The Revenge of Colonel Blood

by Mark Jackson

  “Yes.”

  “Well, he can’t have got off. Search again. Properly this time and report back to me.”

  Janni hesitated.

  Laird’s voice was a hiss.

  “Get on with it, man. You, too, Campbell.”

  The door slid closed behind them.

  Laird caressed his cane and took a kerchief out to mop his brow. Keilty dozed. Laird turned to study his own reflection in the glass as the hills flashed past. Keilty’s face was hidden from Laird; one eye opened and the Irishman smiled momentarily.

  Campbell moved down the aisle.

  Janni was moving away through a carriage.

  Campbell pushed open the dining car doors.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  Campbell looked up at the voice. Thomas was apologetic, interrupted as he was resetting the dining tables.

  “The dining car closed half an hour ago, sir. Was there something you were after?”

  Campbell pointed past Thomas.

  “What’s through there?”

  Thomas followed Campbell’s finger with a shrug of the shoulders.

  “Through there, sir? Why just the kitchen and the engine. We wouldn’t get very far without it.”

  Campbell looked unmoved.

  “No one’s been through here?”

  Thomas looked perplexed.

  “I’m looking for a friend,” said Campbell.

  “Well, you won’t find any friends through there, sir.”

  Campbell frowned slightly at Thomas’s undertone.

  Janni stepped over the sacks in the mailroom. The guard looked up, he had drifted off to sleep. Janni was about to speak.

  McDonald stirred, his voice a slur.

  “What you having? I’ll buy yer a drink.”

  Janni looked at the drunken man sprawled on the mail sacks.

  “Pay no attention to ‘im. He’s worse for the drink,” said the guard.

  Janni studied the drunk’s grubby face and turned to the guard.

  “Is this the last carriage?”

  The guard nodded. Janni angrily turned away.

  McDonald started to put the bottle to his lips, but did not take in any liquor, his eyes watchful.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Glasgow Supper

  The tug was riding the waves towards a small island. Drumgoyne rose out of the dark sea. Rugged, unwelcoming cliff faces touched the brooding clouds above it. The cliffs formed a ring around the island, except for a couple of small desolate coves. They fell away to form the harbour shaped almost like a cup cut out of the rock. Kruger had studied the maps and knew every contour. He watched as a couple of Afrikaners were sick over the side. The tug lurched, pushed upwards and sideways by the swelling undercurrents as the boat turned towards Drumgoyne. Kruger watched them grim-faced. Not for the first time, he missed the heat and harshness of his homeland.

  The Northern Scot was stationary in Carlisle Citadel station. Janni climbed down from one of the carriages. He moved along the platform staring in at the train. A few yards behind him, Campbell was doing the same inside the train. Janni looked tense and worried.

  The station guard raised his flag and blew his whistle. Janni looked up and down the platform. The train started to move. He stepped nimbly aboard.

  Outside the first class carriage, Laird was standing with Janni and Campbell.

  Laird’s voice was low and urgent:

  “There’s no need to panic. We can’t stop the train without causing a commotion and THAT we cannot afford.”

  Janni stared at the lord with contempt.

  Laird’s voice bored into Janni.

  “Kruger put you at my command. Any failings will be reported to him. Am I making myself clear?

  “Your man may merely have fallen asleep somewhere. It’s just a couple of hours to Glasgow. Keep looking.”

  Janni remained silent and unhappy.

  Laird marched to his carriage and pulled open the door to find the priest was asleep.

  “Get me a coffee, Campbell, and be quick about it.”

  In Drumgoyne Harbour, the tug was tied up. The crates were being lifted onto the jetty. Kruger stood in the shadows smoking quietly. He looked up at the small row of stone houses along the shore. Sturm was organising the lifting. Commandeered barrows were being used to transport the crates to a horse and cart.

  Kruger moved towards the cart. Two disgruntled islanders, Ritchie and MacLeod, stood watching the work. One of the Boers pointed them in Kruger’s direction.

  Kruger watched their approach, like a waiting cat, assessing their weaknesses.

  Ritchie, the older of the two men, doffed his cap, but his voice was impatient.

  “Will you be long with the cart? It’ll be needed at dusk up the hill.”

  Kruger looked up, meeting his gaze with his scarred face.

  “You’ll get it back when we are finished.”

  Ritchie looked about to speak again.

  “When we’ve finished.”

  The highlanders looked unhappy, but not unhappy enough to challenge the scarred man.

  The Northern Scot was curving into the outskirts of Glasgow.

  Battle was looking at the cityscape as the locomotive began the steady run into Glasgow Central station.

  Along the train, passengers were standing reaching for their luggage.

  Laird watched the station come closer. In the glass, he noticed the priest looking at him. He turned and returned the stare.

  Keilty smiled benignly.

  “A fine day to welcome us to a fair city.”

  Laird continued to study the priest.

  “Good day, Father.”

  The heavily loaded cart edged its way up the narrow road, through the centre of Drumgoyne, Rudi and another Boer on the cart, two more trudging alongside.

  The cart laboured between the grand front gates, waved on by an Afrikaner acting as guard. The cart continued its journey towards the house, where Kruger was waiting for it.

  He signalled and three other men stepped forward to help unload the crate. Rudi jumped down.

  “That’s the last of it. My God, this is some place.”

  Kruger’s dissatisfaction was evident.

  “Where’s Sturm?”

  “Said he’d stay onboard and set the boat ready for the rendezvous.”

  Kruger nodded.

  “The village?”

  Rudi was still looking in awe at the castle.

  “Quiet. I left Pieter and Franze to keep it that way. Alright if I have a look around?”

  “After you’re done sightseeing, check the perimeter guards.” Kruger turned away. He had not come to Scotland to sightsee.

  Glasgow Central station was a picture of controlled mayhem. Campbell was directing some porters to push Laird’s luggage. Laird, in a cape and hat, was waiting for Janni. He was growing impatient.

  Janni stepped down from the train. As he walked along the platform, he passed Thomas, now in civvies climbing down. Thomas watched him.

  Laird tapped his cane impatiently.

  Janni stopped in front of Laird.

  “No sign.”

  Laird’s attention was caught by a commotion at the far end of the platform, towards the rear of the train. Two police constables were talking to the train’s guard. One of the police officers stepped onboard.

  Laird turned back to Janni.

  “I said what now?” Janni’s tone was uneven.

  The police officer was helping a drunk down onto the platform. The drunk was bent over, clutching his stomach.

  “Now we leave.” Laird looked further down the platform.

  Another man approached the constables and their charge. He talked quietly to the officers and reluctantly they nodded. He took the drunk’s arm and led him across the platform. It was the priest.

  Laird frowned slightly. The constables were walking this way.

  Laird turned sharply and marched towards the station exit. Janni kept his anger in check.

&nb
sp; Two pairs of eyes, Thomas’s and Battle’s, watched them go. They made eye contact. Battle hopped down from the engine, pulling on his jacket and followed Laird’s party.

  Thomas turned the other way.

  In the station washroom, McDonald was washing his face. Keilty had removed the dog collar. Thomas entered. From a small suitcase, he pulled a new collar and tie for McDonald.

  “Where have…?”

  Thomas did not let him finish.

  “Tommy’s dealing with it.”

  Thomas turned to Keilty.

  “Where’s the trunk?”

  “On the platform.”

  Thomas nodded.

  McDonald was not satisfied.

  “If Tommy loses them.”

  “He won’t,” said the Welshman, “either they’ve gone directly to the docks or Laird’s planning an overnight stay. My guess is that he’s bolting for his hole.”

  McDonald looked at him before turning to study his reflection.

  “We need a boat, Mac.”

  McDonald sighed.

  “I ken.”

  McDonald straightened up.

  “Time to meet the Clyde-side pirates.”

  Drumgoyne’s Great Hall was stacked with crates. Perched on one of them in a dark recess was Skinstad. He was rhythmically stropping with an ugly curved knife.

  Long, dark, wooden beams met at the apex of the Great Hall’s roof. It was majestic, watched over by the heads of fallen stags spaced along its panelled walls.

  Kruger entered the hall. Kruger looked at Skinstad and the blade. Kruger turned to give some instructions, before turning back to look at the mass of crates. Skinstad had frozen. His eyes followed Kruger.

  Thomas, McDonald and Keilty walked across the station foyer, with the trunk and the Irishman’s case balanced on a barrow. They were met by Battle.

  “The docks,” said Battle, confirming Thomas’s theory.

  Thomas nodded. McDonald scowled slightly.

  Thomas beamed at his colleagues.

  “One small task before we venture forth. I’ll meet you there. Beef for me.”

  The others watched him.

  “What the blinkin’ hell…” Battle was flustered.

  Keilty patted him on the back.

  “Have faith, Tommy.”

  Battle looked at McDonald. The big highlander relaxed and smiled.

  “Aye. I am rather peckish.”

  Battle nodded his agreement.

  In the station café, the four sat sipping mugs of tea, empty supper plates on the table. Condensation coated the café’s windows, forming a damp curtain of privacy for the four men.

  Thomas beamed wryly at them.

  “An army marches on its stomach.”

  “I sleep on mine,” answered Battle, “So what now?”

  Thomas inclined his head to McDonald.

  “It’s your show now, Mac.”

  McDonald’s smile was ruthless.

  Thomas was standing on the quayside on a rise above the moored boats. He was studying a vessel, the Pauline, through small binoculars. She was a small boat, a blend of rust and faded pale blue paint, suited to short-term hauls and coarse weather; toughened to the biting wind and unpredictable currents.

  “Will she do, Mac?”

  McDonald’s face was fierce and ready.

  “Aye, she’ll do very nicely.”

  The Pauline’s skipper, a tough, tattooed man, leaned out of the wheelhouse, wiping his hands with an oily rag. His young deckhand, Archie, was squatting with a cigarette.

  The skipper aimed a kick at him.

  “Who told you to stop? Get me a brew.” Part of Archie’s job was to keep his rough tongued Glaswegian skipper supplied with hot tea – the harsher the better.

  The deckhand began to move, but was distracted.

  A man was walking along the quayside. The skipper followed the crewman’s stare. The stranger gave a slight wave and jumped aboard. The skipper frowned and planted his feet firmly. The deckhand rose to his feet. Something in the gait of the newcomer urged caution.

  The man was McDonald. He stopped four or five feet from the seamen.

  “Morning. Fine looking vessel. Is she for hire?”

  The skipper inclined his head slightly.

  “That depends.”

  McDonald smiled quizzically.

  The skipper gave a crooked smile.

  “On the price, the job and who’s paying.”

  McDonald nodded as if an agreement has been made.

  “That’s fine then, laddie. Prepare to cast off.”

  The skipper tensed.

  “I don’t think you followed me there, Big Man. I’ll be needing more than a few words from some fine speaking teuchter.”

  McDonald smiled again despite the intended insult. ‘Teuchter’ meant country yokel to the Glaswegian, but McDonald was proud to be a highlander. Now, he had the skipper’s measure.

  “Would this be what you’re after?”

  His palm opened revealing the doubloon. Like lightning, he spun it in the air. The skipper reached out to catch it, as McDonald hit him in the chest. McDonald chopped across Archie’s neck and the deckhand went down gurgling. The skipper was struggling to catch his breath, the coin forgotten. He could see two more men climbing aboard with a trunk between them. He turned slightly and became aware of another presence. Through the skipper’s pained vision, Battle stood two feet beyond him.

  Battle shook his head ruefully.

  “Sloppy footwork, Mac. Always use your feet.”

  Battle’s magnified fist crashed in to the skipper. The deck came up to meet the Glaswegian.

  McDonald stepped forward and gracefully picked up the doubloon.

  “We can’t all be artists, Tommy.”

  Keilty and Thomas, struggling with the trunk, heard the exchange.

  “We all know what kind of artist, too, more’s the pity,” laughed Keilty.

  Thomas was slightly breathless.

  “Get them below and this thing.”

  He used his toe against the trunk.

  A carriage carrying Laird, Janni and Campbell passed through the Drumgoyne Estate gates and approached the castle.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Remember Me?”

  The Pauline left her moorings quietly. Keilty moved nimbly to throw the final tie-rope onboard from the quayside and leapt across the gap as the vessel moved off.

  Keilty appeared at the door of the wheelhouse. McDonald was at the helm. Behind him, perched on a shallow benchseat, Thomas was sitting by an open trunk. He fished out an Enfield rifle. Thomas’s eyes moved from the rifle to Keilty and Mac.

  “To work, gentlemen.” Thomas patted the weapon.

  Keilty’s smile was thin and cold.

  The Commissioner was pouring tea from a beautiful china pot. He sighed as he put down the strainer.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Come in!”

  Another knock at the door.

  “COME IN FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE!”

  The door opened and a worried looking Constable poked his head in.

  The constable stood to attention.

  “Derwent, sir. 639D, sir. From the telegram room, sir.”

  The Commissioner stared at him. Derwent swallowed and tried again.

  “This came in, sir. For you, sir. Reads like a puzzle, sir.”

  “Well, read it, man.”

  Derwent stuttered.

  “Jewels and four missing ravens flying north. Glengoyne Estate, Isle of Drumgoyne. RSM EHT.”

  The Commissioner’s tea was upended as he snatched the message.

  He scanned it rapidly, eyes racing over the two sparse lines.

  “You. Get me Inspector Reeves. Tell him to meet me at Euston.”

  Laird strode into the Great Hall. He was transfixed. Kruger, Janni and Campbell trailed him.

  The room was enormous, the walls panelled with dark mahogany. Stags’ heads dominated the panels, staring into the hall, the windows h
igh and curving to form pointed stone arches. Swords, sabres and claymores, and ageing muskets aligned on one wall. The furniture matched the walls: dark, old and heavy. It was a room out of time, with a great fire hearth, a room for feasts to celebrate the bringing down of the stag.

  The only colour was provided by the twisted curtains and the pale faces in the gilt framed pictures that were interspersed with the stags’ heads. The stone floor was overlaid with Afghan rugs.

  Laird spun on his heels. Portraits of his ancestors stared down on him. He pointed to a crate.

  “Campbell.”

  Campbell moved to open it.

  Kruger moved forward slightly.

  “Is that wise?”

  Laird turned, his eyes blazing.

  “Indulge an old man.”

  Kruger stiffened.

  “You still haven’t sufficiently explained what happened to Halle. And what of McDonald?” asked Kruger.

  Laird was dismissive.

  “Sufficiently? My WILL is sufficient. My will has brought us here, Amon Kruger.”

  Laird held up a finger.

  “Halle probably got knifed following a skirt. McDonald? Who is he? A squaddie elevated beyond his station by a small dark twist of fate. My will has brought us here and I will see my treasure. Carry on, Campbell.”

  Laird turned his back on the Afrikaners. Kruger stared at the greying head.

  “Very well, M’lord, but the rendezvous is set for tomorrow morning.”

  But Laird was not listening.

  “Leave me to taste my triumph.”

  The Pauline was approaching the dark outline of the island of Drumgoyne.

  McDonald was manning the helm. Keilty was checking the weapons, while Thomas was at the door surveying the island.

  Battle’s head appeared at floor level at the top of the ladder that led into the hull, at the back of the wheelhouse deck.

  McDonald turned the wheel.

  “We have to approach from the north east. Ged and I will go ashore there and make our way overland. If I’m right, he’ll have stored the jewels at the castle.”

  Battle checked he had heard correctly.

  “Castle? Who said anything about storming a ruddy castle?”

  McDonald was not be deflected.

  “Evan, you and Tommy take the boat around south east and aim to hit the village at 1100 hours. That should give us enough time to get into position.”