Agent Of The Queen

by Malcolm Archibald

  “Jack.” Helen's hand closed on Jack's arm. “We are where we belong, you and me together. The geography doesn't matter; only the fact we are together.”

  “We're not together,” Jack said.

  “No?” Helen glanced around the room. “I could swear that only you and I are here, and nobody else.”

  Removing Helen's hand from his arm, Jack backed away. “I'm going to the shipping office to buy tickets for home. You sit here and be good.”

  Helen laughed. “Would you not prefer that I were not good?” She shifted her stance slightly, sufficient to draw attention to her shape without being blatant.

  “Start packing what you have.” Jack put a hand on the door handle.

  “I'm not going back to William with his perpetual chasing after women,” Helen said, “and singing that damned song of his.” She began to sing the regimental march of the Royal Malverns.

  “Always victorious

  Glorious and more glorious,

  We followed Marlborough through battle and war

  We're the Royal Malverns, the heroes of Malplaquet.”

  Stuttering at the final word, Helen overemphasised the middle syllable.

  “Say that again,” Jack said as the words jarred in his head.

  “Do you like my singing?” Helen swayed toward him.

  “Just sing the last line again,” Jack stepped closer to her.

  Helen smiled, thrust out her hand in a dramatic pose and repeated her final line, once again stumbling over the word “Malplaquet”. “I can never pronounce that word,” she said, smiling.

  “Helen,” Jack said, “you are a genius.”

  “I know,” Helen agreed.

  “I could kiss you,” Jack said, and did so, surprising both of them.

  “I can sing it again if you like,” Helen offered, smiling, “if it has that effect on you.”

  “Look,” Jack produced his folded scrap of paper. “Cto alpla.”

  “Cto alpla,” Helen repeated. “What does that mean?”

  “You just told me,” Jack said. “The cto is from victorious, and the alpla is from Malplaquet, the word you found hard to pronounce.”

  “Oh, I see,” Helen said. “But what does it mean? How are these words significant?”

  “I don't know yet,” Jack admitted. “I found the bits of words in some charred notes your man Carmichael left behind.”

  “What would Walter want with the regimental song of the Royal Malverns?” Helen wondered. “I doubt my old Russian friend wanted to join the regiment!”

  “He might want to attack it,” Jack said, “or try to cause a mutiny as he did with the 113th.” He sat down, lighting a cheroot to help him think. “Fortunately, he can't do anything at present.”

  “Not from a British jail.”

  “He'll probably be sentenced to hang as a Russian spy,” Jack said soberly.

  Helen nodded, seemingly unconcerned about Carmichael's possible execution. “I doubt we'll ever know, then.”

  “I'll telegraph a warning to Colonel Ledbury of the Malverns when I buy our tickets,” Jack blew smoke into the room, “although I think the threat is lifted with Walsh also out of the way.”

  When Helen smiled at him, the years rolled back and once more Jack remembered her in the Crimea, a vivacious, laughing girl with all the world before her. On an impulse, he reached out.

  “I wish things were different,” Helen gripped his hand. “Do you remember that time you saved us during the great storm?”

  “I remember.” Jack could not help smiling. “I thought then you were the bravest, boldest woman in the world.”

  Helen's thumb stroked the back of Jack's hand. “You were always the bravest man.” She stood up. “Let's start again, Jack. Come on! We're in a new land with new opportunities; let's get back together. Please, Jack.”

  Helen looked so eager that Jack felt a sudden desire not to hurt her. “Oh, Helen,” he said softly, releasing his hand from hers. “We can't alter what we are. We are both married, and I love my wife.”

  “You love me, too,” Helen countered, desperation in her voice. “I can see it in your eyes. I can feel it.”

  “I like you, certainly,” Jack admitted.

  “I want you,” Helen stepped closer to him, with the subtle scent of her perfume wafting around him. “I want to make the most passionate love to you, Jack, to make up for our past mistakes and show you what the future could be like.”

  Jack took a deep breath, inhaling Helen's scent as his mind danced with images that were both delightful and disturbing. He turned away, hating himself. “No, Helen! I love Mary.” Opening the door with sudden anger, he spoke over his shoulder. “I'll be back in an hour or so. Get packed.”

  Cursing his weakness, Jack took the hotel stairs two at a time and nearly missed the cavalry cornet who stood beside the reception desk.

  “Captain Windrush?”

  “That's me.” Jack knew it would not be good news.

  “I have a message for you,” the cornet said, handing over a surprisingly weighty package.

  “Thank you.” Breaking the seal, Jack emptied a stream of sovereigns on to the desk before scanning the enclosed note.

  “Captain Windrush

  W has escaped and is believed to be heading for England on SS Glen Moray. Follow and act accordingly. F”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  CANADA JUNE 1866

  Follow and act accordingly? What the devil does Fraser mean by that? Am I to kill him, capture him or merely prevent him from doing whatever he has planned? The Royal Malverns! Walsh is going after the Malverns!

  Hurrying to the nearest shipping office, Jack asked for passage to Britain on the next available ship.

  “Sorry, Captain. We're all booked up.”

  “Anything will do,” Jack said, “even steerage.”

  “Sorry Captain. We have nothing. It's because of this Fenian nonsense.”

  After trying a further two shipping companies with the same result, Jack learned that none of the steamboat lines sailing to Britain had any space, so contacted the Navy, in the hope they might take him.

  “You're a cashiered army officer.” A supercilious commander looked down his aristocratic nose. “The Royal Navy has better things to do than transport failed lobsters around the globe.”

  When Jack protested that he was working on national security, the commander beckoned to a hefty petty officer who lumbered up with two bluejackets at his back, each man eager to toss this upstart soldier into the street. With Fraser seemingly vanished on some business of his own, Jack was left fretting.

  What the devil do I do now?

  At her best in a crisis, Helen gave practical advice. “Well, Jack, how did you cross the Atlantic in the first place?”

  “By a sailing packet,” Jack said.

  “We can return the same way.”

  “That means a trip to Boston first,” Jack said. “And that's 500 miles away.”

  “We'd better get moving, then,” Helen said. “I'm already packed.” She nodded towards the single carpet bag that stood beside the bed.

  “Is that all you have?”

  “I'm a soldier's daughter, remember,” Helen said. “I'm used to travelling light.”

  “God bless you, Helen.” Jack fought off his impulse to kiss her again. “You're the best of women.”

  “I'm glad you realise that,” Helen replied dryly, reaching for her coat.

  * * *

  Boston waterfront was as busy as always, with ships arriving and departing, loading and unloading their cargoes while seamen filled the waterside taverns and made lewd comments at any passing woman. Helen smiled at the remarks, waved to the more forward of the men and clutched at Jack's arm as he enquired after the first ship leaving for Great Britain.

  “There's the very vessel.” Jack immediately recognised the long, lean Yorktown. “Come on, Helen.”

  Captain Martin glowered at Jack from under his slanted cap. “I remember you,” he said.
“You were with that Irish fellow, both keen to join the Fenians.”

  “That's right,” Jack said.

  “Aye, and a right blasted mess you made of that, didn't you? The Limeys chased you from Monday to Christmas and back again.”

  “They did.” Jack thought it better to agree than to argue.

  “You've changed the Irish lad for some extra cargo, I see.” Captain Martin nodded towards Helen.

  “We're travelling together,” Jack said, “and in a hurry.”

  “Aye, running from the law no doubt,” Martin said. “I have one cabin vacant with the same rates as last time.” He glowered at Helen. “The lady may not find the accommodation up to her usual standard.”

  “The lady is used to living in camps and tents.” Helen held out her hand. “I am Mrs Helen Windrush, and this is Jack Windrush.”

  “Oh, you're married. are you?” Martin said sourly, taking Helen's hand with surprising gentleness. “Pleased to meet you. Pay in full, in advance, and we sail on the next tide. You can carry your own baggage.”

  “Thank you, Captain.” Helen dipped in a graceful curtsey. “We are immensely grateful for your kindness. Pay the gentleman, please, Jack. There's a good chap.”

  Martin's grimace could have passed as smile as Helen followed a crewman down below. “Aye, it's easy to see who wears the trousers in your marriage.”

  Opening his mouth to speak, Jack closed it again without saying a word. Sometimes it was better to let life take its course without comment.

  “We'll be snug in here,” Helen commented as she surveyed the tiny cabin.

  “I'll keep my clothes on,” Jack told her.

  “You'll keep your clothes on for the entire journey?” Helen held her nose. “You'll be stinking. I intend to bathe as often as possible.”

  “In here?” Jack had to stoop to avoid hitting his head on the deck beams above, while the bulkheads crowded so close he could not stretch out even one arm. “There's hardly room to swing a mouse, let alone a cat.” He looked at her sideways. “I suppose you could bathe on deck and entertain the crew.”

  Helen's look could have frozen a live volcano. “You're always so clever, Jack Windrush.”

  “I know,” Jack said, pleased that he had managed to draw a reaction.

  Yorktown sailed without ceremony, easing into the long swells of the North Atlantic without resorting to the expense of a pilot.

  “Clap on all the sails she can carry,” Martin ordered the moment they hit clear water. “I want to be in the Mersey in 10 days! Hell or Liverpool, by God!”

  “That's the spirit,” Jack said softly. “Push her hard, Captain.”

  “Stunsails!” Captain Martin roared, “skysails and moonrakers! By God, I want more speed out of this tub! Mrs Windrush! Hang out your blasted washing if it helps! Mister Blackrock, padlock the sheets and shoot any lubber who tries to take in sail!”

  Standing at the break of the poop with his thumbs in his waistband and a model 1861 Navy Colt revolver thrust through his belt, Captain Martin cut a formidable figure.

  “If there are many more like him in the States,” Jack said, “Britannia had better look to her trident.”

  “Why's that?”

  “The Americans will take hold of it,” Jack said.

  Helen shook her head. “The Americans are too busy fighting each other and scrabbling for the lands to the west. Have you heard their phrase, manifest destiny? They think it's their right to occupy all the land from the Atlantic to the Pacific. First, they have to grab the land from the Indians; then they have to settle it. It might take decades for the Americans to build their empire in the west.”

  “Aye, maybe you're right.” Jack narrowed his eyes. “I'd forgotten how genuinely clever you are, Helen, when you're not flirting with anything in trousers.”

  “Not anything, Jack.” Helen took hold of his arm, staring at the grey seas. “Only men with spirit and edge.”

  “You're flirting again.” But Jack lost interest in arguing with Helen when he saw a smudge of smoke on the horizon. “There's a steamship ahead.”

  “So I see,” Helen said. “I'm sure that wasn't there a few moments ago.”

  “It wasn't.” Jack stepped up to the poop, where Captain Martin stood. “Captain, in which direction is that steam vessel heading?”

  “East,” Martin said at once.

  “Are we catching her?”

  “In this wind, mister, Yorktown could catch Saint Michael sitting on Mercury's shoulders.”

  Returning to his quarters, Jack brought up his binoculars and focused on the steam vessel. “That's a passenger liner!”

  “Aye, one of Grant's Glen Line vessels.” Martin was inclined to be garrulous. “They carry emigrants from Liverpool to Boston and general cargo and passengers back to Boston.”

  “Could it be Glen Moray?”

  Martin shrugged. “It could be. I heard she was delayed before sailing. We'll see when we overtake her.”

  Glen Moray was delayed? Was that more of Fraser's work?

  With all her sails taut, Yorktown powered down on the Glen Line vessel, so that Jack could soon make out details, although steam and smuts from her funnel helped conceal her name.

  Martin shouted something that had the hands trim the angle of the sails by a fraction and gave Yorktown an extra surge of speed until she drew level with the steam vessel. As they closed, the steamship's name gleamed yellow on her black counter.

  “That's her!” Helen read the name. “That's Glen Moray!”

  “Could you send a message to her master?” Jack shouted to Martin.

  “Why the devil should I do that?” Martin asked.

  “She has a Russian agent on board,” Jack explained hurriedly. “He plans to create trouble in England. I want him arrested.”

  Grunting, Martin altered the angle of his cap with a jerk of his hand. “That's a tall story, mister, and it's not my affair. My job is to sail Yorktown across the Atlantic, not to order ship's masters to arrest their passengers.”

  “There are 10 golden boys in it for you, Captain. The Russian goes by the name of Walsh.”

  Martin glowered at Jack, adjusted the angle of his cap again and grabbed the speaking-trumpet from its bracket on the mizzen mast. “Ahoy, Glen Moray!”

  The answering hail came immediately. “You have a fast ship, Captain!”

  Jack saw the master of Glen Moray. Tall, erect and dressed in a blue uniform, he stood beside the helmsman, studying Yorktown.

  “I have,” Martin agreed. “It seems you have an imposter on board your ship, a foreign agent posing as an Irishman named Walsh.”

  “I'd wager half my passengers are imposters, Captain.”

  “The British have asked me to have you arrest him,” Martin shouted.

  Jack saw the master of Glen Moray consult with one of his officers, who disappeared below. “Wait,” he shouted as Yorktown and Glen Moray raced side by side, a bare two cables-length apart with the sea surging silver, green and white between them.

  “I haven't time for this,” Martin handed the speaking-trumpet to one of his officers and rattled off a string of commands that saw Yorktown edge slightly away from the steamship. A stray gust of wind blew smoke over Yorktown's poop, making Helen cough. When it cleared, Glen Moray was a further cable's length away and falling back in the race.

  “Wait!” Dashing up the companionway to the poop, Jack grabbed the speaking trumpet.

  “Master of Glen Moray!” He felt his still imperfectly-healed throat protest as he shouted. “I am Captain Jack Windrush of the British Army. Do you have a man named Walsh on board?”

  The master lifted his speaking trumpet. “There is nobody of that name on our passenger list. Have a safe voyage.” Putting down the speaking-trumpet, he turned away.

  “There he is!” Helen had been examining Glen Moray through Jack's recently acquired binoculars. “On the deck there.”

  Grabbing the binoculars, Jack focused on a small group of men who stood amids
hips. Walsh was among them, staring intently at Jack. For one second, Jack saw him clearly, and then smoke blew across the ship, and he was gone.

  “Damn it to hell and back,” Jack swore. “Captain Martin, have you any weapons on board?”

  “You owe me 10 sovereigns, mister,” Martin reminded him. “You'll get no more favours until you pay your debts.”

  Jack swore. “Helen! Run down to the cabin and fetch my pocketbook! Hurry now!”

  Obeying without hesitation, Helen lifted her skirt and scurried away. She returned in minutes, smiled and passed Jack his pocketbook, from which he extracted 10 sovereigns. “There you are, captain,” Jack said quickly, glancing at his diminished store of gold. “Do you have a rifle on board?”

  “I have,” Martin's hand closed on the sovereigns, “but it's not for hire. I'm not having any Limey soldier loose on my ship with a rifle. God knows what damage you might cause. Now get off my poop.”

  Knowing the range was too long for his pistol, Jack could only watch in frustration as Yorktown pulled further away from Glen Moray. Walsh casually strolled to the bow, from where he studied Jack and Helen on the American vessel. As the light faded and Yorktown eased ahead, Walsh raised a hand in ironic farewell and walked away.

  “Damn you, Walsh, or whatever your name is,” Jack muttered.

  “It's all right, Jack.” Helen patted his arm. “We'll get to England before him and tell the Royal Malverns to be on guard.”

  “We'll do better than that,” Jack said. “I'll have him arrested the minute he steps ashore.” Ignoring the pain, he raised his voice. “Captain Martin! Can't you get any more speed from this old tub? We're waddling here like a fat duck in a village pond!” He enjoyed Martin's responding glower.

  Only later that night, as he lay in his cramped bunk, did a thought come to him.

  “Are you awake, Helen?”

  “If you wish me to be.” She stretched an arm across to him.

  “How did you know what Walsh looked like?”

  Helen sighed. “Can't you think of anything other than your duty? He came to Presque House to see Walter.” She patted his arm. “It's all right, Jack; he's not another of my lovers. I'm reserving that position for you.” She laughed softly. “I don't think he likes women – we never met.”