by Mark Jackson
THE REVENGE OF
COLONEL BLOOD
A Four Ravens Adventure
MARK JACKSON
Copyright © 2013 Mark Jackson
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
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Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
For Ozzie and Matthew.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Epilogue
LONDON, ENGLAND, 1930
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Mac’s Enfield
Prologue
Ladysmith, South Africa, 1899
The Veldt seemed endless. Rock and bare earth punctuated by few stunted shrubs bent over against the heat.
Two young Gordon Highlanders were squatting in a shallow dugout.
One of the soldiers shifted his position to avoid the onset of cramp. His movements were minimal, to save his energy in the relentless sun. He patted his rifle, shifting it to match his new position. Etched on the butt of his Lee-Enfield were three letters ‘Mac’.
Sergeant John ‘Mac’ McDonald and Lance Corporal Alistair Robertson crouched with burnt, dusty faces, stained khaki jackets and matted kilts.
Their regiment was more than 100 years old and had fought across the world in the Peninsular War, with Wellington at Waterloo and, more recently, in Afghanistan and Egypt. McDonald and Robertson had both seen action in the inhospitable Afghan mountain ranges.
The angry African sun burned down on them. Dry, hot, sapping. It drained the energy from their bodies. The only answer was to stay still and conserve their strength. They had picked their position well, overlooking a wide expanse that rose to a distant ridge.
The friends had joined up within months of each other, taking the Queen’s Shilling to serve and see the world.
The British Empire spanned the globe, stretching from London, through Africa, Asia to Australia. British soldiers, drawn from England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales, manned outposts in far-flung islands and deserts. These men had signed up to fight for Queen Victoria, taken her shilling to leave their native land and serve all over the world.
McDonald was the taller of the two, raw boned, shoulders built to carry heavy loads. Robertson the stockier, his smile marred by missing teeth.
McDonald looked up at the birds circling above a ridge they were studying across the shallow valley. He took a precious swig from his canteen. He shook it gently. Still more than half full. That was good. Although he wanted to drink more, he had to take it sparingly. To run out would mean a slow death under the merciless sun. He screwed the cap back on the canteen, an uneasy feeling between his shoulder blades. His eyes fixed on the horizon.
They had been there since daybreak, assigned remote guard duty, scouts for the brigade.
Suddenly, a horseman appeared over the ridge. The rider, a gaunt figure, reined the horse back and looked over his shoulder. His torn ragged uniform was that of a British soldier. His demeanour determined, his face desperate. He wheeled the horse around and urged it forward.
McDonald shifted his position and pulled his field binoculars to his eyes.
Tight on the horseman’s tail were two more riders.
Through the binoculars, the two riders looked to be closing on the desperate horseman. The hunters were Boers, South Africans, who were at war with the British. They spoke Afrikaans, a language similar to Dutch, as many had originated in Holland. They had moved to the southern tip of Africa, the great continent, to make a new life. They were a tough breed, excellent horsemen and deadly marksmen.
McDonald laid the spyglass down with deliberate care.
“Faster, man,” muttered the young soldier, as he fixed on the chasing Boer riders.
The Boers closed on the exhausted rider. The leading Boer drew level with the doomed British soldier.
“Damn,” McDonald’s breath was quick.
The leading Boer horseman reached across to take the reins of his prey’s horse. A wild grin on his face as he clasped the leather straps.
A crack echoed across the low scrub. A crimson mark spoiled the Boer’s buff jacket. The Boer’s face twisted as the retort of a rifle faded across the Veldt.
The Boer, open-eyed, hit the ground.
McDonald eased the trigger of his Lee-Enfield rifle and the second Boer horseman fell.
The British officer checked and looked across towards the two highlanders.
“Over here, sir. Hurry!” Robertson urged the rider. Robertson stood, waving his arms, as McDonald kept his rifle trained on the ridge.
The officer raised an arm and spurred his horse towards the two Gordon Highlanders.
The haunted strained face of Major Magnus Laird stared down at the two Gordons.
“Eh? Who are you with?” demanded the Major in crisp Scottish tones.
The two foot soldiers hastily saluted.
“Sergeant McDonald. Lance Corporal Robertson of the Gordons, sir.”
The Gordon Highlanders were also known as the 92nd Regiment of Foot.
“Point for the brigade, sir,” McDonald barked out the reply, eyes straight ahead. Robertson cast an eye at the ridge.
“An entire brigade? I must speak with your CO,” the young officer was obviously relieved, gracing the pair with a swift salute.
McDonald and Robertson watched as Major Laird spurred his horse away. Robertson gave his Sergeant a nudge:
“Reckon he owes you one, Mac. There’ll be tin in it for you.” Robertson used the army slang for a medal.
“One of Scotland’s finest, Robbo. Major Magnus Laird. My father kent him,” said Mac, falling back into their Scots tongue.
Robertson was distracted.
“NO!” The corporal was already snatching up his rifle.
Boer horsemen were streaming over the far ridge, waves of khaki bearing down on them. McDonald strained his eyes in the fading light.
“Now, we’re cooked,” he said, as he checked his weapon.
A shot rang out. Robertson crumpled. McDonald raised his rifle and fired back. He bent down, but Robertson was dead.
“Here, McDonald. Hurry man,” Laird’s voice was used to command.
McDonald swung around. Laird was reaching down for him. The officer hauled Mc
Donald on to the back of his saddle and kicked his mount forward.
McDonald looked back as the Boers overran Robertson’s sprawled body.
A parade was drawn up in the dawn chill. Any later in the day and standing for so long would have become unbearable. People think of Africa as a hot continent, but at night the temperature can plummet dramatically.
McDonald stepped forward as the piper struck up a slow lament. Overhead, the Union Jack and the Gordon’s Regimental Colours, marking the battles the Gordon Highlanders had fought in, were barely catching the weak arid breeze. They hung limp.
A senior officer and his adjutant took a step forward and Colonel Fraser, a rotund, florid man with a heavy gait, lifted a medal out of the box offered by the junior officer.
He pinned it to McDonald’s chest. McDonald looked across the camp. Major Laird was standing across the compound in front of a row of weathered tents. Laird moved his cane to his peak in recognition of the man who saved his life, before he had returned the favour. McDonald looked down as the ribbon was pinned to his chest. The Colonel placed a sympathetic hand on McDonald’s shoulder.
“Pity about Robertson. Good man.”
McDonald nodded, the image of Robbo’s toothy smile replaced in his memory by his friend’s body lying face down in the dust as Laird’s horse bore him to safety.
“Yes, sir. They came on us quickly, sir.”
“Quite. Right on Laird’s tail,” muttered the officer.
They saluted each other.
Major Laird watched McDonald intensely. McDonald stared straight ahead, the medal and ribbon bright on his breast.
LONDON, ENGLAND, 1925
Chapter 1
The Tower
The last, long rays of the day bathed the Tower of London in a natural gold wash.
McDonald followed his shadow across the stone flagged courtyard heading towards the Jewel Tower.
He passed the majestic centrepiece, the White Tower, a medieval skyscraper built by William the Conqueror, which had dominated the Thames’s skyline since 1078.
The Tower had grown since then, housing through the centuries the royal mint, an armoury and the Crown Jewels.
Dusk was always the best time to see them, to appreciate the jewels’ magnificence. McDonald did not consider their value, not in money. Their worth was in their beauty and, he had to acknowledge, what the treasures symbolised – the power and might of the British Empire.
McDonald paused to enjoy the evening glow. His walk to the Jewel Tower was a short one. Each step was to be savoured. The ravens were still out, chattering and arguing. It was their nature. He smiled, he would attend to them later. One duty at a time. As Ravenmaster, they were his special responsibility.
The promotion to Ravenmaster had delighted him. He felt a strange bond with the ferocious, daring birds, who strutted around the Tower as if they owned it. In a way, they did. Ravens had been at the Tower since William the Conqueror had overseen its initial construction.
The fortress, its armoury and treasure trove had grown over the centuries since 1078, as kings and queens had built additional towers, walls and moats. The Ravens had been here throughout.
Their presence was considered vital. The legend was that should the ravens ever forsake the Tower, it would fall. While they stayed, the Tower would remain.
McDonald did not think of himself as a superstitious man, yet he did not question the myth. It was part of the Tower’s history, weaved into its very fabric and he took his role seriously.
He weighed the heavy bunch of keys in his hand.
John Cameron McDonald was tall and rugged, a bearded man with a glint in his eye.
The last group of tourists was being ushered out of the Jewel Tower. One figure lingered. His black-gloved hands turned a walking cane with a silver wolf ’s head at its crown. He leaned in closer, his breath clouding the glass. The Crown Jewels sat inches away on the other side of the pane.
A glittering array: cushioned on velvet, encased in glass, surrounded by stone walls that had shielded them for centuries.
They were worth a king’s ransom, collected, gifted or stolen over the centuries. Amassed in the greatest collection of priceless treasures in the world. A symbol of the fading Empire, its majesty and glory, that underpinned Britain and its monarchy.
The figure, in a long black frock coat, breathed deeply, as his eyes devoured the linked gems.
McDonald paused as the ravens rose screeching, their cries echoing around the ancient fortress.
McDonald tensed and looked upwards at the birds circling in the eerie dusk.
The sound of different birds, the carrion of another continent came to him.
McDonald could smell it; he was back in the Veldt. McDonald looked down. His hand had involuntarily gone to his row of medals. He fingered the one he received that day. The day his friend Robertson died in the dust outside Ladysmith. Now the ribbon was simply one of many he had earned since then. He took a deep breath, remembering he had another duty to perform.
The sunset had deepened. A yeoman warder and a guardsman pulled closed the heavy oaken doors. Another warder stood watching as the Jewel House was closed for the night.
Hands tucked behind his back, he too was holding a bunch of ancient, long heavy keys. McDonald nodded to his fellow warders and turned towards the ravens’ cage, sitting in the shadow of the Wakefield Tower.
McDonald’s voice was gentle, coaxing:
“Come on, your highness. Don’t be a prude,” his tone was that of an indulgent grandfather.
McDonald made a tutting noise. He held up a thin wafer. An offering.
“Come on, your majesty. Show a little decorum,” gently reproving.
The dark, gleaming, ruthless eye of a raven stared back at him.
The next day, the Tower was open for business. Early morning arrivals wandered through the main gate. McDonald was addressing a party of tourists in the courtyard. The schoolchildren were standing almost to attention in front of the towering yeoman warder.
As well as helping to guard the Tower of London, the warders also served as guides, giving talks and tours.
There was a rhythm to McDonald’s storytelling:
“The Tower has had its fair share of colourful characters over the centuries. Now, I’m going to tell you the tale of a true rogue. The only man to ever succeed in stealing the Crown Jewels, Colonel Blood,” McDonald lowered his voice as he uttered the name.
Like many of his fellow warders, McDonald had a soft spot for Colonel Blood. It was one of his favourite tales from the Tower’s colourful, and at times, bloody, history. Thomas Blood was a daring Irishman, who along with his gang, had tried to steal the Crown Jewels in 1671. Bizarrely, his punishment had been a pardon from King Charles II and royal favour.
McDonald cleared his throat for effect.
“Colonel Blood,” he started again, his eyes raking the faces of his young audience.
One of the young schoolchildren mouthed the name in awe.
In another part of London, a Hackney carriage drew up outside the Natural History Museum on Cromwell Road. Running parallel to it was Exhibition Road, which was also home to the Science Museum and the Victoria and Albert Museum. But the fare had been quite clear, the Natural History Museum and he had requested the main entrance.
The carriage door opened and a gentleman’s cane emerged. The owner followed, dark sharp trousers and shiny polished shoes. He straightened his cuffs with precision.
The gentleman walked up the wide stone steps with a brisk strong walk, the cane swinging with authority.
At the entrance to the magnificent building, a doorman doffed his hat to the visitor.
The gentleman strode down the high majestic hall towards the dinosaur room.
The cane made a sharp clicking noise on the marble floor. A group of schoolchildren were clustered around an exhibit: a huge skeleton. One of the children looked around at the tapping noise. An attendant busy polishing a brass plaque looked up. Sli
ght recognition washed over his features, before he hurriedly looked away.
The gentleman paused in front of a huge dinosaur skeleton. He was wearing smart leather gloves. He pulled them off and stood with his hands behind his back, his cane horizontal. Its crest was a silver wolf ’s head.
He altered his posture and the cane was placed between his shiny toecaps. Another pair of feet moved to stand beside him. The skeleton’s plaque was solid brass, ‘Tyrannosaurus Rex’ carved into it.
“God save your king.” The voice was edged, a rough Afrikaner growl. The voice of a Boer, a white African.
Dutch settlers had made the Cape, the southernmost tip of Africa, their own. The arrival of the British had forced them inland to the Transvaal and led to two bitter wars.
The voice belonged to Kruger, a good-looking athletic man in his prime. Kruger was dressed simply, nothing to mark him out apart from his face. Kruger bore a long ugly scar that ran down his tanned features.
“At your service,” the tanned man inclined his head in mock deference.
Strong hands polished a pair of sturdy black army boots. Yeoman Warder Tommy Battle was concentrating on his task. A robust, good-humoured Londoner with long sideburns, he whistled as he worked. The tune Greensleeves was reputed to have been written by King Henry VIII.
Battle’s warder’s coat was hanging behind him. The only colour in a simple room. It was a soldier’s billet.
Ged Keilty, a trim, thin-faced, dark-haired Irishman, was lounging in an armchair, reading a newspaper.
Battle moved on to trimming his whiskers. Absorbed in the detail of his task, he was meticulous.
Battle was eyeing the mirror. He had no need to puff his chest out. Tommy Battle could have had a tank named after him. His battered nose marked him out as a fist-fighter.
“You’re an ‘ansome devil,” he said to the image.
Keilty looked up momentarily and shook his head ruefully.
Tourists were leaving the Tower. A young couple walked past a guardsman standing in his pillar box. A pair of yeoman warders were gently and courteously ushering people out. Standing, half hidden in an arched doorway, was McDonald. From the shadows, he watched the couple walk past.