Malta greets Shirley
Everyone who arrives in Malta by sea notices a small group of men in dockworkers’ clothing standing on a pier. One is carrying a sign (in English, not Maltese) that reads “Higher Wags for Workers.” As Shirley disembarks and approaches the workers, one of them looks at a crumpled piece of paper in his hand and shouts (in English, cockney accent) “Workers Untie!!” One of the others elbows his fellow protester and says “UNITE, you git. Workers UNITE.” The other protesters laugh. The apparently dyslexic protestor says “At least I’m tryin’, ain’t I?”
Shirley hastily steps out of sight of the cluster of men, behind the gangplank of the freighter, to consider his choices, keeping his ears open for more talk from them. From his concealed position, Shirley overhears the following:
1) Many complaints about the weather, the langugae, and the food, if no-one English-looking is around.
2) Complaints about working condiitons when English-looking passers-by pass by.
3) The following group conversation:
Speaker 1 (Mr. Untied): “You ’eard from Nicky yet, Bill?”
Speaker 2 (apparently Bill): “Not a peep, my son.”
Speaker 3: “Weren’t ’e s’posed to be ’ere by now?”
Bill: “Pro’bly got delayed, sommat. Be ’ere any time.”
Mr. Untied: “Think the coppers got ’im?”
Speaker 4: “Not our Nicky. Slipperier than a greased eel, that ’un.”
Bill: “Sixpence says you’re wrong, my son.”
Speaker 4: “You’re on, Bill.”
Pause
Speaker 3: “’Ow long we goin’ to be protestin’ today. This bloody thing’s ’eavy.”
Bill: “We’ll knock off at sunset, right? Just like yesterday.”
Mr. Untied: “Cor, this protestin’s right boring.”
Bill: “You’re bein’ paid well enough for it, Danny, so shut your gob.”
Damn. A situation, this. Well, he can at least hope that an attendant at a currency exchange or bank will speak a little English. Shirley looks around him for such an institution. The usurious fees will be worth paying if he can only find help!
Someone taps Shirley on the shoulder and says “Excuse me, sir.” Shirley jumps and turns around, heart hammering, forcing down the impulse to shout. It’s the second mate from Shirley’s ship. “Something the matter, sir?”
“Yes. Those men, they are not protesters. They are English, and there is some chance they may attempt to interfere with me.”
The second mate removes his cap and scratches his head thoughtfully.
“You’re one o’ them Ellipsoids, right? Well, we ought to make sure you get where it is you’re goin’. Half a minute, sir, while I get the Cap’n.”
After only a few minutes, the Captain and the second mate approach Shirley’s position. The second mate is carrying an umbrella and a string bag of oranges. The Captain addresses Shirley. “Watson here tells me there’s a bit of a sticky wicket with those chaps over there.” He motions toward the “protesters.”
“Yes, Captain, I fear so, and I am sorry to trouble you about it. Shortly before leaving London I avoided an attack intended to drive me from the race. Those men over there are English, their protest is a poor attempt at disguise, and while I stood here they mentioned the name of the man who paid for the attack on me. I should like to see them picked up and questioned by the authorities, but just now I am not even sanguine about leaving this port safely, much less arriving at Valetta Palace!”
The Captain sputters with indignation. “That’s—That’s—That’s not cricket! Can’t have those thugs getting in the way of such a fine, upstanding gentleman as yourself. Watson, fetch—hmm, who’s right for what I have in mind?”
“Perkins, Cap’n, and perhaps Jones and Mercuri,” the second mate helpfully supplies.
“Exactly! Fetch the lot, Watson, and have them escort Mr. Addam to the Valetta Palace. Take the lifeboat down a few piers, just to be safe. Mr. Addam, I suggest you open Mr. Watson’s umbrella and keep it between yourself and those blighters at all times. Then, you can report them to the Governor himself!”
The Captain is the very image of righteous indignation as he whirls about and stalks back to the ship. Watson looks at Shirley speculatively. “Mercuri speaks Italian and Spanish, Mr. Addam. Should be a help to you gettin’ through town. Perkins has a bit of Italian as well. Jones barely speaks English, but he’s a right hand with a belaying pin, if you know what I mean. They’ll get you to the Palace safe as houses, and be happy to do it.”
Shirley shakes the mate’s hand gratefully. “Mr. Watson, I can only thank you. Be assured that I will mention your assistance in the proper quarters; I hope it serves to further you and your men as you deserve.”
After ten minutes or so, Shirley is escorted to a lifeboat. A large man puts down his belaying pin carefully, and takes the oars. A small Italian-looking gentleman and a large, red-faced blond man load Shirley’s luggage into the boat, then climb in themselves.
The men row several piers down from the one where the charter was docked, and pull into a small jetty. Mercuri and Jones unload the luggage while the chap with the belaying pin stands guard, looking in the direction of the “protest.” Mercuri is able to flag down a horse-drawn cab in very short order, haggling with the driver in shouted phrases that vaguely remind Shirley of those he heard from the Captain on the ship to Cadiz. The shouting stops abruptly, and Mercuri turns back to Shirley. “We go now, hey? Good price, ninepence!”
“Yes, by all means. Thank you—Mercuri, is it?”
“Si, Giovanni Mercuri,” he answers, as he grins. Half his teeth have gold crowns, and several of the other half are missing. “We go now!” The sailors load up Shirley’s bags and climb into the cab.
The ride through Valetta is swift and harrowing. The bustling port town’s roads are crowded with carts, wagons, people, animals, and litter. The cab sways with every hard turn. The sailors appear undisturbed as the cab rockets through openings that didn’t exist a moment ago, and close behind with amazing swiftness. The driver barely misses a woman carrying a cage full of chickens, and makes a universally-understood obscene gesture to accompany his Italian oath. The squawking of the agitated chickens fades quickly, as the cab moves further down the street. The pace doesn’t slacken—quite the contrary, it picks up—as the cab zooms through residential neighborhoods of increasing gentility.
The ride comes to an abrupt end as the cab screeches to a halt at the front gate of the Valetta Palace. Mercuri hops out and begins speaking to the guard in rapid Italian.
Shirley follows more slowly, involuntarily stretching his legs as he reaches firm ground. He turns to fetch the Colonel’s hamper, but he cannot quite reach it; Perkins sees his intent and retrieves it for him. By the time Mercuri turns back toward him, he has found the unopened bottle of sherry.
Mercuri finishes his conversation with the palace guard, and turns back to Shirley. “You go in. Follow him.” Mercuri points to the guard. “We go back the ship now, hey?” Perkins and Jones unload Shirley’s bags. “You pay cab,” Mercuri continues. “Ninepence.”
“Certainly.” Shirley settles with the cabdriver and then leans down to the hamper. “Gentlemen, this is small thanks indeed,” he says, holding out the bottle to them, “but it is something, and I hope you will do me the honor of accepting it. Thank you very much, and safe journeys to you all.”
Perkins speaks for the first time, as Mercuri accepts the bottle. “Thank you kindly, Mr. Addam. We’re all pullin’ for you to win!”
Shirley smiles. “Small chance of that, I’m afraid; but thank you all the same.”
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