He staggered out of the last of the surf and trudged through the soft sand, grateful to feel the power of the sun after the chill of the water. He saw the scorch marks where the navy shells had landed. The date grove had been destroyed by the well-directed fire, the trees shredded. The ground was littered with bodies and abandoned equipment and the smell of smoke and spilt blood caught at the back of his throat. It had been months since he had last fought, and it churned his stomach to once again witness the destructive power of battle. Some of the corpses had been literally torn apart, whilst others lay in the grotesque and twisted positions of death. He forced his eyes away from the macabre sight and stepped around a puddle of vomit. Clearly he had not been the only one affected by what he saw.
‘Good man, Jack, let’s choose a place to set up, shall we?’ Major Ballard marched past, the water cascading from his soaked uniform. If the commander of the intelligence department was concerned at seeing the first enemy casualties of the campaign, he gave no sign of it.
Jack traipsed after the major, using both hands to haul the portmanteau up the beach. Like the rest of the officers and men, the staff of the intelligence department carried the very minimum they needed. It would be some days before any of the heavier baggage could come ashore, so the troops marched without tents and with just three days’ rations in their haversacks. Jack and Palmer had been forced to carry the other items that Major Ballard deemed essential; judging by the weight of the bag Jack had lugged ashore, they consisted mainly of bulging ledgers and thick sheaves of papers. Quite why he required the contents of a small library in the earliest days of the campaign was beyond Jack’s comprehension, but he had long ago learned not to fight the whims of a senior officer.
The stove spluttered as it lit. The fowl stew had been a gift from a lieutenant in the 2nd Bombay Light Infantry who had come ashore in the first wave and who had sensibly carried a fowling rifle with him. It spoke of Ballard’s standing that he had been given a share of the precious pot, and Jack was beginning to sense that he was fortunate to be connected with the cadaverous major.
‘It’s a marvellous thing, is it not?’ Ballard poked the contents of the pan with the end of his pocket knife.
‘I am looking forward to tasting it.’ Jack’s stomach growled as the aroma of the stew wafted his way. ‘Should we save some for Palmer?’ He had barely spoken to Ballard’s burly bodyguard, yet it would not do to forget the man. Jack was keen to get the other half of Ballard’s staff on side, but the major had dispatched his enforcer on an errand. He had not thought fit to tell Jack where or why.
‘I am not talking about the stew, Jack, I doubt that will taste of anything much at all.’ Ballard sniffed as he contemplated the bubbling mixture. It was becoming clear that the major had little time for food. He rarely ate, preferring to spend time reading the dozens of reports that came across his desk. It explained his sparse frame. ‘In answer to your question, yes, I think we should save some for Palmer; the man eats like a veritable horse and we cannot possibly consume all this by ourselves. But I was referring to the stove, not to this concoction.’
Jack wondered at the mind of a man who could ignore a hot meal when faced with a night without shelter from the elements. ‘It is a fine thing.’
‘Fine indeed!’ Ballard clearly did not share Jack’s opinion. ‘It is not fine, it is a marvel of modern engineering. It is a wonder that a Frenchman could have designed such a device. It takes but a morsel of combustible material, yet it produces the very maximum amount of output. Monsieur Soyer is a genius, and he is quite correct to name this a “Magic Stove”.’
Jack was learning a great deal about Ballard’s character. He was not interested in food, yet the machine that could cook it fascinated him. ‘I wish we’d had these in the Crimea.’ He shivered as he remembered the misery of the first nights of the campaign that had led to the terrific bloodletting at the Alma river.
Ballard looked up sharply. ‘You fought in the Crimea? Where? At the siege?’
Jack scowled at his thoughtless remark. ‘No, I was lucky. I missed that.’
The major would not let him off the hook so easily. ‘So before that, then? At the Alma?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you fight?’
‘Yes.’
‘It was a bloody affair, I hear.’ Ballard was watching Jack closely. He frowned. ‘You could not have been Arthur Fenris in the Crimea. He would have been with the 24th at that time.’ His frown deepened as he realised he did not know all of Jack’s story. ‘You must have been someone else.’
Jack decided it would be best to steer the conversation away from his past. ‘That looks done, sir.’
Ballard poked the thickened stew with his knife. ‘You might well be right.’ He leant forward and twisted the control knob on the stove, shutting off the heat that was condensed from the enclosed burner and channelled into the stove itself. ‘Please help yourself.’
Jack did not need to be asked twice. He reached for the pan and started to eat. He was well into his third mouthful when he noticed Ballard staring at him.
‘Will you tell me your story?’ The major sat cross-legged on the ground, still watching Jack intently. ‘The rest of it.’
‘You know most of it already.’
‘But clearly not all.’ Ballard leant forward and swirled his knife around the stew. He extracted a thick nugget of flesh that he inspected carefully before gingerly nibbling at one edge.
‘No. Not all of it.’ Jack gave the admission grudgingly.
‘Does anyone? Does anyone know the full story of Jack Lark, the infamous charlatan?’
‘No. Only me.’
‘That must be a burden,’ Ballard said softly. He paused, looking at Jack closely before he spoke again. ‘You scream in your sleep. I heard you on the ship.’
Jack said nothing. He had shared a cabin with his commander on the Feroze, but he had not gained the first indication that he had disturbed the major’s rest. He felt his cheeks flush, the intimacy of Ballard’s words disconcerting. ‘You’re lucky; you sleep like a bloody baby.’
Ballard looked straight into Jack’s eyes, as if searching them for knowledge. ‘That is the benefit of a clear conscience. Perhaps that is something you lack.’
Jack saved himself from replying by filling his mouth, something he immediately regretted as the hot mixture scalded his tongue. He was surprised at Ballard’s insight, but he had learnt never to share his memories, no matter how tempting. He would keep his past to himself.
‘So what next? What would you have me do?’ Jack asked the question gruffly when his mouth was emptied, breaking the closeness that had been building between them.
Ballard snorted, but did not press further. ‘It will take us one day to prepare to march, I imagine. Stalker landed this afternoon. He is an eager man and will be keen to get on before the powers-that-be decide this affair needs the services of a more senior officer with greater experience. He will want to garner some laurels before that happens. He is that kind of man.’ The major made the observation seem like a criticism.
‘I‘ve never met him.’
‘You will. Tomorrow. He has summoned me to his headquarters. He will want to learn what manner of enemy we face. You can accompany me.’
‘Do you know what we face?’ Jack had no idea what Ballard knew.
‘Of course!’ He frowned at the question. ‘I shall deliver the information tomorrow. I have everything I need.’
‘Can you not tell me now? It would be good to know.’
Ballard snorted. ‘You would not share your story with me. I think I shall now withhold my own.’ He grinned with childish glee.
Jack smiled at the unexpected expression. Against all his better judgement, he was starting to like his new commanding officer. ‘As you will, sir. What should I do now that we are here?’
&
nbsp; ‘You must start sniffing around. You are clearly adept at fitting in no matter what your surroundings. Make yourself known to people. Ferret around a bit. I will tell you when I have suspicions for you to act upon.’
Jack contemplated the instructions. His new role was clearly not going to be the simple soldering he was used to. He had no responsibilities beyond Ballard’s cryptic orders. He commanded no men and he would not be expected to lead anyone into battle Yet his instincts told him that his life was in danger. He just did not know from where.
‘Ballard! You scrawny rogue, welcome.’
‘Good morning, sir, I’m pleased to be here.’
‘Then you are a damn fool. No one wants to be in a shithole like this. It is a festering cesspit. A godforsaken turd of a place that the bloody Persians are welcome to keep.’
‘If you say so, sir.’ Ballard did his best to smile at the ribald remarks.
Major General Foster Stalker twitched the thick moustache that dominated his face, clearly displeased with the mild response. The garrulous officer sat behind a folding field desk in a large bell tent, one of no more than a dozen that had been brought ashore. His temporary headquarters was a hive of activity. Staff officers bustled in and out, brandishing reports and scraps of paper as if they held the key to the entire campaign in their hands. Most were being filtered through an officer wearing the star and crown of a captain on his collar who sat at a separate desk near the tent’s entrance.
‘Hunter!’ Stalker bellowed across the tent to get his aide-de-camp’s attention. ‘Come over here, you damn scoundrel, and listen to what the Devil here has to say.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Captain Hunter got to his feet. It was clear he was used to his general’s domineering manner. He smiled pleasantly as he came across to join the pair of intelligence officers.
Jack had watched Ballard closely as Stalker delivered his forthright opinion on the local area. A casual observer would have noticed nothing on the major’s face that betrayed his reaction, but Jack saw the slightest narrowing of the eyes as Ballard winced at Stalker’s coarse tongue. He was becoming accustomed to the major’s ways, and he knew Ballard would not enjoy such a vulgar display, even from his own commanding officer.
‘Gentlemen, may I introduce Captain Fenris. He will be working for me.’ Ballard hid his distaste well and introduced Jack to the pair of officers with urbane charm. They had discussed at great length what name he should take, and had decided to stick with Fenris rather than assume yet another false identity. It was unlikely that anyone else would make the connection between a hussar captain and a young lieutenant who had died in an unknown battle in the far north-east of the country. Moreover, Jack had already been introduced to some of the officers in Stalker’s division as Fenris, and it would be harder to explain a change of name than a change of uniform.
Lieutenant Knightly was serving with the 64th, which now formed a part of Stalker’s division. Jack had a mind to look him out as soon as possible, as much to check that the young officer was surviving the rigours of his job as to reveal his own new rank and position.
‘What’s he here for?’ Stalker barked the question, already turning his attention to a piece of paper lying on his desk.
‘He will assist me in my duties, sir, with a particular remit to ensure the security of our intelligence.’ Ballard was careful in his reply.
‘Sounds bloody dull.’ Stalker scrunched up the paper and threw it to the floor. He fixed Jack with an uncompromising stare. ‘If you want to do some real damn soldiering, let Hunter know.’
‘I am sure Captain Fenris will be actively employed in the intelligence department, sir.’ Ballard answered the general quickly, giving Jack no time to reply.
‘I don’t see how.’ Stalker’s bushy eyebrows knitted together. ‘You already have that brute of a man with you. What’s his name?’
‘Palmer, sir.’
‘And now you need someone else! God alone knows what you all bloody do all day.’ Stalker shook his head. ‘So, what do I face?’
‘I have a full report for you, sir,’ Ballard replied. He was clearly trying hard to avoid becoming nettled by his general, keeping his replies brisk and businesslike.
‘I am sure you have. Hunter can read that later. I want a summary and I want it now.’
The slightest flush of crimson decorated Ballard’s prominent cheekbones at the rebuke. To his credit, he rallied quickly. ‘Very well, sir. We now know that the Shah’s forces took Herat on the twenty-fifth of October. He has added the city to the twelve other foreign provinces under Persian imperial control. The closest enemy forces are still at the fort at Reshire, sir, as in my last report. Current estimate has them numbering around two thousand infantry. The Shah also maintains a strong garrison at the port of Bushire, twelve miles from here, but the bulk of his army is still inland. He will know of our arrival and initial reports claim that he is beginning to assemble his strength around the town of Borãzjoon, forty-six miles from here. It is this force that we will have to face in battle, and I would say that we should expect them to be ready to dispute our presence here shortly.’
‘So you say there are two thousand in this fart of a fort.’ Stalker sat back in his chair as he considered Ballard’s assessment. ‘Well, we have no choice in the matter. My orders are to strike inland and bring the Persians to battle. I am to destroy their forces and take and hold as much territory as I can until that dolt of a Shah sees sense and asks for terms. Before I can think of moving inland, I need to secure a strong base of operations, and that includes seizing the port at Bushire. Before I can launch an attack there, I need a secure foothold here so that I may assemble the division, and that means I have to take this bloody turd of a fort. Things are never simple.’
‘That is why we need generals of your quality, sir,’ Ballard replied smoothly. ‘If it were easy, then anyone could do it.’
Jack tried not to smile at his commander’s false charm. It was clearly wasted on Stalker, who nodded as if Ballard had offered him wise advice, but Jack noticed Captain Hunter’s mouth twitch. Clearly the general’s aide-de-camp was not cut from the same cloth as his master.
‘That is the first sensible bloody thing you have said.’ Stalker puffed out his cheeks as he accepted the praise. ‘Now then, any changes in their defences?’ He fired the question back. For the first time, Ballard had his fullest attention.
‘Nothing new, sir. The remains of the old Dutch fort continue to be strengthened, but we have not seen any new trenches since our last inspection.’
‘Ha!’ Stalker laughed in a single syllable. He fixed Jack with a glare. ‘Did the Devil here tell you about that?’
Jack shook his head before speaking for the first time. ‘No, sir.’
‘It still astonishes me. Ballard here visited Reshire a few weeks ago at the behest of the quartermaster general. He was supposed to stay aboard the damn frigate and inspect the defences from there, but for some bloody reason he came ashore and started surveying them. With a compass and measuring chains, can you believe? He only left when the bloody Persians told him to bugger off!’
Jack laughed along with Stalker. He’d had no idea that Ballard could be so brazen, or so brave.
‘It seemed a good idea, sir. We weren’t actually at war at that stage.’ Ballard spoke as if he could not understand that there was anything remarkable in his exploits. ‘It seemed expedient.’
‘You’re bloody priceless, Ballard. Expedient indeed. I only wish a few more of my officers were like you. We’d have the damn Shah on his knees and begging for mercy within the week. Oh, for Christ’s sake, what now?’
Jack started at the admonishment before he realised it was directed towards a pair of naval officers who had entered the tent.
‘Thank my lucky stars. The bloody webfoots have arrived.’ Stalker turned to his aide. ‘Hunter, it appears I sh
all have to delay my Persian lesson. Tell the damned teacher to wait around and to not bloody disappear like he did last time.’
The general looked hard at Ballard, who seemed amused to hear that the division’s commander was taking the trouble to learn the local language. ‘Don’t look like you are trying to hide a fart at a wedding, Ballard. It was Commodore Fetherstone’s idea, not mine. And we cannot have the bloody navy pretending they know better than we do, so I agreed to share their munshi, as did Hunter.’
‘I think it is a capital notion, sir.’ Ballard did his best to smile. ‘I only wish I had the time to follow your example.’
Stalker snorted. ‘You pompous ass. Off you go, Hunter. Tell the man to wait.’
‘Very good, sir. Gentlemen, please excuse me.’ Captain Hunter took the opportunity to slip away. ‘Good luck with it all, Fenris. Please do come and find me if I can be of any further assistance.’ He gave Jack a genial smile as he escaped. Already a small group of staff officers were hovering at his desk, anxiously waiting for his attention.
Stalker thrust his chair backwards and lumbered to his feet to greet the approach of the two naval officers. ‘What now, gentlemen?’ he barked when the new arrivals were still several paces away. ‘Can the navy not manage without my damn guidance for more than a few hours?’
‘Good afternoon, Stalker.’ The shorter of the two officers greeted the major general with a warm smile, despite the less than friendly greeting. ‘We came ashore with a few of our guests and I thought I should do you the courtesy of paying you a visit.’
‘A few guests! What does the navy think this is? A damn holiday?’ Stalker slumped back into his chair, his face creased into a scowl. He waved a hand in Ballard’s direction. ‘You know Ballard?’
‘Indeed, sir.’ The two naval officers nodded in greeting.
The Devil's Assassin (Jack Lark) Page 9
