‘Believe me, Mrs Tarver, it must be recovered by using the keys. There is no other way, not on Malta.’
‘Why not?’ Bethany wondered.
Dover shrugged. ‘Religion,’ he said enigmatically.
‘So you must find both keys,’ Bethany continued. ‘Do you have any idea where this Mr Sobczak might be?’
‘I already know where he is,’ Dover told her, ‘but actually getting to him is not quite so easy.’ He grinned to her. ‘My man on Malta will be no use in this case, but I want your husband to help – if you are willing, Mr Tarver?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Until we have the treasure all sewn up, there will be no peace for your engineering project.’
Jack pondered for a moment, although he already knew his decision. Strangely, he had little interest in the treasure for its own sake. He had never expected to be wealthy – and did not see his conscience allowing him to keep any hidden gold, even if he happened to chance upon it. However, he did want to finish his road, and he did not wish Bethany to be at the mercy of Sobczak, Kaskrin or even Mr Egerton. If that meant he had to help Mr Dover, then so be it.
‘All right, Mr Dover. As you have saved my life, and that of Bethany, I can hardly refuse.’
‘Good man!’ Dover held out his hand in a gesture of friendship, which was probably more calculated than spontaneous. ‘We’re working together, Jack, and we’ll strike another blow for Britain!’
Bethany raised a single finger. ‘And me?’ Her voice was small. ‘What about me? Can I help too?’
‘Not this time, Mrs Tarver,’ Dover said. ‘I’m afraid that …’
‘I’m afraid that if Jack is helping, then so must I.’
Dover did not hide his smile. ‘Will you not let the poor man do anything on his own?’
‘My husband may need me,’ Bethany said calmly, ‘and he would prefer me to be at his side.’
‘Not if it is dangerous,’ Jack said, disagreeing.
Dover sighed, looking from one to the other. ‘I have not the time to act as referee for your matrimonial squabbles, so I will decide.’ His smile contained triumph. ‘And as you both owe me your life, I will brook no further arguments.’
He waited for their reluctant nods before he continued. ‘Sobczak is in Calabria, King Ferdinand’s mainland province, marching as a trooper in Bonaparte’s army. I was searching for him when the French caught me – and your Lieutenant Cockburn came to the rescue. That’s where I am going next, and Mr Tarver will join me.’
Jack felt the nausea rise within him. He had given his word, and a gentleman’s word was sacrosanct. He tried to look unconcerned, although he felt sick as a cushion. Gentlemen did not act as spies and he desperately wished to be a gentleman, yet here he was, volunteering to enter a province infested with Bonaparte’s soldiers.
‘Calabria!’ Bethany stared at Dover.
‘Mrs Tarver may accompany us on the ship,’ Dover continued, as if she had not spoken. ‘But she will not go ashore. That way everybody is happy. We call it a compromise.’
‘I agree,’ Jack tried to hide his dismay. Bethany would be safer on a naval ship than she obviously was in Malta, and he could not deny Dover his help. His feeling of helplessness deepened. What must Bethany think of me now? I am a common spy, the lowest of the low. Her opinion must be sinking lower every day.
‘There is a ship due in tomorrow and, in the meantime, if you have no objections, Mrs Tarver, I wish to thoroughly search Ta Rena for the missing key. I can think of nowhere else that it would be.’
After a glance at Bethany, Jack nodded. ‘Feel free, Mr Dover, only don’t leave the place untidy or there’ll be the devil to pay.’
‘Petticoat government already, Mr Tarver?’ Dover did not conceal his sneer.
Jack sighed. ‘Indeed not, Mr Dover. Just married life, I’m afraid.’ His smile to Bethany was less than convincing, as he wondered again to what he had agreed.
Recently promoted Commander, the Honourable James Cockburn, was well suited to command as he stalked the quarterdeck of HMS Rowan with his telescope under his arm, giving quiet orders that the hands rushed to obey.
Bethany smiled to Jack. ‘I am so glad that it’s Captain Cockburn. Do you remember how he captured that French ship?’
‘I remember,’ Jack replied. He would have been happier with a different, less dashing officer, somebody middle-aged perhaps or, even better, an ugly old seadog with a white beard and only one leg. ‘I hope he does not do anything rash.’ He looked up, as the ship shuddered. ‘Did you feel that? Let’s go on deck and see what’s happening.’
‘Maybe it’s a storm,’ Bethany said. ‘I’ve always wanted to be in a real storm!’
Jack shook his head. ‘You are a queer little vixen, Bethany Maria.’
The grey seas of dawn lunged at the frigate, breaking into spindrift and spray against her bluff bow. Jack could see the helmsman steady at the wheel, his jaws working steadily on a quid of tobacco and his eyes hard with concentration.
‘Is there a storm?’ Bethany asked Mr Wetherall, the young midshipman.
‘Just a squall,’ Wetherall replied. ‘But don’t you fret, Mrs Tarver. Captain Cockburn will see us through. He’s a prime seaman.’ He grinned cheerfully, ‘Glad you’re back with us, Mrs Tarver.’
‘Thank you.’ Even on the deck of a warship, Bethany remembered her manners and dropped into a graceful curtsey. ‘And thank you for taking care of us, Mr Wetherall. I was just saying to Jack that I would rather be on this ship than any other.’
‘This is the best ship in the Mediterranean fleet, Mrs Tarver. And under the best captain,’ Wetherall said loyally.
‘Where are we, Mr Wetherall?’ Narrowing her eyes, Bethany peered into the squall, where the long bowsprit dipped low and then rose, accompanied by a white curtain of spray.
There was a moment’s silence before Wetherall replied. ‘At present Sicily is to starboard.’ He jerked a thumb over his right shoulder. ‘That’s Faro Point that you can’t see through the storm.’ He grinned, ‘Although only the captain knows exactly where we are.’
‘I’m looking forward to seeing Italy,’ Bethany said, glancing slyly at Jack, who pretended not to hear. He had no intention of allowing her to set foot on land. Calabria was in ferment, he knew, with a French army some 30,000 strong having invaded the mainland portion of King Ferdinand’s realm; the locals were retaliating with ambushes, murder and torture. How Mr Dover expected to find a stray Polish Knight amongst such mayhem, he could not imagine.
‘Watch your steering, man,’ Wetherall said and the helmsman moved the wheel slightly. The bow rose sharply, riding a wave. ‘There! It’s passing now!’
As if some giant had dragged a cloth across the sky, the clouds cleared completely, revealing a sea and sky of startling blue. Bethany gasped and held on to Jack, as the coastline of Sicily and the toe of Italy appeared, sparkling brilliantly with the recent rain.
‘That’s beautiful!’ she said.
‘It is,’ Jack agreed. At times like this, with the sudden contrast from murk and gloom to pristine clarity, when all the wonders of the world were revealed, Jack could understand the fascination of a life at sea. As they headed north, he gazed at the great brown mountains of Calabria and realised the power of the navy. This ship carried a battery of artillery any army would envy and could cover a landing anywhere on this coast. Bonaparte might control the land, but Britannia’s trident could poke him into impotent rage from the sea.
Of course, the reverse was also true. Control of the land gave Bonaparte all the resources of Europe, and only Britain, and British gold, could halt his mad career. Jack sighed: the treasure was important to the country, and he had to help locate the second key. It was over there, somewhere, in the pocket of a Russian Pole marching in a French uniform, but how in God’s name was he to find him?
Mr Dover would know. That was his occupation, after all.
Commander Cockburn had allowed the hands a make-and-mend afternoon, where they repaired and w
ashed their clothing, and had suggested that Bethany and Jack also take the opportunity to freshen up.
Bethany had demurred at first, unwilling to have her newly washed clothing decorate the rigging of the ship, but Cockburn had convinced her, saying in a kindly way, ‘There is no need to be embarrassed, Mrs Tarver. Most men have mothers or sisters, so the sight of female clothing will only remind them of home.’ His face had darkened slightly. ‘However, if there is even the slightest hint of an improper suggestion, I’ll have them strung up …’
Bethany had smiled and touched his arm far too familiarly for Jack’s liking. ‘Every member of your crew has acted like a perfect gentleman,’ she assured him. ‘It must be your influence.’ Opening her fan, she had tucked it under her chin – like a young schoolgirl flirting with her tutor, as Jack told her sourly.
‘La, Mr Tarver. I do believe you are jealous!’ she said laughing, then walked away. Jack was sure she emphasised the swing of her hips provocatively, so that it was not only Commander Cockburn who watched her.
With the rigging festooned with Bethany’s petticoat and dress, HMS Rowan continued to move north through seas that were now so blue and innocent it was hard to believe that they had ever held anything stronger than a pleasant breeze.
‘Sail ho!’ The hail came from the masthead, and Cockburn immediately ran aloft, his long legs making easy work of the ascent. He extended a spyglass, then yelled a string of orders that altered the ship’s course. A deluge of hands exploded on deck and threw themselves up the rigging, more sails descended and Rowan picked up speed to hurl herself forward, shouldering waves aside in her haste.
‘What is it?’ Bethany sounded worried.
‘Another ship,’ Wetherall said. ‘Three-masted … It’s big.’ He pointed to the horizon.
Extending his spyglass, Jack could just make out a tiny white square that he guessed was the topsail of a ship. As he stared harder, the sail increased in size. ‘It’s coming closer.’
It took half an hour for the vessel to ease fully over the horizon, with every telescope on the Rowan watching it gradually increase in size.
‘She’s breaking out her colours,’ Wetherall yelled. He focused the telescope, but it was Cockburn who shouted next.
‘Union flag! She’s a British warship!’
‘Oh, that’s good!’ Bethany clapped her hands, but Jack knew she was slightly disappointed. She had hoped for a Frenchman and another victory for Commander Cockburn. ‘We’re safe now, then!’
Wetherall nodded. ‘We’ve joined the fleet,’ he said.
From a single ship voyaging on an empty ocean, the Rowan had become only one unit of a fleet sailing steadily north. Orders became crisper, the washing quickly disappeared from the rigging and Cockburn summoned Bethany below.
‘We were fortunate in our prize-taking last cruise,’ he told her, ‘and we have a selection of female clothing that might be of interest to you.’ He bowed again, eyes easing over her. ‘All the finest quality French and Spanish styles, I assure you. In the Rowan, we only loot the best.’
Jack had to still his immediate jealousy, as Bethany disappeared below for twenty minutes, reappearing in a dress of pure satin-silk. Her eyes were bright with pleasure and she laughed with Commander Cockburn, as they exchanged a joke in French. Suddenly, he hated his choice of profession, which left him constantly struggling with poverty. There was nothing he would like better than to take Bethany to the finest shops and buy her exactly what she wanted, give her everything with as open a hand as Commander Cockburn had and watch her choose exactly what she wanted, rather than having her ask about the limits of his purse. He moved further away as Bethany’s conversation continued, but he saw her hand touch Cockburn’s arm and heard her laugh frankly at one of his French sallies.
‘That was a touch risqué, captain,’ she said, glancing at Jack. ‘Perhaps you had better not tell my husband.’ They laughed together, increasing Jack’s discomfort.
‘Annis Yat?’ The name came across quite clearly. ‘If you want it, Mrs Tarver, then why don’t you have your husband buy it for you?’
Jack heard Bethany’s voice drop, and then Cockburn’s sudden bark of laughter, which he knew was directed at the perilous state of his finances.
‘I see,’ Cockburn said, loudly. ‘Purse-pinched, eh? Well, maybe someday.’
Bethany’s glance at Jack must have been significant. ‘Hopefully, Commander Cockburn, as soon as we can afford it.’
‘Now, Mrs Tarver, we’ll have no more of this Commander Cockburn. We’re old friends now, so James, please, and may I call you Bethany?’ Cockburn raised his voice as he looked at Jack. ‘And Jack, of course?’
‘Of course you may.’ Bethany’s smile reached her eyes and she brushed that stray strand of hair from her forehead.
Feeling even more insecure and sick, Jack lurched away. He could not listen to this dashing commander talking to his wife, and still less could he listen to his wife responding so eagerly. He needed somewhere to think and walk, but there was no space in a crowded ship. He looked out to sea with his headache increasing, feeling the most miserable he had been since leaving Wolvington College.
Did Bethany think so little of him that she would discard him for a naval officer? Was their marriage so unimportant? But Bethany had always been a heroine for the navy. Jack cursed his situation: why had he not taken the advice offered to him long ago and followed a different path? He had the education, but he had chosen to be an engineer, working with mathematics and his hands. For the first time in his life, he wished he had joined the Honourable East India Company and gone to Hindustan. He might have returned as a nabob, with a fortune to squander on Bethany and no need to worry about a semi-piratical naval officer. It should be he who handed over satin and silk dresses to Bethany, not this red-haired Scottish sailor.
Despite the pain it caused, Jack listened to Bethany as she laughed at Cockburn’s jokes and spoke in a maddening mixture of English and French; he knew that when they switched to French they were talking about him, laughing at him for his poverty, the pinchbeck buckles on his shoes, the poor quality of his coat.
Cockburn gave an order and the ship altered course, the great yards swinging round to catch the wind, the sails bulging and the whole intricate machinery of the frigate obeying the command of one man: Commander the Honourable James Cockburn.
Jack watched as Cockburn stood on the quarterdeck, immaculate in his blue uniform, with the single epaulette on his shoulder proclaiming his rank and authority and power. None of which I possess. Grudgingly, Jack admitted that he was a handsome devil, with the breadth of shoulder and chest to complement his height, and that undisputable air of command that had strengthened since he had taken over command.
‘Jack! Over here!’ Bethany waved to him from Cockburn’s side, but Jack chose not to notice and moved further away, onto the weather side of the ship, where the wind blasted tears in his eyes. This was where he belonged, among the least considered members of the crew. This was his proper place in society; he was at best a second-rate engineer, at worst a mistake. He did not know who his father was and only charity had seen him through a quality education.
‘Jack! Why are you hiding away?’ Bethany had left the sanctuary of the quarterdeck to summon him. ‘Come along and see Italy with us.’
Jack pounced on her choice of word, deliberately searching for insult and humiliation. ‘Us? I thought we were us?’ He should never have persuaded Bethany to become his wife. She had always been too good for him.
‘What?’ Bethany looked at him through narrow eyes. ‘What a strange thing to say.’ She shook her head. ‘What are you thinking of this weather? Come along and see this. It beats cockfighting any day!’ Taking hold of his arm, she guided him back to the bulwarks at the lee side of the deck, from where the land was visible. ‘See? That is Italy. Is it not romantic, and so exotic!’
Jack looked. ‘It seems very dull to me,’ he said, determined to ruin Bethany’s pleasure.
‘Oh, Jack! I’ve said before that you have all the imagination of an engineer. This is Italy, the home of Caesar, of the Classical sculptures, of opera and … but you are not listening!’
Jack had turned his back to look at the ship. ‘We are making good time,’ he said, ‘wherever we are headed.’
‘We are headed to St Euphemia Bay.’ Bethany’s voice was suddenly cold. ‘As you would have known if you had remained at my side when I asked James … Captain Cockburn.’ The chill deepened. ‘Why are you so acting so strange, Jack? Why have you turned from me?’
‘I am not acting strange,’ Jack replied, feeding his own misery. He watched Cockburn scamper up the mast with all the dexterity of a youth, then stand at the masthead and extend his spyglass.
‘Oh, but you are,’ Bethany said, pulling his arm and peering closely into his face, her eyes concerned. ‘You are behaving in a very strange manner indeed. I swear that I have never seen you like this before. What is the matter, my love? Are you sickening for something?’
‘I assure you that there is nothing the matter with me.’ Now that Bethany was probing, Jack concealed his feelings behind a smile that even he knew to be false. He could feel the skin stretching around his mouth as he grinned, but he could not meet Bethany’s eyes.
‘We will discuss this later, I think, Jack.’ Bethany’s promise was ominous, then she stepped away.
Jack watched her move forward, arriving at the foremast just as Commander Cockburn descended from aloft. They exchanged what Jack knew was a secret glance before Cockburn spoke.
‘Mr Wetherall, have the ammunition hoisted onto deck. I want it ready to be shipped ashore within the hour. Handsomely, now!’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Midshipman Wetherall touched a hand to the brim of his hat and sprinted forward, collecting a bevy of seamen around him. After a moment, Cockburn descended below and Bethany, with a forlorn, appealing glance at Jack, following a few minutes later.
‘Bethany!’ Jack shouted, but she did not reappear and he turned away to look at the approaching shoreline of Calabria. He felt his heart hammering and curled his fists into balls at his side.
Tarver's Treasure Page 14
