The Devil's Assassin (Jack Lark)

by Paul Fraser Collard

  ‘Arthur! What the devil!’

  Jack turned and saw a face he recognised in the tightly pressed ranks of the redcoats racing past.

  ‘Knightly!’ He bellowed the greeting as the young lieutenant elbowed his way out of the crush and stumbled towards him.

  Knightly’s face broke into a wide smile as he saw his former guardian. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’ He followed the comment with a peal of laughter.

  Jack laughed with him, releasing the joy he felt at having survived.

  Knightly reached forward and clapped Jack hard around the shoulder. ‘I thought you were off to re-join the 24th in the Punjab! Now here you are, larger than life and dressed in a bloody hussar captain’s rig. How the devil do you explain that?’

  ‘There’s time enough for that later. Come and give me a hand.’ The rush of victory surged through Jack. He knew that he had led the 64th to take the fort, certain that it had been his action that had forced the redcoats to continue the assault when they might have wavered and broken.

  He laughed at his own arrogance, ignoring the bemused look on Knightly’s face. He did not care what anyone thought. He had shown that no matter who he might pretend to be, he still had the ability to fight.

  Now it was time to remember the orders he had forgotten in the wild melee of the attack. It was time to do the Devil’s bidding.

  ‘Come on. This way.’ Jack called over his shoulder to Knightly as he made his way towards one of the few doorways that led off the fort’s central courtyard. He had no idea where he was going, but he could see a few windows above the doorway and it seemed the most likely direction.

  Behind them, the redcoats were still piling over the ramparts. The 2nd Bombay Light Infantry had followed the 64th into the chaos of the assault, and now both battalions scoured the fort for any remaining enemy soldiers. Those they found they killed, their bayonets ending the last resistance without mercy.

  In desperation, a handful of the beaten defenders took to the cliffs behind the fort, many plunging to their deaths as they tried to flee the victorious redcoats. The only alternative escape route was a network of steep ravines away to the west. As the redcoats piled into the fort, these gullies and slopes were filled with those sarbaz lucky enough to survive the assault. Yet even here there was to be no sanctuary.

  As the enemy fled, Stalker released his cavalry, ordering them forward to harry the fugitives. The ground was poor and it would deny the cavalrymen the opportunity to massacre the fleeing infantry, yet they went forward willingly, the raucous call of their buglers urging them onward. Even from within the courtyard, Jack could hear the whoops and yells as they rode down any of the Persian infantrymen they could find, pursuing the remnants of the enemy force, their bloody sabres inflicting still more casualties on the broken ranks.

  Jack pushed open the heavy wooden door with his boot, his muscles tensing as he half expected an enemy soldier to attack him the moment his hiding place was revealed. To his relief, the darkened interior was empty. He took a tentative step forward and peered inside. The small anteroom behind the door contained a number of ammunition crates, the wax paper that had protected the cartridges now scattered around the room. A single wooden staircase led upwards, and Jack felt a prick of fear as he realised he would have to scale it if he were to obey Ballard’s orders and seek out any important documents before the Persians had time to destroy them.

  He turned and saw that Knightly had followed him inside. The lieutenant’s face was pale as he walked into the ammunition store, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he too looked at the dark stairway. For the first time, Jack noticed that Knightly’s drawn sabre was still clean, the steel unblemished by blood.

  ‘Are we going up?’ The lieutenant’s knuckles showed white as he gripped the handle of his sabre. He sounded like a small boy asking for permission to be taken to bed.

  ‘I’ll go first. Stay back in case I have to fight.’ Jack gave the instructions in the clipped tones of an officer. There was no doubt who was in charge. ‘Have you fired your revolver?’

  Knightly shook his head and unbuttoned the flap of his holster before holding the weapon by the barrel and offering it to Jack. ‘I never had the occasion to use it.’

  Jack holstered his own empty gun before taking Knightly’s. ‘Is it loaded?’

  ‘Of course.’ Knightly spoke softly. He looked crestfallen, as if Jack had somehow questioned his bravery.

  ‘Stay close,’ Jack flashed Knightly a rakish smile, ‘and follow me.’

  The stairs turned to the right. The central wooden column blocked Jack’s sword arm. If he were forced to fight, any defender would have the advantage of both height and the unrestricted movement of his own sword. It was just as the architect of the fort had planned. It was a design mirrored throughout the globe, from the dusty, damp stone fortresses of England to the splendid maharajah citadels of Hindustan.

  Jack crept up the stairs, Knightly’s revolver held steady in his left hand, the barrel pointing upwards. He would not hesitate to fire if necessary. In such an enclosed space the revolver would be deadly. He smiled as he tiptoed up the creaking stairs; the stopping power of the modern handgun had made a mockery of the antique defences.

  He attempted to hide the soft scuffle of his heavy boots in the din of battle that still echoed through the fort. Yet no matter how hard he tried, every step seemed to thump against the ancient wood, so that it sounded as if an elephant was marching up the stairs. He paused and sucked in a deep breath, listening carefully, his ears straining to hear if anyone waited around the next turn of the staircase. He heard nothing. He closed his eyes and screwed his courage tight. He had endured enough pussyfooting around.

  ‘Fucking hell!’ He roared at the heavens as he threw himself forward, bounding up the staircase, taking the steps two at a time as he gave up the slow, nerve-stretching pace and gambled everything on violence and surprise. His boots thumped hard into the wood. He felt the effort pull at his thigh muscles and his breath rasped in his lungs in the moments before he burst round the last turn and into the simple room that mirrored the ammunition store below.

  The scream took him by surprise. It was the piercing wail of terror released. He stumbled into the room, his eyes roaming the gloom for the source of the terrible sound. He heard Knightly crashing up the stairs behind him, yet there was no time to wonder if the lieutenant was close enough to help.

  A flicker of motion caught Jack’s eye and he twisted on the spot, his left hand swinging the revolver round in one smooth motion. He saw the flash of a weapon and pulled the trigger. The cough of the revolver was deafening, the sound echoing off the walls. He fired for a second time as he saw the rough outline of a figure stagger towards him. There was no time for thought, and he pulled the trigger once more, sending a third bullet into his assailant.

  He stood still, his right hand tensed as he prepared to bring up his talwar, ready for the attack his instincts told him was coming. Yet none appeared. The silence stretched out, the quiet after the gunfire shrouding him. He ran his eyes around the room, searching for danger. He saw none; saw no one other than Knightly, who stepped belatedly into the room, his face ashen with fear.

  Jack looked down at the figure that had leapt out at him. He supposed that the body now lying stretched out on the floor had been the source of the dreadful shriek of terror that had so set his nerves on edge. He saw the rusty sword that had caught his eye, the blunted edge and chipped tip that he had perceived as a threat. The robes the figure wore had once been white, but the simple cloth was now stained with so much blood that it had turned almost completely red. Jack’s aim had been true, each of the three bullets tearing a huge hole in the slight body that had sought to ambush him. The corpse belonged to a young boy, no more than fourteen or fifteen years old. A childish dream of being a warrior now drowned in blood.

  Jack
sighed and turned away from the pathetic sight, forcing away the bitterness that threatened to crush him. Refusing to acknowledge the emotion that surged through him.

  Knightly walked cautiously towards the corpse, as if uncertain whether the boy was alive or dead. He looked down in silence as he contemplated the victim of his friend’s deadly skill.

  ‘You killed him.’ The lieutenant struggled to speak. He gagged as he broke the silence, as if the words physically sickened him.

  Jack said nothing. He stalked across the floor towards a simple kitchen table positioned opposite the room’s single window. Its top was smothered with stacks of paper. More was dumped carelessly on a battered dresser rammed hard into the corner behind the table. Jack had discovered what he had been sent to find.

  ‘He was just a boy.’ Knightly still stood over the body of the child. His sabre was held low in his hand, as if it was suddenly too heavy for the young officer to carry. ‘He wasn’t much older than me, yet you blew him apart.’

  Jack laid the smoking revolver on a pile of paper and began to sift through the documents.

  ‘You killed him, damn you!’ Knightly raised his voice as he repeated the accusation.

  The boy had fallen so that he lay on his back. Jack’s bullets had hit him in the body, leaving his face untouched. His young features were twisted into a dreadful teeth-bared grin of terror. His upper lip was flecked with fine hairs that he had not yet been old enough to shave away. Dark ringlets curled down from his temples to whisper across his face, some errant strands catching and sticking in his staring eyes.

  ‘He tried to kill me.’ Jack’s veneer of composure snapped. ‘Now get a fucking grip and help me.’

  Knightly shook his head, trying to dispel the nightmare, but he did as he was told, obediently sheathing his sword before coming to join Jack at the table.

  ‘Is it always like this?’ He picked up a single sheet of paper before tossing it away without so much as glancing at the text.

  ‘No.’ Jack swallowed the bitterness. ‘It’s usually much worse.’ He was locking the memory away, securing it in the darkest recesses of his mind, where he hid all the horror that haunted him.

  ‘He was just a boy,’ Knightly said again.

  ‘Then he shouldn’t have been here. He was old enough to lift a sword.’

  ‘He couldn’t have hurt you.’

  ‘Couldn’t he?’ Jack fixed the lieutenant with a cold, soul-searching stare. ‘What would you have done had he attacked you? Spanked him and told him to go home? Or would you have hacked and flayed at the poor little bastard until he was dead.’

  Knightly dropped his eyes. ‘You’re cruel.’

  ‘War is cruel.’ Jack’s voice was harsh. ‘You chose this as your career, so you’d better get used to it. Those bastards won’t hesitate to kill you if you’re foolish enough to give them the chance. So don’t give them one. Fight as hard as you can and kill them before they kill you. It’s the only way.’

  He turned away, his bitterness choking off his speech. He prided himself on being a redcoat, on being able to thrive in the brutal bloodletting of battle. He glanced across at the pathetic corpse of the boy he had killed. The joy of the victory was gone. His fine words stuck in his craw. He felt nothing but shame.

  Major Ballard looked unimpressed as Jack deposited a small heap of paper on top of his travelling writing case. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Yes. That’s it.’ Jack cared little for what he had found, his exhaustion after the fight finally getting the better of him.

  He dumped his weapons and collapsed on to the charpoy pressed against the wall of the tent. As officers on the staff, he and Ballard had been able to lay claim to one of the first tents coming ashore. The navy was working tirelessly to supply the expeditionary force, despite a shortage of the native boats that they had hoped to find to assist with the effort. The small tent, which would ordinarily have housed a single officer, had become the less than salubrious headquarters for Ballard’s intelligence department.

  Jack lay back, not caring that he was filthy dirty. He heard Ballard sniff in disapproval but he left Jack alone and started work on the proceeds of his subordinate’s morning’s work.

  The silence stretched out, but Jack was in no mood to talk. He wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and find rest. But the battle was too recent, the memories too fresh. It would take time for him to push them into the corners of his mind where he knew not to go. So he lay back and stared at the ceiling, trying to force the images from his mind and the shame from his heart.

  At last Ballard spoke. ‘Stalker is pleased.’

  ‘We won. That’s what he wanted. I should bloody hope he is pleased.’ Jack’s reply was flecked with belligerence. He felt his anger building. His commander had greeted him coldly and the reception had got under his skin. He was covered in the grime of the battlefield, his hands caked with the blood of the men he had killed. Ballard was immaculate, his uniform as clean as his soul, and Jack hated him for it.

  ‘Of course we won.’ Ballard snapped his reply, insensitive to Jack’s mood. ‘They had barely two thousand against a full division and half the bloody fleet. We should’ve been able to walk in there and wipe our boots on their doormat without losing so many damn men.’

  Jack remembered the terror of leaping into the enemy trenches, the unbridled fear as the air hummed with bullets, the memory of standing alone to lead the 64th out of the shelter of the moat. ‘It was a hard fight. Our men did well.’ He bit his tongue, trying to hold back his fraying temper.

  ‘The men did damn well.’ Ballard shot Jack a frosty glare. ‘Do not think that I denigrate the fine effort of our soldiers. They gave us the victory. Not General Stalker, and most certainly not us on the staff.’

  Jack grunted in reply. In his experience, generals laid claim to victories no matter what the circumstances.

  ‘And do not think I have overlooked your efforts.’ Ballard continued his tirade. ‘I have heard all about your damn exploits. You should not even have been in the fighting.’

  ‘Where else should I have been?’ Jack snapped the question.

  ‘Out of the damn way and obeying the orders I gave you.’

  ‘They needed my help.’

  ‘What utter claptrap.’ Ballard’s face flushed as his own temper rose. ‘It was not your job. Your orders were to stay out of the way and go in after the assault. If I had known you would want to play the hero, I would have let you rot in a cell in Bombay. I have no need of a soldier. Men who can wield a sword are ten-a-penny round here. Men who can do what you do are not. I suggest you remember that and next time do as you are bloody well told.’

  Jack glared back, fighting against the urge to lash out. The image of the boy he had killed flashed into his mind. It shamed him. He had nothing to be proud of. He sighed and did his best to speak in an even tone, his words cutting through the atmosphere that had been building between them. ‘I did what I thought I had to do. It might not be what you ordered, but I could not stand back and watch those men die.’

  Ballard fixed him with a keen stare. For the first time, Jack saw a grudging respect. ‘Very well. You are a brave man, Jack, if perhaps not a wise one. I would ask you to give my orders more consideration in the future.’

  Jack nodded. ‘I’ll try.’

  Ballard shook his head slowly. ‘You will do more than try. Obey my orders or face the consequences. There is no middle ground. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Jack tried to sound chastised. He was too tired to fight any longer.

  ‘Good.’ Ballard sat back and breathed out as if releasing a hidden tension. ‘So, it appears we have a problem.’ His voice cracked as he revealed what had him so rattled. ‘We have failed.’

  ‘Stop being so damn melodramatic.’ Jack’s patience was wearing thin. ‘How have we bloody failed?�
� He did not understand. Ballard had given the general a full account of the defences. They had been just as he had described.

  Ballard paused. He stared at the paper in his hand for a long time before looking back at Jack, his eyes betraying the pain of what he had discovered.

  ‘The enemy knew we were coming.’

  ‘Of course they knew we were coming.’ Jack felt his exhaustion slipping away as his anger rose. ‘We were camped on their bloody doorstep. Their general would have to be bottle-head stupid not to know we were going to launch an attack.’

  Ballard scowled. ‘They knew more than that.’ He brandished the paper. ‘Our numbers, which battalions would lead the attack, even what Stalker had for bloody breakfast. They knew everything.’

  Jack still did not understand. ‘So they knew we would attack. None of that changes anything.’

  ‘Perhaps it would not have affected the course of the battle, but it still means there is a spy in our camp.’ Ballard threw the paper on to his desk in disgust. ‘At the very heart of our operations.’

  ‘How can there be a Persian spy in our camp?’ Jack was tired and he answered more scathingly than he meant to. ‘I rather think we would spot them.’

  ‘They will not be parading around in their damn uniform.’ Ballard’s reply was biting. ‘They will have a little intelligence.’ He clearly doubted this was a trait shared by his subordinate.

  ‘So what are we looking for?’ Jack was finding organising his thoughts like wading through a swamp.

  ‘If I knew that, Jack . . .’ Ballard let the thought go unfinished. ‘What I fear is that the enemy have already succeeded in placing a network of spies around us.’

  ‘What the hell do you mean by that?’

  ‘I am thinking of a number of spies, all working for a single spymaster. That is what I would do if I were them. Position a web of agents around our operation, all controlled by a single source.’

  ‘Do you think the Persians are that clever?’