Kiwi Wars by Garry Douglas Kilworth

London to grease the wheels. It’s one of the reasons I came to see you. I was told you had a cousin in the Honourable Artillery Company. Abraham Wynter himself doesn’t seem to know an awful lot about the company – says he doesn’t need to know, just needs to be in it.’
    ‘Who told you? About my cousin?’
    ‘A Lieutenant Williams – you spoke with him about your cousin in the mess the other evening. You seemed to know a great deal about the HAC. What can you tell me? When it was formed?’
    Jack’s English cousin, Sebastian Whenteworth-Carter, was indeed a subaltern in the HAC, and had talked with Jack extensively regarding his good fortune on becoming a member of that unique military establishment.
    ‘What can I tell you?’ mused Jack, settling back down on his bed. ‘Well, the company was given its Royal Charter by Henry the Eighth, somewhere in the mid 1500s. I forget the exact date. It began life under the name of the Guild of St George – better known as the Gentlemen of the Artillery Garden – and its members were supposed to be adept with the long-bow, cross-bow and hand-gun. The HAC has always had a strong connection with the City of London, but so far as I know has no battle honours. I understand it had the unique role of fighting on both sides in the Civil War. The company hasn’t seen active service abroad yet and seems to operate more like a private club than a regiment.’
    ‘Really?’ said Strawn. ‘Do go on.’
    ‘The head of the company is known as the “Captain-General” who at the moment is Prince Albert, but it’s actually run by a body called the Court of Assistants. It sits more or less monthly and conducts the company’s business and civil affairs, but there are nine committees which sit under the Court.’
    ‘It even has its own church, so I’m given to understand?’
    ‘Ah, yes, strange title. Can’t remember exactly.’
    Strawn flipped back a couple of pages in his notebook.
    ‘I have it here, from Wynter himself. It’s a chapel, actually – St Botolphs-without-Bishopsgate. He did know that much, which is strange for a man who hates the clergy here for their stance in the Maori situation and professes to have entered a church only once in his life, when his mother took him to be christened. Wynter seems to like the quirky aspects of the company. There a Vellum Book apparently, which bears all the names of the members of the regiment.’
    ‘I don’t know about that,’ Jack said, ‘but if you are chasing quirky, my cousin has always been particularly taken with the regimental toast, called the Regimental Fire. It takes the form of a ninefold shout of the word “Zaye!” accompanied by side-ways movements of the right hand, and ending with an upward movement on the last zaye. Guests, of which I was one before I left London to go to India, are toasted with the Silent Fire – eight silent zayes, followed by a single audible last zaye which comes out with great force.’
    ‘As you say,’ murmured Strawn, scribbling in his pad, ‘the sort of thing that exclusive clubs employ. Good fun, really. Nine zayes, eh? Wonderful stuff. Where do they get ’em from?’
    ‘Well, I asked the same question of course, and I was told it’s supposed to stem from the movements and timing required to light the fuse of a grenade, but who knows?’
    Strawn, with extravagant gestures, dotted a couple of i’s and crossed one or two t’s, then said, ‘That should be enough. Thank you, Captain. And I’m sorry you’re ill.’ He stared intently at Jack. ‘You do look very pale, you know. I would check on those powders, if I were you. Don’t trust these natives. Some are all right, but others . . . well. I would get the stuff analysed if you can. Do you know any chemists?’
    Jack snorted, impatiently. ‘Yes, Mr Strawn, they’re two a penny out in the bush.’
    ‘Sorry, yes. Silly thing to say.’ He stood up and made ready to go, but then said, ‘Oh, one last thing. What about