The Queen's Tiger

by Peter Watt

  ‘Yes, sir, I will do that.’

  Charles walked with shaking legs towards the front entrance, where the butler met him. ‘You look ill, Master Charles. Did something happen on your journey here?’

  Charles did not answer, brushing past the old servant in search of the liquor cabinet in the billiard room. Thoughts of his carnal conquest for the night shrivelled in his mind as he found a decanter of whisky, poured himself a stiff drink, and swallowed the liquid in one gulp in an attempt to steady his trembling hands. Someone had tried to kill him! Who would want to do that – besides the imposter posing as his half-brother?

  ‘Sir, the coachman wishes to see you,’ the butler said in a calm voice.

  ‘Send him in.’ Charles waved to the servant as he poured another whisky.

  The coachman entered the room with his cap in one hand, something clasped in the other. He opened his palm to reveal a strange-looking projectile Charles had never seen before. He was very aware of musket balls from his time hunting on the estate, but this was different. Charles rolled the projectile in his hand, feeling its lethal weight.

  ‘It’s a Minié ball,’ the coachman offered. ‘I seen them just before I got out of the army. The lads have been using the Enfield rifled musket for a couple of years now. They tell me it is deadly accurate as the Minié round engages the rifling in the barrel and spins when it comes out.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Charles said irritably, experiencing a shudder of fear as he stared at the misshapen, cone-shaped projectile. He sensed that such a round hitting a man’s body would inflict terrible damage. ‘You say it is only the army that has the Enfield?’

  ‘Yes, sir, as far as I know,’ the coachman replied, twisting his cap in his hand.

  ‘You can go,’ Charles said curtly, angry at his own fear.

  Could it be that Samuel’s imposter was back in England? As far as Charles knew he was still in India. Who else would wish him dead? It could not be Samuel because the last report was that he was on a ship bound for the Australian colonies. Besides, the Samuel he knew did not have it in him to carry out such an act.

  That night Charles slept alone, trembling at how close he had come to being killed and still mystified as to who would want him dead. He was at a complete loss for an answer and knew that he would once again need the services of Mr Charles Field, private investigator. Charles knew it would not pay to involve the police. He had far too much to hide.

  *

  It was spring when Samuel Forbes arrived in the southern hemisphere.

  The lumbering cargo steamer slipped into an industrial dock in Sydney Harbour amongst the tall masts of graceful clipper ships. It was a balmy morning of fluffy white clouds and blue skies.

  Samuel stood beside James at the railing of the ship, taking in this blossoming city. ‘We are finally home,’ he sighed, despite the acrid stench of a nearby tannery.

  ‘For a short time,’ James said. ‘It is even risky for us to visit Sir George at Wallaroo farm, you know.’

  ‘I doubt that Charles’ reach stretches this far,’ Samuel said. ‘After I visit my father to pay my respects, we can depart for New York.’

  James nodded his head, not entirely reassured. He was aware that fast clipper ships spanned the distance between England and the Australian colonies, and even as they steamed across the Indian Ocean they had watched from time to time those graceful ships pass them by. What if Charles had been so determined to bring down Samuel that he had sent someone from England to find him? After all, the destination of the English registered freighter would have been discovered in Wales by anyone who was interested – and Charles had proved himself interested indeed.

  The gangplank was lowered and the customs officers waited at their tables for anyone coming ashore. Samuel and James had little trouble passing through customs as they now produced their real passports, and the name of Forbes was well known to the officials working the docks because of the large amounts of wool Sir George Forbes exported to the English mills.

  ‘Welcome home, Mr Forbes,’ said one of the customs officers, signing off on his passport.

  ‘Thank you,’ Samuel replied and thought about what ‘home’ meant. Living in America did not truly feel like home. Samuel was English and he actually felt more at home in this English colony, despite its lack of European culture. But Sydney Town was taking on many commonalties with London, with its grand sandstone buildings rising into the sky. It now had theatres, public libraries and cafes, although it still had none of the genteel sophistication they had left behind in London.

  The two travellers passed from the docks into the bustling streets of Sydney where they found stables and hired a horse and buggy to take them to James’ vacant cottage at the fringes of the city. He had purchased the cottage on a previous visit to discreetly entertain his small circle of select friends, and this had led to it being a special place for he and Samuel. There they spent the night, and in the morning set out to travel west to the estate of Sir George Forbes.

  Back in Sydney, a customs officer met with a lean, tough-looking man with a knife scar marring his face. Their meeting took place in a public house in the notorious Rocks area overlooking the busy harbour.

  ‘They came through yesterday,’ the customs officer said in the smoke-filled bar. ‘They used their real names and passports.’

  The man slipped a note from the wad he carried and passed it to the customs man.

  The wait had been worth it, and somewhere far away a client of Mr Charles Field was prepared to pay a lot of money to expose the identity of Samuel Forbes. The man had once been a police constable of dubious reputation. The brutal murder of a young prostitute might have been linked to him had he remained in England, so he had fled to the Australian colonies. Field had discovered his plan to leave before he set foot on the passenger ship and made him promise to remain in contact should Field ever need a favour on the other side of the world.

  The man in his early forties now went under the name of Harold Salt, working odd jobs around Sydney for those involved in petty crime. The letter that had arrived on the clipper ship weeks earlier promised a rich reward for carrying out a small task for one of Mr Field’s clients. It was an easy job with little risk. Salt even knew from the information in the letter where he was most likely to locate Mr Samuel Forbes. He would in all probability visit his uncle, Sir George Forbes, at the estate of Wallaroo west of Sydney. The job was as good as done.

  *

  After the securing of Cawnpore once again, Ian attended the briefing by Major General James Outram for the relief of the besieged British garrison in Lucknow. The small garrison had turned a compound into a fortress within the fortress walls of the Indian city and had come under many attacks over the months of the rebellion. Yet against almost overwhelming odds they still held out. The besieged force consisted of British military as well as civilian men, women and children and was on the verge of defeat according to the reports smuggled out.

  Although overall command for the relief was granted to General Outram, General Havelock would accompany the column on the march towards Lucknow. The relieving force was to be divided into two brigades, and Ian’s regiment would be at the vanguard of the advance.

  Inside his tent Ian prepared orders for his company. The sun was going down but the ever-present heat caused him to sweat beneath his jacket. He paused in his writing to gaze at the vast rain-sodden plains of spindly scrub. How many battles had they fought? They all seemed to blur when he tried to remember. Names meant very little now as they simply continued the endless advance. Ian continually put himself at the forefront of any attack and sheer luck had kept him relatively unscathed, but he knew luck was a fickle thing, and he wondered if he would ever return to England. Since Ella’s letter he was not sure he even wanted to return.

  ‘Sir, permission to enter?’

  Ian glanced up to see Conan.

 
‘What is it, Sarn’t Major?’ Ian asked wearily.

  ‘I was able to purloin some medicine for you,’ Conan grinned. ‘I have noticed lately that you have not been your cheery old self.’ He produced a small bottle of rum.

  ‘You know I have never been cheery, Conan, but the rum is the best medicine I can think of right now,’ Ian replied with a wan smile.

  Conan pulled up an empty ammunition case, sat down and took the top off the bottle, passing it to Ian.

  ‘To us surviving Lucknow,’ Ian said, raising the bottle as a toast then swallowing a large mouthful. It felt good and he passed it back to Conan, who silently raised the bottle in response.

  ‘I have a request,’ Conan said. ‘Private Williams wishes to re-join the company.’

  ‘Do you think he is fit to do so?’ Ian asked.

  ‘I think it would do him good to be back with the lads. Company runner does not suit one of our best marksmen,’ Conan said.

  ‘You have my approval then,’ Ian said.

  The two men finished the bottle between them, chatting as friends rather than soldiers, and never imagining that Conan’s decision had played into the madness of Private Williams.

  *

  Even as Conan and Ian sat in the tent sharing the rum, Owen finished cleaning his rifle as the voices continued to nag him. He could not decide whether they were angels or demons come to him. They reminded him over and over that Conan Curry and Ian Steele were evil and had to be killed. Owen told the voices he knew that, and had returned to the company so he would be in a position to shoot them during the next battle. In the confusion of an engagement with the enemy, no one would know from whence came the bullets.

  Owen lifted his Enfield to his shoulder and gazed down the sights at the company commander’s tent. He could see through the flap the two men sitting together, sharing a bottle and conspiring to kill him. This was not the time, he told the voices.

  But the time was coming, he reassured them.

  Thirty-three

  Ian Steele passed his telescope to Conan.

  ‘There it is,’ he said as Conan observed the walled city of Lucknow.

  The British forces were about to commence their assault. They were six British and one Sikh battalion with three artillery batteries, but only one hundred and sixty-eight volunteer cavalry. From general to private soldier, all knew they were still vastly outnumbered by the mutineers inside the city walls. They were also surrounded by fields of water as a result of the heavy rains, and this severely restricted the use of the small force of British cavalry.

  Behind Ian stood his company of riflemen, waiting patiently for the order to advance along a road that would funnel them into long columns. That would make them vulnerable to enemy artillery fire before they even reached a walled park only four miles south of the besieged British force within the walls. However, in their haste to return to the defences of Lucknow the mutineers had failed to destroy bridges, and the order came down to advance. This time Ian’s regiment was not at the vanguard of the initial assault, and he was grateful for that fact as he had a terrible dread this battle had a lot in common with the one he had known attacking the Redan in the Crimea.

  They reached the walled garden known as Alambagh without any serious resistance, and the captured area provided a good base to leave their baggage train. It was also an opportunity for senior commanders to plan their next move, which did not look promising because of the water-logged fields surrounding the city. The only firm ground led them to a bridge crossing the Charbagh canal.

  For the assault, volunteers were called for to organise what was known as a forlorn hope to storm the bridge and open the way into the city. The terrible title echoed those from the Napoleonic wars when volunteers were promised promotion and rewards if they succeeded. In fact, it was a suicide mission and the men who stepped forward knew this.

  Ian did not volunteer. Nor did he encourage men from his company. But volunteers stepped forward from other regiments in the desperate hope that they would live to reap the rewards.

  The attack went in at company strength, and the volunteer force succeeded in seizing the bridge at a cost of nine out of ten men killed or wounded. Those watching the courageous soldiers storming the bridge stood in silent horror as the enemy cut down the forlorn hope. The bridge was slippery with blood as litter bearers desperately sought out any wounded and the remaining British force advanced under heavy enemy fire.

  *

  Private Owen Williams heard the voices in his head screaming at him to kill as he advanced with the company across the blood-soaked bridge, his rifle with bayonet fixed. He was just behind Conan and Ian and he knew this would prove the best opportunity as they entered the confusion of fighting. No one would notice a couple of bullets from his Enfield strike down the company commander and the CSM. It was now or never.

  *

  As usual Ian carried his two pistols, Enfield rifle and sword. The rifle was slung on his back and he held his sword and revolver ready for use in the close confines of the alleys they now found themselves in. The musket fire pouring into their close-packed ranks from rooftops was murderous, and Ian screamed encouragement to his men with orders to clear the windows and rooftops. The accuracy of the Enfield proved itself when the better marksmen in the company were able to stand off, shooting at any puffs of smoke betraying a fired musket. As soon as the musketeers rose to reload they were killed by the lethal Minié bullets.

  Ian hardly felt any fear. He had resigned himself to dying today and only cared that he killed as many of the enemy as he could before he died. He was aware that Conan was always at his elbow with his Enfield; firing, reloading and firing again. Conan did not even have to think about these steps as the weapon was now a part of him.

  The air was thick with gun smoke, and the noise of men fighting and dying filled the air. All Ian knew was how thirsty he was but he could not take his focus even for a split second from their advance down the alley, which was bordered by two-storeyed mudbrick houses.

  Five Indian mutineers suddenly rose from behind an overturned oxcart when they turned a corner. Ian was in front of his men and directly in the path of any fire. It was impossible for the Indian rebels to miss at twenty paces. Ian froze, waiting for the lead ball that would kill or maim him, but he felt himself crashing into the hard-packed earth instead and realised that someone had tackled him. The volley smashed into two soldiers behind him, and when he rolled over he saw Conan’s blackened face. ‘Sorry, sir,’ Conan said, scrambling to his feet as the enemy musketeers lowered themselves behind their barricade to reload for the next volley.

  But they were too slow, and Ian’s men scrambled over the upturned cart and drive their bayonets into the small party of defenders. Ian and Conan were just behind their men and pushed past the barricade to advance into another alleyway. Ian was aware that he was leaving a trail of his dead and wounded behind him, as the remainder of the company continued to fight for every house and street. All around them in other streets and alleys the other regiments were doing the same and suffering the same heavy losses incurred in street fighting against a determined enemy that vastly outnumbered them. Time seemed to stand still for Ian, although he was aware that he was still alive, and so too was Conan.

  A volley of musket fire erupted from a two-storeyed building to their left, spattering earth and hitting Ian’s men. Ian could see that the fire had come from the rooftop and immediately launched himself through a doorway, followed by Conan and Owen trailing behind. Revolver in one hand and sword in the other, Ian glanced around the darkened room to see a sepoy raising his musket, and fired three shots into him. The sepoy fell without discharging his weapon. Then Ian saw the narrow stairway leading to the next level and cautiously began to ascend, every nerve in his body straining to sense what lay ahead. He could see that the next level was as dark as the lower one, but before his eyes could adjust, a shot hit him and flu
ng him face down on the steps. His sword clattered off the stairs, falling below. From the source of the pain Ian was aware that he had been hit just under the armpit.

  ‘Owen, you fool, you’ve shot Captain Forbes!’ Conan’s voice yelled from the bottom of the stairs.

  Ian felt for the wound and realised with relief that the bullet had ripped through the flesh under his left arm and exited cleanly. Then the pain came and Ian struggled to regain his feet just as a figure with an axe appeared above him. The second shot came from Conan’s rifle and the enemy soldier pitched forward, falling heavily into the room below.

  Conan scrambled up the steps to Ian’s side, helping him to his feet.

  ‘We have to clear the rooftop,’ Ian gasped as the pain swamped him.

  The two surged forward to the second level of the house where they encountered two more of the enemy. Conan leapt ahead of Ian with his rifle, bayoneting one of the men attempting to rush at them with his own bayonet-tipped musket. The two men met and the sepoy’s bayonet caught Conan a glancing slash along his side. Ignoring his wound, Conan’s bayonet pierced the Indian in the chest, and Conan twisted his bayonet savagely, ensuring maximum internal damage. The Indian soldier screamed in pain as Conan used all his strength to extract the long pointed blade. Ian had already emptied his revolver into the second enemy, and the two British soldiers panted with the sudden surge of adrenaline. They were both wounded but still alive. Ian and Conan knew the task was not finished as above them they could see an opening in the ceiling, with a ladder leading to the roof. Private Owen Williams was not to be seen as they prepared to carry out clearing the roof of enemy musketeers.

  Conan glanced at Ian. ‘Are you all right, sir?’ he asked, seeing the dark stain of blood spreading around Ian’s wound at the front of the red jacket.

  ‘Let’s get this job done,’ Ian said through gritted teeth. He still had the use of his left arm, although it hurt to move it. There was not time to reload, and Ian slipped the Enfield off his back where it had been slung. It was loaded and primed to fire.