Agent Of The Queen

by Malcolm Archibald

  The sight of the soldiers augmenting the Royal Navy and the waiting Canadian militia killed the remaining martial ardour of the Fenians.

  “We're caught between two fires,” Murphy said. “They've trapped us.”

  “Get back!” The cry became universal. “We can't fight them!”

  “No,” Jack shouted, knowing that the invasion was already doomed, but intent on enhancing his reputation as a fire-raising Fenian. “We're not retreating. Keep rowing; let's show these redcoats what Irishmen can do!” Raising his revolver and aware he was well out of range, Jack fired at the distant ships. One or two of the men followed suit until O'Mahony ordered them to cease fire.

  “I commend your enthusiasm,” O'Mahony growled, “but save the ammunition for later. We can't stand against the Royal Navy, damn their tarry hides!”

  Either Jack's message or local information had reached the British authorities, and Major General Charles Hastings Doyle had called up the Royal Navy. Probably pleased to see some action, a small flotilla sailed from Halifax, arriving at Passamaquoddy Bay in time to overawe the Fenians. Believing their own propaganda, the Fenians had not expected much resistance and something like panic seized them.

  “Keep together!” Jack's military mind was offended as the Fenian flotilla scattered, oars flailing as they turned to return to United States soil. “You're soldiers, not some rabble of civilians.”

  “They've defeated us without firing a shot,” O'Mahony said gloomily. “Now it's all up to Sweeny.”

  * * *

  Disconsolate, with their small army drifting away or sitting along the beaches of Maine, the leaders of the abortive invasion smoked, drank and watched the Royal Navy cruising unchallenged in Passamaquoddy Bay. The white ensign, recently adopted as the sole flag of the Royal Navy, taunted the Fenians as it flapped 100 yards off the shore of Maine.

  Jack watched the lean man stride towards them across the beach. “Here comes Patrick Walsh,” he said. “I'm not sure what part he has to play in all this.”

  O'Mahony's smile was short and bitter. “Nobody is sure what Walsh's part is, Windrush. He's a man of mystery, is our Mr Walsh. We call him our intelligence officer, yet he wants to fight the British even more than you do.”

  Jack studied Walsh as he strode past the lounging Fenians. “I have the impression that he's dangerous.”

  O'Mahony stood up. “So have I, Windrush. The wind blew him in one day, and he made himself useful.”

  Walsh looked around the forlorn ruins of the Fenian army. “The invasion did not go well, then.”

  “It did not, Mr Walsh,” O'Mahony gestured to the Royal Navy. “The British got wind of it.”

  Walsh glowered at the ships. “Damn them to hell and back. What are your plans now, General?”

  O'Mahony pondered for a moment before replying. “I think the British in Canada are more ready for us than we believed. We'd be better employed in raising money for the boys in Ireland.”

  Walsh grunted. “You'll give up after one reverse?” He glowered at Jack through his mad, pale-blue eyes. “How about you, Windrush. I hear the British kicked you out of their little scarlet army.”

  “They did,” Jack agreed.

  “You'll want revenge.” Walsh spoke sharply.

  “I do,” Jack said.

  “Then come with me,” Walsh said. “There's no place for you in a defeated army.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  NEW YORK, SPRING 1866

  Over the next few weeks, Jack learned more about the Fenians. He learned that there were two separate groups known as the Presidential faction and the Senate faction. While James Stephens and O'Mahony led the more pacific Presidentials, a man named William Roberts led the more aggressive Senate faction, backed by General Sweeny.

  As Jack gathered information, he passed it on to Fraser, who seemed to have a knack of appearing in odd places, wherever Jack happened to be.

  “I keep an eye on my people,” Fraser said.

  “How many of us are there?” Jack asked.

  “Not many,” Fraser said. “Enough to keep me busy.”

  “Is there anybody else near me?”

  Fraser winked. “Best not to know too much,” he said. “The less you know, the less you can reveal, either inadvertently or under duress.” His grin was unexpected. “You'd be surprised, though. I guarantee you'd be surprised.”

  Jack nodded; he understood the danger, although he would have liked to know with whom he might be working. “Is there anything else happening in this cloak-and-dagger campaign?”

  “There are many rumours and much speculation,” Fraser replied, “usually wildly inaccurate.”

  “Tell me,” Jack said.

  Fraser told him about gunmen in Dublin who tried to shoot a private of the 8th Foot, and the excitement at St John in New Brunswick when three Fenian ships were rumoured to be approaching the harbour. Fraser shrugged. “The whole of Canada seems to be in a ferment, with bank clerks in Toronto carrying loaded revolvers, refugees from the Southern states of America swearing to help defend Canada and stories of Fenians acquiring torpedoes to sink British ships.”

  Jack shook his head. “It's unbelievable that things could come to this. Do the Irish hate us so much?”

  “Many do,” Fraser said, “and not without reason, perhaps, given our mutual history. That's why we have 47 British infantry regiments, and six of cavalry, based in Ireland, ready for an uprising.”

  “Things are bad, then,” Jack said.

  “Maybe, or it could be smoke and bluff.” Fraser shrugged. “Mostly barrack-room gossip and pub tales. The Fenians are well organised. Their overall head man is James Stephens. The Fenians call him the head centre, with provincial centres under him, then there's a pyramid of groups known as centres, sub-centres and captains they call Bs and beneath them Cs.”

  “Are they as numerous as they claim?”

  Fraser nodded. “On paper they are, but how many are just full of bravado and how many will turn up when the bullets fly is a different thing. There are said to be 184,000 Fenian supporters in the United States alone.”

  “That's more men than the British Army has in total.”

  “Yes,” Fraser said. “There was a threat to shoot the Prince of Wales that seemed genuine enough, but lone murderers are a long way from a general uprising.” He stood up. “But thanks to you and others like you, we know what they are doing. Keep passing on whatever intelligence you can gather.”

  “I will,” Jack promised. “You've left me a lot to think about. Was there any further progress with that code I found in Carmichael's room?”

  “Not that I've heard.” Without another word, Fraser slipped away.

  * * *

  All that spring, the Fenians discussed tactics, with Jack among them. At times, the Fenians argued fiercely between themselves, splitting into mutually antagonistic groups, each demanding vastly different methods of gaining Irish independence. Jack noted that only Walsh mentioned Carmichael's disappearance and wondered if the two men were connected. Of all the Senate section, Walsh was the most aggressive, demanding action against the British, pounding his fist on the table to prove his point and even pointing a threatening finger when others tried to moderate his views.

  “There is no profit in merely playing with the British Empire,” Walsh said. “We must give them war, 10 deaths for one death; we must burn cities to avenge the Irish towns they have destroyed; we must make the Lord weep with the cry of mourning widows. Kill everybody who does not agree with our aims, man woman and child.”

  General Sweeny resolutely opposed Walsh. “No,” he said. “We are soldiers, not murderers. We do not make war on civilians.”

  “A ruthless war brings a quicker peace,” Walsh protested.

  “As Secretary of War,” Sweeny pointed out, “the final decision is mine, and I say we do not harm the civilians.” He moderated his tone. “If we start to kill innocents, Mr Walsh, we will soon lose any support from the Canadian, British or Amer
ican public, and our funds will soon dry up.”

  “We want war, not public support.” Walsh stormed away as Sweeny again turned him down.

  During this period, Jack wondered where Helen was, wishing he'd had time to thank her properly for her help with Carmichael. Maybe it's for the best, he told himself. That woman is only trouble.

  After weeks of tedious debate, the Senate faction came to a decision that was fundamentally the same as that with which they had started. “Gentlemen,” Sweeny said, “we will continue with our march on Canada.”

  Jack saw Walsh nod vigorously in agreement.

  “We will not try to hold the whole of the British colonies there,” Sweeny said. “It will be sufficient to occupy only a part and disrupt British communications. We will invade on many fronts, in Canada West and Canada East and cut these two colonies off from each other.”

  “At last!” Walsh fingered the long Colt revolvers that never left his waist. “When do we move?”

  “Soon, Mr Walsh,” Sweeny said. “The whole plan hinges on one thing – an attack on Fort Erie that will make the British believe we intend to attack the Welland Canal. The British will hurry their men from Toronto, leaving other sections of the frontier bare, ready for us.” Sweeny raised his head. “The thrust towards the Welland Canal must be prolonged as long as possible to keep the British and Canadians occupied.”

  He paused for a long minute. “We cross from Buffalo in New York in two weeks.”

  “War!” Walsh exclaimed, his voice full of satisfaction.

  Chapter Eighteen

  NEW YORK STATE, JUNE 1866

  Jack breathed in the crisp air of the early morning and listened to sweet bird-call and the rush of the Niagara River. Behind and beside him, General Sweeny's Fenians were busy preparing to cross once more into Canadian territory.

  “O'Mahony told me how enthusiastic you were in his raid on New Brunswick,” Sweeny said. “I admit that I distrusted you when we first met.”

  “That's not surprising,” Jack said, “considering my background.”

  “You led a raid into Canada and took part in two more,” Sweeny said. “That's more than anybody else, I think, and you were ready to take on the Royal Navy with only a revolver.”

  “I got a bit carried away,” Jack admitted.

  Sweeny nodded. “The smell of powder smoke can do that.”

  Jack nodded. “I did not participate in the second raid. I was trying to moderate a few hot-heads at the time.”

  “So I heard,” Sweeny said. “It's one thing to try to fight the Royal Navy, and something else bully-ragging civilians. You did well in both cases. Now, let's get these men loaded up and over the river.”

  “Come on, lads!” Jack shouted encouragement. “Get a move on; we want to be there before dawn.”

  Even after the previous abortive raid, the men were enthusiastic, singing about invading Canada and freeing Ireland. Jack noticed that not all the accents were Irish or American. A sprinkling of Europeans had eased into the ranks, men who knew no other profession but soldiering, or vagabonds and adventurers who sought loot in Canada.

  “Are you leading us, sir?” Jack asked Sweeny.

  “No,” Sweeny replied. “You are only a diversion, remember. When you draw the British, I'll lead the main force to take Quebec.”

  Jack nodded. The Fenian plans seemed to alter each time he heard them. “Who's in charge here, sir?”

  “Colonel Owen Starr will be in command of the advance force,” Sweeny said. “John O'Neill is in overall command. He knows that you have experience in the British military and will be looking to you for advice about British tactics.”

  “This day will go down in history,” Patrick Walsh shouted. “In future, Friday, June 1st 1866 will be lauded like July 4th and November 5th. It will be a great day for Ireland and the beginning of the end of the British Empire.”

  Some of the men cheered. Others paid him no attention as they pushed the Fenian fleet of four scows into the river. Jack watched a pair of tugs steam up, with busy mariners attaching lines to the bows of the scows to tow them across the Niagara to Canada. By now Jack could identify the various accents, from the pure Irish of the homeland to men from Indiana and Cincinnati, Ohio and Illinois. He knew the Fenian regiments, from the 13th Tennessee to the 17th Kentucky and the 7th New York, men who had spent the previous few nights billeted in the homes of Irish sympathisers.

  Jack was pleased that his own company was more disciplined than the rest, quieter, with cleaner weapons and less inclination to shout and yell, except for Kennedy, who stared, wild-eyed, across the river.

  I've trained them well, Jack thought.

  Cormac and Dermot remained close to Walsh, who watched Jack, his eyes musing and his usual two large Colts thrust through his belt. When he met Jack's gaze, Walsh lifted a hand in acknowledgement before speaking to Cormac and Dermot, with frequent glances in Jack's direction, making it evident that he was the subject of the conversation.

  Well, let them talk, Jack thought. I've fought Afridis on the Frontier, Burmese in the jungles and Cossacks in the Crimea. A few stray malcontents in the United States won't concern me.

  With about 1,000 men, this raid was more significant than the previous attempts. Although each man had a repeating Spencer or a Springfield or Enfield rifle, they lacked artillery and cavalry, with no commissariat, no wagons, stores or even knapsacks or uniforms. Jack hid his smile. However ambitious and numerous the Fenians might be, they were going off half-cock. This invasion force did not have the resources to be any more than a raid.

  Just wait until you meet British regulars, my lads. Then we'll see if your battle songs help you.

  It was still dark when Colonel Owen Starr led the initial force across the Niagara River from Buffalo, landing at the small town of Fort Erie.

  “You're with me, Windrush,” Starr said. “General Sweeny told me you could be useful.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jack agreed. He slipped into the small boat filled with Fenians, heard Kennedy's excited voice and took a deep breath as they pushed across the river. “Up the Irish Republic,” Kennedy shouted until Starr snarled at him: “Hush your fool mouth.”

  “Look, Colonel.” A sober-eyed veteran with a Kentucky accent pointed to the fishing boat that emerged from the gloom. “They've seen us.”

  “Let them,” Starr said. “They can't do much about it now.”

  Jack saw the white bow wave as the Canadian fishing boat sped across the river. He touched the butt of his revolver.

  “There might be some resistance,” Starr said quietly. “Have your weapons ready, boys.” Blooded by the Civil War, the young Fenians looked to their rifles and readied for a firefight. Landing at Freebury's Wharf, they ran ashore, dodging and weaving in case of Canadian sharpshooters. There was no need of the precautions and no shooting as only a few residents of Fort Erie bothered to watch the arrival of these Irish-Americans.

  “Establish a perimeter,” Starr ordered quickly. “Windrush, take a picket forward.”

  Jack obeyed, leading a dozen men into the streets and posting sentinels in strategic places. “Here's the telegraph station,” he shouted. “I'll destroy it so the Limeys can't send for help.”

  An elderly man, the telegraph operator was still in bed when Jack burst into his office. “Quick!” Jack dragged him to his feet. “I'm going to destroy your equipment. Send a message to the nearest military garrison.”

  “What?” Only half awake, the man reached for his equipment. “Who are you? This is most irregular.”

  “Send: Colonel O'Neill and a thousand Fenians at Fort Erie. Wolfe.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Send it!” Jack lifted his revolver. “Hurry, man!”

  Seeing the armed Fenians scurrying outside, the operator obeyed, and Jack set about smashing his equipment.

  “You can't do that,” the operator protested.

  “Keep your head down,” Jack advised, “and you'll be safe.”

  “Wel
l done, Windrush.” Starr beamed approvingly as he saw the wreckage of the telegraph station. “Now get back across the river and guide Colonel O'Neill over. Hurry, man; we want to get this town secured before the British arrive.”

  Not sure if he was acting the traitor or the patriot, Jack took the boat across the river.

  “We have a foothold in Fort Erie,” he reported to Colonel John O'Neill, an imperious ex-US cavalryman with a stern eye, veteran of campaigns in Ohio and West Virginia. “Colonel Starr requests that you join him, sir.”

  “And so we shall, Captain.” O'Neill shouted orders that set the tugs plying across the river, each one pulling two scows full of eager men, some with green jackets, and others with ordinary civilian clothes or scraps of uniforms from both sides in the late US Civil War.

  Dear God, Jack thought. Will Britain have to fight the United States next?

  As soon as he set foot in Canada, O'Neill took charge. “Get to the railroad! Rip up the track!”

  The Fenians obeyed, frustrated when the railroad workers escaped with the rolling stock.

  “No matter. We'll disrupt their communications,” O'Neill said with satisfaction. He pointed to a flagpole, where the Union Flag hung limp as if hiding its face from these invaders. “Haul that damned flag down and raise our Irish flag.”

  Jack watched as a flag rose slowly over Fort Erie. It was similar to the United States flag, but in green and white, with gold stars. As it reached the top of the flagstaff, a fortuitous gust of wind caused it to flutter in defiance.

  “Dear God,” Riordan muttered, staring at the flag. “We've done it; we've actually done it. We've declared war on the British Empire. God defend Ireland.”

  When Jack saw tears in Riordan's eyes, he realised what this expedition meant to some of these men. He could not imagine the feeling of belonging to a conquered country that existed under the command of another.