Doherty grimaced. “That's 40 Fenians then, more than three times our numbers.”
“That's right,” Jack agreed. “Let's hope that Walsh doesn't realise that. If we keep pushing, we might panic them into flight. I want Walsh alive, if possible.”
“Why is that, sir?” Doherty asked.
“I want to find out who he is and who's behind all this mayhem.”
“If you tell me what he looks like, I'll ask the boys to look out for him.”
“He's tall and gaunt, with a small scar on his forehead.”
“I'll pass that on,” Doherty said. “I wonder who gave him the scar.”
“Captain!” Barton pulled up his horse with a flourish. “The Green Company have gathered together. They've halted about a mile ahead.”
“Thank you, Barton.” Jack looked around for a defensive position. “We'll make a temporary camp at that knoll there.” He led his riders to a small rise, crowned by three tall trees. “Doherty, you are a sergeant again. Form a defensive ring, post sentries and wait for my return.”
“Yes, sir.” Doherty threw an automatic salute. “Can I ask where you're going?”
“Barton and I are going to scout the Green Company's positions.”
“Yes, sir.” Doherty accepted Jack's words without visible emotion.
Riding slower, Jack followed Barton away from the picturesque area of small farms into an area of denser woodland, with fewer clearings and many streams and lakes of various sizes.
Jack sniffed. “Can you smell that?”
Barton frowned. “No. Wait, yes, it's tobacco.”
“Stop here.” Jack halted Destiny in the shadow of a tall tree. “Something's wrong.”
Barton came beside him, sliding his rifle ready to fire. They waited as a faint breeze stirred the branches of the trees around them. A bird called, with its notes unfamiliar to Jack. He felt the hairs on the back of his head rise.
“There!” With his eyes trained on the North-West Frontier, Jack saw the movement between the trees. “And there.”
The men were moving slowly, sliding from tree to tree, using the undergrowth for cover.
“I see them,” Barton levelled his rifle. “Have they seen us?”
“Maybe.” Jack felt his heart beat a little faster. He could see at least a dozen men now, vague shapes through the forest, some upright, others crouching. “Fire a single shot and withdraw.”
“Yes, Captain.” Barton fired on his final word with the sharp crack of his rifle shocking in the still greenness of the forest.
Aiming his rifle, Jack squeezed the trigger and turned his horse. The smoke of their discharges hung acrid as the Green Company returned fire, with the bullets hissing through the branches, cutting off twigs and stray leaves.
“Don't head directly for our men,” Jack ordered as they neared the edge of the woodland. “Try a more southerly approach.”
Barton nodded, ducking as a bullet slammed into a tree trunk a yard to his right. “Sorry Captain,” he said. “I've never been under fire before.”
“It doesn't get any easier,” Jack told him. “You're doing well. I've seen veterans cope far worse than you are.”
Jack's relief at reaching the edge of the forest belt ended when he saw a body of horsemen to the south. A dozen strong, they were strung out along the fringe of the trees, and immediately cantered towards Jack and Barton.
“More of the Green Company, by God,” Barton said.
“Walsh is cleverer than I thought,” Jack commented. “He must have expected me to go looking for him.”
“They flushed us out,” Barton said.
“Impudent devils!” Jack swung his horse around. “Come on, Barton! It's a point-to-point race!”
Some of the pursuing riders began to fire as they rode, with the bullets flying well wide. Knowing that it was almost impossible for a mounted man to shoot with any accuracy while riding at speed, Jack ignored the gunfire, concentrating on guiding Destiny over and around obstacles.
Turning in his saddle, Barton fired two shots from his revolver. “There are more of them,” he shouted.
“Aye,” Jack agreed. From being the hunter, he was now the hunted, with about 40 feral men on his trail.
The Green Company spread out, with half a dozen of the most active riders pushing forward. “They're trying to break us,” Jack shouted. “Those lads will chase us until we're exhausted, then the others will go for the kill.”
If we're lucky, Jack thought. If we're unlucky, they'll capture us and torture us to find out where the rest of my men are, and I don't care much for Walsh's mercy.
“Spur,” Jack shouted. “Ride for your life!”
Not knowing the terrain, Jack had to concentrate on every yard he rode, with Barton sometimes at his side or a few yards in front.
“You're a better rider than I am,” Jack shouted. “Could you make your way back to the men without getting caught?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Go, then. Tell Doherty to take the lads back to the nearest military post.”
“How about you, sir?” Barton hesitated.
“I'll lead Walsh's men astray for a bit,” Jack said. “I've been in worse situations.” He hardened his voice. “Go! That's an order!”
Jack watched as Barton spurred ahead, jinking on the uneven ground. Now I'm alone with 40 enemies on my trail.
This area was empty of people, with recently abandoned small farms scattered among the low hills. Looking behind him, Jack saw the nearest of the Green Company only quarter of a mile away, with the remainder strung out in a line to prevent him from doubling back.
I can only ride and hope, Jack told himself. Feeling Destiny flag beneath him, he knew the horse could not last much longer. Glancing over his shoulder, Jack saw the fastest riders of the Green Company were closing, so his capture was inevitable. He could only delay them as long as possible, or stop and fight.
All right, Jack said to himself. I'm a soldier, not an athlete. I'll die fighting and see how brave you are when men fight back.
With Destiny slowing by the minute, Jack cast around for a suitable defensive spot. The first bullet whistled past his head a full second before he heard the sound of the shot. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that two of the Green Company had dismounted to fire while the remainder galloped forward. Jack saw Walsh giving orders.
Walsh knows my horse is tired.
The small building must have had a purpose at one time, although Jack could not imagine what it might have been. Some 15 yards from a solitary tree, it nestled into the flank of a hill, with a single entrance and a small, square window, both facing downhill. As a defensive position, it was far from ideal, but Jack could see nothing better. Guiding Destiny across the broken ground, he dismounted, took his water bottle, rifle and ammunition and slapped Destiny on the rump.
“Run, boy,” he said. “You deserve some freedom.”
Ducking the bullets that slammed into the walls of his would-be sanctuary, Jack pushed at the door. He swore when it did not budge, threw himself against it and nearly fell inside when the door burst open. There was not much to see. A single square room empty of everything except dirt, the building provided only shelter.
Slamming the door shut, Jack peered out of the window. The Green Company was only a couple of hundred yards away, with the fastest riders surging forward and the rest now bunching up, knowing they had treed their quarry. Jack half expected to hear hunting horns as they closed on him.
“So here we are,” Jack murmured. “Come on then, boys. Let's see how good you are.”
Half a dozen of the attackers were firing, with shots thudding against the door or walls, or kicking up fountains of dirt around the hut. Searching for Walsh, Jack saw him astride his horse in the shelter of a tree. It was an impossible shot so, instead, Jack aimed at one of the dismounted Green Company marksmen. His bullet took the man high in the right arm, sending him spinning backwards. Before the marksman hit the ground, Jack ducked back fr
om the window to reload, ignoring the hammer of shots against the wall.
Bobbing back, he took quick aim at a horseman, fired, missed and withdrew. The Green Company had spread out around the hut, with some firing and others advancing from cover to cover.
“There's only one way in, boys, and only room for one man at a time,” Jack spoke to himself. “You'll pay to take this house. The closer you get, the better targets you make for me. The longer I delay you, the more chance that the volunteers arrive to round you up.”
But Jack knew that Walsh would also have calculated the odds. With one eye on the door in case the Green Company tried a sudden rush, he loosened his revolver in its holster, reloaded his rifle and rose at the window. The attackers were noticeably closer, creeping on all fours up the grassy slope. Sighting on the nearest, Jack took careful aim and fired. The man yelled, jerked backwards and rolled away, cursing, to thrash, moaning, on the grass.
“That's you out of action my boy.” Jack bobbed back down. “And then there were 38.”
Reloading quickly, he stood up, ducking as a dozen rifles fired, with the bullets splintering the window frame and spattering inside the hut.
“Aye, you're learning, Walsh,” Jack said. “It's only a matter of time now.” Stepping to the back of the room, he cautiously peered outside. Even from his restricted view, Jack could see some of the attackers were only a few yards away. Determined to fight to the end, Jack raised his rifle, waited until he had a clear shot and fired. Knowing he had hit his man, Jack ducked back before the expected retaliatory fusillade. “And 37…”
“You're a dead man!” The shout came from outside. “If you come out with your hands out, we'll make it quick and easy but if you make us come for you…” the rest of the threat was left unsaid.
“Come and get me!” Jack roared back. “If you dare!”
The reply was only laughter from a score of throats.
“They'll rush the door next,” Jack told himself. “I'll shoot two, maybe three and then it'll be all over.” He sighed. “Goodbye, Mary and David – you know that I did not choose this end, but soldiers rarely live to a hoary old age.”
The shooting was constant now as the Green Company concentrated on the window and door, with the sheer volume of fire preventing Jack from taking time to aim. Twice he rose and fired blindly out of the window, not knowing if he even came close to hitting anybody. The Green Company replied with a score of shots that smashed into the door, sending splinters of wood inside the hut.
After five minutes, the firing stopped. Jack wondered at the sudden silence. Tempted to look outside, he realised that Walsh could be baiting a trap, and remained crouched at the back of the room with his revolver pointing to the door. He smelled the smoke before he heard the crackle of flames.
“They've set fire to the place!” Jack swore, took a deep breath, coughed and swore again, forcing himself to think straight. Although the hut was stone-built, the door and window-frames were of wood, with a turf roof. Walsh might have set some combustible material around the walls, or merely fired the door. Jack knew he would not burn to death, but could die of asphyxiation; Walsh intended to smoke him out. Ripping off the tail of his shirt, Jack emptied half the contents of his water bottle on top and wrapped it around his mouth. He had a choice now: stay and suffocate or leave and allow the Fenians to shoot him to pieces.
Well, he told himself, I'm a soldier – best to die a soldier's death as so many of my ancestors did.
Checking that his revolver and rifle were fully loaded, Jack nerved himself for the end. Closing his eyes, he mouthed a brief farewell to Mary and David, hooked open the smouldering door and rushed forward. As he had thought, Walsh had piled branches around the hut, creating a burning barrier. Kicking his way through, Jack emerged onto the open hillside, rifle in hand.
The Green Company waited for him, lying behind rocks or crouching in the shelter of trees. Jack fired his rifle, dropped it, drew his pistol and fired again. He did not see the men who came behind him until they dropped a horse-blanket over his head and held him tight.
* * *
“Well, now, Captain Jack Windrush.”Walsh eyed him as lay on the hard ground, tied hand and foot. “It seems that you are a traitor to the Fenian Brotherhood.”
Jack looked around at the circle of predatory faces. Most of them were in their late twenties or thirties, bitter-eyed men with lines of hardship etched in their features and not a trace of mercy. Some chewed tobacco as they surveyed him, others sipped from bottles that did not contain water, or merely glared. Kennedy sharpened a large knife, while Riordan merely watched, expressionless.
“I am Captain Jack Windrush of the 113th Foot and the Guides,” Jack said.
“That much is true.” Walsh stood with his thumbs hooked in the waistband of his trousers, “but you swore allegiance to the Fenian Brotherhood.”
“You people are no Fenians,” Jack said. “I doubt that there is a drop of Irish blood in even half of you. You're murdering hounds jumping on the Fenian cause purely to murder, loot and rape.”
Some of the Green Company laughed at Jack's words, others growled at him.
“This is a court to decide your guilt or innocence,” Walsh said. “We could have shot you like a dog, but decided that this way is better.” He stepped closer. “Do you deny that you took the Fenian oath and turned against us?”
Jack straightened up as best he could. “I do not deny that. I am Captain Jack Windrush…”
“We know who you are,” Walsh interrupted him wearily. “You were cashiered by the British Army, joined us and broke your oath. What do you say, boys, guilty or innocent?”
“Guilty!” The cry was unanimous.
“You have been found guilty,” Walsh said pompously. “The penalty is death. Take him to the tree!”
A dozen men grabbed Jack and dragged him to the nearby tree, where a single branch thrust out at right angles 20 feet above the ground.
“You chose a good spot to hold out,” one of the Green Company said. “Right handy for a hanging tree.”
The others laughed. “The only thing more cheerful than a good lynching,” a one-eyed man with a Southern accent said, “is the lynching of a Limey officer.”
Jack felt hunger among the comments and a genuine pleasure in anticipating watching him hanged. Unable to resist, he could do nothing as three men untied his legs, hoisted him astride a ridge-backed, saddleless horse and thumped him down as painfully as they could.
“A hangman's knot or a slipknot?” somebody asked.
“Slipknot,” Walsh replied at once. “I want to see him strangle slowly.”
There was more laughter. “Ready to die, Limey?”
The one-eyed man threw a rope over the inviting bough and expertly tied a loop before sliding it over Jack's head. The hemp was rough against Jack's throat.
“You've done that before,” somebody shouted.
“Only for bluenoses,” one-eye said. “Never for a real Limey officer.”
The laughter was harsh and forced.
“I bet he'll strangle in five minutes.”
“Five dollars says he'll snuff it in three!”
Listening to men gambling on how long he would take to die, Jack vowed to go with as little fuss as possible. He had witnessed a few hangings in India during the Mutiny and knew it was an undignified death, with the victim struggling, kicking and squirming in the noose as his bowels and bladder emptied. He would try to avoid giving these men the pleasure of watching him squirm. That at least would be a small final victory.
“Say goodbye, you dirty limey bastard!”
“Goodbye.” Jack tried to sound calm although he was shaking at the prospect of a humiliating death. “In a few days, all of you will be where I am now, with the British authorities watching you die for the murdering vermin you are.”
Grinning, the one-eyed man slapped his hat against the bony rump of the horse, which bounded away. Jack felt the sudden jerk as the rope tightened around his neck
. He had hoped that the Green Company had made a mistake so he would die quickly of a broken neck, but instead, the noose tightened, with more pain than Jack had expected. He felt the pressure increase, realised he was kicking to try to alleviate the agony and forced himself into stillness.
As if from a long way away, Jack heard the voices as the Green Company commented on his execution, although he could not make out the words. The pain was acute, accompanied by panic and a terrible tightness in his chest. I never got a chance to say goodbye to Mary. The blackness was a relief as he drifted down into a never-ending abyss where peace awaited him. He felt welcome here. He was home.
* * *
Light forced back the dark. Pain replaced the peace. “No!” Jack fought the bright renewal of life.
“Here! Are you all right, mister?” The voice was rough, the accent Canadian.
Jack coughed, writhed, and coughed again.
“Who are you?” The voice continued as somebody shook Jack's shoulder and forced something between his teeth. Jack choked as raw spirits burned his throat.
“He's coming to!” The voice seemed to come from a great distance away.
“Who is he?”
“Somebody the Fenians didn't like.”
Jack spat out the whisky, tried to sit up, coughed again, choking.
“Easy there, man – you were as close to death as I've ever seen a live man.”
“What happened?” Dazed and confused, Jack stared upward into a circle of concerned faces.
“Somebody tried to hang you, boy.” The speaker wore the scarlet uniform of a British soldier, but with facings that Jack did not recognise.
“That was Walsh's Green Company.” Jack found speaking intensely painful. “Who are you?”
“Lieutenant Peebles, Canadian Volunteer Cavalry.” The speaker was tall, with a small moustache.
“I am Captain Jack Windrush of the 113th Foot.” Jack thought it best not to enter detailed explanations. “Help me up.” He heard his voice emerge as a croak. “And pass over more of that whisky, for God's sake.”
The volunteers laughed, helping Jack to his feet.
“Did you see which way they went?” Jack asked.
Agent Of The Queen Page 25
