‘And what if it has?’ Ballard was gruff as Jack was quick to remind him of the shame of their failure.
‘Do you think it wise to become involved in something that no longer concerns you?’ Jack asked the question pointedly. He wanted no part in the scheme he sensed Ballard was dreaming up.
‘Of course it still damn well concerns me.’ Ballard shook his head as Jack questioned his reasoning. ‘Just because Stalker stomps and shouts doesn’t mean I have to let it all go.’
‘I rather think he made his point of view clear.’ Jack sensed danger. Ballard was clearly close to disobeying Stalker’s orders. ‘He has given the whole damn thing to Fetherstone. You are a fool if you intend to meddle.’
Ballard looked sharply at Jack. ‘I am no fool. You would do well to remember that.’
Jack saw something of the man who had abducted him from the streets of Bombay. It was a reminder of how precarious his position was. It was easy to forget that he owed everything, including his continued survival, to the intelligence officer. ‘I apologise. I am merely concerned for your career.’
Ballard waved the remark away, but Jack knew he had been warned.
‘So what do we know?’ Jack asked the question gingerly.
For the first time, Ballard smiled. ‘I have discovered a little. I may be out of favour, but Captain Hunter is a good fellow and he tells me what he can.’
The mention of Stalker’s aide made Jack think of Sarah’s gossip. Hunter’s family had been disgraced. Was that enough to make a man turn his coat and spy for the enemy? He shook his head to clear his mind of the notion. It was not the time for idle speculation. He tried to concentrate on Ballard’s news.
‘I have learnt that the enemy have a Russian officer in their ranks.’ Ballard continued to share what he had discovered. ‘We don’t know his name, but we think he comes direct from the Tsar. We know very little about him, although rumour has it that he is a hard bastard who fought us in the Crimea. He makes no attempt to hide; he serves on the staff of the Persian general, Shooja-ool-Moolk. We think he is the ringleader. The spymaster, if you will. Whoever our spy is, he sends his reports direct to this man, who can then pass on whatever he pleases to the Persian command.’ Ballard scowled as he summarised the situation for Jack’s benefit. ‘The presence of this Russian complicates matters. It means that not only do the Persians seem to know our every move but they get the information from the Russians, which can only further increase their damned influence here.’
‘Perhaps we should pop over to the Persian camp and ask the bugger what he is playing at.’ Jack chuckled at the idea, but the look on Ballard’s face silenced him quickly. He would not put it past the intelligence officer to be contemplating exactly that.
‘No, we cannot do that.’ Ballard eventually conceded the idea. ‘But we can finish the job we were given. This is my mess. I fully intend to be the one who sorts it out.’
They arrived outside Ballard’s tent, where Palmer was seated on a stool, sharpening a knife. The bodyguard looked up as they approached, a wry smile on his face as he saw Jack.
‘So, you’re back.’
‘He is not staying.’ Ballard was quick to reply.
Palmer grunted. He clearly did not care one way or the other.
Ballard turned to face Jack. His face was serious. ‘Just because you have buggered off to the Bombay Lights doesn’t mean this isn’t your fight too. Do not think I have forgotten your role in apprehending the spy. If you had not rushed in, perhaps we would have unravelled this whole sorry mess.’
‘You do not know that. And the poor bastard revealed nothing when your man there got his hands on him.’
‘Perhaps.’ Ballard frowned. ‘We shall never know. So, your orders—’
‘I am not sure I can help,’ Jack interrupted. He could sense where the conversation was headed. He may have been seconded to the light cavalry, but he had been wrong to think his tie to Ballard had been severed. Like it or not, the major still held the reins to his future.
‘You cannot wash your hands of me that easily.’ Ballard flashed his thin, wolfish excuse for a smile. ‘Or have you forgotten who you really are?’
Jack grimaced as he felt his past tighten around him. ‘I see.’
‘I’m glad you do. Now, when we get our arses back to Bushire, I want you to talk to Sarah Draper or her brother. They seem to have Fetherstone’s ear. See what they know.’
Jack smiled at the notion. He had missed Sarah more than he’d thought possible. His thoughts were no longer solely lustful. He had begun to sense that they shared more than just a physical connection. The idea of seeing her again, and asking her to help him once more, sat well in his mind. ‘I’ll try.’
‘You had better do a damn sight more than that!’ Ballard scowled at Jack’s meek answer. ‘I’ll be damned if I leave that bloody webfoot to make a mess of this. You and I will discover the identity of these bloody spies and then you can do what I brought you here to do.’ He fixed Jack with a determined stare. ‘We will find out who is betraying us and you will kill them.’
The army marched that night. The screech of the ungreased axles on the simple peasant carts grated on the ears of the redcoats, the dreadful cacophony underscoring the sound of hundreds of men marching. Every type of conveyance had been pressed into service as the British attempted to take away as much of the vast amount of supplies as they possibly could. The carts and wagons slowed progress, the heavily laden transport dictating the pace so that the column was forced to halt repeatedly, the delays adding to the frustration of the men who had marched so far to fight only to be denied by the enemy’s refusal to meet them in battle.
The long trudge back to the main force’s base at Bushire began in silence, every man aware of the long, difficult route they must follow over the coming days and nights. Their officers had promised an easy pace, the need for speed long since gone, yet the redcoats were wise to the ways of their commanders and knew how quickly the situation could change.
They had spent the day piling up the supplies they could not carry into a single heap in the very middle of the enemy’s meagre encampment. It was enormous, a man-made mountain. At its base were stacked the hundreds of barrels of black powder they could not hope to take back to Bushire. The whole lot was to be fired, Outram ordering its destruction to garner some credit from the wasted march.
The detonation was entrusted to two officers from the engineers, Lieutenant Gibbard and Lieutenant Hassard. They planned to use a pair of Jacob’s shells, a new type of exploding ammunition, the brainchild of Major John Jacob. A copper percussion tube filled with fulminate of mercury was contained in the fore part of the bullet and would explode on impact, igniting the shell behind. The new ammunition promised much. If it worked, it would allow riflemen to annihilate any field battery of artillery from a distance, something that would revolutionise the battlefield. If it worked. The ammunition was still very much at an experimental stage, and this would be one of the first occasions it had been used in anger.
The British might be retreating, but they would at least depart with a bang.
The blast split the night asunder, the roar rolling over the marching redcoats in a dreadful explosion of violence. As one, the column halted, turning to stare at the spectacle.
A single column of flame leapt into the sky, like a fiery finger pointing in accusation at the gods who had denied the British the battle they had so desired. It seared through the darkness, banishing the night and lighting the sky so that the world was bathed in a warm orange glow. Cloud after cloud of bright silvery smoke billowed from the base of the flames, rolling out at a terrific rate so that it smothered the entire encampment, before rushing on to blanket the town of Borãzjoon. Explosions punctured the smoke cloud as the enemy’s store of ammunition went up. Each burst like a sky rocket in a shower of sparks and flame, punching a hole
in the heavy smoke for a single heartbeat before disappearing, only the flicker of falling shards a legacy of its brief but vibrant display.
The concussion of the massive explosion shook the ground. The soil under the redcoats’ boots seemed to shimmer, the very fibre of the earth shaken by the power of the exploding black powder. The weary infantry looked at the fabulous scene created by their engineers and saw nothing but shame, their failure displayed to the world.
The order to resume the march echoed down the column. The redcoats ignored the fiery mountain and trudged on into the night, turning their backs on the legacy of their daring incursion into the enemy’s heartland.
The Persian army watched the British depart. They had seen their supplies go up in flame, their encampment laid waste by the single massive explosion. They saw the men who had invaded their homeland marching away, the long column snaking for miles across the flat, barren landscape. They sensed fear in the retreat, the hated pale-faced foreigners and their native levies lacking the courage to face them in battle.
As the invaders’ column made its way away from Borãzjoon, the Persian army appeared from the safety of the hills and set off after the enemy, huge blocks of infantry marching in close column whilst vast swarms of cavalry led them forward and pressed close to the rear of the retreating British.
The force the Shah had assembled was easily twice the size of the British column. Five thousand infantrymen of the Karragoozloo, Shiraz and Sabriz regiments, the best soldiers in the Persian army, marched with pride, their ranks dressed and ordered just as their British instructors had once taught them. Nigh on two thousand cavalrymen of the Sufenghees, the Shiraz Cavalry and the Eilkhanne Horse were ready to pounce on the enemy, the handful of cavalry at the foreign general’s disposal a mere morsel that could be snapped up and devoured before the Persians took their sabres against the broken ranks of the red-coated infantry.
Shooja-ool-Moolk would not let the invaders skulk away unmolested. He had bided his time, waiting for the moment to strike. Now he watched the undefended column and the tiny rearguard that protected it. He saw the opportunity and he thought of the victory his master the Shah so desired.
The British army would not be left to retreat in peace. They would get the battle they had marched so far to find.
The enemy came out of the blackness. Their screams echoed across the plain, drowning out the sound of their galloping horses. The cries swirled around the British rearguard so that it seemed as if they were being attacked from all sides. The suddenness of the attack shook the men of the 3rd Bombay Light Cavalry. They had expected a dull, routine march back to Bushire. They were roused from their lethargy by an eruption of violence, the vicious war cries of the Persian cavalry leaving no doubt that their complacency had been ill founded.
The column was under attack.
The first shots rang out. They snapped through the air, stinging past the ears of the light cavalry protecting the last of the marching infantry. The gunfire drove any indecision from the minds of the officers charged with the security of the column. It was time for action. The rearguard would be the first to fight, their job to protect the column long enough for the infantry to re-form and face the enemy threat.
‘Fenris! With me.’
Jack heard Captain Forbes bellow his name. He turned his horse round and spurred it hard, chasing after the commander of the Bombay Lights. He had been lost in his thoughts, imagining his reunion with Sarah Draper, even though it would likely mean another clash with her arrogant prig of a brother. He emerged from his reverie to the chaos of an ambush.
He saw fast-moving shapes in the darkness as the enemy swarmed around the rearguard. The Persians were screaming and yelling like fiends, the dreadful cries seeming somehow inhuman, as if the column was under attack from the denizens of another world. Their frantic trumpets blared out, the strange calls piercing his ears and scattering his thoughts as he tried to make sense of the confusion that had erupted from the dark.
He reined in hard next to Forbes. There was just enough moonlight to make out the light blue tunics of the troopers as they re-formed their ranks to face outwards into the night. He saw Moore, the adjutant, riding away from his commander, bearing away the first report of the contact to the senior officers who would need to know of the sudden threat to the marching column.
‘Take number five and six troop; protect the left flank.’ Forbes snapped the order at Jack. Another flurry of shots stung the air around them and both officers flinched, the sudden strain of being under fire written large on their faces. ‘The Poona Horse have the right flank. I shall hold the rest of the regiment here to protect the rear. Is that all clear?’
‘Sir.’ Jack acknowledged the order. He was about to ram his spurs back when Forbes grabbed his shoulder.
‘And for God’s sake keep the enemy away from the column. Whatever it takes, we cannot let them past.’
Jack nodded and galloped towards the ranks of the Bombay Lights.
‘Five and six troop with me.’ He glanced along the length of the line and saw the older Moore acknowledge the order. He looked for the officer in charge of the other troop he had been ordered to command. A thin-faced lieutenant raised his hand: John Malcolmson, an officer Jack barely knew. It was a pity their introduction to one another would come in such dangerous circumstances.
He brought his horse to a stand so he could watch his men as they responded to his orders. The animal pranced and skittered, sensing the building tension, and Jack had to work hard to keep it in hand. He forced the beast into a tight circle and observed the daffadars issuing the orders to their men as they prepared to take the two troops out of the formation. He looked for signs of panic or confusion but the men responded calmly, their stony faces betraying none of the excitement the sudden attack must surely have caused. He was impressed. He just hoped they were as calm in a fight.
‘Follow me!’ Jack waved his arm and signalled the two troops to move to the left flank. His horse tried to gallop away and he was forced to haul on the reins to keep it in hand. He heard the drumming of hooves behind him as the troops followed his command, and he hoped the darkness saved the men from seeing their commander wrestling to control his horse like a raw recruit fresh from the depot.
He led the men quickly towards the column’s left flank, or at least where he believed the left flank to be. In the darkness it was nigh on impossible to know exactly where anyone was. He brought them into position, formed into a single line two men deep so that they could screen the tail of the column from attack. He could hear the first shouted orders as the infantry awoke to the sudden threat. They would need time to re-form. In the column of march, they would be unable to fight back and repel the sudden ambush. The formation was perfect for advancing across country, the men moving in one solid, compact oblong. But it was vulnerable to attack. They needed to reorganise themselves into a square, the one formation that would protect them from the ravages of enemy horsemen. With a wall of bayonets facing out on all four sides, the infantry would be secure, the ring of steel certain to force any attacking cavalry to veer away. It was a tactic that had worked for Wellington, and it would work for the British generals who had learnt from the old duke.
The light cavalry would have to buy the infantry the time they would need to complete the change in formation, no matter what it cost them. If they failed, the infantry would be easy targets for the hard-riding Persian cavalry. They would be butchered, the mournful retreat turned into a rout, the campaign coming to a bloody end with an ignominious defeat.
A bugle sounded from the darkness. Its rising call demanded attention, the signal to retire clear even over the dreadful cacophony of the enemy’s screams and yells.
Jack looked in every direction, trying to find the source of the urgent call. He twisted in the saddle and saw his own trumpeters lifting their instruments to their mouths, their instincts tellin
g them to echo the order.
‘Hold fast!’ he bellowed. The rising call came again, the notes sounding with absolute clarity. There was no mistaking the command.
‘Should we retire?’ Lieutenant Moore had raced forward so that he could call to Jack. His face was etched with tension.
‘No. It’s a trick!’ Jack forced himself to smile. ‘Hold the men here. Two lines, facing west. Quick, now. We are not going to stay here for long. We need to drive these bastards off.’
Moore looked at Jack, a moment of doubt showing in his expression, before he turned away and bellowed the orders to the two troops.
Jack could feel dozens of eyes boring into his back as he tried to discern the enemy in the darkness. He was sure he had made the correct decision. He had read enough reports of the Persian army to know that they had been trained for many years by British officers. It was natural to assume that the enemy trumpeters would know the British army’s bugle calls, and he was certain that the command to retire had come from out of the darkness and not from the direction of the British column. He pushed the doubts away and summoned the courage to trust his instincts. He would not obey the orders of the enemy.
A volley of gunfire shattered the calm. The bullets whistled past him, the air suddenly alive with the storm of deadly missiles. A single trooper slumped from the saddle, his left arm shattered by a ball fired from an enemy carbine. The darkness was saving the men from taking more casualties. The enemy horsemen were armed with carbines, and were wasting their time delivering weak volleys of gunfire when they should have been pressing home their attack and relying on cold, hard steel. Jack intended to show them just how light cavalry should fight, a demonstration that he hoped would shatter the enemy’s ranks and buy the British column some much-needed time.
‘Draw sabres!’ He faced his new command, parading his horse in front of the troopers, showing them that he was braving the danger. There was enough moonlight filtering through the thin clouds for them to see their new captain, to witness the example he was trying to set.
The Devil's Assassin (Jack Lark) Page 23