Free The English Assassin by Michael Moorcock Page B

the pub on the opposite corner to Sammy’s, the Blenheim Arms. The gas was being lit. The large crowd of out-of-work Irishmen and local loafers which had gathered outside its doors gave a ragged cheer. It was opening time.
    Again the boy shivered.
    “What’s the matter, son?” said Sammy noticing. “You catching something?”

THE INTERPRETERS
    Captain Nye received an order to report to his barracks, the Royal Alberts in Southwark, where his CO, Colonel Collier, informed him that the Black Flag had been raised in Argyll and that an anarchist army of some 8,000 men was camped in Glen Coe where it would shortly be joined by a force of French Zouaves (about a thousand) which had landed at Oban a week earlier, claiming to be independent volunteers. It was no secret that the French had territorial ambitions in Scotland, but this was the most blatant act of support to the rebel clans they had yet given. It was putting a distinct strain on the fiction of the Entente Cordiale.
    “We do not want a direct confrontation with France for all sorts of reasons at the moment.” Colonel Collier fingered his buttons and the cuffs of his tunic. “So this must be handled damned delicately, Nye. Neither, it seems, does the present government want any military action against the hill tribes if we can help it. You’ve had dealings with these people before, I gather?”
    “I’ve some experience of the Highland clans, sir.”
    “I want you to go and talk to Gareth-mac Mahon, their chief. He’s a sly old devil, by all accounts. Used to serve with one of our native regiments. Learned all our tricks, needless to say, and took ’em back to the hills with him. I’m sure he knows he can’t beat us. Probably be satisfied with a few concessions. So find out what he wants and let us know as soon as possible. This is more in the nature of a diplomatic mission than a military one.”
    “I understand, sir.”
    “They’re plucky blighters, but it looks as if their virtues have turned into vices.” Collier stood up behind his desk. “It’s the same with their pride. They’re prepared to sacrifice all that they’ve gained under British rule in order to chase this chimera of ‘independence’. Even if they should have some success, the French would move in at once. Mahon must realise this. They call him the Red Fox, I gather. Because of his cunning. Well, he’s certainly no fool. Try to talk him round.”
    Captain Nye refused the offer of a squadron of motor-escorted cavalry and instead asked for a single small dirigible flying machine which might be loaned by the Royal Airship Corps. “Let us impress them,” he said, “with our science rather than our sabres.”
    * * *
    Glen Coe was glorious in her autumn colours. Her bronze hills shivered with white streams which fell from scores of sources high up near the crest of the range. The dirigible hovered over the valley and Captain Nye peered through the observation ports in the large aluminium gondola and noticed, with some satisfaction, the consternation of the Zouaves in their blue tarbooshes, blue tunics and baggy red trousers as they became aware of the green-and-khaki camouflaged monster over their heads. The shadow of the ship moved implacably across the camp, its steam turbines purring as a hungry leopard might purr while stalking a herd of unsuspecting and succulent antelope. Down the glen sailed the aerial frigate, just a few feet above the tops of the tallest hills, following the boisterous river upstream to the falls at the far end of the valley. The bravest of the French mercenaries (if mercenaries they were) took a few potshots at the airship, but either they missed, fell short, or their bullets failed to penetrate the tough boron-fibre shell of the vessel.
    Then the Zouaves were left behind and Captain Nye signalled to the captain to cut his engines to half-speed, for they were almost at their destination. The main camp lay ahead, a collection of semi-ruined crofts, hide