The Devil's Assassin (Jack Lark)

by Paul Fraser Collard

  Palmer heaved in a final lungful of air before lumbering off again. Ballard turned his attention to a white-faced Ensign Fitzwilliam, who was surrounded by a crowd of jabbering servants.

  ‘You. Come with me.’ Ballard summoned the young officer to his side before striding after his bodyguard.

  Fitzwilliam did what he was told. He had no idea what role he would have to play in the drama unfolding around him. He wanted no part of it, but the look on the hussar major’s face had left no doubt in his mind that he had to do as he was told. He did not understand what was happening but he could sense the violence in the air. He jogged to keep up with the major, his heart hammering in his chest. He had anticipated the first time he would see battle, his imagination conjuring a dozen scenes of brave redcoats routing a stubborn enemy. He had never supposed that his first fight would come in the very heart of the British encampment.

  Jack’s lungs rasped as he struggled for breath. It had been a long night already, and he could hear his own tortured gasps echoing in his ears as he raced along.

  The fleeting shape of the fleeing Persian teacher was still ahead. The detritus of the British camp flashed by as Jack’s boots pounded into the hard-baked ground. He blundered through the areas between the tents, careless of knocking into stands of rifles, the clatter of the falling weaponry barely registering in his mind.

  ‘What the fuck!’

  He crashed past a redcoat staggering back from the latrines, the shouted oath left to linger in the quiet of the camp as he raced onwards, never once taking his eyes from the figure ahead. He could feel the muscles in his thighs beginning to burn. His breath scorched as he forced it into his straining lungs. He would have cursed against the pain, but it was all he could do to maintain his pace.

  Then the Persian teacher turned.

  Jack saw the flash of a knife, the blade reflecting the light of the nearest campfire. His boots scrabbled for purchase on the dusty soil and he slewed to a halt no more than half a dozen paces away from the man he had been chasing. They were close to the edge of the camp’s lines, in an open area free of tents where the nearest battalion would form up when they stood to with the dawn. It gave the Persian room to manoeuvre. Space to fight.

  ‘Put it down.’ Jack’s voice rasped in his throat. He would have dearly loved to bend double and suck in a revitalising lungful of air, relieving the pain in his abused body, but he could sense the sudden change in mood and his hand moved instinctively to hover over the hilt of his talwar.

  The Persian said nothing. Jack saw the man’s tongue flicker nervously over his lips, his eyes roving around, looking for a way to escape. He was in the midst of a British army encampment. There were sentries to all sides; Outram had issued orders that the camp should be well protected at all times, no matter that the enemy army was supposed to be some fifty miles distant. There was no escape for the munshi.

  ‘There’s nowhere to run to.’ Jack spoke more clearly as his breathing started to return to a more normal level. ‘Come with me. You won’t be hurt.’

  The Persian spat on the ground. He did not reply. He did not need to. His face revealed exactly what he thought of Jack’s offer.

  ‘Don’t be a fool.’ Jack felt the first prick of anger. ‘Do as you are fucking told and drop the knife.’ He had never been good at diplomacy.

  The Persian looked around once more before dropping into a crouch, the knife held low in his right hand.

  ‘You stupid bastard.’ Jack’s left hand slipped to his side. In one practised movement he pulled his revolver from its holster, bringing it up smoothly so that it pointed at the Persian’s heart.

  He saw the flicker of disappointment on the man’s face. The munshi straightened up and let the knife fall from his hand.

  ‘Sensible fellow.’ Jack felt the stirrings of anger sliding away. ‘Step over here.’

  The man didn’t move. His eyes flickered nervously over Jack’s shoulder.

  ‘What is going on here?’

  The voice had the clipped, urbane tones of an educated man. It was a voice Jack recognised.

  ‘Stay away, Mr Montfort, if you please.’ Jack kept his eyes on the man he had been sent to capture. Carefully he switched his revolver to his right hand and took up the tension on the trigger.

  ‘I am not some bloody ranker, you cur. You cannot order me around.’

  Jack heard the slur in the voice. Montfort was still drunk, the after effects of the navy’s hospitality forcing him back to the latrines and into Jack’s path for a second time that night.

  ‘Stay out of it.’ Jack snapped the words. He could not afford to take his eyes off the Persian teacher. Already the man had stopped moving forward, and Jack could see the calculation on his face. He was not alone in sensing the change in the situation.

  ‘I will not.’ The words were delivered with arrogance. ‘And put the damn gun away. I can vouch for this man. He is teaching me Persian.’

  ‘That’s not all he’s been up to.’ Jack took a step forward, closing on the munshi. He wanted to subdue the man. He had a notion that the barrel of a five-shot revolver pressed into his spine would encourage obedience.

  ‘Damn your eyes,’ Montfort howled as Jack ignored him, like a child beginning a tiresome tantrum. ‘Stop, I tell you.’

  Jack sensed the approaching disaster. A hand clasped his shoulder, the fingers clawing into the flesh underneath the dolman, and he felt himself spun round on the spot. He caught a glimpse of the petulant face beneath the crop of wild blond hair, and as he raised his arm to knock the interfering young man away, his eyes momentarily left the Persian.

  It was the opening the man needed. He snatched the knife from the sandy soil and threw himself forward, thrusting the blade at Jack, aiming to drive the long blade deep into his heart.

  Jack saw the blow coming out of the corner of his eye. He twisted on the spot, slicing his right hand across his body in a desperate attempt to batter the knife away with his revolver. He caught the blade with the gun’s barrel, deflecting the sharpened steel to one side. But the impact knocked the weapon from his hand and the revolver went flying.

  The Persian was on him in a flash. The blade whispered through the air, slashing at his face. He tried to twist out of the way but the tip of the knife sliced across his cheek. He felt a searing flash of pain as the blade scored through the soft flesh under his eye, the blood hot on his skin. With a roar of agony, he threw himself backwards, careless of colliding with Montfort, thinking of nothing save getting out of the blade’s path. He hit Montfort hard and the two men went down, their bodies slamming into the ground with a bone-jarring impact.

  There was little time to recover. Jack punched down hard, slamming his fist into Montfort’s face before crushing the young man’s body underneath him as he levered himself back to his feet. He staggered to one side, twisting fast as the Persian lunged again. The blade cut through the air, missing him by a hair’s breadth. He spun round as he found his footing and battered his fist forward, slamming it against the Persian’s head. His knuckles screamed in pain at the impact but he ignored it and threw himself at the enemy spy, catching hold of the man’s wrist and tugging with all his strength, pulling the blade round and bringing the Persian’s face in front of his own.

  He didn’t hesitate. He smashed his forehead forward, slamming it into the centre of the Persian’s face. He felt the crunch as the man’s nose broke, the stickiness of blood splattering across his skin.

  As his vision greyed, Jack felt the Persian’s body slump. He pushed forward, keeping the man’s right wrist in a tight grip. The munshi fell backwards and Jack went with him. The two men scrabbled on the ground, writhing and punching, both hurt but both still fighting. Jack’s head rang as his foe caught him with a blow. It felt like it had been split in two and he could feel the blood running freely from the wound to his face, but he hamm
ered it forward again regardless, into the ruin of the Persian’s own bloodied face. He yelled as the impact drove red-hot needles of pain through his skull. Yet his hands were trapped and he had no other weapon, so he smashed it forward again, pulping the remains of the spy’s nose.

  He felt the body underneath him go limp. He tensed, waiting for the fight to continue. But his enemy’s hands fell away and the Persian teacher slumped unconscious to the ground. Jack had beaten him into oblivion. He staggered to his feet, snatching away the blade that had come so close to killing him.

  Blood smothered his face and he wiped it away with the sleeve of his hussar’s dolman, turning the dark blue fabric black. He spat out a wad of phlegm and fixed Simon Montfort with an intense glare, feeling the weight of the knife in his right hand. Montfort still lay prostrate, blood trickling from one nostril, a legacy of the punch Jack had thrown as he leapt from the spy’s blade. The red was bright against the pale flesh.

  ‘You fucking idiot.’ Jack spat the words out. His head throbbed, the pounding echoing round his skull. And it was all Montfort’s fault.

  ‘Fenris!’

  Jack heard his name being called, but still he hefted the knife. He looked into Montfort’s eyes and saw fear.

  The sound of a revolver being cocked was very loud in the quiet after the fight. Jack turned and saw Palmer staggering towards him, the maw of a gun’s barrel aimed directly at his head.

  ‘Put the poker down, mate.’ Palmer’s voice rasped as he spoke, the strain of chasing Jack showing in his flushed and florid face. But the barrel of the gun was rock steady in the man’s huge paw.

  Jack looked into Palmer’s eyes. He saw no sense of comradeship, no bond of shared experience. He saw only the flat stare of a man used to death. He spat once before he tossed the knife to one side.

  ‘Good choice.’ Palmer used his free hand to wipe the sweat from his eyes. ‘You don’t half move fast. You fair nearly killed me.’

  Jack was in no mood to be chummy with a man aiming a gun at his head. He heard movement behind him and turned to see Montfort pushing himself to his feet. If he was relieved to have been saved, it did not show. He stared at Jack, the hatred naked on his face, then turned and scurried from the scene without a word, pushing his way through the crowd of onlookers and disappearing from sight. Jack stared at his back, aware that the business between them was unfinished. Then he heard the voice of his commanding officer, and sighed.

  ‘You damned fool!’ Ballard walked out of the darkness and stared at Jack, his eyes boring into his subordinate.

  Jack was not easily cowed. He pointed to the body of the man he had beaten into submission. ‘There’s your spy.’

  Ballard glowered at Jack before finally walking forward to inspect his victim. ‘The poor bastard, did you have to do that to him?’ He used the toe of his boot to poke the body lying spread-eagled on the ground. The slightest groan came from the slack mouth. ‘At least you didn’t kill him.’

  Jack snorted and then cursed at the pain it caused in his head. He looked into the crowd and saw Ensign Fitzwilliam staring at him as if he were a monster from a child’s nightmare. He smiled. He could feel the blood oozing from the thin knife wound on his cheek. ‘We couldn’t leave him, sir. He had to be stopped.’

  ‘You did well, Captain Fenris.’ Ballard spoke loudly, letting the onlookers hear the praise, then walked forward and clapped Jack hard on the shoulder, leaning forward so that he could speak directly into his ear. ‘The next time you do not ask my permission before you act, I shall throttle you myself.’

  Jack looked up sharply. But there was a hint of a smile on Ballard’s face, an indication that he was not to take the threat too seriously. He lifted his right hand so that he could point at the body of the Persian teacher. ‘I told you I would get him.’

  Ballard looked at the blood-smeared hand and grimaced. ‘You did. I suppose I should thank you.’

  ‘Yes, you bloody should.’

  ‘You are a man of action, Jack. I should have known what you would do. Palmer,’ Ballard addressed himself to his winded bodyguard, ‘when you have quite finished panting, be a good fellow and take that poor man into our custody. Guard him well.’ Orders delivered, he clapped Jack on the shoulder once more. ‘It might not have been my preferred method, but you have identified and captured the spy, and for that you should be thanked.’

  ‘But why would you leave him?’ Jack still did not understand Ballard’s reluctance to root out the canker at the heart of the army’s operation.

  ‘I was going to use him, you dolt.’ Ballard shook his head at his subordinate’s lack of vision. ‘Did you never stop and think how we could turn a spy like this to our advantage?’

  ‘No,’ Jack answered honestly. ‘I saw him as a danger, so I wanted to remove him.’

  ‘Well you certainly managed that. At least I can have Palmer ask him some questions now. He has proven to be rather persuasive in the past. If there is a network of spies then I should be able to discover more from that unfortunate fellow.’

  ‘And if there isn’t?’

  ‘Then you have captured the one man causing all our problems and we will have to thank you.’

  ‘So I will have done what I came here to do?’

  ‘Yes.’ Ballard offered his thin-lipped smile.

  Jack felt relief wash over him. It numbed some of the pain. He hoped it had all been worth it, for he had paid a high price to reveal the identity of the enemy spy. He was convinced that Ballard was wrong about there being a network of agents. Fetherstone had believed that the munshi had been acting alone and Jack saw the sense in that opinion. Now the man had been stopped. Jack had done his job and saved many of his fellow redcoats from a needless death. He had finished what he had come all this way to do.

  ‘Gentlemen, I am grateful for your time. Now, what have you got for me?’

  Lieutenant General Sir James Outram fixed the two officers with a piercing stare. Major Ballard had brought Jack with him when he had been summoned by the commander-in-chief to deliver his latest assessment on the build-up of enemy forces that had been the talk of the army ever since the second division’s arrival the day before.

  Ballard handed over a thick sheaf of paper, laying it almost reverentially on Outram’s campaign table. ‘Sir, this is my latest report.’

  Jack stood as straight as he could as he felt Outram’s gaze wash over him. His body still hurt from the fight and he did his best to hide the inevitable wince as he tightened his battered muscles.

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen. I’d be grateful for a brief summary whilst you are here.’ Outram sat back in his chair and lit a fresh cigar. The tent was fuggy, the air still ripe with the smell of the general’s previous cigars, which he smoked at a prodigious rate.

  ‘Certainly, sir.’

  Jack could see Ballard savouring the request. The commander of the intelligence department loved an audience, and he preened before beginning his briefing.

  ‘My sources indicate that the enemy is beginning to assemble at Borãzjoon, some forty-six miles from here. Thus far he has gathered around six to seven thousand men, including at least two thousand cavalry and around eighteen guns.’

  Outram sighed. ‘So they have two thousand sabres.’ He pondered the news. ‘That is many more than I have.’ He nodded for Ballard to continue.

  ‘The force is under the command of Shooja-ool-Moolk and includes at least two Karragoozloo regiments of guards, four regiments of Sabriz and one of Shiraz. More men are expected to arrive in the coming weeks, and already the enemy is building up the quantity of supplies they will need for a campaign against us. This amounts to at least forty to fifty thousand pounds of powder, small-arms ammunition, and what appears to be enough shot and shell to keep their guns supplied for a year of fighting. In short, sir, the enemy is massing his strength. When the whole is a
ssembled, he will fall upon us with the intention of driving us into the sea.’

  Outram said nothing as Ballard delivered the dour news. He sat back in his chair and puffed contentedly on his cigar.

  ‘So the enemy is preparing to attack but he is not yet ready to do so.’ He leant forward and propped his cigar on the already overflowing ashtray on his desk. ‘That is good news indeed.’ He fixed the two intelligence officers with a firm glare. ‘It is necessary to understand the nature of the enemy and then overawe him with bold initiative and resolute action. I am of a mind to attack immediately.’

  He picked up his cigar again. Holding it in his teeth, he flipped open the wooden case on his desk. ‘Please help yourselves.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Ballard bent forward and selected a fat cigar, rubbing it under his nose to savour the scent.

  ‘Captain?’ Outram gestured towards the box, inviting Jack to take one.

  ‘No thank you, sir. I do not smoke.’

  Outram puffed out his cheeks, letting a cloud of blue-grey smoke escape in a rush. ‘You are probably wise.’

  Ballard smiled at Jack’s temperance. ‘It is the only vice he lacks, sir. We have to thank Captain Fenris for providing the intelligence that led to the discovery of the Persian spy.’

  ‘The teacher?’ Outram’s eyes narrowed as he replied.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Jack cleared his throat as his voice cracked. He could taste the cigar smoke and he had to try hard not to cough as it filled his mouth.

  ‘That was good work.’ Outram looked hard into Jack’s face, which still showed the effects of the fight with the Persian spy. His forehead sported a fresh blue and yellow bruise right in its very centre, and the cut to his face had barely had time to scab over. The knife wound would likely scar, but Jack knew the rest of the wounds would heal quickly; at least he hoped they would. Ballard would likely have called it a small enough price to pay for ridding the army of an enemy spy but to Jack’s mind he had done more than his fair share.