Agent Of The Queen

by Malcolm Archibald

  “I have planted discontent in a dozen British regiments,” Walsh said. “One sign of Fenian success in Canada will bring a mutiny in these units, gentlemen. Britain will be unable to rely on its army.” Walsh sat back down.

  You have planted discontent? Jack studied Walsh from the side of his eyes. Who are you? Are you the man I should have been searching for, rather than Carmichael?

  “Thank you, Mr Walsh,” Sweeny said. “For those of you who do not know, Mr Walsh heads our intelligence department.”

  Dear God in heaven! He's the man I should have been after.

  Sweeny continued. “Our secretary of war has created a plan of attack. We will have multiple invasions from the United States. We will cross from Vermont and Malone and Potsdam in New York to capture the Canadian towns of Cornwall and Prescott before we strike north to Ottawa and Montreal. We will cross Lake Michigan and Lake Huron, capture Stratford and London and take over railway terminals to disrupt Canadian communications, while other Fenian armies occupy Toronto and every important waterway and railway centre.”

  Jack listened without comment. Although he knew that Britain had only a tiny garrison in Canada, he could not imagine the authorities standing idly by while foreign armies invaded at will, whatever Sweeny and his optimistic followers believed. The Fenians' plans for large armies striking simultaneously at several points in a thinly populated land called for sophisticated logistics and communications that Jack doubted they possessed. All the same, he had to warn the British authorities of the danger.

  “I'd like to go with O'Mahony,” Jack said. “I'd like a crack at the Empire myself.”

  “Face me,” O'Mahony said.

  Jack met his level, sharp eyes as the room became quiet. Jack was aware that Walsh was studying him as carefully as he had scrutinised Walsh.

  “You've taken the Fenian oath,” O'Mahony said.

  “I have,” Jack agreed.

  “And you give me your word, as an officer and a gentleman, that you are loyal?”

  “I am loyal,” Jack said.

  O'Mahony extended his hand. “I know you have already led a raid into New Brunswick.” He raised his voice slightly. “This gentleman is Captain Jack Windrush, who has personal reasons for disliking the British Empire. God bless the Republic of Ireland.”

  “God bless the Republic of Ireland,” Jack said even as he mentally composed his message to Fraser. He felt Walsh's eyes burning into his back.

  * * *

  After a winter of training, the Fenians were a handy-looking bunch. Jack surveyed them, as he had inspected thousands of recruits in the British Army. Many seemed very young, mere boys with the bright hope of enthusiasm in their eyes and slogans to free Ireland on their lips. Others were veterans of the American Civil War, cynical, hard young men who had seen action at Shiloh and Bull Run, Vicksburg or Antietam. Many were Irish-born, others the sons of Irishmen and women who brought bitter memories of the famine of the 1840s when they emigrated to the United States. Jack saw Riordan's face in the ranks, as well as Murphy and the eager Kennedy. These men would be as willing to fight as any British soldiers and, being of Irish stock, would let nobody down.

  Jack thought of the last message he had sent via Fraser, asking him to contact the Royal Navy in Halifax and hoped it would get through in time.

  “Here we go, then.” Murphy spoke through a mouthful of tobacco. “Our first blow at the Limeys.”

  “Dirty English bastards,” Kennedy said. “I hate them all.”

  Jack said nothing; he had heard it all before. O'Mahony walked up, his eyes searching. Although Campobello Island, one of the Fundy Islands, was in New Brunswick, it lay off the coast of Maine. It was a beautiful, wooded island that exuded peace as Jack and the Fenians looked across the short stretch of water.

  “It's almost a shame to spoil it,” Riordan commented.

  “Compared to what the British did to Ireland,” Kennedy rubbed his hand over the stock of his rifle, “we'll leave it fresh and healthy.”

  The veteran Fenians checked their weapons, others stamped their boots on the ground in a manner so like the 113th that Jack felt instant nostalgia for his old regiment. Before battle, all armies were probably similar, he thought, with a mixture of apprehension, excitement and fear, as the old soldiers hid their memories and the youngsters strove to prove their worth.

  Jack looked around for the Royal Navy. If his message had got through, surely the navy would respond. An early check to the Fenians' hopes might save the hundreds or thousands of lives that a later war would undoubtedly cost. He watched the Fenians. He knew his own company by name and habit. He knew the lazy and the keen, the veterans, and the raw men desperate for others to regard them as old soldiers. Despite their being the Queen's enemies, he felt an affinity towards them. But, at the same time, he could not condone their cause. Bringing war to the peaceful colonies of Canada because of presumed injustices in Ireland made no sense to him.

  As evening fell on the collection of islands that made up the settlement of Eastport, Maine, a chill wind bit from the north and ice lingered at the shadowed corners of the buildings. Jack kept his men drilling on a sheltered beach as long as he could, aware of his divided loyalties between his company and the aims of the Fenians.

  Opposite them and within comfortable artillery range, the islands of New Brunswick appeared a mirror image of Maine.

  “I can see the bloody flag,” Kennedy pointed across the intervening water.

  “Stand to attention,” Jack roared. “You're here to drill, not to sightsee!”

  “Look, boys.” Ignoring Jack completely, Kennedy pointed across to a small, wooded island, where the Union Flag hung above the substantial Customs House. “There's the flag of repression!”

  “We'll get that tonight, boys,” Murphy said, with his face looking longer than ever. “That place is called Indian Island.”

  Jack glanced at O'Mahony. “I think we'll call it a day there,” he said.

  “Aye,” O'Mahony agreed. “These men are more free-spirited than your British redcoats. They won't accept your orders so readily, even after all your training.”

  “Hmm,” Jack agreed. “I could do with a few experienced British sergeants. My Sergeant O'Neill would ginger them up.”

  “O'Neill?”

  “As Irish as any man here and as good a soldier as any I have ever met.”

  O'Mahony nodded. “He'd be an asset to us. Best get to bed, Captain.”

  Jack saluted. “Yes, sir,” he said. But he knew he would not sleep – he seldom did before an action, however small. Pulling off his boots but otherwise fully dressed in case of emergencies, he lay on the simple cot in his tent. Despite himself, Jack felt himself drifting away to dream of Mary in Netherhills, with Helen riding up singing a Fenian song.

  The sound of scurrying feet woke Jack. He sat up in his tent and peered outside. Kennedy, Riordan and Murphy were leading a score of Fenians towards the beach.

  “Here! What the devil are you doing?”

  “Getting the flag!” Kennedy shouted over his shoulder. “We'll show these British!”

  “Don't be stupid!” Hastily hauling on his boots, Jack followed, but too far behind to make any difference. He swore, knowing that a man so filled with unreasoning hatred as Kennedy was liable to do anything.

  Pushing out two boats, the Fenians began to row clumsily towards Indian Island, with the blades of their oars splashing in the water and Kennedy urging them to greater effort.

  “Don't be stupid!” Jack called. “You'll alert the British that we're coming!”

  “What's happening?” O'Mahony emerged from his tent, hauling on his jacket and bleary-eyed from sleep.

  “Some fools are rowing across to Indian Island to haul down the British flag,” Jack informed him. “Shall I bring them back?”

  “Yes,” O'Mahony said. “There's no British garrison on Indian Island, and we're not making war on civilians.”

  The Fenians were a good 100 yards away befor
e Jack managed to push the nearest boat into the water and row in pursuit. It was years since he had last been in a boat, so he struggled to find his rhythm, splashing louder than the Fenians and falling behind them by the minute. He pulled up on a muddy beach in time to see the Fenians running towards the Customs building.

  “Stop!” Jack shouted.

  “You can't give us orders,” a youthful Fenian yelled back. “Limey bastard!”

  “He's one of us,” Murphy pulled the youth away. “He's no longer a Limey.”

  Jack chased after them, with his boots crunching on the frost-brittle ground and clouds streaking across a pale moon in a sky brilliant with stars.

  The mob surrounded the Customs House, shouting to be let in. Jack heard Kennedy's voice above the general din. “Give us the Limey flag, or we'll burn the house down!”

  Candlelight flickered in the nearest window of the house as the noise awakened the residents, and Jack fancied he saw a face peering behind the tiny flame.

  “Enough!” Grabbing the nearest Fenian, Jack dragged him back. “We're not here to steal flags from civilians.”

  “You keep out of this, Limey!” As the Fenian fell, the volatile youth and one of his companions edged forward. While the youngster produced a pistol, his companion levelled his rifle. “You've no right to be here.”

  With two wild-eyed men pointing weapons at him, Jack withdrew a pace. “I'm your commanding officer!” He felt for his revolver and swore when he realised he had left it behind.

  “You're a Limey bastard,” the youth's companion was dark-visaged, with neat whiskers. Jack did not know him. “I can tell by your accent.”

  “He's all right,” Murphy said. “Leave him be.”

  When the door opened, a sleepy-eyed native Canadian stared out. “What's all this? Who are you, people? Get away! I have a woman in labour here!”

  “Leave these good people in peace.” Jack tried to help as the Fenians crowded around the civilian. “Didn't you hear? There's a woman with child inside the house.”

  “An English woman,” Kennedy said with a sneer.

  “Who are you?” Tired of insulting Jack, the long-haired Fenian now pointed his pistol at the Canadian's head. The youth was unshaven and long-haired and his accent was from the southern states of America.

  “I am James Dixon,” the Canadian faced the pistol without flinching. “My wife is in labour, and you are not helping her.”

  “We'll shoot you first and then her,” Kennedy announced, acting as spokesman.

  “Why are you here?” Dixon blocked access to his house and his wife.

  “We want that flag!” The long-haired Fenian waved his pistol around so wildly that Jack thought he might shoot one of his colleagues.

  James Dixon shook his head. “You can have the flag if you wish,” he said. “It's only a flag.”

  Cheering as though they had won a famous victory, the Fenians clambered to the roof. Jack watched as Kennedy grabbed the Union Flag and slithered back to the ground, with the Fenians baying and hooting. They gathered around the symbol of Britain's dominion, holding it up in front of Jack and sneering as they sang their most popular song.

  “We've won many victories

  Along with the boys in blue,

  Now we'll conquer Canada because there's

  Nothing left to do.”

  Five minutes later, the Fenians were crowding back to their boats, laughing, some spitting on the Union Flag, boasting of their victory as they retreated to Eastport. “We'll send this to headquarters in New York,” one man said. “The first British flag captured in our conquest of Canada.”

  Feeling the frustration of failure, Jack lingered at the house and apologised to James Dixon. “I hope it goes well with your lady wife,” he said.

  Dixon gave a slow smile. “Thank you. I don't think you belong with these men. You may stay with us if you wish.”

  “I have my duty to do.” Jack touched his cap in salute and walked away. He hoped the little display on Indian Island was not a foretaste of the Fenians' behaviour when they invaded Canada. If so, there would be bloodshed on both sides.

  Sighing, Jack followed the cheering Fenians, wondering what the morrow would bring, wondering if the messages he sent had reached their destination and wondering if Canada stood at the crux of a full-scale Fenian war. Suddenly he felt drained of energy.

  * * *

  “Here we go.”

  Some 700 Fenians boarded boats and set out for their invasion of British North America with the magnificent islands of Passamaquoddy Bay in the Bay of Fundy spread before them, a vision of green and blue. Jack sighed; he had seen the exquisite beauty of the town of Balaclava destroyed by war. Was the same to happen here? Would the Fenians' invasion turn peaceful New Brunswick into a shattered battleground? Jack looked right and left. No sails graced the water – the Royal Navy was not hurrying to defend New Brunswick.

  “Right, you Irish patriots,” O'Mahony shouted, emphasising the Irish in his accent to appeal to his audience. “You know why we're here! We'll capture Campobello from the Limeys and use the island as a base to attack British shipping. We'll disrupt their trade and show the power of the green flag.”

  The Fenians cheered, waving hats, pistols and rifles in the air.

  “Not only that,” O'Mahony said, “If we are here, the British will have to increase their garrison in North America, and bring in ships as well. The more Limeys are here, the fewer will be in Ireland when the revolution starts.”

  The Fenians cheered again, louder, with some shouting, “Long live the Irish Republic,” or, “Hurrah for the Fenian Brotherhood!”

  “Remember,” O'Mahony raised his hands to calm the noise. “If the Limeys capture any of us, we are citizens of the Irish Republic, so we are neither traitors nor freebooters to be hanged, but legal combatants to be treated as prisoners of war.”

  Jack thought of Ireland's bloody past and the many hopeful, hopeless attempts the people had made to throw off British rule. Despite his latent sympathy for a people who wished for self-determination, Jack hated war as only a soldier could. He did not want the horrors of war to descend on this most peaceful part of the empire.

  “Also remember,” O'Mahony altered his tone. “If we capture any British, military or civilian, they are our prisoners-of-war, so treat them decent. Don't give the Limeys any reason to revert to atrocities.”

  Jack was surprised that most men cheered the words, with only a few, such as Kennedy, appearing to disagree.

  “Come on lads; let's strike a blow for Ireland!” O'Mahony gave his final words to another cheer from his Fenians.

  Jack stepped into the leading boat, aware of the bustle of the men around him. Some held their rifles like the veterans they were, others giggled nervously, or sang their Fenian songs.

  In the bow, O'Mahony surveyed the island through a pair of field glasses. “This will be a contested landing,” he said, handing the binoculars to Jack. “Now we'll find out the temper of our boys.”

  Bright against the green trees, the scarlet tunics looked like a streak of blood. It was the first time that Jack had viewed British infantry as an enemy, and the sight chilled him. He knew what kind of men filled these uniforms, what they thought, how they acted and of what actions they were capable. However brave these Irish and Irish-Americans were, they had never faced professional British soldiers before or even New Brunswick Volunteers.

  “Canadian Militia, I think.” Jack handed the binoculars back.

  “Will they fight?” O'Mahony asked.

  “Aye, they'll fight.” Jack tried to keep the satisfaction from his voice. The invaders would not get things all their own way. He could sense the unease growing among the Fenians. The veterans would remember the carnage that disciplined firepower could wreak among an advance and the Johnny Raws would be nervous about their first experience of battle.

  Murphy stood up in the boat. “Up the Republic of Ireland!” He shouted. “Let's show these redcoats. Remember Oular
t!” He was talking about a victory by the United Irishmen against loyalist militia in County Wexford in 1798.

  The men responded, some waving their caps or rifles. “Oulart!” they shouted. “We'll Oulart them!” One or two of the wilder spirits fired shots in the air.

  While the Fenians concentrated on Campobello, Jack continued to scan the waters around them, so was first to see the sails approaching from the east. They came rapidly, appearing from the shelter of the islands and then surging towards the Fenian fleet. “We may have more to worry about than a few dozen Canadian Militia.” He tried to hide his relief. “Look over there.”

  O'Mahony swivelled around, levelling his binoculars. He swore once, softly, and then again. “What do you make of them, Windrush?”

  The ships were not large as they emerged from the shelter of the islands, but there was no mistaking their intent. The white ensign that hung from their masts left no room for mistake.

  “That's the Royal Navy!” Jack said.

  “The news spread rapidly through the Fenian ranks, with men gesticulating and pointing towards the approaching warships. The flotilla of armed Fenians, which had seemed so powerful as it approached a supposedly undefended island, was now exposed as vulnerable. Not all the men, however, were cowed.

  “Fight them!” Murphy levelled his rifle. “Shoot the Limeys as they come close.”

  “Don't be a fool!” O'Mahony knocked Murphy's rifle barrel down. “That's the Royal Navy, not some gaggle of uniformed civilians! They can blast us out of the water long before we're in range!”

  “Then why don't they fire? Eh?” Another man asked. “They're scared of us, I tell you. They're scared of us.”

  “They won't fire as long as we're in United States waters,”Jack explained. “If we cross the line into New Brunswick waters, they might consider us a threat and open fire.”

  While some Fenians continued to shout their defiance, the majority watched the advance of the Royal Navy in silence. A few looked back to the shore of Maine, perhaps wondering if they should return.

  As the ships drew closer, Jack could see splashes of scarlet on the decks, either of Royal Marines or British soldiers. “They've brought the British Army,” Jack said. “I don't know which regiment.”