He gave Jack a pointed stare as he spoke. There was a warning veiled behind the cursory introduction. Jack would do well not to rock the boat.
‘I think you would be best suited to staying with me as my second. The squadrons are all settled and the men acquitted themselves well in the affair at Reshire. Young Moore is doing a good job as adjutant and I am reluctant to change things around on the hoof, so to speak.’ Forbes forced out a half-smile at his tired pun.
‘Very well, sir.’ Jack nodded his agreement. He saw no value in saying anything else. In his time he had been an ordinary redcoat, a fusilier, a lancer and a hussar. He would now join the irregular cavalry. Only time would tell if he would be any good at it.
The darkness wrapped its arms around the cavalry vedette, crushing them in its cloying embrace. Its ominous presence pressed against their senses. It was impossible to see more than a dozen yards. Shapes that in daylight would have meant nothing became fear-inducing shadows, every moving shape a potential enemy, every figment of an overactive imagination a threat to the slumbering army.
‘Fancy a nip, sir?’
Jack tore his eyes from a patch of darkness that had seemed to be growing in size the longer he stared at it. The commander of the vedette, Lieutenant Ross Moore, was offering him a small silver hip flask.
‘You may find the contents a little unsophisticated, but at the very least it staves off the chill.’
Jack accepted the flask and took a cautious sip of its contents. The lieutenant had been correct. The rough brandy caught at the back of his throat but he was grateful for the fire it ignited in his belly. The days might have been hot but the nights quickly got cold. It was not something he had really noticed when serving on the staff; the tent he had shared with Ballard had been warm and snug. Now he was back at the sharp end of the campaign, he would have to make the best of it, no matter what the conditions.
He nodded in appreciation of the friendly gesture. ‘Thank you.’
‘Think nothing of it, old man. It’s my brother Arthur’s anyway. He doesn’t know I took it.’
‘Your brother is here?’
Moore took a mouthful of the brandy, puffing his cheeks out as he sucked down the fiery liquid before replying. ‘They call him the young Moore. He’s our adjutant.’
‘I had no idea I was joining a family firm.’ Jack’s discomfort had yet to release him. He was amongst strangers and it had put him on his guard. It also made him sound somewhat caustic, and he regretted the bile in his reply the moment he said it.
‘Oh, I know we are not as grand a regiment as the 15th, but we are a tight bunch and we know what we are about.’
Jack saw the glimmer of annoyance in the way Moore narrowed his eyes as he spoke. He tried to lighten the mood. ‘I meant no offence.’
‘Of course not, old man, none taken. It must be hard being a fish out of water. I know how I would feel if I got dumped into the middle of a group of bally hussars.’
Jack nodded his head in acknowledgement of Moore’s understanding. ‘I am glad to be here. Truly. It’s better than being on the damn staff.’
The lieutenant threw his head back and barked a short laugh at Jack’s candour. He was a handsome young man and something of a Goliath; he must have stood at least six and a half feet tall, with a broad, muscular frame. He wore his beard full, but it was neatly trimmed and clearly tended with pride. The eyes above the thick bush of hair twinkled with a devilish spirit. ‘Well said, that man.’ He tucked the flask away in the inside pocket of his light-blue tunic.
The small patrol of cavalrymen was hidden in a fold in the ground a good quarter of a mile from the Persian encampment that had become the expeditionary force’s temporary home. Captain Forbes had suggested that Jack join the men charged with warning of any enemy attack. Major Ballard had written at length to describe the Persians’ favourite tactic of launching a night attack against an unsuspecting enemy. His stock might have fallen with the generals, but Outram had still heeded his warning and doubled the usual chain of picquets, pushing his cavalry vedettes far into the darkness of the surrounding plain.
Jack had been a bystander as Moore placed his chain of vedettes, each pair positioned close enough to one another so they could remain in sight, even in the gloom. Moore had kept half a dozen men back to form the patrol that would prowl along the line, checking that his men stayed alert and in place whilst keeping the Bombay Lights in contact with the other cavalry vedettes on their flanks. It was no easy feat in the darkness and it had been a relief when Moore had ordered a halt and let the small patrol take a breather from being in the saddle, although he was still cautious enough to leave two men on guard to watch the nearest pair of sentries.
It had already been a long, nerve-shredding night. Jack had peered into the darkness and seen all manner of danger, yet Moore had seemed totally at ease and Jack had done his best to match the junior officer’s calm sangfroid. The men of the 3rd Bombay Light Cavalry were clearly used to their duties, going about their work with a quiet competence. They needed few orders and, from what Jack could see, the daffadar in charge had his troopers well in hand. There was little for the officers to do and Jack felt like a spare part simply brought along for the ride.
‘Sahib!’ The sudden call brought him sharply to his senses. One of Moore’s men was pointing into the darkness. Jack screwed up his eyes and did his best to find what it was that had startled the sentry into action. He could see nothing.
Lieutenant Moore jogged across to stand at the sentry’s shoulder. He stood almost on eye level with the trooper even though the man was mounted and Moore was on foot. ‘What do you see, Wazier Khan?’
The trooper swallowed hard as he felt his commander’s presence at his shoulder. But he was a steady man, and when he spoke, his reply was clear and precise.
‘There, sahib, number five vedette.’
Jack stared hard into the darkness. He followed the direction of the pointed arm and saw a pair of troopers walking their horses in a tight circle to the right. It was the signal that meant they had spotted the approach of cavalry. Had they been turning to the left, it would have meant they had spied infantry. If each man turned in a different direction, it meant that the widely spaced vedettes faced a mixed force.
Lieutenant Moore had recognised the signal in a heartbeat. He walked forward quickly before going down on his knees and pressing his ear to the ground. He listened intently before bounding to his feet with surprising grace for such a large man.
‘Time to mount the boys.’ The lieutenant jogged across to where he had hobbled his horse next to Jack’s own. He flashed Jack a smile. ‘Might be nothing, but we cannot be too careful. My brother would never let me forget it if I cocked up.’
Jack nodded in agreement and made to mount his own horse. He felt a flutter of fear deep in his belly. It was up to the 3rd Bombay Light Cavalry to discover what had disturbed the night.
The noise of moving horses echoed around them as the patrol mounted quickly and without fuss, the men pausing only to tighten their horses’ girths, which they had loosened off when they had been allowed to rest. The jangle of tackle was loud and Jack could not help but think that the cavalrymen were doing a fine job of announcing themselves to any enemy that was daring to encroach on the slumbering British camp.
He turned and was about to say as much to Moore when he heard something else. He cocked his ear, straining his hearing as he tried to pick out a sound amidst the noise of the patrol.
There was no mistaking it. It was the noise of hooves drumming on the hard-baked sand of the plain. It was the sound of cavalrymen on the move.
Above them the clouds had begun to thin out, and for the first time, a small amount of starlight was filtering through the sky. It was still too dark to see clearly but there was no mistaking the shadowy forms that were silhouetted against the far horizon.
/> Lieutenant Moore rode close to Jack’s shoulder. On horseback the man looked like a hero from an ancient fable. His horse was huge and the pair loomed over Jack so that he was forced to angle his head far back as he told his subordinate what he had seen.
‘There’s movement. Away to the west.’
Moore listened for a moment, then nodded his head in agreement. He turned and signalled to the daffadar. The patrol had formed into two lines behind the pair of officers and now they drew their swords. The rasp of the metal being withdrawn from their scabbards could have been heard for hundreds of yards, but there was no longer any value in remaining hidden. If the enemy was close, then the Bombay Lights wanted to be ready for a fight.
Jack drew his own sword. The blade felt snug in his hand, the familiar weight reassuring. He twisted in the saddle and looked at the line of men behind him. He saw the steadiness in the ranks, only the movement of the horses spoiling the stillness of the troop.
Moore raised his hand. Behind him the men tightened their grip on their reins, preparing to respond to the order he was about to give.
The young officer waited. The small gap in the cloud closed, plunging the men back into almost complete darkness. The shadowy figures disappeared, hidden by the gloom, yet the sound of their movement was still clear. There could be no doubt that another troop of cavalry was moving through the night.
Jack eased his horse forward, peering into the black.
‘Can you see them?’ Moore’s voice was hoarse. ‘I can’t see a bloody thing.’
Jack said nothing but continued to walk his horse on. His mind remembered a battle on a faraway hillside. The redcoats had just captured the enemy’s great redoubt when a column had advanced against them. In the confusion of battle it had been hard to identify the nationality of the soldiers, the smoke of the battlefield obscuring the detail of their uniform. When panicky shouts had announced the arrival of their French allies, no one had been certain enough to gainsay the command to hold fire. It had been a dreadful mistake. The column had been Russian and the redcoats had broken, abandoning what had been hard won without a fight. Jack was not about to let history repeat itself.
‘Are they ours or theirs?’ Moore hissed the question, his anxiety clear.
Jack turned in the saddle and fixed his gaze on the enormous lieutenant. ‘Stay here.’
Without another word, he spurred into the darkness.
The ground flashed by underneath the hooves of his fast-moving horse. Jack could barely see anything, yet he urged his mount to pick up speed. He felt the fear build in his belly, squirming and twisting in his guts, but he forced it to be still, ignoring the icy flush that poured through every fibre of his being.
If the cavalry they had seen were indeed the enemy, Jack was likely to be riding to his death.
He pulled up hard, yanking on the reins to bring his horse to a halt. He saw the shapes of men close ahead. He knew they must also be able to see him. He was close enough to hear the noises of their horses. He gripped his sword, screwing his courage tight, steadying himself so he was ready to fight. He heard the murmur of a language he did not understand in the low tones of men trying to remain quiet.
He planned for the fight he thought was inevitable. He would throw himself forward, trusting to surprise to keep him safe, gambling on a desperate, lonely charge as his only hope of survival. It was worth the risk. He would not sit idly by and watch another disaster unfurl around him. The mysterious force simply had to be identified, and Jack had endured enough of sitting on the sidelines.
He bunched the reins into his left hand and sucked in a last mouthful of the sweet night air. He prepared himself to spur hard into his horse’s flanks, his muscles tensing as he braced for the charge.
‘Come forward and be identified.’
The clipped tones took him by surprise. He nearly gouged his spurs back regardless, so keyed up was he to fight. It took him a moment to force himself to breathe, to let the tension leave his body.
With a deep sigh, he thrust his sword back into its scabbard. ‘Fenris. Bombay Lights.’
He saw the shadowy form of a rider emerge from the blackness, the white of his face bright in the flickering starlight.
‘Now there’s a spot of luck. We nearly shot you.’
The cavalry that had caused Jack so much trepidation emerged from the gloom. They wore long dark blue tunics with wide red sashes. Jack recognised the uniform of the Poona Horse, the other cavalry regiment at Outram’s disposal.
He heard the jangle of horse tackle behind him as Moore’s troopers advanced. Jack turned and waved to the lieutenant, summoning him forward. He sat deep in his saddle and breathed in a deep lungful of the cool night air, feeling the nerves flutter deep in his belly. It would take time to settle them down and still the tremor in his hands.
He thought of the risk he had taken and shivered, cursing at his own foolishness. He was acting like a griffin. He saw Moore’s furrowed brow as he brought his patrol forward. There could be no doubt that the younger officer was not impressed. There was no place for heroics on the front line. Foolish actions cost lives. Jack knew he would have to do better if he was to make a new home for himself with the Bombay Lights.
‘A door?’
‘I’m not jesting, I swear.’
‘Why would anyone think a door posed a threat?’ Ballard steepled his fingers and contemplated the outrageous tale.
Jack had sought out his former commander and had discovered him in a corner of Stalker’s operations tent, half hidden behind a stack of paperwork. He had greeted Ballard with the tale of a vedette from the Poona Horse that had nearly set the whole camp to alarm when one of their nervous troopers mistook a discarded door as an enemy about to attack. It made for a better tale than the one about a foolish cavalry officer who had come close to charging headlong into a vedette from his own side.
‘It was pitch black.’ He sighed as he was forced to explain the story, quite spoiling its effect. ‘They couldn’t see what it was. God, you do know how to suck the life out of a tale. It was meant to be amusing.’
‘Still.’ Ballard shook his head. He was obviously not convinced that Jack’s story was true, and he clearly found nothing remotely humorous in a tale of such rank incompetence. ‘Not even I would think of a door as a threat.’
Jack sighed at the major’s ability to pick the bones out of everything he heard. He had hoped the light-hearted story would put a smile on Ballard’s face, but he had been disappointed.
‘I take it things haven’t improved here, then?’ He pulled over a camp chair and sat down heavily. ‘Is it bad?’
‘Bad?’ Ballard tasted the bland word; it was sour. ‘It’s not bad. It’s bloody awful. They don’t even invite me in when Fetherstone arrives to deliver his reports. They’ve cut me dead.’
‘But you are still called on to advise on the enemy’s movements?’
‘What enemy! The buggers appear to have disappeared. They are hiding up in the hills daring us to attack them.’
‘Will we?’ Jack was all ears. Now that he was back at the army’s sharp end, he was keen to know if he faced a fight.
‘No. That much I do know.’ Ballard tossed his steel pen to one side and pushed his chair back. ‘We are going back to Bushire. The orders are being drafted even as we speak. We will march tomorrow, taking what supplies we can. The rest will be blown to high heaven to deny it to the enemy.’
‘So we scurry back to Bushire with our tails between our legs.’
‘Nonsense!’ Ballard stood up and grabbed his cap from the corner of his desk. In camp, the officers wore their undress uniform, which meant that the two officers could forgo the heavy busby that made the hussars so distinctive. The small light cap with its scarlet top was much more comfortable for daily wear. The busby would only be worn if they went back into action, some
thing that seemed to have become a great deal less likely now that the Persian general had retreated into the hills.
‘I’ve seen Outram’s dispatch.’ Ballard stood beside his desk, as if reluctant to leave the reports he had been working on. ‘This has been a glorious expedition that has put a serious dent in our enemy’s ambition to counter our presence here. It is a success, Jack. A resounding success.’ He closed his eyes, as if in sudden pain. When he opened them again, he fixed Jack with a hard, flat stare. ‘Come on. Let’s go and find a drink. I need some fresh air.’
The two officers made their way out of the bell tent that was the centre of Stalker’s divisional operations. Outside, the early-morning light was warming away the chill of the night and the army was waking to a day of hard toil as they prepared to march back to Bushire. If Ballard was indeed correct, the next few hours would be spent loading whatever provisions they could on to the collection of mismatched carts and wagons that was all the commissariat could find in the local villages. The infantry would be pressed into service as temporary porters, and for the first time Jack was glad that he now served in a cavalry regiment.
‘You understand this spy business is not finished.’ Ballard opened the conversation as they made their way from the bustling encampment and headed towards the major’s private tent. ‘I didn’t want to talk of it back there. There are too many beady eyes and eager ears.’
‘I thought it had all been passed to Fetherstone.’ Jack was wary in the face of Ballard’s statement. The commander of the intelligence department had a worrying intensity about him. Jack had been in the army long enough to know that was never a good sign in a senior officer.
The Devil's Assassin (Jack Lark) Page 22
