“Better than I thought he would,” Mary admitted, “and I don't know how I feel about that, either. He said that all boys have to go to school and he'll be back in India when he grows up. I thought there would be tears and tantrums.”
“Our David doesn't have tears and tantrums,” Jack said.
“No,” Mary agreed. “He doesn't.” Her smile was a little forced. “But I'll be having both the day we leave him behind. Are we going to send him to the same school you attended?”
Jack shook his head. “No. Brother William has his brat there, and the family knows the headmaster.”
“Is that so bad?”
“It means David will be bullied.” Remembering his early days at school, Jack shivered. “We're lucky he's blond and fair; there is less chance that bullies will pick on him for his ancestry. We'll send him to quite a different school, one with no Windrush connections.”
Mary pulled at her cheroot. “Do you have one in mind?”
The noise in the street was quite distinct now, a disturbance with raised voices and the crash of breaking glass. “I have two possibilities, one near here and one in Herefordshire.” Standing, Jack strolled to the window and looked out. All was quiet at the front, where the house faced the roadway around the city walls. “I'm going to have a look around the back,” he said casually.
“Be careful, Jack.”
“I shall.” Jack grinned. “This is England, not the Frontier of India. No Afridis are waiting to cut us up here.”
“Take your pistol,” Mary said.
“I'll take this instead.” Jack lifted his walking cane and tapped the weighted end in the palm of his hand. “It will be quite adequate for any trouble there may be in Berwick.”
Even after weeks back in England, the crispness of the air shocked Jack when he first stepped outside. The noise was increasing, a constant roaring punctuated by breaking glass, the shouts of men and the more high-pitched screams of women.
“Get the Fenian bastards!”
The phrase rang out clear above the general din. So the Fenians are here too, are they? Gripping his cane firmly, Jack strode forward, to come across a scene of uproar. Scores of men and women were struggling in the centre of the street, with soldiers' uniforms splashes of scarlet amid the general drabness. As only the 113th were in garrison here, the soldiers must be from Jack's regiment.
“113th!” Jack raised his voice in the old stentorian roar. “To me, 113th!” He wished he had taken Mary's advice and carried his pistol. A weighted cane was not of much use against so many rioters.
Some of the soldiers looked up. Most were too busy kicking and punching, or avoiding being kicked or punched. Swinging his cane, Jack caught a stocky civilian a shrewd blow on the back of the head and stepped into the middle of the crowd, still shouting. “113th! Rally to me, 113th!”
“Kill the Fenians,” somebody shouted. “The lobsters are all Fenians!”
Cracking a bottle-wielding man on the hand, Jack stood still. “113th!”
The smallest and ugliest of the soldiers moved to Jack's side. “Here, lads! It's Fighting Jack!”
Despite the situation, Jack could not restrain his smile. “Logan! I should have known you would be at the centre of any trouble!”
“Halloa there, sir!” For one mad second, Jack thought that Logan was going to try and shake his hand in the middle of a street brawl. Instead, he leapt high in the air and crashed his forehead against the face of one of the attackers, sending him staggering to the ground.
“Where's Riley?” Jack fended off a wild swinging fist with a sharp prod of his cane to the man's groin. The man collapsed, retching.
“Here I am, sir!” Riley was Logan's rear-rank man and constant companion, although the two could hardly have been more different. While Logan was a short, uncouth Glaswegian, Riley was a gentleman ranker with a background as a skilled cracksman. “We didn't start this, sir.”
“Tell me later!”
Two more soldiers staggered up, one bleeding heavily from a wound in his temple. He lashed out at a drunken porter as a bottle spiralled past Jack, to explode in a hundred shards of glass. Jack stood still as the soldiers formed around him, familiar faces and unfamiliar faces amid a mob gathering itself for a charge.
“How many of us are there?” Jack asked. “I see eight.”
“There were 10 of us, sir. Somebody felled O'Mara with a brick and I dunno where Jenks is.”
“And how many of them?”
“A couple of hundred, sir, maybe more.” Riley was as calm as if he was commenting on the weather.
“Here they come!” a gaunt-faced private shouted.
“Back to back, 113th!” Jack yelled. “Form square!”
The mob was gathering itself for a charge, roaring men and wild-eyed women, some with staves, pokers or bottles, encouraging each other with drunken shouts. Jack flexed his cane and sighed. Just 10 minutes earlier, he had been happily talking with Mary, now he was facing a shrieking mob. How quickly things could change.
The mob moved forward, circling the soldiers, with the women at the back urging on their men. A couple of bottles flew. Logan caught one, deftly turned it and threw it back. Grinning, he unfastened his belt and whirled it in the air with the metal buckle a potentially lethal weapon.
“Come on, you Berwick bastards!”
The sound of the shot made Jack start. That was a pistol! That alters things! Men and women stopped shouting to see who had the firearm.
“Go home, all of you!” The clear female voice sounded in the shocked silence. “Go on!” Mary strode to the crowd, pushing the nearest men away. “Move! You're acting like children and keeping my son awake.” The pistol looked huge in her right hand, but less out of place than the cheroot she also carried. One by one, the crowd began to disperse. “The next bullet goes into somebody's leg!”
“Stand fast, 113th, that's my wife!” Jack had never felt prouder as Mary strode towards them. “What's to do, men? What was that all about?”
“Never mind that now, Jack! You can't have these men filling the street,” Mary handed him the revolver. “Either send them back to barracks or bring them into the house. The police will be here soon.”
“Into the house, men,” Jack said, “and don't wake my son.”
Mary waved the men past her. “It's too late for that, Jack. David's watching from the window.” She stooped and picked up something from the ground. “That fellow you hit dropped this.” She showed a golden sovereign, smiling. “At least we got paid for our trouble.”
The soldiers, brave enough to face a mob a few minutes before, were subdued in front of Mary. Knowing her from the Mutiny days, the veterans greeted her shyly, while the Johnny Raws mumbled and looked at their boots. All crowded into Mary's living room, standing awkwardly as David stared at them, wide-eyed and delighted at this new excuse to stay out of bed.
“Right, you men. What's this all about?” Jack took charge. “I heard somebody shouting about the Fenians.”
As the men stood in silence, Jack singled out Riley. “You used to be a relatively sensible man, Riley, tell me what happened.”
“I'm not sure, sir,” Riley spoke slowly as he tried to work out the sequence of events. “Logan and I were having a quiet drink when some local lads began to shout at us, calling us Fenians. We had a slight disagreement and left the public, sir.”
“How many of them did Logan hit?”
“Just the one, sir.”
Logan's frown made his face even uglier. “He was a right forward bastard, sir…”
“Quiet, Logan, and watch your language in front of my wife and son. Carry on, Riley.”
“We left that place, sir. And we met another couple of our lads, so we banded together, sir.”
That was understandable. “Where did the crowd come from, Riley?”
“It was strange, sir. Crowds normally gather in small groups and merge. This one seemed to come ready-made as if somebody organised it in advance. They were all shouting
that we were Fenians come to blow up the town.” Riley stopped, glanced at Mary and looked away again.
“It was that bloody woman,” the gaunt-faced private said.
“Mind your bloody language in front of the lady, Johnny Raw!” Logan dug a hard hand into the gaunt soldier's ribs. “Did you not hear Captain Windrush?”
“Thank you, Logan,” Mary said, keeping her face straight. “I have heard worse.”
“Yes, Mrs Windrush,” Logan continued to glare at the offending private. “The captain knows some good words.”
“Pray keep silent until Riley has finished his account, Logan,” Jack said. “Tell me what you know about this woman, Riley.”
When Riley continued to hesitate, Mary leaned forward from the chair on which she had been sitting. “Come along, Riley. You've known us for a long time. Please tell us everything you know, or what you think you know.”
“I don't know about a connection, sir, but I saw the same woman in the public.”
“Who else saw her?” Jack asked. Riley and the gaunt-faced man lifted a hand. “Anybody more?”
“I saw a woman urging the crowd on,” the gaunt-faced man said quietly. “She stood at the back.”
“Could she not have joined in to watch?” Mary asked.
Riley shook his head. “No, Mrs Windrush. She was different from the others.”
“What was she like?” Jack asked.
“Better dressed,” Riley said at once. “She wasn't one of the usual women you'd see in a public house.”
The gaunt-faced man shrugged. “She was tall,” he said, “tall for a woman, with a bonnet.”
“She had a long coat on,” Riley added. “And she stood straight, like a soldier.”
Jack filed away the information. “All right, that could mean anything or nothing.” He nodded. “You lads get back to barracks; stay together and stay out of trouble. Don't react to any provocation and when you get back, report to the duty officer and tell him exactly what happened. And say I've already seen you.”
“Yes, sir.” Riley saluted.
“I liked these men,” David said solemnly as he emerged from behind the sofa. “I think it was that bloody woman, too.”
Jack waited until Mary had removed David with suitable motherly words and actions. “What do you think of things then, Mary?”
“I think you're worried.”
“I'm concerned rather than worried. I was told to watch out for mutiny within the 113th and here we have people calling us Fenians, just one day after we kicked out Private Riordan for shouting Fenian slogans.”
“They must have heard there were Fenians in the ranks.” Mary examined the stub of her cheroot. “I don't know what small towns are like in England, but in India, once gossip takes hold, it spreads around in minutes, with everybody adding their own little tale until what started as an argument between two children ends up as a full-scale war.”
Jack nodded. “That's probably all it is,” he said. “All the same, I'll have a look for this mysterious woman.” He sighed. “Women seem to be at the back of so much trouble. Do you remember Jayanti in India?”
“Be careful now, Captain Jack! I can deal with you as easily as I dealt with that crowd outside!” Mary narrowed her eyes, making growling noises.
“Hmmm.” Jack leaned back in his chair. “I'd best get you to bed, I see, and calm you down.”
“Oh, I'm anything but calm, Captain Jack, as you'll see.” Stubbing out the glowing embers of her cheroot, Mary put out her hand. “Come with me. It's time you did your husbandly duty.”
Jack sighed deeply. “The things a man has to do.” He dodged Mary's slap, lifted her bodily and carried her, laughing, to the bedroom.
* * *
Colonel Snodgrass stared at Jack. “You want permission to what, Windrush?”
“I'd like your permission to visit Private Riordan, sir.”
“What the devil for, Windrush? Don't you think you should be getting F Company ready for Ireland?”
“I have instructed Lieutenant Byrne to do that. He's a good man. I want to question Riordan, sir.” Jack remained at attention in front of Snodgrass's desk. “I should like to find out who persuaded him to join the Fenians.”
Snodgrass grunted. “I knew you'd be trouble, Windrush.”
“Yes, sir. Riordan was in F Company, sir. I want to ensure there are no more Fenians recruiting our men. The people in Berwick might not be the only ones doubting the army.”
“You have three days, Windrush.” Something in Snodgrass's look warned Jack to be careful.
Chapter Seven
GREENLAW MILITARY PRISON, SCOTLAND
AUTUMN 1865
Greenlaw military prison stood a mile outside the village of Penicuik, south of Edinburgh. After being built as a camp for French prisoners during the Napoleonic War, the army had retained the buildings for a less honourable purpose Now it held those soldiers who had fallen foul of military law, from drunkards to malcontents and thieves. Jack reined in Cedric, savouring the scented breeze and the sight of the green ridge of the Pentland Hills. After the mighty mountains of the North-West Frontier, the Pentland Hills were low and tame, yet he could not help but appreciate their quiet beauty.
The fusilier standing sentry came to attention when Jack halted at the gatehouse.
“Captain Jack Windrush,” Jack introduced himself. “Here to see the commandant.” He waited until the sergeant of the guard hurried up to escort him inside. Even as a visitor, the sound of the gates closing was forbidding, while the grim timber-built prison did nothing to lighten Jack's mood.
“This used to be a prisoner-of-war camp.” The commandant, Captain Johnston, was old for his rank, with deep grooves of disappointment around his mouth and grey hair at his temples. “It held thousands of Frenchmen when we were fighting Boney.” He looked around. “Many of them escaped, as well.”
“Did they, by Jove?” Why is the commandant telling me that? Jack wondered.
“So has your man Riordan.”
So that's why he told me. “How did Riordan manage to escape?” Jack felt a surge of anger at the thought of the time he had wasted coming up here.
“I think he had help,” Johnston said. “I can't think of any other way.”
“Help from whom?” Jack stood up. “Do you mean help from the guards or the other prisoners?”
The commandant shrugged. “I don't know.” It was clear that the man had lost any ambition or pride in his command he might once have possessed.
“I take it you organised a search?”
“I notified the local police and sent out three parties of men, Captain Windrush.”
“Did they find anything?”
“No.” Johnston shrugged again. “Riordan was long gone. He'll be halfway to Ireland by now.”
Jack held his temper. “How many searchers did you send?”
“I sent 12 men, all I could spare. I need all my men to guard the prisoners.”
Jack fought the angry words that came to his mouth. He did not know what frustrations Captain Johnston had experienced before he ended as a glorified jail turnkey. “Have you ensured that there are no Fenians among your men?”
For the first time, the commandant drew himself erect. “I am confident in the loyalty of my men.”
“I heard these very same words during the Indian Mutiny, Captain Johnston, before the sepoys rose up in fire and slaughter.”
“My men are British, not Indian.”
Jack thought of the impeccable loyalty of the Guides, Sikhs and Gurkhas he had fought with on his last campaign. Once more, he bit back his anger. “May I speak to your men, Commandant?”
“Who the devil do you think you are, Captain?”
That's better; at least the fellow is showing some spirit. “I am an officer of Her Majesty, Commandant Johnston, just as you are,” Jack said. “I have the advantage that your men do not know me. I think it would help both of us if I speak to them. Do I have your permission?”
T
he commandant sighed and looked away with his momentary defiance already gone. “Yes, Captain Windrush, if you think it might help.”
“You can lock the prisoners in their cells in the meantime,” Jack said.
After leaving a minimum of men to guard the prisoners, the garrison gathered in the square. Behind them stood the jail, a symbol of dishonour and confinement. Before them rose the slopes of the Pentland Hills and, in between, the figures of Commandant Johnston and Captain Jack Windrush, nutmeg-brown from long service overseas, with his sword at his belt and pistol in its holster. The men stood to attention, uneasy under Jack's steady scrutiny, some badly shaved, and others with dirty equipment. Jack understood their disgruntlement – these men wanted to be soldiers, not prison guards. They were the usual mixture of the intelligent and the slow-witted, the old soldier steeped in drink and the Johnny Raw who wondered why he had volunteered.
After a few moments of scrutiny, Jack slowly paced the length of the ranks, counting the men without saying a word. Up above, a parliament of rooks winged past, to land on the field immediately outside the prison, their black plumage seemingly fitting for this dismal place.
“Well, my lads.” Jack broke the uneasy silence. “I came here to talk to one of your prisoners, and you've let him go free.”
Some of the men stiffened, others wavered a little. Jack paced back again, allowing the tension to mount until he suddenly shouted: “Give three cheers for the Irish Republic!” While most of the men stared at him in confusion, two opened their mouths to respond, closing them abruptly when they realised what they were doing.
Jack indicated the two men. “You two remain. The rest, dismiss.”
Waiting until others had gratefully returned to its duties, Jack walked to the two men. One was a youth still in his teens, scarred by acne, the other a dark visaged old soldier with the marks of alcohol in his swollen nose. “Follow me.” Jack led them to one of the storehouses at the side of the square, his boots crunching on the hard ground. “In here.” He opened the door and motioned them inside. The interior was cool and gloomy. “Stand there.” Jack pointed to a space between piled-up boxes.
Agent Of The Queen Page 7
