The Devil's Assassin (Jack Lark)

by Paul Fraser Collard

  Ballard paused and fixed his gaze on Jack, reassuring himself that his unwilling student was paying attention. ‘Now, until very recently, all has been well. Herat was ruled by a fellow called Sa’id Mahommed. He did not like us very much and he was most certainly firmly in the pocket of the Shah of Persia, but we were quite content with the situation so long as the Shah lived up to the terms of an agreement we got him to sign back in ’37 that forbade him from interfering in the city’s affairs.’

  ‘You said Herat was ruled by him. What has happened?’ Jack was pleased that he had spotted the way Ballard had phrased his description of the ruler of Herat.

  ‘So you are paying attention. That is something to your credit, at least.’ Ballard did not seem in the least bit impressed. ‘Well, unfortunately for poor Sa’id, one of the local princes, Mahommed Yusef Sadozai, did not take kindly to him being on the throne and bumped him off. Now our friend the Shah was not best pleased by this. He is no fool. He fully understands the importance of Herat. Indeed, he has long laid claim to the city, maintaining that it should fall under the power of his domain. He last made overtures to take it back in ’52, but we managed to persuade him that his best interests lay elsewhere and we succeeded in maintaining its independence. You see, we have long cultivated our relationship with the Persians. For years we made ourselves friends of the Shah: we used to supply his army and we even sent in our officers to train his men. But over the last thirty years the ungrateful wretch has turned to the Russians for support. We know that they are forever whispering in his ear, and it seems he can no longer resist their call for him to take the city by force, especially as he has been led to understand that our commitments in the Crimea have somehow led us to take our eye off our affairs here in India.’

  Jack had heard nothing of all this, but then he had been concerned with little other than keeping Knightly out of trouble for the past few weeks, so it was not altogether surprising. ‘What has he done?’

  ‘The Shah has used this revolt as an excuse to send a force to take the city.’ Ballard’s face was grave. ‘According to our latest reports, he has the place besieged, but I shouldn’t wonder if he has managed to take it by now. He claims he is merely acting to restore order. Of course, what he means to do is to take the city for himself and annex it. We simply cannot allow that to happen. In a matter of days, we will declare war on the Persians. We have no chance of being able to reach Herat itself – it is too far inland – but we can mount a punitive attack that will make the Shah sit up and realise that if he dares to flout our will, there will be a high price to pay. We already have plans to put together a force to launch an attack. We face two choices of route. One by land, the other by sea. I have argued long and hard against going by land. That would mean taking a direct route through the North-West Frontier, and, as I am sure you are aware, the last time we tried that, we were given a bloody nose for our pains. Therefore, as I see it, the preferable option is to strike at the Shah from the sea. The Indian navy is already planning an amphibious operation. We shall hit hard and quickly and force the Shah to seek terms. That should put an end to his nonsense and give those damn Russians a thing or two to think about. I am to join the campaign and be attached to General Stalker’s command, where I shall run the intelligence department.’ Ballard sat back in his chair, as if tired of the long lecture. He smiled at Jack. ‘I want you to come with me.’

  ‘I’m to be your bodyguard?’ Jack was oddly disappointed.

  Ballard shook his head, showing the first sign of animation since he had lifted Jack from the street. ‘No. I have Palmer for that.’

  ‘I presume he is the pleasant, chatty fellow I met?’

  ‘Indeed. Although he also carries out other, more sensitive tasks as required.’

  ‘Like abduction.’

  Ballard grinned. ‘Yes, like abduction. Murder too, if I order it.’ The smile was gone.

  Jack was beginning to understand the lie of the land. ‘So what am I to do if it is not to murder innocent officers on furlough?’

  ‘You are hardly the innocent, Jack. You have committed enough crimes to be hanged half a dozen times over.’

  ‘Perhaps. If I really am Jack Lark, of course.’

  ‘I think we both know that is the case. As I said before, I have no desire to hold you to account for any previous misdemeanours. I will provide you with a new identity, one that will actually stand up to more than a passing scrutiny this time.’

  Jack felt the barbed comment keenly. Lieutenant Fenris was the third identity he had taken. Ballard knew something of the second. Jack felt an odd satisfaction that he knew nothing of the first. He would be the first to admit that his current guise was far from perfect, yet to hear his exploits casually demeaned offended him.

  ‘I will also provide you with a new uniform,’ Ballard continued, his voice betraying no emotion as he played his final ace. ‘It can replace the blue lancer’s coatee you appear to have in your possession.’

  Jack felt Ballard’s grip tighten around his future. The blue cavalryman’s uniform belonged to the commander of the Maharajah of Sawadh’s lancers, a rank and position that Jack had once held. Ballard’s enforcer was clearly able to add burglary to his list of talents. They must have taken his knapsack from Knightly’s rooms before they lifted him from the street. Ballard knew everything.

  ‘How do I know I can trust you?’ Jack asked the question despite being pretty certain that he already knew the answer.

  Ballard snorted. ‘Of course you cannot trust me. I have no idea why you would think you can.’

  ‘Then why should I agree?’

  ‘Because otherwise I don’t think you have long left in the role of Lieutenant Fenris.’ Ballard placed the threat on the table without a visible qualm.

  ‘So, do as I am told or die?’ Jack sat back in his chair.

  ‘I’m glad you see the picture, Jack. It shows I am quite correct in choosing you for this role.’

  ‘So then . . .’ Jack plucked an imaginary piece of fluff from the cuff of his jacket. ‘Now that that is out of the way, let’s return to my earlier question. What am I to do for you?’

  Ballard nodded slowly as he understood that he had secured Jack’s agreement. ‘I hate spies. I have my own, of course. I guard them closer than I would my children. But I simply cannot stand the thought of the enemy infiltrating men into our camp. A well-placed spy can endanger the success of an entire campaign, and I simply will not allow that to happen. I need an officer I can rely on to protect us from that threat. That will be your role, Jack. I want you to be my spy hunter.’

  Jack felt the stirring of anticipation deep in his belly. ‘And what do I do if I find any?’

  ‘Why, you kill them. You will be my assassin.’

  Jack stood in front of the mirror in the suite of rooms he had been assigned. He turned to one side, inspecting the new uniform that had just been delivered by Ballard’s own tailor. It fitted him well, just as an officer’s uniform should. On his collar he wore the crown and star of a captain; Ballard had been as good as his word and had provided him with a new rank to go with the new uniform. He had even returned the casket Jack had stolen from the Hotel Splendid. Jack’s haul was a profitable one, and he had been able to lodge a good sum of money with one of the many agents who catered to the financial needs of the British officers arriving in Bombay. Quite whether he would live long enough to collect on his deposit was something he preferred not to dwell on.

  As he looked in the mirror, he saw an officer wearing the uniform of the 15th Hussars smiling back at him. The 15th possessed one of the longest regimental names in the entire army. The 15th (The King’s) Regiment of Light Dragoons (Hussars) was an awkward title, the legacy of their conversion from light dragoons to hussars some fifty years before. As hussars, they had won renown in the wars against Napoleon, before earning a different kind of notoriety for th
eir role in the events in Manchester that the newspapers had cruelly dubbed ‘Peterloo’, a day in the regiment’s history that it would rather forget.

  The 15th were Major Ballard’s own unit. He had told Jack that he had remained behind when the regiment had quit India three years previously, leaving the Madras Presidency for a more sedate life in Manchester. Like many officers, Ballard had chosen to forgo a regimental posting in the dull safety of the English countryside, preferring to try his hand on the staff, where the prospects of advancement were much better. The army encouraged such postings, especially for officers like Ballard who had served long enough in their regiments to need to broaden their horizons as well as improve their prospects. It provided a corps of senior officers to fill the myriad roles required to administer the army’s forces. Ballard now served with the Bombay Presidency, and his appointment as head of the intelligence department showed that he had chosen well. He was clearly going places, his current post merely a milestone on his route to the higher ranks.

  A hussar captain was a suitable identity for Jack to adopt, and with no other officers from the regiment left in the country, it was unlikely that anyone would be able to denounce him as an impostor. With Ballard to vouch for him, Jack could feel safe, for the time being at least. What would happen when he no longer featured in the major’s plans was anyone’s guess, but he had learnt to avoid looking too far into the future. It had a habit of changing.

  He wondered what Sarah Draper would make of his new appearance. As much as tried to forget her, he found himself thinking of her often. She had shocked him, and in some ways her wanton behaviour had offended him. But no matter his somewhat prudish values, he knew he would not hesitate to leap back into her bed if that was what she desired. He could no more shake off his infatuation than he could discard his talwar.

  His fabulous sword hung at his side, attached to the black patent leather sword belt that he wore underneath his jacket. It was not the dragoon sabre that regulations demanded, but he refused to be parted from it. The dolman jacket fitted like a glove, the dark navy cloth cut to hug Jack’s figure so tightly that it constricted his breathing. It would take time to come to terms with the snug fit, as it would to become used to the lines of heavy gold chain lace that decorated the front of the uniform coat and the fancy pouch belt that ran over his left shoulder and underneath his right armpit. Jack had never been a British cavalry officer before. He would have to adjust to his new gaudy uniform just as he would have to shelve his deep-seated infantryman’s distrust of the cavalry.

  The rest of the uniform was almost as tight as the dolman. The dark blue trousers, with the wide gold stripe running down the seam, clung to his legs, and he cautiously turned and looked at their fit over his backside. He was not pleased with what he saw, and not for the first time he cursed his weeks of inactivity.

  However, he could not be wholly dissatisfied with his new uniform, and he began to understand why the cavalry officers took such pride in their appearance. He lifted his chin and turned his face from side to side. Perhaps he would grow a pair of the mutton-chop whiskers that were all the rage among the debonair young men who served in the cavalry. It would at least give him something to do.

  The last weeks had passed with painful slowness. He had spent the days doing little. Ballard had handed over thick wads of documents detailing the current situation between the British and the Persians, and Jack had done his best to plough through the turgid texts, the dusty, dry language of officialdom testing his imperfect reading skill to its limits. What he discovered came as no surprise. Once upon a time he had supposed that highly able and competent fellows conducted the affairs of state, just as he had assumed that effective generals led the army. His opinion of the army’s senior ranks had been shattered by his experience in the Crimea. Everything he read of the political affairs of the British government in India confirmed that it was no more fortunate in its own senior staff. As he read the long-winded reports, he was left wondering quite how his country had ever managed to carve out an empire, let alone hang on to it for so long.

  Much of what he had read concerned the Honourable Mr James Murray, the British ambassador to Persia, and his ill-conceived affair with the wife of the Persian First Secretary. To put an end to the damaging scandal, the Shah had imprisoned the unfortunate lady concerned before demanding an apology from Queen Victoria herself for the actions of her representative. The affair spoke volumes for the strained relations between the two countries, a tension that had culminated in the British government declaring war a matter of days after the Shah had ordered the independent city of Herat to be placed under siege.

  For all its tiresome and tedious nature, Jack relished his new role. To have been given a purpose filled him with a feeling of anticipation. He had drifted for too long, and it felt good to once again be part of the army, if only in the guise of a counterfeit captain. When the time came for the campaign to start in earnest, he was determined to seize the opportunity he had been given. He had become the Devil’s assassin, and he could not have been happier.

  Hallila Bay, 7 December 1856

  The sun was high in the sky, but the water was cold. It lapped up to Jack’s shoulders, soaking the gold braid on the front of his hussar’s dolman so that he was dragged forward. Had it been any deeper, it would likely have pulled him under.

  ‘Don’t let that get wet, Mr Fenris.’

  Jack forced his arms straight, holding the heavy portmanteau as high above his head as his aching arms would allow. Palmer laboured along behind him, grunting with the effort of carrying a pair of small leather trunks, one balanced on each of his broad shoulders. A heavy splash further back told Jack that his new commanding officer had followed his small staff into the surf.

  The landings had been going on for several hours before the three men of the army’s intelligence department had been called forward to clamber down the thick rope net and into the small pinnacle that would ferry them closer to the shore. They would be leaving the comforts of the steam frigate Feroze behind, swapping their comfortable berths for the wild open countryside of Persia. At least that was how Ballard had described it to Jack the previous evening as they contemplated their departure. Jack had done his best not to snort in derision. They would be serving on the staff. The only hardships they were likely to endure were the heat and the insects. They would not be expected to fight, nor would they be forced to sleep on the ground without the protection of a tent. Staff officers lived cheek by jowl with the men who would do the fighting, but their conditions were a thousand leagues above the hardship they expected the common redcoats to tolerate without murmur.

  The British troops were coming ashore at Hallila Bay, around twelve miles south of the town of Bushire, one of the early objectives of the campaign. One full division had been dispatched with the task of enforcing Great Britain’s will. Command of the expeditionary force had fallen to Major General Foster Stalker, an officer who had enjoyed a satisfactory, if not spectacular, career in the East India Company’s army, most recently commanding the 2nd Bombay European Regiment. At his disposal he had five battalions of infantry, two squadrons of cavalry, two batteries of field artillery, one of horse artillery and two companies of the Bombay Sappers and Miners. Drawn from the troops around Bombay, the small army was already a close-knit group, with many of the officers well known to one another.

  Their orders were simple: teach the Shah that to flout British influence was to court disaster.

  Jack lifted his head and looked ashore. The air above the beach seemed to shimmer, the haze created by the heat blurring his view. The promise of the warmth to come sustained him as he struggled towards the sand, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he lumbered through the cold water. Despite the haze, he could see enough to understand that the division was disembarking in a calm and ordered fashion, with none of the chaos he had expected. The British landings in the Crimea had been a near disaster, the
army thrown into the campaign in a display of utter mismanagement. It was clear that the Indian navy would not tolerate such standards on their watch.

  As he stumbled through the surf, Jack could see the ranks of red-coated soldiers marching away from the landing area, heading towards their assigned bivouacs inland. Gunboats hovered in the bay, prowling backwards and forwards as they protected the exposed troops. The sailors had already been called into action. Some three to four hundred enemy troops had been waiting to contest the British landing, formed up in a grove of date trees around two hundred yards to the left of the beach. From their position they would have been able to pour a withering fire down on the heads of the first men coming ashore. Such resistance would have made the landings a bloody affair. The soldiers would have had to wade in from the small boats that brought them from the transports, enduring the enemy fire without being able to fight back until they were fully ashore. The casualties would have been horrendous.

  Fortunately, the keen eyes of the young officers on the gunboats had spotted the Persian force. It had not taken long for them to engage the enemy, and their bombardment had scattered the waiting troops, killing dozens in the process. Jack had watched the attack from the comfort of the Feroze. At the time, he had applauded the calm demonstration of skill by the naval officers, a welcome spectacle for the soldiers waiting to go ashore. Now he was no more than one hundred yards from the target of the barrage, and he felt the shame of having joined in the celebratory cheers as other men had been dying and suffering on the receiving end of the cannon fire.