by Mark Jackson
The couple looked around for their son. The father motioned for him to hurry.
“Come along now, Harry, stop loitering.”
The boy stopped a few feet in front of the guardsman. He cocked his fingers as though he had a gun and fired. The guardsman blinked. The boy turned sharply. McDonald watched him. The boy wilted and hurried after his parents. McDonald was still watching. Other tourists passed under the arch. McDonald watched the boy join his parents. McDonald nodded to the other warders and the guardsman and turned away from the heavy gate as it was slowly pushed closed to the world.
McDonald gently held a raven, examining its wing. He soothed the black bird.
“Nothing broken, lass. Just a wee knock. You’ll be right as rain.”
McDonald carefully put the bird back into the large black cage. The ravens were powerfully built members of the crow family. Everything about them was black.
He released the bird. It stepped away from him and glared back. McDonald laughed softly, a rough warm sound that echoed slightly around the courtyard. He pulled out a set of old long keys and locked the cage. The bird cried out at him.
“I’ll call in on you later, lass.”
He stepped away and pulled out a pipe. He knocked it out on the cage. Resting his tobacco box on the wall, he filled his pipe. McDonald looked up at the fortifications surrounding him. Beyond them was another castle wall. The River Thames protected the Tower’s southside, a deep trench and further stone work, the ancient Keep’s north face.
A rich yeoman’s uniform was being brushed with extreme care. Battle examined a minor loose thread closely. A warder’s red and gold dress uniform dated from Tudor times as did their ceremonial weapon, a long pike.
“Ruddy perfectionist,” Keilty’s voice came from the armchair.
Battle made a meal of his inspection.
“That’s what comes of your bog regiments – no standards,” reproved the Londoner.
Keilty was sprawled smoking, one arm behind his head. He laughed.
“A poet. The man’s a poet. Miracles will never cease, a Londoner who can speak English,” more laughter.
Battle turned away from his chore. Battle’s voice was now that of a parade ground Drill Sergeant.
“Warrant Officer Gerard John Keilty, you are a disgrace to the Irish Guards. How you ever crawled out from the country to grace the Regiment with your infernal chatterings is a mystery…”
Battle broke down laughing. Keilty was wiping the tears from his eyes.
“Aye… Curbishley, to a tee… he could march forever…”
“As long as it was away from the action!” joined in Battle.
McDonald watched as his two colleagues, Henry and Fisher, both hefty bearded men, put the barrier across the gate. He stepped out of the archway.
“See you in the Social, Mac?” Henry inclined his head.
McDonald considered the notion.
“Duty first, but you might.”
Henry laughed.
“I’ll put one on the bar for you.”
“Make mine a whisky,” the voice tinged with well-worn mirth.
He watched them walk away.
“The water of life. Slainte,” Mac sighed to himself. In the Highlands of Scotland, Slainte was the traditional toast given to visitors over a whisky. It was Mac’s toast to life.
McDonald looked at the guardsman and nodded. The young soldier straightened his spine.
In the rounded snug of the warders’ bar, Battle and Keilty were sitting with Henry. A couple of other tables were also occupied. The warders each sat with small pewter tankards in front of them. Henry cast a quizzical eye at the other two.
“How did old Doubtin’ manage it? To go straight from here and become a Chelsea Pensioner.”
Battle tipped back his small tankard.
“He just went in there and demanded it. Said it was his God given right as a servant of the Empire.”
Keilty shook his head.
“Servant, my Great Aunt Mary. Thomas is a snob,” said the lean Irishman.
It was Battle’s turn to shake his head.
“But you’ve got to admire his gumption. He’s in the Royal Hospital now, living it up in Chelsea, my son,” Battle tapped the table to make his point.
“From one red coat to another,” there was an ironic burr to Keilty’s voice. Evan ‘Doubtin’’ Thomas was their friend, a former yeoman warder who, being older than them had fought as a Redcoat, serving in the British Army before its decision to issue soldiers with a more practical shade of jacket: khaki. Thomas was very proud of the fact and as a Chelsea Pensioner, he could remain in his favourite colour. He had a habit of quoting the Bible when he was in the mood, and he was always in the mood. So, being a Thomas, he had been dubbed ‘Doubtin’’, by Battle, in honour of the disciple, and the name had stuck.
Battle stood up, startling those around him.
“Here’s to the old codger and his retirement,” he announced with pomp.
Keilty and Henry exchanged a quick glance.
“Retirement, my…” said Keilty, raising his drink.
McDonald paused at the door to the Social Club. Men’s deep laughter came from inside the door. He hesitated, looking back at the gate and the guardsman standing by it. He turned into the small arched door of the Social Club.
A small boat, a Thames’ workhorse, with her name, Jessie, roughly painted over, slowly cast off from a deserted jetty. The Thames split London and the small tugs dominated the river lugging cargo up and down and across it, moving goods freshly transported in from the colonies: gold from Africa, tea from the Far East, silk from India. British goods went in the opposite direction: Manchester flannel, tools and equipment. The Thames was London’s super highway.
Only now, at the darkest hour of night, was it still. Except for the lone tug.
The quayside warehouse looked run down and abandoned.
A figure, all in black, loosened the mooring rope and jumped aboard. In the distance stood the hangman’s outline of Tower Bridge.
Inside the dimly lit wheelhouse, blackening was being smeared onto hands and run over faces and hair. The hair changed from blond to black. Another man pulled on a Balaclava.
A darkened pair of hands slowly sharpened a cruel curved knife, stropping it until the blade was like a razor.
The warders’ snug room was now warm and busy. Keilty, Henry, Battle and Mac were still drinking at a small table. The pewter tankards now joined by stubby glasses. Battle indicated to the man behind the bar.
“Harry, four more when you’re ready. No hurry.”
The others laughed. Mac started to rise.
“Ought to take a turn about,” Mac cocked his head towards the oak door.
Battle was having none of it.
“Give us a song, Mac. Liven the place up a bit!”
Mac looked as if he might refuse.
Henry lent his support to Battle’s request.
“Go on, Mac, one from home.”
A chorus of approval joined Henry’s request. Mac’s reluctance faded, as he stood up and moved over to stand near the bar.
Mac turned to Harry the barman and issued a challenge.
“A whisky first, man!”
Grinning, Harry poured and Mac downed it to more cheers. Keilty moved to the piano in the corner. Mac stood near him. Keilty ran his fingers over the ivories.
Mac nodded to him and steadied himself. A singer’s breath.
Mac’s rich voice filled the warders’ small, warm snug. Not only could he hold a tune, as a singer, Mac could tell a story.
The others began to join in on the chorus of Bonnie Bonnie Scotland. Mac’s songs were the ones he had grown up with in the far north of the Scottish Highlands. He had left Scotland as a boy, to become a soldier and a man.
The others had learned his songs over time. They belted out the chorus, a choir of starkly different accents and abilities.
The small tug approached Tower Bridge. One of the painted m
en studied the twin towers of the bridge through small binoculars. It was a magnificent structure. Built more than 30 years ago, it remained an architectural wonder. At the time, its design was revolutionary, a combination of a bascule and suspension bridge that could allow tall vessels to pass along the Thames, by raising like a double-sided draw bridge.
Inside Tower Bridge gatehouse, Walters and Smedly, a pair of pale-faced gatekeepers, were playing cards. Enamelled tin mugs of coffee sat in front of them. Walters reached into his jacket, which was hanging on the back of his chair. He pulled out a small bottle of rum. He poured a measure into his hot drink. His companion frowned. Walters offered some to him. The other shook his head, a warning gesture.
“You’ll be for it if Mason’s making his rounds tonight,” Smedly told Walters.
The other man shrugged and added more rum for good measure.
Two men, dressed like dockers, in long coats and caps, approached the watchman’s gatehouse from the end of the bridge. Their steps hardly carried in the gloom.
The guardsman was still standing in his pillar box. He stifled a yawn and adjusted his stance.
Light spilled from the Social Club and the high-spirited Scottish singing in there.
The ravens were restless. Ruffled feathers gleamed, even in the dark.
The two men dressed as dockers stopped at the gatehouse. They checked along the bridge. One edged to the small window to look inside.
The card game was still going on. The rum was now on the table between Walters and Smedly.
The two men inched closer to the door. One continued to scan up and down the bridge. The other crouched down level with the door handle. Silently, he turned it.
A thin strangely marked pipe emerged through the small gap between the door and its frame. Walters laid down his cards.
“Rummy. You’re beat,” Walters gloated.
He died a winner.
A blowing sound was met by a look of surprise on Walters’s face. His hand reached to his neck. A small coloured feather protruded from it. Walters was stunned, his eyes widening. Smedly looked at him and turned to the door. He started to rise as a dart stung his neck.
The bridge was opening. The boat passed beneath Tower Bridge.
The warders’ club was emptying.
Mac eyed the bar as the others pulled on their jackets.
“Stay and have another,” he said, glass held high.
The others shook their heads.
“Have to be up with the larks in the morn, Mac,” Henry shook his head.
Mac looked across at the barman, who was clearing glasses.
“Leave the keys with me, Harry. I’ll lock up,” Mac’s eyes were earnest.
Harry considered him for a second. He shook his head. Keilty and Battle exchanged a glance.
“Duty calls, Mac,” Keilty’s voice was soft.
Mac looked at his glass, sighed and nodded.
Outside, the ravens were getting edgy. Their cries echoed around the dark courtyard.
The Social Club door opened and Battle, Keilty and Henry stepped out.
“Night, Mac,” Battle turned to Henry and Keilty laughing, “He’s a right old soak.”
Henry walked on: “Night, chaps.”
Battle raised his hand in farewell.
Keilty stopped. He was listening to the ravens. He looked vaguely uneasy. Battle broke the spell.
“Mac’s on the mend,” said Battle believing this.
Keilty did not.
“It’s only been a few months, Tommy.”
Battle was defensive.
“I’m just saying.”
Keilty nodded.
Battle paused, looking out over the Tower.
“Strange, Doubtin’ not being here.” Battle thrust his hands in his pockets.
Keilty turned back to his friend, patting him on the shoulder affectionately.
“Pious puritanical old meddler. God bless all Methodists, heathens one and all!”
Battle’s good humour was restored.
Battle walked on whistling Greensleeves. High on the battlements a crow was watching the courtyard.
Water lapped against the side of the tug. The brooding ramparts of the Tower of London rose above it.
Chapter Two
The Raid
The guardsman stifled a yawn. He was three hours into his watch. It was going to be a long night.
Hooks, wrapped in rough cloth, came over the wall, muffling the sound as they took purchase.
Mac was standing by the ravens’ cage. A slight wind tugged at his hair. Since his wife’s death, sleep had been elusive. It had become his habit, checking on the ravens, before retiring to bed.
A crow took off from the battlements.
“Arck! Arck!”
The ravens in the cages became more frantic. Mac looked down from the soaring crow. Kruger grinned at him, the ridge of his scar still visible even under the black war paint.
Mac was struck from behind, sent pitching forward in the dark, his head striking the stone step.
Kruger was carrying a short spear. He stepped forward and stared at the caged birds with contempt.
“Aas (carrion),” Kruger flicked his spear towards the birds.
The ravens went wild. Kruger’s smile was cruel. He turned and signalled to his men.
Shadows hugged the walls. They moved purposefully.
At the Traitor’s Gate, the young guardsman lay prone, a dart in his neck.
Battle was asleep. He stirred. The ravens were screaming. He rose unsteadily.
“Not like ‘em to be making a rumpus. I hope Mac’s not singing to ‘em again.”
The shadows were working on a door. The ancient lock was resisting. The plaque beside it read ‘The Jewel House’. A few feet away two guardsmen lay inert. Kruger stood poised, watching for the door to be breached.
Looking up at the White Tower, Battle swayed in the fresh air. He pulled on his coat as he moved towards the screaming birds.
Mac’s pipe broke under Battle’s feet. The ravens were going crazy. Battle bent down and touched Mac’s tunic. Blood. Mac stirred.
From the wall a raven cried and swooped down. Battle followed its flight. Near the entrance to Traitor’s Gate, figures were hauling up heavy black duffle sacs.
McDonald rose slowly.
“Blinking shoot me,” breathed Battle.
“Get help, Tommy.” Mac’s voice was hoarse.
Battle nodded and quickly ran down the stone steps. Mac was left swaying. He spun around. Skinstad, a lean shavenheaded man, faced him with a stabbing spear. His entire skull blackened.
“You’re a dead man, Engelsman,” grinned Skinstad.
Skinstad jabbed the spear. Mac stumbled backwards. The blade missed him by an inch. Skinstad’s teeth caught the moonlight.
On the ramparts, the shadowed men were pulling up the ropes. Sacks were being tied to ropes and hauled over the wall down to Traitor’s Gate. Overseeing the operation was Otto Sturm, a huge, brawny bull-necked man. A hefty cudgel, a two-foot long rod of hard black wood, rested casually in his hand.
Battle came tearing down the stone steps and stopped short. He and Sturm froze, staring at each other.
Battle nodded slowly and raised his fists. He stepped forward. Sturm did not move. Battle threw a punch. Sturm’s cudgel hit the side of Battle’s head. Tommy Battle collapsed like a felled tree. Sturm prodded him with his cudgel.
Skinstad’s spear snaked forward, finding its mark. Mac clutched his right arm. Mac edged back.
On the ramparts, a man began to pull up the last rope. His comrade stopped him. They could see Skinstad and Mac were facing each other, as Mac dodged backwards.
Kruger watched the combat.
“Finish him!” he hissed.
Skinstad glanced over his shoulder and nodded. Sweat poured down his face. The paint was stained.
Skinstad grinned again and struck.
McDonald stumbled, caught by the blow.
“Aaarh!”
>
McDonald fell away, plummeting over the wall, down an eight-foot drop. Skinstad stood clasping his spear. He hesitated.
Kruger’s voice was louder, more urgent.
“Now! Come on!”
Skinstad looked down at the unconscious McDonald and made his decision. He turned and ran for the rope.
Governor Hastings looked out of the window into the courtyard, his morning ruined. Probably, his career too. He held a cane behind his back, a lean grey haired man with the weathered face from a lifetime of soldiering overseas.
Traditionally, the Governor of the Tower of London was also a military man. General Hastings was cut from that cloth, serving in numerous campaigns: Sudan, India and Africa.
Battle and McDonald marched in. A pair of invalids: Battle with his head bandaged, McDonald with his arm in a sling and a gash on his cheek. Battle saluted. McDonald was unable to because of the sling and failed to hide his embarrassment.
The Governor ignored them. Even these experienced old soldiers felt uncomfortable with the silence.
When Hastings finally spoke, his voice was quiet, almost reflective.
“The ravens gone, eight guards killed and the Nation’s greatest treasure vanished,” the Governor’s fingers ran over the cane as he talked, but his words were still directed at the window.
“The Crown Jewels have gone, stolen from under our noses. Your noses! Posing a threat to the monarchy, the sovereign power of the Empire. As if there wasn’t enough unrest.”
The duo stared straight ahead. The Governor turned round and fixed his eyes on them.
His tone was almost sad.
“Two of my most respected warders.
“Battle, you were with me at Ladysmith. McDonald of the Gordons.”
The Governor nodded to himself, his anger rising.
His voice sharpened. Now he was facing them, icy sea eyes.
“How are your hangovers this morning, gentlemen? A bit sore, McDonald? Too blind drunk to see where you were going? Walking into someone’s blade?”