Agent Of The Queen

by Malcolm Archibald

  “Sir!” Ensign Snodgrass's voice was high-pitched. “We're being followed, sir!”

  Jack had been subconsciously aware of the men who dogged them. “Units of infantry are always followed when they're on the march,” he said. “People want to know what's going on.”

  “They might be Fenians, sir.”

  “They might be,” Jack allowed. “They might also be curious civilians. You keep an eye on them for me, Ensign, and let me know if they attack us.” That should keep Ensign Snodgrass occupied. “Make sure it's not more women after your body.”

  “It's not, sir,” Snodgrass replied, flushed, added, “Yes, sir,” before moving to the rear of the column.

  “Keep up the pace, men,” Jack marched alongside the leaders, confident in his fitness. “Double as if we were marching across the plains of India.”

  This landscape of southern Ireland could hardly be less like India, Jack thought. It was cold with the threat of winter, with a steady wind spreading fine rain from the sea.

  The fields became smaller and wilder, the cottages further apart. Jack nodded. If there was to be a confrontation with the Fenians, he wanted it in a quiet place away from civilians.

  “Sir,” Byrne said quietly, “Tradoney is around the next headland.”

  “Thank you.” Hurrying ahead, Jack stood at the entrance to a sheltered cove, where a flock of herring gulls sheltering from the wind was the only sign of life.

  “Halt!”

  F Company halted. Some of the men were panting, evidently unfit. Jack sought out the saboteur, who faced forward, stony-faced.

  “This will be a fine place for a live firing exercise,” Jack said. “It's lonely enough.” He nodded to the south, where the land descended to a pebble beach, and the sound of breakers carried to them. “We'll set up marks along the beach to ensure no civilians are at risk.”

  Jack's mind buzzed with activity even as he organised his men. The Fenians must intend to strike today, or they would not have tampered with the rifles but nine men, even with working firearms, will find it hard to face 70. Perhaps the men following us are not innocent?

  When the seagulls took reluctant flight, Tradoney beach was bare except for the 113th, a couple of bedraggled seals on an isolated rock and a score of oystercatchers where the sea met the sand.

  About to warn Byrne, Jack held his peace and altered his stance to observe the lieutenant. As an Irishman, Byrne was the most likely to have informed the Fenians.

  “Sir,” Ensign Snodgrass whispered. “Those men are still following us.”

  Jack swore silently. “Thank you, Ensign. Keep an eye on them, will you? And keep your revolver loose in its holster.”

  “My revolver, sir?” The ensign was trembling with excitement.

  “Yes, Ensign.” Jack raised his voice. “Sergeant Corbyn! Take two men and ensure no civilians stray into the danger area.” He would have chosen Parker but wished to have an experienced NCO handy in case of trouble.

  “You men!” Jack indicated the end section. “Set the targets up on the edge of the high tide mark.” He sent Parker to supervise, not satisfied until the targets were spaced correctly, waited for something to happen, and tried to watch everybody.

  “Line the men up, Byrne,” Jack tried to sound casual as Byrne gave crisp orders that saw the men line up as on parade, each man facing out to sea. If the Fenians were to act, it would have to be now. Jack unfastened the button that held his revolver secure in its holster. “Load!”

  “Up the Irish Republic!”

  Jack did not see who shouted. He only saw a surge from within the company as nine men broke away from the rest. “Up the Irish Republic!” another shouted as they formed a tight group, pointing their rifles towards Byrne.

  “What's happening?”

  “You Fenian bastards!”

  The company broke up in disorder, with men staring at the Fenians, some hefting their rifles, others waiting for orders.

  Stepping forward, Jack unholstered his revolver and fired in the air. The report caused a sudden silence, and three of the supposed Fenians turned towards him, with one aiming his rifle and squeezing the trigger. When nothing happened, Jack strode up to him and grabbed the barrel of the rifle with his left hand.

  “You've failed, private. Check the nipple of your rifle. You'll find a piece of sponge there.”

  The man stared at Jack in evident dismay.

  “The rest of you, drop your rifles,” Jack ordered. “The game's over. Your rifles are useless, and the loyal lads are fully armed. Disarm these fools, Parker!”

  “Did you know about this, sir?” Byrne's voice was brittle as he unholstered his pistol.

  “I knew something could happen,” Jack said. “I could not warn you as I did not know what it was.” And you might have been a Fenian.

  The spatter of musketry took Jack by surprise. He swore, turning around. “Down, lads!”

  “It's the Fenians!” Wildly excited, Ensign Snodgrass shouted. “Sir! The Fenians are attacking us!” Hauling out his pistol, he turned toward the gunfire.

  “You young idiot!” Swearing, Jack grabbed the ensign, but Parker was first, pulling Snodgrass to the ground and holding him down.

  “If the captain says down, sir, you get down,” Parker snarled.

  In the momentary confusion, the nine mutineers took the opportunity to run inland, some dropping their rifles. Still reluctant to fire on his men, Jack aimed and then lowered his revolver. The unknown attackers fired again, with the bullets spattering around F Company.

  Jack looked inland, trying to count heads and wishing he had his veterans rather than this bunch of Johnny Raws and broken old soldiers. “Byrne, take Number Two platoon to the left and outflank them. Snodgrass, take Number One platoon to the right. Sergeant Parker will go with you – listen to his advice.” Jack gave rapid orders. “Keep your heads down”

  “Right boys.” Jack waited until the flanking platoons were away and spoke to the men who remained. “Fix bayonets. We're going straight for their throats.”

  One of the older soldiers looked pleased. “Just like Inkerman, sir.”

  “You weren't with me at Inkerman,” Jack said.

  “I came up in support, sir, when you had the 113th colours flying.”

  Jack nodded at the memory. “Good to have you aboard, private; what's your name?”

  The man's grin was reassuring, despite his drink-dazed eyes. “Nixon, sir.”

  “Right, Nixon, look after the young lads when we go forward.” Knowing he would be an immediate target, Jack rose to his feet. If he were commanding veterans, he would have kept low, but most of his men were young and needed the reassurance of an officer's presence.

  “Up lads! Show them the bayonet!” With the familiar mixture of excitement and apprehension, Jack ran forward, not knowing how many men opposed him or how well-armed they were.

  Most of his men followed. One or two lagged; he could deal with them later. The ground was uneven under Jack's feet, with a dry-stone wall 50 yards inland, behind which he saw a dozen heads bobbing, with irregular spurts of smoke. A bullet hummed past him, the sound frighteningly familiar. Another burrowed into the ground between his feet, with a third ricocheting from a rock.

  On the left, Byrne led his platoon in a wide outflanking manoeuvre, the men's red tunics like smears of blood against the grey-green landscape, while Snodgrass and Parker were on the right, making heavy weather of their attack as some recruits held back.

  “With me, men,” Jack shouted. “Come on F Company!” He saw the powder smoke ahead and heard the sharp crackling of rifle fire. Something tugged at Jack's leg as he stumbled on rough grass and reached the wall, with white-faced defenders recoiling before him and the cheers of his men at his back. As always, once he was in action, all Jack's nervousness evaporated, allowing him to focus on the task in hand.

  For one moment, Jack clearly saw the Fenians. About 20 strong, most were dressed in ragged or very rough clothes. They carried a selecti
on of weapons, from modern rifles to Brown Bess muskets and simple pikes, with his mutineers spread among them, desperately trying to fire their Enfields. Deliberately aiming at the man who had attempted sabotage the previous evening, Jack fired his revolver. The man flinched as the bullet passed close, raised his rifle, fired a single shot, dropped the weapon and ran.

  As F Company climbed the wall, the Fenians fled, running across the small fields. One or two stopped to fire a final shot.

  Waving his men on, Jack followed. “I want prisoners,” he shouted. “I want the mutineers captured alive.”

  Dead men were no good, Jack thought. He needed to find out who was organising this movement. If he could find who was recruiting soldiers into the Fenians, he could stop that part of the Brotherhood.

  As F Company advanced, the Fenians scattered. Jack moved faster, aware that his men were not of the standard he would like. He heard a few shots and a lot of shouting.

  One of the mutineers paused beside a ruined cabin, turning to face Jack and struggling to fix his bayonet.

  “Up the Irish Republic!”

  The man's eyes were wild and unfocused as he lifted his rifle and thrust at Jack, screaming something incoherent. Jack dodged sideways to avoid the mutineer's bayonet and clubbed him on the side of the head with his revolver. The man roared, dropping his rifle. Jack hit him again, sending him to the ground. He lay there, holding his head; he could not have been more than 18 years old.

  “You two!” Jack lifted the discarded rifle and pointed to the two nearest privates. “Hold this man secure!” He moved on, with the bulk of F Company a few yards behind. “Form a line,” he ordered, drive them on.” Few things in the world were more intimidating than a line of British infantry advancing with bayonets fixed.

  Jack could see few Fenians now, only the odd man running into the distance, but when one of the less ragged shouted something in Gaelic, half a dozen of the mutineers and some civilians turned to fight, firing a ragged volley at F Company.

  Once again, bullets whined and spattered around Jack. “Capture these lads,” he ordered. “I want prisoners.”

  A man behind him gasped and fell, clutching at the red stain that spread on his upper chest. “They got me!” He sounded more surprised than pained.

  “With me, boys,” Jack strode forward.

  The mutineers fired another volley and turned away, to see Byrne's company moving in on their flank and rear. When the leading man shouted an order, they withdrew to a small, stone-built cottage a few yards away. The cottage's glazed windows and chimney suggested the tenant was a person of some prosperity.

  “Form around that building,” Jack ordered. “Keep under cover. Byrne, take Number One and Three sections. Create a defensive perimeter facing out, in case any more Fenians try to help their companions. Snodgrass, keep your men under control. Send Sergeant Parker back to round up the stragglers.”

  “They Fenians are going to fight, sir,” Nixon said.

  “Aye. Keep your heads down, boys.” Jack saw a thin wisp of smoke coming from the chimney of the cabin. There might be people living inside. “We'll get them out of there. Fire at them lads; keep them away from the windows.” He watched as a dozen hens scattered in panic. “We'll smoke them out of there.”

  “This is better than live firing practise, eh?” Nixon shouted.

  Using the covering fire of F Company, Jack jinked forward, to haul himself on to the turf roof of the cottage. Blinking in the smoke, he could see his men formed in two concentric rings, one facing inward toward the cabin, the other outward to block any Fenian counter-attack. His wounded man had crawled to the shelter of a boulder and lay there alone and bleeding.

  Voices sounded from the cabin, speaking Gaelic, the tones high-pitched. When somebody shouted an order, the Fenians began to fire again, uselessly, for a handful of untrained men, however brave, would never defeat a company of British infantry. Ripping up a section of turf from the roof, Jack blocked the simple chimney to prevent the smoke escaping. With the chimney smoke added to the powder-smoke and F Company's bullets, conditions within the cabin would soon be intolerable.

  Jack waited, ignoring the odd shot from the cabin below. He did not know Byrne well, but Parker had sufficient experience to keep his men under cover, while what he had seen of the Fenians' skill at arms did not worry him unduly. After a few moments, Jack heard the cabin door burst open and saw smoke billow out. Voices sounded from below.

  Removing the turf from the chimney, Jack pulled back from the smoke, pulled out his revolver and fired two shots down the chimney. The Fenians replied with a ragged volley, with few shots penetrating the turf. As Jack had hoped, when two of the Fenians ran outside to see who was on the roof, the inner ring of F Company opened fire, forcing the Fenians back inside. Jack flattened himself to avoid the stray shots that whined past his head.

  “You in there!” Jack shouted down the chimney. “You can't escape. You can either die or surrender!”

  “We won't surrender to you!” The reply came, so Jack fired three more shots down the chimney and rolled away to reload before the Fenians replied.

  “Come on, lads!” Jack waved his arm in the air, and the inner ring of F Company moved forward. As the Fenians opened fire, Jack again fired down the chimney. He could only imagine the result inside the house as his bullets ricocheted around, distracting the defenders from the approaching infantry.

  Rather than stay, the Fenians rushed outside to meet F Company, and the fight lasted only seconds. Jack slid down from the roof, stopped Nixon from plunging his bayonet into a cowering Fenian civilian and took control as the hens moved back towards the hut. Panting, Jack looked around. No more of his men had been wounded, with one dead Fenian and three wounded. The remainder stood in a sullen group, glowering at him with eyes filled with a mixture of loathing and fear.

  “I want prisoners,” Jack said. “Take our mutineers to one side and the civilians to the other. Sergeant Parker, my respects to Lieutenant Byrne and pray could he come here on the double.”

  “Sir.” Parker trotted away.

  Byrne eyed the prisoners, shaking his head. “You bloody fools,” he said.

  “I'm keeping Number One platoon here, Byrne. I want you to take the rest and escort the mutineers back to the fort.”

  “Yes, sir,” Byrne said. “Shall I take the Fenian prisoners?”

  “No,” Jack said. “Leave them with me.” He watched Byrne march the bulk of F Company away.

  “Right you men,” Jack addressed the half-dozen prisoners. “I don't know who you are, or what your purpose was in attacking British soldiers on British territory, but I'm going to find out.”

  “The prisoners stared at him, wordless. One spat on the ground between Jack's feet.

  “What's your name?” Jack indicated the man who had spat. He noticed that Nixon was waiting with his bayonet poised and a new light behind his eyes.

  The Fenian muttered something in Gaelic.

  “Can you speak English?” Jack asked. The Fenian glowered at him.

  “You may have a just grievance,” Jack said. “I don't care at the moment. You shot one of my men. In return, I shall kill two of you.” He looked for a reaction. The tallest of the Fenians said something in Gaelic. Jack slowly reloaded his revolver, taking his time for maximum effect.

  He pointed to the oldest of the Fenians. “Take that one around the back of the building,” he said. “Ensign Snodgrass, you stay here. Nixon, come with me.”

  “The Fenian tried to run until Nixon cracked him over the head with the butt of his rifle and nearly dragged him around the building. Jack followed, deliberately moving slowly.

  “This will do,” Jack lifted one of the hens by the neck. “Tie that fellow up, will you, Nixon?”

  Already stunned by Nixon's blow, the Fenian barely resisted when Nixon roughly tied his wrists and ankles.

  “And gag him,” Jack said.

  When Nixon complied, Jack wrung the hen's neck. “Now bayonet this
unfortunate creature and yell loudly.”

  Catching on at once, Nixon thrust his bayonet into the hen and screamed at the top of his voice. The Fenian prisoner writhed in his bonds.

  “You stay there,” Jack advised as he and Nixon returned around the building.

  “That man told us nothing,” Jack said. “Who's next?” He pointed to a sturdy-looking man with red hair. “Take that one, Nixon, and for God's sake, clean the blood off your blade. If you've got a rusty bayonet, I'll have you on extra drill!”

  “Yes, sir!” Nixon ostentatiously wiped his blade.

  The red-haired Fenian lifted his chin, spat straight at Jack and said something in Gaelic, adding: “Bad cess to you, Redcoat.”

  “You've got spirit,” Jack said. “We could do with men like you in the 113th when we next face the Russians. Tie him up, lads.” Jack anticipated that the red-haired man would struggle, so pointed his revolver at the other Fenians. The youngest, a boy who could not be older than 14, whimpered in fear. Jack guessed he had been brought up with scare stories about brutal redcoats.

  As the red-haired Fenian began to curse, Jack ordered him gagged. “Take him around the back, Nixon!” he said. “You know what to do.”

  Wiping the blade of his bayonet on a tuft of grass, Nixon grabbed the now-bound red-haired Fenian by the collar and dragged him around the back of the hut. Jack followed, deliberately taking his time. He kicked the dead hen across to Nixon, winked at the red-haired Fenian and smiled as Nixon plunged his bayonet into the fowl, giving a long-drawn-out scream.

  “He's not dead yet.” Jack pitched his voice high so the prisoners could hear it. “In the heart, Nixon, not in the guts.”

  “Yes, sir!” Nixon said happily and gave a realistic gurgle. “Can we do the young one next, sir?”

  “Why not?” Jack wanted to end the prisoners' sufferings.

  The youngest Fenian was clearly terrified, backing away as Nixon approached with his bloody bayonet. Surprisingly, it was the other, older Fenian who stood up.

  “Take me,” he pleaded. “Spare the boy.”

  “Why?” Jack asked. “Why should I spare him? He's a traitor to the Crown, and he shot at my men.”