‘Are you all right?’ Dover looked concerned. ‘You’ve gone very pale.’
‘I’ll be all right,’ Jack said, forcing a grin. ‘I don’t know what came over me there.’ Rigorous training at Wolvington College had taught him that there was no excuse for bodily weakness. He would continue working until he died, whatever happened. That was one benefit of a public school education.
‘You’d better be all right,’ Dover told him. ‘We have to find Sobczak and we won’t do that here.’ He looked around at the bustling beach. ‘Come on, Mr Tarver. Leave these redcoats to their digging, while we do the important tasks.’ He shook his head. ‘Gentlemen, don’t grub in the sand like blasted colliers!’
With an apologetic glance towards McConnell, Jack took a step after Dover, staggered and righted himself. He seemed to be having difficulty raising his feet above the ground, while there was an unaccountable roaring sound within his head, almost as though he were sinking in deep water.
‘Mr Dover!’ Jack shouted as he saw him stride away. ‘Mr Dover!’
He took another step, but his leg collapsed beneath him, and the ground rose upwards with sand soft and welcoming as he sank into it. He was quite comfortable lying here, with the sun of the morning warm on his back and the sound of the surf gentle in the distance. If only Bethany was here to look after him, he could quite enjoy the experience.
But Bethany had chosen Commander Cockburn – the Honourable Commander Cockburn.
Jack looked up into the concerned face of Lieutenant Boothby just as he realised he had fallen over. He lay still, unable to move, as people swarmed around him, speaking with hollow voices.
‘It’s the fever,’ a whispering Highland voice said, and he was lifted and placed in what passed for shade on that arid beach. ‘Give him water and leave him in peace.’
‘It’s malaria,’ somebody else said in the edged accent of Ulster.
‘Will he live?’ A third man asked, and Jack closed his eyes. He could feel the world whirling around him, sand and sun and soldiers all mingling together in a confusion of scenes and memories and images that tormented his mind: at once he was in the cold study in Wolvington, waiting for the call of ‘F-a-a-a-g’ that demanded instant obedience or terrible retribution;* next he was peering through parish records to try and find his elusive father.
‘He’ll be dead by nightfall,’ came one of the voices again.
He twisted against the confusion of his mind.
Does it matter? Without Bethany, does it matter if I live or die?
Jack gave up and allowed the fever to transport him to a place beyond his imagination.
* ‘Fag’ was used for a very junior pupil at a public school in England. When the senior pupils wanted some task performed, they shouted ‘Fag’ and the junior pupil would have to run to do the senior’s bidding. Failure to appear would mean a severe caning.
Chapter Eleven
The Plain of Maida
Fever, Jack knew, was a generic term for any number of sicknesses that could strike a man or woman anywhere but which seemed particularly virulent in hot climates. Everybody knew that malaria was caused by bad air, hence the name, mal, from the Latin for bad, and aria, air, but as he fought the demons that yammered inside his head, and sweated and writhed with the horrors, he did not care. He wanted neither to live nor die; his mind was too tormented for any sort of thought, however irrational. Yet all the time he clutched the spyglass that Bethany had given him and always he muttered her name.
For the next two days, Jack lay in the meagre shade of the earthwork, as McConnell and Boothby strengthened the defences, and when he finally struggled to his feet, the entire situation in Calabria had altered.
‘So, you’re up, are you?’ McConnell asked, sitting on a campstool with a long pipe in his mouth and a glass of something red in his hand. ‘And you are as weak as a kitten, no doubt.’
‘I’m fine,’ Jack said, sitting at McConnell’s side. He looked at the beach, from where most of the army had departed. Only a couple of companies of infantry remained, some drilling, others loafing at their pipes and chewing tobacco, while two batteries of artillery poked long muzzles inland. ‘Has my wife been here?’
‘Your wife?’ McConnell looked surprised. ‘The devil she has. Why would any woman want to come to such a godforsaken spot as this? You’re still delirious man. Go back to your bed and sleep it off. Either that or have a drink with me.’
‘How about Mr Dover, my companion?’
‘Nor him. He left as soon as you collapsed, and without a backward glance.’
Jack nodded. So he had failed in that, too. He had failed Bethany, or she would not have left him for Commander Cockburn, and now he had failed Mr Dover. He sat on the sand, burying his head in his hands.
What possible good am I in this world of woe?
‘Head up, Mr Tarver, it’s only the fever, you know. It gets you down like that.’ McConnell offered a drink from his glass, then nodded as Jack asked for water and found a half-full canteen. ‘Very wise, young man. The devil’s in the bottle and he’s just waiting to claim you for his own. I never recommend this stuff to anybody.’ He finished the glass with a single swallow, presumably to save Jack from temptation.
Boothby glanced over. ‘I’d wander down to the sea, if I were you, Mr Tarver. A thorough bath would do you the world of good.’
Sniffing at himself, Jack agreed. His head felt surprisingly clear now, but he was still dizzy and as weak as a politician’s promise. Stripping, he splashed in the warm water, allowing the surf to surge over him. He had borrowed a razor from McConnell and scraped the scruff from his face.
Listening to the chatter of the infantry, he realised that they were speaking German, so presumably it was the Swiss who had been left to guard the beach. He guessed that they had not been considered reliable enough to march with the remainder of the army, though Jack wondered if he would rely on foreigners as a last line of defence. There were still ships in the bay, but HMS Rowan was not there. He could not recognise one ship from another, but he knew, somehow, that Bethany was not on any of the vessels that rocked at anchor.
‘The Rowan?’ McConnell repeated, in response to Jack’s question. ‘She was sent on patrol somewhere,’ he explained. ‘She could be gone for days, or maybe weeks.’ He shrugged. ‘You know what these navy boys are like – here today, away tomorrow, a girl in every port and half-a-dozen wives.’ He grinned and poured some more of the red liquid that looked like wine but tasted like pepper. ‘Not like us engineers, eh? All we know is poverty, repression and hard graft.’
Jack grinned automatically. The fever may have cleared from his blood, but he still felt down, as if the world was black and everybody hated him. Why had Bethany betrayed him? That question had an obvious answer: lack of money, lack of dash, lack of security. He had nothing to offer. He sighed, hating himself and everyone else.
‘So, where’s the army, captain?’ he asked.
‘Marching inland, Mr Tarver, and according to all our intelligence the French are marching to meet us.’ He shook his head. ‘And beat us too, no doubt.’
‘Beat us?’ Jack looked surprised.
‘Look over there,’ replied McConnell, gesturing inland, ‘and tell me what you see.’
Teams of horses were pulling one of the batteries of cannon over what might have passed for a rough track even in Malta, or a series of stony ruts in England. They were making very heavy weather of it, with the iron-shod gun wheels sinking axle deep every turn and the young lieutenant in charge swearing fit to shock a whole shipload of marines. Jack grunted. ‘I see an impossible task.’
‘Indeed,’ McConnell said. ‘And that’s General Stuart’s artillery.’ He swallowed more of the fiery red liquid. ‘The French outnumber us and they have cavalry. What do we have? We have a couple of reasonable regiments, a bunch of children in kilts and guns that can’t leave the beach. Without his artillery, how would it be possible for Stuart to defeat the French? So, Mr Tarver, I e
xpect there to be a confusion of redcoats back here within a day or so.’ His laugh was as cynical as anything Jack had heard.
Suddenly, Jack remembered what Sir Alexander Ball had said about the British army always being defeated. ‘A broken reed’, Sir Alexander had called it, telling him that the army had won one battle in recent years. ‘Until we beat a French army of at least equal numbers,’ he’d said, ‘and preferably in a European campaign, our Continental allies will consider our army as second class and we will have to buy their soldiers.’
Jack shivered. He had never considered himself a particularly patriotic man, and his recent actions had certainly not helped the country. He should have handed over that Maltese dagger as soon as he realised its importance; and now he was present while a British army marched to meet the enemy and he was only watching. Surely, he should do something?
‘Could we not help?’ Jack asked.
McConnell shook his head. ‘You can, if you wish, but I am a soldier, my boy. I take orders. That’s what they give me a ridiculously small pay for, and that’s just what I do.’
‘But the war! Sir Alexander Ball informed me that unless we win a victory, the Third Coalition will collapse, so Boney might win.’ The thought was suddenly so shocking that Jack actually stuttered the words. He visualised Frenchmen in Merrington-on-Wye and the imperial eagle hoisted over the church where he got married. The pictures were every bit as real as his fever delusions – and every bit as terrifying.
‘That might well happen, Mr Tarver. That might well happen,’ said McConnell with a shrug. ‘But would that be a bad thing?’ When he faced Jack, there was no humour on McConnell’s face. His eyes were bitter hard. ‘What are we fighting for, Mr Tarver? A constitutional monarchy, you may say, but who benefits? Not you or I but the privileged and the wealthy.’
‘No,’ Jack shook his head. He wished that Bethany were here to argue his case, for when he tried to order his mind coherently he found the vestiges of fever still tangled his thoughts. ‘No, that can’t be. We are fighting against Republicanism and terror. You must have heard of the guillotine.’
‘I have, and I have trees laden with the fruit of hanging men.’ McConnell held Jack’s eyes. ‘Have you heard of Vinegar Hill, Mr Tarver? Have you heard of Father John Murphy?’
Jack shook his head.
‘I thought not.’ McConnell then explained, ‘He was an Irish patriot, Mr Tarver, and the British stripped him, flogged him and thrust his head on a pike. Is that what you are fighting for? Is that the constitutional monarchy that is worth dying for?’
The depth of McConnell’s bitterness took Jack by surprise. The captain raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘I do my job, Mr Tarver, and if they order me to help, then help I shall, but if not, why, then I shall smoke and drink and watch the army make a fool of itself again.’ He lay back, emptied his glass and refilled it. The soft gurgle of wine suddenly sounded sinister.
Jack stood, swayed and sat back down again. The wash in the sea had revived him, but he was still weak; the army rations he begged from a suspicious cook hardly helped. Until that moment he had never experienced the divisions within the nations of Britain, nor had he heard of Vinegar Hill and, frankly, he did not care to know. He had enough to worry about with Bethany and attempting to save the British army.
Weak as he was, it took Jack ten minutes to reach the struggling artillerymen and when he did he realised their problem immediately. Teams of horses and men were attempting to haul a battery of two four-pounder cannons along one of the atrocious Calabrian tracks using muscle power alone.
‘Sir!’ Jack said as he approached. ‘Sir, may I make a suggestion that could aid you?’
The lieutenant was long-faced and barely out of his teens. He looked at Jack as if he was an angel descended from heaven, specifically to aid young artillery officers. ‘You are welcome, sir, if you could tell me by what authority you speak?’
Jack had often heard of the extreme arrogance of British officers, but he knew that the artillery and engineers were of a different calibre. Unable to purchase promotion, they had to wait until a senior died before they moved up and so tended to be more mature. The youth of this officer suggested that he lacked any experience. His question, however, was pertinent.
‘I am Jack Tarver, sir, an engineer attached to Captain McConnell, and I believe that your trouble concerns the poor road.’
‘I have no choice which road I must take, Mr Tarver, so must make do with this one.’ With a sweep of his hand, the artilleryman indicated the rough terrain on either side of the track.
‘Indeed, but if we were to make some improvement to the road, you could move along it with more rapidity.’
The officer paused and looked ahead. The road continued in a series of deep ruts and sandy hollows, narrowed in places by scrubby bush, and was always difficult. ‘How would you suggest improving that, Mr Tarver?’ The officer had taken a good minute to consider the problem, as the sweat dripped from his nose.
‘Widening the road,’ Jack said at once. ‘And laying a firmer foundation for your wagons.’
The officer nodded. ‘That is a good notion, Mr Tarver, but hardly practical. I have a handful of men and none to spare for such a laborious occupation.’ He looked wearily up at Jack. ‘So how do you propose I proceed?’
‘With some of these Switzers who are sitting about doing nothing,’ Jack said, the ideas coming quickly to him. As he had often thought, there was nothing quite as effective as hard work for curing any disease, and his lingering fever was no different. ‘It’s not right that they should laze on the beach while British infantry are facing the French.’
The officer smoothed a hand over his face and slowly smiled. ‘Aye, I agree with you there, Mr Tarver.’ The hand came out. ‘Lieutenant Charleton.’
Close up, Charleton looked older than Jack had first thought. Now he agreed with the idea, he put his body and soul into it. ‘Right, Mr Tarver, you’re an engineer, you say? Then engineer me a road to General Stuart and let’s give these Johnny Crapauds such a licking as they’ll remember until Boney’s tail falls off!’
Jack’s grin was genuine, although he swayed as he walked back to the beach and Charlton had to support him lest he stumbled.
The Swiss commander was not keen on parting with his men, but, with Lieutenant Charlton backing him, Jack persuaded him of the necessity and they returned to the bogged-down artillery with a company of disgruntled infantry.
Jack rubbed his hands together. Now he had a chance to put all his road-building theories to the test. He was fortunate that some of the sergeants understood English and he used them to their limit, uncaring of their complaints.
While ten men hacked away the scrub that fringed the road, forty men levelled the surface with pick and shovel. For the first time in his life, Jack drove men hard, threatening them with the cat if they slacked, for Jack knew these guns might be the difference between victory and defeat for General Stuart’s army.
When the road surface was wider and more even, Jack ordered the remainder of the company to bring up loads of large pebbles from the beach. With his head pounding and legs trembling, he sorted them quickly; larger stones on the bottom to create as firm a foundation as possible, smaller on top to create a better surface for the artillery.
It was laborious work in the heat and the infantry were disgruntled. ‘We are soldiers, not road diggers,’ one pig-tailed sergeant said, but Jack rounded on him.
‘What?’ He was unaware that he could put so much bite into his voice. ‘You want to laze in the sun while your comrades are fighting the French?’ He stared down the sergeant. ‘You say you are a soldier, sir, but talk like some idle apprentice content to waste his time. By God, I should have you disrated and flogged!’
All the time he worked, he was aware that Bethany was driving him. If he paused for breath, or stopped, her image would enter his mind, torturing him with his ineptitude. Only work kept him sane, so he pushed on, shouting down complaints, sorting stones,
solving every engineering problem with a savage efficiency that drove the road on, yard after sweat-stained yard. In his wake came the cannon, horses straining, men shoving and the wheels turning to bring the guns closer to the army. He was guiding death through the lovely Calabrian countryside, and he did not care.
‘The road will not last,’ he explained to Charleton, who had loaned as many of his own men as he could, ‘but it does not have to, and every hundred yards will help.’
Jack knew that he was foolish in thus driving himself when he was still weak with fever, but Wolvington had trained him to continue beyond the point of collapse, to ignore pain and bodily weakness. He knew he was past his limit, but he could do nothing else. If he stopped, he would think of Bethany, and the knowledge of her loss would be worse than any physical exhaustion.
All the same, he was surprised to see how quickly a temporary road could be built. By voice and threat and example, he sweated the Swiss, pushing the parties carrying stones, demanding more from the diggers and levellers, hounding those who hacked branches, so the artillery rolled slowly on until the sun dipped into the sea and the men grasped at the relief of humid night.
‘Bring torches,’ Jack croaked. ‘By God, I won’t be beaten by darkness! We’ll work all night and all next day, if need be!’
‘You’re obsessed,’ a Swiss officer said.
Jack rounded on him. ‘Obsessed? By God, I’ll show you obsessed! We want to put salt on Boney’s tail, don’t we? Well, we need a road to do that, and I will build a blasted road! Keep working!’
He could see Bethany everywhere, laughing at him, teasing him, advising him, and he worked to erase her from his mind, eradicate her from his soul. With makeshift lanterns sparking and flaring against the dark, he continued, carrying stones with the carriers, digging with the diggers, pulling the horses with the tired artillerymen as the tears of exhaustion and self-pity coursed through the dust on his cheeks.
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