The two men stood to attention, with the youth clearly terrified and the older man stony-faced.
“I suspect both you men of being Fenians,” Jack said. “At ease!”
The old soldier responded at once while the younger man hesitated before obeying.
“What's your name?” Jack asked the older man.
“Stoakes, sir.” The accent was Cockney.
“And yours?”
“Freer, sir.” Sweat trickled down the young man's face as his eyes darted to Stoakes and back. “I'm not a Fenian, sir!”
“Silence! Get down on the ground! Face first!” Jack roared, and again Stoakes obeyed at once, while Freer hesitated.
“Stand up!” Jack ordered. “Attention!”
The men again stood in front of Jack, with Stoakes staring ahead and Freer trembling slightly.
“Sing God save the Queen!” Jack ordered and Stoakes began to sing, with Freer joining in a moment later.
“What part of Ireland are you from, Freer?”
“I'm English, sir.”
“What part of Ireland are your parents from?” When Freer said nothing, Jack continued. “How did you help Riordan escape, Freer?”
Freer gave a little start. “I never, sir.”
“You, did, sir,” Jack said. “Only two men responded to my Fenian order, you and Stoakes here. Private Stoakes is an old soldier who obeys every order without question, including my command to cheer the Irish Republic, while you are a Johnny Raw who hesitates after an order as you think what to do. You did not hesitate when I ordered you to shout for the Fenians.”
When Freer glanced at Stoakes as if for support, Stoakes remained impassive.
“You may go, Stoakes.” Jack waited until Stoakes left the storeroom. “All right, Freer. I can have you shot for treason or sent to penal servitude for 20 years. Or you can do yourself a favour and tell me everything you know about Riordan.”
“Shot, sir?” Freer looked ready to faint.
“If you're lucky,” Jack lied. “After a few weeks penal servitude you'd wish the army had executed you.” After living through the horror of the Indian Mutiny, Jack had no desire to see another mutiny of any sort, so terrorising one unfortunate young soldier was a small price to pay. “Be kind to yourself, Freer. Tell me all you know.”
Freer was visibly shaking now, looking around for help that would never come. Jack moderated his tone slightly. “Come now, Freer, I've caught you. I'm trying to make things easier for you.”
“He said that we were to free Ireland from the British.” Freer spoke through the tears that were suddenly rolling down his cheeks.
“Who said that?” Jack asked.
“Why, Private Riordan, sir.”
“I see.” Jack nodded. “What else did Riordan say, Freer?”
“He said that if I didn't help, all Ireland would loathe me as a traitor.” Freer swallowed hard, trying to avoid Jack's unrelenting gaze. “He said the Fenians would hunt me down and murder my family.”
Jack nodded. He had expected threats of this type. “Are you a Fenian?”
“No, sir.” Freer shook his head. “I'm no more a Fenian than I'm a Frenchman.” That was probably the most potent negative Freer could devise.
“How did you help Riordan escape?”
Now he had started, Freer seemed unable to stop talking. “He told me to light a fire, sir. The buildings are wooden, sir, and in all this dry weather, they burned easily. When the smoke got thick, the commandant ordered all the prisoners out, and I opened the clothing store and hid Riordan inside. When the commandant ordered search parties out, Riordan was in uniform, and nobody said nothing when he walked out of the gate.”
“I see.” Jack made a mental note of the prison's lax security. “Can you read and write, Freer?”
Freer started. “I'm no scholar, sir.”
Jack nodded. “How old are you, Freer?”
“Eighteen, I think sir.”
“Do you know where Riordan is now?”
“No, sir.”
“All right, Freer. Come with me and keep your mouth shut. Let me do the talking and for God's sake don't contradict anything I say.” Jack led Freer to the commandant's office.
“This young lad has been most helpful, Captain Johnston. He told me that he might know something about Riordan,” Jack said.
The commandant glared at Freer. “Why did you not come forward before, Private?”
Jack spoke again. “He's scared to talk, Commandant, in case there are more Fenians in here. He told me that Riordan escaped during the recent fire, and that when you opened the gate for the search parties, Riordan slipped out.” Jack was putting the blame firmly on the commandant.
“How does he know this?”
“He heard the rumour in the barrack-room, Commandant. It may be common knowledge in the ranks.”
“What's your name, Private?”
“Freer, sir.” Freer could hardly speak.
“Are you a Fenian, Freer?”
“No, sir.”
“Commandant,” Jack said. “This lad is no more a Fenian than I am. He cannot even spell Fenian. Listen. Spell Fenian, Freer.”
Freer stared at Jack through big eyes. “I can't sir,” he whispered. “I told you; I'm no scholar.”
“You see, sir?” Jack said. “I doubt that Private Freer can even define a Fenian.”
“What is a Fenian, Freer?” the commandant asked.
Freer shook his head. “I dunno, sir. An Irishman, sir.”
“I suggest Private Freer needs lessons in reading and writing, Commandant.” Jack said. “He's guilty of being young and impulsive and nothing else.” He felt Freer's grateful eyes on him. “In the meantime, I suggest we continue to look for Riordan.”
“Dismissed, Freer.” The commandant waited until Freer had left the office. “All right, Windrush, how do you plan to recapture Riordan?”
Jack gave a slow smile. “I worked with the Guides along the North-West Frontier, Commandant. Riordan has only been gone for a day, so I am sure I can track him in these low hills.”
“He may have gone into Edinburgh,” the commandant said.
“He may intend to do so,” Jack said, “but I think he'll lie low for a few days until the hue-and-cry is over.”
That's what I would do. As Riordan will know the authorities expect him to run for Edinburgh, only a few miles to the north, he will move in the opposite direction. He'll hide in the hills.
* * *
Ignoring the area immediately outside the barrack gates where soldiers and tradesmen had trampled the ground, Jack began his search for Riordan's trail. He was fortunate that the weather had been dry and there were no animals kept near Greenlaw, so, within a couple of hours, he found three distinct trails leading in different directions.
The first Jack followed led him a mile into the swelling hills before he found a distinct print of a boot. Kneeling to examine it, Jack shook his head. The impression was not of a military boot and could not be Riordan. The second trail led northward, crossed the Logan Burn and ended in a shepherd's cottage. Keeping one hand on the butt of his pistol, Jack knocked on the door, stepping back from the sudden barking of what sounded like a dozen dogs.
The woman who came to the door was younger than Jack had expected, with a pleasant face. “You must be from Greenlaw,” she said at once. “My husband is up the hills just now.”
“I am sorry to bother you,” Jack eyed the collie dogs that stood at the woman's side. “I am Captain Jack Windrush. Have you seen any strangers in these parts lately?”
The woman shook her head. “No strangers.” She gave a bright smile. “Except yourself. Who were you looking for?”
“A prisoner who escaped,” Jack said.
“Is he dangerous?” The woman looked at her dogs.
“He won't bother you.” Jack gave a small bow. “I am sorry to have disturbed you.”
With two of the possible tracks having proved false, Jack followed the third. To judge by the deep impressi
ons and length of stride, the man had been running in heavy boots, which was precisely what Jack would expect. He had travelled in a south-westerly direction, the opposite from where the search parties had concentrated. At one point, something must have troubled him, for Jack saw an area of flattened grass where the fugitive had lain down and a broad stretch where he had crawled on his stomach before rising again. Nodding, Jack moved on, knowing that here, unlike on the North-West Frontier, he had time to inspect the ground without some happy Pashtun taking pot-shots at him with his terrifyingly accurate jezzail.
Hearing the hollow thud of boots on the ground, Jack slid beside a wind-twisted rowan tree to survey his surroundings. The man did not attempt to hide as he stalked towards Jack with a Border collie at his heels and a long staff in his hand. “You'll be the Windrush fellow searching for the escaped prisoner,” the newcomer said.
“That's right,” Jack said.
“Aye, my wife told me about you. I'm Wullie Todd, the herd.” The shepherd's face was as tanned as any Frontier Pashtun. “Your man's at the Loganlea Waterfall.”
“Where is that?”
The shepherd nodded forward. “You can see his trail, plain as anything. I can get the dogs to round him up if you like.”
“Thank you,” Jack said, “but I have plans for this fellow.”
“Aye, no doubt. Loganlea's a double fall, with your man on the level ground between.”
“Thank you.” Jack strode forward, thinking that Scottish shepherds were as adept in hillcraft as the Guides. The shepherd had probably known every movement of Riordan, but as it was none of his business, he had not informed the army.
Jack heard the waterfall as he rounded the shoulder of a hill, with the burn gabbling over a shallow bed on his left. The fall lay ahead, a thin thread of water pouring into a pool, with the rocky sides furred by lichen and decorated with ferns and grass. Noticing the new scuff marks on the grass beside the burn, Jack checked his revolver, took a deep breath, and began to climb the banking beside the fall.
“Riordan! Is that you? It's Captain Jack Windrush of the 113th.”
The answer was a hail of stones thrown from above, one of which bounced from the ground a yard from Jack's foot. “Bugger off, Captain Windrush, or I'll split your skull wide open.”
“Don't be a damned fool, Riordan! You're already in trouble, don't make it worse for yourself.”
“Keep back!”
The next rock missed Jack by a finger's width, to fall with a loud splash in the pool beneath. Swearing, Jack took his pistol from its holster and hauled himself up the slope, slipping on the spray-wet grass. Riordan waited at the top, where the burn ran between the upper and lower falls.
“If you come any closer, I'll kill you.” Riordan lifted another rock.
“I have a revolver,” Jack said, “you have a stone. You're an old enough soldier to know you can't win.”
Riordan's voice altered. “Did you say you were Captain Windrush? Are you Fighting Jack Windrush?”
“That's right.” Jack shifted aside as Riordan threw the stone. It rattled from the side of the gorge and splashed noisily into the pool. Jack threw himself up the next section, slid, recovered and found Riordan waiting for him.
“I've heard about you.” Riordan held a rock in his hand as he stood beside the burn with the top fall a few yards behind him and the second at his feet. “Is this not small beer for you, chasing an escaped prisoner? You were a hero once. You nearly won the Russian War all alone.”
“I was never a hero,” Jack lifted his revolver. “Come with me, Riordan.”
Riordan grunted. “Now you're working for the screws.” Running forward, he swung a wild punch, which Jack avoided with ease, cracking Riordan on the side of the head as he rushed past. Riordan fell at once.
Perching himself on a rock with the burn roaring beside him, Jack kept his pistol trained on Riordan's head. “Now we know our positions, Riordan, you can answer some questions for me.”
Sitting up, Riordan spat at him. “Not a chance.”
“I thought you might say that,” Jack said. “We used to hang mutineers in India. We strung them up by the dozen and watched them choke to death.”
“You're a bastard, Windrush.”
“That's for sure,” Jack said. “Tell me, where are you heading? What did you hope to gain by joining the Fenians?”
“A free Ireland,” Riordan replied at once.
“Do you think that is possible?”
Riordan grinned, showing misshapen teeth. “The very fact that you are asking means you think it could be possible.” He settled down on a rounded boulder, his eyes narrow and watchful. “It worked for the United States. Anyway, you'll hear what the Fenians can do soon enough, Captain Windrush.”
“What do you mean?”
Riordan smiled. “We have men and women working for us all the time, Captain. You believe your bright scarlet regiments can intimidate with their massed rifles. Well, what if there were hundreds, thousands more like me? What if your pretty soldiers did not do as you ordered?” He leaned closer to Jack. “What if your own men rose against you?”
Jack shrugged. “If you mean the 113th, Riordan, I don't care.” Sitting back, he holstered his revolver. “They're nothing to me.” He watched an array of expressions cross Riordan's face as the man tried to work out what he meant. “Did you not hear about me, Riordan?”
“Hear what?” Riordan struggled into a sitting position.
“Evidently, you didn't. Here, have a smoke.” Jack lit a cheroot, passed it over and lit another for himself. “Colonel Snodgrass has no time for the likes of me.” He knew that the entire regiment would be well aware of Snodgrass's antagonism towards him, and of the reason.
“Because your wife is a nigger.”
Jack fought his surge of anger. “Because my wife is a Eurasian.”
“Call her whatever you like, you're still lying.” Riordan calmly puffed at Jack's cheroot. “You fought with the 113th in Russia and India.” He pointed the lit end of the cheroot towards Jack. “That's why they call you Fighting Jack. I know all about you, Captain Windrush.”
Jack pulled on his cheroot. “Why would I lie to you, Riordan? I have you at a disadvantage. I could kill you here and now and nobody would question me. No, Private, I need your help.” Something will happen in the 113th, so I must squeeze information from this man before I hurry back.
“Why should I help you?”
“Because we're both outcasts. You're from a country that is essentially a colony of Great Britain, and I'm not wanted because of my choice of wife.” Jack gave a sudden grin – he was physically safe here. After days in solitary confinement on bread and water, followed by a couple of days in the hills, Riordan was weak as a kitten.
Riordan's eyes narrowed. “Why should I believe you?”
“Why shouldn't you?” Jack exhaled smoke. “Where were you going, Riordan?”
“America.”
“How did you intend to get there?”
“I'll get there.” Riordan was immediately defiant.
“Oh? Do they pay you well in solitary confinement now?” Jack shook his head. “Unless you can work your passage, Riordan, you'll get no closer to America than Penicuik. Now, I have a proposal for you. I'll help pay for your passage if you help me.”
“Why would you help me?” Riordan asked. “And why should I help you?”
“Call it a mutual understanding.”
“What do you want?”
Jack forced a grin. “I want to join the Fenians,” he said. “I want to pay Snodgrass back for his treatment of my wife and me, and I want to get even with the British Army.”
“Do you indeed?” Riordan flicked the remains of his cheroot into the burn and watched the water carry it away down the fall. “And I ask again: 'Why should I believe you?' ”
Jack shrugged. “It's your choice, Riordan. I'm trusting you by telling you. All I'm asking is for you to put in a good word for me, and tell me who recruited
you into the Fenians.” He tapped the butt of his revolver. “If you refuse, I can shoot you.”
“That's not much of a choice,” Riordan said.
“No,” Jack agreed, “but I can hardly take you back to Greenlaw after what I've told you. I've killed many men, Riordan, men as brave as you and who fought for just as worthy causes.” Drawing his revolver, Jack cocked, aiming at Riordan's face.
“I don't know his name,” Riordan did not flinch as he faced Jack's pistol. “He said he was Irish, but there was something not right about him.”
“In what way?” Trust a British army corporal to know when a man was wrong.
Riordan screwed up his face in thought. “The fellow was too glib, sir. He knew all the answers even before I asked them. He seemed over-eager to tell me and not a word of humour about him. When an Irishman can't crack a smile, something's wrong.”
“What was he like?”
Again, Riordan considered before he replied. “Fairly tall, with neat mutton-chop whiskers.”
“How old?”
“About 35 at a guess, dark-haired.” Riordan shrugged. “Nothing special.”
“Was he a British officer?”
“No.” Riordan shook his head. “I know that stamp.”
“All right, Riordan. I'll look out for him.” Extracting a sovereign from his pocket, Jack handed it over. “That should help you out. Where are you going?” He asked the question naturally, as if to a friend.
“The Shamrock in Leith.” Riordan bit the coin to test the purity of the gold. “I'll hole out there until I can ship for America.”
“Good luck,” Jack knew he could be court-martialled and cashiered for aiding a Fenian and a prisoner to escape, but he had taken worse risks in the past, and now he had the description of a Fenian recruiter and an address where the Fenians might gather. On an impulse, he passed over another sovereign. “I might see you later, under the green flag.”
“I'll look out for you.” Riordan's eyes were as narrow and suspicious as ever. “Remember to duck when the bullets start to fly.” Riordan's mouth twisted into what might have been a smile. “It's your company, after all.”
Chapter Eight
BOSTON, WINTER 1865
Agent Of The Queen Page 8
