Tarver's Treasure

by Malcolm Archibald

  ‘Bethany!’ Jack held her arm. ‘Are you all right? I knew I should have left you behind rather than dragging you half across Europe!’

  ‘Oh, Jack, don’t fuss!’ Bethany removed his hand. ‘I’m not made of glass, you know.’ Bending closer, she lowered her voice so that Mr Egerton could not hear. ‘If you behave yourself, Jack, you can inspect me for bruises later.’

  Jack felt the colour rising to his face at the promise in her eyes. He should be used to Bethany teasing him by now, but this lascivious side of her was something unexpected. This woman was not quite the mischievous but level-headed blue stocking he had thought he knew, and his near dormant doubts returned. What if he could not cope with this new Bethany? And what was worse, what if she wanted something more than he could give?

  Anxieties about Bethany added to Jack’s burden, as the cart jolted along the track and mosquitoes whined around them, biting at will.

  ‘Did you know that St Paul landed here?’ Mr Egerton said. ‘And that the Knights of St John held it for centuries against the Barbary corsairs? I would wish that the Knights were back now; they might get these lazy blackguards to do some work!’

  ‘What a strange place.’ Ignoring Mr Egerton’s prattle, Bethany concentrated on her surroundings, seemingly determined to extract the maximum enjoyment from this adventure. ‘Just look at that woman milking her goats at her own front door. And what a profusion of shrines! It’s nothing like Hereford.’

  As he looked around, he noticed the surface of Malta was a plateau that sloped upwards to the south, with outcrops of white-ish limestone on which perched small villages. A church dominated each village, some appearing far too large for the attendant population and all trying to outdo its neighbours in elaboration and style.

  While the higher ground was bare, with limestone ribs exposed to the sun, hundreds of tiny fields spread over the low country. Silvery-grey stone walls separated each field, many of which seemed to lie fallow under the punishing glare, but there were the remains of a carpet of wild flowers, thyme, wolfsbane, hyacinth; the ground was more fertile than it appeared. Terraces climbed the lower slopes, with reddening tomatoes, yellow melons and wilting wheat giving splashes of colour to a landscape that was more brown than green.

  ‘It’s not at all like Hereford,’ Jack agreed. He looked around at the parched countryside, where men and women worked, backs bent as they toiled at the ground. There seemed no laughter, no joy, as they laboured in the heat.

  ‘They appear to be hard workers,’ Jack pointed out, imagining these men building his road. ‘If they put in that much effort, I’ll have the road completed well within the six months.’

  ‘They’re only hard workers at their own fields,’ Mr Egerton told him. ‘They refuse to work for me.’

  ‘Maybe you haven’t asked them properly.’ Bethany obviously had no intention of being pleasant to Mr Egerton. She yelped as the cart crashed over a rut, and held on to Jack as they nearly overturned on a particularly prominent rock. ‘I thought that English roads were bad! This is insufferable.’

  Jack nodded his agreement. He had been looking at the road surface as they travelled, wondering how it could be improved. ‘I doubt these have ever been properly made,’ he said. The challenge was quite satisfying, if a bit daunting. He was very tempted to vault from the cart for a proper inspection, but instead he sat tight and allowed Bethany to cling to him.

  ‘There’s Mdina,’ said Mr Egerton, gesturing to the town that had been visible for some time. ‘Stop, driver!’

  Shrugging, the driver halted the slowly plodding mule. Jack waited for the dust to settle before peering forward. Easily defensible on its central ridge, the grey walls of Mdina rose from an oasis of fertile fields, with the baroque cathedral thrusting upwards to God. Even this close, the walls seemed to waver in the heat haze, as though there was an additional, invisible layer of protection.

  ‘That’s magnificent!’ Bethany spoke in a hushed tone, as if in reverence. ‘It’s like Camelot.’

  ‘Mdina was the old capital,’ Mr Egerton told her, ‘but now it’s the place where many of the garrison officers choose to live.’

  There was movement in front, fresh dust rising from the atrocious track, and the mule cart driver muttered something incomprehensible.

  ‘That’s a horseman coming this way,’ Mr Egerton said eagerly. ‘It’s probably one of the officers out for a ride. You can’t go hunting here, as there’s nothing to kill except lizards and a few tiny birds, so they steeplechase across country and chance the anger of the farmers.’

  ‘He’s coming this way,’ Jack said quietly. ‘It might be best to wait until he passes by, as this road is hardly wide enough for one, yet alone two.’

  Shielded by dust of his own making, the rider drew rein within a few yards of them. As soon as the air cleared, he addressed Jack directly.

  ‘You’ll be the other damned English engineer, I take it? Come to tell us what to do in our own land!’

  As Jack stared, tongue-tied, Mr Egerton jumped from the cart. ‘Mr Tarver, this is Joseph Borg.’

  There was a few seconds’ silence, as Jack and Borg surveyed each other, but it was Bethany who spoke first.

  ‘So, you are the famous Mr Joseph Borg!’ Grabbing Jack’s hand to help her to dismount from the cart, Bethany dropped in a low curtsey. Her smile could not have been broader. ‘My goodness, sir, Admiral Ball was full of praise for you and we have heard about your exploits even in England! Meeting you is a true honour.’

  When he had first heard about Joseph Borg, Jack had created a romantic image of an outlaw with rings in his ears, perhaps a scarred face and a pistol pushed through a waist sash, but instead he saw a middle-aged, middle-sized man who would not have looked out of place in any English parish. With a cloak reaching from his throat to his calves, and his tricorne hat pulled forward over his face, Borg was the picture of respectability, although he looked slightly surprised at his reception. He bowed awkwardly from the saddle. ‘Thank you, madam. I was not aware that Sir Alexander had such a high opinion of me.’ He glanced at Jack, then back to Bethany. ‘Nor was I aware that there would be a woman present. I apologise for my intemperate language.’

  ‘A lady, please,’ Bethany rebuked mildly. ‘I have already had to correct my husband on that score, many years ago.’

  ‘Your husband?’ Borg again looked towards Jack.

  ‘Jack Tarver. At your service, sir.’ Jack had joined Bethany and made an elaborate bow. He was not sure what game she was playing, but he trusted her enough to follow her lead. ‘And may I complement you on your excellent English,’ he continued, but Bethany was speaking again.

  ‘My husband is the damned English engineer who built the Hereford Canal.’ At this, Bethany put a proprietorial hand on Jack’s sleeve. ‘And now he is here to build a road to help Malta defend herself against the French.’ She curtseyed again. ‘Although I think that is something that may not be quite so necessary, with men of your calibre on hand.’

  Borg’s frown was rapidly lessening. ‘Sir Alexander should employ you as a diplomat, Mrs … Carver?’

  ‘Tarver. Mrs Jack Tarver.’

  ‘Tarver – it was Tarver.’ Borg looked Jack up and down, from the brim of his tricorne hat to the toes of his scuffed boots, but Jack could not read his expression. ‘Is Tarver a common name in Great Britain?’

  ‘I know of no other, save ourselves,’ Bethany replied. ‘Why do you ask, sir?’

  Bog shrugged. ‘No reason, Mrs Tarver, beyond simple curiosity.’ He glanced at Mr Egerton, who had remained in the cart, snapping his fingers and looking embarrassed. ‘Well, we shall see what this Mr Tarver makes of Malta, shall we not?’

  ‘This Mr Tarver? Indeed, Mr Borg, and we also shall see what Malta makes of this Mr Tarver. And of Mrs Tarver.’ Bethany’s chin thrust slightly forward in that determined manner that she adopted in times of adversity. ‘But in the meantime, sir,’ she smiled again, ‘could you direct us to our new house? Admiral Ball told
us roughly where it was, but not exactly.’

  Borg’s frown returned. ‘And which house might that be, madam?’

  ‘Sir Alexander referred to it as Ta Rena.’

  There was a moment’s silence, as Borg nodded, studying Bethany closely. ‘I see,’ he said slowly.

  ‘You see? Tell me, pray, what you see,’ Bethany asked, but Borg merely nodded.

  ‘Ta Rena is a fine house, Mrs Tarver.’ He raised his voice only slightly, but took immediate control, as he gave an order in Maltese.

  ‘Please return to the cart. The driver will follow me.’

  Easing onto an even narrower track, they jolted around the walls of Mdina, crossed what may have been a dry watercourse and approached a high ridge, on top of which perched one of the small villages that dominated the landscape. It seemed to cower under the sun, limestone buildings squatting sightlessly above the baking countryside, overlooked by the dome of one of Malta’s ubiquitous churches. All around, walls of unmortared limestone restrained herds of multi-hued goats.

  ‘Mtarfa,’ Borg introduced the village, his voice flat. ‘And there is Ta Rena,’ he pointed with his hat. ‘The previous owner left during the French occupation, so it’s been empty for some time.’

  In a prominent position slightly outside the main settlement, Ta Rena stood alone, as if it did not quite belong. From Jack’s position in the valley, the house looked tall and slightly larger than the others.

  Rumbling up the ridge, the cart ground to a creaking halt outside the house and Bethany examined it critically. Ta Rena looked old, solid and different from anything they had imagined. Within a three-foot-high gate was a small stone threshold, bare of elaboration or decoration. The house itself was built of limestone, with the first floor externally whitewashed and the upper floor weathered by the sun. Small windows sat on either side of the heavy red, wooden door, while immediately above was an elaborate stone balcony, facing east. There was a niche on one wall, containing a statute of the Madonna, with the paint now faded and peeling.

  ‘Idolaters,’ Mr Egerton said and looked away.

  ‘I like it,’ Bethany said, nodding. Then added, ‘Indeed, I can’t think of a better guardian.’ She looked closely, frowning. ‘I’ll have to re-paint her, though.’

  Jack became aware of Borg’s sudden interest and looked again at Bethany, as she leaned back to examine her new home.

  ‘The entire house appears thoroughly delightful, Mr Borg. It looks suitably exotic.’ She glanced at Jack, conveying a message with her eyes. ‘And very mysterious, don’t you think, Jack? How good it was of Sir Alexander to send us here.’

  Jack hid his growing unease. He felt that Bethany was hinting Sir Alexander had an ulterior motive for choosing this particular house.

  As the front door opened into a tiny hall, a small lizard scuttled away. Bethany flapped her hands at the insects that hummed in the heat.

  ‘We’ll have this place cleaned and aired,’ she said, pushing through the archway into an inner hall. She opened each of the side doors in turn. ‘They are all remarkably cool,’ she went on, with mock approval. ‘There is also plenty space.’ She smiled to Jack. ‘Not quite as large as Annis Yat, but quite good enough.’

  Jack smiled painfully. Bethany had her mind fixed on living in Annis Yat, a large house near Merrington-on-Wye – although even in its present dilapidated state the rent was far above their income. He had determined to buy it for her, if ever he made enough money. But how could he do that as an engineer? It was a dream, nothing else. Jack closed his eyes, imagining bringing Bethany home to the dignity of a manor house rather than three rented rooms in Ludlow. If he had money, they would want for nothing and he would no longer have to worry about dashing seafarers such as Lieutenant the Honourable James Cockburn.

  A noise took him by surprise. It was a slight scrape, followed by the bang of a door, and Bethany looked up quickly. ‘I thought this house was unoccupied?’

  ‘It is,’ Borg confirmed stolidly.

  ‘Then who was that?’ Bethany asked.

  ‘The wind?’ Mr Egerton hazarded, but Jack was already moving.

  ‘Stop there!’ He stepped briskly forward, but Mr Egerton had also lunged for the door. They collided in a confusion of arms and legs and by the time Jack disentangled himself there was no sign of anybody else in the house. Bethany’s glare at Mr Egerton should have killed him dead on the spot.

  ‘Probably some thief,’ Borg said acidly. ‘A stray British sailor searching for drink.’ He shrugged. ‘The British Navy is not always as popular as it cares to believe.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Jack nodded. ‘We’ll remember to keep the door locked.’

  For the next half-hour, Bethany and Jack roamed their new home, poking into rooms, approving the whitewash on the walls or Bethany tutting in occasional distaste. She recoiled from a sand-coloured lizard that scuttled across the floor, but admired the columns that separated the inner from the second hallway and exclaimed at the secluded yard into which the hall led.

  ‘Now, Jack,’ said Bethany, placing a hand on his arm, ‘we will be spending a great deal of time here in the evenings.’

  The courtyard was dry and shaded, with a selection of pots from which the sun had long since blasted any trace of flowers. The fig tree in one corner was desperately in need of pruning.

  Jack nodded as he saw the clay drainpipe that slid from the slanted roof to a water cistern that bled into a well. ‘I wondered about the water supply in such an arid climate. So every house has their own – that is very sensible and extremely practical.’

  ‘We are so pleased to have the approval of a British engineer,’ Borg noted, his sarcasm sweetened with a smile.

  Skipping up the stone stairs, Bethany leaned over the roof parapet and took a deep breath. ‘What a view!’ She savoured the panoramic vista that extended over half the island and out to the shimmering sea.

  Again, Borg nodded. ‘Do you know the places?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Bethany said, ‘but I’ll learn them.’ She waved as a herd drove his goats past the house, but the man did not respond.

  ‘I will leave you to get acquainted,’ Borg said, bowing to her and giving Jack a final, narrow-eyed scrutiny. ‘Good day to you all.’

  As soon as he had left, Mr Egerton scowled. ‘And that’s the last we’ll see of him. The most unhelpful man in Malta is Mr Joseph Borg.’

  Bethany shook her head. ‘I rather liked him,’ she said, ignoring Mr Egerton’s frown of disapproval. Turning to Jack, she said, ‘All right, let’s get organised. You and Mr Egerton unload the cart and bring everything inside, then Mr Egerton will be free to get about his business while I put this house to rights. Mr Egerton, it was a pleasure to meet you.’ She dismissed him with a brief curtsey and began to look around her.

  Jack hid his smile. He could see that Bethany was already planning what to do with the house, what furniture to purchase and where to put it. When she had that thoughtful look on her face, it was always better to be elsewhere or he would be dragooned into acting as unpaid labourer and servant. ‘Come, Mr Egerton, let us do as Bethany desires.’

  Later, Jack unpacked his instruments and lovingly checked each one. In particular he inspected his theodolite for damage, for the lenses were notoriously fragile and the seamen on the Rowan had not been the gentlest in loading and unloading. Giving the instrument a final polish, he decided it was still in working order.

  ‘Right, my old friend,’ he said softly, ‘let’s leave you for today and have a look at the area, shall we?’

  ‘Are you still addressing me, Jack?’ Bethany called from the roof of the house. ‘You are muttering away there, but I cannot hear. Have you perhaps some lady friend I should know about?’

  Jack first coloured, then laughed. ‘Not at all, I was just addressing my theodolite.’

  ‘You are a card, Jack Tarver, but I’m glad to see you smiling again. That Friday face of yours should be put to bed with a shovel!’ Bethany waved to him. ‘You’re always happ
ier when you’re working.’ She turned away on some mission of her own, leaving Jack in peace.

  ‘That road to Fiddien must have been built by a blind drunkard many centuries ago and has been neglected ever since,’ Jack surmised, as he and Bethany stood in the dry sunshine.

  An optimistic man may have called the scratch between Rabat, the village in the middle of the island, and the even smaller settlement of Fiddien on the coast a path, but those of a realistic mind would have scoffed at such exaggeration and searched for an alternative route. At best it was a mule track, at worst a rocky groove on the surface of the island. Jack rubbed his hands together at the engineering complexities that such a challenge afforded.

  ‘Six months?’ He scuffed his foot over the surface, lifting a cloud of dust. ‘Six months to turn you into a road fit for English gentlemen … Let’s see what we can do, shall we?’

  He would decide on the best route for his road once he had walked over the area, before starting any physical work.

  It felt good to be back to solid engineering and he lost himself in the practical problems of an initial survey, ignoring the handful of Maltese who had gathered to see what this mad Briton was doing, and brushing away the mosquitoes and sandflies that whined around him. The bites were irritating, but hardly painful.

  The land was hard, sloping from south to north but undulating and broken with outcrops of rock around which the track wound. Jack wondered if he should create an entirely new road or improve the existing route. It would be an interesting decision to make once the survey was complete. He moved quickly, for the day was bright, with splendid visibility, and before evening he had reached the southern coast.

  The village of Fiddien was even smaller than Mtarfa, but the situation was so spectacular that Jack stopped to admire it. He wished that he had brought Bethany with him. A cluster of small houses wrapped around what appeared to be a dilapidated fort, and the church lay a shattered ruin, but the views over the Mediterranean were endless. Jack thought that Fiddien might have been dropped by a bitter angel with the order to remain as inaccessible as possible, for it was exactly on the edge of the Dingli Cliffs, with the bay vertically beneath. Looking downward, Jack wondered why Sir Alexander wanted a harbour built in such a place.