Absolute Honour

by C. C. Humphreys

  Though each was most concerned with keeping their mounts upon the slick track, there were some minutes within a stretch of woodland when they could ride stirrup to stirrup. ‘Is this ford so vital, Colonel?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Absolutely. Allowing the Spaniards to cross the Tagus in force at the ford would split the Allied army in half and they’d be able to deal with each part piecemeal. They could be in Lisbon in a week. We’d have no choice but to submit.’

  What desire had Red Hugh confessed to in Rome? To do something ‘spectacular’? Jack grimaced. Losing England a war would certainly be that!

  They emerged from the wood to the rain’s sudden cessation, and the subsequent shredding of clouds let a bulbous full moon poke through. Yet it was a good hour after their mounting before the troop reined in atop a slight rise and all could gaze down upon the fort three hundred paces away.

  ‘Not bad,’ said Burgoyne. ‘Someone’s been reading their Müller.’

  ‘Sir?’ queried Jack.

  ‘Elements of Fortification.’ Burgoyne pointed. ‘Starpoint earthworks, probably faced with logs. A ravelin above a front trench. Detached bastions behind. They’ve even erected roofs to keep the gunners’ powder dry.’ He sighed. ‘Quite good. Be a shame to hand it over to the enemy.’ He dismounted, began to lead his horse back over the rise, out of sight of the fort. ‘Conference, gentlemen.’

  It was quickly decided. Somerville to wait with the troop, watch for a waved torch at the rear bastion’s brazier and then come fast. Jack and two men to go in first.

  ‘A troop galloping up will spook any aspiring mutineers and I wish to take them alive. We must learn how advanced this plot is because the two Irish regiments make up one-third of British infantry strength and it would not do to lose them. Cut out the cancer and the whole may be saved.’ He smiled. ‘Shall we?’

  ‘We, sir?’ asked Jack. ‘You are coming?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ replied Burgoyne. ‘I outrank Colonel Traherne and may need to remind him so.’

  Jack selected his two volunteers, the inevitable Puxley and Worsley, and the four men spurred over the rise and down to the fort’s rear gate. No challenge came, even though the party was perfectly visible in the moonlight. This caused Burgoyne to tsk several times and, when they reined in before the wooden doors, to call quite angrily, ‘You there! Traherne’s! Where are you, begod?’

  A face suddenly appeared over the wooden posts above, clearly fresh from sleep. ‘Whas’ sat?’ came the Irish voice. ‘Who the divil’s down dere?’

  ‘The devil indeed! What do you mean by not challenging us as we approached? Get down here at once and open these gates.’

  ‘And who would I be opening to, may I ask?’ came the grumpy reply.

  ‘Brigadier John Burgoyne. Swiftly, ye dog, or you’ll receive a lick of the cat’s tail before dawn.’

  The grumbling continued, another voice joining in and a second face briefly appearing. But the bolt was soon shot and the gates flung open. ‘Brigadier who?’ said the man, stepping hastily aside as the four horses were ridden in.

  ‘Burgoyne. And you are to take me to Colonel Traherne immediately, if you wish to keep skin on your back.’

  The second Irishman to be awoken that night was as grumbly as the first.

  ‘What do you mean, sir, by barging into my command at this hour?’ Traherne said, tucking his shirt into his breeches. He was short and stout, with curly black hair. His face was flushed with anger.

  ‘And what do you mean, sir, by allowing your sentinels to sleep? It’s deuced slovenly, let me tell you. What if we had been Spaniards, sir?’

  ‘The Spaniards will be coming from the water,’ the man grumbled, ‘not the landward side.’

  ‘Not when they hear you don’t keep watch.’ Traherne went to reply but Burgoyne over-rode him. ‘You ask what we are about? I’ll tell you. We are here, sir, to prevent a mutiny.’

  The man’s mouth opened and closed. The angry red deepened. ‘That is a damn calumny. I am exhausted by the insults you English officers heap upon my regiment. By god, if we were not at war, I’d—’ His hand went to where his sword would be if he were dressed.

  Burgoyne prevented any further discussion. ‘Do you have a Lieutenant Lawson here?’

  ‘Lawson? Of course. Recruited personally last year by my father, when he established the regiment. A fine, experienced man.’ He thrust his chest out belligerently. ‘We were lucky to get him.’

  ‘Oh, I am sure.’ Burgoyne nodded. ‘And where would he be now?’

  ‘Where all of us should be, sir.’ The man glared. ‘In bed.’

  ‘Then I wonder if you would be so good as to help us wake him.’

  There was more harrumphing as the man dressed, and a steady muttering as he led the party out of his room and onto the parade square. ‘There.’ He pointed to the last in a row of doors. ‘That is Lawson’s room, in the corner. He shares it with Lieutenant Treach.’

  ‘May I scout first, sir?’

  ‘Certainly, Absolute.’

  Drawing his pistol, pointing at the carbines in Worsley and Puxley’s hands, he put a finger to his lips then beckoned them forward. The barracks was built flush to the wooden ramparts so there was no egress from the rear but there was a small, paper-filled window to the side. Signalling that Puxley should remain beneath it, he returned to the front door, pressed his ear to it. A faint sound of snoring came. He turned, raised his eyebrows to Burgoyne who stood back five paces, also with a drawn pistol. At his Colonel’s nod, he gestured to Worsley that he should take the left, then he reached for the handle and shoved in the door.

  He moved straight to the right bed, to the figure he perceived, in faint moonlight, to be slumbering there. He lay the muzzle of the barrel against the flesh above the ear. ‘Right, you bastard,’ he said softly. ‘Wake up!’

  It took a moment. A hand rose to brush at the metal on his scalp. Then a voice came. ‘Eh? What …’

  Jack jerked back the covers, reached down, grabbed a shank of hair, twisted the head around. The voice came again, panicked, in pain. ‘Jesu! What are you—’

  Jack grabbed the back of the neck, dragged the man out, threw him down against the wall, into the patch of moonlight coming through the open door. Before the hands rose up to protect him from the gun that was thrust at him, Jack was able to see clearly.

  The man was not Red Hugh McClune.

  He spun, to the other bed. But Worsley had already checked. There was no one there.

  ‘Got him, Lieutenant?’

  Jack turned to Burgoyne in the doorway. ‘He’s not here, sir.’

  ‘What the hell is happening?’ The other officer, Treach, had lowered his hands, his voice loud in fear and a growing anger.

  ‘Quiet!’ said Jack, waving the pistol at him. He turned to the door, where Traherne had now arrived. ‘Any idea where Lawson might be, sir?’

  ‘Taking a piss?’

  It was possible. Swift glances revealed no chamber pots under the camp beds. ‘Perhaps we should all step inside.’ He went over, pushed the paper of the window out. ‘Puxley, come here.’

  With all of them in the room and the door closed, Jack turned again to the still recumbent officer. ‘Where’s Lawson?’

  ‘I have no idea. Fellow was snoring there when I finally managed to fall asleep.’

  Jack felt the sheets Worsley had disrupted. There was a hint of warmth to them. Then he heard something.

  ‘Absolute?’

  ‘Shh!’

  ‘That’s “Shh, sir”,’ muttered Burgoyne.

  All were quiet. Then he heard the sound again, maybe by some play of the wind. He recognized it. Not only the fiddle, but the song being played, because he’d heard it sung in the forecastle hold of the Sweet Eliza.

  ‘ “Lochaber, no more, boys,” ’ he murmured, standing up.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A Jacobite air, sir,’ he said as he passed Burgoyne on his way to the door.

  They all stood before t
he hut, even Treach in his shirt and nothing else. The wind blew and they listened.

  ‘There,’ Worsley said. ‘It’s coming from over there, ain’t it?’

  They followed his finger, which pointed to a low, long building.

  ‘What’s there, Traherne?’ asked Burgoyne.

  ‘Barracks,’ came the reply.

  ‘And you allow your men to sport at night?’

  ‘Don’t see any harm in it. Once in a while.’ The Irishman swallowed. ‘Shall I turn out the guard?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Burgoyne turned to Puxley. ‘Sergeant, would you go and signal down the rest of the troop. Tell them to dismount and wait out of sight in the lee of the gatehouse.’

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘Shall I scout again, Colonel?’

  ‘A moment, Absolute. I know how keen you are. But let’s have a little force to back your hunch, eh?’

  They watched the flare waved, and it was not even a minute before they heard the faint jingle of harness, a few equine snorts. Then Major Somerville appeared. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Our man would appear to be in yon barrack house. Is there another way out, Traherne?’

  ‘No. There’s loopholes in the walls, too narrow for a man. The front door’s the only way in or out.’

  ‘Have your men ready to rush it on my command.’

  ‘Sir.’ Somerville snapped a salute, returned to the shadows.

  The fiddle had increased in volume, or the wind had funnelled it their way. It seemed to reach a crescendo. Then it died.

  ‘Now, sir?’ Jack felt like a dog leashed in, the scent of his quarry making him shuffle and twist.

  ‘Not yet.’ Burgoyne took Jack’s arm, led him a few paces apart. ‘Listen, man,’ he said softly, ‘I do not know why you have such enmity for this fellow. It goes beyond the natural revulsion for a traitor, of that I am certain. I do not pry. But you did tell me once that it was to do with honour. Now that’s fine upon the duelling ground – but not here. Here we are dealing with a traitor who threatens our entire campaign, perhaps even the outcome of this war. So, though I would prefer it if he were taken alive, if it comes to it, you must not hesitate. You must kill him. That is my command.’ He leaned in till he could look straight into Jack’s eyes. ‘Is it clear?’

  Jack swallowed. He’d prefer McClune at his sword’s point. But preference gave way to his country’s need and his Colonel’s command. He nodded his assent.

  ‘Good,’ said Burgoyne, slapping his back. ‘Now go.’

  Jack strode forward, into the light rain that had begun again. There seemed little point in concealment now. If whoever was inside had a sentinel, the movement on the parade ground would already have drawn attention. If they didn’t …

  They did. He was at one of the loopholes, though he wasn’t facing out but in, too interested in the scene in the centre of the room. Jack shifted to another slot, a better view, and saw what so captivated the man.

  Red Hugh McClune, in the scarlet of King George, was crouched in the centre of a ring of perhaps two dozen men. A lamp was on the ground before him and lit his face in a way that reminded Jack of some of the paintings he’d seen in Rome; a moment caught and rendered into art, the surrounding darkness emphasizing the action of the foreground. And Jack knew that Red Hugh had arranged it exactly so, understood the effect he was having on his audience, just as he’d held the Forecastle Club of the Sweet Eliza, with Jack as captured as any. Except there, his reason for the beguiling was good fellowship, the passing of the tedious hour. Here, his reason was mutiny and Jack could almost smell it in the air. He leaned in, listened.

  The man spoke softly but even his quietness had a strength that carried. ‘Enough, Cavan? We few? More than enough, I say, and so we are. For are not the men ripe to be led by those they trust, their sergeants and corporals here assembled? Has not every son of Ireland dreamed of striking a blow for the Cause back on our blessed isle, where cruel oppression rages? There, though, it would be in vain, glorious, futile. Here, we have the chance to do something great. Something that could shake the very throne the Hanoverian has usurped.’

  A murmur came at the rhetoric, the men looking around at each other, nodding. Red Hugh spoke even more softly, drawing them in. ‘Now …’

  Jack didn’t hear what followed. Someone had stumbled out of the front door, wobbled a few paces into the parade ground. There followed a fumbling, then the sound of the man relieving himself, a hiccough accompanying the cascade. A punctuated humming began.

  Jack had flattened himself against the wall. He looked now at the man pissing and wondered what to do – for when he turned he would be bound to see Jack. He could fire his pistol and Burgoyne would bring the 16th at a clip. But there was more to be learned about the conspiracy, how many were involved and if Traherne’s was the only regiment tainted. For Jack knew that, once captured, Red Hugh would reveal nothing.

  Then it came to him and he acted at once on the impulse. He stepped out of the shadows and stood beside the man. ‘Evenin’,’ he said, in a soft Irish accent as he undid his buttons, ‘a wet one, to be sure.’

  ‘And wetter now for the pair of us,’ came the reply.

  Jack laughed. This close, he could smell the rum. The man barely looked at him, glimpsing, no doubt, similar red clothes to those he wore himself. Though Jack had started later, he finished well before but he did not button himself up until he saw the other man doing so, then turned with him and followed him back to the door, his heart thumping. He let his companion go in first and, over the man’s shoulder, saw Red Hugh glance briefly up. When the eyes returned to his audience, Jack slipped into the shadows beyond the lamplight.

  ‘The night after’s the one. A near full moon to guide our Spanish friends over the water, if the rain lets up. If it does not, then it will dampen the powder of our Portuguese artillery, and we’ll take the fort by bayonet.’

  There were grunts, queries raised. Someone was asking something in the Gaelic and Red Hugh answered in the same. Jack moved slightly closer.

  ‘Has anyone anything more to say?’ Red Hugh asked, again in English.

  ‘I do, McClune,’ came a voice, ‘and that’s, as certain as my name is Michael O’Flaherty, I reserve to mesself the right to slit the bastard throat of that bastard Traherne for the lashes he laid upon me this Michaelmas past.’

  This would have been all right if the man speaking hadn’t stood directly before Jack. And if he hadn’t chosen to kneel at the same time.

  McClune’s gaze went down as the man descended, a smile forming. Then it froze halfway. The eyes rose up and looked directly into Jack’s.

  ‘Shite,’ the Irishman said.

  There was a moment’s pause, just a small one, as the two men regarded each other. Then they both moved simultaneously, Jack stepping back and jerking the pistol out, Red Hugh throwing himself, still in his crouch, between the camp beds behind him.

  Jack cocked and levelled the gun. As soon as he’d seen him again he’d realized the only way this man would stop was when he was dead. And Jack had his orders. Aiming at the barest curl of red hair visible above the straw-filled bed, he fired.

  The blast broke the silence that had held them all. Men started like untrained horses, shying from the shot, making for the door. At the same time, there was shouting from outside, the sound of running. The entranceway was narrow, admitting only two troopers at a time, so four men met in the doorway, smashing into each other, the force from without stronger, as well as armed. The leading Irishmen tumbled back in, the rest scattering to the far sides of the long room.

  ‘Hold the door,’ Jack screamed at Puxley and Worsley, the first two in, though the instant clamour drowned all hope of hearing. He himself ducked through the throng, against the tide, towards the entrance, drawing his sword as he ran. Traherne had said there was only one way out. Red Hugh must come to him.

  Three more cavalrymen had rushed in but these bunched in the doorway, heads ducked as if anticipating blow or shot. They blocked the
entrance of those beyond for a moment. And above their shouts and the yells of the trapped men, a voice came. Loud. Commanding. Familiar.

  ‘Sons of Ireland,’ Red Hugh shouted, ‘we are all hanged men. But rather than dancing on a noose, let us dance our way across the water to our friends from Spain. For Eire!’

  Jack could not tell where the voice came from. But he saw the joint stool that accompanied the defiant shout flying from a crowd of bodies, striking one of the troopers at the door. He fell with a yelp and, on the instant, stools, buckets, a bed frame, all were being hurled. Puxley ducked, crouched, fired; an Irishman cried out. Worsley, who had dived to avoid the avalanche, rose, shot. Two more troopers came through, one immediately down, one firing. The barracks filled with smoke and shrieking.

  Jack had not got very far before the Irishmen’s volley of wood halted him, and he had thrown himself behind a trunk. Now he raised his head, just in time to see Puxley felled, scarlet-clad men hesitating at the entranceway and the emboldened mutineers rushing towards it en masse.

  ‘Eire!’ screamed the charging men, two in the lead using a bed frame like a battering ram, their force driving the troopers back. Men poured out to meet men trying to burst in, the waves smashing together, the sounds of furious combat instant, carbine shots, wood on bone, screams choked off in blood. Still Jack searched in the crowd, which was not short of red-haired men, for one particular one. He did not see him.

  And then he did. Not there in the struggle near the door but back, towards the rear of the barracks. McClune was hoisting himself up onto a roof joist from the shoulders of another man. Then he began driving a bayonet between the beams to make a hole in the roof.

  Jack advanced, the last of the Irishmen passing ahead of him as they surged to the door. A quick glance told him that most had got through it, were struggling, killing and dying outside. Before him, splinters of wood were falling onto the man who’d lifted McClune. He had a sabre in his hands and stepped forward now to Jack.