About to say that the English were not all bad, Jack remembered the part he was now playing. “I don't think I realised how hard it was until I married Mary.”
“Aye, you'll see things from a different point of view now.” Riordan pushed on, trying to hide the tears in his eyes. “We'll have something to eat and then find Sweeny.” He glanced at Jack. “You'd better be genuine, for what I've heard about the general, he'll shoot you like a dog without any compunction at all.”
“Oh, I'm genuine,” Jack said. “I've got a score to settle, particularly with Colonel Lancelot bloody Snodgrass.” That last part, he told himself, was genuine.
* * *
General Thomas Sweeny retained traces of the Irish accent he had brought with him from Cork more than 30 years before. Heavily bearded and with receding hair, he glared at Jack and banged his one remaining fist on the table that lay between them. He had lost his right arm at the Battle of Churubusco during the United States War with Mexico, a fact that had not impeded his career or his fighting ability through the civil war that had fractured the United States of America.
“You're not an Irishman,” General Sweeny said. “How can I trust you?”
“Nor are you Irish.” Jack had made some discreet enquiries about Sweeny as soon as he heard the name. “You emigrated from Ireland in 1833. You've been in the United States Army since 1846 and have fought in three separate wars.”
Sweeny grunted, glaring at Jack through narrow eyes. “How can I trust you?” Sweeny repeated. “How do I know you are who you say you are?”
Taking the now sadly-battered Caledonian Mercury from inside his coat, Jack passed it over. “That's me,” he said. “Former Captain Jack Windrush, married to a Eurasian woman and a man who helped a known Fenian escape justice. The British Army cashiered me, sir, and tried to throw me in prison. I know nothing except soldiering.”
“So you will turn against the army for whom you have fought in India.”
“In India, Russia and Burma,” Jack confirmed. “The army for whom I have collected half a dozen wounds and who rewarded me by passing me over for promotion in favour of lesser men with better connections.”
“You're a bitter man,” Sweeny said.
“You're damned right I'm bitter,” Jack said.
“He helped me, sir.” Riordan had been a silent observer, standing at the back of Jack. “He helped me escape from military jail and paid for my passage from Leith to Boston.”
“There's no doubt that you're Irish at least, Riordan,” Sweeny said. “You're a trained British soldier, then.”
“Yes, sir.” Riordan smartly came to attention. “I'm a Cork man, same as yourself and I fought through the Lucknow campaign in India.”
“And you've taken the Fenian oath?” Sweeny's eyes were friendly above high cheekbones as he spoke to Riordan.
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you taken the oath, Ex-Captain Windrush?”
“Not yet.” Jack had never heard of the Fenian oath.
“You will,” Sweeny said, “and on your honour as a gentleman, I'll expect you to keep it or I'll blow your brains out.”
Honour as a gentleman? Gentlemen with honour do not work for people such as Mr Smith. “My honour is my affair.”
“Swear the oath now,” Sweeny said, “in front of witnesses.” He rang the small brass bell that stood on the table in front of him, and two burly bearded men entered the room. Both carried long revolvers thrust through their belts and stepped behind Jack.
“This gentleman is Captain Jack Windrush, late of the British army,” Sweeny said. “He is about to swear his loyalty to the Fenian cause.”
The men said nothing. One touched his pistol butt and smiled slowly.
Reaching into the drawer of his desk, Sweeny produced a piece of stiff card and a Bible.
“Take the Bible in your left hand,” Sweeny ordered, “and raise your right hand.”
Jack did as Sweeny ordered. An oath made under duress is meaningless, he told himself, and having two armed men behind me is undoubtedly duress.
“Now repeat after me.” Sweeny read the words on the card: “In the presence of Almighty God, I do solemnly swear allegiance to an Irish republic now virtually established, and take arms when called upon in its defence and integrity, and I also swear implicit obedience to my superior officers. I take this oath in the spirit of a soldier of liberty, so help me God.”
Jack repeated the words, slowly and carefully, with one eye on Sweeny, who nodded encouragement.
“Good.” Sweeny seemed to accept Jack's word. “You are now a member of the Fenian Brotherhood. We have tens of thousands of dedicated Fenians ready to fight the British in Canada, or sail over to Ireland to free the country from Britain, but we have relatively few officers with military experience.”
Jack nodded. “I have some of that.”
“I will send you to an active unit where you will do the most good for our cause.” Sweeny held out his left hand. “Welcome to the Fenian Brotherhood, Captain Windrush.”
Jack shook his hand.
“I'll appoint Dermot and Cormac here to guide you,” Sweeny said. “They'll make sure you don't get lost. Mr Riordan, you can tag along, too. I'm going to put you to work right away, Captain Windrush.”
“What am I doing?” Jack asked.
“Training men,” Sweeny said. “Ready for the attack on England. In the meantime, I'll spread the news that one of England's finest young officers has joined us.” His smile nearly reached his eyes. “It furnishes further proof that the British Empire is crumbling under the strain of keeping its subject peoples down.”
Dermot and Cormac closed on either side of Jack and escorted him out of the room.
“Stay with us,” Dermot growled. “We don't want you to get lost.”
When Cormac gave a high-pitched laugh, Jack knew that Sweeny had set these two bruisers to watch him. The general did not trust him.
* * *
The carriage was waiting outside, dark painted with a tall driver and a burly guard riding shotgun at his side. Dermot, the taller of the escorts, opened the door for Cormac to push Jack inside.
“Settle back, Captain,” Dermot said. “We're due for a long ride.”
“Where are we going?”
“You're a terrible man for questions.” Despite his Irish name, Dermot's accent was North American.
“I am a terrible man,” Jack agreed. “Where are you taking me?”
“Somewhere you can be safe,” Dermot replied, “and somewhere you will stay while we check out your story.”
Shrugging, Jack leaned back into the leather seats. When he tried to flick back the curtains that covered the windows, Cormac gripped his wrist.
“You'll sit quiet,” Cormac pressed the muzzle of a Colt Army model 44 revolver against Jack's chest, “or you'll be the late Captain Windrush, if that's your real name.”
The carriage moved off, smoothly at first as it negotiated the streets of Boston, with the driver taking the corners with skill. Knowing there was no help for it, Jack leaned back and closed his eyes. Rest was precious because a tired man could not function efficiently. There was no point in trying to trace his journey by sound alone, as he did not know the geography of the area. So he might as well look relaxed and ignore his present company.
After a while, the street noises faded and the movement of the coach became more violent, so Jack guessed they were out of Boston and into the countryside. They stopped once to change horses, but with Cormac's Colt at his breast, Jack did not even try to look outside. Remembering the patience of the Pashtun tribes on the North-West Frontier of India, he waited, wondered what would happen and trusted to luck.
“You're a cool one,” Dermot commented as they changed horses again.
“Cool?” Jack echoed. “It's quite comfortable in here.”
“You've hardly said a word for the past five hours.”
“I can talk if you wish,” Jack said. “What part of the States are you f
rom?”
“No questions,” Dermot said, and Jack lapsed back into silence again.
They spent the night in the coach, with Dermot and Cormac taking turns to watch Jack. He slept as best he could, knowing that they would grow progressively more tired as the journey progressed. “How far are we going?” Jack asked.
“No questions,” Dermot said.
After three days and nights and frequent changes of horses, the coach pulled up.
“Here we are.” Dermot sounded quite jocular. “Journey's end.”
After so long confined in the coach, Jack relished the freedom to stretch his legs. He was so cramped, he nearly fell as he stepped outside and looked about him. Dawn was glorious, with light snow falling on broad-leafed woodland around a mansion house as grand as any gentleman's abode in England.
“In you go,” Dermot pushed Jack in the back. “Colonel O'Mahony will see you now.”
“That's very kind of the colonel,” Jack said.
“This way.” Cormac thrust his Colt into Jack's back.
“I'm a volunteer, remember,” Jack said. “I want to be here. You don't need the pistol.”
“In here. Colonel O'Mahony is waiting.”
O'Mahony stood at the window of a luxuriously furnished room, looking outside with his back to Jack.
“Come in, Captain Windrush,” O'Mahony invited. He spun around quickly. A stern-eyed, high-cheekboned Limerick man, he had taken part in the 1848 Rising against British rule in Ireland and had seen much action during the US Civil War. “I am aware of your exploits in the Crimea.”
Jack nodded. “I am also aware of yours, Colonel.” He studied this man who seemed to have dedicated himself to removing Britain from Ireland. He should think of him as an enemy, but instead saw only a proud man involved in a near-hopeless struggle.
“However,” O'Mahony said, “I am not sure that you are the real Captain Windrush.” He stepped towards Jack, halting six feet away as he ran his gaze from the top of Jack's head to his boots and back. “You fit the description all right, but the Fighting Jack Windrush I have heard of would never betray his country. You may be an agent of the British government. That's why we brought you here, Captain, so we could have you positively identified.”
“Well, here I am,” Jack said. “Positively identify me.”
“Not by me,” O'Mahony said. “I have somebody who knows you personally.” His smile had all the charm that Jack associated with Ireland. Lifting a small brass bell from the desk, he rang it, still holding Jack's gaze.
Who knows me personally? Jack did not have long to wonder as the door opened.
“Hello, Jack.” Helen stood there, smiling at him.
Chapter Fourteen
UNITED STATES, NOVEMBER 1865
“Helen?” Jack stared at her in some confusion. “What the devil are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same.” Helen was smiling. “Last I heard you were in Ireland.”
“It's a long story,” Jack said, shaking his head.
“Is this gentleman Captain Jack Windrush?” O'Mahony asked.
“This is Captain Jack Windrush,” Helen replied seriously. “I have known him for many years.”
Opening the top drawer of his desk, O'Mahony pulled out a bundle of newspapers. “I have read the reports of your court-martial in half a dozen British newspapers,” he said. “You helped a Fenian escape.”
“That would be Corporal Riordan,” Jack said.
“You got rather a harsh sentence for that act.”
“Yes,” Jack agreed. “I have no great love for the British army.”
O'Mahony nodded. “I can appreciate your sentiment. Can you commit to our cause?”
“I have no Irish blood,” Jack said, “but I can commit to anything that damages the British Army.”
O'Mahony grunted. “Would that include fighting against them?”
Jack nodded. “I have more than one score to settle with Colonel Snodgrass of the 113th Foot,” he said, “and with the Royal Malverns.”
O'Mahony glanced at the top newspaper. “It was Colonel Snodgrass who sentenced you to penal servitude, I see. Well, Windrush, you won't be the only renegade Englishman in our ranks. As soon as you find out about the historic Fenians, I'll set you to training men.”
Helen remained in the room, smiling, with lamplight reflecting from the triangular Tartar amulet around her neck as Dermot and Cormac escorted Jack from the room.
Helen is the traitor. Dear God in Heaven, why?
* * *
The Fenians stood in ordered ranks before him, some wearing the worn remnants of military uniforms, both Federal and Confederate, others in civilian clothes. Some carried rifles, others old shotguns or long-barrelled muskets of ancient vintage, while many held staffs, swords or nothing at all.
“Right lads,” Jack began, addressing them as if they were recruits for the British army. “I am here to give you the skills to help free Ireland from oppression.”
They cheered at that, with shouts of, “Long live the Irish Republic,” and, “Hooray for the Fenian Brotherhood.”
Jack smiled. Without an experienced British NCO to keep them quiet, he allowed them their head for a few moments and then began to teach the rudiments of drill. The veterans followed without difficulty, the others tried their best, and after a few days, Jack had them marching in step and obeying simple commands.
“They're good material,” he said to O'Mahony. “They'd fit into any line regiment in the British Army.”
From time to time, Jack had seen Helen watching from the balcony outside her window, for his makeshift parade ground was in the grounds of the house. Twice she had lifted her hand to wave to him, and once he had waved back. On a third occasion, Jack saw a tall man standing beside her, with his arm around her shoulders.
What the devil are you doing here, Helen, and who is that fellow? Is he the same man who was recruiting Fenians in Britain?
Despite himself, Jack focused on the tall man, noting the neat whiskers on an otherwise clean-shaven face, and the familiar way he placed his hands on Helen's shoulders. Riordan mentioned the man who recruited him was tall with such whiskers, Jack mused. Now I have to find out why Helen is involved in all this nonsense.
When his military duties permitted, Jack searched for Helen in the rambling house. As the days passed, Dermot and Cormac relaxed their vigilance, even answering some of Jack's questions.
“Where are we?” Jack asked casually.
“Don't you know?” Cormac responded with a smile. “The 23rd state, Limey. You're in Maine.”
Jack nodded his thanks. That helped, although he knew that Maine was larger than Wales. “Which part?”
“The North-West,” Cormac said. “Don't worry, the Limeys can't get you here, even although we're not far from New Brunswick in British North America.”
“Thank you,” Jack forced a smile. “I do have a fear that one night a British raiding party will kick down the door and drag me back over the border.”
Both Cormac and Dermot laughed at the idea. “I hope they try,” Dermot said. “That would bring war between the United States and Great Britain, and then an Irish Republic would be a whole lot closer.”
“And I'd probably be hanged,” Jack said, which made Cormac laugh.
“It's worth the price to free Ireland,” Dermot said gravely.
With the ice broken, Jack found his guards more relaxed, and a few nights later, he left his comfortable quarters to wander around the house.
Rather than hide in corners, Jack strode along the corridor, whistling to show he had nothing to hide. As he passed the door to the barracks, a snatch of a song came to him.
“We've won many victories
Along with the boys in blue,
Now we'll conquer Canada because there's
Nothing left to do.”
Jack paused. Conquering Canada might not be as easy as the Fenians supposed, but with a long, virtually undefended border with the United States,
Canada was undoubtedly vulnerable to raids. That was another snippet of information to pass to Smith if he only knew how.
The laugh took him by surprise. He recognised Helen's voice and climbed up a flight of stairs, resting his hand on the walnut balcony and taking the steps two at a time. The stairs led to a long corridor, deeply carpeted, and brilliantly lit with a dozen oil lamps, hung with portraits of people he did not recognise.
As Jack stood at one end of the corridor, he saw the tall man who had been with Helen. Jack lifted a hand in acknowledgement, only for the man to turn away.
Are you the recruiter? Jack strode forward, his feet sinking into the carpet. Acting on a hunch, he approached the door that the tall man had left and heard soft singing from inside the room.
“Always victorious
Glorious and more glorious,
We followed Marlborough through battle and war
We're the Royal Malverns, the heroes of Malplaquet.”
The singer mispronounced the last word, tried it again and swore softly. “Oh, damn,” she said. “I never get that right.”
“Neither you do, Helen,” Jack said, and tapped on the door.
“Who is it?” Helen asked.
“It's Jack Windrush,” Jack said.
“Jack!” The door opened a crack, and then Helen threw it wide. “Come in, and hurry!”
Sliding inside, Jack waited until Helen closed the door. “What's to do, Helen?”
“I could ask you the same!” Helen looked five years younger than she had in England. Her eyes were as bright as they had been in the Crimea and the spring was back in her step.
“The army cashiered me,” Jack said. “You, however, suffered no such fate. Does William know you are here?”
“Certainly not!” Helen snapped and smiled. “Does Mary know you are here?”
“No.” Jack shook his head.
“Good.” Helen put her back to the door. “Then we are free, are we not?”
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