Agent Of The Queen

by Malcolm Archibald

  “I had no idea things were so dire, sir. Please remember that I am on leave from India.”

  “I am aware of your current circumstances, Windrush but, as I have indicated, the situation is extremely serious.” Mr Smith did not smile. “Our newspapers mock these Fenian people, and our Members of Parliament pretend not to take much notice, but behind the scenes, Windrush, behind the scenes, there are worried people in this country.” He lowered his voice slightly. “Why, Windrush, Palmerston himself has spoken to me at length on this subject, and I believe that even Her Majesty is concerned.”

  Jack shifted uncomfortably in the hard chair. If Queen Victoria and Viscount Palmerston, the Prime Minister, were involved, he was dabbling in very deep waters. “I know very little about the Fenians,” he admitted. “I have been away from this country for some years.”

  “I am fully aware of your activities, Captain Windrush.” Smith spoke in flat tones. “You joined the 113th Foot as an ensign in 1851, fought in the Burmese Campaign, then throughout the Russian War as a lieutenant and served in the Indian Mutiny with your present rank.”

  Jack nodded. Smith spoke from memory, without recourse to notes.

  “After the mutiny, Colonel Snodgrass disapproved of your choice of wife, and you left the 113th Foot.” Smith's eyes did not waver as he continued the story of Jack's career. “Colonel Hook sent you on a mission to find gun-runners on the Frontier, which mission led to you doing some useful work among the Pashtun tribes in the late rising.”

  “Yes, sir,“ Jack agreed. “As you see, I have spent my entire career abroad. I know little about conditions at home.”

  “Then allow me to educate you, Captain,” Smith said. “Tell me what you do know about the Fenians.”

  Jack considered for a moment. “I have read brief pieces about them in the newspapers,” he said. “If I am correct, they are disgruntled Irishmen who want an Irish republic.”

  “They are a bit more than that,” Smith corrected him. “The original Fenians were a semi-mythical force of Irish warriors some thousands of years ago. This new incarnation began in Ireland around 1857 and boasts a strong following among the Irish who emigrated to the United States and British North America. It appears to be a very formidable mass movement dedicated to – as they see it – freeing Ireland from British control.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jack frowned. “If you'll forgive me, sir, but I am not political. I have scant knowledge of British and even less of Irish politics.”

  Waiting for Jack to finish, Mr Smith continued: “I am aware of your lack of political knowledge, Captain, as I am aware of every aspect of your life.”

  Jack felt increasingly irritated. “Why are you telling me all this, sir?” he asked.

  “The Fenians are mostly of the lower orders.” Smith ignored Jack's question. “They are labourers, small tradesmen, factory workers and the like. I doubt there are half a dozen gentlemen in the entire organisation and, as such, they can never gain any political advantage in Great Britain.” Smith tapped his fingers on the desk as if emphasising his points. “Such people, as you are aware, could never stand for parliament.”

  “Do these Fenians seek political advantage in Britain? I thought you said they sought an Irish Republic, which would, therefore, be outside the United Kingdom.”

  “However, it is not the masses of Irishmen that concern us,” Smith continued, again ignoring Jack's intervention. “We can discount the ramblings of the illiterate and semi-literate classes. We are facing danger from two diverse but related fronts. One is overseas, and the other is in your territory.”

  “My territory? India?” Jack hazarded. “I am not aware of any major threat in India since General Chamberlain dealt with the Warriors of God and the Bunerwals.”

  “As I just indicated, the overseas threat is in North America,” Smith said. “Tens of thousands of Irishmen and men of Irish descent have joined the Fenian movement in the United States of America. There are threats to invade Canada, which our military people in North America will take care of.” His eyes remained disconcertingly direct. “The other threat is in your domain.”

  “India?” Jack repeated, thinking: How will Mary react if I tell her I'm being posted back already?

  “The threat is in the army itself,” Smith said.

  Jack sat back in his chair with an overwhelming sense of relief. The room was small and stuffy, with a single small window to break the monotony of panelled oak walls. There were no books, no pictures, not even a map to dilute the sameness. There was only the clean oaken desk behind which Smith sat, with two armless, straight-backed oak chairs. Nothing else.

  “I don't understand,” Jack said. “How could the army be a threat?”

  Smith's expression did not alter. “Even since the time of King Charles II, Captain, the British Army and Navy have never been political. The officers and men swear allegiance to the reigning monarch, whoever that happens to be.”

  Jack nodded. Apart from his oath of allegiance to the queen, he had no political attachments whatsoever. He could happily ignore whichever party wielded political power, Whig or Tory.

  “The Fenians are interfering with the military being free of politics,” Smith said. “They have already infiltrated many regiments of the army and are fomenting mutiny.” His expression did not alter. “You may be wondering why I am telling you all this, Windrush.”

  “I presume because a mutiny in the army could affect us all,” Jack said.

  “Broadly, Captain, you are correct. On a more particular level, you have worked for Colonel Hook in the military intelligence branch in India and have experience of similar activities in the Crimea.”

  “I am on leave, sir,” Jack reminded.

  “You have seen the result of mutiny in the East India Company's army, Windrush. That mutiny cost the country a great deal of money.”

  “There was a good deal of suffering as well, Mr Smith.” Jack thought it best to remind this chilly, dry man that people mattered more than money.

  “That is another reason then, Captain, to ensure such a mutiny does not occur in the British Army.”

  “I have served in the army for more than a decade, sir, without even being aware of any inclination to disloyalty among soldiers from Ireland. Indeed, sir, I have found them to be among the best men we have.”

  “The officers of the mutinous sepoy regiments said the same about their men.” Smith's tone was dry.

  Jack grunted, knowing that Smith was right.

  “You will be aware that in 1797 mutiny spread across the Royal Navy, putting this country in considerable danger of invasion from France.”

  “I am aware of that, sir.”

  “Then you will be aware that only the actions of one man, Admiral Duncan, with intervention from the Admiralty, saved us.”

  “Yes, sir. I am aware of the Battle of Camperdown.” Jack was growing impatient with this precise, cold-blooded man. “Could you tell me where I come into this situation, sir?”

  Smith pressed his fingers together. “You are on leave, I believe.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jack confirmed. “I have accumulated 17 months' leave from the army. I intend to show my wife around the country and settle some of our private affairs.”

  “I am sure you will place your duty before your private pleasure,” Smith said. “To expand on my previous statement, it is fortunate you have experience in the less savoury aspects of military endeavour.”

  Jack shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I prefer the more conventional aspects, sir.”

  “Indeed?” Smith raised his eyebrows. “In that case, Captain, you should have remained with the 113th Foot. You had a choice between remaining a regimental officer and marrying a woman of whom your colonel disapproved.”

  When Jack did not reply, Smith continued. “I want you to continue with your plans, Windrush. Take your wife on your tour of Great Britain by all means, but while you do so, I want you to visit various barracks to judge the feeling among the men. I will giv
e you a list.”

  Windrush sighed. “I'm not a natural spy, sir. I'd prefer you asked somebody else.”

  “I'm not asking you, Captain. I am ordering you,” Smith said. “Your experience in clandestine work is highly unusual in the army, and impossible for a more conventional British regimental officer.”

  “I could refuse,” Windrush said.

  “You could,” Smith replied, “if you wished to rot as a half-pay captain for the remainder of your life.”

  Windrush took a deep breath. “That's a direct threat.”

  “Refusing a direct order is a court-martial offence, captain. Whatever the result, your career would be at an end.”

  “My honour is at stake,” Jack said.

  Smith's expression did not flicker. “I rather think that your honour is a precarious possession at best, captain. You acted the spy in the Crimea and India and married a Eurasian. In performing these actions, you sacrificed your honour.”

  “I had little choice in the matter of spying in Crimea and India, while the choice of a wife is nobody's business but my own.”

  “You also have little choice now,” Smith said. “You will act as a guest in the barracks to which I send you. You will locate any Fenian sympathisers, note the atmosphere in each place, speak to the men as well as the officers and send me a full report the following day.” Smith's expression remained unchanged. “If you are successful, Captain Windrush, you could be this century's Admiral Duncan.”

  There is no help for it. “Yes.” Jack dropped the “sir”. He had lost all respect for Mr Smith, whoever he might be. “With the difference that people do not consider spies as honourable as fighting admirals.”

  “We have already arrested several dozen soldiers who have joined this nefarious organisation,” Smith said. “Some we caught after they deserted, others were boasting while in drink.”

  “Soldiers tend to talk when in drink,“ Jack said. “Mostly it's just hot air and braggadocio with young Johnny Raws trying to act as they think old soldiers should.”

  “We have arrested non-commissioned officers with years of experience,” Smith countered. “These were solid men who have served with the army in various campaigns yet who still pledged allegiance to the Fenians.”

  “That's a little unsettling.” Jack thought of Sergeant O'Neill, a man he had fought beside through Burma, the Crimea and the Indian Mutiny. He had trusted O'Neill with his life a score of times. “What are the Fenians offering, to turn such men away from their duty?”

  “As I already said, the Fenians seek an Irish Republic.” Smith spoke without emotion.

  “Is that even possible?” Jack wondered aloud.

  “Less than 100 years ago, the United States of America was a disparate collection of squabbling colonies, and France a respectable monarchy.” Smith reminded him. “Now look at them. Anything is possible in the world of politics. Your job is not to think of the possibilities. Your job is to help prevent a mutiny in the British Army.” For the first time, Smith changed his stance, leaning forward on his hard chair. “How many Irishmen do you think there are in the British Army, Captain?”

  “I have no idea, Mr Smith. Many thousands, I should think.” Jack thought of the Irishmen he had come across, from General Gough of Sikh Wars fame to the dare-devil redcoats who fought in the ranks.

  “In 1830, before the Famine, 42.2 per cent of the army was Irish, and nearly 14 percent was Scottish.” Smith shook his head. “Not only did we have 15 regiments that were almost entirely Irish, but also so many Irishmen in regiments nominally from Scotland, Wales and England that they made up a significant proportion of their numbers. Even today, Irishmen comprise about a quarter of the army's strength, Windrush, and this disease of Fenianism seems to have affected many of them. The Prime Minister has mentioned the possibility of preventing any more Irish recruitment until we cure this sickness.”

  “That's impossible!” Jack spoke without thought. “Some of our best soldiers and finest officers are Irish! What would we do without them?”

  “We would do very badly, Captain Windrush. Very badly, indeed. That is why we are sending you, and others, to ensure that this nonsensical notion does not affect any officers.”

  “Do you suspect that officers are affected, sir?”

  “We do, Captain. Somebody must be organising things, and I cannot think that a mere sergeant, however good he may be in battle, has the ability to contact men across the regimental divide.” Smith leaned back again. “I'll have the list of barracks sent to your hotel with your written orders.”

  “We're staying at Durrants Hotel.”

  “I know where you are,” Smith said. “Goodbye, Captain Windrush.” Smith remained seated as Jack left.

  * * *

  The document was waiting for Jack when he returned to Durrants Hotel.

  “Captain Windrush, sir!” Bowing obsequiously, the hotel clerk handed over a sealed package. “A gentleman left this parcel for you.”

  “Thank you, Mr Blackley.” Jack lifted the thick parchment with its plain red seal. “When did it arrive?”

  “You had hardly left the hotel, sir,” the clerk began, with another low bow, “when a gentleman handed it in. He said I was to hand it to you and nobody else, not even your wife.”

  Smith sent that to me before our meeting, Jack reflected. He knew that I could not refuse his order.

  “Is my wife in?”

  Mr Blackley smiled. “Mrs Windrush is out with your son, sir.”

  “Did she say when she would be back?”

  “She did not say, sir.”

  “Thank you, Mr Blackley.” Tucking the package under his arm, Jack made his way to their room. As always with Mary, everything was immaculate, so he threw himself into one of the two leather armchairs and broke the seal of the packet. There were two documents inside. One was a single sheet of paper on which a neat hand had written a list of barracks. The other was a short note. Jack looked again at the list.

  Littlehampton Fort

  Albany Barracks, Isle of Wight

  Hereford Barracks

  Berwick Barracks

  He had expected more than only four and was grateful he could fit them into their itinerary without disrupting Mary's tour. At least Hereford was within a few miles of Netherhills. Sighing, Jack placed the list to one side and read his official orders, which repeated in brief form what Smith had said, with a small addition.

  “Windrush

  By now you will have some idea what I wish you to do. Visit every barrack in the enclosed list and write me a report on the general atmosphere. You have seen mutiny in the army and know the signs. Pay particular attention to the Irish officers and officers of Irish extraction. When you reach Berwick, report to Colonel Snodgrass of the 113th Foot. He will expect your arrival as a replacement for an officer who has transferred elsewhere.

  Smith.”

  The 113th Foot. Jack lowered the note. He had never expected to see them again, and now his leave was being curtailed before it had properly begun. What the devil would Mary say? Leaning back in the chair, Jack reached for a cheroot. It was only fortunate that Grandfather Baird had left him a second small property in Berwick. With luck, Mary would settle there while he was on regimental duty. With more luck, the regiment would remain in Britain rather than being sent to India or South Africa or some hell-hole such as Aden or Hong-Kong. Jack sighed again. He did not look forward to giving Mary his news.

  Chapter Three

  ENGLAND, AUTUMN 1865

  “On duty?” Mary's eyes were as acidic as Jack had ever known. “What do you mean, called back to the colours? You're meant to be on leave.” Her long dress rustled as she stood up, with the crinoline brushing against Jack as she stalked past. She stopped at the window, with her back turned.

  “We can combine both,” Jack said. “I have only four barracks to visit, and we do have a house in Berwick.”

  “Only four barracks to visit.” Mary's emphasis on the first word could not have been
more explicit.

  “And Hereford is near Netherhills.”

  Mary was having none of it. “It's too much, Jack; it really is. Can your precious army not leave us alone to enjoy some time together without sending you on more missions? I thought we were finished with all that nonsense when we left India.”

  “It won't be as bad as all that.” Jack tried to mollify her. “We'll still have our tour of England and Scotland. We'll have time to get Netherhills up to scratch and visit the house in Berwick. We can decide which house we wish to have as our home, and my work will be no more than an unpleasant diversion. Why, Mary, when I'm on duty, you can tour on your own, with David.”

  Mary rounded on him. “I didn't travel thousands of miles on a leaky ship to tour on my own! I travelled to be with my husband! And have you tried touring on your own as a Eurasian woman in England? They treat me as a curiosity, as something to gawp at, as if I was the bearded lady in a circus.”

  “Do they indeed?” Jack felt his anger rise. “By God, they won't do that if I'm around!”

  “No, Jack.” Mary put venom in her voice. “But you won't be around, will you? You'll be on duty for your soldier friends, not with me!”

  “I'll spend as little time as possible on army matters.” After six years of marriage, Jack had not yet learned that trying to appease Mary only inflamed matters.

  “Last time you tried to go on leave, you ended up in Afghanistan for months.”

  “I wasn't in Afghanistan. I was on the North-West Frontier,” Jack pointed out. “We're in England now, hardly the same thing.”

  “I want to go to Scotland, too.” Mary reminded him. “Not just your precious England!”

  “We'll certainly go to Scotland as well,” Jack promised. “Why, Mary, the Scottish Border is at Berwick, where we have Grandfather Baird's second house. We can live there and visit all the places that Sir Walter Scott wrote about.”