The Revenge of Colonel Blood

by Mark Jackson

  Thomas considered the question.

  “No, I rather fancy a trip to the British Library,” he said absently.

  The others looked puzzled as he relit his pipe. Keilty managed a wry smile. He’d known Evan ‘Doubtin’’ Thomas a long time.

  Chapter Four

  The Hunt Begins

  Wapping High Street was a narrow vein of commerce. Cobbled in parts, it was lined with tall warehouses, crammed with goods shipped in from all corners of the globe.

  Battle and Keilty walked with purpose along the busy East End street. Their majestic red embroidered uniforms were gone. Instead, they matched their surroundings. Two dock workers in course jackets and tough working hob-nail boots.

  Ahead of them, they spied two police constables walking in their direction. Battle checked.

  “Peelers straight ahead,” he breathed out of the side of his mouth.

  Keilty stopped him from turning around.

  “How are they going to recognise you? You with no whiskers on, Tommy.”

  Battle ran his hand over his clean shaven jaw as they kept walking.

  “Blinking shoot me. I’d clean forgot,” Battle started to chuckle.

  They passed the two policemen through the crowd, stepping aside as a large crate was lowered from one of the high warehouse windows.

  “Where’s our first port of call?” The Irishman’s question was a whisper.

  Battle now led the way. This was his territory.

  “The Star and Garter, my son. See if our Jack’s still in business,” Battle strode forward. Keilty nodded, his pace more measured.

  McDonald came out from the crowd of the underground station. He blinked to allow his eyes to adjust to the sunlight. He seldom used the underground railway, being closed in reminded him too much of the tunnels and trenches of Flanders. He paused at the memory: sitting in the mud and darkness waiting for a hint of movement across the barren No Man’s Land. Waiting to shoot the helmet off some careless German.

  Mac had also discarded his uniform, but he still had his whiskers. He paused to get his bearings. Behind him a newspaper seller was plying his trade.

  “Bloody Tower closure latest!”

  McDonald frowned, decided on a direction and walked.

  The bar in the Star and Garter was busy, and raucous with rough laughter. Keilty was sitting in an alcove, nursing a tankard. As was his custom, he had half an eye on the door. Keilty had learned early always to have an exit plan. It had kept him alive this long.

  Battle edged his way towards Keilty through the crowded bar.

  “Excuse me, guv. Ta,” he said, as he worked his way back through the crammed pub.

  Battle leaned with his arms on the back of an empty chair, facing his friend. Keilty raised a quizzical eyebrow. Battle shook his head.

  “No joy. Jack’s running a boozer in Bermondsey.”

  Keilty nodded and finished his pint. They were heading south of the river. Battle had other ideas.

  “Here, hold on, asking questions is thirsty work.”

  Battle turned back towards the bar. Keilty moved to protest, but he was too late.

  Battle stepped up to the bar and the barmaid offered him a tired smile.

  “Yes, dear?”

  A well-built man in his twenties, a docker from his garb, moved to block Battle out.

  “Two pints and two gins,” ordered the dockworker.

  Battle’s frown was small.

  “Excuse me, guv.”

  The docker turned slowly. His look was dismissive and quietly threatening.

  “Yes, old timer?”

  The docker’s mates began to take an interest. Confident amused smiles. They had seen this sideshow before. It was part of their regular entertainment.

  Behind Battle, Keilty was rising from his seat. The barmaid looked from the hefty docker to the older and much shorter Battle.

  Battle cocked his head on one side and smiled up at the larger younger man.

  “You ever heard of the expression ‘Age before beauty’? I thought not, ‘cos you’re an ugly mug.”

  The docker’s grin evaporated. He lunged for Battle.

  The old soldier planted his first punch directly on the docker’s nose and his second on his jaw. The docker dropped to the floorboards coughing up blood.

  Battle’s fists were still up. He stared around the bar.

  “What about ‘Looks can be deceiving’? Ever heard that one?” Battle asked, standing over the injured man.

  Even this tough bar was stunned. Keilty reached his friend.

  Keilty hissed at Battle.

  “What are you trying to do?”

  Battle resisted Keilty’s pull just long enough to take a swig of the docker’s pint from the bar and grace the barmaid with a wink.

  Sir Charles Everett’s office overlooked Horseguards’ Parade. A wide sanded expanse used primarily by the Guards’ Regiments for their drill exercises and as the venue for the annual Trooping the Colour ceremony.

  The room was splendid, blessed with tall windows and a high ceiling, dominated by a huge desk. A headmaster’s study without the books.

  Governor Hastings had made the hurried journey here from the Tower. He sat facing Sir Charles across the wide grand wooden desk.

  Outside, guards were rehearsing for Trooping the Colour. The dull crunch of their boots provided the soundtrack to the discussion.

  Sir Charles held up a file. It read ‘THOMAS ALBERT BATTLE’. Beneath it were two further files.

  Sir Charles Everett read from the file in crisp tones.

  “Battle, Thomas Albert, Warrant Officer Class I. Royal London Fusiliers. Combined Services Middleweight boxing champion 1897.”

  Governor Hastings nodded. He looked uncomfortable to be answering questions, cast in the role of an errant schoolboy due to the actions of his men.

  “At three different weights. Later coached the army team. Olympic Gold London, 1908.”

  Sir Charles studied the interruption, before looking at another file.

  He read another excerpt.

  “Keilty, Gerard Patrick John. WOI Irish Guards. My God. The Somme Sniper. More than 1,000 kills.”

  “McDonald was reputed to have been even better,” said Hastings.

  Sir Charles’s exasperation showed.

  “These are unblemished records, exemplary. What could possibly have turned these men into traitors?”

  “Perhaps they are not, Sir.”

  The civil servant regarded the Governor. Hastings met his gaze.

  “Perhaps they are gone to track down the thieves,” Hastings suggestion was a quiet one, almost hopeful.

  Sir Charles was dismissive.

  “I understand your loyalty, General, but these men are involved up to their eyeballs,” Sir Charles tapped one of the files, “this McDonald chap. I think he’s the ringleader.”

  The Governor frowned slightly.

  “Well, he hasn’t been the same since his wife died last year, but I’m …”

  This time, the interruption came from Sir Charles.

  “We’ll find them and when we do, we’ll find the jewels.”

  The files dropped from his hand with a flat thud onto his desk.

  McDonald stopped to check his appearance in the window of a small corner shop then turned to cross the street. He touched his fine whiskers. He did so to avoid a portly police constable sauntering towards him. This was a respected, refined part of London. Unlike Wapping, policemen did not have to patrol in pairs here.

  Keilty and Battle hurried along a gloomy, dank alley. They passed a sign: ‘Hangman’s Lane’. Keilty checked and studied the sign, nodding slightly with grim humour. However, the Irishman did not stop, Keilty was pushing the pace.

  Despite his low voice, Keilty was furious.

  “You jackass. What was that all about? Just because you wanted a pint.”

  Battle tried to stop to explain.

  “Ged. Sorry, Ged. It’s just the worry. The jewels, and everything.”<
br />
  Keilty kept him moving.

  “Worry, my great aunt. We’re going to find Jack and you can save your combinations for when we find us them Boers,” Keilty’s voice was edged.

  Less than a mile away, Neils Skinstad, a tall man with startling cold blue eyes and a shaven head, was standing in an arched double doorway of a warehouse. He looked relaxed yet watchful. He threw away a cigarette and scanned along the street from his vantage point. He was acting as lookout.

  Inside the warehouse, men were working. They were carefully packing crates. The large crates had stamps on them: ‘Fragile Antiques’. Van Sturm was overseeing the men, while Kruger was walking along inspecting the seals on the crates.

  The small hatch door in the arched wooden double doors opened. Kruger swung around. All the men tensed. Skinstad grinned at them from the doorway. Kruger looked annoyed. He and Van Sturm exchanged a glance. The men breathed a collective sigh of relief and started working again.

  Keilty was standing outside the Tea Clipper. Casual and watchful like a man waiting for a friend to join him. A couple passed him to walk into the public house as Battle hurried out.

  “The Three Bells, Rotherhithe.”

  The pair moved on quickly.

  Inside the long narrow bar, a ferret of a barman was polishing glasses at the end nearest the door. The Lucky Sailor, formerly the Three Bells was a narrow, poorly lit bar. Three men were standing at the bar, cupping their drinks. A small card school occupied one corner. Gin rummy was the game of choice. Battle and Keilty pushed the small double door open. All the men noted their arrival. The Lucky Sailor always offered that kind of welcome to strangers, cold and silent.

  McDonald climbed the steps to the door of an imposing townhouse. He studied the small plaque by the polished wooden door. ‘Lord Laird DSO’. Without thinking, Mac’s hand went to his tie.

  A manservant, Campbell, led McDonald along a tiled hallway. MacDonald studied the manservant. Campbell was an imposing, powerfully built sikh. Campbell’s boots were military issue.

  The sikh was a huge man, one of the legendary fighting Frontier Force. Mac recalled that the man he had come to see, Lord Laird, had commanded the sikhs in Afghanistan and later China. MacDonald had met Campbell before. He might polish the silverware these days, but Mac sensed Campbell would be adept with the other uses for a knife.

  The pair entered a tastefully decorated living room.

  Campbell stood to attention.

  “Regimental Sergeant Major McDonald, M’Lord.”

  Lord Magnus Laird was seated at an antique desk. He was a tall, distinguished man, with a bearing accustomed to command. He looked quizzically as McDonald entered. McDonald stopped in the middle of the room.

  Laird acknowledged his visitor.

  “McDonald.”

  “Sir.”

  Laird and Campbell exchanged a glance. Laird gave a subtle hand signal that was not lost on McDonald. Laird rose, as Campbell withdrew.

  Laird stopped at a small table.

  “A dram, McDonald.” It was an order.

  He poured without waiting for a reply.

  “Slainte.”

  “Slainte.”

  Small lights illuminated the secluded reading corners inside the library at the British Museum. Thomas was sitting at a shadowed table. He was still in his red Chelsea Pensioner’s coat. He should have changed out of it before journeying to the library, but his mission was urgent.

  A librarian carried over another volume of papers.

  Thomas nodded his thanks as he turned a page. The headline read “Victory at Ladysmith from Our Correspondent with Roberts’ Army”.

  The siege had lasted more than 100 days. Battle had fought in the dugouts and the gun pits, without clean water and scant food. Thomas gently rubbed his nose. It wasn’t Battle’s kind of fight, but he had survived it. He remembered Battle saying casually, one summer evening as they strolled the Tower courtyard, that to be wounded at Ladysmith was to die. By the time General Buller’s relief force had punched a way through Botha’s surrounding Boer troops, Battle’s twenty-strong platoon had been reduced to two desperate starving men. The relief of Ladysmith had been celebrated as a great victory. Thomas adjusted his spectacles and read on.

  Battle and Keilty were sitting nursing a drink, watching. The Lucky Sailor was filling up. Men determined to wash away the day’s toil.

  “Ask the barman,” Keilty’s voice was low.

  Battle took a sip of his drink.

  “Patience, my son.” Battle sat back to wait. He was in his element.

  Laird and McDonald were sitting opposite each other. Their expressions quiet and intense.

  Laird studied the warder, sitting uncomfortably in his civvies. McDonald had never felt comfortable out of uniform. For his part, Laird was immaculately turned out, Savile Row and Jermyn Street tailors, London’s finest attire.

  “You’re sure, then? He was a Boer.”

  McDonald sat forward and nodded.

  Laird’s gaze was direct.

  “But you were drunk,” he said, raising his hand to forestall McDonald’s objection.

  “We all like a dram, man. I’m not saying you were spliced,” Laird’s tone was reasonable, unhurried. “But consider, you had indulged, he had struck you. Might you not be mistaken?”

  McDonald shook his head.

  “No, sir. He spoke to me first. Before anything else happened, just after I had found the ravens were gone,” McDonald paused, then decided to go on.

  “He was a Boer.”

  Laird considered him.

  Laird’s next question was almost indifferent.

  “Would you recognise him?” he asked.

  McDonald did not need to answer.

  Laird flexed his fingers.

  “I see. Why didn’t you inform Governor Hastings of your suspicions?”

  McDonald nursed his whisky. “I dinna ken.” He looked up. “It’s my responsibility. My duty.”

  Laird studied him a moment. He sighed slightly.

  Laird nodded.

  “Mine, too. What next, McDonald? What’s your strategy?”

  McDonald’s next breath was relief.

  “That’s where we thought you might help,” his face was earnest.

  Laird measured the man before him, for a moment his thoughts were on another day, 25 years earlier, in the Veldt.

  “I’ll do all I can. But I need to know which avenues you’ve exhausted already.”

  McDonald saw the sense in this.

  “Ged and Tommy are scouring the docks. It’s Tommy’s manor. He still has family down there,” McDonald explained.

  Laird nodded. He took a small, thoughtful sip of his drink.

  Chapter Five

  Rooftop Escape

  The Lucky Sailor was getting busier. Battle and Keilty were sitting in the same seats. Keilty got up and moved to the bar.

  He signalled the barman.

  “Two more, if you please,” Keilty placed a coin on the worn polished surface.

  Men at the bar eyed the Irishman. His accent had marked him. He smiled benevolently at them.

  Keilty looked down towards the end of the bar. A man was sitting on a chair beside a small door. Keilty looked at the mirrored wall of the bar and moved his head.

  Battle, watching Keilty’s reflection, followed the movement of Keilty’s head. Battle nodded very slowly.

  Keilty turned with the pints. Battle followed him as they walked down the bar. The barman noticed their direction, put down a glass and moved parallel with them. The young man sitting on the chair sensed their approach and started to rise.

  Keilty’s voice became a thick Irish brogue.

  “Top of the morning to you.”

  The man was standing. Keilty threw the contents of one of the pints into the man’s face. Battle turned the handle of the small door and strode inside.

  Battle barged in. The three men were gathered around a low table, their faces registering shock.

  D
ave, sparse and mean, reacted first. “What?”

  Dave pulled out a cosh. He liked a fight.

  Battle ignored him, stepping forward.

  Jack was scrambling to brush some small jewellery pieces into a black velvet bag. Jack was a stocky man in his early twenties. Dave, thin and agressive, kept moving with the cosh.

  Keilty threw the contents of his second pint into Dave’s face and jabbed him in the guts, deftly removing the cosh as the younger man collapsed.

  Battle stayed poised on his toes.

  “Evening, Jack.”

  Jack stared at Battle. He looked at the wounded Dave, as Alan, a callow teenager, pulled out a knife and faced Battle and Keilty.

  Battle grinned at Jack. He flicked his gaze to Alan.

  “Put it away, son,” Battle’s eyes were back on Jack. “Long time no see, Jack.”

  Jack held up the small black bag.

  “Just small beer compared to you, Uncle Tommy.”

  Battle accepted the compliment.

  “We need to talk, privy like.”

  The barman at the door and Alan looked at Jack for guidance.

  Jack pointed at his minders.

  “Get out!”

  He pointed at Dave, still struggling to sit up on the floor.

  “And take him with you.” Jack turned to his Uncle Tommy Battle and grinned.

  Thomas sat back and took off his small spectacles to rub the bridge of his nose. To an observer, it might have appeared to indicate a certain weariness. In fact, it was a mannerism that showed Thomas had come to a decision.

  The only sounds in the library were the slow breaths of concentration and the turning of pages.

  On a piece of paper next to him, Thomas had written in pencil: ‘Ladysmith’, ‘Reitfontein’ and ‘Johannesburg Commando’. He glanced about him.

  “God forgive this poor sinner,” whispered Thomas.

  Carefully he took out a small knife and cut along the newspaper, coughing to cover the sound.

  He studied the article again and nodded in a tight determined fashion.

  Laird and McDonald were at the front door, as McDonald prepared to take his leave. Laird was giving instructions. He was back in command.