“God defend Ireland,” Jack repeated softly. ”And God save Ireland from another tragedy.”
“Windrush,” O'Neill said. “Take your company forward; look for any British response.”
As Jack secured the perimeter, O'Neill sent men to arrest the town officials, ordered the local hotels and bakery to feed the invaders and read out a proclamation about a free Ireland to the bemused citizens.
“Scour the place for horses,” O'Neill said. “Build trenches around the town.”
O'Neill knew his job. The defences were crude, simple trenches that, at best, would delay any attack yet, as soon as they were complete, O'Neill marched the Fenians out of the town and along the Niagara River.
“Windrush, lead the way.”
“Yes, sir.” Jack's company moved into the skirmishing formation he had taught them while others looted what they could, so the invading army marched with plucked chickens and raw-boned farm horses. Above them, the green Fenian banner cried defiance to Queen Victoria and all her armies.
“We might be better to leave a garrison in Fort Erie, sir.” Jack's military mind rebelled against having his route unguarded. “In case we need to withdraw.”
“We'll leave some men at Newbiggin's farm,” O'Neill said. “And anyway, the British don't know we're here yet. They'll have to get past us to reach the town.”
“As you wish, sir.” Jack nodded.
They stopped at Black Creek, where the river ran flat and fast beside beautiful trees, while the vast expanse of Canada seemed to brood on the horizon.
“Windrush!” O'Neill called Jack over. “I heard that you were adept at scouting in India.”
“I did a bit,” Jack agreed.
“Take one of the horses and ride around. See if you can see any British forces.” O'Neill glanced at his men. “Do you want an escort? A few men in case of trouble?”
“No, sir. They'd only slow me down.”
“I can find many good horsemen, Captain,” O'Neill said with a smile. “In the United States, men are born in the saddle, not like England with its city dwellers and plodders.”
“No, I'm better alone.” Jack patted the Colt revolver he wore at his belt. “We'll see what I can find.” He grinned to O'Neill. “In case I get lost out there, sir, where are we headed?”
“Port Colborne on the Welland Canal,” O'Neill said. “It's also a station of the Welland and Buffalo and Lake Huron Railways so it's an important communications centre. We can disrupt trade there, and we all know how England loves trade, commerce and profit.”
Jack's horse was a skewbald, brown and white, with a calm temperament. Jack mounted, patted the horse's neck and sat deep in the saddle.
“What's his name?” he asked.
“Titan,” a capable-looking local lad told him. “Please look after him.”
“I will,” Jack promised as he urged Titan on. He waved as he passed his company. “Cheer up, boys! Ireland for ever!”
They cheered back as Jack trotted forward, past the outlying pickets and into the flat Canadian countryside. Now he had to find some official, Canadian or British, and pass on the intelligence he had.
The area was fertile, with neat farms and well-tended fields. Some of the farmers lifted a friendly hand as Jack trotted up.
“I'm looking for a police post or an army garrison,” Jack asked.
The farmer scratched his head. “I don't know of any such. I heard shooting that way.” he pointed in the direction Jack from which had come.
“The Fenians have landed,” Jack said. “I'd advise you to hide all your valuables and get your family out to safety. Pass the warning on to your neighbours.” The more people were on the move, the more likely the authorities were to learn about the Fenians' arrival.
Jack pushed on, spreading his warning until he saw the mounted man approaching.
The rider arrived at the gallop and panted: “Who are you?” Sweat was streaking dark lines down his face and his horse was a lather of sweat and foam. “What the devil's happening over there?”
“The Fenians are happening, that's what,” Jack said. “Who are you?” The rider was evidently a figure of authority.
“I am Lieutenant Curran of the Queen's Own Toronto Volunteers.”
“Good,” Jack said calmly. He scribbled a short note and handed it over. “Pray give that to your commanding officer, Lieutenant, and look sharp.”
“Who are you to order me around?” Curran demanded.
“Captain Jack Windrush of the 113th Foot,” Jack replied.
“What?” Curran frowned. “I know that name – you're the cashiered traitor, by God.”
“If I were a traitor, I'd have killed you by now.” Jack revealed the pistol at his belt. “Now turn around and deliver that message to your commanding officer, Lieutenant.”
Curran pulled back as though Jack had struck him. “What?”
“Don't question my orders, Lieutenant Curran! Move!”
“Yes, sir.” Curran had lost his bounce as he turned, kicking in his spurs.
Jack watched Curran canter away, wondering if he would ever redeem his reputation after this strange campaign.
“Hey, Windrush.” The voice was familiar.
“Yes, Dermot.” Jack saw both of Walsh's enforcers riding up to him, their expressions full of suspicion.
“We've been following you. Who was that redcoat you were talking to?” Dermot had a hand on the butt of his revolver.
“That eager young man was Lieutenant Curran of the something-or-other Volunteers,” Jack said mildly.
“You were talking to him.”
“I was,” Jack agreed. “I warned him to run and run fast because the Fenians were coming.” He grinned. “Did you see how fast he spurred? Like the devil was after him.”
“You should have shot him.”
“My dear fellow,” Jack said. “We are soldiers, not brigands. We don't murder every stray off-duty part-time soldier we meet! We send them away to spread alarm and despondency among their fellows.“ He laughed. “There is more to soldiering than just firing our little guns, you know. You have much to learn, however brave and bold you might be.” He touched a hand to his hat. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have my duty to perform.”
“Jack saw that his warnings had taken root, with the local farmers beginning to evacuate, bringing with them their families and property. He watched, knowing that every horse removed and every penny saved deprived the Fenians of a small gain, while every Canadian he warned could inform the authorities and bring retribution that much closer. He was doing his duty to the Queen.
“Come on, Cormac,” Jack shouted over his shoulder. “It's time you two did something to earn your corn apart from following me around like shadows. Let's see if we can find some real British soldiers.” Aye, the ones that shoot back.
Jack trotted away, aware that Dermot and Cormac were following a score of yards further back. Pushing three miles into the countryside, he saw no more redcoats until he returned towards the Fenians, where a small body of mounted men hovered beside a deserted farm.
“Over there,” Jack reported to O'Neill. “Canadian Scouts, while the Queen's Own Toronto Volunteers are ahead. The British are watching us.”
“I thought they might be,” O'Neill said, “but we've done well. One day's work and we command the frontier from Fort Erie to Black Creek with not a single casualty on either side. Tomorrow we can march to the Welland Canal, and we'll control the only nautical route between Lake Erie and Lake Ontario. That should bring the British running.” He gave a bleak smile. “I'll have intelligence reports from Mr Walsh soon, and they'll tell me what the enemy are doing.”
Jack was unsure how he felt about treating the British as the enemy. He spent the night in the open, with the sound of merriment all around as the Fenians celebrated their successful foray on to Canadian soil. Three times, Jack saw riders approaching the solid building that O'Neill and Walsh had commandeered. When he tried to discover more, he noticed Cormac
standing sentinel at the house door and decided to remain where he was. There was nothing to be gained in seeking trouble.
Saturday morning broke bright and warm, with the sense of space reminding Jack of the Indian plains.
“All officers,” O'Neill called. “All officers.”
Jack joined the others in a huddle around O'Neill, with the Fenian other ranks watching, spitting tobacco juice and huddling around small cooking fires. O'Neill looked serious.
“Mr Walsh has found out that the British have two separate forces marching towards us,” he reported. “A Colonel Booker leads a Canadian Volunteer force, while a Colonel Peacocke is bringing British regulars with artillery.”
“We can defeat both,” Walsh said.
“They aim to link up at Stevensville, a few miles away,” O'Neill said, “and if they do, they will outnumber us.”
The thought of artillery blasting their men sobered the Fenian officers. “What do we do?” Starr asked.
“We push on,” O'Neill said. “We can smash the volunteers before they join the regulars.” he paused for a significant moment. “Half-trained volunteers won't stand against our veterans.”
The officers gave a faint cheer, with Walsh nodding and fingering the scar above his left eye.
“Break up the camp!” O'Neill ordered. “Bring in the outposts. We're marching towards Port Colborne.”
The Fenians moved at some pace, if in a careless fashion, with skirmishers ahead and on the flanks. The men were cheerful, some singing the Fenian songs, others smoking or talking, with most of the accents so familiar that, if Jack closed his eyes, he could almost be back in the Crimea or India, except the British might shoot him as a traitor. That thought chilled him, as did the realisation that the Fenians could also shoot him as a spy.
“Get up ahead, Windrush,” O'Neill ordered. “You know better than anybody how the British could act. Inform me the minute you see the Canadians.”
“Sir.” Jack pushed ahead, riding past the Fenian scouts to a barrage of cheers and whistles. He had gone barely a mile when he saw a smudge of scarlet and heard the rattle of drums.
That's the British response. Jack pushed forward to see which regiments were involved. As he closed, he knew at once that O'Neill was correct and the defenders were part-time soldiers, Canadian volunteers rather than British regulars.
“I thought O'Neill would send you.” Fraser appeared from the shelter of a farmhouse and rode up to him. “You're the best man for the job.”
“Maybe so,” Jack watched the approaching volunteers. He estimated them to be about 800 strong, marching in column with scouts or skirmishers 100 yards ahead. “These lads could do with an experienced man to lead them.”
“No,” Fraser said flatly. “Mr Smith has another job for you.”
“For God's sake! I've sent messages to tell him what's happening here! Now I can help defend Canada.”
“The volunteers will do that, and there are a couple of regular British infantry regiments on the march as well.”
Jack looked again at the volunteers as they marched solidly onward. When Fraser passed over his field glasses, the men jumped into focus. “They look very young,” Jack commented.
“They are. Some are only boys,” Fraser said.
“So it seems,” Jack said. “Many of the Fenians are veterans of the American Civil War, and some have Spencer repeating rifles. An experienced man with the volunteers would equalise the odds a bit.”
“Orders from Mr Smith,” Fraser said. “You've to stay with the Fenians and continue to send us reports. Colonel Booker outranks you anyway, Captain, and I don't think any Canadian colonel would give way to a mere captain, especially a declared traitor.”
Jack reluctantly nodded. “You're right there, Fraser. What's Booker like as a commander? Is he experienced?”
“Not in battle,” Fraser said. “Lieutenant Colonel Alfred Booker is an auctioneer in Hamilton and commands the 13th Battalion of the Royal Hamilton Light Infantry. He's in his early 40s, with a force of college students and such like.”
“Who else is coming?”
Fraser grinned. “Tell O'Neill that Booker has the 13th Hamilton, the Queens Own Toronto and the Caledonia and York Companies.”
Jack frowned. “I don't like giving information to the enemy.”
“He'll find out soon enough anyway,” Fraser said, “and the intelligence will enhance your standing with him. If you want to impress him, you can tell him they gathered at Port Colborne, and Booker left by the Grand Trunk Railway, only to disembark about four miles from here and continue on foot,” Fraser added. “Booker's got orders not to engage the Fenians until he meets up with Colonel Peacocke's regulars, but,” he continued with a shrug, “Booker may wish to prove himself.”
“I'm sure that will interest O'Neill,” Jack was watching the volunteers march purposefully toward them, drums encouraging the painfully young men to give their all.
“I'm sure O'Neill already knows. You'd best get back.” Fraser lifted a hand in farewell, turned his horse and galloped away.
“British ahead,” Jack reported to O'Neill, feeling like a traitor. “About 700 Canadian volunteers, including the Queen's Own Toronto, the Caledonia and York companies and the Hamilton volunteers. Colonel Booker is in command.”
O'Neill focused his binoculars forward. “How far?”
“Maybe two miles.”
“Any artillery, cavalry or British regulars?”
“No.” Jack shook his head. Trust a veteran to ask the right questions. “Not with these lads, but Colonel Peacocke is on his way with a couple of battalions of British regulars plus artillery.”
“So I heard,” O'Neill said. “Right then.” He grinned through his beard as he looked around. “We're on a fine position here at Lime Ridge. We'll leave half our men here and push on with the rest.” He raised his voice. “Starr! You remain here and make a defensive position. We'll bring the Limeys to battle on the ridge. Think of New Orleans, by God, or Concorde.”
“Sharpshooters and skirmishers to the front! The British are coming. We have twice their numbers,” O'Neill said, “and they're only volunteers, part-time weekend soldiers. We're veterans of the greatest war in American history – let's show them that the Fenians are coming.”
Moving more slowly, the Fenians continued their advance, with Riordan and Kennedy in the van and the Canadian volunteers now in view. When the Fenians reached a spot known as the Smuggler's Hole, a desolate place of swamps and dying trees, Jack heard the flat crack of a single Spencer rifle and checked his fob watch – it was eight in the morning. The battle had begun.
Rather than halt, Colonel Booker sent sharpshooters from the Queen's Own Toronto Regiment forward. Any doubts Jack may have had about the part-time soldiers fighting vanished as the firing intensified. Although the Fenians were about equal in numbers to the volunteers, and many had repeating rifles, the volunteers more than matched them in the rate of fire.
“Get forward, Windrush. See if you can delay these Canadians until Starr creates his defences.” O'Neill ordered.
Jack dismounted and moved down a wooded slope into the swampy ground of Smuggler's Hole, with his feet sinking deep into the mud and mist immediately gathering around him. For all their bombast, the Fenians did not seem so happy under fire.
What the devil do I do now? Jack asked himself. Lead these men forward against Canadian infantry and be a traitor, or lead them badly and get shot by one side or the other?
Jack did not have long to ponder, for the Fenian sharpshooters began to retreat, splashing through the mud under the volunteers' pressure, while wisps of mist curled around the trees. “Stand fast!” Jack bellowed. He had no need to feign his anger. “Fight them!” He had never been with men who retreated from a less experienced force.
The Queen's Own pressed forward, keeping immaculate formation despite the conditions and forcing the Fenians back at an ever-increasing speed. The volunteer fire was continuous but not accurate and, m
ore than once, Jack saw a Canadian soldier struggle with his rifle, as if unsure how it worked. All the same, Jack had to duck from Canadian bullets. As the Fenians withdrew and the Canadians pushed forward, Jack also retreated, swearing at the his men's lack of resolution as he sank up to his knees in muddy water. The volunteers pushed on, moving from tree to rock or any cover they could find, with the white gunsmoke drifting across the boggy ground to merge with the mist.
“It seems as if this invasion is over before it's begun,” Jack later reported bitterly to O'Neill.
“Not yet.” O'Neill was more composed than Jack had expected. “We're drawing the Canadians on to my main body on Lime Ridge, where I have an idea in mind to unsettle the Limeys.” His teeth gleamed white through his beard. “Brooker is a conventional commander, without the guile of a veteran.”
Jack nodded. “Aye; what's your plan, General?”
“Lure them on, stop them dead and, when they're bogged down, hit them in the flanks with something they don't expect.” O'Neill watched the advance of the Canadians through his field glasses. “They're keen enough; I can't fault them for that.”
As the Fenians retreated out of the boggy land, they ascended Lime Ridge, leaving the misty marshland and entering a wooded area. They withdrew step by step, still firing, with the raw young volunteers following behind a white cloud of smoke. A man fell here and there, the bodies remaining as a smudge on the landscape or a crumpled scarlet bundle.
Jack realised they were already among the trees, scattered at first but increasingly dense as the ground rose to the main body of Fenians on Lime Ridge. The fighting reached a crude picket fence, once the result of somebody's hard work, now sadly neglected but a definite boundary, with the remaining Fenians waiting behind makeshift defences.
“Halt!” O'Neill's order rang across the battlefield. “We stand here, fellow Irishmen, and we hold the Limeys back!”
Some of the Fenians cheered, others looked over their shoulder to the road back to the United States. At about the same time, the volunteers' fire began to falter.
“Ammunition!” Jack heard the desperate cry. “Has anyone got more cartridges?”
Agent Of The Queen Page 21
