“So what are you not telling me?“ With her back to the window, Mary stood in silhouette. She put her hands on her hips, waiting. “I know you, Jack Baird Windrush. You always hold something back.”
Jack took a deep breath. “I'm not telling you that I have to report to Colonel Snodgrass of the 113th in Berwick. I am back on regimental duty again.”
“Oh.”
Jack could not see Mary's expression. “We'll travel slowly,” he assured her, “and regimental duty in Great Britain is not trying, maybe one parade a day and the occasional spell as duty officer. I'll have plenty of time at home. Besides, we won't be living in barracks, remember. We can stay in our own place.”
“If Colonel Snodgrass grants permission,” Mary rasped.
“He will.”
“I would not be so sure,” Mary said. “Snodgrass is a most unpleasant man.”
“That is true,” Jack admitted. “But he also dislikes me so intensely that he'll be glad to have me outside his regiment as much as possible.”
“Sometimes,” Mary did not face him. “I can understand how he feels.”
Jack set his mouth in a hard line. Army duty could be hard, but so could married life. At least when he was on campaign, things were black-and-white, with a clear enemy to fight and defeat. Skirmishing with Mary might be less physically dangerous, but much more emotionally draining because, even if he won a round, he hated to hurt his wife.
Striding over to the window, Jack stared at the busy streets below. This homecoming was not quite what he had hoped.
* * *
The officers at Littlehampton Fort and Albany Barracks could not have been more welcoming when Jack explained his mission. “There are no Fenians here,” they said, ushering him into their respective messes.
“I'm sure you are right,” Jack said. “Could you give me a list of Irishmen in your regiment?”
“Including me?” The adjutant at Albany Barracks asked with a smile.
Jack closed his eyes. “I don't like this duty any more than you do,” he said.
The adjutant nodded. “You have free access to the regimental records,” he said, “and when you've wasted sufficient time, you'll be my guest in the mess.”
Jack checked the regimental documents, seeing where the men were recruited and trying to judge by names and religion. He toured the barracks, spoke to the officers and NCOs, listened to their comments and woes and could not find anything out of the ordinary. He entered the barrack-rooms and talked to the men, openly mentioning the Fenian Brotherhood and getting little more than blank stares.
“I've heard of them, sir” one man from County Clare admitted, standing to attention. “They want an Irish republic.”
“That's the lads,” Jack said. “What's your name, and where did you hear about them?”
“Private Sullivan, sir. There was a fellow in the Diggers mentioned them, sir. The Diggers is a public, sir, that's a public house.”
“I am aware what a public is. Do you know this man's name?” Jack was aware that other men in the room were listening.
“No, sir.”
“Would you recognise him if you saw him again?” Jack wondered if he should search for this mysterious man in the Diggers.
“Yes, sir. He's got a broken nose and busted teeth.”
Jack sensed laughter in the room. “Tell me more, Sullivan.”
Sullivan could not help smiling. “I hit him, sir, and some of the boys joined in.”
“Very good, Sullivan.” Jack had difficulty keeping his face straight. “Well done.” He left the barrack-room in a better mood.
“I can't see any problems with your regiment, sir,” Jack reported in both cases and moved on.
Leaving a still-disgruntled Mary in Netherhills, Jack mounted Cedric and rode the few miles to Hereford, where the Royal Malverns were based. He had not been looking forward to this visit, for he had once intended to join the Malverns, as the Windrush family regiment.
The Royal Malverns were in temporary accommodation in the Militia Depository in Harold Street, a relatively new building of many windows. Squaring his shoulders, Jack entered as if by right, returned the salute of the sentry and asked for the duty officer.
“Lieutenant Fairfax is in the Officers' mess, sir. That way.” The sentry was as immaculate as would be expected in an elite regiment.
Lieutenant Fairfax was a young man with laughing eyes. Chewing an apple, he stood under the cased colours and beside a plaque that boasted the regimental motto “Always Victorious” above the inscribed “Heroes of Malplaquet”. Jack knew the story of that plaque and the captain who had carved it with a rusty nail during the siege of Quebec in 1759.
“Fenians in the Royals? I'd be surprised, Captain Windrush.” Fairfax said. “We're selective here, don't you know? We're meant to be guarding Fenian prisoners, though, until the government decides what to do with them.” He took a large bite of his apple. “I say; you're not related to our Major Windrush are you?”
Jack nodded. “I am,” he confirmed but said no more.
Fairfax came to sudden attention. “Sorry, sir, I had not realised.”
“Easy, Fairfax – I said we're related. We're not the same man.” Jack said. “Could you take me around the barracks?”
“Of course, sir.”
“The name's Windrush,” Jack reminded. “Or Jack, if that is easier. Is my brother here?”
“Yes, sir,” Fairfax slammed to attention again as William Windrush strode into the mess.
“What the devil are you doing here, Captain?”
“I am checking up on your regiment, William.” Jack faced him down. “Horse Guards believes there are Fenians here.” He smiled as William vehemently denied that any Fenians could enter the Malverns.
“That's good, William. In that case, you won't mind me interviewing the men. I'll tell Horse Guards how co-operative the Malverns were.” Without waiting for a response, Jack left the mess, brushing past William in the process.
As Jack had expected, the Malverns were smart and efficient, with the usual quota of Irishmen in the ranks. The men that Jack spoke to were quiet and respectful, claiming no more knowledge of the Fenians than that given by the press.
“Thank you for your time, gentlemen,” Jack said as he left.
“Where are you going next?” Fairfax asked.
“Berwick.” Jack expected the sympathetic looks from the Malverns. “And the 113th.”
“Right on the edge of the world,” Fairfax said. “Good luck, Windrush.”
* * *
Rain sheeted in from the North Sea, hammering at the Elizabethan walls of Berwick-upon-Tweed, weeping from the slate roof of the barracks and bouncing from the cobbled streets. Jack squared his shoulders and marched toward the barrack gate. After 14 years spent abroad, he found the British weather damp and depressing, although the rain lacked the bite of Crimea and the surroundings the danger of the North-West Frontier.
Recognising Jack as an officer, the guard jumped to attention as he approached, with the corporal throwing a smart salute.
“At ease, corporal,” Jack returned the salute as he looked around the impressive interior of the barracks. “Where could I find the officer of the day?”
“Over there, sir,” the corporal pointed out an open door. “It's Lieutenant Flynn today.”
Nodding, Jack eyed the corporal up and down, not recognising the face “You haven't been in the 113th long, have you?”
“Six years, sir,” the corporal replied.
Six years. Was it that long since he left the 113th? Jack smiled. Now he was growing maudlin. A regiment was a dynamic institution, always changing as men left and new men joined. He had to prepare himself for many alterations since his time. “Thank you, corporal.”
Lieutenant Flynn was an eager young man who regarded Jack with initial suspicion and then with delight when he realised who he was. “You're Fighting Jack Windrush!” The hint of an Irish accent confirmed the ancestry that his freckled face
and his name suggested. “I've heard about you, sir!”
Pleased that his name was remembered, Jack allowed Flynn to enthuse for a few moments. “Is Captain Elliot still in the regiment, Lieutenant?”
Flynn frowned. “There is no Captain Elliot, sir.”
Jack had served and fought with Elliot for years. He had looked forward to renewing their friendship. “Elliot has left? I had not heard.”
“We have a Major Elliot. Perhaps that's who you mean?”
“Major Elliot?” Jack could not restrain his smile. “Major Arthur Elliot?”
“That's the fellow!” Flynn said. “As good a man as you'll ever meet.”
“Did somebody say my name?” Elliot marched into the office, even broader of shoulder than the last time Jack saw him. “Good God! Jack!” His hand was out at once while his grin could not have been wider. “You did tell me you were coming home on leave, but what brings you here?”
“I'm back on the strength.” Jack took his hand. “Temporarily at least. Congratulations on your promotion. Should I address you as sir?”
“Yes, you should. Call me sir, bow three times and remove your hat when you talk to me.”
They grinned at each other until they realised that Flynn was watching, and dropped the handshake.
“Being a major suits you,” Jack said. “You look dignified and important, not like your old self at all.”
“That's you as duty officer for the next month, you blackguard,” Elliot said. “Does the colonel know you are back?”
“Not yet, but I think Horse Guards has informed him that I am coming. I'd best toddle along and report.”
“Oh, there's no rush. He's up in Edinburgh at present. Come on, I'll give you the tour and introduce you to the new lads. How's the lady wife? How's Mary?”
Jack shook his head. “Mary's not at all happy that I'm back on duty. We had planned a long, leisurely tour of Britain.”
“Oh.” Elliot frowned. “Beware the wrath of the lady scorned. You'll be safer with the regiment than with an angry Mary. I remember she was a very doughty lady.”
“Aye.” Jack remembered Mary's closed face as he left her that morning. “Doughty is one word for her. Bloody dangerous are two others. Show me your barracks, Arthur.”
Berwick Barracks was one of the earliest built in Britain, created in the early 18th century to protect England from any possible invasion from the Jacobite Highlanders of Scotland. “It can hold up to 600 men,” Elliot explained. He had clearly studied the history of the place thoroughly. “And 36 officers, although the regiment is a bit understrength at present.”
“How many do we have?” It felt quite natural for Jack to slip back into the regimental mould.
“There are 453 other ranks, 20 officers.” Elliot smiled. “One-and-twenty officers, including you. Recruiting has been slow.” He lowered his voice as they stood on the parade square with the three-storey blocks on two sides, the store block on a third and the gatehouse on the fourth. “Do you recall how bad the regiment's reputation was when you and I first joined?”
“I remember,” Jack said. “We were the infamous Baby-Butchers, the worst regiment in the British Army.”
“That's right. You and I hauled the 113th up by blood and toil in the Crimea and through the Mutiny. Well, since you left, Jack, its reputation has sunk again, so recruiting has slumped. The colonel is a tyrant, men are deserting, and officers are sending in their papers or looking for a transfer.”
Jack nodded. “Aye; I can't see Colonel Snodgrass being a benevolent old man.”
“We are in barracks most of the time. You're fortunate just now as most of the lads are out on drill. They'll be back soon. As you see, we have two accommodation blocks, with the men sharing eight to a room and us privileged officers having a room to ourselves, Two rooms to majors and above.” He grinned. “Sorry old man – you'll have to slum it with one room. Very Spartan after India, eh?”
Jack smiled. “I'll survive, although I was hoping to live outside barracks.”
“That depends on the whim of the great Snod.”
Jack nodded. “Aye.”
“As you'd expect in a building of this age, sanitation is poor, with wells and basic latrines,” Elliot said. “After all, we're only the queen's guardians and as such count for less than the servants in any well-run house. But we do have a hospital.” Elliot pointed it out. “And an officers' mess there, just inside the main gate, which is where we are heading now.”
The mess was comfortable, with solid chairs and a view over the parade square and the mess servants hurried to serve them brandy and soda. Jack sank into a chair, feeling relaxed in Elliot's company while apprehensive about his future meeting with Snodgrass. He looked around the mess, trying to size up the officers, wondering if any of them were Fenians.
“What sort of men are in the regiment now?” Jack asked and shook his head. “Damn it, man, this is all snuff. You know what sort of job Colonel Hook sends me on, and this one is no different.”
“I wondered.” Finishing his brandy with a single swallow, Elliot signalled for another. “What's to do, Jack?”
“Fenians.” Jack explained what his mission was about as Elliot listened, nodding encouragement.
“Does this Smith fellow believe the Fenians have infiltrated the 113th?”
“He seems to think the Fenians are everywhere, just waiting to rise and set the world on fire.”
“Maybe they are,” Elliot said. “Where do we come in?”
Jack looked around the quiet room, trying to imagine it as a scene of horror like he had witnessed when the sepoy regiments mutinied in India. He shuddered. “Smith sent me to look at three other barracks, but I suspect he thinks the Fenians are entrenched in the 113th. You always have your finger on the pulse, Arthur. Do you think there are any Fenians in the regiment?”
Elliot swirled his brandy around the glass. “I know we have at least one, Jack, Corporal Riordan. He got himself drunk one day and was boasting about establishing an Irish republic.”
“What happened to him?” Jack asked.
“General court-martial. He's to be demoted, drummed out of the regiment and given two years' confinement with hard labour.”
“That sounds a bit harsh for a drunken rant,” Jack commented.
“You'll see how harsh it is soon, Jack. Corporal Riordan is undergoing the first part of his sentence the day after tomorrow. I think our colonel is scared stiff of another Indian Mutiny.” Elliot's smile had lost some of its brightness. “Welcome back to the 113th.”
* * *
The regiment formed a hollow square around the parade ground, with the officers in front and Colonel Snodgrass astride his white horse in the centre. Jack could nearly taste the tension in the air as the men waited to see one of their own being publicly humiliated. Concentrating on Lieutenant Flynn, Jack wondered how an Irish officer would view the discovery of a Fenian among his men. However, Flynn stood without expression, seemingly no different from any of his colleagues.
The tapping of the drums signalled the start of the ceremony. Jack had heard these same drums encouraging this regiment to battle from the ridge of Inkerman to the walls of Lucknow. Now they were signalling a far different display. Jack altered his position slightly, searching the ranks for familiar faces. He saw Sergeant O'Neill there, his weathered features as hard as flint, while Coleman and Thorpe stood behind him, both old Burma hands, with Thorpe proudly wearing the ribbon of his Victoria Cross. Riley was a few yards away, with the diminutive, ugly figure of Donnie Logan at his side. Jack could almost sense the aura of menace that Logan gave off from where he stood.
The 113th stood in hushed expectancy, with tension so palpable that Jack felt as if he could cut it with an axe. He took a deep breath as Riordan appeared. The corporal was in his early thirties, a fair-haired, erect man with a long face and the stripes of his rank prominent on his sleeve. With his hands manacled in front of him, Riordan marched three steps in advance of two drummers, bare
-headed and without any sign of the disgrace he should have been feeling. Jack vaguely remembered Riordan's face from his time in India, although he had never had the man under his direct command.
Led by a burly lieutenant Jack did not know, Riordan and the drummers marched slowly around the parade square, ensuring that every man in the regiment witnessed the proceedings. Except for the constant tapping of the drums, there was no sound, with even the colonel's horse seeming awed by the occasion. After their ponderous circuit, the lieutenant called a halt on the inside of the main gate.
“Attention!” The lieutenant snapped.
His years of drill forced Riordan to automatic attention and he stood erect as the lieutenant stepped up to him, still with the drummers tapping their monotonous beat. As the regiment watched, the lieutenant produced a small knife, cut through the top of Riordan's corporal's stripes and ripped them from his sleeve. Jack felt, rather than heard, the suppressed gasp from the 113th, although Riordan appeared unmoved.
“Slow march!” The lieutenant ordered, and the shameful procession moved again. They halted at the main gates, where the sentries stood at attention with only their eyes mobile, watching the drama unfold.
“Halt!” The lieutenant's voice seemed to crack as they reached the gate. Within the gate was the ordered world of the regiment and the military. Outside the gate, civilian life beckoned with all its chaos, cares and freedoms. However, there was no freedom for ex-corporal Riordan, for a hatchet-faced sergeant and two privates from a fusilier regiment waited to take him into custody.
“Private Riordan,” the lieutenant addressed him with a soft Irish accent. “You have disgraced yourself and your regiment. You have broken your oath of allegiance to the queen. You are a disgrace to Ireland.” Without another word, the lieutenant took hold of Riordan's shoulders and turned him to face away from the 113th, stepped back and delivered a hefty kick to Riordan's backside that propelled the man outside the gate.
Riordan staggered, but recovered and turned to face the lieutenant and the regiment. Raising both manacled hands above his head, he shouted: “Long live the Fenian Brotherhood! Long live the Republic of Ireland!”
Agent Of The Queen Page 4