"
"Those newspaper correspondents, I suspect, are responsible," said
another general. "They let out everything, and the news, directly it
is printed, is telegraphed to Russia."
"That does not entirely explain it. They must be always several weeks
behind. I am referring more particularly to what happens at the
moment. Everything appears to be immediately known."
"Why, only the other day a Russian spy walked coolly through our
second parallel," said a French officer, "and counted the number of
the guns. He passed himself off as an English traveller."
"Great impudence, but great pluck. I wish we had men who would do the
same. That's what I complain of. We want a better organised secret
service, and men like Wellington's famous Captain Grant in the
Peninsular War, bold, adroit, and quick-witted, ready to run any
risks, but bound to get information in the long run. I wish I could
lay my hands on a few Captain Grants."
McKay smarted under the sting of these reproaches, feeling they
applied, although scarcely so intended, to him. But there was no man,
after all, on the headquarter staff better fitted to remove them. With
his enterprising spirit and intimate acquaintance with many tongues,
he ought to be able to secure information that would be useful to his
chiefs.
Full of this idea, he rode down that afternoon to Balaclava, the
centre of all the rascaldom that had gathered around the base of the
Crimean army.
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