Tarver's Treasure

by Malcolm Archibald

  Bethany sighed. ‘If I have to,’ she said, ‘but it will be an ordeal!’

  ‘You’d better help me write my report then.’

  Chapter Eight

  Missing

  ‘This is so exotic,’ Bethany said, for the fifth time, as she wandered through the high, narrow streets of Valletta. ‘And it’s so busy. It’s worse than Ludlow on market day!’ She looked around her, eyes darting from one magnificent building to the next, her attention fixing on one shop only until the next came into view. After her weeks in near isolation at Ta Rena, the sights were almost too much to bear. ‘What uncommonly ornate architecture … and the balconies! Would you not just love to have a balcony like that, Jack? Imagine sitting there at your ease as the world goes by!’

  ‘But would it fit in Annis Yat?’

  Bethany shook her head but quickly stilled her laugh. ‘It would not, Jack, but it is none the worse for all that.’ She laughed, opened her fan and tried to cool herself from the humid summer heat. Thinking of Annis Yat, their dream house back home, had brought on a kind of reverie and Bethany became suddenly solemn. ‘All the same, I’ll be glad when we’re back home, Jack. It’s fun being overseas, but I miss Ludlow. I worry how father is coping and I don’t feel safe here. Not with you being attacked and half the population breaking into our house!’

  ‘As soon as I get the road finished, we’ll be off,’ Jack promised. He touched the pair of pistols that he had purchased. They were English-made and without any frills, but they were efficient and small enough to carry in his waistband. ‘If you have one of these, you’ll feel better.’

  Bethany nodded doubtfully. ‘Maybe, Jack, but I don’t know if I could use it. Father did not approve of such things, as you know. He always said that we should follow the Bible’s teachings; if somebody asked for our coat, we should give him our shirt too.’

  ‘So why don’t you want to give that knife to Mr Dover and let him know the whole story?’

  ‘Because I don’t like him,’ Bethany said simply. ‘He’s a nasty, untrustworthy, dissipated wretch. Oh Jack, you know I can’t abide the man!’

  ‘So I hear,’ Jack replied.

  ‘Now, let’s find a seat somewhere. I have something to say to you.’

  They found a small restaurant with a view down a flight of steps towards the Grand Harbour. ‘Jack,’ Bethany began. She was strangely hesitant. Taking a deep breath, she reached across and took hold of his hands. ‘You know that you were an orphan …’

  Jack nodded. ‘I know that.’ He felt suddenly cold. Was Bethany at last going to fault him for his ignorance about his background? Not Bethany, please God, not Bethany.

  ‘And you do not know your date of birth …’

  ‘I know that also,’ Jack agreed slowly. He could feel the sweat beading on his forehead and trickling down the side of his face. He never spoke about his early life, not even with Bethany, who knew him better than anybody else in the world.

  But maybe she had found him wanting?

  ‘So you have never celebrated your birthday?’

  ‘No,’ Jack said shortly. I must break this cycle and change the subject. ‘Bethany, does this matter just now?’

  ‘Yes,’ Bethany told him, ‘because you have been as cheerful as widow’s weeds recently, so I think it is time you celebrated something.’

  Jack stared at her, suddenly suspicious. ‘How can I, when I don’t know the date?’

  ‘You were born on 5 June 1777,’ Bethany announced grandly.

  ‘How do you know that?’ Suddenly, Jack was terrified. ‘Who told you?’ He half rose, as partly dormant terrors about his past returned. ‘How did you find out?’ What did she know about him? Who was he? Was he suitable for her? The questions rose within him, each one creating panic as he stared at this far-too-accomplished woman who was his wife.

  There was more sympathy than mischief in Bethany’s smile. ‘Nobody told me, Jack, because I don’t really know. Everybody has a birthday, and that date is as good as any; better in fact, because it’s today and I have an excuse to give you this.’ Reaching into the small bag she had over her arm, she produced something short and tubular and wrapped in thick brown paper. She smiled as she handed it to him. ‘Happy nine-and-twentieth birthday, Jack.’

  It was the first birthday present Jack had ever received and his hand was shaking as he accepted it. He held the parcel, aware it was heavy and that Bethany was smiling, her head tilted slightly and that lock of hair curling most enticingly across her forehead. She prompted him from his silence.

  ‘It’s usual to say thank you now.’

  ‘Yes …’ Jack stared at the parcel. How could he have thought these things of Bethany? What is wrong with me? Why am I like this? ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No,’ she shook her head, ‘you don’t thank your wife quite like that.’ She presented her lips invitingly. ‘That’s a bit better,’ she said, as he kissed her. ‘Now open it, so I can see your face.’

  Savouring the process, Jack slowly unwrapped the parcel and pulled out an extending telescope in brass and leather, beautifully engraved with his name and the date. He read the inscription, as he slid his hands over the smooth brass: ‘To my beloved husband, Jack, on the occasion of his nine-and-twentieth birthday, 5th June 1806.’

  Bethany turned away tactfully, so she could not see the sentimental tears that blurred his vision. ‘Well, now,’ she said at last, ‘you had better be about your business, Jack Tarver, and I also have things to do.’

  ‘More shopping?’ His voice was broken as he held the telescope close. Bethany would never know quite what her gift meant to him. Even if he ever did find out the true date of his birth, he would keep this day as very special.

  ‘They have bookshops here,’ Bethany said, ‘and I will see what they stock and what prices they charge and what ideas I can take home to Ludlow. You know that I have always wanted to have my own bookshop.’

  ‘Thank you, Bethany.’ He looked down the steep street to the distant harbour.

  ‘Don’t talk moonshine,’ Bethany ordered, and rose quickly from her seat. ‘Come along and I will accompany you to Sir Alexander’s palace.’

  Holding the telescope under his left arm, Jack stopped outside the palace and hefted his official report. It had taken him hours to compile the document, sweating over the official terms with his quill spluttering and moths hovering around the flame of his candle, but he had finally been satisfied that he had included all the main facts. Unsure whether he should mention the intruder, he had decided to stick to engineering and let Mr Dover report on his own work. Like Bethany, he had little time for the spy.

  But I should have mentioned the dagger. It is my duty to report anything unusual.

  ‘Hopefully, this should not take long,’ he assured Bethany. ‘So if you meet me here in a couple of hours …?’

  ‘Two more hours to go shopping? My, you are a generous husband – for a man so purse-pinched, that is!’

  ‘Don’t spend too much,’ Jack warned. He entered the courtyard of the palace and turned around, ignoring the impassive sentry in his sweat-stained scarlet. ‘Two hours, remember. Don’t be late.’

  ‘Well, Mr Tarver,’ Sir Alexander said, sitting behind his massive desk, with that smile in his eyes and a pile of correspondence in front of him. ‘I have read your report. You seem to be making progress.’

  ‘Yes, Sir Alexander. I have a good bunch of workers.’

  ‘And the other matter?’ When steel replaced the smile, Jack realised that no man could rise to be an Admiral in the Royal Navy by amiability alone. Sir Alexander Ball was nobody’s fool.

  ‘The other matter, Sir Alexander?’ Jack tried to look innocent in his ignorance.

  ‘Mr Dover has my full confidence, Mr Tarver. He told you about the treasure?’

  Jack nodded. ‘I understand that, Sir Alexander, but I did not think you would be interested in myths and rumours.’

  Sir Alexander shifted in his seat, his lean face hardening. ‘We ar
e engaged in a life-and-death struggle with Bonaparte, Mr Tarver. His Republicanism would destroy our freedom. We all know about his methods – his slave labour, the guillotine and the evil that has overtaken what was once the most civilised country in Europe.’

  Jack realised that he was expected to say something. ‘Yes, sir,’ he obliged.

  ‘I know that you do not want that horror exported here.’

  ‘No, sir.’ Jack felt as if he were back in the rector’s study at Wolvington.

  Sir Alexander nodded, adopting the pose of a benign gentleman; in that moment it was hard to concede that he was a man struggling to juggle half-a-dozen packs of cards, while facing the most dangerous tyrant in Europe. ‘As I have already said, Mr Tarver, we are not winning this war. We have prevented an invasion of Britain and forestalled the French attacks on India, but these were all defensive victories, and in Europe itself…’ Ball shook his head. ‘Nothing. We desperately need a victory, Mr Tarver, and at present it seems that our army cannot provide one. So we need to buy allies, and for that the Knight’s treasure will be invaluable.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ For a second, Jack was tempted to tell Sir Alexander everything, but given the choice of upholding Bethany’s wishes or conceding to those of Sir Alexander, Bethany’s were more important. All the same, he felt like a traitor to Sir Alexander, and to Admiral Blacklock. Perhaps Bethany might relent and they could tell all later? Knowing his wife, Jack doubted if she would ever forgive Dover.

  ‘Well, Mr Tarver,’ Sir Alexander said, having scrutinised every detail of Jack’s report. ‘You have enjoyed some success. You have started your road, despite encountering some difficulties.’ He smiled and dropped his voice, as if afraid of being overheard in his own office. ‘You’ve done a damned sight more than Mr Egerton in less than a quarter of the time, Mr Tarver, but that’s between you and me.’

  ‘Yes, Sir Alexander,’ Jack said tactfully.

  ‘Strange fellow, that … He turned up quite out of the blue, but unless he shapes up, Mr Tarver, I may well require you to build the harbour as well. But early days yet, early days yet.’

  Mixed thoughts whirled through Jack’s head. First was the idea that he might be the cause of a fellow engineer losing his position, but second was the pure delight of further engineering problems to solve. He began rapid mental calculations of tides and winds and weather, of how to transport blocks of stone down the cliff face and, most important, how to recruit men willing to work in such conditions. He only hoped that there were no religious sites down in that hellish bay to further complicate matters.

  Sir Alexander dashed Jack’s hopes almost as quickly as he had raised them, as he mused, ‘We’ll give Mr Egerton a few weeks yet, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, Sir Alexander,’ Jack agreed again.

  ‘That will be all, then,’ the Admiral surmised. ‘Send me another report next month.’ Sir Alexander gave his dismissal and bowed to study the next piece of paperwork on his desk.

  Checking the time on the silver fob watch that Mr Gethin had given him as a Christmas present some years before, Jack hurried outside. The meeting had taken longer than he had expected.

  Jack frowned as he looked around for Bethany. Where was she? There was but an empty space where they had arranged to meet. Then he sighed, relieved that he had not kept her waiting. She had probably met somebody and was exchanging gossip about sewing, or embroidery, or Voltaire’s writings, or the state of the war … anything rather than turn up in time for her husband. He shook his head. He would just have to wait for her.

  When half an hour had passed, Jack began to worry. It was not unusual for Bethany to be a few minutes late, but she should have been there by now. Taking out his watch again, he checked the time in case he was mistaken. He began to pace up and down the street. After another half-hour, his pacing had grown frantic. He had tried to ask the local shopkeepers if they had seen her, but their English was as bad as his Maltese.

  ‘Corporal!’ Jack felt immense relief when he saw a scarlet coat through the crowd and the broad stripes of an NCO. ‘Corporal! Have you seen my wife?’

  The man screwed up his long sunburned face. Taking off his shako, he scratched his head. ‘No, sir, not that I remember. Could you tell me what she was like?’

  Tarver gave a rapid description, aware that he was probably worrying over nothing, half expecting Bethany to come bustling up, full of apologies and fun. But the corporal did not smile.

  ‘It’s unwise to lose your wife in a strange place,’ he said. ‘I’ll get my boys to help you look.’

  ‘It’s probably all right …’ Jack began, but the corporal gave rapid orders that saw the six men under his command begin a sweep of the main streets of Valletta. When other redcoats heard, they also joined in the search.

  ‘Damsel in distress, eh?’ a young lieutenant said, his accent edged with Ulster. ‘Don’t say that the 27th Foot did not help. Come on, the Inniskillings!’

  With most of the regiment garrisoning Sicily, there were only thirty Ulstermen available, but their hallooing must have alerted every resident of the city that Bethany Tarver was missing. Standing outside Sir Alexander’s palace, Jack heard the name ‘Bethany Tarver! Mrs Tarver!’ resound from the ancient walls, as the Inniskillings, and every other stray British redcoat, plus a few seamen and some concerned Maltese, joined in. There was no response.

  By nightfall, Jack was sick with worry. He could see Bethany in every female … he thought there was a man following him. He had toured every street in Valletta, calling Bethany’s name.

  ‘Do you think, maybe …’ He looked fearfully at the deep waters of the Grand Harbour, but the young lieutenant of the 27th shook his head.

  ‘I’m sure she’s not, sir.’ He tried to look relaxed, but the concern was evident in his face. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Tarver, it looks as if your wife is not in Valletta.’ He hesitated for a few minutes. ‘Did you have a disagreement, sir? Perhaps she has gone home in a miff? Women can do that, I believe.’

  ‘Not in this case,’ Jack replied. He knew that Bethany was quite capable of storming off home if she felt aggrieved, but he also knew she would not leave him to worry, however black her mood.

  ‘Yes, Mr Tarver.’ The lieutenant hesitated again: ‘I’m afraid I must call in my men for the night, sir. There are too many temptations in Valletta for them. Strait Street in particular can be attractive … the wrong sort of woman, you see, and my men do not all have the strongest of characters in that respect.’

  ‘Of course, lieutenant, I understand.’ Jack hardly knew what he was saying, as he heard the officer shout orders.

  ‘There are worse places than Strait Street, sir,’ the corporal said, but he relapsed into silence when he saw Jack’s face.

  The redcoats began to form ranks. One or two were already a little the worse for wear, having taken the opportunity to sample the wine shops.

  So now he was alone in Valletta, with Bethany missing somewhere in the grid of narrow streets and closed houses. He shivered. It was nearly nightfall and he was well aware how scared she was of the dark.

  ‘God, Bethany, where are you?’ he asked himself. Shouting her name, Jack continued his lonely quest, heedless of the stares of the Maltese and the assorted merchants who remained on the streets. Twice he glanced behind him, seeing a figure that slid into the shadows of a deep doorway as soon as he turned, but he did not care. Half of Malta could follow him if it liked, just so long as he found Bethany.

  Stopping for a moment to load his pistols, he cursed himself for not giving one to Bethany. He walked on, now knocking at every door and enquiring after her. With most Maltese unable to understand English, he was met with blank faces or slammed doors, but he would not give up.

  ‘Bethany! Bethany Tarver! Bethy!’ he shouted.

  He was back at the small restaurant where she had given him the telescope. His voice echoed down the street, with its array of stone steps and overhanging closed balconies. He imagined predatory eyes watching h
im, or Bethany lying behind one of the doors, a victim of Kaskrin perhaps, or some more innocent but just as dangerous accident. He walked on, tapping at doors, looking through windows, gesticulating to the vague figures that sat behind the shuttered balconies.

  He remembered a whispered name: Manderaggio. How could a mere word and the onset of darkness change a lively, sunny city into a place seemingly sinister, he wondered. Manderaggio … Sir Alexander had mentioned it as a place containing the sweepings of the Mediterranean. Please God, don’t let Bethany have wandered there.

  Strada San Marco eased towards the dark waters of the old Quarantine Harbour, where the riding lights of ships twinkled cheerfully. The sight only accentuated Jack’s loneliness, as memories of their passage on the frigate and homely Hereford voices came to the fore, but he continued, the street narrowing until he was walking along little more than a lane, a chasm between crumbling walls.

  ‘Bethany!’ he shouted again.

  A woman appeared, lifted her veil and peered at him. Flickering light from inside a nearby house showed her to be swarthy and dark-haired, with bright eyes and a friendly smile.

  ‘Bethany?’ The woman repeated.

  ‘Yes!’ Forgetting all the dignity of a gentleman, Jack ran forward. ‘Bethany Tarver? Do you know where she is?’

  ‘Down here!’ At right angles to the street, a flight of worn steps swooped into the gloom.

  ‘Thank you, oh, thank you!’ Jack gushed, as he began the descent. He raised his voice and shouted, ‘Bethany! Where are you?’

  The steps seemed to go down forever, with the yellow walls losing their colour in the dark and occasional dim light escaping from grated windows. People gathered to watch him, talking ceaselessly: old women in shapeless hoods: semi-clothed youths with thin, Arabic faces: naked children with outstretched claws; and men whose appearance would have shamed the condemned cell at Newgate.

  Suddenly, Jack remembered where he was: the island at the crossroads of the Mediterranean, a pirate stronghold that had thrived on raid and counter-raid. He had left Bethany alone here, amid these strange, half Arabic, half European people who had fought the French to a standstill and had centuries of marauding in their blood. The woman overtook him, her feet flicking down the stairs like wind-blown leaves.