by Sam Burnell
Froggy’s shoulders slumped, and reaching over, he took the knife into his hand. He met Jack’s eyes and asked, “And Gent?”
Jack reached over and reclaimed the blade. “I used Dan’s knife.”
Froggy’s mouth was a thin line. “When he didn’t come back I knew Kineer had killed him.”
They sat quietly for some time. It was Froggy who broke the silence, asking, “So at the moment our best path off this overheated rock is Master Scranton and his powder expertise?”
Jack nodded. “I think it might be. So I need to make peace with Master Scranton, and make sure he doesn’t blow anything else up.”
“He’s a nervous man, and he’s not working well at the moment, Jack. It’s taking forever to get this powder made,” Froggy said, gloomily.
“We need to get Scranton finished here, and back to Mdina to show the worth of his powder process. The sooner we do that, the better,” Jack said, then hands on knees he pushed himself back up. “Right, time to talk with Scranton and find out how long this is going to take.”
Master Scranton was in conversation with Emilio. Jack listened for a few minutes before moving in a little closer. The munitions manufacturer was running through a seemingly endless list of complaints.
“I shall have enough made in another few weeks,” Scranton provided. “The problem you see is the heat. It is drying everything too fast and it bakes it to brittle cakes. Apart from the fact that this makes it dangerous to handle, we can’t form it into pellets.”
“But you have found a way around that?” interrupted Jack, a little impatiently. Emilio had listened to enough of Scranton’s gripes and left them together.
Scranton’s eyes narrowed. The little man’s nerve and temper were being sorely tested and Jack’s manner was not helping. Jack saw the reaction on the little man’s face that his words had produced, and chose his next ones with more care. “Master Scranton.” Jack addressed him formally, his mocking tone now absent. “It appears we are in firm agreement that leaving Malta as soon as possible would be a benefit to us all.”
The little man looked up at him and then seeing Jack’s frank, serious face, he nodded.
“Good, then I suggest that we work together to bring this about as soon as possible,” Jack concluded.
“I was telling Brother Emilio but a moment ago…”
Jack interrupted. “The Brother has no working knowledge of powder. I propose you tell me and let me see if we can provide a successful demonstration and get us all out of here. Agreed?” When the munitions manufacturer did not reply, Jack continued, “I can, when occasion demands, Master Scranton, be as capable as my brother. So are we agreed?”
“Agreed,” Scranton said, and then as if to add weight to this he added, “Master Fitzwarren.”
Jack smiled and clapped Scranton on the arm, making the little man stagger. “Good man, now show me where you are and what progress you have made. Can you see that brother from the Order over there?” Jack nodded to where Emilio, attended by two of his serving men, was enjoying a cool drink beneath a carob tree. “He is sending a full report back to de la Sengle on our progress, so arm me, Master Scranton, with what I need to know.”
Jack was heartened to find that his idle brain had retained more than he had thought possible about the process. Richard, who was interested in everything and anything, had been fascinated by how varying production methods could result in the charge sending the projectile much further. Jack recalled he had listened under sufferance, however he was able to ask a few sensible questions, surprising not only himself but Scranton as well.
“There’s much left to do. It just takes time and I’m afraid to admit that myself and Master Tate have tried our best, but without skilled hands to aid us, we have many days of work left.”
“How many?” Jack asked. From what he could see, there wasn’t that much left to do, but Scranton couldn’t resist being as bleak as possible.
“At least ten days, maybe more,” Scranton said, forlornly.
“I’m advised we have less than a week. De la Sengle wants proof swiftly, I’m afraid,” Jack said gravely.
“But without more assistance, Master Fitzwarren, we aren’t going to manage,” Scranton’s high pitch voice complained.
Jack held out his hands. “They may not be skilled hands, Master Scranton, but under your direction they could be useful.” Jack made a mental note to make his brother pay dearly for this.
“You’d help?” Scranton blurted, shock on his face.
“If it helps move me closer to Italy, then yes, I am at your disposal,” Jack said, seriously.
“Well that would be a help. With both you and Master Tate, we might be able to make some progress.” Scranton sounded heartened.
Jack was only wearing a linen shirt and began rolling up his sleeves.
“Surely, sir, if you are to toil for the Master here, you’d be better off without your shirt on?” Brother Emilio called, resting his back against the carob tree and smiling broadly at Jack.
Emilio had spoken in his smooth native Italian and Scranton looked between the pair, confusion on his face. “What’s he saying?”
Jack held Scranton’s eyes and said quietly, “He’s saying we’d better hurry up, the Grand Master is not a patient man.”
Jack matched Emilio’s smile and replying in Italian said quickly, “Only if Master Scranton here works without his shirt as well?”
Emilio’s face twisted in revulsion, and waving a hand at Jack, he said, “If that is your condition, then keep it on!”
Jack worked alongside Scranton and Froggy all afternoon. Master Scranton remained difficult. He complained endlessly and refused to answer any of Jack’s questions about how they could speed up production.
“Master Scranton,” Jack was finally forced to say, “we just need to complete these tasks as soon as we can and that will hopefully lead us from this island. Does the thought of leaving Malta not please you?”
“I find little to smile about. It’s taken nearly three months to arrive here. I’ve been shot at, nearly killed in my bed, almost blown up and suffered endless insults. I’m regretting very much the folly of ever being a part of your brother’s scheme,” Master Scranton spat back.
“Well that may be so, but I would keep your regrets close, Master Scranton, for we’re now not at our journey’s end but at its beginning,” Jack advised, wishing very much that Richard was here to handle Scranton.
“Its beginning? What do you mean?” Master Scranton said.
“Your journey is just about to begin. We are on Malta, and now, sir, is your opportunity to show the world what you know. You are surrounded by the Knights of St John and I can, with some certainty, say that at the moment you’ve probably never been safer,” Jack stated, waving in the direction of Emilio and his men.
Master Scranton grunted.
“I can’t be held responsible for your earlier error of judgment, if that is what you are thinking. My brother placed a bargain before you, Master Scranton, and we have finally arrived at that point of reckoning. Your journey starts here. Later you are to meet with the Order’s head of munitions. I strongly suggest that you make yourself extremely useful.”
Scranton took the rebuke silently.
†
Even though they worked in the shade cast by the trees, sheltering them from the worst of the sun’s heat, it was still painfully hot. Sweat ran in a constant trickle down Jack’s back as he helped to grind the ingredients into a malleable and even paste. The liquid used was urine. When mixed with this, unlike water, it prevented it from drying out so quickly and gave the paste a sticky consistency from which they could make the pellets. Once the paste was formed into even pellets, they were left to dry for another short while and then packed, under Scranton’s watchful eye, in earthenware casks which were stored in the shaded caves.
Jack straightened his back and stretched, his muscles complaining from being hunched over the tables all afternoon helping Froggy produce th
e smooth paste. The once-white linen of his shirt was now blackened with the charcoal and damp with sweat. Jack rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead and delivered another dark smear to his face. The smell from the black powder also transferred itself to him, the acrid smell of strong urine mixed with the noxious odour of sulphur, a sickening aroma that pervaded the whole working area. Emilio had complained bitterly about the smell, relocating himself further away to sit and watch them work.
“How much more do we need?” Jack said, addressing Scranton after he returned from taking another batch of dried pellets to be stored in the earthenware casks.
“Five more to fill, then we will have enough,” Scranton said, coming to stand next to Jack. “If they had given me more men, we would have had this finished days ago.”
“They did,” Froggy said, matter of fact. “If you remember, they blew themselves up.”
Scranton scowled at Froggy. “And the blame of that was not mine.”
“The poor buggers didn’t know what they were doing, did they?” Froggy continued.
“If they gave me idiots to work for me, what can they expect?” Scranton said hotly.
Jack held up his hand. “Please, we’ve enough problems and I’d rather we completed this task without blowing ourselves up.”
Scranton continued to scowl at Froggy but did not say another word. Instead he collected another tray of pellets and made his way back towards the caves.
They worked until the light failed. There was no way they could continue safely after dark. Sensibly, Scranton would not allow a lit torch anywhere near the work area. They left everything where it was, covered in animal skins soaked in more urine to keep everything moist until they returned in the morning.
Scranton made his way down the hillside to rest for the night in one of the fishing shacks on the shoreline, and Jack declared he would stay in the cave with Froggy. Emilio’s men had rigged him a hammock between the trees and Jack had to admit that it looked much more comfortable than the dusty cave floor that Froggy had on offer. They passed Emilio’s temporary camp on the way back to Froggy’s cave.
“Don’t come any closer,” Emilio said, taking two precautionary steps back as Jack and Froggy approached.
Jack grinned and took a step towards him. “Make your mind up.”
“You smell worse than the fires of Hell,” Emilio said, his nose wrinkling in distaste.
Jack followed Froggy back to his temporary accommodation, taking with them provisions that has been delivered from the village: coarse bread, an acid cheese and freshly cooked fish.
Chapter 17
An Unexpected Arrival
Jack awoke early having slept well after the previous days exertions, despite the discomfort of the cave and having to use his boots as a pillow. Sitting in the entrance to the dim interior, he pulled on his boots and looked out over the bay. He could see the narrow entrance of water from the sea and the small fishing boats that were already heading out towards the deeper water to cast their nets. On the opposite side of the bay, the rocky island rose again, green tufts of course scrub and stunted carob trees clinging to what little soil they could find.
Jack turned and called back over his shoulder, “Are you coming?”
There was an affirmative grunt from Froggy Tate. Jack sat on the threshold of the cave and waited for him. As he turned back, he saw a scratched picture on the flat stone slab to his right. Raising his hand, he traced over the lines in the stone. It was a rough drawing of a galley. It seemed to sit low in the water, the oars drawn by the slaves showing clearly along the sides of the ship, two high masts rising high above the deck. It was not dissimilar to the Santa Fe.
“That’s been there a long time,” Froggy said, joining him. “They must have been able to see it from here down in the bay.”
“The bay doesn’t look deep enough,” Jack said, observing the shallow tract of water.
“They don’t draw much water. As long as it stopped in the centre of the bay down there it would be safe from beaching. And the waters here are so still. Look at it down there. It doesn’t even seem to be moving. Have you ever seen the seas around England look like that?” Froggy pushed past Jack, emerging into the light of the new day.
“I’ve seen rougher lakes in England than that,” agreed Jack, rising and stretching. “Come on, I want to get this over with as soon as possible. Scranton’s endless complaining is why this has taken so long. Yesterday we made as much as he had in a week.”
Froggy nodded. “I know. The man is no doubt good at what he does, but he never stops moaning. The pellets are too small, the wrong shape, the wrong weight, too dry, too wet. I’ve had weeks of stinking like a piss house and I’ll be glad when we’re finished.”
“That’s no hardship,” Jack said. “You always smell like a piss house.” Ducking, he avoided the swipe Froggy aimed at his head, and set off back to the production area.
They worked for as many hours as the heat and daylight would allow and by the fourth day they had nearly finished. In the pleasantly grey dawn, Jack and Froggy were back combining the powder and producing the paste and pellets hours before Scranton made his way wearily up the hill.
“I cannot stand another night here,” Scranton complained as soon as he was in earshot of Froggy and Jack.
“Here we go,” Froggy said, under his breath.
“Master Scranton,” Jack said, sounding overly cheerful.
“The sooner we get that last of this made the better,” Froggy muttered.
Scranton had his hand pressed to the small of his back. “One more night on the floor and I shan’t be able to get up again.”
“Let’s get that last cask filled then and Brother Emilio can take us back to Mdina,” Jack said, pausing in his work for a moment. “We started early, please check what we’ve prepared so far. If it is good enough we can start making it into pellets.”
Scranton, still grumbling, advanced to the bench where Jack and Froggy had been labouring for several hours already. The paste was fine and even. Jack knew perfectly well it was as good as any Scranton himself had supervised the production of. After four days of working with him, Jack had a familiarity with the process that even Richard would have been proud of.
“It’s a little coarse,” Scranton finally declared, after he had rubbed some of it between his thumb and forefinger. “It needs to be a little finer, another hour and it will be good enough to use.”
Froggy was about to say something, but Jack kicked him hard in the shin. “Another hour? Good, I thought it needed a little more work. It is good to have your expertise on hand. There is bread, cheese and ale, Master Scranton, over near Brother Emilio.”
The little man inclined his head and shuffled off, a hand to his aching back.
“I’m not doing another hour’s work just so he can say he was right. There’s nothing wrong with it the way it is,” Froggy complained hotly.
“I know, and we are not going to do it either. Scranton will not quickly return here, and we’ll tell him, when he does, that we re-worked it as he directed. Then everyone will be happy,” Jack explained, smiling.
“Everyone but me. We’ll have just had to waste an hour to keep that bastard happy,” Froggy said, groaning.
“We are not going to re-work it, you fool. We’ll make the pellets, set them to dry, and then I am going to see if I can get this stench from my skin,” Jack said, setting his blackened hands back into the paste on the trays on the table.
“My brother used to work in a tanner’s yard and even he didn’t smell this bad when he’d come home. It doesn’t seem to bother Scranton. I can only suppose that after being round sulphur and piss his whole life his nose doesn’t work anymore,” Froggy said laughing.
Jack was right. Scranton made no haste to return to the tables where Jack and Froggy were working. When he did join them, the sun was high in the sky and Jack’s stomach was telling him it was time to find out if Scranton had left them any bread. When Scranton made a bri
ef visit back to tell them that they were working to his specifications, Froggy hid a sour expression and Jack kept his words civil.
†
Finally they were finished. The last of the pellets had been made, dried and packed into the earthenware pots. Jack left them to pack away the camp and prepare for their return to Mdina. Sitting on the rocky shoreline, Jack shielded his eyes against the glare from the sun on the sea and looked out across the bay. The small huts the fisherman lived in behind him were empty, the only noise coming from the crickets buzzing in the carob trees. Jack dipped his hands into the water and watched some of the black dusted charcoal wash from his skin. He was covered in it, and the smell of sulphur lingered on him as well.
Standing quickly, he pulled the filthy shirt over his head and, stripping naked, he walked into the sea, letting the warm water lap around him. Ducking beneath the surface, Jack stood, watching as the fine black dust from his hair washed down his chest.
Froggy Tate was stained black with the charcoal, the creases in his face lined with it. Tate, though, had been working with the damned stuff for weeks. Jack hadn’t realised that he too was just as black, even after just four days of working on Scranton’s powder production.
Lowering himself into the embrace of the blissfully cool water, Jack set out to swim to the other side of the narrow bay. Halfway across, he stopped, turning onto his back and looking up at the craggy hillside pockmarked with olive trees and sparse scrub. Up there he knew Scranton was working, but from this distance he couldn’t see or hear him and Froggy. Lazily, he swam slowly, intent on making it to the opposite side of the inlet.
Looking towards the open sea, at the end of the bay, he could see a small island. It looked close enough to be connected to the mainland. But when Emilio had pointed it out, he had told him it was accessible only by boat. The channel between Malta and the rocky outcrop was a deep one. The island had offered sanctuary, so it was said, to Saint Paul. The Apostle was shipwrecked off the Maltese coast when he was being transported to Rome as a prisoner. From where Jack was now he could see a small rocky cairn on the top of the island.