Agent Of The Queen

by Malcolm Archibald

  Jack allowed Helen's hand free play. “You knew I would, eventually.”

  “I hoped you would,” Helen said. “Sit down, Jack.” Bouncing on to the bed, she hugged her knees between her hands and nodded to the armchair beside the window. “Shall I ring the maid for coffee, or would you like something stronger, or nothing at all?” Her eyes laughed at him.

  “I'd like to talk,” Jack said, sitting down. “I'd like to talk about you and the danger you are in.”

  Helen's smile did not falter. “Danger is the spice, Jack. It alleviates the tedium of life. You are so lucky that you're a man.”

  “Walter Carmichael is more dangerous than you realise,” Jack said.

  “Perhaps I know him better than you do,” Helen countered.

  Wondering how much he could trust her, Jack took a deep breath. “You do realise that he's a fraud, don't you?”

  “A fraud?” Helen frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Walter Carmichael is not Irish.” Jack watched Helen closely as he spoke. “And I don't think he is American, either.”

  “Then what is he?”

  “He may be Russian,” Jack said. “Using the Fenians, as he is using you.”

  “I'm using him,” Helen pointed out. “Just as you are trying to use me. What do you want Jack? What do you really want? And it's not my company – I know you too well to believe that.”

  “I want your help,” Jack said. “I believe Carmichael is working for the Russians, and I want to capture him to find out.”

  Helen sat up on the bed. “I knew you were not here for my sake.” She jumped off the bed and began to pace up and down the room in much the same way as Jack did when thinking. “That will be fun,” she said finally. “How do we do it?”

  “I haven't worked that out, yet,” Jack said. “Tell me, Helen, if Carmichael had asked you to help capture me, would you have agreed as easily?”

  Helen stopped to kiss Jack lightly on the forehead. “Oh, Jack, how could you think such a thing of me? Of course not.” She walked away again, turned and smiled. “I don't think so, anyway, but we'll never know for sure, will we?”

  “No,” Jack replied softly. “We'll never know for sure.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  PRESQUE HOUSE, MAINE, JANUARY 1866

  Once Helen decided on a thing, she put her heart and soul into it, Jack thought, at least until something else attracted her attention. Ever since he had mentioned his intention to capture Carmichael, Helen had come up with a succession of plans, each one more audacious than the last, from enticing him into the woods so Jack could hit him on the head to drugging his drink.

  “He's a clever man,” Jack said. “We'll need something more subtle.”

  “No,” Helen argued, shaking her head. “Straightforward is best. Come on, Jack, we've been at this for a week and resolved nothing.”

  “I'll think of something,” Jack said.

  “That will be a change,” Helen retorted sharply. “You used to be so resourceful, Jack.”

  The words stung as Jack walked away. It was hard to make plans to capture a man whose appearances were unpredictable. Carmichael was away more often than he was at Presque House, and when he arrived, he might be there for a few days or only a few hours.

  * * *

  “Jack!” Helen pushed into Jack's room without knocking.

  “Who's that?” Jack sat up in bed, groping for his revolver.

  “It's me!” Helen stood in her nightdress without even a candle to light her way. “I've got him.”

  “What?” Struggling up, Jack lit a candle by the dying embers of his fire.

  “Walter! He's asleep in my room, drunk as a lord and snoring fit to frighten the French! Come on!”

  Helen was absolutely right – Carmichael was unconscious on the bed, wearing only his shirt and with his mouth wide open.

  “Was this your doing?” Jack asked.

  Helen's smile was more self-satisfied than Jack expected. “Perhaps a little. I did slip some spirits into his beer.”

  “What the devil do I do with him? I can hardly carry him out of the house,” Jack said.

  “No.” Helen grabbed at a pile of Carmichael's clothing. “Help me dress him, Jack. I've got an idea.”

  “You had this planned,” Jack said, surprised at how adroitly Helen slipped Carmichael's clothes on his unconscious body.

  “Days ago!” Helen admitted cheerfully.

  “You're a cunning little minx,” Jack said almost admiringly as Helen pulled Carmichael's trousers over his hips and fastened them.

  “Why thank you! Coming from you, Jack, I'll take that as a compliment.” Helen's eyes were bright with excitement. “Now, Jack, you must trust me. I'm going to put Walter,” she slapped the unconscious man's backside, “on his coach and tell the driver to take him to the usual destination.”

  “Where is that?”

  “I don't know,” Helen said. “I've heard Walter,” she slapped him again, “say that to his coachman.”

  “Did you ask?”

  “Frequently.” Helen shook her head. “To no avail.” She smiled. “No matter. I'll tell the coachman to go to the usual destination. You must follow the coach without being seen and kidnap him or whatever you have in mind.” Helen pushed him toward the door. “Now go, Jack. If anybody sees you with him, Cormac and his pal might suspect you.” She pushed again. “Go!”

  As Jack left, she heard Helen shouting: “Cormac! Dermot! I need your muscles. This stupid man's fallen asleep when he's due to be away!”

  After waiting so long, Jack found he was ill-prepared for the reality of capturing Carmichael. Slipping out of the side door, he watched Cormac carry Carmichael as if he was a sack of potatoes, with Helen giving brisk orders. Dermot had fetched the coach, with the driver looking disgruntled at having to drive in thick snow, although the road to Presque House was clear.

  “It was late afternoon, with the shadows already merging with oncoming dark, so Jack had no difficulty in running across unseen and slipping among the nearby trees. He heard Helen's voice floating on the still air and, looking back, saw her breath condensing like smoke around her face.

  “He told me he needs to go to the usual destination, driver, wherever that is.”

  “At this hour?” the driver grumbled. ”It'll mean travelling through the night, and the offside front wheel needs attention!”

  “Then attend to the wheel and travel through the night!” Helen said, sharply, pulling a shawl close against the bite of the cold. “That's what Mr Carmichael said, so you'd better be off, and smart's the word, or I'll lay your whip across your shoulders.”

  Growling at Helen, the coachman cracked the reins and pulled away from the house.

  Moving quickly through the trees, Jack was out of the grounds and into the forest before the coach appeared. With no real plan, he had nothing in mind except to hold up the coach and drag Carmichael outside so, checking his revolver was loaded, he pulled a scarf across the lower half of his face, took a deep breath and swore as the coach slewed to a halt a few hundred yards outside the main gate of the house.

  “What the devil is happening now?” Jack murmured to himself.

  Climbing down from from his seat, the driver gave the front offside wheel a mighty kick, swore loudly and crouched beside it, muttering to himself. As he did so, the coach door opened and Carmichael staggered out, vomited copiously behind the coach and wandered drunkenly into the trees.

  “Good man,” Jack said. “You keep coming towards me.”

  “Helloa!” Concentrating on his damaged wheel, the driver had not noticed the antics of his passenger until Carmichael was gone. “Where are you off to?” Following the zig-zag trail of footprints into the forest, he continued to shout. “Helloa! Mr Carmichael!”

  “Right, driver.” Rising from behind a tree, Jack grabbed the man in a headlock, pulled off his hat and cracked him with the butt of his revolver. Knowing the driver would die of exposure if left in the snow overnight, Jac
k dragged him back to the coach and bundled him inside.

  “Now for you, Carmichael, or whatever your name is.”

  The Russian had left an easy trail through the snow, allowing Jack to locate him in minutes.

  “Who are you?” Carmichael slurred the words. “What are you doing here?”

  “Saving your life, like as not,” Jack said. “You'll die out here in your present condition. Come on.”

  “Who are you?” Carmichael's eyes were unfocused, yet Jack could not smell alcohol on his breath.

  “That's not your concern,” Jack said. “I thought Russians were hard-headed when it came to alcohol.”

  “I'm not Russian,” Carmichael slurred, staggering, so Jack slid a hand under his arm and guided him through the forest toward the stand of birch trees. Glancing behind him, Jack saw the distinct trail they were leaving and cursed. The Fenians could follow that without difficulty. He'd have to obliterate that quickly. “Come on, Carmichael. If you're not Russian, what are you?”

  “I'm Irish.” Carmichael began to sing.

  “O Paddy dear, and did ye hear the news that's goin' round?

  The shamrock is by law forbid to grow on Irish ground!

  No more Saint Patrick's Day we'll keep, his colour can't be seen

  For there's a cruel law ag'in the Wearing' o' the Green.”

  Jack winced. “Keep quiet!”

  “Why?” Carmichael asked loudly. “I can sing if I want.”

  Jack sensed rather than saw the movement ahead of him, and then Fraser was beside him. “Is this the Russian fellow?”

  “I'm glad to see you,” Jack said. “Yes, this is he.”

  “Let's get him somewhere safe, then,” Fraser said and, without hesitation, produced a small bag from inside his coat, opened it and pressed a pad of cloth over Carmichael's mouth and nose. Jack watched in fascination as Carmichael struggled for a moment and then relaxed into unconsciousness.

  “It's a medical thing called chloroform,” Carmichael explained. “Help me carry him.”

  Two men carrying a insensible body was much easier than one struggling with a lively man so, within 15 minutes, they deposited Carmichael inside Fraser's small hut.

  Gasping slightly, Fraser looked down at the man. “Well done, Windrush. I'll have him transported to England for questioning.”

  “It was fortunate you were here at just the right time,” Jack said.

  “Nothing to do with fortune,” Fraser said. “Now, a short message from S. Stay put until the Fenians move. Let us know what they do.”

  “Is that it?” Jack could not hide his disappointment. “I had hoped I could go home now.”

  “Not yet,” Fraser said. “Your wife will have to wait a little longer. I'll be in touch.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  BOSTON, APRIL 1866

  “We are agreed.” Sweeny spoke quietly. “Colonel John O'Byrne will lead the raid. He will have a battalion of some 700 men across from Maine to seize Campobello Island in New Brunswick. Some of the men you trained will be among them, Windrush.”

  Jack slowly lit a cheroot and blew smoke into the air. “Once he has control of Campobello, sir, what will he do with it? There's not much there to scare the British.”

  “Do with it, sir? Why he won't have to do anything with it.” Sweeny's smile had all the charm of a sleeping tiger. “That's the beauty of the scheme, you see. Even if we lose, we win. This border between the United States and Canada is hundreds of miles long and as porous as a sieve. I believe you know India's North-West Frontier, Captain?”

  “I've served there,” Jack admitted.

  “There you are, you see,” Sweeny said triumphantly. “You've seen a heavily defended frontier. How much wealth do you think that drains from the British Empire?”

  Jack thought of the garrison at Peshawar, the Guides base at Mardan and all the frontier outposts, with the scores of expeditionary forces that Britain had to send out to keep even relative peace. “A great deal, I should think, sir.”

  “I should think so, too,” Sweeny said. “Now, imagine what it would cost to maintain garrisons along the full length of the border between Britain's North American possessions and the United States of America.”

  With another eight men in the room, Jack knew that Sweeny was addressing his audience rather than asking a genuine question. All the same, he drew a breath and considered. A posting to North America was one of the most popular for the British army. The people were friendly, the location healthy, and there was little chance of action. Horse Guards knew that well and kept only a token handful of regulars in North America, backed by local militia. If Britain had to maintain a garrison all along the frontier with the United States, the cost would be astronomical.

  “Britain would have to raise taxes to maintain a large garrison.” Sweeny answered his own question. “That would make the empire even less popular than it is now. London might expect the North American colonies to pay for their own defence, and we all know where that could lead, don't we?”

  Jack forced a smile. When Great Britain taxed her North American colonies to pay for a British garrison in the late 18th century, 13 had revolved and formed the United States. The initial minor civil disturbances had spread into a near-global war that culminated in Britain opposing a formidable alliance of European powers that included both France and Spain.

  “You see? If we win, and the Fenians in Canada rise in support to push out the British, then we have gained a massive victory.” Sweeny faced the gathering of earnest, bearded faces. “If we can hold Canada or even part of it, we will offer the British a deal; we will give them back Canada in return for Irish independence.”

  Jack listened intently. What Sweeny proposed was very bold and, to him, outlandish. Canada was a vast country, and whatever the size of the British garrison, the population was unlikely to welcome a Fenian-American invasion. As the Canadians had already repelled American attacks in the 1770s and 1812, Sweeny was attempting a dangerous venture. The other men at the table seemed not to agree. They clapped, and one sang a few lines of a Fenian song.

  “Hooray for the land which an Emmet reclaimed

  Which the blood of our sires strove to render a nation

  With the foul taint of slavery forever he stained

  Forward ye Fenians to die or to save

  No more shall your land be the home of a slave.”

  If songs could win wars, Jack thought, Ireland would have been independent centuries before.

  Sweeny was talking again. “I read the report of a British officer,” he said. “This officer said that Canada would be easy prey, notwithstanding all the fine talk there is of defending it.”

  Most of the men at the table clapped. They all listened, while Jack wondered who the nameless British officer was and if he ever even existed.

  “The British know that the people of Lower Canada are very lukewarm towards them and there are many Fenians among the Roman Catholic population. There has been much talk of confederation recently, with which New Brunswick and Nova Scotia do not agree.”

  Jack listened, taking mental notes.

  “Indeed,” Sweeny continued, “newspapers in New Brunswick are discussing the advantages of the United States annexing them – they will welcome us with open arms!”

  The men cheered again, with more singing.

  Sweeny stood up, lifting his arms high. “We are going to make history, gentlemen. The British think the Canadians will rise against us. They are wrong! Oh, some volunteer companies will oppose us, but our men are better armed, and most are veterans of real war, not of sham fights with other amateurs.”

  Jack knew that Sweeny was at least partially correct. The American repeating Spencers gave the Fenians an advantage over the Canadian Volunteers with their single-shot rifles, and the experience of fighting through the US Civil War made many of the Fenians veterans. Jack listened to Sweeny's words, sorting the wheat of truth from the chaff of encouraging propaganda. Although they were no Pasht
uns or Sikhs, these Fenians might give Britain a scare before this game was over.

  “Even if we don't win, we will still have twisted the lion's tail, with who knows what results.” Sweeny sat down with a heavy thump and leaned back in his chair. “And all the time that Great Britain is expending men, money and energy over here, the real war will take place on the other side of the Atlantic.” Sweeny's cigar seemed swamped by the size of his grin. “I see you understand, Captain Windrush. All this, successful or not, is only a diversion. The more trouble we cause for Britain here, the more we divert them from Ireland. If we win in Canada, we have Ireland. If we only draw the British Army into a long war on the Canadian prairies, we can bleed their finances until they sue for peace.”

  Jack nodded. The Fenians' strategy sounded plausible, provided they had the finances and resources to maintain an army within a foreign nation. They certainly possessed the rhetoric.

  O'Mahony, sitting quietly in a corner, lifted his chin from his chest. “I agree,” he said. “Let it be so. If we are fortunate, the United States will act with us and push the United States border to the St Lawrence.”

  “That would show Britain they don't rule the world,” one of the two men at the back of the room said, as his companion scribbled notes in a small black pad. He glanced at Sweeny, then at Jack. When he rose to speak, Jack noticed that even Sweeny listened.

  “I've been travelling around Britain and Europe, as most of you gentlemen are aware.”

  Sweeny nodded. “We know, Mr Walsh.”

  Mr Walsh? Jack focused on the speaker. Who the devil are you, Mr Walsh? Although he spoke in quiet tones, Walsh exuded an authority that Jack had seldom encountered before. His face was gaunt, with prominent cheekbones, and the scar on his forehead highlighted deep-set, haunted eyes filled with latent violence. Jack had seen such eyes before, on men damaged by combat or other extreme hardship. This Walsh was a man to avoid.