A letter from Captain Forsyth (no longer retired) to his brother Clarence.

A letter from Captain Forsyth (no longer retired) to his brother Clarence.

Fort McMurray 1891, in the heat.

Dear Brother,

Once again, I write in exceptional circumstances. I am pleased to relate that I am back in colours, having been pressed back into service in order to answer an imminent threat to Queen and Country.

My initial mission was merely the delivery of a dispatch, but I suspect that ‘the powers that be’ knew that the fort was short on officers and that I could fill the gap on a temporary basis. With me is the erstwhile Dr. Phipps, that most excellent physician whom I’ve commended to you previously.

It seems the fort was suffering some form of malady, which required the urgent attention of a competent medico. Phipps was all that was available and with due respect to his profession was duly enlisted at the rank of captain.

Owen Hartwell was kind enough to join us on official business as a civilian observer.

Things at the fort were not well. Almost the entire officer class, the resident doctor and countless others were affected by a serious form of what I can only describe as a plague. An unknown disease that had a fair proportion on the brink of death.

Worse the local hill tribes were nowhere to be seen. As the major commanding showed me round the fort, he imparted his belief that this was because they were gathering to attack. Certain rabble-rousers were known to be in the area.

The fort, which I should add, is a fascinating Martian construction with many interesting features, including a high tower at its centre. This was the final part of our tour. As we stood on this noble edifice, I noted a green luminous spot on the major’s chest. As he looked down his final words were ‘pon my soul’, which is so apt in hindsight.

He was killed on the spot by some strange weapon, fired from at least a mile away. A precision weapon from a mile! Doubt me not for I’ve measured the distance, as my profession decrees.

Thankfully we were able to turn this evil weapon on itself and destroy it utterly. In fact, so well I could not later obtain any clue as to its nature, which is regrettable.

But this clearly foretold an attack on the fort. By virtue of rank, I was now officer commanding. I arranged watches and dispositions best I could. I confess less than 24 hours before I could not have possibly envisioned this situation. But here I was with a handful of friends and thousands of the enemy at the door.

Thankfully we were blessed with 4 experienced sergeants, who excelled themselves in the conflict, holding steady and keeping the men at it. We were attacked in waves. First the North wall where the foe was easily repulsed.

I believe it a faint, because the enemy came on most strong at the west wall. This time they reached the wall and in places scaled it. The reinforcements were slow to arrive in theatre, hampered by the layout of the compound, which was not originally intended as a fort. Indeed, some speculation suggests it may have been a monastery.

Regardless it was a fierce set-to and a close-run thing. So close indeed that I needed to act as a sharpshooter to pick the enemy off the walls. It would seem those skills honed on hunts in India still have value. Hartwell too fired well from his post on the south wall. He’d been kind enough to accept a temporary commission and take commend of the south wall.

Never-the-less we took casualties at a steady rate. I saw men carried from the walls, men I thought would be confined to the infirmary. But no, I was truly amazed to see so many returned to the ranks in short order, bandaged but unbowed, eager to return to the fray. Such was the work of marvellous Doctor Phipps. It helped stop us being overwhelmed.

I could have stripped the men from the other walls and had we been breached; I would have been forced on that course. But I knew the foe had more men amassed ready to assault those walls and we’d have been overwhelmed in a twice.

Eventually the enemy bodies piled up and we repulsed the attack, forcing them off our walls, but at a regrettable butcher’s bill.

As soon as that relief was obtained, the action switched to the opposite wall. Another assault, but this time easily repulsed. Again, I suspected a feint.

The real and final attack came against the south wall. Hartwell distinguished himself by shooting down the Martian that that was advancing on the gate with a bomb. Then he took down a party with a battering ram using a hurled hand bomb that I’d previously improvised. It was one of many make-shift explosive devices that I’d deployed to help our cause.

Finally, sensing the desperation of the enemy I did strip the east wall to reinforce the south. It was the fastest way to add firepower to that section. The enemy threw themselves at us relentlessly and came dangerously close to gaining the walls. But our men were magnificent, our repeated volley fire taking its toll and culling the enemy.

Meanwhile both Hartwell and I now noted the leaders at the back directing this foul action. There we trained our respective rifles and Hartwell struck a crucial blow. Bereft of leadership, unable to make ground and the casualties littering the ground. The enemy finally broke and ran.

We could scarce believe it. The troops all returned to station like a modern machine, but devoid of expression. As I surveyed the scene, it was clear that our assailants had been broken. I could stand my men down. Never have I given an order more gladly, but there was no joy in it or in the receiving of it. We were all too tired and too numb.

The doctor continued his work late and I believe saved a great many lives and limbs.

The aftermath has bought its own challenges. The paperwork is overwhelming. But more immediately we had to deal with a literal mound of corpses. We burnt those of the foe to avoid corruption, but counted their numbers.

Our own were buried with all due ceremony.

We found the remains of their strange and secret weapon, but it was so obliterated that no clue as to its substance remained. Their camps were uncovered, again allowing us to confirm their numbers.

Later the good doctor uncovered a bad one in the ranks. A foul individual running a contraband ring. He’s now in chains awaiting court-martial.

Hartwell tracked down an infamous steppe tiger that was preying on our native patrols and killed it on the charge with a single shot. He is now revered by the native troops and has taken part in a ceremony anointing him a hero. I was minded to forbid all this nonsense, especially as circumstances are again tense. However, the native troops were stalwart throughout, manning the walls and playing their part to the full. They deserve their celebration. Besides should not all races be given the opportunity to revere an Englishman.

So, I come to my current dilemma. A certain Miss Phoebe Carter-Lloyd, a journalist for Times Cormorant, has made her way to the fort. If you could enlighten on her pedigree that would be most useful.

In the interim having an attractive young woman suddenly appear in a fort of nearly 200 men has, well at the very least been a major burden in terms of distraction.

We have also had to play host to a German diplomatic delegation. Darned fellows arrived by Zeppelin. Damned if I’d let them run around the fort, they’ll have seen enough from their ship. It’s clear as day that they are scouting for the Martian misfits at Slapstash. I fear they may even be co-ordinating an attack.

I am sure that the Zeppelin released the cloud containing the disease that caused our officers to become sick. It’s a foul weapon that defiles honour. Part of the attack on the fort was conducted with repeating rifles. That’s one of the major reasons we suffered casualties. They were supplied by Cairo Munitions.

Now the Zeppelin carries aboard, I believe a Mr. Bill Badger, of Cairo Industries. As well as said weapon. Also, they have a Marconi device, so would potentially be able to talk to allies, perhaps giving advice on the forts disposition.

My dilemma is whether simply let all this pass and avoid a diplomatic incident.

However, in attacking a British column they have in effect conducted a de facto ‘act of war’. I’m not sure I can simply overlook this, especially as it was against officers and men of what is now, for the time being at least, ‘my’ command.

Other options might be to immediately impound the Germans and their ship. But unless overwhelming evidence is produced this could prove very controversial. Even with evidence, it would break the diplomatic norms.

I confess to dark thoughts of their ship meeting with an unfortunate accident, but that is not the British or honourable thing.

I feel a confrontation of some form is inevitable. Hopefully I can manage this in such a way as to pull the teeth from this threat, while avoiding a major incident. I doubt the Germans would start a war in Europe, but that has entered my thinking.

A mere army captain in a remote outpost, I have no experience of politics or diplomacy. Yet these are the things I have to balance. If you hear no more of this, then I have succeeded.

Your humble servant,

Henry