Fatal Enquiry by Will Thomas Page B

spy among the rebels with General Ward’s Scottish-born interpreter? It was three days after the siege before I heard he was missing in action.
    “The first thing I did was to buy some bottles of plum wine and get blind drunk. Then I strapped a dagger to my wrist and went to Nightwine’s tent, determined to avenge Caleb’s death. It was a stupid mistake, but I was young. He waited in bed until I had the knife raised to strike, then pulled his pistol and sang out. The tent was immediately full of guards, and I was thrown in the stockade. Being in charge at the time, Nightwine could keep me there indefinitely without trial, or as he put it, I could stay there and rot.
    “In a Chinese jail, one has no expectation of ever coming out again. It is akin to being sealed in one’s own tomb.”
    “Like the Count of Monte Cristo,” I blurted out.
    Barker frowned.
    “Sorry, sir. I meant like the French prisons during the revolution. One goes in and is pretty well forgotten.”
    “I suppose. I have not studied the subject. In any case, I was held in a small, circular stone cell that had once been the town armory. It was hot as blazes in there, and there was but one window and that too high for me to reach. The walls were several feet thick. Any thought of escape was futile.
    “I had a lot of time to think. I’d been a complete fool, walking into Sebastian’s trap. He had planned and acted, while I had merely reacted. I was never going to avenge my brother’s death without an organized and well-thought-out plan. To that end, I became friendly enough with the guards that they kept me apprised of what was going on in camp. A week later, General Gordon arrived and officially took over duties as head of the Ever Victorious Army. A smart man, I told myself, could turn this to his advantage.”
    “How?” I asked.
    “The room was a natural echo chamber. You see, the Chinese like to hear their prisoners’ groans and cries for mercy. So, I began to sing.”
    “Sing what?”
    “It didn’t matter what. Scraps of songs, whatever came to my head. You see, the cell window faced east, in the direction of the general’s tent. And as you have remarked in chapel, Thomas, my voice carries. A few days later, I had an epiphany. I recalled all the wonderful old hymns I had learned at my mother’s knee. You see, there was supposed to be a quiet Chinese spy in there. How would Nightwine explain when Gordon heard someone bellowing good Presbyterian hymns in broad Scots?
    “I sang for hours. I sang for days. The guards rushed in and beat me into unconsciousness, and when I woke up again, I sang again. I understand I could be heard by the enemy a mile away.”
    I could picture it all too easily, having sat beside him in church these past few years. Cyrus Barker makes up in volume and vigor what he lacks in pitch. At the Metropolitan Tabernacle in Newington Causeway, I have heard him drag entire rows out of tune. It was very believable that he could drive an army camp mad with his singing. Three verses into “Amazing Grace” sung off-key in basso profundo and I sometimes wanted to strangle him myself.
    “Eventually I was taken before Charles Gordon and asked to explain myself, and for the first time in years, I did. I revealed that I was a Scotsman who had gone native working as a spy among the Chinese rebels for the Ever Victorious Army and Captain Nightwine in particular. That is, until my brother was killed under suspicious circumstances. After careful consideration, Gordon gave me one more week in the stockade, to be augmented if I should begin to sing again, and a transfer to another captain when I was free. Should I attempt to endanger the life of the captain, the general might conveniently forget my true lineage and have me beheaded. Gordon was fair but he could be hard when he had to be. I didn’t agree to it, but then I had been given no choice. The camp needed uninterrupted sleep.
    “A week later I was released, handed an old and