“He shot at nobody.” the Fenian had a long face and steady brown eyes. “He never had a gun.”
“I've only your word for that,” Jack said. “Take him away, Nixon.”
“He's only a boy!” The older Fenian stepped forward. “Leave him alone, for Christ's sake. Take me instead.”
“Kill the boy slowly, Nixon,” Jack ordered. “Bayonet him in the guts.”
“Yes, sir,” Nixon said.
“I can help you,” the older Fenian suddenly said, sounding desperate.
“The only way you can help,” Jack said, “is by telling me who is behind all this Fenian nonsense. Who recruited you and who told you to come after my regiment? How did you know there would be trouble today?”
Nixon had been listening. “I'll cut him up slowly, sir.” He hauled the young boy around the back of the cabin.
“For God's sake!” The older Fenian started forward until one of F Company thrust his bayonet under his throat. “I'll tell you all I can if you spare the boy.”
The remaining prisoners glared at the older man, shouting at him in Gaelic. He replied in the same language.
“Wait, Nixon!” Jack roared. “Come with me.” He stepped away, with the long-faced Fenian following. “What's your name?”
“Regan. James Regan.”
“Right, Regan, tell me why I should not execute that young man. Tell me who heads this Fenian thing and who recruited you.”
“A fellow called Stephens heads the Fenians in Ireland,” Regan said at once. “That's no secret, Captain Windrush; all the newspapers speak about him all the time.”
Jack was aware of the name. “And did this fellow Stephens recruit you in person?”
“No.” Regan looked toward the cottage, behind which Nixon and the young boy remained. “What's happening with that boy?”
“His future depends on you,” Jack said easily. “Who recruited you?”
Regan was quiet for a while. “Will the boy be all right? Do I have your word?”
“The word of an English gentleman.” Jack smiled. “The English you don't want in your country.”
“I want you to tell me that you won't harm my boy.”
“Your boy? Is that young man your son?” Jack sighed, visualising David. “You should be ashamed of yourself putting your son in such danger.”
“He's my son,” Regan admitted.
“I won't kill him,” Jack promised. “You have my word, Mr Regan, as long as you help me. Who recruited you?”
Regan hesitated, looking towards the other Fenians.
“Think of your son,” Jack encouraged.
“You're a bastard,” Regan said.
“My middle name has the initial B,” Jack agreed. “Who recruited you?”
When Regan hesitated again, Jack shrugged and raised his voice: “As you were, Nixon! Get that bayonet ready.”
“You filthy bastard, Windrush,” Regan repeated, clearly near to tears as he struggled between loyalty to the Fenians and love for his son.
Jack took out his watch and opened the cover. “One minute, Regan, and then we carve up your boy.” He watched the seconds tick away. “You have 30 seconds… 15…”
“There were two of them,” Regan said. “If you hurt that boy…”
“What will you do, Regan? Swear at me? 10 seconds.”
“One man and one woman.”
Jack snapped shut his watch and raised his voice. “Spare the lad, Nixon.” He put the watch away. “Describe this man and woman.”
“He was tall and smart; the woman was also tall.”
Jack frowned. “Were they locals? Or from America, maybe?”
Regan shook his head. “Not locals. He might have been American. I had never seen them before, and the man's Gaelic was like nothing I've ever heard before.”
“Dublin Gaelic?” Jack hazarded.
“Not even Irish,” Regan replied, shaking his head. “As I said, he might have been American, or maybe something else.”
Jack remembered the Gaelic-speaking Highlanders in the Crimea and India. “Was he Scottish?”
“No. I know Scottish Gaelic.” Regan screwed up his face. “He was more foreign than that.”
Jack felt a prickle of unease. “French? Russian?”
“Maybe. Maybe he was French-Russian. I dunno.” It was evident that Regan had said all he could about his recruiter.
“And the woman? Was she foreign as well?”
“She never spoke to me,” Regan said.
“Did she speak to the foreign gentleman?”
“Yes, in English,” Regan said. “Educated English.”
“And she was tall. Was she plump, fair, dark..?”
“My boy…”
“Your boy is safe. Describe this woman.”
“She was tall and dark, and she clung to his arm like they were lovers.”
“Right.” Jack realised he would get no more from Regan. “Nixon! Bring the prisoners back.” He watched Regan's face as the supposedly dead Fenians returned from behind the cottage. “The British Army does not kill prisoners,” he said softly, remembering the aftermath of the Indian Mutiny and knowing he lied. The image of scores of men, mutineers and others, hanging by the roadside, haunted his nightmares. Please, God, we never bring that horror to Ireland.
“Let the youngster go,” Jack ordered. “We'll take the others back to barracks with us until we can hand them over to the civilian authorities.”
Chapter Eleven
CHARLES FORT, COUNTY CORK, IRELAND
“Somebody warned the Fenians that we were arranging a live firing drill,” Jack said flatly.
The assembled officers stared at him, wordless.
“There are two ways in which that could happen,” Jack continued. “Either somebody spoke by mistake, or somebody warned the Fenians deliberately. At present, I don't know which happened.”
“Are you accusing us, Captain Windrush?” Byrne sounded angry.
“You will remember that I called an officers' meeting to inform you about the live firing drill,” Jack said. “I specifically prevented any other ranks from attending. The night before the drill, I kept watch on the armoury and witnessed Rawlins, one of our pet Fenians, sabotaging the rifles of the loyal men. I corrected that, but somebody sitting here informed the Fenians. They knew about the drill and where and when it would take place.”
The officers shifted in their chairs, looking at one another in suspicion and denial.
“I don't know who it was,” Jack pressed his point. “Indeed, I don't even have a suspicion, but one of you knows.”
“You'll be thinking it was me,” Byrne said, “as I am Irish.”
“I'm not thinking anything,” Jack said. “I am going to appeal to your honour as gentlemen and British officers first, and if that does not work, then by God, I'll hunt the traitor down. His actions…” Jack looked at each officer in turn. “Your actions, whoever you are, could have resulted in all our deaths and lit a fire of rebellion right across Ireland.”
Jack's anger built as he remembered the scenes in India. “Some of you know the fruits of rebellion. The others are fortunate never to have seen a land where every tree held a hanging man, where wild dogs gnawed the bodies of raped and murdered women, where men distrusted even their brothers.” Jack stopped. “I'll not permit that monstrosity to come to Ireland.” When he stood up, Jack found he was shaking. He had never recovered from the horror of the Indian Mutiny.
“I don't take kindly to being accused of treason, sir.” Byrne was on his feet, straight-backed, with his eyes like stones.
“Nor would I, Lieutenant Byrne.” Jack held his gaze. “So the sooner this affair is cleared up, the better for us all.”
“What do you want us to do, sir?”
Jack looked over his officers. They were white-faced, some angry at being accused, others avoiding his gaze. Snodgrass looked on the verge of tears. “This is a new state of affairs for me,” Jack admitted. “I want each of you to search his conscien
ce. Find out if you could inadvertently have told somebody, anybody, about the firing drill. If you think you have, then come to see me in my quarters, or drop me a note and we'll meet privately. I hope we can resolve this affair amicably.”
“And if not?” Byrne asked.
Jack put a steely edge to his voice. “Then, by the living God, one man here is knowingly passing information to the Fenians. I will root out that traitor and see him hanged.”
* * *
Jack expected Byrne to approach him, so when somebody flung open the door of his office, he leaned back in his chair with the best appearance of calmness he could conjure. “Yes, Byrne?”
“You've got a damned cheek, Windrush,” Byrne started.
“Are you here to confess your sins, Lieutenant Byrne?” Jack asked mildly.
“You know damn well I'm not!”
“Then take a seat and tell me why you have come.” Jack produced his most disarming smile.
“I've come to register my distaste at your attitude and comments,” Byrne did not sit.
“Good. Now you have done that, Byrne, you can tell me if you suspect any of our officers of disloyalty. Quite frankly, I can't see any of them helping the enemy.”
“What?” Taken by surprise, as Jack had intended, Byrne could only stare.
“Well?” Producing two cheroots, Jack offered one to Byrne. “Have a smoke, sit down and talk to me.”
Byrne stiffened. “I came to protest, sir, not to share a cheroot with you.”
“I note your protest, Byrne.”
“Do you suspect me, sir?”
“Not in the slightest. Is there anybody you think might have passed information to the Fenians?”
“Nobody, sir.”
“Good. Thank you for confirming my thoughts. Are you sure you won't accept a cheroot?”
“I will not, sir.”
“Then I can only thank you for your time. I see that Ensign Snodgrass is hovering outside waiting to see me next. Please usher him in as you leave.”
Ensign Snodgrass nearly pushed past Byrne. “Can I speak to you, sir?”
“Have you also come to register a complaint about my attitude and comments?” Jack asked.
“What? No, sir.” Snodgrass shook his head violently.
Jack saw the ensign was nervous. “In you come, Snodgrass. Why do you wish to see me?”
Snodgrass pulled himself to attention. “It was me, sir.”
“What do you mean, Snodgrass?”
“I informed the Fenians about the live firing drill.”
Jack felt his heart beating fast in his chest. Snodgrass had been one of the least likely suspects. “That is quite an admission, Ensign. Tell me more.”
“If you recall, sir, after the meeting when you informed us about the drill, sir, I asked if I could meet my girl.”
Jack nodded. “I remember.”
Snodgrass remained at attention. “Well, sir. I told her about the drill.”
“For heaven's sake, man, why?”
“She asked me to,” Snodgrass replied.
“Did she indeed? That puts a different complexion on things.” Jack shook his head. “What did she say?”
Snodgrass mumbled something that Jack did not catch.
“Speak up, man! You're a British officer, not a schoolboy up before the headmaster. What did this woman say?”
“She asked me to tell her anything that happened in the regiment, sir.”
Jack shook his head, wondering if the woman was merely being curious, or was an active member of the Fenians. “For God's sake, man! As soon as she asked that, you should have told me.”
Snodgrass looked away again. “Yes, sir. She never mentioned the Fenians, though, or anything like that. She was always so friendly.” He looked up. “I love her, sir.”
“Oh, nonsense, man! She was using you, that's all. Luckily there's no major harm done, our casualty will recover, and we've managed to bag a few Fenians.” Jack began to pace the length of his room. “We'll have to catch this woman.”
“Sir!” Snodgrass shook his head vehemently. “No, sir. I'm sure she's innocent.”
“I'm not so sure,” Jack said. “Tell me about her. What's her name?”
“Helen, sir. Helen Maxwell.”
“What?” Jack stopped abruptly. Maxwell was Helen's maiden name before she married William. “Describe her. What's she like, Snodgrass?”
“Tall and dark and lovely, sir,” Snodgrass said.
That described Helen perfectly and was close to Regan's depiction of the woman who helped recruit him. “How old?”
“I don't know, sir,” Snodgrass said. “I never asked her age.”
“Well, guess, man!”
“Older than me, sir.” Snodgrass sounded miserable. “Maybe 25 or so.”
“Jack felt a prickle of hope. Helen would be 31. Perhaps there was merely a coincidence of names, or was Snodgrass viewing his woman through the distorted glass of romance? “Does this Helen Maxwell woman have any distinguishing features? A scar perhaps, or a wooden leg?”
“No, sir.” Snodgrass pulled himself even more erect. “She is perfect.” He hesitated before continuing. “She wears a queer piece of jewellery, like a triangle on a chain. It doesn't look costly.”
Helen's Tartar amulet. Jack felt his hopes slide away. Snodgrass's woman was Helen. But why would she help the Fenians?
“Where can we find this Helen Maxwell?” Jack asked.
“She has a small place in Kinsale,” Snodgrass said. “That's where we met.”
“We'll go there and pick her up.”
“Sir! She may be innocent!”
Jack sat back down at his desk. “Listen, Snodgrass. Nobody but the officers knew about the live firing drill. You told this woman and, shortly afterwards, the Fenians tried to sabotage our rifles. Do you still think she is innocent?”
Snodgrass shook his head in evident confusion. “Perhaps not, sir.”
“Very well.” Jack fought his rising anger. “Good God, man! She's about as innocent as Eve's snake!” All the same, he thought, I hope there is some rational explanation.
“Micklethwaite!” Jack roared and turned as his servant entered. “My compliments to Lieutenant Byrne, and could he report to me as soon as is convenient.”
Byrne still looked resentful as he greeted Jack with a formal salute. “Sir?”
“Organise a picket, Byrne. I'm going into Kinsale to pick up a suspected Fenian.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You take charge here.”
“Yes, sir.” Byrne nodded.
“Sir!” Snodgrass spoke loudly. “I am to blame for the Fenian attack.”
“That is yet to be proved,” Jack said. He gave Byrne a quick summary of what had happened.
Byrne nodded. “I see, sir.”
“I deserve a court-martial.” Snodgrass remained at attention, with Byrne listening intently.
“You deserve no such thing,” Jack said. “You acted like a stupid little love-sick boy. I'll put you as duty officer for a month, and that'll be the end of it.”
“No, sir!” Snodgrass protested. “I put men at risk and besmirched my honour.”
“Don't be a bloody fool, Snodgrass!” Byrne said. “Captain Windrush is helping you here. You may have a bright sense of honour, but no sense in women, which is normal for a boy your age.” He slapped Snodgrass on the shoulder. “Come along, Snoddy; we'll snatch this fickle woman up. It's a good lesson for you never to trust a woman's smile.”
* * *
Leading a picket of Sergeant Parker and a dozen men, Jack and Snodgrass doubled into Kinsale. After the late encounter with the Fenians, some people resented this military activity, with some throwing clods of mud or shouting Fenian slogans. The majority watched in silence from behind part-opened shutters. As usual, a group of children followed the picket, copying the movements of the soldiers.
“This way, sir.” Snodgrass took them along a narrow street to an isolated two-storey house at the wa
terfront, with an excellent display of late roses in the front garden and doors painted bright green.
Trust Helen to find such a picturesque little love nest, Jack said to himself. “Sergeant, take four men around the back and post two at each side. Snodgrass, you and the rest follow me.” Taking a deep breath, Jack approached the front door. He did not like to think of Helen as a traitor, but the evidence suggested nothing else.
“Open up!” Jack banged on the front door. “It's Captain Windrush of the 113th Foot!”
“She's not in,” a young boy said helpfully from the group that was gathering behind the picket. “She's gone away to Americay.”
“I doubt that,” Jack said. Lifting his foot, he booted the door open and stepped inside. There was nothing remarkable about the house except its extreme tidiness. Helen, he remembered, had been obsessed with cleanliness. When Jack took a deep breath, Helen's perfume brought a whole host of memories. He raised his voice. “Is anybody here?”
Nobody answered. “Wait here,” Jack ordered, “except you, Snodgrass. Come with me.” He took the stairs two at a time, stopped at the first floor, where four doors opened from a square landing. “Which one is her bedroom?”
“This one, sir,” Snodgrass indicated the door on the right.
“Looking over the sea,” Jack murmured. “I should have known.” Striding across the faded Axminster carpet, he shoved open the door.
As he expected, Helen was not in the room, although the scent of her perfume was strong. Either Helen or some maid had made the bed, while a beflowered pitcher and ewer on a cabinet, plus a collection of books, made up the only decoration. The oval mirror on the wall looked forlorn. Jack lifted the books: Irish history and a volume in Gaelic he could not translate. “Is this where you spoke to her?”
“Yes,” Snodgrass confirmed miserably.
Glancing out of the window, Jack saw the ships in the harbour and the growing crowd of children surrounding the garden, with the soldiers talking to them. He nodded; that was normal. There was no threat to his men. Searching through the drawers, Jack found a pad of notepaper, a few quill pens, with ink and a penknife.
“I'll take the books and the notepaper,” Jack said. “Search the house, Snodgrass, in case she is hiding somewhere.” He knew she was not. Helen was not the sort of woman who would hide from anything or anybody. Jack wondered what game Helen was playing. He refused to believe that she was a true-green Fenian dedicated to the cause of an Irish Republic – Helen had never shown any political or religious inclinations. Jack shrugged; he would make his report to Mr Smith and leave him to decide what to do.
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