‘Why did you think that?’ Bethany said at last, still unsmiling, still unmoving.
‘I’ve no money,’ Jack said, ‘and that dashing commander has.’
Bethany nodded, so her hair flopped across her face. She allowed it to remain there. ‘Was that not a bit foolish, Jack, to think I’d leave you?’
He contemplated the question, knowing that Bethany was inside his head, reading his thoughts and his motives and his heart. ‘Yes, it was,’ he said. He waited until she was finished her inspection.
‘It was the fever,’ she told him ultimately. ‘I saw weeks ago you were not well. It must have been working on you, exaggerating everything and disrupting your ability to think straight.’ She studied him seriously. ‘You always think that the world uses you ill, Jack. You were exceedingly foolish to believe that I ever would.’ She leaned closer. ‘Don’t do it again,’ she said softly and closed her eyes. She opened them briefly: ‘And there are more important things than money.’
She slept then, the deep, unsettled sleep of utter exhaustion, as her body tried to repair the ravages of the frantic searching and terrible anxiety that Jack knew she would never reveal. When she woke, she was nearly as weak as he. Both were ragged and unwashed, but they had discovered something new about each other.
‘Things have changed,’ Jack said. His understanding of Bethany had transmogrified again. From a pleasant companion to a captivating woman, now he saw something deeper; he saw a spiritual strength that could have been intimidating, if it was not so utterly sure.
‘They have,’ Bethany agreed. Her eyes were steady on his. She spoke slowly and quietly, and her words were terribly reasoned. ‘I have long believed that you were the only man for me, but you seem to believe that I may waver.’
He nodded, waiting for the explosion of quick anger that typified her.
‘I will not,’ Bethany said, remaining in control. ‘I gave my word, Jack, forsaking all others. I did not say forsaking all others except dashing naval commanders.’ She turned away, as if that was the last word on the subject, but her quiet statement was more effective than any fury. Jack had seen deep inside his wife and knew he would never doubt her again.
But I still doubt myself. Who am I? From where did I come?
They were in a small hut a mile inland from St Euphemia Bay. The army had long since marched to the south, leaving them alone with the Calabrian peasantry, who supplied them with an occasional loaf of oily bread and a bottle of wine so rough that even a British seaman might have refused it.
‘How did you find me?’ Jack asked, as they sat in the doorway, watching the stars above and listening to the whine of the mosquitoes.
‘I looked,’ Bethany told him. With all her anger abated, she was quite prepared to tell him everything. ‘When I first found out you had left, I was miffed, but once I calmed down, I asked Commander Cockburn to put me ashore and I searched for you until I found you.’
There was so much unsaid in those few words that Jack felt humbled. He imagined the scene, with Bethany arguing to be put ashore, and then the frantic questions, the worry, the anger and agitation. He imagined his gently reared Bethany asking elemental private soldiers and supercilious officers if they had seen her husband. He imagined the tone of their response, the unthinking humour, the bawdy suggestions and her rising frustration. He imagined her fear at night alone in the dark with so many lustful men and he looked at her again.
‘Thank you,’ he said. It was inadequate, but he knew she understood what those two words had cost.
‘You’re my husband,’ she told him, too tired to inject anything into the words beyond their face value, and he loved her again, deeper than ever before. She turned away for a second. ‘Why do you doubt me so much?’
It was a painful question, but Jack’s reserves were so drained after his struggle with the fever that it was easier to tell the truth. ‘I doubt me,’ he said, ‘not you. After all, I don’t even know who I am, and I don’t think I’m good enough for you. I want to give you very much more than I can.’
Bethany did not smile, but her hand crept slowly towards him and gripped his wrist. ‘I know that,’ she said. ‘But I’ve got what I want. The rest will come.’
‘Even Annis Yat?’
‘That is not important,’ she assured him. ‘Now, get your strength back. We have to get back to Malta. You’ve got a road to build.’
Neither of them mentioned the treasure; it did not matter.
It was another full day before they left the hut, and the Mediterranean summer remained as hot and hostile as before. ‘Where are we going?’ Jack hated the weakness in his legs, but with his slow return to health came his natural disinclination to ask for help.
‘Do you think we should head for Scylla?’ Bethany asked tactfully. ‘It’s held by the French, but we’re besieging it.’
‘I think you’re right,’ Jack agreed. He walked in silence, concentrating more on keeping himself from toppling over than on taking control.
‘I’ve always wanted to see Italy,’ Bethany told him quietly, as they stopped beneath a gnarled olive tree. ‘I wanted to see the Classical architecture, the Colosseum of Rome, the vineyards and olive groves. I wanted to drive in a coach and four and stay in the finest hotels, but instead …’ She waved her hand. ‘We are hurrying on, with you weak with fever and both of us stinking to heaven. And why is that? Because the French have been here.’ She shook her head. ‘I hate the French.’
They were moving through breathtaking countryside, past blue seas and rough mountains where barefoot peasants shared what little they had and citrus groves provided welcome shade.
‘I don’t hate the French,’ Jack said quietly, ‘but I do hate the war.’
He closed his eyes, reliving the battle scenes. When Bethany pressed him for more, he turned away. He could not tell her of the horror he had seen. He could not tell anybody.
‘Tell me when you are ready,’ she said, and they walked on, passing bays of incredible colour, where a turquoise sea crashed in silver surf. Unsure where the French patrols and garrisons lay, they avoided the towns and villages and looked in vain for scarlet-clad soldiers. Twice they saw the sails of a ship and waved hopefully, but there was no response. The ships passed half a mile out to sea.
‘We are as lonely as if we were on Crusoe’s tropical island,’ Bethany pointed out.
‘If so, then you must be Man Friday,’ Jack said slowly.
Bethany threw him a frown. ‘I hope you know by now that there is nothing of a man about me!’
Taken by surprise, Jack retracted quickly. ‘That’s not what I meant, I mean …’
‘It’s all right,’ she said, as she patted his arm to show that the old mischievous Bethany lurked beneath her tangled hair and sun-roughened complexion. ‘I was just teasing that Friday face away.’
He nodded. Working out distances and speed of travel in his head, he noted, ‘And Crusoe was on an island – we’re not. The army in Scylla will have foraging parties out, so if we keep going steadily we are bound to meet a patrol eventually.’
‘This is the land of the Classics,’ Bethany said, ‘and we are here, together, and alone.’ She looked at him with a new, almost shy smile twitching her mouth. ‘We should be talking about things other than armies and war and death.’
With the sunlight on her face, Bethany looked younger, like a disreputable child rather than the responsible woman whose depths left Jack floundering, and he wondered how much of life they had lost and if they would ever find the joy that marriage had promised to bring. For a moment, he thought of his responsibilities, of the road he had to build, the treasure he was duty-bound to help find, and the worry about the course of the war. Bethany’s smile broadened, and he responded, ‘You’re right. We probably will never be in Italy again, so now we’re here, maybe we should enjoy it. We’ll be with the army by-and-by, and then we’ll get passage back, but until then …’ Moving closer, he slid an arm around her waist, slightly surprised when
she instantly leaned against him, pressing her head against his chest. He breathed deeply, drawing strength from her closeness.
They stopped to drink at a small stream and when Bethany suggested they wash, Jack knew that it was more than a suggestion.
‘You stink,’ she said frankly. ‘Of fever and sweat and gunpowder and smoke and … well, of just about everything, really.’ Her smile removed most of the sting. ‘I still love you, though, but I’d love you even more if you smelled less like a barn.’
‘You’re not the most subtle of women,’ Jack complained, but he followed her down a narrow goat track into a secluded corner, where twisted trees dappled cover across a murmuring stream. There were smooth boulders for seats and steep banks for concealment, and slightly upstream a slender waterfall feathered downwards against a moss-softened rock.
‘This is idyllic,’ Bethany said. ‘Come on, Jacko. Off with them!’ She tapped his thigh cheerfully, laughed at his exclamation of surprise and began to unfasten her now sadly soiled dress.
Suddenly shy even with his wife, Jack hesitated, but Bethany had no such inhibitions and stripped happily, placing the Knights’ dagger on a flat rock. She splashed him for being tardy and laughed when he complained. ‘Come on, slowcoach! I want you washed and clean.’
As if for the first time, Jack watched her curves as she waded into the stream, stopping only when it lapped over her hips. ‘And your clothes, Jack! If we wash them here, the sun will soon dry them.’
As she faced him with her hands on her hips and her back very straight, Jack stripped, watching her eyes flicker. Stepping closer, Bethany grabbed his clothes as soon as he removed them.
‘Come on, Jacko! Lend a hand here.’
It felt strangely uninhibiting to stand naked beside his wife, thigh deep in that churning stream, laughing as they soaked each other’s clothes and beat them against the rocks. After a few moments, they were both enjoying the novelty, as they alternately scrubbed and splashed, until Bethany leaned over and pushed Jack right under the water.
He emerged spluttering, to seek the instant retribution that she welcomed, so soon they were rolling in and out of the stream with their clothes neglected and all the cares of their recent lives temporarily forgotten. It was good to wrestle playfully with Bethany as the sun dappled shadows on the surface of the stream and birds called above, good to hear her laughter and see the mischief back in her eyes.
‘You’re very thin,’ she said, in a moment of scrutiny, running gentle fingers down his ribs.
‘Well, that’s nothing a good wife can’t cure,’ he told her, allowing his gaze to run across and down her body.
‘I hope you can find one then,’ she told him, stepping back slightly. ‘No, Jack. This isn’t the time and place …’
‘So why bring me here?’ he asked, knowing that the expression in her eyes was a better indication of her mood than any protests.
‘Oh my goodness,’ Bethany said, teasing him until they reached a banking of soft grass. ‘It must be the heat quickening your natural impulses.’ She was laughing as they fell together. ‘I was safer when you had the fever.’
‘I’m very weak,’ Jack began, but she pressed a finger to his lips.
‘We’ll be fine,’ she told him.
It was some time later that they heard raised voices, and Bethany lifted her head. ‘Shush, Jack! Listen!’
He did so, suddenly very conscious of his nakedness. Glancing around for their clothes, he saw them scattered over a wide area of the stream, some hanging to dry on the overhanging branches, others draped over rocks, and his breeches twenty yards downstream and bobbing gently in a back eddy.
‘Stay still!’ he whispered. Pushing Bethany into the fragile shelter of a bush, Jack eased himself around the river, gathering their clothing while listening to the harsh voices through the spatter and splash of the waterfall. He dressed quickly, struggling to pull tight wet breeches over his legs. ‘I’ll see who it is.’
‘Be careful, Jack,’ Bethany advised. ‘I don’t trust these foreigners.’
Moving as quietly as he could, Jack eased downstream, ducking beneath the spreading branches of the trees and wishing he’d had the forethought to choose a place with two entrances. It took him five minutes to reach the goat track, but just as he began the ascent something hard jammed against his spine.
‘Stop right there, or I’ll blow your backbone to hell!’
Chapter Fifteen
Clue to the Key
For a second, Jack could only stand rigid, then he realised that the words had been spoken in English and the accent was very familiar.
‘I thought you were guarding the beach, Captain McConnell!’
‘And who are you to know my name?’ A hard hand spun Jack round and the cynical Irish face of McConnell stared into his. He dropped the musket and grinned. ‘Well now, if it isn’t Jack Tarver, the bold engineer! And what in God’s name are you doing here?’
‘Washing!’ Jack said quietly. ‘Are you alone?’
‘Aye, there’s just me and half the British army.’ McConnell suddenly raised his musket again. ‘And who’s with you? Is it another engineer or that fellow that abandoned you so readily?’
‘Neither,’ Bethany said, emerging from the shade of the trees, carefully placing her hair in place. ‘I am Mrs Tarver, Jack’s wife. And you are?’
‘Bloody astonished,’ McConnell said. ‘Tell me, Mr Tarver, how did you manage to get married out here? And to an Englishwoman of all things?’
Jack smiled, as Bethany came to his side. ‘Oh, she just follows me around, so I had to make it legal.’
‘I believe I heard my husband call you Captain McConnell?’ Bethany dropped in a formal curtsey, to which McConnell had to reply with a stiff bow. ‘Well, Captain McConnell, could you tell me where I might find the British army? I would dearly like to get out of this country.’
According to McConnell, the British army was here, there and everywhere. Jack was not alone in having contracted fever, it seemed, and after allowing his men to lie for days in the marshy plain, subjected to unhealthy air and countless insects, General Stuart had eventually decided to move against those French who were not in full retreat northwards. However, without cavalry, Stuart had found it impossible to pursue Regnier’s army, so instead he mopped up the French in the toe of Italy and thereby achieved the security of Sicily, although malaria downed many more of his men than the French had. While Stuart’s army and the Royal Navy captured one French-garrisoned town after another, Scylla, overlooking Sicily still held out.
‘So, we’re finally beating the French!’ Bethany looked at Jack in triumph. ‘I always said that one Briton was worth any three foreigners! So, Captain, how can we get back to Malta? Jack has a road to build.’
‘Find the army and you find your method of transport,’ McConnell said calmly. ‘The navy brings in food and supplies, so somebody will be going back to Malta. Of course,’ he added, ‘some of us still have work to do.’
Bethany sighed. ‘Come on, Jack. We still have some walking to do. Scylla it is.’
Scylla was different from anywhere else they had seen. It was an ancient site and, despite its fame in mythology, Jack was more interested in the French tricolour hanging above the massive fortification and the French cannons glowering down at him. Below the fort was an impressive bay, with Sicily only a couple of miles across the Strait of Messina. The British army faced the fort, with artillery batteries booming away and the infantry camped in neat little lines, the smoke of their campfires a pleasant blue haze in the morning light.
‘Very interesting,’ Bethany said, barely looking at the siege. She knew it was happening, but the details did not interest her. ‘Now, get us back to Malta, Jack.’
Jack pointed seaward, where a host of vessels, from sturdy British brigs to the more exotic feluccas, carried troops and goods to the besiegers. ‘Somebody will take us.’ He was relieved that HMS Rowan was not there. Despite his reaffirmed faith in Bethany, he di
d not yet want her to spend time with Commander Cockburn. He did not want her to make a comparison with the vigorous leader of men and himself, a tattered refugee.
If only I knew who I was!
The artillery fired again, the heavy boom of twelve pounders and the deeper, more ominous thunder of the massive twenty-fours hammering at the walls of Scylla. Every so often a howitzer would fire, its shell arcing upwards, the lighted fuse visible for seconds as it rose, then descended inside the fortifications to explode with a visible orange flash and a column of dust and smoke.
‘Are there civilians in there?’ Bethany wondered.
‘Probably,’ a powder-blackened artilleryman said. ‘We’ll see later today when the infantry go in.’ He pointed to the lines of scaling ladders that the redcoats were making ready and a group of shirt-sleeved warriors lining up with minimum equipment – forlorn hope was the name given to these men, who were virtually certain to be killed.
‘These are the lads that make the first rush,’ Jack explained. ‘The forlorn hope that gets the glory.’
‘If they survive,’ the artilleryman added. ‘Oh my God! Look!’ he pointed to the tricolour. ‘They’re hauling down their colours!’ The delight in his voice was evident.
It was true. As Jack watched, the French flag came fluttering down and, within minutes, the order to cease fire came.
‘What does that mean?’ Bethany asked.
‘They’ve surrendered,’ Jack explained. ‘We have captured Scylla.’ He shook his head. ‘After so many defeats, it seems that we have the measure of the French.’
‘Oh good,’ Bethany said. ‘Now can we go home?’ She stopped with a frown as she saw a long convoy of wagons trundle towards the harbour, each one laden with sick and wounded men. Pale faces stared hopelessly out, while the scarlet uniforms of honour were stained and tattered. ‘Oh God, Jack. Look at these poor men!’
Jack nodded. He was utterly sickened by the horrors of war; he realised that if he could do nothing to ease the suffering of wounded men, it was best not to notice. Bethany, however, was softer hearted.
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