‘Of course they are. Do not forget they have the Russians working with them. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if the damned Russians control the spies. It would be quite up their street. They know the rules of this particular game better than anyone.’
‘Better than you?’
Ballard scowled. ‘No. I will find them.’
‘Well you haven’t found them yet.’ Jack was quick to snipe.
‘Thank you, Jack. I am fully aware that it is my job to prevent the enemy infiltrating our establishment. So that makes this my failure.’ For the first time, Ballard’s emotions were revealed. Despite his carefully constructed facade, there was a hint of shame in his voice.
Jack finally understood. Ballard blamed himself for the hard fight. Jack had been unfair. The major might not have smelt the smoke of the battlefield or slashed his sword at the enemy, but he still had blood on his hands.
‘You were not to know.’ Jack grimaced even as he spoke. He had never been good at delivering the polite blandishments that were expected of him.
Ballard fixed him with a withering stare. ‘It’s my job, Jack. I am supposed to bloody know. Fetherstone will be sure to make the most of it. As soon as he hears of this, that goddam man will demand my head.’
‘It’s easy to say what should have happened. It isn’t the same as doing it yourself.’ Jack’s voice was full of scorn. He was beginning to understand Ballard’s dislike of the commodore.
‘Fetherstone always has an opinion.’ Ballard was bitter. ‘He pokes his finger into every damn pie yet never damn well bakes one himself.’
Ballard went quiet. He stared at the paper on his desk, as if rereading it would somehow change things. Then he stood up abruptly and stalked across the tent to take a bottle of vodka from his knapsack. He lifted the bottle to his lips and took a huge draught before offering it to Jack.
Jack accepted the bottle and took a more circumspect sip. He had never favoured raw spirits: a childhood spent dishing out the vile gin his mother supplied had turned him away from the taste of anything other than wine or beer. Yet the harsh liquor felt good as it burned down his throat.
‘So at least we now have proof that there is a spy at the heart of this operation.’ Ballard sat back down and picked up the sheet of paper he had been reading.
‘How can you be so sure?’ Jack’s voice rasped with the after-effect of the fiery liquid.
‘You found the evidence yourself.’ Ballard passed the single sheet of wafer-thin paper to Jack. A fine copperplate script flowed across the page, the tightly spaced lines written in tiny letters.
Jack read the letter slowly. It told of the British army’s preparations, listing the battalions with their current strengths, the number of cannon, the ready supply of ammunition, the details of the support ships and all manner of other details about the expeditionary force. Worst of all, it told of Stalker’s intention to attack at Reshire; the expected dates, timings, forces, everything. The enemy had known every detail of the assault.
‘Who wrote this?’
‘That, Jack, is the question. You might want to read the last paragraph on the second side.’ Ballard sat back in his chair before dropping his head into his hands.
Jack did as he was told and flipped the page. It took him a moment to find the passage Ballard had mentioned. When he did, he felt an icy hand place a grip around the back of his neck. The paragraph spoke of a formerly unknown captain of hussars who had appeared on the staff of the intelligence department. It was a brief reference, nothing more than two short sentences, yet it still made for hard reading. The author of the revelatory letter had damned Jack with a succinct turn of phrase, referring to him as a loutish rogue who was probably no more than a hired thug.
Ballard winced as he saw Jack’s face. ‘Do you still doubt we have a problem?’
‘No.’ Jack wanted to scrunch the paper into a ball, but he contented himself with tossing it back on to Ballard’s blotter. ‘So who the hell is it?’
‘I would give a great deal to know that.’ Ballard took the sheet of paper and lifted it close to his nose, as if he could discern the writer’s identity from a closer inspection of the ink. ‘But it is our job to find out and we had better do it damn fast.’
‘And how do we do that?’
‘You are full of questions.’ Ballard closed his eyes as he thought. ‘I have a few spies of my own and—’
‘You do?’ Jack interrupted.
‘Really, Jack. Do you think I am a fool? I got to the bottom of your sorry little tale without too much difficulty, so it shouldn’t surprise you that I know what I am about.’ Ballard was condescending. ‘I know my job, do not ever doubt that.’
Jack bowed his head. Ballard was right to remind him of his place.
‘They have yet to provide anything useful.’ Ballard snorted as he acknowledged his lack of success. ‘Palmer has been in touch with a few of them. I have good reports on the enemy forces. I have nothing on any spy network.’
Jack had wondered where Ballard’s shadow had been. He had barely seen the bodyguard since they had arrived. It was a sharp reminder that he did not know all of Ballard’s affairs, something he would do well to remember.
‘With Palmer engaged, it will fall to you to assist me here.’
Jack nodded. He did not know how he could help, but Ballard’s scorn had shamed him. He was determined to prove himself useful, to demonstrate that he possessed the wit, and the ability, to be more than just a killer.
Ballard was watching him closely. ‘You will have to be circumspect. I cannot have you blundering around like a bull in a china shop, and there had better be no more of your damn belligerence.’
‘I understand.’ Jack was thinking of Sarah. She was well connected. Perhaps he could use her to help him.
‘You had better. Do not make me regret giving you this chance.’
‘I won’t.’
‘We shall see.’ Ballard’s gaze rested on him. ‘We shall see. So I expect you heard that the fleet bombarded the town of Bushire and forced them to surrender?’
‘I did.’
‘That gives us a secure foothold here. The navy will keep us supplied and Stalker will use the next week or two to build up the army’s strength and prepare for a longer attack into the interior. That’s if he is not replaced.’
‘Is that likely?’
Ballard puffed out his cheeks and sat back in his chair, placing his hands behind his head. ‘I would say it is now inevitable. He won his victory but the cost was too high. Colonel Malet of the 3rd Bengal Light Cavalry died in the assault, and we lost two other officers from the 20th. Worse, Brigadier Stopford from Stalker’s own staff was killed. You simply cannot lose a Companion of the Bath and still consider yourself to have fought a small skirmish. I’m of the opinion that the government will now regard this as a more serious venture than they first thought. They will either need to hold us here indefinitely or reinforce us. If they choose the latter, Stalker is not senior enough to command more than a single division, so they must send a new commander-in-chief.’
‘Poor Stalker.’
‘He will not take it well.’ Ballard did not sound overly concerned at the notion. ‘He is doing his best to ensure he stays in command. He has written his dispatch praising every damn person he can think of. He is even recommending an officer from the 64th for one of the new Victoria Cross medals for bravery. A Captain Wood.’
Jack smiled as he remembered the officer who had beaten him to the top of the wall. ‘Wood fought well. He deserves to be recognised.’
‘Stalker also mentions another officer who led the assault and who many are saying inspired the victory. He has asked me if I know who it might be, so that he can be recommended for the same medal.’
Jack looked at Ballard keenly. ‘What did you tell him?’
Jack smiled despite the disappointment. ‘You bastard.’
Ballard laughed off the insult. ‘You don’t exist, Jack. I can hardly have you listed in the damn dispatches. But you did well. All things considered. Well done.’
Jack threw back his head and laughed. If he had been a real officer, he would now be basking in the glory of receiving the newly conceived medal that was the highest accolade for bravery. But such a fate was denied him. He was no more than a charlatan masquerading as an officer. His only thanks would be a sarcastic nod from the man who had ordered him to stay out of the battle.
‘So what now?’ he asked, reaching to take back the bottle of vodka.
‘Now?’ Ballard smiled wolfishly. ‘Now we find the enemy spies. I don’t care if there are one or a hundred. We will find them all.’
‘And then?’
‘Then you can kill them. Slowly.’
Jack nodded in agreement. He was never going to receive a medal. He would have to find satisfaction in other, more visceral ways. He would hunt down those who had given the enemy the information that had certainly led to the deaths of many redcoats.
Then he would do the job he had been brought all this way to do.
Jack walked towards the town of Bushire with pride. Sarah Draper had slipped her arm through his as they left the British encampment. It was an innocent enough gesture, yet he savoured the feeling of walking with such a beautiful woman. It had earned him many jealous glares from the other officers who were diverting themselves by visiting the recently captured town. He had heard little to recommend the place, but when Sarah had suggested paying a visit, he had been unable to deny her. Now that they had left the encampment behind, he had begun to enjoy the temporary reprieve from Ballard and his quest to find the spy.
The assault on Reshire and the subsequent capture of the nearest large town had given the army some respite from the rigours of the campaign. Yet despite their efforts, the men would not have an opportunity to enjoy their hard-earned rest. Stalker had issued orders for a wide defensive trench to be dug across the narrow neck of land that separated the swampy peninsula on which Bushire sat from the mainland. It was to be three feet deep and six feet wide, and the earth was to be thrown up to form a sturdy parapet. The redcoats might curse as they blistered their hands digging at the soft, friable soil, but the defensive position was necessary to protect the stationary army from landward attack.
In order to give them warning of any such Persian incursion, cavalry pickets had been established a few miles inland. The expeditionary force could only boast two regiments of cavalry, the 3rd Bombay Light Cavalry and the Poona Horse. Both had been worked hard. Thus far there had been little sign of the enemy, and it appeared that, for the moment at least, the British army would be allowed some time to recover from the exertions of their initial invasion.
The navy had used the lull in operations to bring the army up to strength, even though the largest ships in the fleet were obliged to lie three miles offshore, the presence of sandbanks close to the harbour at Bushire forcing them to ferry everything ashore on smaller craft. No matter what the difficulties, the navy had worked hard to build up the army’s supplies. Thanks to their efforts, the tired redcoats now spent their nights under canvas, the long-awaited tents having finally arrived with the equipment and rations the army would need to strike inland.
With their men fully engaged digging the defences, the British officers had been granted permission to spend their time at leisure. Yet the Bushire peninsula failed to impress. Any hopes of the town itself being a pleasing diversion soon faded. The first few officers curious enough to explore its labyrinthine network of streets and alleys found little there to interest them. It was deemed a miserable place, full of mean peasant hovels, with the British residency the only substantial building of any quality. The town was surrounded by wide swathes of marshland and swamp, the only good land already occupied by the ever-growing British encampment. Heading further inland was out of the question, so the bored officers were limited to bathing in the sea and hunting the local birds and waterfowl. The encampment echoed to the sound of gunfire as the overzealous hunters amongst the officers slaughtered anything with wings. It might not have been good for the local wildlife, but at least the daily haul could be used to supplement the dreary rations provided by the ships.
Yet it appeared that change was in the air. The army was still reacting to the news that Major General Stalker had not long left in command. The government had decided to up the ante, and already a second division was on its way from Bombay to reinforce the troops that had carried out the invasion. With the second division would come the recently gazetted Lieutenant General Sir James Outram, an experienced officer who had made his name in the First Afghan War when, as a junior officer, he had captured an enemy colour at the Battle of Ghazni. Since then his career had flourished, and his defence of Hyderabad against eight thousand Baluchis during the Sind uprising had made him one of the most famous of all Queen Victoria’s generals.
Outram and the second division would land in the coming days with express orders to take the fight to the Persians. The objectives of the campaign had not changed. With two divisions at his disposal, Outram could maintain a more aggressive operation, and the larger force would help convince the Shah that the British would not back down until he had agreed to terms that would force him to relinquish his hold on Herat.
The arrival of their new commander would surely put an end to the expeditionary force’s temporary respite. Already orders had arrived for the battalions to begin a series of daily route marches once the defensive preparations were complete; Outram seemed determined to prevent the redcoats and the native infantry from going soft.
‘Captain Fenris!’
‘Excuse me a moment.’ Jack made his apology to Sarah and turned to face the hectoring voice that had interrupted their stroll. To his disappointment, she let go of his arm as he did so.
‘Captain Fenris, it is good to see you again.’
Jack felt his back stiffen as he recognised the naval officer walking towards him.
‘Good afternoon, Commodore.’ He saw the pointed look Sarah shot his way as she heard the ice in his tone. He was in no mood to be conciliatory. He had spent the last few days in pointless inactivity, searching the documents he had rescued from the fort at Reshire for any further clue as to the identity of the spy in the British camp. He had found nothing, and the task had him chafing at the bit to do something, anything, other than sit and read more of the same.
‘Mrs Draper, how lovely to see you again.’ Fetherstone bowed at the waist and fixed Sarah with a warm smile that, much to Jack’s annoyance, she returned in equal measure. If Fetherstone spotted anything awry in finding a lady he knew to be married in the company of an officer who had only just joined his rival’s department, he hid it well. Indeed, he seemed pleased to have bumped into the oddly matched couple.
The naval officer was close to a foot shorter than Jack, who stood straighter to emphasise the difference. Fetherstone seemed not to mind being forced to stare upwards as he tore his eyes from Sarah and focused them on her companion.
He was older than Jack remembered, his grey hair and whiskers thinning and his face weathered. Yet his eyes twinkled as he saw Jack’s obvious belligerence, the spark of life still very much alive in the clear blue eyes.
‘I hear Ballard has been working you hard. It cannot be easy for a man of action to be forced to spend his days behind a desk.’ Fetherstone half smiled as he passed comment, clearly hoping to rub Jack up the wrong way.
‘It’s part of my job, sir.’ Jack snapped at the lure. ‘I do not min
d it.’
Fetherstone guffawed at the stiff reply that was just what he had hoped for. ‘I can see he has got you well trained, at least. Did he give you a royal rollicking for joining the attack?’
Jack scowled at the criticism of his commander. ‘I did not take part in the assault.’
‘Come, come, Captain. Please credit naval intelligence with knowing a few things. Your bravery has not gone wholly unnoticed. I hear your actions quite saved the day. I cannot think why Ballard would not let you garner the credit you so clearly deserve, unless he means to punish you, of course. That, at least would make sense, however churlish it may be.’
Jack caught a glimpse of Sarah looking closely at him as the naval officer alluded to his part in the assault on Reshire. He hoped the revelation would impress her. Despite his instinct warning him to be careful, he felt a spark of pride at the recognition that Fetherstone was giving him. Yet it was still a dangerous topic, and he knew he needed to steer the inquisitive intelligence officer away to safer ground.
‘Major Ballard ordered me to remain out of the fighting, sir. You must have me mistaken for another man.’
‘I rather fancy you are the one who is mistaken if you think I am going to believe that. I am no man’s fool, believe me.’
‘I’m sure you are no fool, sir.’
‘I am glad to hear it. So, have you found the spy?’
This time Jack struggled to hide his surprise. ‘I don’t know what you mean, sir.’
Fetherstone’s snort revealed his opinion of Jack’s denial. ‘You would do well to leave the politicking to Ballard, Captain Fenris. You are not cut out for dissembling. You should not be astonished that I know of the presence of a spy. It comes as no great surprise that the Persians have men in our camp. We all know that the Russians are supporting the Shah. They will have taught him all he needs to know about handling such things. Indeed, I would be more surprised if there were no attempts to garner information. What concerns me is that the enemy appears to have access to the very heart of our enterprise here. That is a danger to the success of the campaign, and it is my duty . . .’ he smiled thinly at Jack before continuing, ‘our duty to discover their identity and root them out before any more harm is done.’
The Devil's Assassin (Jack Lark) Page 15
