‘Then may I ask what the navy is doing about it?’ Jack lifted his chin as he asked the pointed question.
Fetherstone was not at all put out. ‘Why, the same as you, I imagine. Judging from your reaction, we are both having the same amount of success.’
‘Perhaps.’ Jack tried to remain non-committal. The commodore was right. He was out of his depth. ‘So you think there is just the one spy?’
Fetherstone scowled. ‘I think it unlikely that even the army is foolish enough to allow more than one. Does Ballard think there are more?’
‘Major Ballard keeps his own counsel.’
‘I am sure he does.’ Fetherstone seemed to give the matter some thought. ‘No. It does not make sense, to me at least. One well-placed spy could do much more damage than a dozen poor sources. Why would the enemy risk placing more than one agent? We are looking for one man, I am sure of it.’
Jack made a note of Fetherstone’s certainty.
‘It really is a shame Ballard is so secretive.’ Fetherstone shook his head at Jack’s reluctance to be drawn. ‘It would be better for everyone if our two departments could find a way to work together.’
‘I’m sure Major Ballard has his reasons, sir.’
For the first time, Fetherstone scowled. ‘The man is clearly paranoid, or deluded; perhaps both. I would like to ensure you are not prejudiced against us. My door is always open to you. If you feel you have information that would be best shared, you must not hesitate to come to me.’
Jack said nothing.
Fetherstone smiled at the reaction. ‘You are a loyal soul, Captain. It does you great credit. But sometimes you must think of a higher purpose. You must do what you know to be right, no matter what the cost. Isn’t that so, Sarah?’
Sarah’s brow furrowed. ‘I would like to believe I would do what is right.’ Jack heard an unfamiliar trace of timidity in her voice.
Fetherstone looked at her sharply before continuing, leaving no time for Jack to dwell on her reply. ‘Anyway, I would not wish to delay you. I can see you are out to enjoy a pleasant afternoon’s excursion, although I must warn you that you may not find Bushire to your taste. It is a mean place. There is little to recommend it.’
Jack nodded politely. Fetherstone reminded him of a hungry sparrow pecking at the ground in the hope of finding a delicious morsel. No matter how many times he was disappointed, he could not resist pecking some more.
The commodore turned back to Sarah. ‘Mrs Draper, I was wondering if you and your brother would do me the honour of dining aboard tonight. The place hasn’t been the same since you left us.’
Sarah bobbed her head in acknowledgement of the gracious comment. ‘We would be delighted.’
‘Wonderful.’ Fetherstone clapped his hands. ‘Until tonight, then.’ He bowed at the waist and left Jack and Sarah alone.
‘Do you really like him?’ Jack asked when he judged Fetherstone to be out of earshot.
Sarah slipped her arm back through his as they turned to resume their walk towards Bushire. ‘He is good company. He looked after me when we were on board his ship. It would’ve been rude to refuse him. Do you mind?’
‘Of course not.’ Jack was surprised she asked the question.
‘I shall not stay late.’ She nestled her head against his arm, like a cat brushing against its master. ‘We shall have the night together, I promise.’
The idea made Jack smile, and he pushed the meeting with Fetherstone from his mind. ‘Perhaps when you are there you could do something for me.’ He asked the question softly. He was thinking of Ballard’s instruction to help him discover more about the spy plaguing the army. It was clear from their conversation that Fetherstone was working on the same thing. Sarah was certainly clever enough to be able to help him, and if she was going to spend the evening with the leader of the naval intelligence department, perhaps he could ask her to garner some useful intelligence for him.
‘I rather think I am doing enough things to you,’ Sarah teased, lifting her face. ‘I am shocked you would consider asking for more.’
‘Not to me. For me.’ Jack shook his head at her coquettish behaviour. He did not fully understand her wanton streak. He was no shy virgin, but he sometimes found her behaviour somewhat unbecoming. He sensed that she had a deep need for his company, something more than just a desire for the nocturnal activities they shared. Yet she guarded her emotions well, almost as well as he did his. He had yet to penetrate her protective shell, the hard carapace behind which she hid her true feelings. He hoped that with time she would let him.
‘When you dine with Fetherstone, it would be helpful if you could find out what he knows of any enemy spies.’ Jack made sure he looked at her as he asked the question, trying to read her reaction to his words.
Sarah pouted, his request clearly not to her liking. ‘What is all this fuss about spies? James told me they are almost inevitable in a campaign on enemy soil. I am sure half the local people are reporting back. Surely it makes little difference. It is no great secret that we are here to attack.’
‘No. It is more than that.’ Jack wondered how much to reveal. ‘The enemy is somehow getting more than just general observations. It is becoming serious.’
‘How delicious,’ Sarah purred as she began to understand the intrigue. ‘What about Captain Hunter? You know his father was forced to sell his commission?’
Jack was interested. ‘I had no idea.’
‘It was over some affair with his regiment’s accounts. The poor fellow never got over the shame and killed himself when Hunter was a child. They say his ghost haunts their family home, his tortured soul unable to find rest.’
‘That sounds like bollocks to me.’ Jack had no time for such gossip. ‘Hunter seems a decent fellow.’
‘So that precludes him from being a spy?’
Jack shook his head. ‘I think for now we should concentrate our attention on finding out just what Fetherstone knows rather than throwing slurs on every officer on Stalker’s staff. This is not a game. If the Persians do have a well-placed spy, men will die because of his information.’ He paused, letting the seriousness of his words sink in.
Sarah was silent. It was some moments before she spoke. ‘Cannot Ballard not simply ask Fetherstone what he knows?’
‘No. They don’t trust each other.’
‘So it is up to us?’ Sarah was quiet a moment longer before she rallied and squeezed his arm tighter. ‘How very exciting. It will add some wonderful spice to my account.’
‘You mustn’t write about it!’ Jack was appalled. Ballard would have his balls if he found out he had asked Sarah for help. ‘At least not yet. Not until this is all over.’
‘I shall be the soul of discretion.’ Sarah was clearly delighted at being involved in Jack’s scheme. ‘There really is more to you than meets the eye. I think I may have underestimated you.’
Jack smiled at the notion. He was pleased to have Sarah on his side. He had a feeling she would be a powerful ally.
They walked in silence as they entered Bushire, content in each other’s company. The street was narrow, with windowless buildings pressed hard on either flank. It was a dank, foreboding place and the muddy ground underfoot was liberally scattered with filth.
‘Fetherstone was right.’ Jack acknowledged the commodore’s warning about Bushire. ‘This place has little to recommend it.’
‘Fetherstone is often right. You would do well to remember that. You can trust him. You cannot place all your faith in Major Ballard.’
‘Why do you say that?’ Jack stopped in the middle of the road. There was no one else around. Many of the town’s inhabitants had taken to staying in their houses now that the invading army had made its camp on their doorstep.
‘He has a reputation as a ruthless man who will stoop to any depths to achieve his aims
. He will not serve you well.’
Jack said nothing. He could understand why Ballard was thought of in that way, yet during his time with the major he had come to like the man. There was something refreshing in his forthright manner, especially when compared to so many of the callow buffoons Jack had encountered in the British army.
‘You must be careful not to be used,’ Sarah continued, ‘for he will discard you without a qualm when he has finished with you.’
Jack kept his face neutral. He could have levelled the same accusation at Sarah herself. He knew where he stood. He was aware that the time would come when he would be cast out. By both of them. He had been alone too long for that thought to worry him.
‘You do not agree?’ Sarah’s mouth twisted in vexation as she noticed that Jack was ignoring her advice. Jack saw the flash of temper in her pale blue eyes.
‘I do not.’
‘You think you know it all, don’t you, Arthur? You know about Ballard, about Fetherstone, even about my brother. Is there anyone that surprises you?’
‘No.’ He spoke with blunt honesty.
‘How very sad.’
Jack turned and began the long walk back to the British encampment. He had gone no more than a dozen paces when he heard footsteps as Sarah trotted after him. She slipped her arm through his, but said nothing.
He thought about what she had said. He did not know if he could trust Ballard, but he was certain he could not trust Fetherstone. He sighed and placed his hand over Sarah’s, feeling the warmth of her skin underneath his fingers. Fetherstone had been quite correct: he was not cut out for politicking. He could do nothing but trust his own judgement and place his faith, and indeed his life, where he thought it best.
The 78th Highlanders arrived with glorious fanfare. To the skirl of their bagpipes they led the new division into the encampment outside Bushire, the locals looking on in astonishment as the kilted warriors marched in. The Highlanders were impressive. Their usual feather bonnets and hackles had been left behind at their barracks at Poona, but even in just their hummel bonnets they still looked imposing. The people of Bushire had never seen anything like the fabulous MacKenzie of Seaforth tartan that the Scottish soldiers wore, the dark green standing in vivid contrast to their red jackets with their bright buff facings.
The rest of the second division were less spectacular. The red-coated battalions of the 23rd and 26th Bombay Native Light Infantry marched to their allotted areas with calm order. With them came more artillery and more cavalry, the arrival of a second full division filling the encampment to capacity. For the weary redcoats of the first division, the new troops created a welcome spectacle, although few had any strength left to greet them. That day, the division had endured a twelve-mile route march to the town of Charkota, so that it was a drained and weary audience that watched the reinforcements arrive.
With the second division came the new commander-in-chief, Sir James Outram. Outram had been on convalescent leave in England, but his new appointment had led to a remarkable recovery, and he had arrived in time to sail from Bombay with the reinforcements. Major General Stalker, his ego sorely battered, remained to command the first division, with the sixty-two-year-old Major General Sir Henry Havelock arriving to take charge of the second. The new command structure took its place swiftly and with little fuss.
The encampment filled with rumour as quickly as it filled with fresh troops. The newly arrived redcoats told of a plan to advance almost immediately, Outram’s desire to get on with the campaign certain to force a rapid pace. For the men who had spent the last week digging and marching, it was exactly what they wanted to hear. Within hours of his arrival, Outram had dispatched a party of officers to reconnoitre the nearby town of Mohammerah, and the army saw this as confirmation of their new commander’s desire to get on with the second stage of the campaign.
Not all the rumours brought by the second division were so positive. Others predicted nothing but a bloody disaster for the expeditionary force. These stories told of an immense enemy horde – thousands upon thousands of infantrymen supported by countless regiments of cavalry and hundreds of pieces of artillery – waiting just inland and preparing to counter the invaders the moment they stepped away from the apron strings of their navy. The numbers grew with each retelling, until defeat seemed inevitable, followed by a harrowing evacuation if the British were to escape annihilation.
Yet one thing was clear, no matter which rumour held sway. The arrival of the fresh division meant that the period of inactivity was over. The next stage of the campaign was about to begin.
Jack lingered outside Sarah’s tent. He could see her shadowy form moving around inside and he took a moment to savour the image. He had anticipated the moment through the long, dull afternoon, thinking of little else but seeing her again. They had agreed he should come to her tent around midnight, and he had made sure to be there on time.
He heard a scuffle of boots on the ground and turned to see Simon Montfort staggering back from the bivouac’s designated latrines. The young man had clearly enjoyed the navy’s entertainment, and his footing was unsteady, as if he believed he was still on board ship rather than on the solidity of dry land. He looked up and spied Jack loitering outside his sister’s tent.
‘You!’
‘Good evening, Mr Montfort.’ Jack kept his voice even. He was not there to fight.
Montfort looked round, as if checking that he had not been followed. When he faced Jack again, he was vibrating with barely controlled anger.
‘I suggest you leave.’
Jack scowled at the suggestion. ‘That’s not very friendly.’
‘You are not welcome here.’ Montfort’s words were slurred by drink, but he stood steadier as he faced Jack.
‘I think your sister would disagree.’
‘She has foolish ideas. That is why I look after her. And I know that a damn pleb like you has no place here.’
‘I rather believe she knows her own mind.’ Jack tried to control his temper. Sarah had accused him of believing he understood everyone. It was time to see if he was wrong about her brother.
‘What the fuck would you know? Just because she chooses to rut with you . . .’
Jack felt his anger begin to simmer. ‘Mind your mouth, boy.’
‘Why? Are you going to shut it for me?’ Montfort’s hand fell to the rapier at his side.
‘If need be.’
Montfort laughed. ‘You really are nothing but a thug, but then my sister has a taste for a bit of rough. You are just her type.’
The talwar whispered from its scabbard. Jack had not fully formed the decision to draw his weapon before it appeared in his hand. The beautiful blade glimmered in the light of the campfires scattered through the bivouac. The fiery reflection seemed to glide up and down its length, making the steel shimmer, the tight script engraved on the blade coming alive.
He stepped forward, holding the sword out so that the point was aimed directly at Montfort’s throat.
‘You are quite right, Mr Montfort. I am a coarse bastard. I may not know how to behave in polite company, but I do know how to use this sword. I know how to batter any bugger to death with it.’
He stepped forward again, rotating his wrist so the talwar turned in the firelight. Montfort took a hesitant step backwards, and then another, his eyes focusing on the glimmering blade, his bravery silenced by the sight of the naked steel.
Montfort was forced to a halt by a stack of ammunition crates, and Jack stopped and straightened his arm so that the point of his sword was no more than a single inch from the young man’s throat.
‘I have killed so many men, Mr Montfort, that I have quite lost count.’ He snarled as he spoke, his mouth twisted as he talked of death. ‘I could kill you now and I would barely remember your name.’
An involuntary shudder ran down Jac
k’s spine. The face of the boy he had killed in the fort at Reshire sprang unbidden into his mind. The image haunted him.
Montfort saw the tremor on Jack’s face and it gave him courage. ‘You wouldn’t do it. It would be murder. You’d hang.’
The words brought Jack back to the present. He looked at Montfort’s face. He saw the fear in the boy’s pallid complexion, and he felt the bloodlust wash out of him. He could not kill another boy.
‘Arthur, is that you?’ Sarah Draper’s voice called out from behind them.
Jack turned and saw Sarah peering out from behind the entrance flap of her tent. She had already undressed, and was wearing nothing more than a simple cotton shift that clung to her body. With the light inside the tent behind her, he could make out every curve, and the sight made his breath catch in his throat.
‘What on earth do you think you are doing? Simon, what is going on?’ Sarah’s voice rose as she saw the drawn sword.
Montfort found the courage to knock the talwar away with the palm of his hand before pushing his way past Jack. He said nothing as he stalked past his sister and into the night.
‘Arthur, tell me what is going on this instant,’ Sarah demanded.
Jack sheathed his sword and walked towards her. ‘It was nothing.’
‘It didn’t look like bloody nothing.’
‘I was just giving your brother a piece of friendly advice.’
‘It looked to me like you were scaring the poor boy witless.’
‘It’s not your concern.’
‘Of course it’s my concern.’
‘It’s nothing.’ Jack growled the denial. He was not used to being with a woman. He had forgotten the nagging. He walked forward and took Sarah around the waist, pulling her to him, crushing her body against his. The confrontation with Montfort had made him angry, and he leant forward and pressed his lips against hers, not caring if he was rough.
The Devil's Assassin (Jack Lark) Page 16
