“I do want to come. Who's that with you, Riley?”
“It's me, sir, Logan.”
Despite his situation, Jack smiled. If Riley was there, Logan was with him. The two had been inseparable since the early Crimea campaign, the debonair gentleman cracksman and the diminutive Glaswegian with the hair-trigger temper.
“How the devil did you get up here from Berwick?”
“Berwick sir? Oh, no. Three companies of the 113th are in the castle, sir.”
Jack stored that information away. “Thanks, lads.”
“Aye, time for that later. Come on, sir.” Logan was not known for his diplomacy. “Before another of they guards come to bother us.”
Jack could not imagine anybody giving Logan any bother. “Another?”
“Oh, aye. One tried to stop us.” Pushing the door open, Logan dragged in the unconscious body of a British soldier. “This is Private Landers. He was one of they Birmingham sloggers.”
Jack asked no more questions as Logan gagged Landers and tied his wrists and ankles.
“Come on, sir, and we'll get you out of here.” Riley gently pushed Jack out of the door. “Just follow me and keep quiet, sir.”
From the dungeons, Riley led them up a flight of stone stairs to the battlements of the Half Moon Battery, where a semi-circle of black cannon pointed over the Grassmarket. Even up here, Jack could hear the sound of merriment from the many publics below. “I hope you're still fit, sir.”
“Fit enough.” Jack stretched his legs.
Riley's teeth gleamed through the dark as he grinned. “Follow me then, sir. We're doing some scrambling.”
Jack took a deep breath when he saw that somebody had fastened a rope around the trunnion of a cannon, snaked it through an embrasure and dropped it into the darkness outside the castle walls. Knowing that the castle stood atop a volcanic rock nearly 300 feet high, Jack paused. “Do you mean we have to go down there?”
“Yes, sir,” Riley said. “Hold on tight to the rope and walk down the rock.”
“Come on, you two!” Logan urged from the rear. “The sentries will be back soon.”
“I'll go first, sir, you follow and then Donnie, I mean Logan.” Riley slid away without another word.
Taking a deep breath, Jack took hold of the rope, turned his back and slid through the embrasure. The drop sucked at him, inviting him to release his grip and fall to the ground far below. He looked up, where Logan was a few feet above. “How far down is it?”
“Quite a way, sir.” Riley answered. “I'll warn you when we near the ground.”
Jack's feet scrabbled for purchase on the smooth rock as his hands burned with the friction of the rope. “Has this ever been done before?” he asked anxiously.
“Oh, yes, sir,” Riley said. “Some of the French prisoners-of-war did this back in the Napoleonic War.”
“That's good. Did they succeed?”
“Some of them did, sir.”
“Some?”
Riley avoided the question. “Careful here, sir. There's a bit of an overhang.”
Feeling very exposed, Jack clambered outward and then hung free for a moment, holding on only by the strength of his arms as he could not find purchase.
“Scramble down, sir,” Riley advised. “Use your hands.”
After a few terrifying moments when he dangled, feet flailing into nothingness, Jack felt rock under the soles of his boots and eased the pressure on his aching arms. He could hear noises from below as some late-night drunk reeled across the cobbled Grassmarket. The shout from above came as no surprise. “Here! You on the rope! Halt, or I'll fire!”
Jack hurried down the rope, expecting to hear the crack of a rifle. Instead, his feet thumped onto solid ground.
“Here we are, sir!” Strong hands grabbed hold of Jack's arms. “All safe and serene.”
Private Coleman grinned into Jack's face. “Thorpey and I will take care of you now.”
“What the devil is this?” Jack glanced upward, expecting a bullet to come flying towards him.
“It's all right, sir. They can't see us for the overhang,” Riley replied calmly.
“You lads will get into serious trouble,” Jack said.
“Only if they catch us, sir, and they won't do that,” Thorpe said. “After dodging Burmese dacoits and Russian Cossacks, these Johnny Raws won't come close.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“We're the 113th, sir,” Coleman said. “We're the real, fighting 113th, not this pipe-clay and scarlet unit that Colonel Snodgrass wants.” His grin was evident even in the dark. “What's to do anyway, sir?”
“What do you mean, Coleman?”
“I mean, what's to do, sir? You're no more a traitor than I'm a bluebottle.” He inched closer. “Come on, now, sir! What's happening? We're with you if you need help.”
“Thank you, Coleman.” Jack wished he could tell his men what he was doing. He would feel far happier having men such as Coleman, Riley and Logan with him. “I can't say any more, and it would be better if you kept your opinion to yourself.”
“Yes, sir.”
At that moment, Logan landed. “There we are, sir. Let's get away. There's a sentry up there shouting something.”
“How about the rope?”
“It's only a rope,” Riley said. “They can't trace it. It's from the castle stores anyway.”
“Thorpey and I are going back to barracks, sir,” Coleman said. “We've brought this for you – civilian clothes and some food. I doubt they fed you in the chokey.” He handed over a bundle of rough but clean clothing. Riley and Logie will get you safe.”
“I don't know how to thank you,” Jack lifted the clothes.
“You can thank us when you get back to the regiment.” Coleman grinned. “You can let us off when the provost sergeant marches us before you for being drunk.”
“That can't happen,” Jack said. “You must have heard that the Army cashiered me. I'm a convicted traitor.”
“Aye, we heard that nonsense,” Riley said. “What are you up to, sir? You're no traitor.”
“The court-martial said I was.”
“Aye, right,” Logan gave his considered opinion. “Are you taking us with you?”
“What?”
“You're on one of your intelligence missions,” Logan said.
Jack sighed. If his men guessed he was on a mission, the Fenians might do the same.
“We're here if you need us, sir.” Riley said. “Now let's get you somewhere safe. I know a man who can smuggle you anywhere.”
“Thank you, Riley.” Jack heard voices from above. “I have to get to Leith Walk.”
“What for?” Thorpe asked. “We know better places, sir.”
“I'm sure you do, Thorpe, but it's Leith Walk, I'm afraid.”
“Follow me, sir,” Riley said.
Riley led them at a run, through Princes Street Gardens and into Leith Street that led into Leith Walk, the broad road that stretched from Edinburgh to the port of Leith. “It's getting near morning, sir, the town will be waking soon.”
“I'll leave you here, lads,” Jack said. “I can't thank you enough.”
Riley passed over a small pocketbook. “This might help.”
Jack had not thought about money. “Thank you, Riley. Thank you, Logan.”
Riley nodded. “We miss the old days, sir. Good luck.”
Jack held out his hand. He knew that officers did not shake hands with rankers, but he considered Riley as a friend.
Riley hesitated before responding. “Thank you, sir.”
“You too, Logan,” Jack said. Logan's fingers felt like iron bars.
“You two get back to barracks.” Jack turned and walked away. He might meet them again some time in his career, and he might not. Military life was a mixture of intense experiences and sudden departures. Now he had a mission to fulfil, somehow.
Chapter Thirteen
LEITH, NOVEMBER 1867
Edinburgh's port of Leith was busy, with
wagons and pedestrians jamming the road from the warehouses to the docks. Jack stepped aside from the early-morning omnibus that carried workers from Edinburgh and searched for the Shamrock, the public house named by Riordan. Moving into a dark corner, Jack opened the heavy pocketbook that Riley had given him. A host of gold sovereigns clinked among silver and copper coins, with a small folded piece of paper.
Thinking it was a note from Riley, Jack unfolded the paper, then shook his head and smiled as he saw what the paper was. It was a bill from a tailor in Edinburgh to Colonel Snodgrass. Riley had stolen the colonel's pocketbook and handed it to Jack.
Well done, Riley, Jack thought. You send me to jail, Colonel, and I'll pick your pocket. “You're some man, Riley,” Jack said to himself. He extracted a threepenny bit and bought a Caledonian Mercury newspaper. Leafing through the pages, he found the paragraph he sought and tucked the paper under his arm.
The Shamrock was a public house with a couple of rooms above the bar, tucked away off the Shore where the Water of Leith ran into the Firth of Forth. Behind the bar, a large green shamrock decorated the mirror that stretched the full width of one wall, with an array of bottles in front. In one corner, a one-legged man in a faded scarlet tunic played Irish tunes on a tin whistle. In another, Private Riordan sat with his legs stretched out before him, nursing a nearly-empty glass of beer.
“Riordan,” Jack greeted him, sliding in beside him.
“Captain Windrush.” Riordan did not look surprised to see him.
“No longer captain, it's just plain Jack Windrush now,” Jack threw down his copy of the Caledonian Mercury.
“What?” Riordan looked up, his eyes narrow with suspicion.
“I'm ruined, Riordan, cashiered. I'm out of the regiment, out of the army and on the run.” Jack pointed to the second column on the front page of the Caledonian Mercury. “Read that! Captain Jack Windrush of the 113th cashiered for Fenian sympathies and sent to prison.”
“Why?” Riordan only glanced at the paper. Jack wondered if he could read.
“Because I did not bring you back to jail,” Jack said. “Or that's the excuse Colonel Snodgrass used.” He slumped in the seat beside Riordan. “The real reason was that I married a Eurasian woman.”
“Tough luck, my friend.”
“Bastards,” Jack spat as he caught the barman's eye to order a pint of Leith ale. “Dirty bastards.”
“What are you going to do, Captain?”
Jack took a deep draught of the ale. “I'm going to get my own back, Riordan. I want my revenge on the bastards.”
“You want revenge on the entire British Army?” Riordan asked as he sipped at the dregs of his beer. “That's a tall order, Captain.”
“Is it? I saw the Mutiny in India, remember. I know how to hurt them. I know the weaknesses of the Empire. I'm joining you, Riordan.”
“You're not Irish.”
“It's not just the Irish who have cause to despise the Empire.”
Riordan raised his eyebrows. “The famous Fighting Jack Windrush, the saviour of the Empire, hero of Lucknow, joining the Fenians! Now there's something.” He placed his glass carefully on the much-scarred table-top. “I don't believe you.”
Banging his glass beside that of Riordan, Jack glowered around the room. He had heard that some of the pubs in Leith could be mildly dangerous and wondered if it would help his cause to start a fight in here. Looking at some of the men, brawny dockers, seamen from the Baltic and Mediterranean trades and collier hands who did not fear man, God or the devil, he decided that it was best to keep quiet. An officer with a reputation for success was one thing, a brawler who came out second best in a Scottish pub something else. “Let's find our ship, Riordan.”
“She's been delayed,” Riordan said. “There was some trouble stowing the cargo.”
“She's sailing on the first tide tomorrow.” Jack pointed to an advertisement in the newspaper. “Come on.”
Yorktown was a long, lean, three-masted barque over which the United States flag hung in quiet pride. Captain Martin glowered at Jack and Riordan from under a slanted nautical cap.
“Are you on the run from the law?”
It was not a question Jack had expected. “I am not,” he lied.
“You may not be, but he,” Martin nodded to the half-shaven and unkempt Riordan, “undoubtedly is. Five sovereigns passage money for you, 10 for the Fenian.”
“What makes you think I'm a Fenian?” Riordan asked.
“You've got British soldier written all over you,” Martin said, “an Irish accent and the haunted expression of a fugitive on your face. Ten sovereigns.”
“I don't have that much,” Riordan said. “I'll work my passage.”
Jack shook his head. “You drive a hard bargain, Captain Martin.” He fished for Colonel Snodgrass's pocketbook. “Here are eight golden boys.” He dropped the coins on the captain's desk and slammed his hand on top. “I'll give you the other seven when we arrive safely in Boston.”
“I want 15 in advance.”
“In that case, Captain, we shall bid you farewell. There are other ships departing from Glasgow, Greenock and Liverpool.”
Captain Martin growled, with his attention on the gold that Jack's hand covered. “If either of you gives me any trouble I'll drop you both overboard.”
“Agreed, Captain,” Jack said. “Where do we bunk?”
“In the orlop,” Malvern said, sweeping the sovereigns into his hand. “We set sail on the next tide.”
The orlop was the lowest deck of the ship, a dark place of foul smells and scurrying rats. The cabin they shared had barely enough headroom for a child to stand upright and a stench so thick Jack thought he could cut it into chunks.
“Why are you helping me?” Riordan asked as they grew accustomed to the dark.
“We're helping each other,” Jack said. “You know where to go once we arrive in the USA.”
Riordan snorted. “I don't know as much as you think I do.”
“You know more than me, and that's something.” Jack forced a grin. “Anyway, I'll need you to vouch for me. The Fenians might not believe I want to join them.”
Riordan swore. “They'll want anybody with an insight into the British Army,” he said.
“We'll see.” Jack looked up as he heard a thunder of feet on the deck above. “It seems that we're only just in time. We seem to be on the move.”
Within a few moments, a tug eased Yorktown into the Firth of Forth, the great body of the sea on which Leith sat.
“Now we endure the sea,” Jack said.
“Aye.” Riordan lay back on the narrow bunk. “Let's hope it's a fast passage.” He gave a sour grin. “This will be harder for you than for me, Captain. Soldiers are used to bad conditions in barracks, while officers live off the fat of the land.”
“Ex-officers don't.” Jack tried to fit his nearly-six-foot frame on to the five-foot-six plank bunk. He sighed. He was a long way from Durrants Hotel now, let alone Netherhills House.
However mercenary Captain Martin might have been, he was a superb seaman, pushing Yorktown around the north of Scotland, through the treacherous Pentland Firth and across the Atlantic Ocean in 17 days flat. Jack endured the crossing as he had endured so much in his military career, ignoring the discomfort as he tried to befriend Riordan and extract as much information from him as he could.
“So what made you join the Fenians, Riordan?” They stood at the rail with Yorktown heeled over in the wind and the sails bellied out full.
Riordan said nothing for a while as spray lashed at them. When he faced Jack, his eyes were bitter. “I lost three of my family in the famine, Captain. I saw my sister waste away to a human skeleton, and I scratched a hole in the ground to bury her. My mother died of fever and my father of grief.” He held Jack's gaze. “During that time, what did the British authorities do to help?” Riordan said the word British as if it were a curse. “They did nothing and less than nothing. They let us die by the thousand, and did nothing.”
Jack wondered how he would feel if Mary and David were starving. “It must have been terrible,” he said.
“Aye,” Riordan said. “It must have been terrible.” He turned to face the sea again. “I didn't join the army through any love for Queen Victoria and her minions. I joined to put food in my belly. Now we must ensure that nothing of the sort happens again in Ireland.”
Jack gave Riordan a few moments to think before he spoke. “Do you think an Irish Republic could manage that?”
“It could not do any worse,” Riordan said. “I saw human skeletons walking by the hundred, begging for food; I saw ditches crammed with the dead. I saw things worse than any nightmare.” He stopped again, took a deep breath and continued. “Unless you are Irish, you will never understand how I feel. Pray to your God that you never find out.”
Jack nodded. “I see.”
“No you don't,” Riordan said. “Now listen, Windrush, I neither like you nor trust you. I am going along with you because I have to.” He spat into the sea. “Once I've taken you to the Fenians, you're on your own.”
“That suits me,” Jack said. It seems that Smith has set me an impossible task. Gaining the trust of the Fenians may be a lot harder than he imagined.
* * *
“Boston,” Martin said curtly. “You owe me, mister.”
“Seven sovereigns, Captain.” Jack handed over the gold as soon as they docked.
Martin counted the coins, biting each one to test their purity. “Fenians, eh?” He shook his head. “You're a pair of bloody fools. Sweeny has you in the palm of his hand.”
“Jack noted the name. “It's Sweeny we're going to meet,” he said casually.
Captain Martin grunted. “He killed a man in a duel, don't forget, and by foul play, if I recall.” He shrugged. “I don't care if you're meeting Sweeny, John O'Neill or the good Lord himself. You've paid your passage, now get off my ship.”
“We're off,” Jack said. Armed with the bonus of two names, he led Riordan from Yorktown to the packed streets of Boston. “Do you know where to find this Sweeny fellow?”
Riordan took a deep breath before he replied. “I have an address.” He looked around the busy streets. “So this is what freedom tastes like,” He said. “Being English, you don't know what it's like having another nation, people with a different religion and philosophy of life, being in charge of you.”
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