Jack shook his head. 'I know the Russians, William; they are more determined and much more skilful than you think. There is something wrong here.'
'Get back to your 113th, Jack. You're not needed here.' William grinned. 'Your new regiment is not wanted either; the Royal Malverns can win this war on our own!'
Jack saw the movement from the corner of his eye. He did not know why he turned; perhaps it was some instinct, or the fact that the men were furtive, or maybe just experience. He saw Colonel Welland standing tall at a corner of the trench, shouting confident orders, and then half a dozen dark shapes appeared behind him.
The Malverns fired a volley that drowned Jack's shouted warning and a section of men blocked his path as he tried to intervene. He saw the dark shapes slide forward, saw them drag Welland down and saw the flash of steel. By then he was hurrying forward, pushing past privates and officers without any regard to their rank or protests.
'Colonel Welland!'
The colonel lay on his back with his throat sliced from ear to ear and half a dozen stab wounds in his body. He was stone dead. There was no sign of the men who had attacked him.
'They're running!' William shouted. 'We have them on the run!' He raised his voice. 'Royal Malverns!'
The Royal Malverns joined in, yelling their triumph without realising that their colonel lay dead in the trench behind them.
Jack stared into the dark: the Russians had achieved their victory and the Royal Malverns did not even know what the battle had been about.
Chapter Six
'The question, Windrush, is why?' Colonel Maxwell asked. 'Why cut Welland's throat; why send men in to knife him when they could have just shot him, if they wanted to?'
Jack looked around. He had reported the murder to Maxwell, and hoped to hear no more about it, but instead Maxwell had ordered him to his tent immediately he completed his next stint in the trenches. Now he stood there, uneasy between Maxwell and the stout, bearded man who sat in an armed chair, tapping his white cane on the ground.
'The only reason I can think of is to spread fear.' The bearded man spoke in a slow, deep voice. Jack kept quiet; Colonel Maxwell had not yet introduced them. 'Being shot in battle is part of the soldier's bargain. It could happen to any of us; being murdered like that is unexpected and alarming, particularly in the midst of his own regiment. It is the Russians way of showing us that they can strike anywhere on their holy soil.'
'That is a new type of warfare,' Jack said.
'The Colonel was the target,' Maxwell said. 'The attack, the whole Russian raid, was a diversion to bring Welland out in the open so Anderson's Cossacks could slaughter him.'
The bearded man tapped his cane on the ground and continued in that measured voice. 'Colonel Welland was a good, experienced officer, destined for higher things, a major general at least.'
Maxwell indicated the bearded man. 'You have not met Mr Cattley, have you, Lieutenant Windrush?'
'No, sir,' Jack held the gaze of the bearded man.
'This is Mr Charles Cattley, head of the Secret Intelligence Department in the area.'
Jack tried to hide his surprise. He knew that Lord Raglan was opposed to any form of spying, which he regarded as un-gentlemanly and therefore un-British.
'His Lordship has agreed, albeit reluctantly, that the British Army requires some system of intelligence gathering.' Cattley must have read Jack's reaction. 'He decided that I would suit the position.'
'I am sure you will do a good job, sir.' There was something about Cattley that Jack immediately liked. Despite his occupation he was a man who exuded an aura of trust and distinction.
'Mr Cattley worked as a diplomat …' Maxwell began, until Cattley silenced him with a lift of his hand.
'I was vice consul at Kerch for thirteen years,' Cattley said, 'and I have travelled extensively across the Crimea.'
'I see sir,' Jack said.
'Mr Cattley speaks Russian like a native,' Maxwell continued, 'and he is building up quite a network of agents across the Crimea and beyond.'
'That will be useful,' Jack was unsure what he, as a junior officer, should say to a spymaster.
'Normally my duty is in the bigger picture,' Cattley was surprisingly open. 'My people report on Russian troop movements and the like. Lord Raglan does not want his army to be surprised again, as they were at Balaklava and Inkerman.' He tapped his cane on the ground. 'However, Colonel Maxwell's intelligence about Colonel Welland's death adds another angle to my job.'
'So you think this murder was to spread fear among us?' Jack thought about men such as O'Neill, Logan and Coleman. They were more likely to applaud the Russians for killing sundry officers than to be afraid of them.
'We are not sure of the reason.' Cattley spoke slowly and concisely. 'The Russian mind can be very devious. However Welland is not the first experienced officer to be targeted. Colonel Pendleton was also recently murdered.' He sat back in Maxwell's chair, leaned his cane against Maxwell's desk, sipped at Maxwell's brandy and waved one of Maxwell's cheroots in the air. 'I have my own theories and you will not like what I have to say.'
Again Jack kept quiet.
'Educate us, Mr Cattley.' Reduced to sitting on a crate, Maxwell poured himself more brandy, offered to refill Jack's glass and shrugged when he declined.
'I will come to that later,' Cattley said. 'First I will go over the known facts. Lieutenant Windrush, you said that men appeared out of nowhere, stabbed Welland to death and disappeared without trace.'
'Yes, sir. That is all that I saw.' Jack hoped that he would be dismissed after giving his information. He preferred the simple existence of a regimental officer to the Machiavellian complexities of spies and secret intelligence.
You know the Russian infantry as well as I do,' Cattley said. 'They are brave to a fault, obedient and stubborn, yet they are more stoic than imaginative. Would you say that ordinary Russian infantry could perform that sort of subterfuge?'
'No, sir,' Jack replied at once.
'Give me your opinion, Windrush,' Maxwell snapped, more liverish than usual for him.
'These men who murdered Colonel Welland,' Jack said slowly, 'were not the usual run of Russian infantry.'
'We can assume that they were Plastun Cossacks,' Maxwell said. 'I am judging that by the way they acted. It ties in with that skirmish you had with Anderson.'
Jack took a deep breath. He was unsure how much Cattley knew about Major Kutuzov of the Plastun Cossacks.
'Do you agree, Windrush?' Cattley asked quietly.
'I do, sir,' Jack said.
'Your opinion, Windrush,' Maxwell snapped again. 'You fought these Plastun Cossacks; what do you think of them?'
Jack breathed out slowly. 'I don't wish you to think I am croaking sir, but the presence of Plastun Cossacks is quite disturbing. Our army is depleted of many of its experienced men and these Plastun fellows are top-notch.'
Cattley nodded. 'I agree, Lieutenant. But even the Plastun Cossacks need somebody to lead them and with Kutuzov gone, I can guess who commands this particular group now.'
'Who do you think it is, Mr Cattley?' Maxwell's glance at Jack was meaningful. He was warning Jack not to say too much yet, so he did not altogether trust the head of the Secret Intelligence Service.
'When Pendleton was murdered, the Cossacks did not notice that there was a second officer present, a fellow named Dowling. He said the Cossack leader was a tall man with an eye patch, which matches an American of your acquaintance,' Cattley said. 'A man named Anderson.'
Maxwell rolled his brandy glass between his fingers as he looked at Jack. 'A man we know well, Windrush. You first met him in Malta, didn't you?'
'Yes, sir; he was in Malta.'
Maxwell nodded. 'I believe you may speak frankly to Mr Cattley.'
'He was also observing the battle at the Alma River, alongside some woman. A looker, as I was told. And later we met him in Sebastopol.' Jack had hoped never to see Anderson again.
'Have you seen him since?' Cattley asked.
>
Jack nodded. 'In the trenches,' he said quietly. 'I thought he had slipped away from Sebastopol but he was with a raiding party of Plastun Cossacks. I don't understand why he is becoming involved.'
'Nor do we,' Cattley admitted. 'We only know that he is, and he is in a position of some authority: I had my boys find out about his operations here.'
'We saw him with Kutuzov's Cossacks,' Maxwell said soberly.
'He has been busy since your acquaintance with him,' Cattley sounded serious. 'After Inkerman he was quiet for a week or so, but then he appeared with his Cossacks opposite the French lines. The Plastun boys were active there for a while, disrupting their engineers, killing officers, and now Anderson has brought them to our sector.'
'I thought he was some kind of diplomat or military observer,' Maxwell said. 'Until we met him with Kutuzov.'
'We believed that as well, initially,' Cattley said. 'You may remember that Russia was trying to make an alliance with the United States,' Cattley said.
'I have heard of that,' Jack said. 'That would menace Canada and flood the sea with American privateers.'
'Are they still trying that?' Maxwell asked.
'I don't think so,' Cattley said. 'Although the Jonathans are always willing to try and twist the lion's tail, I don't think they'll risk the Royal Navy capturing most of their merchant vessels like they did in the War of 1812. If we discount an American alliance, there must be another reason for Anderson's actions but we don't know what.'
'You will be wondering why we're telling you all this,' Maxwell said.
'I am, sir,' Jack knew it was not merely to inform him what was happening: senior officers and government officials did not unbend before junior officers out of the kindness of their hearts. There was some other reason and judging by past history, it would be unglamorous, dangerous and probably dishonourable. He heard the patter of rain on the sloping canvas of the tent and wondered if another storm was about to break.
'We don't really care what Anderson's motives are,' Cattley said. 'We only care that he is murdering our officers and trying to spread fear and alarm among our men. God knows their morale is low enough, what with the lack of equipment, disease and this interminable siege.'
'Yes, sir.' Jack said.
'So we intend to turn the tables on them,' Cattley said. 'Rather than allow Anderson and his Cossacks to murder our officers, we are going to eradicate his Cossacks and assassinate him.'
The words, said so quietly by an urbane British gentleman, shocked Jack. British government officials did not hunt down solitary enemy officers.
'Sir,' he said without thinking, 'we are British gentlemen. We don't do such things.'
'We are indeed British gentlemen,' Cattley agreed, 'and I assure you that we do do such things. You of all people should know that. After all, you broke into a house in Malta for us.' Cattley smile was as evil as anything Jack had ever seen in his life. 'Perhaps you thought I did not know that. Do you think we won the Empire by being gentlemanly? Do you seriously believe we hold it by gentlemanly behaviour and decency? Do you think we defeated Bonaparte's hordes by being polite and well mannered?' He leaned closer. 'It is all a façade, Windrush. We are the most devious, unprincipled, underhand and downright nasty people on earth.' His sudden grin took Jack by surprise. 'At least that is what the Russians will think once we kill Anderson.'
Jack looked from Cattley to Maxwell and back. 'I hope you don't want me to kill him, sir. I am no assassin.' He had to make that plain.
'We are aware of that, Windrush and despite what I have just said; I would not ask you to do that.' Cattley tapped his cane on the ground. 'I have another man in hand for that job; a man you have already met. Your part is to provide a covering force to ensure he gets to his destination and fulfils his mission.'
'I don't know anybody who could act as an assassin.' Jack said.
'You have met him and he speaks highly of your courage.' Cattley produced a silver pocket watch and glanced at it. 'He should be here any time now.'
The scratching at the tent flap could have been a cat, but when Maxwell shouted 'come in' the sentry ushered in Ben the sailor.
Chapter Seven
For a moment Jack could only stare. Rather than wear the ubiquitous canvas jacket and bell-bottomed white trousers of an ordinary seaman, Ben wore the dark blue uniform of a Royal Navy Commander, with a sword at his hip and a cap at a jaunty angle adorning his head.
'Evening Mr Cattley,' Ben said casually. 'Evening Maxwell. Good to see you again Jack.'
'Ben?' Jack tried to hide his surprise. He glanced at Ben's arm. It was still bandaged but no longer muffled.
'Aye; it's much better now,' Ben said.
'This is Commander Benjamin Ruthven,' Cattley introduced him. 'One of the Royal Navy's finest.'
Ruthven's grip was as hard as any before-the-mast seaman.
'You'll do, Jack' Ruthven said. 'Now, how many men are we taking and how good are they?'
Not used to the speed and efficiency of the Navy, Jack was taken by surprise. 'That depends on what we are doing, and if I agree to doing it,' he said. 'I am a British soldier…'
'And I am your superior officer, Lieutenant Windrush,' Maxwell said cheerfully. 'I am looking forward to the day I can call you Captain Windrush again.'
Was that a threat? Or a bribe? Or was it merely a statement of fact? Either way Jack thought he understood the message; if he refused to take part in this duty he could wave good-bye to any promotion, so his dreams of returning to some respectable if not honourable station in life would die in this tent. His future plans for Helen would also crumble; the meagre pay of a lieutenant would never support a wife in any sort of comfort.
Jack gave a rueful smile. He had no real choice: Cattley and Maxwell had him trapped. 'So what are we doing, Commander Ruthven? I am not aware of the details yet.'
'Good man, Windrush!' Maxwell said. 'I knew we could count on you to volunteer for even the most hazardous operation.'
'Yes, sir,' Jack wondered if Maxwell's smile hid sarcasm or if he was being genuine. He never quite knew with the colonel.
The rain had returned in earnest, battering down on the tent and running down the sides to form little puddles that crept insidiously under the canvas. The oil lamps guttered in the draught that rustled the papers and maps on Maxwell's desk.
'Now, Anderson normally sits within the walls of Sebastopol, secure behind a sotnya of his Cossacks. He only emerges when he comes out to kill an allied officer.' Discarding Maxwell's cheroot, Cattley pulled a silver cigar holder out of his pocket, offered the contents to the others within the tent, lit up and blew blue smoke around his head.
'Is that guard safe?' Ruthven nodded to the tent flap. The figure of a sentry could be dimly seen through the now-sodden canvas.
'If by that you are asking if he is a Russian spy, then the answer is no,' Maxwell said. 'He's a good man.'
'He may desert and curry favour,' Ruthven said. 'I'd rather he was elsewhere.'
'That is easily arranged,' Maxwell said. He stood up and sauntered to the flap. 'Get yourself out of the rain, Flannery,' he said. The man did not argue.
'Now; where were we?' Cattley waved his cigar around as if he was conducting an orchestra. 'Oh yes. Anderson. I am not going to order anybody to go inside Sebastopol. Last time we had men in there we nearly lost them all. So we must lure Anderson outside and kill him then.'
Jack noted that Cattley did not use any euphemisms. There was no pretence now.
'How do we do that?' Maxwell passed his brandy around; only Cattley accepted.
'We offer him a tempting target,' Cattley said. 'One that he would never turn down.'
'My name is known in Sebastopol.' Maxwell said at once.
Cattley nodded. 'I was hoping you would volunteer; I don't like ordering officers into danger above and beyond the call of duty.'
'Oh, any old thing,' Maxwell said. 'What would you have me do?'
'Listen and learn, Colonel,' Cattley said. 'As
far as we can judge, Anderson and his Cossacks are going after the more efficient allied officers and leaving the less capable in situ.' He tossed back more brandy, grinned at Ruthven and continued. 'The Russians are fully aware that Raglan is an old woman, Pennefather is all fire and no forethought, Yeo is brave as a dozen lions…' Cattley grunted. 'Well, there is no need for me to say any more.'
Jack thought it diplomatic not to comment on Cattley' opinion of the British senior officers; he kept his mouth closed and avoided everybody's gaze. Very junior officers were like children, best seen and not heard.
'We will offer a tempting bait, the Russians will fall for it, Anderson will march out his Cossacks and you, Windrush and Ruthven, will be there waiting for them. There will be a smart little ambush and Bob's your uncle.'
'It seems that Uncle Bob has a lot to answer for,' Ruthven said dryly. 'No offence to Colonel Maxwell here, but is he a sufficiently tempting target? We would be more sure to draw Anderson out with Sir Colin Campbell, if he was agreeable to acting as cheese in a mousetrap.'
'Ah,' Cattley said, 'therein lies the rub. I thought it best not to mention such things to him. He may not agree to such an un-British style of warfare. Raggles certainly would not approve.' He grinned, 'besides, Sir Colin may be many things, but an actor he is not. If he was aware what we were doing he may conduct himself differently and raise the suspicions of Anderson and his merry men.' He pulled at his cigar and became suddenly more serious. 'Besides that, can you imagine if you fail? Imagine the condition of the Army without Sir Colin? He is the best commander we have, steady, sensible, shrewd; he looks after his men.'
'Maybe so,' Ruthven was obviously not a man to be diverted. 'But that is speculation. Maxwell it is, then. How do you see this proceeding, Mr Cattley?'
'I assume that Anderson is aware which regiments are in the lines; he will know exactly where the 113th are: deserters and spies will give him that information. He will remember you, Colonel. If we let slip that you are taking a picket out beyond the British lines he will be sure to come for you.'
'That will work,' Maxwell said. 'I will take a few men out to see what the Russians are up to and expect an ambush. Where should I patrol?'
Windrush: Blood Price (Jack Windrush Book 3) Page 7
