Jack stepped back. Although he did not expect spontaneous applause for his speech, he had hoped for some reaction, rather than the blank stares he received. Army recruits were usually bewildered and lost but this group seemed to lack even the basics of human communication.
“Right, sergeant,” Jack turned to Parker, hoping his words might encourage the men, “take over these fine soldiers.” He wandered back towards the officer's mess. The Irish officer who had ejected Private Riordan was there, talking to a young and slightly diffident ensign.
“Jack Windrush,” Jack introduced himself. “Fresh from India.”
“Lieutenant Byrne.” The Irishman held out a welcoming hand. “Your reputation precedes you, Captain Windrush. Major Elliot has told us all about your exploits at Lucknow and before Sebastopol!”
“All highly exaggerated, I'm sure,” Jack said. He nodded to the ensign who coloured bright scarlet and stared in response. “And you are?” Jack prompted.
“Ensign Peter Snodgrass, sir.” Ensign Snodgrass put out his hand, retracted it again, decided he had been correct the first time and thrust it out so quickly that he jabbed his fingers into Jack's stomach. “Oh, God, I'm sorry, sir.”
“It's all right, Ensign, There's no harm done.” Jack tried to calm the boy down.
Ensign Snodgrass opened and closed his mouth twice before he spoke. “Major Elliot told us about you, sir. Major Elliot said you had fought all through the Crimea and the Mutiny.”
“Major Elliot was with me every step of the way, Ensign, and so were most of the 113th and tens of thousands of others.” Jack said gently. “There is no need to call me sir in the mess, Snodgrass. We're all equals in here, all officers of the 113th Foot.”
“Yes, sir,” Ensign Snodgrass said.
“Yes, Windrush,” Jack corrected him. “Or yes, Jack, if you prefer.” He withdrew a step before the boy collapsed in hero-worship. “Byrne, a minute, if you please.”
With Ensign Snodgrass sitting in a corner still staring, Jack propelled Byrne to a table. “I wish to talk about that little scene we witnessed yesterday.”
“You mean Riordan the Fenian?”
Jack sipped at his whisky. “Exactly so, Riordan the Fenian. Have you found any other Fenians in this regiment?”
“Very few, Windrush.” Byrne spoke with confidence as he accepted a brandy from the mess waiter. “That's only the second case this year.”
“What happened to the last fellow?”
Byrne shrugged. “Two dozen of the cat and a year's hard labour. He was caught trying to convert others.”
“I've heard of similar cases in other regiments,” Jack said. “Men of the 4th Dragoons and two men of the 58th in Dublin in December last year, a drum-major of the 2nd Queen's and a sergeant of the 99th in September this year,” he shrugged. “The Fenian Brotherhood is a dangerous group.”
“It's all of that.” Byrne leaned back in his chair. “It's a worrying trend, Windrush. I've heard a rumour that the Army of the Potomac in the United States is sending 50 officers to Ireland to train up discontented men to fight against us.” He took a sip at his brandy. “If that weren't bad enough, there are said to be more than 200,000 Fenians in the United States.”
Jack noted Byrne's use of the term “us” to describe Britain. “As many as that! That's a fair number of fighting Irishmen. I don't suppose anybody has ever approached you, though.”
“Why should they?” Byrne asked, lifting his chin. “I'm a British officer.”
“Why, indeed? Nobody's asked me, either!” Jack became aware that Ensign Snodgrass was still staring at him. “Come and join us, Ensign.”
“Thank you, sir.” Ensign Snodgrass scrambled over. “Sorry, I mean thank you, Windrush.”
“That's better,” Jack said. “Don't worry; you'll get there. What did you think of that little ceremony with Private Riordan, Ensign?”
“It was terrible,” Ensign Snodgrass exclaimed. “Imagine a Fenian in our regiment. We should have shot him, sir!”
Jack grunted. “You have no Fenian notions then, Ensign?” He winked at Byrne. “You don't wish to join the Brotherhood?”
“No, sir! I'm not even Irish, sir!”
“I am,” Byrne said dryly.
“Yes, sir, but you're loyal. I mean, you're an officer.”
“I like to think so.” Byrne said.
“I heard that Lieutenant Flynn was equally loyal.” Jack spoke casually, nursing his whisky. “And equally Irish.”
Byrne's smile weakened. “I hope you are not insinuating that officers can't be trusted if they are Irish.”
Jack forced a smile. “Some of the bravest and best men I ever fought alongside were Irish,” he said. “I was with the Connaught Rangers at the Redan.”
“Not all Irish are Fenians.” Byrne stood up abruptly. “Excuse me, Captain Windrush.”
Jack watched Byrne stride out of the Mess. I dislike this spying business, being suspicious of anybody of any rank. The sooner I'm back to being a regimental officer, the better I will like it. He sipped at his whisky, hating himself for what he had to do.
“Sir,” Ensign Snodgrass said. “Captain Windrush.”
“Speak, fellow officer,” Jack said, “or for ever hold your peace. What troubles your young mind?”
“Is it true that you're going to Ireland, Captain Windrush?” Ensign Snodgrass asked.
“Yes, Snodgrass. I am taking F Company to Charles Fort in County Cork.”
“Sir, Captain, Windrush.” Ensign Snodgrass hesitated. “Could I transfer to your company, sir?”
Jack stopped with his glass halfway to his lips. “F Company is raw, Ensign. The men can be difficult to handle. Would you not be better learning your trade with a more established company? B Company, say?”
“I want to be a real soldier, sir. I don't want to sit in an English garrison town all my life. Why, Captain Windrush, when you were an ensign, you shipped right out to the Burmese war and captured Rangoon.”
“A few others were involved, Ensign.” Jack gave a grave nod. “There was some stiff fighting before we won that war.” He remembered the humidity along the rivers, the men dying of fever and dropping from heat exhaustion in the jungle. “War isn't all glory and triumph, but if you put in a transfer request, Ensign, we'll see what we can do.”
Now I'm away to Ireland with the worst company in the regiment. What the devil will Mary say about that?
Chapter Five
BOSTON, UNITED STATES, JUNE 1865
The tall man entered without knocking and stood inside the door. “Call me Walsh.” He kept his hands deep in the pockets of his greatcoat. “Patrick Walsh.”
“Good evening Mr Walsh,” the bearded man at the head of the table said. “My name is General Thomas Sweeny. Close the door as you leave – this is a private meeting.”
“I know it is.” When Walsh spoke, the scar above his left eye visibly pulsated. “You are holding a meeting of the Brotherhood of Fenians.”
“The purpose of the meeting is not a secret.” Sweeny lifted a finger, and two men closed in on Walsh.
“Call off your dogs,” Walsh said. “I wish to join the Brotherhood.”
“Why?” Sweeny lifted his hand, stopping the progress of his men. They halted at once, one with his hand inside his jacket.
“I'll show you why.” Walsh removed his hands from his pockets and placed two long Colt revolvers on the table. As the other men watched, he shrugged off his coat, then unfastened his shirt, peeled it off and threw it on to the ground, followed by his trousers, so he stood naked before them. The scars were visible on his shoulders, neck and chest, and when Walsh turned around, even the hard-bitten war-veterans sitting at the table gasped. Walsh's back, from his shoulders to his calves, was a mass of white ridged weals. “The work of the British in Dartmoor Prison,” he said.
“What did you do?” Sweeny asked.
Walsh faced the gathering again. “I am Irish.”
“There would have been another reason.�
�� Sweeny was nobody's fool.
“To some British, being Irish is reason enough.” Still naked, Walsh lifted one of his revolvers and spun the chamber. “And to me, being British is to be an enemy.”
“What you say may be true,” Sweeny said dryly. “However, the British judicial system has checks and balances to ensure against such partiality. What did you do?”
Walsh hesitated for only a minute. “That is not your concern.”
“Come, come, Walsh. You seek to join us. You must tell us everything.” When Sweeny lifted his finger again, his two men took another step forward.
“I chose the wrong side in a war,” Walsh said. “They called me a traitor.”
“Which war?” Sweeny stopped the advance of his men.
“The war in the Crimea,” Walsh said. “I fought for the Russians.”
“Where about?”
“The Alma and Inkerman.” Walsh began to dress.
“That experience could be useful,” Sweeny allowed, “although we have many Civil War veterans in our ranks. What rank did you hold?”
“I was a major in the intelligence branch.”
“Impressive. What do you wish to do with us?”
“Kill Englishmen,” Walsh said, “and destroy the British Empire.” He sensed the approval of the men at the table.
Sweeny lifted Walsh's revolvers, reversed them and returned both. “Welcome to the Fenian Brotherhood, Major Walsh. Now all you have to do is take the oath of allegiance.”
Walsh's smile did not reach his eyes. “Good.” He slipped his revolvers back inside his coat. “Let's kill Englishmen.”
Chapter Six
BERWICK-UPON-TWEED, ENGLAND, AUTUMN 1865
“I miss India, and I miss Ayah,” David said. “When are we going home?”
“This is your home now,” Mary told him softly. “This is your home as long as Daddy is based in Berwick.”
David looked around the stark rooms of the house and pulled a face. “But I don't want to be here. Ayah told me once that the captain's little son will be an officer in the army. When can I be an officer and go back to India?”
Jack had a vision of his own ayah from 30 years before, with her sari and blouse, her nose rings and the tinkling brass bangles on her wrists and ankles. He understood how David felt.
“Where's Monga?” David asked, referring to his pet mongoose, invaluable for hunting snakes.
“Monga's back in India, where he belongs,” Mary said. “We gave him to the snake charmer to look after. He would not like this cold country where there are no snakes for him to chase.”
Jack remembered that snake charmer who once sat cross-legged for seven hours without a break, playing his flute to charm a six-foot-long king cobra from under the floor of their bungalow office. There was no need for such professions in England. Compared to India, England was a featureless country without character, where everybody complained about the weather and strove not to be different from their neighbours.
“I understand how David feels,” Mary said. “I miss the festivals.” She sat on one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs that had come with the house. “Even though they are anything but Christian, I miss the Hindu spring festival of Holi and the Muslim Mohurram when men dress as horses and dance around the gardens outside the British cantonments.”
“How about Kali?”
“I never liked Kali. She scared me.” Mary replied with a smile. “That's why I've ordered a statue of her for Netherhills. I want to give your charming step-brother the chills every time he sees her staring at him.”
“I've married an evil woman. Do you know what I miss?” Jack leaned back in his chair. “I miss watching the sun rising, pale pink and then red, on the great Indian plains, with the grass whispering for ever to the horizon and the scent of woodsmoke in the air.” He closed his eyes, briefly back in the land of his birth. “I miss the space and distance.”
“I miss travelling by elephant,” Mary said, with a slow smile. “A post chaise seems dull in comparison. And lying in bed here with the traffic whirring past is so dreary, compared to listening to the jackals.” Licking her fingers, she smoothed down David's blond hair. “Can you remember what the jackals said when they howled?”
“Yes, Mummy,” David snuggled closer. “They said: 'I smell the body of my next full meal! Where? Where? Here! Here!' ”
They both laughed although David did not understand the meaning.
Jack took a cheroot from his case and lit up. “I don't miss the hot season, though, and the prickly heat when you woke up drenched with sweat, everybody was irritable, and you'd give anything for a cool breeze.”
“There were some compensations,” Mary lifted David and stood him on the floor. “It's bedtime for you, young man. Off you go.” She waited until David left the room. “There was one occasion when I was a senior at the Mission School, and we were out for a walk in the hot season. We came across an entire British regiment bathing naked in a river.”
“That's shocking.” Jack remembered that Helen had first met him in similar circumstances in the Crimea. He shook away the thought.
“Mrs Cartwright, our teacher, thought so.” Mary was still smiling. “Don't look, girls,” she said. “Don't look – they're all males.”
“Did you look?”
“Of course I did,” Mary said. “Everybody looked. Poor Mrs Cartwright was going demented. “If anybody looks,” she said, in a very squeaky voice, “I'll give them a jolly good spanking.”
“Did she?”
“Yes she did,” Mary replied, “but it was worth it. It was the first time I had seen a naked British man, and there they were, hundreds of them all at the same time. The sight was better than any Christmas present.”
Jack grinned. “Good for Mrs Cartwright! You deserved all you got, you brazen hussy.” He glanced out of the window at the estuary of the River Tweed and the lights of Tweedmouth beyond. “I doubt you'll see anything like that in this river. The chill would freeze bits off the lads.”
“Now you're becoming crude, Jack Baird Windrush,” Mary admonished with mock severity. “But everything here seems so small in comparison to India.”
Jack remembered his impressions of India when he travelled across the country as a young subaltern. He had immediately felt at home with the immense sky and the ever-receding horizon. He remembered the scarlet splash of the gold mohur tree that gave invaluable shade to the village elders who passed their days beneath the branches. “I miss the nearly horizontal streak of smoke from the village fires at sunset and the tramp of cattle returning to the village through a film of pale gold dust.”
Reaching across, Mary took Jack's cheroot and drew quietly. “It's the smells I miss most,” she said, “the smell of the dying day. Do you remember the Sind plain at evening? Did you ever smell the salty land cooling and the ammoniac scent of tamarisks?”
“I can imagine myself there.” Jack closed his eyes. “I'm in an Indian village, smelling the woodsmoke, seeing the brief, sudden twilight and then that blue mist rising from the fields all around.” He sighed as the wind rose, sending a spatter of rain against the multi-paned window.
Where do I belong? he found himself wondering. Here in England, the land of my ancestors; or India, the land of my birth and my grandmother?
“I best remember the spicy, peppery smells from the bazaar, and sleeping out at night under the scimitar moon, and reading forbidden books by starlight.” Mary smiled again. “Until Mrs Cartwright caught us. You can guess what happened next.”
“She gave you a jolly good spanking,” Jack said with a smile. “And served you right. You must have been a troublesome child. Now you're a troublesome wife instead.”
“Well, you chose me!”
“I know. Do you regret my choice?” Jack was suddenly serious. “Do you regret marrying a man who brought you to this cold grey land?”
“No.” Mary shook her head. “There was a saying among us Anglo-Indians: 'If you marry the drum, you have to fo
llow it.' ”
“Aye. If you can.”
“Mummy.” David looked up from behind the chair where he had been hiding. “What's a jolly good spanking?”
“It's what you'll get if you don't get back to bed.” Mary stood up. “Come on, be off with you.” She chased him, clapping her hands, as David scampered away, giggling.
Jack smiled as he watched, but he knew that it was hard for wives when their men were in the army. With every line regiment spending some time in India or other overseas postings, officers' wives had to make a terrible choice. They could remain with their husband in India, or depart to Britain for the sake of the children's education. I still haven't told her about Ireland. I'll wait until I know the date.
Mary was laughing when she returned. “That's him settled for the next five minutes.” Stooping over Jack, she kissed him briefly on the forehead, slid a hand inside his breast pocket and extracted another cheroot.
“People will say it's not ladylike to smoke one of these,” Jack commented as Mary lit up and blew aromatic smoke into the air.
“People can go and jump,” Mary responded pleasantly. “Since they call me a blackamoor or a blackie-white, and many shun me altogether, Jack, do you think I care if they approve of me smoking or not?”
“Probably not.” Jack inhaled deeply. Even the scent of tobacco smoke could not cover Mary's perfume of jasmine that still excited him after years of marriage. He eyed her up and down, smiling.
“I know that look, Captain Jack,” Mary blew a perfect smoke ring. “Later, if you behave yourself.”
“I'll hold you to that, Mrs Windrush, and I always behave myself. Sometimes I behave well, other times, I behave badly, but I always behave.” Jack frowned as he heard raised voices from the street at the back of the house. “Can you hear that?”
“I can't hear anything. It will be cruel hard to say goodbye to David,” Mary said abruptly. “I've told him that he'd stay at school here if we return to India.”
“How did he take it?”
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