The Devil's Assassin (Jack Lark)

by Paul Fraser Collard

  ‘So have you put an end to the problem of the enemy knowing our every move?’ Outram puffed on his cigar as he asked the question, his face half hidden by the cloud of smoke that he exhaled at regular intervals.

  ‘We believe so, sir.’ Ballard glanced once at Jack before continuing. ‘We are still investigating whether the man was working alone, but we are certain that he was working for the enemy. He relied on the local populace to take his messages to the enemy’s camp. Unfortunately there is nothing I can do to stop such a thing happening; there are simply too many locals with us.’

  Jack had seen the hint of discomfort in his commander’s face. The Persian spy had revealed little of any use and Palmer had extracted nothing that added credence to Ballard’s notion that there was a network of enemy spies in place. Everything pointed to the munshi acting alone, but still Ballard remained to be convinced.

  ‘Very good.’ The major had at least been able to reassure the army’s commander that the problem was in hand. ‘It seems you have the matter under control. I would ask you to keep me informed of any developments.’ Outram nodded once before placing his cigar to one side. ‘So we must take the initiative and strike before the enemy gathers his full strength. If he discovers that we are coming, he will either scurry away or meet us on ground of his choosing. You may have dealt with this one spy, but the country is still against us and there will be no shortage of people riding to warn the enemy the moment we march.’

  Ballard nodded in agreement, listening intently to the general.

  Jack cleared his throat. He was as nervous as he had been when he had been the first out of the moat at Reshire. ‘Then don’t let them know, sir.’

  Outram looked at Jack sharply. ‘I think it is rather hard to disguise the movement of a few thousand infantrymen, Captain. Not to mention the enormous baggage train that follows. Even a blind man would know we were marching.’

  Jack shook his head in denial. He saw Ballard’s face go pale as his charlatan subordinate chose to give advice to a general. Jack forced down the nerves. It was the same as digging deep for the courage to lead men into battle. It had to be done, no matter how much you feared the first step.

  ‘Then don’t march with a baggage train. The army has been conducting route marches for days now. General Stalker even had the whole division out last week. The locals must think we are either bonkers or too frightened to advance. It need not be any different when you march to attack.’

  ‘What of supply?’ Outram steepled his fingers.

  ‘We leave it behind.’ Jack was speaking with confidence now. He forgot Outram was a lieutenant general and he nothing more than a deserter and a fraud. ‘The men march light, carrying just enough for a few days. The enemy are but fifty miles away. We can be there in two days. We strike hard and fast and catch them before they are ready.’

  Ballard looked aghast, but the general seemed intrigued. He took up his cigar and drew on it, his eyes never once leaving Jack’s face.

  ‘How long have you been in the hussars, Captain Fenris?’

  Jack’s heart thumped in his chest. ‘It’s a recent transfer, sir. I was with the 24th.’

  ‘So the 24th’s loss is Ballard’s gain?’ Outram turned and looked at the intelligence officer. ‘You are lucky to have Captain Fenris on your staff, Major.’

  Ballard recovered well. ‘I thank God for it daily, sir.’

  Outram laughed. ‘As well you should.’ He looked back to Jack. ‘What happened to the spy?’

  Jack smiled, his fears receding. He liked Outram. ‘I believe he is still with the surgeons, sir.’

  Outram seemed delighted by the response. ‘Major Ballard was correct. Smoking might be the sole vice you lack. Thank you for your briefing, gentlemen. It was very enlightening. You may go about your duties now.’

  The two officers snapped to attention and saluted before beating a hasty retreat from the general’s presence.

  Outside the tent, they both took a deep lungful of clean air.

  ‘Don’t ever do that again, Jack.’ Ballard exhaled deeply as he spoke. ‘I think you forget who you really are.’

  Jack laughed at the major’s expression. ‘I sup with the Devil. Do not complain when his devilment rubs off on me.’

  The use of his nickname made Ballard smile. They walked together in companionable silence through the encampment. As they approached their own tent, Palmer saw them coming and walked over to greet them.

  ‘This just arrived for you.’ He held out a letter addressed to Captain Fenris.

  Jack nodded his thanks before noticing the tears at the envelope’s top. ‘You opened it?’

  ‘Fucking boring it was.’ Palmer laughed at Jack’s expression. ‘You really should get some more interesting friends.’

  ‘And you should mind your fucking manners.’ Jack’s anger rose quickly. ‘The next time I receive a letter I suggest you leave it alone.’

  Palmer shrugged, clearly unconcerned by Jack’s belligerence. ‘Orders is orders, chum.’

  Jack turned his anger on Ballard. ‘So you told your ape here to open my letters?’

  ‘I did.’ Ballard raised a single eyebrow at his subordinate’s display. ‘Do not forget where I found you. I had to treat you with a certain degree of caution.’

  ‘Well, you know me better now.’

  Ballard cocked his head as he considered the notion. ‘Yes. That is a fair comment.’ He looked at Palmer. ‘You can stop opening his mail.’

  Palmer nodded, clearly not bothered either way.

  Jack scowled, despite having won the argument. He would have liked to have opened the letter for himself. Unlike the rest of the officers, he never got mail. Those with families received post by the bundle, thick wraps of letters and hefty packages and parcels arriving every few days thanks to the efforts of the Indian navy. Jack received nothing, ever.

  He reached into the envelope, a strange excitement building, and flipped the letter over, scanning the contents to see if he recognised the signature. He did. It was from Commodore Fetherstone.

  He sat and read slowly, making sure he understood every word. It was a letter of congratulations. Fetherstone thanked him for finding the spy and for ending the problem that had dogged the army ever since it had arrived. The note was no more than a few scribbled lines, but Jack detected the sarcasm thinly veiled in the polite phrases. He had stolen Fetherstone’s thunder. He had prevented the navy from gaining credit for capturing the enemy spy, something the commodore would surely have savoured.

  He folded the letter tightly before returning it to the envelope. He would show it to Ballard that evening although Palmer was sure to have let the major know its contents already. It would do Ballard good to know they had put one over on the naval intelligence commander. Jack felt pride at all he had achieved. He had been brought here to do a job and now it was complete. He could sit back and watch the campaign unfurl knowing he had saved many of the men under Outram’s command from enduring extra suffering. It was almost a pity that the Persian spy was no longer able to communicate with his masters. In the message Jack had found in the fort at Reshire he had been written off as little more than a hired thug. It would have been pleasing to know that the Persians would now know that the man they had written off so glibly was actually the one who had broken their power.

  The army slipped away in the late afternoon. There was little grandeur to the departure, no martial spectacle to awe the inhabitants of Bushire.

  The baggage and supply carts stayed behind. The encampment was trusted to the care of Lieutenant Colonel Shepheard, whose men were reinforced by a party of seamen from the ships moored in the harbour. Outram was gambling on a quick march to take the Persian general by surprise, but he was cautious enough to ensure that he had a secure base to fall back to.

  The men marched with no more than two days
’ rations in their knapsacks, bread and beef for the redcoats, chapattis for the native infantry. Their pouches and cartouches were full of ammunition, their rifles and muskets cleaned and ready for battle. Once again they were left to find rest without their tents, the need for speed overriding any thought of comfort.

  Close to four thousand men marched in two long lines of contiguous quarter columns. Most came from the force that had achieved victory at Reshire. The daily route marches had hardened them. The fight at the Dutch fort had proved that they could best the enemy. They advanced with confidence, eager to bring the enemy to battle, ready to prove that Great Britain’s will could not be flouted.

  The force would march through the night. It would be a treacherous process. The land they would cross started out as little more than a swamp. The damp air was full of deadly exhalations, the men certain that the foul smell was sure to carry disease. The choice of route left the redcoats wondering at the sanity of their masters for subjecting the army to such a deadly miasma. Yet it was the only way off the Bushire peninsula. Once they had marched around the head of the Bushire creek, they could strike inland, into the desert that separated the coastal lands from the dry, featureless interior.

  They would have to cover the ground quickly and then summon the energy and willpower to fight. For the Persian army was gathering its strength. The Shah’s orders were clear. His commander, Shooja-ool-Moolk, was to force the invaders back into the sea. The invasion must be stopped.

  Jack enjoyed the feeling of being back in the saddle. He had borrowed a roan mare from Outram’s stables and had joined the procession of staff officers surrounding the commander-in-chief. It felt strange not to be marching with a battalion, though. He missed it. There was a security in being in the midst of hundreds of redcoats. A knowledge that whatever you faced, you faced it together. This time he rode towards battle accountable for no one other than himself. He would not be expected to show the courage that defined a true leader. In all likelihood he would not even be called on to fight. Ballard had stressed the need to keep out of the battle, no matter what urge came upon him. He would not be allowed to transgress again.

  The ground underneath his horse’s hooves gave out an obscene squelch as the weight of horse and rider squashed the matted fibres of the earth together, forcing up small puddles of water that slowly disappeared back into the swampy soil. It would be hellish for the redcoats and the native infantry, who would be forced to march straight through the marshland. The sodden soil would all too soon turn into a quagmire, the rearmost battalions left to slog their way through a sea of mud.

  But Outram’s orders had been clear. The enemy awaited and so the army must march with haste, lest the chance to bring them to battle was lost.

  The wind howled across the barren plain. Bushire was far behind them and the redcoats were battling their way inland. The marshland of the peninsula had given way to scrub, the featureless terrain affording the men nothing to look at other than the occasional scattering of date trees, or an ancient fortified tower standing guard over the precious wells that gave life to the desolate land. Not that they could see much in the impenetrable gloom of the night.

  The wind-battered troops were covered in muck. The relentless wind kicked up huge clouds of dusty soil, which swirled and twisted across the arid plain. Still they trudged onwards, gritting their teeth against the tempest, forcing their legs to move, each heavy tread taking them one pace closer to their objective.

  Jack was suffering. He had not been in the saddle for weeks, and it felt as if his backside had been rubbed raw by the constant contact. His tight-fitting hussar’s uniform chafed, making every movement of the horse a misery. The wind drove the sandy soil into his face, the dusty, friable surface that had seemed such a boon after the morass of the swampland transformed into a virulent enemy by the gale that had assaulted them for hours.

  When he could take no more, he left Ballard and the staff behind and forced his tiring horse to catch up with the 64th, who marched at the front of one of the twin columns. He went to seek company, to find a friendly face to stave off the monotonous suffering of the advance.

  Lieutenant Knightly was with his company. The men had long been allowed to march easy. Few had the energy to chatter with their mess mates, the long trudge wearing down their reserves of strength.

  ‘I say, you lucky blighter.’ Knightly spotted Jack’s arrival and lifted his face to peer up at his friend, who enjoyed the fortune of being mounted. ‘Have you come to gloat?’

  Jack ignored the barbed comment and slid from the saddle, wincing as the movement burned his tortured flesh. It was a relief to be on the ground, but his legs thought differently and nearly gave out underneath him as they were forced to take his weight for the first time in hours.

  ‘Steady there, sir.’ A strong arm reached out and set him on his feet. The sergeant gave him a friendly smile, accepting his thanks with the briefest nod of his head. Like all officers, Knightly was covered by an NCO, an experienced sergeant whose job it was to make certain that their officer survived in battle, giving the battalion’s leaders the freedom to do their job without having to concentrate solely on their own safety.

  ‘It’s a crappy night, Sergeant.’ Jack stretched his spine, his hand kneading the small of his back that was cramped and aching from the hours in the saddle. ‘How are the men?’

  ‘Don’t worry about us, sir.’ The sergeant shot a gap-toothed grin back at Jack. ‘A scrap of wind ain’t going to bother the likes of us. You should save your worry for the cavalry. Your lot don’t take kindly to this sort of thing.’

  Jack smiled at the comment. He still thought of himself as an ordinary foot soldier, no matter what type of uniform he happened to be wearing.

  ‘That’s because the horses have more sense.’

  The troops marching around them found the energy to laugh, or at least grin, at the exchange. Jack relished the contact. He had not appreciated how much he would miss being with the men who made up the rank and file of the army.

  Jack reached into his saddlebag and fished out a bottle of brandy, which he handed to the sergeant. ‘Share this around, Sergeant.’

  The man looked at Jack and grinned in appreciation. ‘That is rare kind of you, sir. Much obliged.’ He took a huge draught before handing the bottle and its precious contents to the man at his side. Then he turned and, without missing a step, called to the redcoat marching behind him, ‘Thatcher, take the gentleman’s horse.’

  Jack handed the reins of his borrowed mare to a boy who looked no more than sixteen years old. The youngster smiled nervously and took a firm hold on the greasy leather.

  ‘Don’t let her go, lad. You’d be paying her back for the rest of your service.’

  The boy paled at the words. Jack laughed and clapped him on the back before turning and placing an arm on Knightly’s shoulder and steering him a few paces away from the column.

  ‘You’re good with the men.’ Knightly looked pale.

  ‘They are good boys. You’re lucky.’

  ‘They terrify me.’ Knightly was too tired to hide his anxiety. ‘They only do what I say because Sergeant Rogerson tells them to.’

  Jack smiled. He knew the feeling well. ‘You’ll get the hang of it. Show them that you are willing to share every hardship and danger they face. Make sure they know what you expect them to do and then show them how to do it. That’s it. It’s that simple.’

  ‘You should write a book.’

  Jack would have laughed, but a spasm of pain seared down his spine and for a heartbeat he thought his legs would give out. He kneaded the tense flesh in the pit of his back until the feeling passed, then stretched, arching his spine in a vague attempt to ease the discomfort. ‘I doubt I have the right credentials to write a book aimed at young gentlemen.’

  ‘What’s it like?’ Knightly asked the question quietly.


  ‘What’s what like?’

  ‘Battle. Real battle, I mean.’

  Jack heard the fear in the young officer’s voice. He sounded like an earnest schoolboy asking a friend what it felt like to kiss a girl. The two of them walked on together in silence, both hunched forward as they battled through the sand that flayed into their faces.

  ‘Nothing will prepare you for when you first go under fire,’ Jack began hesitantly. He had never spoken so seriously of battle before. It was not the done thing, especially for an officer. All such talk was done in jest, the whole grisly affair discussed lightly, as if it was nothing more than a game.

  He recognised Knightly’s terror. There was little he could say that would assuage the young man’s fear – Knightly would have to wrestle with that alone – but he wanted to help if he could, and so he forced open his soul, delving into the darkness that he usually kept locked away as he searched for the words to comfort his friend.

  ‘At first, it is worse than you can ever imagine.’ He looked up and saw Knightly staring at him intently. ‘But then the fear goes.’ There was doubt on the young man’s face. ‘Truly. It goes. You forget to be afraid and you do what you have to.’

  ‘That’s when you kill them.’

  Jack heard the tremor in Knightly’s voice. ‘Yes. That’s when you kill them.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can do that.’

  ‘You can and you will.’ Jack tried not to sound harsh, but he heard the steel in his reply. ‘Because if you don’t, they will kill you.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘You had better. It’s not as easy as you think.’ Jack sighed. ‘Men die hard. They go down kicking and screaming and they will still try to kill you even if you have your sword buried in their damn guts.’ He looked across at Knightly and saw the younger man hanging on his every word. ‘Don’t hold anything back when you fight. Go at them with everything you have.’ Jack grimaced as he remembered the harder fights he had lived through. ‘And don’t forget to turn your bloody wrist.’