Agent Of The Queen

by Malcolm Archibald

  “I told you she was in Americay,” the small boy jeered as Jack led the picket away.

  * * *

  Jack struggled with his report, wondering how to state what happened without landing either Helen or Snodgrass in significant trouble. Despite his chequered history with Helen, he had no desire to accuse her of treason, while Ensign Snodgrass was only a misguided boy who lacked judgement. The possible foreign involvement with the Fenians was equally disturbing, so Jack pondered for a long time before penning a cautious letter to Smith. He mentioned that one of his ensigns might have inadvertently let his girl know about the live firing drill, before moving on to Regan's information.

  Sighing, he signed and sealed the letter and leaned back in his seat. He had drawn a fine line between duty and friendship, but it was the best he could do. Jack looked up as Byrne tapped on his door and stepped in.

  “I'm sorry to disturb you, sir. Could I have a word?”

  “What is it, Byrne?”

  “It's young Snodgrass, sir. He's gone over your head and written to the brigadier to request a court-martial.”

  Jack took a deep breath. “The little idiot! They'll crucify him, an officer acting like that.”

  “It's his notion of preserving his honour, sir,” Byrne explained.

  “Has he sent the letter?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then it's out of my hands,” Jack said resignedly. “He may come to regret his impulsiveness. This notion of honour has cost more lives and ruined more careers than it's worth.”

  “The honour of a British gentleman,” Byrne said slowly. “The colonel will take it badly if young Snoddy is found guilty.”

  “That's so,” Jack said. “Thank you for telling me, Byrne; we'll have to hope things work out for the best. Could you organise another live firing drill? The last one was interrupted.”

  Byrne nearly smiled at this sign of trust. “Of course, sir. Do you want it in secret?”

  “That's your decision, Byrne,” Jack handed over his letter to Micklethwaite. If Ensign Snodgrass had already contacted the brigadier, all Jack's care not to name names was pointless.

  Chapter Twelve

  LONDON, AUTUMN 1865

  Smith's face was as expressionless as before as he stared at Jack across the width of the desk. “So you believe there are foreigners behind the Fenian movement.”

  “I believe there are some foreigners involved,” Jack said. He had been surprised when Smith had ordered him to London from Ireland. “We know that Irishmen in the United States started the movement, and a fellow called Stephens seems to be the leader in Ireland.”

  “That much is no secret,” Smith said. “It is the foreign connection that concerns me. Tell me what intelligence you have, Windrush.”

  “The fellow Regan told me that he was recruited by a tall man who may have been a foreigner, as well as a woman.” Jack chose not to mention Helen.

  “She's probably some local woman the recruiter's picked up,” Smith said dismissively.

  “My lads in Berwick said there was a woman behind the riot there, too,” Jack reminded Smith.

  Smith pursed his lips. “I think you'll find a woman behind any riot and much of the crime in Britain,” he remarked drily.

  “Maybe so, sir, but I think we should watch out for her.”

  “Concentrate on the essentials.” Smith looked up. “I don't want you wasting your time chasing after irrelevant women.”

  “I won't waste any time, Mr Smith,” Jack replied.

  “I'm glad to hear it. Now, Windrush, you told me that Riordan was taking a ship at Leith for the United States.”

  “That's right. He's probably long gone by now.”

  “He's not; the only ship leaving for the United States from Leith has been delayed for weeks,” Smith said. “There was a major problem with its documentation and then the captain found that the cargo was badly stowed.”

  Somehow Jack guessed that Smith had used his position to delay the ship. “Is that right, sir?”

  “That's right, sir. I want you to go to America.”

  Jack started. “I know nothing about America, sir. Any competence I have is in India.” That little boy in Ireland told me that Helen had gone to America.

  Smith ignored Jack's words. “You can join Riordan in Leith, sail with him and infiltrate the Fenians over there. Leave the foreign recruiter to us. With the situation so fluid, we may need your expertise across the Atlantic.”

  “I may be getting somewhere hunting down the recruiters, sir. I'd be better following that up over here.”

  “You'd be better following orders, Windrush. The thrust for this Fenian nonsense comes from the United States,” Smith said. “I have also heard whispers that they intend to attack Canada. You will find out how and let us know. As you are interested in following your previous line of enquiries, see if you can find out about this foreign gentleman, Windrush, if he exists.”

  “He exists,” Jack said, “but I'm much more likely to find him in the British Isles than in North America.”

  “Perhaps. If you find this fellow, I want you to kill him.” Smith spoke without emotion.

  “I'm not an assassin,” Jack said at once. Killing soldiers in battle was one thing; hunting men across continents to assassinate them in cold blood was something else.

  “You're a British officer. You will do your duty and obey orders.”

  Jack tried to use Smith's words against him. “I'm a British officer. How can I join the Fenians? They can check my name is in the Army List, while some may remember me from the Mutiny.”

  When Smith looked up, his eyes were gimlet-sharp. “You won't be a British officer when you infiltrate the Fenians, Windrush. You'll be a former British officer with a grudge. You already used that story with Riordan – now you will have more proof to back you up. The Fenians will welcome your expertise, bitterness and knowledge.”

  “Former British officer?”

  “I've arranged to have Colonel Snodgrass remove you from the 113th. That should not be difficult, given your history there and the fact his son was under your command when he went astray. I'll ensure that the newspapers broadcast your disgrace, so the Fenians hear about it. I'll even have your statement printed saying how unfair it is.”

  “I haven't made a statement, Mr Smith.”

  Smith leaned back in his chair. “I'll make one for you. By the time I've finished, you'll be the British Army's number-one enemy.”

  “It won't do my reputation any good, sir.”

  “Oh, we'll print a retraction when this affair is over, Windrush. We'll have you back as a respectable officer, never fear.” Smith's smile was as bleak as everything else about him. “We'll have to get you cashiered first, though, and that will mean a court-martial. Two court-martials in the 113th simultaneously! Even the most hardened of the Fenians will think they have a most valuable ally.”

  “Indeed,” Jack said.

  “One last thing,” Smith said, “your code word is Wolfe.”

  “Wolfe?” Jack repeated. “What does that mean?”

  “General Wolfe defeated the French at Quebec and paved the way to conquer Canada,” Smith explained. “If you send a message to me or the British authorities in North America, mentioning Wolfe, we'll know it's from you.”

  “How do I do that?” Jack asked.

  “I'm sure you'll think of something,” Smith said. “Now, we'd better get you dismissed from the service.”

  * * *

  Jack had never liked Edinburgh, despite Mary's love for Sir Walter Scott's books. The old part of the city was too rumbustious, with neither order nor beauty in the morass of pestilent closes and wynds that clawed out from the Royal Mile – it reminded him of the native quarter of Gondabad without the friendliness. The famous New Town with its Georgian elegance was as cold and precise as the people who lived there, classic formality hiding a multitude of secret vices, in Jack's opinion. Now, under arrest in Edinburgh Castle, he had cause to further his disl
ike.

  Had he been a ranker, Jack knew, he might have been confined in one of the dark dungeons deep in the bowels of the castle. As an officer, his treatment was immeasurably better, with his own quarters and even a soldier-servant, although the armed guard at the door was reason enough to give him pause.

  Although Jack had been expecting it, the actual arrest had still come as a shock. It was worse because Colonel Snodgrass sent Elliot to arrest him, with the Provost Sergeant and two nervous young privates as an escort. Jack had seen Elliot ride up to the gates of Charles Fort and guessed his mission. Sighing, he sat on the hard chair in his quarters, lit a cheroot and waited.

  “Come in!” He shouted in response to the sharp rap on his door. He waved Micklethwaite away. “You'd best be elsewhere.”

  “Jack…” Elliot began, and then straightened to attention. “Captain Jack Baird Windrush. It is my duty to place you under arrest.” Elliot's eyes were unreadable.

  Jack had looked up from his chair and blew out blue smoke. “Have you come all the way from Edinburgh to say that, Major Elliot?”

  “Yes, sir.” Elliot produced a set of handcuffs. “I am ordered to put you in these, sir, but if you give me your word of honour not to try to escape, I shan't use them.”

  “You have my word, Major Elliot.” Jack nodded to the escort, who gripped their rifles in white-knuckled fingers. “You won't need these lads, either.”

  “Colonel's orders, Captain Windrush.” Elliot's expression pleaded for Jack's understanding.

  “Of course, Major.” Jack stretched and stood up. “Will you allow me a few moments to gather my things?”

  “Yes, of course, Captain.” Elliot looked relieved that Jack had not tried to retaliate or run.

  After an uncomfortable journey from Ireland to Edinburgh, now Jack sat in his quarters, waiting for the court-martial with its pre-ordained verdict and the inevitable disgrace that would follow. He paced the room, thinking of the glory days when he led his men into action against the Russians and mutineers. In 100 years, if anybody ever remembered Captain Jack Windrush, it would be as an officer cashiered and disgraced. What would Mary think? Jack sighed ruefully. Mary would shake her head, blame the Army for stupidity and carry on with life. That was his Mary. Whatever happened to him, Mary would be there, shaking her head and holding out her hand to help.

  The door thrust open, and Major Hepburn stepped in. “It's time, Captain Windrush,” he announced. He spoke in the clipped tones Jack had come to expect from officers of the Royal Scots, the oldest line regiment in the British Army. “I'm your defending counsel.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jack stood to attention, as Major Hepburn expected from all officers junior to him.

  “We don't need an escort,” Hepburn snapped as two privates slammed to attention. “We're British officers.” He nodded to Jack. “Let's get this nonsense over with, Captain Windrush.”

  The ever-present Edinburgh wind whipped at Jack as he marched from his quarters in the barracks block to the great hall of the castle, where the army was holding his court-martial. He had barely time to register the history of the place, which had hosted dark deeds of treachery as well as Scottish royalty, before the officers who were to judge him marched in, followed by the president of the court. Above him, the oak-beams of the superb roof frowned down, while a small fire in the massive stone fireplace struggled to compete with the chill of the Scottish autumn.

  Lieutenant Colonel Lancelot Snodgrass took his position as judge, treated Jack to a disdainful glance and nodded to the other members of the court. The Victoria Cross gleamed bronze on his chest, a reminder of his supposed bravery in the Crimea. “Let's get on with this. On your feet, Windrush.”

  Jack stood, listening to the opening address of Major Bright of the 18th Foot, the Royal Irish, a regiment he had known in the Crimea. Bright seemed a decent enough officer, nearly apologetic as he fulfilled his assigned role as prosecutor. His words were fair as he described Jack's actions in hunting for Riordan, tracing him to the Pentlands and finally letting him go free.

  “Are you saying that Captain Windrush knowingly allowed this man, Private Riordan, a known Fenian sympathiser, walk free?” Snodgrass sounded indignant.

  “That is so.” Bright glanced at Jack.

  “This man, who holds the Queen's commission, and an officer of my regiment, aided a known deserter and traitor?” Snodgrass said each word slowly and distinctly, giving the court the full benefit of the facts.

  “That appears to be what happened,” Bright said.

  Jack stood, expressionless, aware that Snodgrass was enjoying every moment of his degradation, knowing some of the officers present would already be viewing him as a man sympathetic to the Fenian cause.

  “Do you have any witnesses to call, Major Bright?”

  “I have, sir.” Bright called on William Todd, the Pentland shepherd, who swore on oath that he had seen Jack hand a sovereign to Riordan.

  “Are you certain of that?” Major Bright asked.

  “I swear it on the Bible.” Although the shepherd looked uneasy in such company, he spoke with quiet sincerity.

  When Major Hepburn tried to cross-examine, the shepherd struck to his story. Jack sat unmoving, knowing that the shepherd spoke the truth.

  The atmosphere in the court hardened, with the officers staring at Jack as though he had led the Russian attack at Inkerman.

  “Please present your case, Major Hepburn,” Colonel Snodgrass invited. “If you have one.”

  Hepburn looked at Jack. “Are you sure, Captain?”

  “I'm sure,” Jack said.

  “Captain Windrush wishes to plead guilty,” Major Hepburn said. “However, I would like to remind the court of this officer's fine record in three brutal wars and along the North-West Frontier, as well as his more recent success in preventing a mutiny and attack on F Company, 113th Foot in Ireland.”

  Snodgrass snorted sceptically. “This court is only concerned with Captain Windrush's actions with the Fenian Private Riordan, not with any previous actions he may or may not have done, or his supposed subsequent movements in Ireland.” Snodgrass faced the court. “In Ireland, this officer allowed the Fenians to infiltrate the company I entrusted to his command, with the result that the Fenians, a bunch of ragged labourers, shot a British soldier.”

  Jack held Snodgrass's gaze, fighting his dislike for this man.

  Snodgrass allowed his words to register before he continued. “Windrush's admission of guilt saves us all time. I order that he should be cashiered and sentence him to 20 years' penal servitude.” He leaned closer to Jack. “You may consider yourself fortunate, Windrush. If you had wasted any more of my time, I should have ordered you to be shot for treason.” He looked up. “Take him away under armed guard and lock him up securely.”

  The trial had lasted less than an hour, Jack realised. He had stepped into the Great Hall as a British officer and left as a disgraced traitor. Two privates of the 113th took up position on either side of Jack as he was marched from the Great Hall down to the dungeons beneath the castle.

  “In you go, Captain.” Major Bright had taken it on himself to escort Jack. “I don't like this any more than you do.”

  “You were doing your duty,” Jack reassured him. “No man can do more than that.”

  “Why?” Bright asked. “Why help a Fenian? You're not even Irish. Are you a Roman Catholic?”

  “Church of England through and through,” Jack replied.

  “I don't understand,” Bright said. “You have a good record; the men call you Fighting Jack.”

  “Not any more,” Jack said. “Now they'll call me Fenian Jack.”

  “Well, good luck,” Bright said, stepping back. “I'm sure there was a reason. Men with a record such as yours don't become traitors overnight.”

  Jack heard the door slam shut behind him and sat on the wooden bench that was the only furniture the dungeon possessed. He swore softly and buried his head in his hands. He had not reckoned on penal serv
itude. The idea was to be cashiered, not locked away for years. Jack swore again, stood and tested the door. It was solid oak, about two inches thick and studded with iron. He could never break free of that, while the only window was 12 feet above his head and heavily barred.

  It was not the first time Jack had been locked up. He had suffered in a Russian cell during the Crimean War and in an Indian fortress in the latter stages of the Mutiny, but being jailed for treason was far more serious than being captured by the enemy. Once again, Jack wished he could return to being a regimental officer rather than acting in a capacity for which he was temperamentally unsuited. He began to pace the dungeon, three paces one way, turn, and three paces back. The light coming through the window faded, darkened, and the temperature dropped.

  No blankets or food? Even Jayanti treated me better than this when I was her prisoner in India.

  The darkness deepened, so Jack had to feel his way along the cold stone wall to find his sleeping bench. He heard bagpipes as the resident garrison ended its day, thought of the other occasions he had listened to the music of the pipes, lay on the plank and tried to sleep.

  When the door opened with a slight creak, Jack turned, hoping to see a soldier with something for him to eat.

  “Captain Windrush?”

  “I know that voice.” With no light coming through the small window, Jack peered into the dark.

  “Yes, sir. It's Riley.”

  Only Riley could open a dungeon door without any problems. “What the devil are you doing here, Riley?”

  “Getting you out, sir.” As Jack's eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he saw that Riley had somebody beside him. “If you want to come.”