‘They meant something to me.’
‘How very touching, Jack. Is that what this is all about? Did I upset your fragile sensibilities? What an odd notion for a killer.’ Fetherstone took a step closer to Jack, his face stretched with urgency as he tried to explain his actions. ‘Can you truly not lift your gaze and see out of the gutter? You should try to think of a bigger world, one where the lives of a handful of redcoats mean little. Do you think Outram loses sleep over the men he lost? Do you think Wellington wept into his pillow thinking of the thousands who died carrying out his bloody orders?’ The naval officer spoke with passion now. The revolver was forgotten. ‘Great men cannot think of such things. They must do what they know to be right, and if there is a price to be paid, then so be it.’
‘Is that what you are? A great man?’ It was Jack’s turn to be scornful.
‘Perhaps. I don’t expect you to understand. You have not seen the world as I have, or watched all those misbegotten fools who are allowed to govern and command when they couldn’t even run a common whorehouse. We are a country that values the accident of birth over ability, and it is ruining us. These men fail us but are never held to account for their actions simply because they come from the right family. We are a nation of the blind. It is high time our eyes were opened.’
‘And that is what you were doing? Opening our eyes?’
‘We need to change, Jack.’ Fetherstone spoke with intensity. ‘Before it is too late. We need the best men to lead us, not just someone’s bloody son and heir.’
‘Men like you?’ Jack’s contempt was clear.
‘Yes. Men like me. Men bold enough to challenge the status quo. Do you know how many times I have been passed over? How many times I have seen lesser men promoted? And why? Just because some damn admiral crooks his bloody finger, that’s why. Merit means nothing in our world. Intelligence is sneered at. Ability is mocked. All that bloody matters is what family you come from.’
Jack heard the bitterness in Fetherstone’s words. And he understood. He knew what it was to be denied a future by virtue of a low birth. Much of what Fetherstone was saying came close to Jack’s own opinion of the world in which he served. But it was no excuse for betrayal. For Fetherstone was wrong. The lives of the men did matter. The redcoats might have marched with obedience, but they also marched with pride. They came from the lowest rungs of society, yet they were the ones prepared to fight and die for their country. For that they were owed so much more than their country deigned to give them. They did not deserve such scorn. They did not deserve death.
‘You know you’ll hang, don’t you, Jack?’ The commodore spoke more quickly now, a little of his sangfroid melting as he saw his death approaching in the barrel of Jack’s unwavering gun. ‘It’s all in Ballard’s papers. When you have done what he requires, you’ll be hanged. He cannot allow you to live, do you really not see? It would be too messy. You would be a loose end. No intelligence officer likes loose ends.’
Jack narrowed his eyes. He ignored the words, focusing his attention on the feel of the trigger beneath his finger.
‘Have you ever seen a man on the scaffold, Jack? I have. It’s a terrible sight. Most piss themselves. Their final sorry act on this earth: to soil themselves to the catcalls of the crowd. Can you imagine what it feels like? The scratch of the rope as it twists round your neck. That final rush of terror as the floor drops away and you fall.’
Jack felt no emotion. He knew what he was and the future he faced. Fetherstone’s words meant nothing.
‘Then you kick. You cannot help it.’ Fetherstone was speaking urgently now. ‘You jerk and you thrash like a floundering fish as the last of your breath chokes in your throat. And then you die.’
He paused and looked at Jack, peering into the gloom to see if his words were having any effect.
‘And then you die,’ he repeated. ‘Alone.’ His voice rose in desperation.
Jack smiled. ‘But not yet.’
He squeezed the trigger. The gun recoiled, the charge exploding under the hammer. The heavy bullet punched through Fetherstone’s skull, ending his life in a shower of blood and bone. His body crumpled to the ground like a child’s rag doll, arms and legs twisted, the life force snatched away.
Jack stared at the body for a long time. He kept his arm extended, aiming the revolver at the man he had been sent to kill, just in case he showed a final flicker of life.
But Fetherstone was dead. Jack had done his job. He had killed the spy.
‘You can come out now.’ He spoke into the shadows behind him.
Major Ballard, commander of the intelligence department, emerged from the darkness to stand at Jack’s shoulder.
‘That was a good shot.’
Jack grunted.
Ballard reached forward. His damaged arm was encased in a black silk sling and a thick bandage was wrapped around his midriff. His drawn features betrayed the pain of the twin wounds that he had received at the hand of Simon Montfort, yet still he managed to offer a thin-lipped smile. He clasped his free hand on to his subordinate’s shoulder. ‘It had to be done. I thank you.’
Jack said nothing. He shoved the revolver back into its holster and breathed out the lungful of air that he had been holding since he had fired the single, fatal shot.
‘He was lying. I hope you know that.’ Ballard patted Jack once before walking past him to stare at the corpse. ‘I have no plans to have you killed.’
‘He’d better have been lying. I’d come back and haunt you. I’d scare you shitless.’
Ballard chuckled softly. ‘I’m going to miss you, Jack. Are you sure you won’t reconsider? We have only won the first battle. The campaign is not yet done. We will have more work to do, you and I.’
Jack shook his head. ‘No. I’m done.’
Ballard nodded. He looked down at the pathetic remains of the spymaster. ‘Poor Fetherstone. I would never have believed that the old boy contained so much passion.’ He sighed with what appeared to be genuine sadness. ‘We will say he committed suicide. It is an ignoble end for a man like this.’
‘Will anyone know the truth?’
Ballard furrowed his brow. ‘You and I.’ He paused, pondering the loose ends. ‘Outram, certainly, and we should not forget Mrs Draper.’ He shot Jack a disapproving glare but could not hold the expression for long. ‘That is all. His secret will die with him. It’s better that way.’
Jack nodded. He patted the heavy packet in the inside pocket of his hussar’s dolman. It was his reward, the final legacy of his campaign. He might not have been awarded the medals he deserved, the public laurels presented to those officers who had fought with bravery. But he had earned something infinitely more precious. Ballard had made him the gift as recompense for all he had done. It was a reward worth so much more than any tawdry piece of tin.
He walked forward and offered his hand.
Ballard looked hard into his eyes. He slowly shook his head, as if unable to understand what he saw, before reaching forward and shaking Jack’s hand.
‘I rather think I will see you again, Jack Lark.’ He smiled as he made his farewell.
Jack laughed. He felt the shackles of his imposition fall away. ‘Not if I see you first.’
He nodded once and walked past his former commander. He had done what he had been ordered to do. And now he was free.
Jack stood on the quayside, looking warily at the city that awaited him. The fort loomed over the place just as he remembered, and if he tried hard, he could smell the olfactory horror that was the covered bazaar. It was his second visit to Bombay, and he had learnt his lesson. He would not waste any time there.
At least he would be in better surroundings than before. He waited patiently for the coach that would usher him into the serene and worldly comforts of the Hope Hall Family Hotel in Mazagon. Thanks to the valuables he h
ad stolen all those weeks ago from Abdul at the Hotel Splendid, he could now afford to stay in comfort, far from the peril of midnight murderers.
For the first time, he would be able to register in his own name. Ballard’s gift had been a set of freshly issued discharge papers. They vouched that the man carrying them had been allowed to leave the army honourably, freeing him from the ties of the Queen’s service. Ballard had given Jack the one thing he had craved for so long.
He had given him back his name.
A fine carriage pulled up in a jangle of horse tackle and squeaking timbers. The door opened and a servant dressed in the fine livery of the Hope Hall hotel jumped from his perch at the rear and raced forward to lower the steps that would allow Jack to enter with dignity.
Jack stepped forward, but hesitated as he started up the steps. He remembered the last two occasions he had entered an unfamiliar carriage. He shivered at the memories. It was time to move on. He had to leave his past behind.
Jack snorted as he scanned the newspaper. The Tehran Gazette usually made for an interesting read, its news more current than even the most recently arrived Times. The paper’s fanciful account of the Persian victory at Khoosh-Ab had made him laugh aloud. The description of the triumphant Persian forces pursuing a broken British army back to the coast read like an account from the distant past, the windy style presenting a clear picture of Persian valour and British cowardice. It was only as he read of the supposed destruction of several British squares that his laughter died, the memory of the slaughter at the real battle too fresh to be a matter for humour.
He read with sadness that the Persians claimed to have killed at least one thousand British soldiers. They also lauded the death of Major General Stalker. Jack had learnt of Stalker’s death only three days previously. The man who had led the British to victory at Reshire, and then commanded the two divisions for most of the day at Khoosh-Ab, had killed himself, committing suicide shortly after Jack had left the army.
Jack could not begin to understand what could have driven Stalker to such an act at the moment of his greatest success. It was a sad end to a fine career. Despite everything Jack himself had endured, he had never considered the same solution for his own suffering. Even in his loneliest, darkest moments, he had not once thought of lifting his revolver to his head. He would never let himself give in.
He had experienced a different rush of emotion the following day when he had read that Commodore Fetherstone of the Indian navy had also killed himself. He could not help but wonder if anyone would suspect some skulduggery when they learned that two of the most senior British officers had killed themselves in such a short space of time after such a fabulous victory. Yet it was no longer his concern, and he forced the thoughts from his mind and sat back in his chair.
‘Sahib, your carriage is ready.’ A servant bowed low as he addressed the British officer, who stared into space, clearly lost in a different world.
Jack didn’t hear the summons. His mind was replaying the moment when he had pulled the trigger and sent Fetherstone’s corrupt soul to meet its maker. He saw the look in the spymaster’s eyes as the trigger tightened under his finger, the last moments of the man’s life etched into his soul.
‘Sahib.’
The memory fled back into the recesses of his mind. He snapped the Gazette shut and tossed it to the floor, the only suitable resting place for a newspaper filled with such dross, then pulled himself to his feet, straightening his waistcoat as he stood up. It still felt awkward to be without a uniform, but at least he was no longer an impostor. The ticket on the Peninsular and Oriental steamer was made out in the name of one Jack Lark, Esquire. He had booked passage on the first ship out of Bombay, not wanting to risk staying a moment longer than was necessary in the city where he had lived as Arthur Fenris. The steamer was bound for Calcutta, where he would have to wait before he could board another P&O ship that would take him to Suez. From there he would travel overland to Cairo to pick up the last connection in his long journey. For Jack had decided it was time to return to the one place where he could be himself.
He was going home.
Perhaps the most astonishing fact about the campaign against the Shah of Persia is that even the British authorities seemed to forget about it so very quickly. Just fourteen years after the battle was fought, the Shah of Persia, Nasser al-Din Shah Qajar, was invited to visit Great Britain as a guest of Queen Victoria. During his visit he was appointed to the Order of the Garter, Britain’s highest order of chivalry. Such was the fleeting nature of enemies in the days when the British Empire was at its height.
Outram’s campaign was certainly a success. After the battle at Khoosh-Ab, he mounted an expedition further north, advancing up the Shatt al-Arab waterway before launching an attack on another Persian defensive position at Mohammerah. Despite the strength of the enemy position, Havelock’s division captured it on 27 March with barely a casualty following a dreadfully effective naval bombardment. There was another skirmish on 1 April when the 64th Foot and the 78th Highlanders attacked a Persian force at Ahvaz, and then it was all over. The Shah asked for terms and within a year the Treaty of Paris was signed, ending further hostilities. The treaty safeguarded the future of Herat and required the Shah to withdraw his troops. The British had fulfilled their objectives.
The Battle of Khoosh-Ab is largely ignored in the great histories of the time. Given that within months of the victory the Empire was thrown into complete disarray by the dreadful bloodletting that was the Indian Mutiny, this is hardly surprising. Yet at the time, it was John Bull’s favourite type of military campaign. Not only did it provide a victorious demonstration of the power of Britain’s army, but it was accomplished on a field of battle far from home and with a minimal cost in British lives.
The battle itself was largely as described in the novel. The British cavalry and the artillery did win the day without much help from the stoic British infantry. The efforts of the 3rd Bombay Light Cavalry were particularly striking. Their destruction of a battalion of trained infantrymen is one of the rare occasions when unsupported cavalry managed to best a fully formed square, and as such it is still lauded as one of the greatest feats of arms of its day.
However, as ever, the needs of the writer necessitated a few tweaks, for which I humbly apologise. Captain John Augustus Wood did lead the assault on the Dutch fort at Reshire, but he served in the ranks of the 20th Bombay Native Infantry and not in those of the 64th Foot. Captain Wood was awarded the Victoria Cross for his efforts, a decoration that was only just in its infancy but which conveyed, then as now, the extreme valour of the men to whom it was awarded.
More Victoria Crosses were won at Khoosh-Ab. The younger Moore did indeed leap into the Persian square, killing his horse and breaking his sword in the process. His brother, Ross, cut his way to his sibling’s aid, but it was Lieutenant John Grant Malcolmson who fought at his side and offered Moore a stirrup. Jack Lark stole Malcolmson’s place, and for that I must again beg for forgiveness.
Major General Foster Stalker did commit suicide after the battle. There is something very wretched in the way this tragic event is mentioned in only a single, terse line in every history I have read of the campaign. It truly was a sad end for a man who had served his country so well in his long career.
Equally tragic was the suicide of Commander Richard Ethersey of the Indian navy just a few days later. Ethersey was very much the inspiration for Fetherstone, but there is absolutely no connection between the two. There was simply too much in the coincidence of the twin suicides for me to ignore, and I must quite rightly stand accused of stealing the history for my own ends.
The problem of spies dogging the expeditionary force was a genuine one. Major Ballard is based on the real head of the intelligence department, and the tale of his bold inspection of the Persian defences at Reshire is quite true. One of his roles was most certainly to root out the Per
sian spies who followed the army throughout the campaign. He was not without success, and the whole notion of the hunt for a spy was given life when I read of a Persian munshi who disappeared one night shortly before Khoosh-Ab. There is no evidence, however, that the Persian spies provided any great intelligence, and I fear I have made more of the situation than really occurred. The Persian commander retreated from Outram’s rapid advance to Borãzjoon, but certainly there is nothing to indicate that this was the result of intelligence passed by any spy.
As might be expected for a battle and a campaign that have largely been forgotten, there are very few books that give more than a passing reference to it. I can, however, heartily recommend Britain’s Forgotten Wars, by Ian Hernon. As ever, the Persian War is only given scant coverage, yet it is still a wonderful book for anyone looking to study the lesser-known battles of the British Empire. I would also highly recommend the grandly titled Oriental Campaigns and European Furloughs, by Colonel E. Maude. It never fails to excite me when I find a personal account of the period I am researching, and Colonel Maude is an enthusiastic writer who adds a wonderfully personal insight to the story.
Jack has now survived another campaign and has managed to secure the one thing he craves: his own name. With money in his pocket and a longing to see England, he is on his way home. But the British Empire is about to receive its greatest test, as the devil’s wind blows through India, and Jack might not get his wish after all. For mutiny is in the air, and Jack Lark will surely have to fight for his country once again.
No book is ever the work of one person. To Dave Headley, my agent, I can only offer my most sincere thanks for his continued backing and for his tremendous support. Flora Rees, my editor, is owed a huge thank you for her tireless efforts to help me develop as a writer and for lifting my work to a quality it could never hope of reaching without her. The team at Headline help me enormously and I must thank Ben, Tom, and Darcy in particular for everything that they do. Most of all I thank my family. I could not do any of this without them.
The Devil's Assassin (Jack Lark) Page 33