The Silver Swan (4 page)

‘You're right, nobody can break down those walls,' said Papa. ‘But perhaps we can burrow under them.'

I gasped. Jem and I shouted it at the same time. ‘The map!'

‘What are you two honking about?' Miller asked.

‘There's a map showing tunnels under the city,' Jem said.

‘We stole it from Uncle Ebenezer,' I explained hastily to Mama. ‘But I didn't know he was my uncle then, so he didn't mind.'

‘I suppose Diablo's got it now,' said Jem mournfully.

‘Do you think I'd risk Diablo getting his claws on that?' asked Papa. ‘He knows its worth only too well.'

‘Where is it, then?' said Miller.

Papa stood up. ‘Right here. I hid it behind the bulkhead in Lily's cabin when
Gisella
was chasing us. You remember.'

We remembered, all of us who'd been on board that day — the day Diablo had taken his revenge on my father and me. None of us would ever forget it.

‘So we have a map and a cryptic message,' said Miller. ‘It's not much to go on.'

‘Perhaps we should go to Dingli first,' I suggested. ‘We could ask Uncle Ebenezer for advice. He and Aunt Lily would be so thrilled to see you, Papa, and to know that you're alive.'

Papa's face changed, darkened into a scowl. ‘There's no time for that. We have to get to the White Swan to collect my orders.'

‘It's right on our course,' I said. ‘It won't take long to stop off there.'

‘Lily, I said no and I mean it,' Papa warned. ‘We have to move in utmost secrecy.'

‘They wouldn't tell anyone,' I said.

‘You don't understand,' said Papa. ‘Your uncle
is one of those people who likes to be involved in every intrigue — and if he's not involved, he'll know someone who is.'

‘That's perfect,' I argued. ‘Then he'll be able to tell us what's going on.'

‘It's much better that he knows nothing about any of this,' said Papa. ‘If the Maltese are planning to attack Valletta, everyone else should keep well out of the way. It could be a bloodbath.'

‘But Papa —'

He cut me off with a wave of his hand. ‘That's enough, Lily. I have decided.'

‘Who says it's your decision?' Sudden anger flooded my whole body.

Papa brandished the letter from the Navy. ‘Admiral Kent, that's who.' He glared ferociously at me, then around at the rest of the crew. ‘I've commissioned this ship to carry out activities under my orders. You do what I say — all of you, even my argumentative daughter. Is that clear?'

‘Aye, sir,' a few of the boys mumbled.

I opened my mouth to say something, but Mama grabbed my arm to silence me. I swallowed my protest, but it stuck like a lump of steak and kidney pie in my throat. Papa stomped down the companionway to retrieve the map from its hiding place. The other boys scattered, relieved and perhaps embarrassed, back to their stations.

Mama pulled me down to sit beside her. We watched Lucas skipping along the deck, chatting to his new best friend, Brasher, who was showing him the ropes.

‘Lily,' she began.

‘I know, Mama — I shouldn't argue. But I can't help it. It just spurts out of my mouth.'

She circled me with one arm. ‘You must understand that your father has survived on his wits, alone, for many years. That's what has made him strong.'

‘It's made him rigid,' I said. ‘He's like a rapier blade, likely to snap at any moment.'

‘He's not used to being questioned, that's all,' Mama said. ‘Being part of a family again is as strange for your father as it is for us. You need to give him time to get used to it.'

‘I don't like being ordered around like that.'

‘The men don't trust him yet,' said Mama, ‘and if you question him all the time, what we have to do in the next few days will be twice as hard, and twice as dangerous.'

‘Papa doesn't trust me,' I retorted. ‘Why should I trust him?'

‘You already do, darling.' Mama squeezed me even tighter. ‘But you're fighting against it. Do you know why?'

I shook my head.

‘Somehow it's turned into a contest. You're both as bad as one another.' She held me at a distance so she could look into my face. ‘But there's room in this family for two heroes, you know.'

She kissed my forehead, and all the resistance inside me seemed to dissolve.

‘I'll try, Mama,' I said. ‘I really will.'

‘Thank you, darling.'

‘But he has to try, too.'

Mama laughed. ‘I give up. You're both as stubborn as mules. Off you go, now, and show me how fast this famous ship of yours can fly.'

I did try, all the rest of that day, to help Papa and not argue. It wasn't that hard. I just stayed out of his way. He knelt on the deck near the tiller, studying his precious map of the secret tunnels, so I had the rest of the ship to explore all over again. I spent hours showing Lucas how things worked, then we helped trim the sails and chatted to the boys. Lucas asked a thousand questions, and even Brasher couldn't answer them all.

Mama wanted to cook a special supper for our first evening afloat, so Lucas and I were her galley hands, just as I had been for Cookie on
Gisella
. We were used to cooking our meals together in a simple cauldron over the embers. That was all we'd had in our old cottage in town. We each had our tasks, and we fell into a familiar pattern, like a well-practised crew. But Mama was too tall to stand easily below decks, and she cursed silently as she bent over in the narrow galley, stirring the pot and slowly turning a leg of lamb over the fireplace. Every so often she forgot where she was, stood up, and banged her head on the beam. I pretended not to notice.

‘You see, Lily,' she said. ‘There are distinct advantages to being small.'

For Lucas, everything about being far out to sea on a real ship was an adventure, even peeling potatoes. Brasher let him use his clasp knife to scrape away the skin. Miller reckoned that if we could keep up Lucas's excitement about every single thing, we
could soon have him cleaning out the head and gutting fish, and he'd still be thrilled.

We ate our supper on deck as the sun went down, an autumn chill in the sea air. Mama and Papa sat together, talking quietly as if nobody else was there. I stuck close to Jem. He was silent, although he licked his lips an awful lot and sighed as if he'd never eaten anything so good in his entire life.

‘If you ever need to earn a shilling or two, ma'am,' he called out to Mama, ‘you can sail with us as cook any time.'

She laughed.

‘Will it always be so beautiful?' she asked, raising her face to the sunset. A few stray curls had escaped her hair-comb and danced in the breeze.

‘For you, ma'am, of course.'

‘Stop carrying on like a pork chop,' I muttered.

‘Just like home cooking,' Jem said, lamb fat glistening in his beard.

‘What he's trying to say, Cyg,' said Miller, ‘is that you always were a lousy cook.'

‘That's what I figured,' I said.

‘I didn't mean that,' said Jem. ‘It's just —'

I raised an eyebrow. I'd been practising that for a while. It was one of Papa's little tricks.

Miller chuckled. ‘You won't worm your way out of that one, Jem.'

We sat talking and watching the stars for a long time before Jem called out the watches and those of us who were off-duty went below to sleep. My minute cabin in the
Mermaid
's stern had become very crowded. Lucas and I slept in hammocks slung from
the beams, while Mama napped on a straw mattress on the floor below us. She had no nightgown, so she slept in her clothes, her hair loose and mouth slightly open. I loved her being there, loved having Lucas swinging gently in a hammock beside me, all of us together on my ship.

But I'd forgotten how little sleep you get on a ship. From now on, we stood our watches four hours apart — four hours to eat and sleep, then four at work, tending to the needs of the ship. There's always something that needs to be done, always some reason to stand ready, because no ship can look after herself, especially in the dark. Papa was awake on deck for much of that first night. When he came below, he shook me to take my turn on watch, then he climbed into my hammock to rest.

I'd also forgotten how noisy a ship is in the dead of night. It creaks all around you like a moaning storm, even in fine weather. The ropes slap together, drumming a march, and the canvas cracks and shudders. The men snore, fart and snuffle in their hammocks. As every sailor knows, even in your sleep you can sense a change in tack or a shift in the wind. There's never any real rest, especially on a ship bound for battle.

Only Lucas slept soundly. The rest of us dozed, flipped and fidgeted in our hammocks, or stood on deck, wide awake, wondering what lay in the waters ahead. It was like sailing into a war without knowing who was on our side. We had nothing but a vague plan, an obscure message, and an old scrap of map.

The ancient fishing village was crammed with stone houses, all facing out across the bay. Open
luzzu
boats, painted in bright blues and yellows, waited in the shallows for the morning catch.

The
Mermaid
had sailed close to the bay earlier in the day, but Papa didn't like the smell of the on-shore breeze and Jem got all nervous at the thought of the fort overlooking the village.

‘I don't care if the Knights have gone. I don't care if the French are leagues away,' he said. ‘Just the idea of anchoring in sight of a watchtower gives me the shivers.'

‘That's fair enough,' said Papa. ‘I'd rest easier somewhere more private, too.' His eyes were fixed on the headland. There, silhouetted against the sky, was a rider on a black horse, the glint of his telescope clear as day.

‘Who is it?' I asked. Jem had his own telescope trained on the horseman.

‘Can't say,' he replied. ‘French spy, maybe.'

Papa shook his head. ‘I hope there aren't too many of them left.'

‘Who else would bother watching us?' I asked.

‘It's impossible to know,' said Papa. ‘He might simply be someone who admires our ship.'

Jem laughed. ‘Let's show him how she goes, then. Hands to the mainsail!'

The boys ran to their positions.

‘We'll bring her in a touch and get clear out of his sight,' Jem told Papa.

So instead of mooring amid the fishing fleet, we anchored in a quiet cove beyond the headland. Max, Brasher and Ahmed stayed on board, with Lucas and Mama, to guard the ship. The rest of us rowed in to a deserted beach, walked overland, and sat on the high ground behind the town, watching and waiting for night to fall.

The town was in darkness and seemed peaceful as we walked quietly through a narrow lane towards the waterfront. It smelled like all fishing villages: of salt fish drying on the racks, of the blood of fresh swordfish, of damp ropes and nets, and, as we drew closer to the tavern, of wine and sawdust.

The White Swan was no larger than most of the other buildings, but perhaps a little more tumbledown. Above the wooden door hung an ageing tavern sign as English as any you'd have seen on Ludgate Hill or Fleet Street: a painting of two white swans, their necks intertwined and reaching upward. I smiled to myself. Dear old Cookie.

‘Here we are,' said Jem, a touch of pride in his voice. He reached out to push the door open.

Papa put one hand on Jem's arm. ‘Wait,' he
whispered. He was listening to the night-time sounds of the village.

‘It's early for the inn to be closed up and dark,' murmured Miller. ‘You'd think everyone'd be roaring drunk at this hour.'

Papa nodded. Something was wrong.

We all slid our swords from our belts, and Papa cocked one of his pistols, very quietly. I looked around the quiet village, and listened. So did everyone else. Somewhere a dog yapped. The water rippled against the quay. The men around me breathed heavily, nervously.

Papa signalled and Jem pushed the door open, very slowly, only a few inches. There were no lights inside and the place was silent, deserted. Papa leaned against the heavy door with one shoulder and pushed his way into the darkened room. The muzzle of his pistol followed the direction of his eyes as he peered into gloomy corners and up into the blackened beams.

I tightened my grip on my sword as we sneaked into the tavern behind Papa. I'd imagined this to be a place of music and laughter, Cookie behind the bar, shouting and carving a steaming joint of meat. Instead, the smell of cold ashes and stale beer hung heavily in the darkness.

We fanned out across the room. A table had been overturned and chairs smashed into the fireplace. There'd been a fight here, for certain. But who? And why?

Nobody spoke. I tiptoed closer to the bar. A flagon had cracked open and wine dripped slowly onto
the floor, pooling like blood on the boards. Then I spotted, in the shadows, someone's bare feet, two legs sprawled on the floor behind the bar.

‘Cookie!' My voice splintered the silence.

Jem and I rushed together to where Cookie lay, face down like a dead man, his arms and legs splayed out at odd angles. I grabbed at his shirt, trying desperately to turn him over. He was just too big. But he felt warm under my hands.

‘He's breathing,' I said. ‘He's alive.'

Everyone had gathered around, and Gideon and Miller finally managed to turn him over.

Cookie's eyes opened, looking up at us, and a thin streak of blood dribbled from a split in one corner of his mouth. He struggled to focus on my face, smiled weakly, and as his gaze switched from me to Papa then back again, he smiled even more.

‘Ah, my little Cygnet, I knew you'd come.' Pain had squeezed the colour from his face. ‘I knew you'd find each other, didn't I say so?'

‘What is it, Cookie? What's happened to you?'

He stared around at the boys, too hurt to smile for long. ‘You must run, all of you,' he whispered. ‘Diablo is close by, lying in wait.'

Cookie grabbed at Papa's shirt. ‘Diablo knows you're alive. He's discovered your secret. Don't ask me how. He doesn't care about the child or the French — he just wants to kill you once and for all.'

‘You'd think twice would be enough for anyone,' said Papa, grimly.

Cookie propped himself up on one elbow. ‘He
could have killed me — God knows he wanted to — but he left me here so you would find me. You must flee.'

‘It's a trap,' said Moggia.

‘I'm the bait, I'm sorry to say,' said Cookie. ‘That's the only reason I'm alive to tell the tale.'

Jem brandished his cutlass. ‘Let Diablo come.'

‘No,' Cookie was nearly shouting now, hoarse with pain. ‘There's no point in fighting him here. He has dozens of men with him.'

Somewhere out in the dark streets there was a clatter, and the sound of pounding feet.

‘Run, quickly,' Cookie urged. ‘Through the cellar — there's a trapdoor out into the stables.' He pointed to a narrow staircase winding down into the dark.

‘Right,' said Jem. ‘Someone give me a hand lugging this lump of lard.'

He bent down and shoved an arm around Cookie. Miller grabbed Cookie's legs. They both tried to stand up, holding him tight, but their knees trembled, and Cookie sank back to the floor.

‘Zounds, Cookie!' said Miller. ‘I'd never have thought it possible, but you're heavier than last time I saw you.'

‘You'll have to leave me here,' Cookie pleaded. ‘I think all my ribs are broken.'

‘Don't be silly,' I said, ‘as if we'd leave you in Diablo's clutches.'

‘I won't fit through the trapdoor.'

‘You will if I'm standing behind you, pricking holes in your backside,' said Miller, flourishing his sword. ‘Now, stop complaining and get moving.'

The pounding noise grew closer. Slowly, the front door of the tavern squeaked open.

We all ran, even Cookie, as fast and as silently as we could, through the narrow doorway and down some crumbling stone steps into the darkened cellar. Miller jammed the door shut behind us, wedging a broom against it.

‘That'll slow 'em down, but only for a minute.'

Francesco and Ricardo stood on a barrel, pushing up against a trapdoor in the cellar roof. It only budged an inch or two, as they both grunted with the effort, but then it creaked open.

Francesco peered out. ‘All is well,' he whispered. ‘Follow me.'

The boys' feet vanished through the trapdoor, and one by one we clambered out into the stables. It smelled of manure and musty animals. There was no sign of Diablo here, but from inside the tavern sounds of smashing timber and breaking dishes shattered the quiet.

‘Hurry!' said Papa.

Francesco and Ricardo reached down to hoist Cookie up out of the hole. Somehow they squeezed him through, like a cork from a bottle, until he popped out and all three fell in a heap on the straw.

Moggia closed the trapdoor gently.

‘All hands,' said Jem, then they grabbed a heavy iron anvil from the corner and dragged it over to rest on the trapdoor.

‘Now what?' asked Miller.

Papa was peeping through a crack in the stable door.

‘The harbour's close by,' he pointed. ‘You all run as fast as you can, steal a boat if you must, but keep out of sight. Cookie will show you the way.'

Cookie, miraculously cured of all ailments by the excitement, nodded enthusiastically.

‘Lily, you come with me,' Papa ordered.

He turned to the others. ‘We'll try to confuse them. Don't be surprised if you hear a ruckus.'

Miller grinned. ‘I love a bit of a ruckus, myself.'

‘Off you go, then,' said Papa. ‘We'll meet you at the ship later.'

One by one the boys slipped out through the stable door into the night.

Diablo's men were crashing around beneath us in the cellar now, banging on the trapdoor. Through the thick timber floor I could hear the muffled sound of his horrible voice, cursing and urging them after us.

Papa grabbed at a white horse that stood nervously in one of the stalls. He tied something around its head.

‘Don't just stand there,' he told me. ‘Bridle a horse for yourself.'

‘What's a bridle?' I asked.

He stopped what he was doing and stared at me. ‘Oh, no,' he groaned. ‘Haven't you ever ridden a horse before?'

‘Of course not,' I said. ‘When would I have ever done that?'

‘You'll have to ride with me,' he said, leaping onto the back of the horse. There didn't seem to be anything holding him on. He leaned down, one arm
outstretched towards me. ‘There's no time to saddle up anyway.'

I clutched at his hand and he hauled me up in the air. I scrambled to sit behind him. The horse moved slightly underneath us.

‘Hold on tight,' he said.

‘As if I'd fall off,' I scoffed.

‘Off we go!' Papa lashed at the horse's flanks with a strap. We lurched forward suddenly, and I grabbed Papa's shirt just in time.

The horse thundered out of the stables and into the street. Everyone I'd ever seen riding a horse seemed to sit in the saddle gracefully, moving gently with the rhythm of the hoof beats. But this wasn't like that at all. It was like riding a lump of driftwood in a stormy sea, bucking and twisting and bumping up and down. It was all I could do to keep myself upright, gripping onto Papa's shirt and trying to make my legs stick to the horse, no matter how much it tried to bounce me off.

We clattered through the streets of the sleeping village. Papa started shouting at the top of his voice: ‘Pirates! Help!' He shot a pistol into the night. ‘They're attacking the White Swan. Sound the alarm!'

Good thinking, Papa, I wanted to say, but my breath was being beaten out of me by the juddering of the horse. All around us the village started to stir, men ran out into the streets with flaming torches, and everyone was shouting.

‘Pirates! They're attacking the tavern.'

As we sped into the night, I could hear Papa
chuckling to himself. ‘Perfect.'

I would have agreed, but I was too busy holding on for dear life.

A couple of hours later we were safe back on board the
Mermaid
. Mama made all sorts of soothing clucking noises over Cookie's poor bruised face, and I could tell he loved having someone look after him. The rest of us gathered around them on the deck. As she dabbed at the scratches on his cheek, Cookie suddenly yelled, ‘Oh!'

‘I'm so sorry,' said Mama. ‘Did I hurt you?'

‘It's not that, my dear, you're doing splendid,' said Cookie. ‘But I just remembered — there's a message for you, Capt'n Swann.'

Papa nodded. ‘I thought there might be.'

‘Special messenger brung it,' said Cookie with a wink at me. ‘None other than our little Carlo.'

‘Carlo?' I looked at Papa. ‘What's he got to do with it?'

‘Who knows?' said Cookie. ‘You never can tell with that lad. There's an awful lot of talk goes on.'

‘That's our Carlo,' said Miller.

‘Here, it's all written down for you,' said Cookie. ‘I hid it from Diablo, don't you fear.'

He unwound the scarf from his head. Stuck underneath it, flat against his scalp, was a folded letter. He peeled it away from his damp skin and passed it to Papa. As Papa unfolded the paper, I peeped over his shoulder and quickly scanned the page.

‘What does it say?' asked Lucas.

‘Never you mind,' said Mama. ‘It's so far past your bedtime it's almost tomorrow.'

‘But Mama —'

‘Come. We'll find out all about it in the morning.' She took his hand and led him below.

‘I can't read this,' Papa said, holding the letter up to the light of the lantern.

‘I think it's in Italian,' I said. ‘We'll have to ask Mama to translate it.'

Moggia took the paper from Papa's hand. ‘I will read it,' he announced.

‘You can't read,' Miller jeered, even though he couldn't read either.

‘I can so,' said Moggia, insulted. ‘I just can't read English. I was taught by the Holy Fathers of San Pietro when I was a boy.'

He held up the paper as if he were a town crier, and translated loudly:

‘We, loyal patriots, men of Malta, will attack Valletta and the Three Cities at midnight on the new moon and —'

‘That's tomorrow night,' said Max.

‘Thank you,' said Moggia, ‘we all know that.' He went on.

‘… and drive the French troops into the sea. We ask you to help us. We understand that you hold the secret key to the fortress …'

‘Damnation,' said Papa. ‘Who told them that?'

‘It is very hard to read with all these interruptions,' said Moggia.

‘Go on,' I urged.

‘We have begged arms from the King of Naples, but he does not deign to reply. We have a few muskets brought by the British. We cannot match
the French armaments, but if we can destroy their weapons, our forces will be more equally matched. So your part in this great undertaking is to attack the Vittoriosa Armoury and to remove or obliterate all weapons and gunpowder. Light a bonfire that will be remembered for decades to come. Unlock the gates of the city for us, and we will free Malta forever.'