'Sergeant Watters!' Amy, bereft of all dignity and with her eyes bright with excitement, tugged on Watters's sleeve. 'Mrs Foreman sent me to find you! She said that she needed you to partner her on the dance floor!' All curls and excitement, Amy bobbed a small curtsey to Ogilvy. 'Pray forgive me, Sir John, but Mrs Foreman requires the sergeant.'
Ogilvy bowed slightly. 'Who am I to stand in the way of Mrs Foreman? She may have Sergeant Watters with my compliments, Miss Amy. Off you go, Watters. We can't keep the ladies waiting, can we?'
CHAPTER FIVE: BROUGHTY FERRY, BY DUNDEE: SEPTEMBER 1862
'Right, you scruffy bunch of misfits!' Watters greeted the line of Volunteers as they stood on the broad beach of Broughty.
Having been glad to leave the Royal Marines, Watters had swithered about joining the Volunteers, but his sense of duty had compelled him to return to the military. 'Besides,' Marie had said, 'you look smart in scarlet.'
'So you think you want to be soldiers, do you? You think you can face French Zouaves or Russian Cossacks?' Watters paced slowly along the length of the line, staring intently into each face. Most were eager teenagers who hoped to improve their social life, with a sprinkling of mature men, only one of whom stared stolidly back. Watters noted him as a potential troublemaker and walked on.
'Let's see how good you all are then.' He appreciated the genuine attempts of the Volunteers to stand at attention, except for the troublemaker, who seemed to deliberately slump. 'As soldiers, you have to fight, you have to endure hardship, and you have to march.' Watters glanced at the men's ill-fitting boots. 'If you can't march, you will collapse, and the Frenchies will take their bayonets and cut you from groin to throat.'
The low winter sun cast long shadows from the walls of Broughty Castle, where the artillery garrison watched with amusement as Watters harangued his men. Lieutenant Ramsay, busily supervising the cleaning of the spanking new rifled 32-pounder Armstrongs that sat to the east of the castle, smiled in sympathy when Watters clutched his forehead at the Volunteers' attempts at marching.
'March, boys, march! It's simple; first put your left foot forward, then your right, then your left again!' Watters swore in mock despair as the men clustered together, falling over one another in their efforts to keep in step. 'Great God in heaven, don't you know your left from your right?' Watters acknowledged the grins with a shake of his head.
Most of these men were respectable artisans or the sons of shop owners or small farmers. There was no need to bully them into shape or treat them like the ill-or-uneducated gutter scruffs that made up a sizeable portion of the British Army.
'Right then,' Watters pointed to the nearest man. 'You—what's your name?'
The man stiffened to what he evidently believed was attention and grinned. 'Varthley, sir.'
'Right, Varthley, you look fairly intelligent. Step in front of the rest, and we'll demonstrate how to march.' He pointed to the jeering artillerymen on the castle wall. 'Don't worry about them; they had to learn too.'
Using Varthley as a model, Watters demonstrated the length of stride and how to swing the arms in time. 'Let's try again, shall we? Left, right! Left! Keep these arms swinging lads—we're soldiers, not artillerymen!' As he hoped, that raised another smile, and Watters led them along the shifting sands, with the creeping surf to their right and a handful of fishermen to their left. Fisher children kept pace with his Volunteers, laughing and making jokes at the recruits' expense. Half a dozen fishwives appeared and blasted the children into obedience, while the crew of a beached coaster lounged over the tilted bulwark, passing a bottle back and forth.
Watters marched the Volunteers from the shadow of the castle wall, along the beach to the village of Monifieth, bellowing to keep them in step. When the Volunteers flagged with the effort of working in soft sand, Watters marched them back. Only then did he unlock the rifles from their safety racks within the castle walls.
'Congratulations, Varthley. You are now an acting, unpaid corporal. Now help me hand out these rifles to the men.' Watters accepted the thanks of Varthley for his promotion to the most overworked and thankless rank in the British Army then allowed him to pass the rifles. Handling rifles would make the Volunteers feel like real soldiers, so he allowed them a few minutes to become accustomed to their weapons. He studied each man as they lifted the rifle. The troublemaker, Tulloch by name, did not seem as delighted as the others nor as nervous of his rifle.
'Right, lads! Stand easy now.' Watters waited until they had lined up in front of him to the accompaniment of cat-calls from the castle garrison. He lifted up one of the rifles. 'This is a Minie rifle. It weighs ten pounds, nine ounces and fires a conical hollow-based bullet about seven-tenths of an inch in diameter. As you see,' he pointed to the lock, 'it has a percussion lock, which gives the rifle a great advantage over the musket. Why is that, Tulloch?'
'It can fire in the damp,' Tulloch answered automatically, as Watters had intended.
'Precisely. A percussion cap rarely misfires, unlike the old style muskets. What other advantage has the rifle, Tulloch?'
When there was no reply, Watters moved closer, until he stood barely a foot away from the man, who overtopped him by a good two inches. 'Have you forgotten, Tulloch? Have you forgotten all your training?'
'You haven't told us, Sergeant,' Tulloch replied, with his fellow Volunteers murmuring support.
'Silence!' Watters adopted his sergeant's voice. 'I'm asking you, Tulloch, if you have forgotten your training! I've been watching you, Tulloch, and I know all about you. You're no recruit but a trained soldier, Tulloch, are you not?'
This was the moment of fate when Watters had to impose his personality on his platoon. He had to subdue Tulloch and be seen to do so, or these men would never fully accept his authority. In that event, discipline would be fragile, so if ever a real emergency arose, they would question his orders rather than obeying without thought, leading to unnecessary hesitation, possible defeat, and certain casualties.
There was silence on the beach, broken only by the passing whistle of a brace of oystercatchers and the raucous scream of a herring gull.
'Which regiment, Tulloch? If that's your real name. Time served, are you? Or maybe you're a deserter?'
Watters allowed the accusation to hang in the air for a minute, knowing that the suggestion of desertion was a threat of years in the military prison at Greenlaw. He glared into Tulloch's eyes until the man nodded.
'Time served, Sergeant. Forty second; Crimea and Mutiny.'
'Good man!' Watters relaxed into a smile. He held out his hand in a gesture of conciliation. 'We need a second corporal, and who better than a man of the Forty-twa, the famous Black Watch?'
Watters felt the atmosphere lift, as he had intended, and knew that he had gained command of these men. He continued his explanation of the merits and faults of the Minie rifle, ordered Tulloch to demonstrate the best firing positions, and ended with an overview.
'You now know that rifles are more accurate than muskets, and percussion caps lessen the chances of a misfire. You know that the Enfield rifle is now issued to our line infantry, but this Minie was excellent in the Crimea and a step up from the smooth-bore Brown Bess. The Minie bullet has three angular grooves filled with tallow for lubrication, and it fits into rifled grooves inside the barrel of the weapon. It is small enough to slip easily down the barrel, but when the powder charge explodes against the cone in the base of the bullet, the grooves expand to tighten the fit which, together with the spin created by the rifling, increases the accuracy.' Watters stopped to see the impact of his words. Most of the men were listening, but a few looked dazed at the deluge of information. 'The Minie can kill at nine hundred yards and with the eighteen-inch bayonet fitted can also kill at two yards. You will be trained killers.' He saw Varthley finger the lock of his rifle.
'Right! Enough theory. Now, we'll actually fire the thing, eh? See how it feels to be a real soldier!' Watters knew that the thrill of firing a rifle would more than compensat
e for all the painful tedium of learning. By morning, the men would remember only a quarter what he had said, but constant repetition would drive the essential facts into their heads. They would be full of themselves for having fired a rifle, which would keep their enthusiasm alive.
When the echoes of the rifles were still echoing across the Tay, Watters addressed his men. 'All right, gentlemen. I know that you want to remain friendly with your kind sergeant, so I will give you all another little job to do. I am looking for a man named Jones. He is a seaman from Lady of Blackness, and he is missing. If any of you hear anything about him, it is your duty to tell me all you know.'
Two rows of blank faces stared at him. Watters allowed the request to sink in.
'All right, clean your rifles, replace them in the racks, and dismiss.'
* * *
'So why did you come back to the ranks, Peter?' They sat in the Royal Arch in Broughty, Watters, Tulloch, and Varthley, sharing a quiet pipe and a glass or two of Fowlers Ale.
Tulloch shrugged. 'There are no jobs for men such as me, Sergeant. I was bored doing nothing, and I might meet somebody that can offer me work. You know what it's like when you've been a soldier; nobody wants to know you.'
Watters nodded. 'Very well.' He wondered if Tulloch would consider the police as a career. The man was morose but seemed handy enough. 'How about you, Billy?'
Varthley was younger, slim, with fair hair and intense blue eyes. Alone of all the Volunteers, he had insisted on washing immediately after training. He studied Watters for a few seconds before replying. 'I want the training, Sergeant Watters. I want to be taught how to fight.'
'Oh?' Tulloch glowered over the rim of his glass. 'If you want to fight, why not join the real army? You'll get all the fighting you need there—India, China, Africa, Russia. You'll fight in every God-forsaken cesspit in the world with the bloody British Army.'
'I only want to fight for good causes,' Varthley explained, his eyes earnest over the rim of his glass. 'Once I am fully trained, I intend to ship across the Atlantic and join the armies of freedom.' His voice rose slightly. 'I want to help eradicate the evil of slavery from the world, and this is my first step.'
Tulloch raised his eyebrows. 'Eradicate the evils of slavery? You? God save us all, man, you've still got crib marks on your arse.' He took a noisy swallow from his glass. Watters winced; if Marie had been born a man, she might have done the same as Varthley. For a second, he imagined Marie in the blue uniform of the United States Army. God forbid.
'Don't you agree, Sergeant Watters? You must agree that slavery is a cardinal sin!' Placing his glass on the scarred wooden top of the table, Varthley stared unblinkingly into Watters's face.
Watters nodded. 'I don't agree with any form of slavery, Billy. Not the Negro slavery in America or the slavery of enclosing children in factories or the slavery of poverty.' He stopped then for his Chartist ideas were not always accepted. Superintendent Mackay and the respectable folk of Dundee were no friends of such radical thought.
'Sergeant Watters!' Varthley touched his arm while Tulloch sneered into his glass. 'You are one of us! I thought that I saw the light of truth in your face. Join us, Sergeant; help us free the poor black slaves in America.'
Watters withdrew. 'I already have a position, Billy. I am a police officer and a Sergeant of Volunteers.'
'The slaves won't thank you for their freedom.' Tulloch finished his glass and stood up, preparing to leave. 'Get yourself a good woman, Billy; that's your sort.' He nodded to Watters. 'See you at the next parade, Sergeant.'
'Philistine! I don't deserve a lass yet, not with so many wrongs to right.' Varthley spoke softly, 'But Sergeant Watters, we need men like you.'
'Wait, now.' Watters held up a hand. 'You speak of “us” and “we.” Who is us?'
'We are the Dundee and Forfarshire Anti-slavery Alliance!' Varthley spoke as if he expected Watters to recognise the name.
'Ah.' Watters nodded. It was exactly the sort of organisation of which Marie would have approved. 'I'm curious to know where I should fit in, Billy.'
'You have military experience, so you can train us even before we get to America. Imagine, Sergeant Watters, what a fully trained body of men could do with you to lead us!'
'I'm leading nobody.' Watters quenched the youth's enthusiasm. 'If the Frenchies or the Russians invade, I'll fight them, but apart from that, I'm for the quiet life in Dundee, sleeping in my own bed and drinking Dundee beer in a Dundee pub.' Watters grinned. 'Besides, from what I've heard, America has tens of thousands of trained soldiers, all busily slaughtering each other. One more small band would not make much difference.' Swallowing the last of his beer, he slid the glass along the counter. 'I'll give you one piece of advice. Don't put yourself in the way of trouble, lad, for there is always plenty of trouble in the world looking for you.'
'We cannot just leave the world to its evils, Sergeant Watters.' Varthley sounded so sincere that Watters nearly patted his shoulder. Instead, he smiled.
'Join the police, Varthley, if you want to fight evil. And now, I'll bid you good night.'
* * *
'Tell me what you've found out.' Watters sat at his desk as Scuddamore and Duff stood in front of him.
'Nothing much, Sergeant,' Duff said. 'We interviewed the two Lascar seamen.'
'And?' Watters raised his eyebrows.
'They say they don't know anything, Sergeant.' Duff consulted his notebook. 'The fellow Ghosh was the most talkative; the other fellow could hardly speak English. Ghosh has been sailing with Beaumont's ships for three years now. He said that he always gets treated decent and the food is edible.'
'Did he see anything useful?' Watters asked.
'He said he didn't, Sergeant.'
'How about you, Scuddamore?'
'I've been looking for this fellow Jones, Sergeant. I've gone through all the publics,' Scuddamore read out a list of the Dundee public houses, 'and the usual houses of ill-repute without any luck. I spoke to all the seamen of Lady of Blackness that we could find and asked about Jones. They all gave the same sort of answer. They worked with Jones, they liked him well enough, but nothing stood out. They thought he was from Wales, some said Cardiff.'
'I was told he was foreign, maybe from France.' Watters grunted. 'Well, that's a little bit more.' He looked up. 'Right, gentlemen, Jones remains our chief, indeed our only, suspect for the Calcutta murder. It may have been nothing to do with him of course. It could even have been a local man with a grudge. I checked with the shipping company for details, but Jones signed on in Calcutta. Mr Mackay telegraphed the shipping agents in Calcutta; they have him as Richard Jones, nothing else.'
'He's a bloody ghost,' Scuddamore gave his considered opinion.
'Keep looking,' Watters said. 'We have a description of sorts. I've telegraphed the police at all the main British seaports with instruction to look out for him, plus all the harbour masters who have a telegraph connection and the major shipping lines.'
'Do you think we'll catch him, Sergeant?' Duff asked.
'I can't say. Most small shipping companies would take a stray seaman without questions, whatever name he chooses to use,' Watters said. 'Now, I have other items that may be of interest. There was an unknown man at young Miss Beaumont's wedding reception.'
'Did you get a description?'
Watters shook his head. 'I glimpsed him in fading light at a distance. I can tell you he was a youngish man with a splendid set of red whiskers.'
'It might have been Jones,' Scuddamore said.
'That thought crossed my mind,' Watters agreed, 'although I can't think why. If the murderer in Calcutta killed a man who was trying to destroy Lady of Blackness, then he may have been friendly to Mr Beaumont. If so, why hide and run away?'
Scuddamore and Duff looked as blank as Watters felt.
'I'll leave you to think about that,' Watters said. 'I have more information, which might be very important or mere gossip. I heard that the Caskies were business rivals with Mr Bea
umont, and the recent marriage may not have been a love match, although I have no evidence either way.'
Scuddamore frowned. 'What are you suggesting, Sergeant?'
'I'm not suggesting anything, Scuddamore. I am ordering you to investigate the Caskies. Check William Caskie in particular, the young man who sits on the Caskie throne. Duff, I want you to find out particulars of the late Mr Caskie's death. See if there was even a hint of anything suspicious about it.'
'Do you think—' Scuddamore began.
'I don't think anything,' Watters said. 'All we are doing is gathering facts. While you two are checking on the Caskies, I am going to talk to Mr Beaumont again.' He reached for his hat. 'One more thing, check the Caskies for any connection with France. The French seem to be mentioned a lot just now.'
CHAPTER SIX: SEPTEMBER 1862, DUNDEE
The newly installed gas lighting hissed quietly in the background, giving an unusually bright glow that Watters found strangely disturbing. 'Are you sure that these precautions are necessary, Sergeant Watters? They seem quite extreme and will cut into my profit.' Beaumont studied the paper that Watters had handed to him. 'Guards at every door of the factory and hourly patrols for the mills would mean extra hands, which would incur more wages to pay.'
'I am aware of the expense, sir,' Watters agreed, 'but that's two attacks on your mills within a week, plus a murder and possible fire-raising on one of your ships. There was also that red-whiskered fellow at your daughter's wedding. It would be foolish not to take precautions.'
They were in the drawing room at Mount Pleasant House, with the fire throwing warmth toward them and Morag the maid clearing away the remains of a light tea. Cattanach, Beaumont's clerk, stood at Beaumont's side, his face expressionless and his shoulders bowed in fawning servility. In the opposite corner, Amy Beaumont and Elizabeth Caskie discussed the latest fashions over their embroidery. Their voices intruded on the silence as Beaumont read through Watters's list again.
The Fireraisers Page 5
