Agent Of The Queen

by Malcolm Archibald

  The words seemed to float above the barracks, a chilling threat to the security of Great Britain.

  “Come on, you!” The fusilier corporal grabbed Riordan by the scruff of the neck. “It's Greenlaw jail for you, you dirty Fenian bastard.”

  There was silence for a moment as the 113th waited for something to happen. The regiment had spent a hard decade campaigning in the Crimea and India to win a respectable reputation; now it seemed to have returned to the abyss.

  “Form up 113th !” Colonel Snodgrass shattered the hush. “Columns of four.” Flicking the reins of his horse, he rode through the gate, with the regiment following in a long scarlet snake. It was common practice in the 113th to perform a route march after an unpleasant parade, such as a hanging, and it seemed that Colonel Snodgrass considered the treatment of Corporal Riordan something best eradicated from the minds of his regiment.

  Marching beside Elliot, Jack tried to gauge the mood of the men. They moved well enough, with the veterans setting the pace and the younger keeping up, but there was a certain reserve he did not like. The men crashed down their boots, taking out their anger and humiliation on the road, ignoring the stares of the people of Berwick-upon-Tweed.

  From the barracks, Colonel Snodgrass led them across the bridge to Tweedmouth on the south side of the river, scattering the traffic and disregarding any cries of protest from carters or farmers. The men marched stolidly, prepared to shoulder aside anybody who got in their way, welcoming any confrontation. As a captain, Jack was glad he marched on foot with the men, able to share their anger, while officers ranked major or above rode their horses, unable to show their solidarity.

  The 113th marched in silence, with only the rhythmic crash of studded boots on the ground and the occasional grunt to accompany the clop of horse's hooves and the steady grumble of the sea to their left.

  When they reached the coast opposite Lindisfarne, Colonel Snodgrass rode his horse on to the causeway to the island, while the men splashed uncaring through the shallows as the tide receded. Jack watched the long column toiling under the weak English sun, remembered the regiment at Inkerman and Lucknow and shook his head. Memories were for old men, not for him.

  “An hour's rest,” Snodgrass ordered when the 113th halted among the dunes of Lindisfarne, “and then we'll head back to barracks.”

  Throwing themselves to the ground, some of the men produced tobacco or sipped at canteens that held anything except water. Jack watched Coleman and Thorpe cheat two Johnny Raws at cards, while one or two of the more intellectually inclined even spoke about the ruined castle.

  “Sir!” Sergeant O'Neill snapped to attention beside Jack. “I heard you were back, sir. Welcome.”

  “Thank you, O'Neill.” Jack felt a surge of affection for the sergeant beside whom he had fought in three wars.

  “Are you here permanently, or just visiting, sir?”

  “Stand at ease, O'Neill, for God's sake, we've known each other for years! That's rather a strange question, isn't it?”

  “Yes, sir.” O'Neill remained at attention. “Colonel Snodgrass doesn't like other ranks to relax with the officers, sir. His orders are that we've to stand at attention when talking to an officer.”

  “I see.” Jack nodded. “I'm going for a stroll behind these dunes, O'Neill. I'd be obliged if you would accompany me.”

  Jack moved away from the main body, with O'Neill marching a step behind him. “Now relax, O'Neill.”

  “Yes, sir.” O'Neill stood at ease. “Some of our boys were wondering what you're doing here, sir.”

  “I'm a regimental officer, Sergeant, doing what regimental officers do. How are the lads?”

  O'Neill relaxed further. “They're still with us, sir. Parker had a pet dog, but the colonel had it shot and then promoted him to sergeant. Coleman and Thorpe are the same as ever, Riley's still a blackguard, and Logan is Logan. Permission to speak freely, sir?”

  “Yes, Sergeant.” Jack was intrigued by O'Neill's attitude.

  “Thank you, sir. You're more than a regimental officer, sir. We've known each other too long for you to fool me.”

  Jack said nothing. A sergeant in the British Army was a fount of knowledge, cunning and perspicuity. O'Neill had all three in spades. He would know when something was wrong with the regiment before any officer, even an intelligent, experienced man such as Elliot.

  “Are you here to investigate the colonel, sir?”

  The question took Jack by surprise. “No, Sergeant. What made you ask that?”

  “All the lads know you work for the intelligence people, sir.”

  “What makes you think I should investigate the colonel, O'Neill?”

  O'Neill was quiet for a moment. “Sorry, sir. I spoke out of turn there.”

  The crash of surf on the dunes acted as a reminder that they were on an offshore island. At that minute, Jack felt outside the regiment as well as outside the mainland. “Out with it, man!”

  “I don't think the colonel is quite sane sir.” O'Neill flinched as if expecting Jack to strike him.

  Jack took a deep breath. “I would advise you to keep that thought to yourself, O'Neill.”

  “Yes, sir.” O'Neill stiffened to attention. “Sorry, sir.”

  “So, tell me why you say that, O'Neill. Between ourselves.”

  “He's treating us all like first-day recruits, sir,” O'Neill said. “He's got the sergeants checking everything the men do, and the officers checking everything the sergeants do. He's got every piece of equipment stencilled with the men's name and number and ordered daily inspections of barrack-rooms and kit.”

  “The colonel is tightening discipline, then.”

  “He's got a down on the older soldiers, sir. He hounds them.” O'Neill struggled for words. “It's as if he's trying to remake the regiment with youngsters.”

  “Colonel Snodgrass grew up with the old 113th, O'Neill. He was with the regiment during the Sikh Wars, before my time. Perhaps he is worried about this Fenian nonsense.” Jack left an opening there for O'Neill to step in if he wished.

  “Perhaps that's what it is, sir.” O'Neill sounded more guarded than Jack liked.

  They waited as a flight of screaming seagulls passed overhead. “How about you, O'Neill? Have you heard about these Fenians?”

  O'Neill nodded. “I've heard the rumours, sir. The boys have been talking about these Fenian people.”

  “Do you know who's been talking?”

  O'Neill shrugged. “Nearly everybody, sir. The Irish lads have been getting some abuse from the rest. I've had to step in now and then to keep the peace.”

  “Has anybody tried to recruit you?”

  O'Neill's expression could have frozen lava. “No.” His omission of the customary “sir” was significant.

  “If you hear of anything, let me know.”

  O'Neill nodded. “Is that why you're here, sir?”

  How far can I trust O'Neill? Jack pondered. I've fought with him through three gruelling wars and have had no doubts about his loyalty. But he is Irish, and other Irish NCOs have joined this organisation. But damn it! This is O'Neill! “Yes, O'Neill.” Extracting two cheroots from his pocket, Jack handed one over.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Jack was not sure if O'Neill was thanking him for the cigar or the trust.

  “There's another whisper going about that might be important, sir.”

  Lighting his cheroot, Jack held the lucifer for O'Neill to light up. “What would that be, O'Neill?”

  O'Neill inhaled before he spoke, with smoke dribbling from the corners of his mouth. “I heard that there's a mutiny planned for some regiment over in Ireland, sir. It could be complete moonshine, but after India…” O'Neill shrugged. “After India, sir, I don't trust anything any more. Or anybody.”

  “Aye,” Jack said. “After the Mutiny in India, anything that once seemed impossible could be possible now. Thank you, O'Neill. Did you hear which regiment?”

  O'Neill shook his head. “No, sir. It may b
e no more than the usual barrack-room gossip.”

  “That's more than likely, O'Neill. Keep me posted, if you hear anything else, will you?”

  “Aye, sir.” O'Neill looked at Jack through narrowed eyes. “I'll do that.”

  Jack paced along the coast of the island, drawing on his cheroot until Elliot sauntered up to him.

  “Well, Jack, how are your enquiries progressing?”

  Jack passed him a cheroot. “I'm not sure, Arthur. Sergeant O'Neill heard a rumour about a possible regimental mutiny in Ireland.”

  Elliot pulled on his cheroot. “It would be a good place to start.”

  “Aye,” Jack agreed. “The Fenians will be at their strongest over there, and opposition to British rule is commonplace, even expected.” He stared at the crashing surf, thinking that there was nothing between him and India except miles of water. The sea was a highway, rather than a barrier. “When I was an idealistic youth, Arthur, life seemed so simple. Great Britain was always right, Johnny Foreigner was always wrong, and the Union Flag symbolised truth, freedom and justice.”

  “It still does, Jack,” Arthur said. “The world would be a much worse place without us fighting to suppress slavery and piracy, ending the rule of tyrannical potentates and putting justice and the rule of law wherever we go.”

  “The Pashtuns may not agree,” Jack argued. “Or the Pandies, or even the Irish, it seems. Now that I am older, and I've helped defend the Empire,” Jack was not sure if he was talking to Elliot or trying to unravel the tangled threads within his mind, “I see that things are more complex. I see that imperial powers such as Great Britain are not always benevolent father figures, not all Britain's wars are justified, and not everyone views the Union Flag with favour.”

  “You might be joining the Fenians if you're not careful, Jack,” Elliot said. “I would not say such things too loudly, if I were you.”

  Jack nodded. “I know,” he said. “I've been thinking about these things for some time, so I am unsure where I stand now.”

  “Keep it simple, Jack,” Elliot said. “You've sworn an oath of loyalty to the queen; keep your word, do your duty and you preserve your honour.” Lifting a pebble, he tossed it out to sea, watching the resulting splash. “That's what I do. It doesn't pay to think too much.”

  Jack nodded. “That's probably good advice, Arthur.” He sighed. “There's our call to duty now.” He lifted his head as the brassy notes of a bugle floated over the dunes toward them, followed by the barks of NCOs.

  Jack threw his cheroot into the ripples Elliot's pebble had caused. It floated for an instant and then sank. Jack sighed. Philosophising was all very well, but it did not help at all.

  “Come on, Jack,” Elliot said. “Enough prosing. We have work to do.”

  Chapter Four

  BERWICK-UPON-TWEED, ENGLAND, AUTUMN 1865

  “Well, Windrush.” Colonel Snodgrass had greyed with age, and the whiskers that covered much of his face could not conceal the red nose that betrayed excessive drinking. “I can't say I am pleased to see you back.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jack decided to be as diplomatic as he could.

  “Are you still married to that Eurasian woman?”

  “Mary is still my wife, yes,” Jack said.

  “I'd be obliged if you would refrain from introducing her to the other officers' wives. We have no time for such people in this regiment.”

  “I am sure my wife shares your sentiments, sir,” Jack said.

  “What?” Snodgrass stared at him. “Naturally, you must find accommodation outside the barracks. There is no question of you living alongside the other officers.”

  “Yes, sir. I've taken care of that.”

  “I don't want you here, Windrush, let me make that perfectly clear.”

  “You have made that clear, sir.” Jack kept his patience. He had never liked Snodgrass, and promotion to lieutenant-colonel had only increased the man's snobbery and bigotry.

  “However, Horse Guards, in their infinite wisdom, has sent you and I must abide by its decision.” Snodgrass looked up. “You will be with my regiment until I find sufficient reason to be quit of you, which I suspect won't be long, given your history.”

  Jack allowed Snodgrass's words to drift past him. The colonel was evidently trying to provoke him into saying something untoward, thus giving an excuse to kick him out of the regiment. Dismissed from the 113th! Jack gave a wry grin. That would be a first as the 113th once had the reputation as the worst regiment in the British Army.

  “Do you find something amusing, Windrush?”

  “Not at all sir, I am just glad to be back in the regiment where I started my career.”

  When Snodgrass snorted, Jack could smell the brandy on his breath. “Career! You've been in the army since 1851, been through three wars and you've not advanced beyond the rank of captain, and that's as far as you will go, Windrush. You're a poor soldier and a poor excuse for a man.”

  “If you say so, sir.”

  Snodgrass nodded. “I say so.” He opened a drawer of his desk, looked inside and closed it again. “Horse Guards has asked me to send a company over to Charles Fort. I'd been wondering who to exile until you came along.” Snodgrass gave a bleak smile. “Maybe you'll be useful after all, Windrush, my worst officer leading a company of misfits. You're dismissed, Windrush. Go and take charge of F Company. I'm sure you'll feel at home with them.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you for your consideration.” Charles Fort? Where the devil is Charles Fort? Jack thought.

  * * *

  Every regiment had its awkward squad, and F Company was as awkward as any that Jack had encountered. He found them on the parade square, floundering with the basics under the frustrated eye of Sergeant Parker, a man Jack remembered as a private in India.

  I've to take these unwanted misfits to Charles Fort, wherever that may be, he mused.

  “How are they shaping up, sergeant?”

  “They're horrible, sir, just horrible.” Parker's Liverpool accent had thickened rather than softened in the years since Jack had last known him. “They can't tell their left from their right, so I've stuck a bit of hay on their left boot and a wisp of straw on their right, and found out they don't know the difference between hay and straw either!” Parker shook his head and raised his voice to a bellow.

  “Right! We'll try again. You march by putting one foot before the other. After me! Follow what I do!” Parker lifted his left foot. “Look! Hay foot! Then straw foot! Hay foot! Straw foot!” He shook his head and turned back to Jack. “I heard we're off to Charles Fort, sir. Is that true?”

  “It is, Parker.”

  “We'd better get this lot up to scratch then. I don't like to think of them loose in Ireland.” Parker shook his head.

  “Ireland?”

  “Yes, sir. Charles Fort is in County Cork,” Parker said.

  “So it is,” Jack said, his mind racing. Colonel Snodgrass was sending him into the lion's den.

  Parker shook his head ruefully. “Some time, sir, I'll request a transfer to B Company. That's the place to be.”

  “Why is that, Sergeant Parker?”

  Parker shrugged. “I don't know, sir. B Company seems to attract the best soldiers.”

  “How about our lads from the old days, Parker? Riley, Logan, Thorpe and the rest?”

  Parker grinned. “They avoid B Company as if it's got the cholera, sir. They're old enough soldiers to keep out of trouble, mostly.”

  Jack watched F Company shambling as Parker grew increasingly frustrated. “I'll take over for a few moments, sergeant.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Parker stepped smartly aside. “Good luck, sir.”

  “Right, lads.” Jack surveyed the 63 men of F Company. “Stand easy.” He kept his voice conversational. “I don't know you, and you probably don't want to know me, but we'll soon put that right. I am Captain Jack Windrush, your new company commander.”

  Some of the men glanced up at the name while others continued to look blank. They
were the usual collection of Johnny Raws and the hopeless, a mixture of very young boys from the city slums, village ne'er-do-wells, dull-eyed country labourers, men escaping poverty or an unwanted woman and old soldiers soaked in drink and broken by painful experiences.

  “Those of you who are recruits will be wondering what you've got yourself into. Well, let me tell you that you've joined the finest regiment in the British Army.” Jack saw the surprise on a few faces. “Ah, did you think the Guards were the best? Or the 93rd Highlanders of the Thin Red Line? The Royal Malverns, perhaps?” Jack laughed to show his scorn for such ideas. “Let me ask you some questions.”

  The men stared ahead, confused.

  “Who held the line at Inkerman, when we threw back five times our numbers of Russians?”

  Nobody answered.

  “The 113th did,” Jack told them.

  “Who outfought the Cossacks outside the walls of Sebastopol?”

  Again there was silence although one boy hesitantly held up his hand as if he were still at school.

  “The 113th did!” Jack answered his question. “Who was among the first into Cawnpore and Lucknow?”

  “The 113th?” The boy with the raised hand hazarded a guess.

  “That's right, Private! The 113th was!” Jack pointed at the man on the extreme left, and gradually moved until he had indicated each man in the company, ensuring they all met his gaze. “The 113th left the Crimea and India as heroes and you men are the next heroes. You are the next to win the Victoria Cross, you are the next to have women flocking to you on your return from a campaign.”

  Jack walked around F Company, adjusting a tunic here, pulling back a man's shoulders there. “You are new, raw and untested, as we all were when we first joined the army, as I was and even as Sergeant Parker was, once. Every day, every hour, you will gain experience, you will get better at your chosen profession until one day you will be in the firing line as soldiers of the 113th Foot, and then, by God, then you will show the Russians or the Afghans how British soldiers fight. You won't just be part of the 113th, lads, you'll be the best company in the best regiment in the British Army, and that means in the world.”