She left me here and followed him like a puppy.
‘Petticoat government, as I said.’ Dover had been watching from the shelter of the mainmast. Pulling a brace of long cheroots from inside his dove-grey waistcoat, he offered one to Jack, who shook his head. ‘No? Then I shall smoke alone.’ Dover leaned on the rail and looked out to sea, where the other ships of the British fleet moved in the array of disciplined force that had consistently swept the King’s enemies from the sea.
‘Why do you think I never married, Jack?’ Dover allowed the question to hang unanswered while he puffed aromatic smoke into the air. ‘I know that Bethany’s opinion of me could not be lower, but I am wedded to my country, you see.’ When he looked up, his eyes were quiet and more sincere than Jack had ever known them. ‘I believe in a constitutional monarchy and the rule of law. I believe that our way is the best way. I believe that Bonaparte’s reign can lead only to chaos and terror, as has been proved on the Continent, and I would do anything to stop it coming to Great Britain.’
Dover allowed the words to hang in the warm air for a few minutes before turning to face Jack. Leaning his back against the bulwark, with the tanned canvas sails bulging above his head and the surrounding ships serene against a blue horizon, he said, ‘That’s why I chose this life, this pretending to be one thing and acting as another. Oh, I could have joined the army or the navy, donned a fine uniform and followed orders, but that is not my way, don’t you see?’ He held Jack’s eyes. ‘You may not think much of me, but I work for what I believe to be true.’
Jack nodded, wondering why Dover was telling him such things. ‘I believe you,’ he said.
‘Good.’ Dover turned again and thrust the cheroot between his teeth. ‘A woman, or rather a wife, would only be an encumbrance to my duty.’ He looked cutty-eyed at Jack. ‘As you will understand.’
Jack nodded. He could see the advantages in Dover’s philosophy, only obeying orders, doing his duty to the exclusion of everything else. It must have been easier that way, caring only about King and country, losing one’s responsibility in patriotism. At that moment he heard Bethany’s laugh rising from the cabin below; he hated himself nearly as much as he hated James Cockburn. But he did not hate Bethany; he could never do that, even though she was obviously betraying him with a dashing naval officer.
If only I had chosen the Honourable East India Company all those years ago!
Jack swallowed hard. St Euphemia Bay was hectic with shipping. Carrying a small army, the fleet had arrived and anchored in the swelling waves that splintered on a shingle beach that seemed to extend forever. Dwarfed by the scale of the country, the redcoats waded ashore, some disappearing into the scrubby ground behind the beach. In the far distance, high brown rose to the great blue void of a sky. After so long on the defensive, Britain had extended a nautical finger and poked it in the coast of Europe.
Britain was daring Bonaparte’s hegemony over the Continent, she was planting a trident in strident challenge to the imperial eagle of France, and Jack was part of it. A small, insignificant part, it was true, but here he was, as British as anybody else in the fleet, and as ready to do his bit for constitutional monarchy as John Dover or Commander James Cockburn or any of the cursing redcoats or tobacco-chewing bluejackets who toiled under the broiling Mediterranean sun.
‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ said Dover, motioning to the bay.
Jack agreed. It seemed that half the Mediterranean’s traffic had come to St Euphemia, with merchantmen and transports, warships and coastal craft all competing for space in that wide and warm bay.
Trying to avoid thinking of Bethany and Cockburn, Jack watched the ships unload their cargo onto the wide sands, with boatload after boatload of scarlet-coated infantry nosing ashore, the boats’ oars like the legs of water insects crawling over the blue sea. There were naval officers giving flustered orders, the bellowing of cattle, and sails rising and being lowered in apparent confusion, all against the silent backdrop of Calabria.
‘What’s happening? Is it a full invasion?’ he asked Midshipman Wetherall, who gave another grin.
‘God alone knows, but we’re landing, sure as eggs! You know we’ve held Sicily for years, to make sure that old Boney can’t have it, well, now General Stuart has decided to help the King of the Two Sicilies fight off the French!’
Remembering Sir Alexander’s words, Jack thought of the Knight’s treasure. If Britain had to continue to subsidise King Ferdinand, that wealth was vital. He had to help find the second key, then persuade Bethany to part with the dagger. Although the treasure must be his priority, he was still fascinated by the activity. After all the defeats and withdrawals, after a decade and more of British troops skirting the fringes of Europe and being ingloriously thrust back into the sea, he was watching a British landing on the European mainland.
‘Most of the ships arrived last night,’ Wetherall said, excitedly. ‘Captain Fellowes in the Apollo, that’s the frigate over there’ – a lift of his chin indicated a ship very like the Rowan – ‘had to fire a broadside to clear the beach of Johnny Crapaud.’ He grinned. ‘I believe they were actually Poles fighting for the French, but they scampered off quickly enough at any rate.’ Wetherall shrugged. ‘Somebody said it was the Endymion that fired, but I don’t think so. It doesn’t matter anyway.’
Jack frowned. ‘Poles fighting for the French?’ He glanced at Dover, who was trying to look uninterested, raising his spyglass to study the beach.
‘Boney recruits from every country he conquers,’ Dover murmured. ‘He exploits the manpower as much as he exploits the art treasures and resources.’ His words were spoken so quietly that Jack had to strain to hear him. ‘His idea of fraternity is the brotherhood of death, his liberty is the liberty to rob.’
‘But Poles – Sobczak?’
‘None other,’ Dover said. ‘But knowing where he might be and finding him are two different things. One cannot just walk up to one of Boney’s soldiers and ask for the key to a treasure.’ He threw Jack a sideways glance. ‘And keep your voice down, Mr Tarver, if you please.’
Jack nodded. Despite Bethany’s vehement dislike of Mr Dover, he felt a growing respect for the man. There was no doubting his patriotism, or his dedication to his duty, but he also seemed efficient in gathering information. Sobczak was part of the French army facing Sir John Stuart here in Calabria, but, as Dover had said, finding a single pawn amongst an army, and asking him about the key, would be a very difficult task.
How do I get myself into these situations, when all I want is a quiet life?
Jack forced himself to concentrate on the present situation. ‘So, what’s happening now?’ he asked.
‘General Stuart’s landing,’ Wetherall repeated simply. ‘And we’re helping.’
Jack looked again. The beach seemed to stretch for mile after mile, a great crescent that descended from the north side of the bay, where the landing was taking place, to the south. It seemed an admirable site for an invasion, wide enough for the troops to assemble and flat for the boats to land, while the beach was of sand and shingle, lacking any dangerous rocks.
The small boats were pulling in as far as possible, then the infantry were leaping into the water to wade ashore and form up on the beach. Taking the telescope that Bethany – his Bethany – had given him only a few days earlier, he focused on the beach. The scene jumped closer, so he could see the struggle the infantry were having with their heavy equipment in the high white surf. Some were falling, lumbering in the shallows until their fellows pulled them onto the rough sand.
A tall officer was ordering the redcoats deep into the yellow and brown scrub that could hide skirmishers or ambushing light infantry. Where were the French? Surely, they should be here with their cavalry, pushing the invaders back when they were at their most vulnerable. Jack focused on a fortified tower just at the high-tide mark. ‘The French should have defended that,’ he said. Then he saw that there were Highlanders among the British infantry, the first he had e
ver seen. Their kilts made them look alien in this landscape and their high feather bonnets appeared cumbersome, but they moved quickly through the scrub, heading inland.
Far back beyond the beach, the brown mountains stood sentinel, the outliers of southern Europe and silent witnesses to this first British probe at Bonaparte’s much-vaunted empire. ‘No coast of iron and brass then, Boney,’ Jack muttered. ‘Not when the Royal Navy decides to land.’
He thought he must tell Bethany what was happening; she would be interested. But Bethany was still not on deck and neither, Jack realised, with sick frustration, was Commander Cockburn.
Sinking against the rail, Jack felt betrayed and shockingly vulnerable. He loved Bethany, he had trusted her and experienced real happiness in her company, and the contrast with this humiliation was unbearable. This entire military business – this invasion, this blow at the French – did not matter a two-penny damn beside the fact that Bethany seemed to prefer the company of Commander Cockburn to his. Jack closed his eyes, facing what he knew was the reality: Bethany was too good for him; she always had been and always would be. She deserved a wealthy man, a man who could give her the life she wanted, with theatres and balls and a home at Annis Yat. He could not give her it. The most he could hope for was a few small engineering projects, with just enough money to keep their heads above water; ahead lay a life of constant anxiety and an old age of poverty.
A first tear slithered down his cheek to rest on his lip in salty warmness. Why have I married? I cannot offer enough to be a good husband. I am a failure, useless. It is no wonder Bethany has chosen somebody else, somebody dashing and handsome, with prospects of advancement. Jack shook his head, trying to fight the dark blanket that threatened to subdue his rational thoughts. Bethany was correct: this was not like him. He must be sickening for something. He ought to face the fact she was gone and life would continue without her.
There was a strange popping sound from the coast, and Midshipman Wetherall leapt excitedly on the rigging. ‘They’re firing! We’ve found the French! Oh, I wish I was there, I wish I was with the lobsters!’
‘You wish you were with the lobsters? You’ll be kissing the gunner’s daughter, Mr Wetherall, unless you attend to your duty! By God, sir, I’ve never seen the like! Get down from there! Get down at once!’ Cockburn was back on deck, assuming command with the kind of flair and natural ability that Jack could only envy. ‘Ready a boat, Mr Wetherall, and take the ammunition ashore. Find Captain McConnell of the Royal Engineers. He is establishing a defensive position on the beach and he’ll need every ounce of powder and every ball if the Frenchies come in force.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Wetherall looked up at Cockburn. ‘Thank you, sir!’
‘Thank you? Don’t thank me, you young blackguard, just do your duty!’ A wink accompanied that last roar and Jack began to see why people liked Commander Cockburn so much. ‘Midshipman of the watch!’ he called.
Another midshipman, even smaller and younger than Wetherall, piped up, ‘Yes, sir?’
‘There’s a signal being sent from the shore. Kindly relate it to me.’
The midshipman stared shoreward for a few minutes. ‘It’s our number, sir. It says: send ashore all supplies and surplus engineers.’
Commander Cockburn nodded. ‘Thank you, Mr Grey.’ He looked directly at Dover. ‘I believe that means you, gentlemen.’
‘It does, Commander.’ Dover nudged Jack’s arm. ‘Come on, Mr Tarver. It’s our time.’
Jack stared at him for a long second, fighting the combination of dismay and fear. ‘I have to say goodbye to Bethany,’ he said, ‘I can’t just leave her.’
‘For King and country, sir, you can. Mrs Tarver knows why we are here. If she cared so deeply, she would not have left your side.’ Dover raised a finger to Commander Cockburn. ‘We shall be going ashore directly, Commander. Please make ready a boat for us. Today, we are both engineers.’ He nodded to Jack. ‘Is that not so, Mr Tarver?’
‘It is, Mr Dover.’ With those words, Jack condemned himself. Although part of him felt utterly sick at the thought of leaving Bethany behind, another part wanted to get as far away from her as possible. The evidence of her betrayal was overwhelming and being near her hurt too much. ‘Let me go ashore.’
A momentary frown creased Cockburn’s face. ‘And Mrs Tarver, sir?’
‘I am sure you know best about that, sir.’ Tarver ignored Cockburn’s obviously feigned astonishment.
‘Very good, Mr Tarver. Mr Wetherall shall take you and Mr Dover ashore.’ Commander Cockburn turned aside, as if his duty were complete. ‘I wish you the best of luck, gentlemen. Handsomely now, Mr Wetherall.’
As soon as he lowered himself into the boat, Jack cursed his impetuosity. What was he doing, sailing ashore without a word to Bethany? She would worry herself sick about him. He turned, ready to say that he had changed his mind, but the cutter was already a hundred yards from the Rowan and was fast approaching the surf, with the oarsmen pulling mightily and Wetherall at the tiller. Balancing easily on a thwart, Dover winked at him and tapped the bulge in the breast of his cloak. He had his pistol with him, a silver-topped cane, a pair of hefty boots and all the assurance of his caste. What else did a British gentleman need when venturing abroad?
‘Ready, men!’ The cutter’s bow rose sickeningly and Wetherall concentrated, his young face taut as the waves took charge and threw them towards the shifting shingle of the beach. There was a long hissing crunch, a judder and the cutter was ashore, with the seamen wading through crashing surf to haul the boat higher up the beach. Wetherall looked relieved but immediately began to give orders.
‘Come along, Mr Tarver! We can’t dawdle here!’ Dover had slipped ashore as if born to a sailor’s life and stood amazingly dry-shod above the tidemark, swinging his cane in utter nonchalance, as he waited for Jack to join him.
Seen close, the beach was even busier, with infantrymen of different regiments forming up or heading inland, scores of bluejackets carrying stores from boats and a handful of local carts creaking over the shingle. Jack heard an argument between an Ulsterman of the 27th and a young kilted Highlander, each speaking his own language and neither willing to back down. A Welsh sergeant of artillery split them up with a volley of oaths in yet another accent.
‘Hey, you two!’ came a harsh voice, directed at them. ‘Civilians! What the devil are you doing here?’ The officer was short and stout, with a bandana around his ample waist and sweat dripping from a red face. His accent was as Irish as the Liffey.
‘We’re here to help the engineers, Captain.’ Dover gave a short bow.
‘Aye? Well, I’m McConnell, so you’re helping me. What can you do?’
‘I’m a trained engineer, sir.’ Jack admitted. ‘Seven-year apprenticeship under …’
‘I don’t care a tinker’s damn who you were apprenticed to,’ McConnell said. He jerked a thumb towards Dover. ‘And who’s he? Your blasted manservant?’
‘My colleague, sir. He’s …’
‘I care even less who he is than I care who you signed articles for, Mr whatever your name is. We’re building earthworks to defend this blasted beach from the blasted French, even although they have already run away. God knows where, or why, but there you are. So grab a section of men – there’s some Swiss over there, and there’s hundreds of Corsican Rangers making themselves disagreeable somewhere. Don’t ask the Sawnies, though. Can’t understand a word of English, damn them.’
‘The Sawnies?’ Jack had never heard the term before.
‘The kilties – these damned Highland savages. Every second one is called Alexander, but they call themselves Sandy – Sawnie. Them and their kilts. Children at play, the lot of them, and about as much use as a Frenchman in a boat, blast them.’
Captain McConnell did not appear to be a happy man.
Beyond the belt of shingle, the beach was composed of rough sand that sucked at the feet of marching soldiers, while further inland dunes of shifting sand made digging im
possible.
‘Bloody Italy,’ McConnell swore mightily. ‘Fortify the beachhead, they said, but how do you fortify a bloody beach with only a spade! I ask you, sir, how is it to be done? Wave it at the blasted French? Throw sand at the Cuirassiers? How, sir, you tell me!’
‘Sandbags,’ Jack gave the only word he knew of military engineering, and McConnell agreed.
‘That’s what I said, Mr whatever your name is. Sandbags. But where are they? Nowhere to be seen, that’s where. Nowhere to be seen. So we do as we can with what is available, and that’s bugger all, but lots of it.’ He shook his head. ‘So we dig trenches and make earthworks, Mr … what was your name?’
‘Tarver, sir. Jack Tarver.’ Jack was beginning to realise that military engineering had different rules to civilian work. Things seemed to be done on a shoestring and in a rush.
‘Mr Tarver and your dandy friend there. If you find digging trenches difficult, Mr Tarver, just ask young Lieutenant Boothby for help. He knows what to do.’ McConnell stalked away, shaking his head and muttering about sandbags.
Jack watched him go, brushed away the sweat that was slithering down his forehead and wondered if he should apply to join the Royal Engineers. If he did, he would still be using the skills he had learned, but he would have a regular income. But he was no warrior; McConnell was a captain, hardly a senior rank, yet he was above forty years old. What did he have to look forward to in life? An engineer would not be accepted as a gentleman in anybody’s mess, and Jack knew that most officers had private means to supplement their pay. He had nothing, so life would continue to be purse-pinching poverty, and without the possibility of a permanent home for Bethany. He would travel from posting to posting, growing ever feebler with age until the army decided to get rid of him, and he would beg his living in the streets.
But why was he even thinking about Bethany? She had left him for the dashing Commander Cockburn. And why was he shaking so much? Stretching out his hands before him, he noticed that his fingers were trembling uncontrollably. It was not like him.
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