggested. ‘It is Maltese. If we are to be guests on this island, then we should endeavour to encourage their economy.’
‘Of course, Sir Alexander,’ Jack agreed. He preferred English beer, but his first tentative sip had not been as offensive as he had feared.
‘Now, Mrs Tarver,’ Sir Alexander continued, ‘why can’t we use our own army? Because it’s a broken reed, I’m afraid. We’ve won one battle in recent years, when Abercrombie defeated the French at Aboukir in Egypt, and then got himself killed.’ He finished his wine and replaced the glass on the table. ‘He’s buried in Malta, you know. Until we beat a French army of equal numbers, and preferably in a European campaign, our allies will rightly consider our army as second class and we will have to hire their soldiers.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Unused to such a stark appraisal of Britain’s military performance, Bethany looked dismayed. She glanced at Jack, who could offer no succour.
‘So that is why we are subsidising King Ferdinand of the Two Sicilies. With both Russia and Austria defeated, we have only the Sicilies as a fighting ally against the French. As Malta is the closest British base to that kingdom, we must retain this island if we are to help.’
‘I see, Sir Alexander.’ Jack nodded. He was flattered that Sir Alexander was discussing such high matters with him but remained more interested in his own forthcoming engineering undertaking.
‘You will be aware that the prime value of Malta is the Grand Harbour,’ Sir Alexander said, jabbing a finger downward at Valletta. ‘It is undoubtedly one of the finest natural harbours anywhere.’
Jack nodded, ‘Yes, Sir Alexander.’
‘However, the south coast, as you see, is far more dangerous, with cliffs and rocks and headlands for our ships to negotiate. It is for that reason that I have asked Mr Egerton to build a harbour of refuge in case of bad weather, and I need a road connecting the harbour to Rabat and Mdina.’
That made sense. Ships caught on a bad coast would appreciate somewhere to run for shelter, and a road would be useful to bring in supplies and information. ‘I cannot see a village on that particular stretch of coast, Sir Alexander.’ Jack traced his finger along the map. ‘There seems to be no habitation on the coast between this place, Kalafrana’ – he stumbled over the unfamiliar names – ‘in the extreme east, and Ghajn Tuffieha in the west. Perhaps it is too small to be on the map?’
Ball smiled softly. ‘There is a village, Mr Tarver, although it hardly warrants the name. It is called Fiddien.’
For some reason, the name seemed sinister. ‘Fiddien?’
‘It is perched right on the edge of the cliff.’ Sir Alexander smiled. ‘There are only a few houses, and it’s the last place in Malta that any Frenchman would want to visit.’ He laughed softly. ‘I have already mentioned Vincenzo Borg. You may have heard of Joseph Borg?’
‘He was another of the leaders of the Maltese resistance,’ Bethany said. ‘I take it by the name that they were related?’
‘Cousins, I believe,’ Sir Alexander said. ‘But with quite different ideas. While Vincenzo Borg is content to have us here, Joseph is tainted with republicanism. He did not want the Knights or the French in charge, nor does he want us. Remember I mentioned that there is a small minority who want us out of Malta? Mr Joseph Borg heads that minority. I believe he wants Malta to rule itself.’
‘What a card!’ Bethany looked at Jack, astonished that anybody could not immediately recognise the benefits of British rule. ‘That’s fustian nonsense, surely! Even you cannot deny the absurdity, Jack.’
‘Indeed not,’ Jack agreed.
‘Mr Egerton has met Mr Joseph Borg and the two do not see eye to eye,’ Sir Alexander continued. ‘And that may cause you difficulties.’
‘Can you not just put him in jail?’ Practical as ever, Bethany gave her solution.
‘That is what the French would do,’ Sir Alexander said softly. ‘I hope to govern this island by consent, not by force.’
As Bethany nodded grudging understanding, Jack murmured, ‘It would seem that this engineering operation may not be straightforward.’
‘Indeed,’ Sir Alexander agreed. ‘Mr Egerton is certainly making heavy weather of it. He does not seem to be the most diplomatic of men and has experienced labour problems, which is slowing him down.’ He straightened up, sipping at the red wine. ‘That is why the navy carried you here directly, Mr Tarver. There are a number of competent engineers, but Admiral Blacklock indicated that few have your uncommon capabilities.’ He glanced at Bethany and produced his benign smile, more like that of a parish priest than a fighting admiral, Jack thought.
‘That was kind of him.’ Bethany could not be quiet for long.
Sir Alexander’s smile became slightly cynical. ‘Not necessarily, Mrs Tarver. Admiral Blacklock is a pragmatic man. He takes all considerations into account, so he was not acting out of the kindness of his heart. He believes that your experiences with the Hereford Canal may have helped prepare you for this task.’
Jack glanced at Bethany, who was frowning. ‘I don’t see how, Sir Alexander.’ He looked over to the Admiral. ‘I just dug a canal.’
Sir Alexander shook his head. ‘You dug a canal, Mr Tarver. And you dealt with rioting navvies, I hear.’ He indicated the seats around the table. ‘Pray sit down, Mr Tarver, for what I am about to say is not inte
nded for the general ear. Mrs Tarver, I take it I may rely on your discretion?’
Bethany nodded. ‘Of course, Sir Alexander.’
‘There’s no “of course” about it, Mrs Tarver.’ Sir Alexander’s smile no longer disguised the steel in his eyes. ‘There are many people I would not count in my confidence, and Mr Egerton is one such … however …’ – his eyes softened to their previous amiability, before he continued – ‘as I said, Admiral Blacklock recommended you both. He said that together you form a unique combination that may be useful to me. You, Mr Tarver, have the engineering qualities I need, and being in company with Mrs Tarver will prove your stability. As I said, the Maltese are family-oriented and they prefer married men. There is less risk to their daughters that way.’
‘I see, sir,’ Jack said.
‘Indeed.’ Sir Alexander’s voice was dry. ‘But that is only one consideration. You are also classically educated, a Wolvington man, which can only be an advantage.’
‘I fail to see how that is relevant, Sir Alexander.’
‘If you can survive the hell’s kitchen of an English public school, then nothing else will ever be as bad.’ Jack was unsure if Sir Alexander was being humorous or not, but he thought it politic to smile.
‘Mr Egerton lacks that advantage,’ Sir Alexander continued. He was silent for a second, and then straightened in his seat. ‘In the meantime, let me show you exactly where you will be working, and tell you what you have to do.’ His smile held a wealth of understanding. ‘I know that Admiral Blacklock gave you few details.’
Jack nodded. ‘A few, Sir Alexander.’
Turning the map around, Sir Alexander pressed his forefinger down on the centre. ‘Here is Mdina, the old capital of Malta. Outside of Valletta, it is still the most strategic place in the islands.’
‘Yes, Sir Alexander,’ Jack agreed, locating Mdina and the adjacent town of Rabat.
‘And here,’ Sir Alexander said, tracing his finger along the south coast, ‘are nothing but cliffs and rocks and headlands. See these names? Blata, Gebel, Ras and Rdum – they mean rock, rocky hill, headland and cliff. Along here’ – he then traced a section of the southern coast – ‘is the Rdum Depiro, which we know as the Dingli Cliffs. These are limestone cliffs that in places rise 800 feet sheer from the sea. There may be few villages, but there are plenty navigational dangers for our seamen.’ Sir Alexander looked up again. ‘If the sirocco is blowing, that is a south-easterly wind direct from North Africa, this coast can become very unpleasant, and vessels can be driven against the cliffs. That is one reason for building a harbour.’
‘You say one reason, Sir Alexander,’ interrupted Bethany, pouncing on the Admiral’s word. ‘That would imply there are others.’
Sir Alexander nodded. ‘Yes, Mrs Tarver. We do not know what course this war may take, so it may be necessary, from time to time, to have vessels there.’
‘Why?’ Bethany wondered.
‘Sometimes,’ Sir Alexander explained, ‘it is best to conceal the movement of our vessels. Valletta, in common with every port in the Mediterranean, is cosmopolitan. As well as the legitimate traders, there are Greeks, Bulgarians, Albanians and the usual ragtag and bobtail. The Manderaggio district in particular contains the sweepings of the Mediterranean. There are even French prisoners of war, for God’s sake, some let out on parole. Any of these could send or sell information to the French, so it is advisable to have another, less accessible harbour from where our ships can leave.’
Motioning Jack closer, Sir Alexander pointed to a spot on the southern coast. ‘This is the bay where I want Mr Egerton to build me a harbour of refuge, and the bay from which you will build me a road to Mdina.’
Jack looked closer. The map was hand drawn, but it was obvious that the bay was little more than a rocky cove cowering between two headlands. He read the names, trying to translate as he did so: Ras il-Wahx, or Horror Point; Ras il-Mignuna – Mad Point and the bay itself was Bahar Ahrax: Rugged Bay.
Sir Alexander looked over his shoulder. ‘The names should inform you it is not exactly a soft sandy shore, suitable for a pleasant Sunday stroll and ladies’ bathing parties.’
Jack looked closer. ‘And there is Fiddien, right there.’
Even on the map it was like a village at the end of the world. There was no habitation for miles on the landward side, and to the south were only great cliffs and the Mediterranean Sea. There seemed no reason for any village to be built there.
Stepping back from the map, Sir Alexander spoke over his shoulder, as if in afterthought. ‘I have let a house for you a mile or so outside of Mdina. It is handy for your work, Mr Tarver, and Mrs Tarver has the amusements of Mdina and Rabat to hand, if she so wishes.’
Jack bowed. ‘Thank you, Sir Alexander, that is most kind.’
‘Most essential, Mr Tarver. But now I think I had better bid you farewell. You have a road to build and I have an island to run.’ Standing up, he bowed to Bethany, while holding out his hand to Jack. ‘I expect a weekly report on your progress, Mr Tarver, and if you could come to see me every month or so, I would be most grateful. The sooner this harbour and road is constructed, the more secure I shall feel about the southern portion of the island.’ He faced Bethany again. ‘The house is named Ta Rena, Mrs Tarver, and I hope that you find your stay on our island most interesting.’
‘Oh, I’m sure we all will.’
The door opened and Dover walked uninvited into the room. ‘With Mrs Tarver around, I think I can guarantee that things will be interesting,’ he said.
His bow was as low and mocking as Bethany’s curtsey was perfunctory.
Chapter Five
The Road to Fiddien
There were two mule carts waiting in the courtyard: one to transport them across the island, the other to carry their luggage. One of the Maltese drivers helped them both up, while two sunburned seamen under the command of a petty officer eyed the Maltese suspiciously, as if expecting them to gallop away.
‘That was a most strange conversation with the Admiral, Jack, was it not? I thought it was a bit smoky, the navy providing us with transport, but now we know why, don’t we? Sir Alexander wishes you to act as a diplomat as much as an engineer.’ Bethany grabbed her hat as the cart jerked to an untidy start. ‘Don’t you think it exciting? It seems we are to help persuade these people of the benefits of British rule and help to win the war.’
‘I am here to build a road,’ Jack reminded her. ‘That is my first priority.’
‘Of course. I would not dream of anything else. But when you are working, I will certainly keep my eyes open for this Joseph Borg fellow and maybe ask some questions.’
‘No,’ Jack replied, sternly. Reaching across, he held her arm. ‘Bethany, I beg you to restrain your natural curiosity. Such things always lead to trouble.’
‘Oh, Jack, you are such an engineer! This could be an adventure! Think of it, we are right at the heart of things here in Malta.’ She looked to him, her eyes bright. ‘But I am still not sure that he told us the whole truth. I really am not!’
Jack shook his head as the cart jolted out of the courtyard and into a wide square surrounded by some of the most elaborate architecture he had ever seen. ‘I am sure he did not,’ he agreed. ‘And that is all the more reason to build a road and return home. I want nothing to do with this Mr Borg, and neither should you. You are an English gentlewoman, Bethany, not some smooth-tongued politician!’
Jack turned away. He believed that Bethany was entirely correct and Sir Alexander had not told the whole truth. The entire interview had been as unusual, in fact, as a Royal Naval ship having made room for an engineer and his wife at short notice. Jack frowned. Pondering Bethany’s words, he agreed that there was certainly something very smoky about this commission, with a limited time to build a road and Mr Borg waiting in the wings. And, as if that were not enough, there was the worrying presence of the sinister Mr Dover.
Jack had been in Malta for only a few hours but already he felt thre
atened and alienated.
‘Why the Friday face, Jack? At least we are on our way, and we have a house waiting for us and the possibility of adventure!’ Bethany had her head on one side, obviously assessing her husband. ‘What is on your mind, Jack? What to buy with your commission?’
Jack tried to look innocent. ‘I was just thinking about the work involved,’ he said.
‘And that’s another bag of moonshine,’ Bethany retorted, warmly. ‘I know you too well, Jack Tarver …’
‘Mr Tarver!’ Running beside the cart and waving both hands in the air, Mr Egerton greeted them as if they were saviours from the Promised Land. ‘Mr Tarver! What did the Admiral say? Did he find a labour force for me … for us? And what advice did he give?’
Jack sighed. The irritating Mr Egerton was another reason to build his road quickly and get back home. Moving aside, he made room. ‘Up you come, Mr Egerton, and I’ll tell you everything.’
He told Mr Egerton the engineering portion of the recent conversation, pushing the rest aside. Mulling over his task once more, he realised he had to build a road from central Malta to a tiny hamlet on the edge of a cliff, across land he had not seen, with a recalcitrant work force. He also had to watch for some patriot who had taken a dislike to Mr Egerton and there may be French spies on the island. There was certainly a British spy, but hopefully Mr Dover would return to Sicily very soon. And all this was in addition to living in a strange place, with an entirely different culture and climate. Ludlow seemed very far away.
As they left the walls of Valletta, the heat seemed to redouble, thumping down from above and rising from the hard, stony ground. Removing her canvas hat, Bethany fanned herself and exclaimed when the cart clattered into one of the many ruts.
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