Tarver's Treasure

by Malcolm Archibald

  Jack hid his approval. ‘So now you have a dilemma, Mr Borg. If the treasure is not secure here, where will you store it?’

  ‘In St Paul’s catacombs, of course,’ Borg said at once. ‘Can you think of a better place? If you want to hide something, Mr Tarver, put it where everybody looks but nobody sees. There is always somebody in the catacombs, so who in their senses would hide a treasure there? Mr Dover will report the chamber is empty, so nobody will ever look there again. It could not be better.’

  ‘But how will you get it there? You cannot carry it across half the island. Somebody might just notice.’

  Borg’s grin was positively smug. ‘I want everybody to notice, Mr Tarver. I will use the same technique. People will watch but not see. You will understand tomorrow, I promise.’

  The procession started before dawn the next day. Held high, a score of torches illuminated the long column of gaudily dressed men and women who walked down to the cave. They returned openly parading priceless religious icons, most of which they solemnly loaded onto carts that were bright with ribbons.

  ‘Malta is famous for its carnivals and saints days,’ Borg shouted, as the long column wound past Fiddien to the accompaniment of singing and loud yells. ‘Every village has its own, and ours includes a march to Rabat.’ He winked. ‘Or it does this time, anyway!’

  ‘But all these people?’ Bethany waved her hand. ‘They’ll know about the treasure!’

  ‘They’ve known for years,’ Borg told her. ‘It’s only a secret to strangers.’ For the first time since they had met, he grinned widely. ‘Come on, Mrs Tarver, join in the fun!’

  As they emerged on the lip of the path and headed for Rabat, the leading group of the procession released fireworks into the sky, while the rest cheered and sang, waving to spectators and making no effort to disguise what they were doing.

  ‘This is bedlam,’ Jack said, as Bethany joined in wholeheartedly, clapping and singing beside Maria Borg.

  ‘Yes. Absolute madness,’ Bethany agreed. ‘And see who is watching?’

  Two British officers had ridden out of the Mdina Gate, smiling as they watched the procession march past. One raised his bicorn hat in salute, while the other waved to an excited group of children.

  ‘They haven’t any idea what’s happening,’ Bethany said happily.

  Jack killed his guilt, as the Maltese marched in open procession to St Paul’s Catacombs while the British officers watched, smiling paternally. He was party to this; he had failed to deliver the treasure to Sir Alexander and he would fail to build his road in time. Seeking consolation, he fingered the scrimshaw tooth that now hung around his neck on a leather thong. His father had been a whaling shipmaster; he had lived in Nantucket. That meant there would be records, somewhere, and he might be able to find out exactly who he was. He might even have relatives. He could hold his head high and know there was somewhere where he belonged. But then the knowledge that he would be branded a failure twisted inside him: if he could not finish this road, there would be no more engineering commissions.

  All this and I am still a failure.

  He watched a group of riders coming from the north, their advance heralded by a cloud of dust.

  ‘This procession will end at noon.’ Borg was smiling, waving to a man who was struggling under the weight of a large painting that had once adorned the wall of the church at Fiddien. ‘And after that all these men will be free.’

  Jack nodded, not really listening. The riders were closer now; their blue uniforms an obvious indication that they were seamen, probably British officers on a ride across country.

  ‘You seem distracted, Mr Tarver,’ Borg said gently. ‘Did you not want labour to build your road?’

  ‘The road?’ Jack jerked himself back to what Borg was saying. ‘Yes, but it will never be completed. There is no time now, and nobody will work on the area near the religious site.’ He stopped as he realised what he was saying. ‘After this morning, there is no religious site, is there?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Borg said. ‘These people are indebted to you, Mr Tarver, and in Malta, we pay our debts. You will have as many men as you need, and they will work willingly. Your road will be completed in time, that I promise.’

  Jack stared for a long moment as the words sunk in, and then he gave a low bow. If the road was completed, at least his reputation as an engineer would be saved, and he could face the future again. The relief was so great that he could not find words, but now the horsemen were approaching him, reining up in a tremendous cloud of dust and a display of flailing hooves.

  ‘Mr Tarver!’

  Jack blinked as he stared into the face of Midshipman, now Lieutenant, Wetherall. The men at his back carried swords and pistols. Tanned by the sun and filmed with dust, Wetherall waited for him to reply.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Sir Alexander Ball requests your presence. Instantly, sir.’

  Wetherall looked at the procession that was carrying the King’s treasure to its place of concealment. ‘We have brought two spare horses, for Sir Alexander also desires the presence of Mrs Tarver.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The Sword

  Sir Alexander’s office was familiar, with its ornate furnishings and that view over the baking courtyard. The chairs still stood at attention around the long polished table and the same ornate chandelier hung supine in the still air. The only difference was the presence of a long sword, which sat in its gold-encrusted scabbard on the table. The tip pointed ominously towards him, as if in warning. Glancing into the gold-framed mirror, Jack wished that he had been given time to change. He looked shabby in his battered working clothes, with his hair pulled back in a club and his ribbon badly tied. His apprehension built up, as Lieutenant Wetherall stood erect at his side.

  ‘What is this about, Mr Wetherall?’ Jack felt sick. If Sir Alexander had found out about the treasure, his recent jubilation at having a new labour force would be very temporary. Not only would he lose any future commissions, he would probably be tried for treason. Did they still behead traitors? Or would it be the hangman’s noose and the choking drop in front of a curious crowd? What would Bethany do? Jack looked down at himself. She would find somebody more suitable and more successful. Perhaps, he told himself bitterly, even the dashing Commander Cockburn.

  Wetherall seemed to have grown two inches in height and ten years in maturity since his promotion. ‘I have no idea, Mr Tarver. I was just sent to find you. Sir Alexander does not inform me of everything he does.’

  Jack relapsed into silence. Wetherall was so formal that he obviously suspected he was in trouble and was keeping him at arm’s length. The hangman’s noose was tighter now, so he could feel the chafe of hemp at his neck. He was not aware of the Admiral approaching until he heard the marine sentry snapping to attention, and then Sir Alexander was striding in.

  The two armed escorts slammed to attention.

  ‘Ah, Mr and Mrs Tarver! I am glad that Lieutenant Wetherall could locate you at last. You seem to be engaged on a number of perambulations on our behalf, what with building roads and marching across half of Calabria. We have matters to discuss, Mr Tarver.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Tarver thought it best to say as little as possible until he learned what this interview was about. At least Sir Alexander sounded amiable, but that could be a front. Looking at the long, sensitive face, Jack wondered how many hangings and floggings the Admiral had ordered with the same expression of benign indifference.

  When Sir Alexander positioned himself in front of the portrait of the long dead Grand Master, past and present combined to form a continuity of control. He looked at Jack for a long moment before running a hand over his head.

  ‘Well, Mr Tarver, no doubt you are wondering why you are here.’

  ‘I am, sir,’ Jack agreed. He felt himself stiffen to attention, as he had while standing in the rector’s office at Wolvington College many years ago. Except the rector had not the power to order his execution.

&nbs
p; ‘When you came here first’ – Sir Alexander seemed in no hurry to relieve Jack of his curiosity – ‘I informed you of the political situation. I told you of the failings of British arms on the Continent and the need for Great Britain to subsidise foreign armies.’

  Jack stiffened further. ‘You did, sir.’ He started, as there was a knock at the door and Commander Cockburn entered. He looked immaculate in what was obviously his best uniform.

  Ignoring Bethany, Cockburn stood a few paces in front of the door, with one hand on the hilt of his sword. Jack looked cutty-eyed at him, wondering if he was to command the escort that took him to the dungeons, then his eventual trial and execution. That would be the supreme irony, for then Cockburn would doubtless pay court to Bethany. But Sir Alexander was speaking again.

  ‘I did. And I asked you to help search for the treasure that was believed to be hidden on this island.’ Sir Alexander’s eyes seemed to penetrate inside Jack’s head, probing for every scrap of information that might be hidden there.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Jack tensed himself. Would he submit quietly, or try to fight and flee? He might knock down Cockburn – indeed, that would be a pleasure – but there was Wetherall and the two escorts, and a marine sentry at the door, and others elsewhere in this palace. What would Bethany think, to see her husband dragged bleeding and bawling to the scaffold? Would she not prefer him to die with as much dignity as he could muster? Although, from what he had heard about a hanging, there was nothing dignified at all …

  ‘Mr Dover reported on that matter to me.’ Sir Alexander had a slow, ponderous way of speech, as if he were weighing every word before he said it. ‘It seems you went to great lengths to accede to my wishes, Mr Tarver, including putting your life at risk and jeopardising the completion of your road.’ He leaned forward slightly, and all amiability receded from his eyes. ‘And, more worryingly, you also put Mrs Tarver in danger.’

  ‘If there was any danger, Sir Alexander, I ventured into it willingly,’ Bethany began, but Sir Alexander silenced her with a wave of his hand. Jack opened his mouth to protest, but closed it again without saying anything.

  ‘You are wise to make no comment, Mr Tarver. Commander Cockburn here assured me that you did try to restrain Mrs Tarver.’ His benign mood returned. ‘It is never an easy task to keep a woman under control, is it? That statement is especially true of a woman as spirited as your lady wife!’

  Jack allowed himself to smile and agree. He was still unsure where this conversation would lead.

  ‘However, I am not here to discuss such things. I have a rather more serious matter in mind.’

  Jack stiffened again. He would know in the next few moments, and then it would be the ignominious march under armed guard, the hurried trial and the final drop, kicking and choking in front of a crowd.

  ‘When I informed you of the situation of the Third Coalition, Mr Tarver, I did not expect you to try and alter things yourself. Yet I believe that you took rather an active part in the late action on the Plains of Maida. You helped drive a battery of guns to the field, I hear, and carried a message to the square of the 78th at a crucial time of the action.’

  Jack closed his eyes, reliving those terrible hours when he wrestled the artillery over the track, and that mad dash to the young Highlanders to inform them that the approaching infantry were enemies, not friends. He had not mentioned these events to Bethany and was aware of her appraising eyes. She would be most displeased to hear of the risks he had taken.

  ‘Lieutenant Colonel Patrick MacLeod mentioned the incident, Mr Tarver, and at his request, backed by the words of Lieutenant Alexander Cameron, Lieutenant Charlton and General Stuart, I have great pleasure in the following action.’ Sir Alexander nodded to Commander Cockburn, who took three long paces to the table and lifted the sword, which he handed to Sir Alexander.

  ‘Come here, Mr Tarver!’

  Jack stepped forward, still unsure what was happening, until Sir Alexander buckled the belt around his waist.

  ‘You may be aware that the Patriotic Fund awards swords to naval captains who have performed great deeds. There is no such institution for civilians, but the army raised its own funds for this occasion.’ Sir Alexander looked over to Bethany. ‘You should be very proud of your husband, Mrs Tarver. For a civilian to show such dash and courage, far beyond what was required of him, is very unusual.’

  Jack stared. If Sir Alexander knew that he had acted while riddled with fever and so addle-headed that he did not know what he was doing, he would take back the sword with a curse and a blow.

  ‘I have never doubted that, Sir Alexander,’ Bethany said quietly. ‘And he is also a fine engineer and a good husband.’

  ‘It is, of course, highly irregular to reward a civilian in such a manner, Mr Tarver, but the circumstances are hardly regular, are they?’ Sir Alexander was smiling benignly and even Cockburn looked pleased.

  ‘I do not know what to say, sir.’ Jack held the sword awkwardly. It was heavier than he had expected. The blade was inscribed with a battle scene and the words:

  To Jack Tarver, Engineer, for his bravery at the action at Maida, which turned the course of the battle in favour of British arms.

  ‘It is I who should say something, Mr Tarver.’ Sir Alexander bowed. ‘I can only thank you on behalf of all the people of Great Britain.’

  Holding the sword, Jack mumbled something in reply, as Sir Alexander ushered Commander Cockburn from the room.

  ‘So now, Mr Tarver, I have only one more thing to add.’ Sir Alexander lowered his voice: ‘Pray, don’t stray too far. The country has need of talent and courage such as yours.’

  ‘I am just an engineer, sir,’ Jack said.

  Sir Alexander shook his head, ‘Not any longer, Mr Tarver. As from today, you have a far more important role. You have proved your bravery and resourcefulness. From today, you will work with Mr Dover.’

  Jack looked up. ‘That would make me a spy.’ He shook his head, ‘Hardly a respectable occupation for a married man.’

  Sir Alexander nodded in the direction of Bethany. ‘Mrs Tarver seems to disagree.’

  Jack fingered his whale tooth and looked at Bethany, who was smiling to him.

  Also by Malcolm Archibald (non-fiction)

  The Darkest Walk

  Powerstone

  Whisky Wars, Riots and Murder

  Glasgow: The Real Mean City

  A Sink of Atrocity

  Fishermen, Randies and Fraudsters

  Copyright

  First published 2014

  by Black & White Publishing Ltd

  29 Ocean Drive, Edinburgh EH6 6JL

  www.blackandwhitepublishing.com

  This electronic edition published in 2014

  ISBN: 978 1 84502 782 7 in EPub format

  Copyright © Malcolm Archibald 2014

  The right of Malcolm Archibald to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Ebook compilation by RefineCatch Ltd, Bungay