Agent Of The Queen

by Malcolm Archibald

  Walsh sifted through the papers in front of him. “Recruitment is going well,” he said.

  “It's going better since you became intelligence liaison officer,” Sweeny said. “Your other operation is also showing promise.”

  Walsh nodded. “I still have some influence in the Imperial Intelligence Department.”

  “I'm surprised the Russians remember you,” Sweeny said.

  “Mother Russia has not forgotten Sebastopol.” Walsh studied his papers. ”We haven't finished with Great Britain yet.”

  “We?” Sweeny picked up on the word. “I thought you were Irish.”

  “I am, but I worked for Russia for some time.” Walsh handed over one of the documents. “I recommend we use this woman as much as we can.”

  Sweeny read the description of the woman. “Can we trust her?”

  “As much as we can trust any woman of her type.”

  “She would appear to be extremely unsettled,” Sweeny commented. “Perhaps even unstable of mind.”

  “It is that very instability that we exploit.” Retrieving the document, Walsh pointed to a paragraph of the text. “You will see that she has a connection that could be extremely useful to us.”

  “I noticed her connection,” Sweeny replied without emotion, “although I am unsure how it could benefit us.”

  “We can use her to help unsettle his regiment.”

  Sweeny grunted. “That is certainly one of the regiments on which we intend to concentrate.” Sweeny tried to hide his expression of distaste. “I don't hold with these methods of subterfuge, Walsh. I'm a soldier, not a spy.”

  “Would you prefer to leave the details to me, sir?”

  “That would be my preference, Walsh. You seem to have a flair for this kind of thing.”

  “We both have the same objective, sir. Only our methods differ.”

  “I understand the importance of your work, Walsh,” Sweeny said. “I don't wish to become involved. I'll leave you a free hand.”

  “That suits me very well.” Walsh did not attempt to hide his satisfaction. “I've already set the wheels in motion, so we would see some results soon.”

  Sweeny could hardly meet Walsh's gaze. Even although he was a veteran soldier, the cold madness in Walsh's eyes sent a chill down Sweeny's spine. He disliked using such men, but the cause was too great to allow minor details to distract him.

  “I also found a spy in our ranks, sir,” Walsh said.

  “A spy? From the Federal authorities?”

  “No,” Walsh said. “From British intelligence.”

  Sweeny leaned back in his chair. “They've caught up with us, have they? I hope he hasn't discovered anything about your operations.”

  “I have questioned him,” Walsh said. “He had nothing of consequence to say.”

  “That's fortunate.” Sweeny decided he would not wish to be questioned by Walsh. “Release him, and send him back.”

  “Yes, sir.” Walsh nodded. “I'll do that right away.” Taking his leave, he closed the door quietly, ignored the guard who stood outside and left the building. Signalling to a pair of waiting men, he strode to a nearby warehouse with a heavily padlocked door. “Dermot, open the door.”

  The larger of his companions unfastened the padlock and they entered, ignored the litter of discarded crates and descended a flight of stone stairs to the basement.

  “Here we are, spy,” Dermot called. “Did you miss us?”

  “Get us light, Cormac,” Walsh ordered.

  The second man lit a lantern, with yellow light pooling around the basement. The man who lay in a corner was naked, with blood marring his features. He looked up through badly swollen eyes.

  “General Sweeny ordered us to let you go,” Walsh told him.

  The prisoner tried to stifle a groan as Dermot lifted him by his hair.

  “Take him upstairs,” Walsh ordered.

  With Dermot dragging the prisoner by the hair and Cormac pushing from behind, they took him up three flights of stairs to the top floor of the warehouse, where broken windows faced a narrow alley.

  “You know what's going to happen,” Walsh said. “We're going to obey orders and let you go.”

  Hawking, the prisoner spat a mouthful of blood and phlegm at Walsh, who stepped aside as his two companions responded with an array of punches and kicks that reduced the man to unconsciousness.

  “Out he goes,” Walsh watched without expression as the two men lifted the prisoner, dragged him to the window and threw him out. They watched his body fall into the darkness below.

  “Goodbye,” Dermot said, with a little wave.

  “Go and make sure he is dead,” Walsh ordered. “I don't want him to survive to spread tales.” Glancing at the fresh blood that speckled his jacket, he shrugged and walked away.

  Chapter Nine

  BERWICK UPON TWEED, AUTUMN 1865

  Leaving Cedric at Greenlaw with instructions that he would send a man for the horse later, Jack caught the train from Edinburgh to Berwick-upon-Tweed. Despite the number of times he had travelled by rail, he still found this mode of transport a novelty, with the thick smoke from the engine sometimes obscuring his view of the countryside. Jack leaned back in his seat, trying to appear as impassive as a British officer should as he tried to work out the implications of Riordan's words. What the devil had Riordan meant with his, “It's your company after all”? Was he hinting that F Company would mutiny? Or was he only causing trouble? Jack found that he was tapping his fingers on his knees as he stared out of the window. If the Fenians had something planned, the quicker he got back to barracks, the better.

  Jack glanced at his watch; with his mind focusing on the possible trouble in the 113th, he was astonished how much distance the train had covered. In amazingly quick time they were easing into the station in the shadow of Berwick Castle ruins, and Jack alighted, swinging his cane.

  Everything seemed normal when Jack entered the barracks. The sentry saluted as he passed and C Company at drill on the parade square were performing no better and no worse than any similar body of soldiers. Relieved that there was no sign of murder or mayhem, Jack marched to the colonel's office.

  “Colonel Snodgrass,” Jack began, saluting. “I have information about an intended mutiny in this regiment.”

  “The devil you have!” Snodgrass stared at him.

  “May I have your permission to counter the insurrection?”

  “You are extremely fanciful, Windrush. You are not in India, and these are not Sikhs!” Snodgrass looked away.

  “If they were, sir, I would never doubt their loyalty. I ask again, could I ask your permission to counter the insurrection?”

  Snodgrass breathed heavily. “There will be no mutiny in my regiment, Windrush.”

  “Yes, sir. That is something I also hope to avoid. It would look bad for the reputation of the 113th if we failed to stop a Fenian attack.”

  Snodgrass's hand hesitated above the drawer of his desk. “I take it your spying has discovered something, Windrush?”

  “I have been informed that there may be something untoward happening in F Company, sir.” Jack hoped he was giving accurate information.

  Snodgrass's smile may have been genuine. “I might have known it would be F Company, Windrush. Well, you're responsible for them. You will find them halfway to Ireland by now. I sent them away when you were wasting your time up in Scotland.” He leaned back in his chair. “You'd better hurry if you want to catch them. You don't want to be remembered as the man who commanded the only company to mutiny in the British Army.”

  Damn, damn, damn! How am I going to tell Mary that I'm off to Ireland for an unknown length of time?

  “Yes, sir.” Jack stalked out of Snodgrass's office, shouting for Micklethwaite, his soldier-servant.

  “What's to do, Jack?“ Elliot emerged behind the panting Micklethwaite. “You appear more than agitated. Have the French landed, and nobody's told me?”

  “You know the regiment better than I do,” Ja
ck calmed himself down as he explained the position to Elliot. “What's your opinion, Arthur? Is my company on the verge of mutiny?”

  “Lieutenant Byrne's with your men,” Elliot said. “He's a solid man, with his finger on the regimental pulse. Ensign Snodgrass, I'm less sure about.” Elliot frowned. “He's British to the core, but green as grass, keen as you like and the opposite of his father. Now you go and tell Mary what's happening and ask if she'll go over with you. I'll see to your horse and send your bags and baggage after you.”

  “Thank you, Arthur.”

  “That's thank you, sir, and don't you forget it.” Elliot's grin was as infectious as ever. “Good luck with Mary, Jack. I'd prefer to face 100 Fenians than your wife out of temper!”

  “So would I,” Jack agreed, feelingly.

  Chapter Ten

  IRELAND, AUTUMN 1867

  Bowing his head before the rain, Jack reined in his steed outside Charles Fort. Situated outside Kinsale, south of Cork, Charles Fort was a 17th-century Trace Italienne star-shaped fortress with cannon grinning from the walls and sentries glowering at the gate. Water glinted on three sides, as the sea surged around the base of low cliffs.

  “So this is to be my home for the foreseeable future,” Jack murmured to himself. Mary had decided to stay with David, saying she would bring him over later. Jack had not needed to sense her anger – Mary was not a woman to hide her emotions. Maybe you chose well, Mary. After India, I don't wish to involve you in another mutiny.

  “Captain Jack Windrush,” Jack announced himself to the sentries. “Of the 113th Foot.”

  Both sentries were from a local militia regiment. They viewed Jack with more suspicion than welcome as they came to reluctant attention, blinking in the rain. Jack walked his horse inside the fort, which was larger than Berwick Barracks.

  “I'll take your horse to the stables, sir,” a serious-faced NCO offered. “The colonel's office is over there.” He nodded to an imposing stone building. “And the officers' mess down that way.”

  “Thank you, corporal.” Dismounting stiffly, Jack handed over the reins and looked around the interior of the fort. “That will be the main barrack block?”

  “Yes, sir.” The corporal had a pleasant Cork accent. “F Company of the 113th are there now, and some of our boys.”

  “Thank you.” Jack shook the rain from his face. “I'll pay a visit to the 113th right away.”

  The militia corporal showed no surprise. “As you wish, sir. I'll get a man to guide you.”

  “It's all right, corporal, thank you. I'll manage.”

  Soft-footed, Jack toured the barracks where the men of his company lived and slept when not on duty. Surprisingly large, the barrack-room was more airy than most he had known, with the men sitting or lying on their bunks, cleaning their equipment, playing cards or talking together.

  “Officer present!” Sergeant Parker bellowed.

  “At ease,” Jack ordered as men jumped to attention.

  “We didn't know you were coming, sir.” Sergeant Parker hurriedly adjusted his uniform. “I thought you were in Scotland.”

  “Are you settling in all right?” Jack asked.

  “It's not much different from Berwick, sir,” Parker said. “Seen one barracks, seen 'em all.”

  Jack permitted himself a small smile. “You could be right there.” Peacetime life for the ranking soldier alternated between countless hours of routine boredom and spells of intense discipline on parade. Yet for most private soldiers, it was probably a better life than they had outside the army. They had accommodation, comradeship and regular food and clothing, where many of them would have been verging on the edge of starvation in civilian life. “How are the men?”

  Parker looked over the barrack-room before replying. “They're the same as always, sir, some trying their best, others a bunch of lazy scoundrels fresh from the publics or the wrong end of a plough, and a few homesick for their ma.”

  Jack smiled. That description would fit just about any collection of Johnny Raws in the British Army or, he suspected, any unit in any army in the world. “Has there been any trouble, Sergeant?”

  “Not a whisper, sir.”

  Jack nodded. Either the Fenians were very good at covering their tracks, or Riordan had been lying. Jack had served with Parker through the Mutiny and knew he was a steady man.

  Lieutenant Byrne smiled when he saw Jack. “Glad you could make it, sir. We left at very short notice.”

  Can I trust this man? Jack wondered. Is he a Fenian? “Show me around the fort, Byrne.” Jack barely listened as Byrne walked around the ramparts, talking about the history of the fort in guarding Kinsale. “It was built to defend the harbour from a seaward attack,” Byrne explained, “so when the Williamite forces came by land in the late 17th century, it fell after a short siege.”

  Trust an Irishman to know his history. Remembering Riordan's doubts about the man who recruited him, Jack asked: “Which part of Ireland are you from, Byrne?”

  “County Cavan,” Byrne said. “Do you know Ireland at all?”

  “This is the first time I've been here.”

  “Oh, it's a wonderful place, Windrush, but sorely troubled. If the people and the landowners could only pull together, it could be the finest country in the world.”

  Jack passed over a cheroot as they paused to look over the battlements at the harbour, with chimney smoke joining the rain that hazed over the town of Kinsale. “Now there's a splendid view.”

  “It is that,” Byrne agreed.

  “How's young Snodgrass getting on?”

  Byrne lit his cheroot and inhaled. “He's a very keen young lad,” he said. He glanced sideways at Jack. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

  Jack nodded. “It's Windrush unless we're on parade or campaign.”

  Byrne nodded his thanks. “Ensign Snodgrass is better away from the colonel, Windrush. He might blossom over here. I have hopes for that young lad.”

  “I'll keep an eye on him.” Jack ignored the rain that blasted into his face. “Somebody told me that the rain in Ireland is soft and mild.”

  Byrne grinned. “Aye, whoever told you that had never stood sentry at Kinsale harbour. People have strange misconceptions about this country.”

  “Some people believe it's on the verge of rebellion.”

  “Some people believe that Ireland is always on the verge of rebellion,” Byrne said. “That's why there is always such a large military presence on the island.”

  Jack wondered how much of Byrne's conversation was bitter humour and how much was just bitter. “Will the Fenians cause trouble?”

  “Undoubtedly,” Byrne said, “but nothing we can't handle.”

  Noting the use of the word “we”, Jack was satisfied that Byrne was no Fenian. Now he had to watch for any suspicious movements among the men. Once again, Jack hated the part he had to play, acting the friend and officer while always assessing, probing and looking for clues. Taking a final draw on his cheroot, he examined the butt and threw it over the battlements, watching the tiny red glow disappear and then he walked away.

  “Best get on,” he said. “Duty calls.”

  “It always does,” Byrne agreed.

  * * *

  “You look happy,” Jack said as Ensign Snodgrass almost danced into the Mess.

  “I've met the most wonderful girl,” Ensign Snodgrass told Jack, and everybody else who was within hearing. “She is everything I've always wanted.”

  “You're too young for a girl,” Byrne admonished, winking at Jack. “You've barely left your school books.”

  “She's perfect,.” Ensign Snodgrass looked decidedly smug.

  “I hope you won't bed her and leave her.” Byrne kept his face straight. “You know the rules. Ensigns mustn't marry, lieutenants shouldn't marry, captains may marry, majors should marry, and colonels must marry. I'm sure your father would make an exception in your case. When do we meet your intended?”

  “Marry her?” Ensign Snodgrass looked startled
for a moment. “I wasn't thinking about marriage.”

  “I thought you were a moral gentleman,” Jack said, joining in the teasing. “If your girl's perfect, snap her up now, before somebody else grabs her. It would be good to have a nice Irish girl in the regiment. I take it she is a nice girl and not one of the other kind?”

  “She's lovely,” Ensign Snodgrass said, clearly not understanding Jack's point.

  “A nice Irish girl is the best kind there is,” Byrne said solemnly. “She'll keep you on the straight and narrow.”

  “Oh, I don't know if she's Irish,” Ensign Snodgrass said. “Do you think I should marry her, Captain Windrush?” Now he thought about marriage; the idea obviously appealed to Snodgrass.

  Leaning back in his chair, Jack sipped at his whiskey. “In all seriousness, Peter, no, I don't think you should consider matrimony quite yet. You could not afford to keep her on your salary, and women take a lot of keeping, believe me.” He smiled, missing Mary more than he would ever admit. “You're far too young for marriage, and, I'd hazard to guess, so is she. No, Peter, wait until you're promoted to captain or lieutenant at least.”

  “She's older than me,” Ensign Snodgrass said.

  “In that case, Snodgrass, she'll expect more than an ensign can provide,” Byrne said. “Keep your mouth closed if she so much as hints at marriage.”

  “I never thought about the money.” Ensign Snodgrass sounded crestfallen. “I don't have a farthing to scratch myself with.”

  “We know that,” Jack said. “We were ensigns, too, remember.”

  “You had other thoughts in your mind, young Snodgrass.” Byrne sipped at his brandy, looking up at the whitewashed ceiling. “Carnal thoughts that do you no honour at all.” Again he winked at Jack. “I am shocked.”

  “We are both shocked.” Jack kept his face solemn. “Wait until you are married, young Snodgrass, before you think of that sort of thing.”

  Ensign Snodgrass looked from one to the other, not sure if they were teasing him or not. “I wasn't,” he said, and stopped.

  “You weren't?” Byrne repeated. “You were not thinking carnal thoughts? In that case, young Snodgrass, I wonder if this girl is right for you.”