Tarver's Treasure

by Malcolm Archibald

  To the west was a coast of rocks and thundering surf, and to the east, scored by a single track that zigzagged to a tiny cove, stretched the pale cliffs of Dingli. Checking the map he had made, Jack marked off the landmarks. The cliffs to the east were named Ras il-Wahx – steep, ugly and ending in a fearsome point from which the Mediterranean exploded in spindrift and fury.

  ‘Horror Point,’ said Jack, consulting his notes. ‘And well named.’ He looked at the dark swirl of the sea and prayed for any seaman unlucky enough to end his days there.

  To the west was Ras il-Mignuna, Mad Point, which looked every bit as dangerous. His notes told him the tides at the base of the point moved in a direction opposite to anything else on this coast and he believed it, given the ugly ripples of the sea, with a backlash meeting a counter current in a swathe of spray and white-capped waves.

  If Mr Egerton was serious in his determination to create a harbour, he should be down there now, surveying the ground, checking the tides, searching for suitable building material, but the tiny bay seemed empty. Jack sighed, shaking his head. He had to somehow build a roadway down these cliffs, or at least something more suitable than the present crumbling path.

  Carefully packing away his theodolite in its leather case, Jack took a firm grip and began the descent of the cliffs, swearing softly as small stones rolled from underneath his feet. He watched one particular pebble slither across the track then bounce from the edge and fall straight down until it vanished into the sea. From this height, he could not see the splash, but the sensation of height was shuddering.

  Pausing to fight a sudden spasm of dizziness, Jack could see only two offshore islets breaking the view of the Mediterranean. The furthest out, he knew, was called Fifla, an uninhabited island of interesting shape, while the nearer and smaller did not appear on his map at all. It was uneven, with white surf around the shore and a great dark lump in the centre, but there was certainly no human life.

  The break in the path surprised him until he realised he was on a shallow terrace, with goats grazing under the care of a stoic-faced farmer.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ Jack raised his hat. He did not expect the farmer to understand him, but his Wolvington training had taught him to be polite to everybody. ‘I am surveying this path to improve it.’

  The farmer frowned and stepped against the wall of his cliff. Without a word, he lifted a musket that leaned there, pointed it in Jack’s direction and gestured forcibly.

  The man looked so determined that Jack started back. ‘It’s all right,’ he explained quickly. ‘I’m not French, I’m English!’

  The farmer did not seem to care what nationality he was, as he gestured again, thrusting the long barrel towards Jack and speaking Maltese in a low and definitely threatening tone.

  ‘I’m English!’ Jack repeated, but when the farmer stepped closer and brought the butt of his musket to his shoulder, he took a quick step backwards.

  ‘All right! I’m leaving!’

  Scrambling madly back up the path, Jack ducked and held his leather bag close, but the farmer seemed content to threaten. He did not fire. ‘I’m an engineer. I want to make a road!’

  The farmer followed Jack back up the path, still gesturing with his musket as Jack scrabbled to safety over the lip of the cliff. He shouted something as Jack withdrew.

  The noise must have alerted the villagers of Fiddien, for a crowd was gathering at the head of the track. Most watched impassively, but a few waved clenched fists and one or two brandished sticks. When the women began to gather stones and hand them to their men, Jack withdrew further.

  ‘I will be back,’ he shouted. ‘I’m going to build you a road!’

  The first stone bounced from the ground at his feet, the second cracked from a rock. When the shouting increased, Jack walked quickly away, attempting to maintain some dignity while obviously retreating. The people of Fiddien, it seemed, did not welcome the British building a road down to Bahar Ahrax.

  Chapter Six

  John Dover Returns

  ‘They threw stones at you?’ Bethany shook her head across the pillows. ‘Well, what do you expect? They’re not used to us yet and here we are, thundering all over their country, changing things. Give them time, Jack, and they’ll come round.’ Her grin was more mischievous than helpful. ‘After all, it took me years to like you and sometimes I’m still not sure.’

  Jack looked away and scratched at the mosquito bites that itched irritatingly. He was not in the mood for Bethany’s teasing. ‘Maybe I should start from the Mdina end.’

  ‘Maybe you should,’ Bethany said, peering into his face. ‘Are you all right, Jack?’

  ‘I never was in better health.’ Turning away, Jack closed his eyes and tried to fight the pounding in his head. For once, he ignored Bethany’s wifely hand, as it sneaked across his stomach.

  ‘I don’t think you are,’ she said, but withdrew her hand and turned on her side.

  Working from first light to nightfall, it had taken Jack a week to detail the best route for his road, and long before then he had realised that the original tracks had been well laid out. When they wound round an obstacle, they detoured by only a few yards and he reasoned that it made sense to improve the existing paths rather than build a completely new road. If he could find a supply of decent building materials and a willing workforce, he would be ready to start work.

  ‘Today’s the day,’ he told Bethany, who, uncomplaining, had watched him walk out at dawn and return after dark, sweat-stained and tired, to a quick supper and a deep sleep. ‘Today’s the day I begin recruiting men.’

  Bethany looked closely into his face. ‘You look exhausted. Are you sure you’re all right?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Jack said shortly. He could feel the furrows between his eyes but that was only because of this persistent headache.

  ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ Bethany glanced around the house she was steadily fashioning into a home. ‘I can easily leave this behind.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Jack shook his head. ‘I’ll just ask around.’

  ‘Good luck, then,’ Bethany said, as she watched him stumble outside.

  Soon Jack realised that it was more than luck he needed. Despite all his efforts, he found that nobody was willing to work for him. He put up posters in Maltese and English, he asked people in Mdina and Rabat, he offered good wages, all with the same effect. The road, mapped and ready on paper, remained unmade as the days trickled away.

  ‘I only have six months,’ he told Bethany as, for the first time, they sat on the roof, swatting mosquitoes and watching the fading sun burnish the fields and church domes of the island. ‘And the first month is half gone already.’

  ‘I know,’ Bethany was eager to prove her sympathy. ‘But Mr Egerton has the same problem, remember? Maybe we could ask Sir Alexander to lend us some of the garrison. There are plenty of soldiers sitting around doing nothing.’

  ‘It’s very frustrating – these people just do not like me. I have the route worked out, and I know exactly how I will build the thing. There is good quality limestone for material, but I can do nothing without labour.’

  ‘They’ll come,’ Bethany said. ‘Give them time and they’ll come.’ She smiled across to him. ‘People need to learn to trust you, Jack. Remember, I found it hard at first.’

  ‘Thanks for the reminder!’ Jack could not help the bitterness in his voice. ‘My weekly reports to Sir Alexander all say the same thing. The road is mapped, but I cannot find labour. What will I say in the monthly report? That I have not got a single yard of road made yet but people might trust me soon?’

  ‘Don’t think about it just now,’ Bethany soothed. ‘Just enjoy the evening. Look, over there is Mdina, with its walls and cathedral. And over there on the left is Mostas, and everywhere are these small fields. Is it not just exquisite?’

  ‘Very nice,’ Jack said. He knew that Bethany was trying to jolly him out of his bad mood, but he refused to smile. ‘But it is hardly relevan
t. What good is all this if I can’t work?’

  ‘No good at all, if you can’t work,’ Bethany agreed. ‘But just look at all these twin-towered churches. Have you ever seen the like?’

  Jack grunted. The sombre din of the church bells, so different from the melodious peals of Hereford, did nothing to help his headache.

  ‘And the names: Zebbug, Qormi, Birkirkara …’ She looked at him, suddenly narrow-eyed. ‘Are you really desperate to do some work?’

  ‘Of course.’ Jack fell headlong into her carefully baited trap.

  ‘Oh good, then I can trust you to do a little engineering work around the house.’ Bethany’s smile was as sweet as Comino honey. ‘After all, I’ve hardly seen you recently and, even then, you’re insufferably out of humour.’

  Jack grunted again. ‘So what do you want, then?’

  ‘Could you check the well? There’s hardly any water in it, but there’s plenty in the cistern.’

  ‘Probably a blockage,’ Jack replied, analysing the problem in seconds. ‘I’ll have a look.’

  After days of measuring, mapping and trying to drum up labourers, it was good to have something practical to do. Secretly acknowledging that he was constantly in a Hogmorton mood, Jack thought it time to mollify Bethany. Lifting the stone hatchway that gave access to the cistern, he eased down the half dozen small steps. It was obvious that the cistern had been hacked from the solid limestone and then lined with clay to make it impermeable. He nodded his approval – it was a simple but solid piece of engineering.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Bethany’s voice echoed in the stone chamber.

  ‘Fine, I have to locate the outlet from the cistern into the well.’ The builder had left a handy three-inch footway around the interior of the cistern and Jack edged along it cautiously. ‘Could you get me a lantern?’

  The flickering light reflected weirdly on the water, bouncing back from the limestone roof, with its marks of pickaxe and hammer. Propping the lantern up beside him, Jack balanced on the footway, feeling for the outlet. It would be on the side nearest to the well, and probably fairly low down, he had calculated, so he leaned into the water, splashing with his hand as he followed the line of the wall.

  ‘I hope there are no snakes or anything,’ Bethany shouted. ‘There are plenty of lizards up here.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Jack said quietly. ‘The mosquitoes are bad enough.’ He jerked back and cursed as something sharp lanced into his finger.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing, something stuck into me.’ The blood dripped slowly to spread along the surface of the water. Shaking his head, Jack resumed his search, probing more carefully for the blockage until his fingers slipped around something hard and sharp. ‘Got it!’

  ‘Is it clear now? Is the well filling?’

  ‘No, but I’ve found the thing that jabbed me.’ He hauled it out. ‘It’s some sort of knife. Somebody must have dropped it in the water.’

  ‘Fascinating … but can you just clear the blockage, please, so we can have water in the house?’

  Jack sighed. Clearly, Bethany did not care a fig about his injury. ‘All right, Bethany. Don’t set up your bristles!’

  ‘Whatever is the matter with you, Jack Tarver? You’ve been in high dudgeon since you arrived in Malta!’

  Sighing, Jack thrust his arm into the water and clawed until he found the outlet pipe. ‘Here we are. As I said, it’s a simple blockage.’ He dragged out what seemed like a bundle of rags. ‘Somebody’s been working here and their clothes have fallen in. The suction of the outlet must have pulled them. Check the well, could you?’ He could hear the water rushing past, as it flowed from the cistern to the well, but he wanted confirmation from Bethany.

  ‘It’s filling!’ Bethany shouted. ‘You can come out now.’

  Holding the rags, Jack ascended the steps and pulled himself back to the yard. Bethany was looking at him, smiling and shaking her head. ‘There, you see. I knew you were still useful for something.’

  Sodden from the knees down, Jack began to squeeze away the wet, but Bethany only shook her head. ‘No, no,’ she said. ‘Just take them off.’ She stepped closer. ‘Here, I’ll help.’ Her grin was mischievous, as her hands slipped around his waist.

  ‘No.’ Jack stepped back a pace. ‘No, Bethany.’

  ‘No?’ The dismay in her eyes hurt him. ‘Jack, what’s wrong?’

  Shaking his head, Jack withdrew further.

  ‘Jack!’

  But he walked away, leaving a wet trail across the courtyard.

  ‘You found what?’ Mr Egerton looked up from his glass of wine. ‘You found a dagger?’ He seemed unreasonably excited. ‘May I see it?’

  Bethany had invited both Mr Egerton and Joseph Borg to her house, hoping to cheer Jack up by finding a solution to his labour problems. After feeding them, she sat everybody around the table and poured out wine, while she related everything that had happened.

  ‘I cut my hand open on it,’ Jack showed the wound, now neatly dressed by Bethany.

  ‘I have a fascination for antiquities,’ Mr Egerton said. He was actually trembling with excitement as he examined the dagger. ‘Was this all you found?’

  Bethany looked at Jack and gave a tiny shake of her head. ‘That was all,’ she said. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘No reason, no reason.’ Mr Egerton was turning the dagger over in his hand. ‘This is beautiful craftsmanship.’ He looked up. ‘May I have it?’

  Jack was about to assent when Bethany forestalled him.

  ‘I rather like it myself,’ she said. ‘I think I’ll keep it as a souvenir of Malta.’ Her laugh was unnaturally brittle. ‘After all, unless we can find some workers, we’ll get nothing else from this island.’ Reaching over, she retrieved the knife.

  ‘Yes, yes. I see,’ Mr Egerton said. ‘We share that problem. Every time I go near the bay, the local villagers threaten me or chase me away with sticks and stones.’

  ‘You were lucky it was only sticks and stones. Somebody aimed a musket at me,’ said Jack, then explained about the terrace.

  Borg sipped his wine and touched the strangely shaped charm he wore around his neck. ‘There’s a religious site along that ridge,’ he explained quietly. ‘And with you not being a Christian, the people won’t let you near.’

  ‘I am a Christian,’ Jack exclaimed. ‘I’ve been Church of England all my life!’

  Borg gave his usual solemn nod. ‘Yes, Mr Tarver, but this is a Roman Catholic island. Some of the more traditional among us don’t consider Protestants as real Christians.’ He looked squarely into Jack’s eyes. ‘Indeed, Mr Tarver, there are some of us who do not consider Protestants as Christian at all.’

  ‘But that’s fustian nonsense!’ Jack rose from his chair to protest before Bethany put a restraining hand on his arm.

  ‘Thank you for your intelligence, Mr Borg,’ she said, smiling politely. ‘Of course we have no wish to offend the religious susceptibilities of the Roman Catholics. Is there any way we can persuade the people of Malta that we are every bit as Christian as they are?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Borg said blandly. ‘You could always convert.’

  Bethany glanced at Jack. ‘We won’t do that,’ she said. ‘But I have no objections to attending a Catholic service, if the congregation don’t mind.’

  A small smile softened the sides of Borg’s mouth. ‘We’ll make you Maltese yet, Mrs Tarver. There will be no objections, but I do not think that even your presence will encourage men to work for Mr Tarver. That is your intention, is it not?’ His solemn eyes mused over Bethany, who coloured up.

  ‘I hope to show the local people that we are trustworthy,’ Bethany said. ‘And if we attend a Catholic church it might show people that we share a Christian heritage.’ She faced Borg across the width of the table. ‘I know that you do not trust us, Mr Borg, but I assure you that we only want what’s best for Malta.’

  Borg’s smile faded. ‘No, Mrs Tarver. I can assure you that you only want what’s best f
or Malta as long as that also benefits Great Britain.’

  ‘At present, Mr Borg, the two are the same.’

  ‘At present, perhaps,’ Borg agreed guardedly. He lifted his glass in salute. ‘Until Sunday then.’ He put his hand on the dagger and held Bethany’s eyes for a long second. ‘You’d better look after this, Mrs Tarver.’

  ‘But it’s a Roman Catholic Church!’ Jack protested again, as Bethany donned her best clothes.

  ‘It’s a church, Jack, with the same God and the same ideas. Only the administration is different!’ Bethany smoothed a hand disconcertingly over her flanks. ‘Is this dress all right, Jack? I can’t see myself properly without a pier glass.’

  ‘It’s fine.’ Jack made the same mistake as thousands of new husbands before him. ‘You look fine whatever you wear.’

  ‘Only fine?’ Bethany tried to peer at herself over her shoulder. ‘How does it hang on my hips? Do they look wide?’

  It was so obviously an invitation that Jack had to move closer and place his hands on her. ‘They look lovely,’ he said.

  ‘Jack! This isn’t the time.’ Wriggling free, Bethany pushed him aside, although her eyes were not unfriendly. ‘You’re surely feeling better today.’

  Taking a new straw bonnet from its peg on the wall, she pulled it onto her head and adjusted it. ‘I haven’t been to church for weeks, Jack, and there’s no Church of England here, so it will have to do. And you’re coming too, Jack Tarver. Partly because it might bring you workers, and partly because you’ve been bad tempered for weeks, so it’s time you thought about your soul. Anyway, my mother was Catholic.’

  ‘And you did not like her!’ Jack reminded her forcibly, as his head began to pound again.

  ‘I did not like her! Not her religion!’ Bethany looked sideways at him. ‘That was one reason she argued with father, though. We shall have to be careful of religion, Jack.’