Agent Of The Queen

by Malcolm Archibald

  “We've got the young lad confused.” Jack checked his pocket watch. “Before you contemplate marriage, Peter, check the men are all right.”

  “He's a good lad,” Jack said as Ensign Snodgrass walked away. “He'll do well if he keeps clear of any distractions.”

  “Aye.” Byrne nodded. “Keen and honest. All he needs is some experience in the field to salt him a little, and he'll have the makings of a decent soldier.”

  Unlike his father, Jack thought, and wondered at the strangeness of family life.

  * * *

  Rising before reveille, Jack stood in the parade square as F Company, 113th Foot rose to greet another day. He watched them form up, most still dazed from sleep, some with their tunics wrongly fastened, others badly shaved and the old soldiers erect as guardsmen but dull of eye.

  “Right, men,” Jack began cheerfully, ignoring their shortcomings, “you've lazed about in barracks far too long, merely playing at soldiers. Today, we're going to get to know the countryside.” He allowed the men a few minutes to signify their displeasure. “Lieutenant Byrne will take half the company eastward, while I take the other half northward through Kinsale and show the local population that they have real soldiers garrisoned here. Sergeant Parker, you're senior sergeant, I want you to stay with Lieutenant Byrne. Ensign Snodgrass, you are with me.”

  The men formed up in ragged lines, with Ensign Snodgrass strutting around with great pride and Byrne looking weary as he coaxed his men.

  “Right lads,” Jack said, “keep in step and march at attention until we are clear of Kinsale. Show the civilians how smart you are.”

  It was good to be in charge of men again, to stretch his legs marching and see how the 113th reacted. As Jack's men entered the narrow streets of Kinsale, the barking of dogs brought much of the population to the doors and windows. The usual collection of bare-footed urchins followed the soldiers, shouting and hooting, with some gathering at the tail to march in step, laughing at the fun of copying the redcoats.

  As Jack had expected, the 113th enjoyed the attention. The men marched more erect, keeping in step, squaring their shoulders as more women appeared in the streets.

  “That's the way, lads! We're the 113th!”

  Jack halted them beside the harbour, where fishermen were working. “Attention, 113th!”

  The half-company slammed to attention.

  “That's better.” Jack praised them. “Now tell me, who beat the Russians?” He grinned at the half-hearted response. “I didn't hear that. We beat the Russians. Who beat the Russians?”

  The reply came with more volume. “We beat the Russians!”

  “Who beat the Pandies?”

  “We beat the Pandies!” The men were louder now, as the fishermen and a group of women watched curiously.

  “We are the 113th Foot. Who are we?”

  “We're the 113th!” Now the men were shouting, with one or two of the younger taking off their hats and waving them in the air. Again, Jack ignored the lack of discipline. He wanted to instil a sense of regimental pride first.

  “Right, so let's see how good we are.” Jack saw Ensign Snodgrass staring at one of the watching women, shook his head and lowered his voice. “This isn't the time for mooning over woman, Ensign. March the men away at the double. Take the lead.”

  “But sir…”

  “Move, Ensign!”

  Ensign Snodgrass coloured and saluted. “Yes, sir!” He ran to the head of the men, piping shrill orders to follow him. Jack waited until the ensign had the men formed up then loped to the head of the column.

  “We have a busy few days ahead of us, Ensign. We'll be taking a route march every morning, and drilling the men in the afternoon.” Jack thought back to his early days with the 113th when he had learned his trade in the Burmese jungle. “We're lucky we have time to train them, Ensign.”

  “Yes, sir.” It was clear that Ensign Snodgrass wanted to tell Jack something.

  “What is it, Ensign?”

  “She was here, sir,” Ensign Snodgrass gabbled the words. “She was in Kinsale, sir, watching us!”

  “Who's in Kinsale, Ensign?”

  “My girl, sir! My lady.”

  Jack smiled. “That's good, Ensign. It seems that she is as infatuated with you as you are with her.”

  “I hope so, sir!” Ensign Snodgrass was the picture of sincerity. “I met her in Berwick, and again last night and she was watching me this morning.”

  Leaving the men to march on, Jack took Ensign Snodgrass aside. “Are you certain?”

  “Yes, sir.” Ensign Snodgrass was the picture of sincerity.

  “Right, Ensign,” Jack said. “Thank you for telling me. Let me know if you see her again.” He hesitated for a second. “Be careful, Ensign. Be careful.”

  As Jack returned to the head of his men, he was frowning. Something was wrong here – young women did not follow penniless ensigns across the British Isles.

  * * *

  “Mutiny,” Jack said quietly to Byrne and Ensign Snodgrass, “usually occurs when men are bored or bullied. I mean to drive these men hard, so they become good soldiers, but I want no bully-ragging.”

  Byrne nodded. “I was in India,” he said. “I saw the Mutiny there.”

  “You were with John Company's army, weren't you?”

  “That's right,” Byrne said. “The Second Bengal Fusiliers. I fought on Delhi Ridge.”

  Jack's eyes narrowed. “That was the toughest fight of the whole war.” He raised his glass in tribute. “A toast.”

  The officers stood, with Ensign Snodgrass looking pleased to be included.

  “To the men who cannot be here,” Jack said. “Whatever their nationality and race; British, Sikh, Pashtun, Gurkha, Bengali, Madrasa or anything else.”

  Byrne raised his glass right away, with Ensign Snodgrass fractionally later. “Should we be drinking a toast to the Indians?”

  “Nobody deserves it more.” Jack held his gaze. “As you will find out if you ever have the honour of fighting beside them.”

  “To the men who cannot be here,” Byrne repeated, met Jack's eye and grinned. “Especially Irishmen.”

  Jack nodded and repeated: “Especially Irishmen.” He tossed back his whiskey, savoured the flavour and continued. “Right. Next on the agenda; I heard a rumour there is to be a mutiny in F Company, so be alert for anything unusual. We're going to be on duty most of the time, gentlemen, so we'll be tired. I want the men drilled and kept busy as well. I'll make up a duty roster, and we'll all do our bit.” He turned to Ensign Snodgrass. “This is not the soldiering you hoped for, Ensign, but I'm sure you'll do your duty.”

  Now I must trap a possible traitor from among these men I pretend to trust. I despise this devious false friendship.

  * * *

  Jack looked around the assembled officers as they sat in the flickering lamplight of the mess. He had ordered all stewards and other ranks away to ensure it was a select gathering, with a rising wind battering at the windows and a loose shutter banging somewhere outside.

  Jack took a deep breath before he spoke. “Gentlemen,” he began, “you will be wondering why I have collected you together with such a display of secrecy.”

  The officers nodded solemnly, some sipping at their drinks, others watching, waiting for Jack to talk before they revealed their thoughts. Byrne looked inscrutable, Snodgrass nervous, eager to make a good impression.

  “It's quite simple,” Jack said. “You all know about the Fenian threat that hangs over every regiment in the army. Well, I aim to ensure that F Company is prepared to meet it. I aim to have a surprise live firing drill.”

  Byrne lifted his tumbler of brandy. “Is that such a secret, sir?”

  “In these extraordinary times, I see no reason to let the men know what we plan,” Jack replied, “in case one of them is a member of the Fenian Brotherhood.”

  “We can't colour them all as Fenians because we suspect one might be,” Byrne said. “There's nothing worse for soldiers t
han to be distrusted.” He sipped at his brandy.

  “They don't need to be told,” Jack said. “I want the men ready. The Fenians may plan to attack this fort, and men who have never fired a live round will be at a significant disadvantage.” When Ensign Snodgrass give a small nod, Jack knew he had at least one ally in the company.

  “May we have details, sir?” Byrne asked. “Or is that a secret from us as well?”

  Jack accepted the criticism without comment. “The drill will take place on Monday next,” he said. “We'll march a few miles along the coast. Is there anybody here who's familiar with the terrain of the area?”

  “I am, sir.” Byrne lifted his glass.

  “Where is most suitable for live firing?”

  “Tradoney. That's a little cove a few miles away with no houses nearby. The men can shoot out to sea, or over a stretch of moorland.”

  “That sounds ideal. Show me.”

  The officers crowded around a map Jack spread open on one of the tables, with Byrne pointing out the local landmarks.

  “Tradoney appears most suitable. Are there any questions?” Jack asked.

  “Yes, sir.” Snodgrass looked nervous.

  “Well, speak up, man!”

  “It's nothing to do with the drill, sir.” Snodgrass hesitated.

  “Is it about your girl, Ensign?” Jack tried to hide his smile.

  “Yes, sir,” Snodgrass confirmed, scarlet with embarrassment.

  “Have you proposed yet?” Byrne asked, lifting the mood.

  “No, sir, of course not!” Snodgrass sounded indignant. “I just wanted permission to see her again when I am off duty.”

  “You don't need my permission for that, Snodgrass,” Jack said. “When you are off duty, your time is your own.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Snodgrass gave an embarrassed smile when Byrne clapped him on the shoulder.

  “Just make sure that any resulting little Snodgrasses join the regiment,” Byrne said. “We need all the keen young men we can get!”

  “Good advice.” Jack watched the officers file out, and wondered if any of them would carry news of the drill to the Fenians. He had laid his trap, and now he had to wait to see if he could spring it. He closed his eyes, remembering the horror at Gondabad when the sepoys mutinied and knew he would do anything to prevent such a thing happening in the 113th.

  * * *

  A scimitar moon seeped faint light on to the serried buildings of Charles Fort, glinted from the ranked windows and deepened shadows in the corner where Jack stood. Schooled in patience by service along the North-West Frontier, he barely noticed the passage of time as he waited, watching the slow slide of the moon. The scream of a seagull nearly masked the stealthy scuff of feet on the ground.

  Jack stiffened, curling a hand around the butt of his revolver. He saw the lithe man leave the main barrack block and creep around the outside of the parade square, moving slowly and keeping to the shadows. Jack waited until the man opened a door in the southernmost block before he followed.

  What are you up to, my fine fellow? Jack wondered. What's in that block? Clothing stores, boot stores, the hospital and the armoury.

  The man moved furtively for a few steps before he halted and opened the shutter of a bull's-eye lantern, sending a narrow beam of light slicing through the darkness. He stopped outside the door of the armoury, put down the lamp, fumbled in his pocket and produced the two separate keys that opened the door. He swore softly when the door jammed, pushed harder and stumbled inside.

  Jack moved closer, watching the intruder step to the racks of rifles that adorned the interior walls, each with the number of its owner stencilled above, as Colonel Snodgrass's standing orders required. Jack had expected the intruder to steal some of F Company's rifles, but instead, the man was tampering with them.

  What the devil is he doing?

  Jack stepped back into the darkness, taking note of the intruder's face as he passed. As he had feared, the man was a private of F Company, a quiet, serious-faced soldier who had not given any trouble since Jack took command. However, Jack was thankful it was not one of the men he had served with in past campaigns. Waiting until the intruder relocked the armoury door, Jack gave him five minutes to get clear before sliding through the shadows back to the main barrack block. It was the work of a few moments to collect a lantern and keys and return to the armoury, with the familiar perfume of gun oil greeting him as he stepped inside to check the rifles. They were all in place on their racks, with no visible sign of any damage until Jack inspected them more closely. He found a tiny piece of sponge on the nipple of the first three rifles. It was a straightforward device, yet sufficient to prevent the weapon from firing.

  The intruder had left the fourth rifle alone, and the fifth, while the next six all had pieces of sponge on the nipples. Checking each rifle in the company, Jack removed the obstructions, replaced the sponge in the nine previously unaffected weapons and noted the names of the owners.

  Nine men! Does that mean there are nine Fenians in F Company alone? If so, how many are there in the entire regiment, and how many in the army? And just as important, who alerted this fellow to the forthcoming drill? Only the officers knew, so one of my officers is undoubtedly a Fenian.

  Jack was worried as he paced the interior of the parade square, working out what best to do. When he came to a decision, he checked the sentries before walking into the officers' mess.

  “You're up early, sir.” The mess steward greeted him with a tired smile. “Shall I pour you a drink?”

  Jack glanced at the clock. About to say, “Not at three in the morning, thank you,” he felt a momentary temptation. “Whiskey, please.”

  “Kilbeggan, sir? Or Bushmills?” The steward raised his eyebrows. “We also have some moonshine, sir – locally produced whiskey that the Excise men have not got their grips on.”

  “I'll wager that's raw stuff.”

  “It's as smooth as mother's milk, sir.”

  Jack nodded. “I'll take your word as gospel, steward, and try some of your whiskey-milk.”

  “You won't regret it, sir.”

  Irish whiskey is slightly different from Scotch whisky, but the effect was similar, warming Jack up before he retired to his quarters. He knew his servant would wake him in only three hours, so slumped into a chair for the remainder of the night.

  “Sir,” Micklethwaite was a sturdy, bland-faced Yorkshireman with a healthy sense of his importance. “I've been looking for you everywhere, sir.” He glanced reprovingly at the glass in Jack's hand.

  “Well, now, you've found me.” Jack eased himself up, scratched his unshaven face and groaned. “I'm going to get washed and dressed. Have a clean uniform ready for me.”

  “Yes, sir,” Micklethwaite said.

  Washed, dressed and feeling much better, Jack took care to load his revolver and checked his sword slid easily out of its scabbard. I hope I don't need this, he thought, but if I do, I'll need it desperately. I don't want to fight my own men. Jack took a deep breath. Oh, God, I don't want to fight my own men.

  Checking his appearance in the mirror, Jack thanked Micklethwaite for his help and marched to the parade ground. He watched as F Company formed up, with Sergeants Parker and Corbyn checking each man, Byrne giving orders while Ensign Snodgrass scurried around looking enthusiastic. Jack scanned the company, noting the position of the man he had seen the previous night.

  “F Company, we're going for another march followed by live fire drill this morning. I want every man to collect 15 rounds of ammunition. You men,” Jack ordered, indicating the last section, “fetch the targets.”

  It was a brusque introduction to the morning, but Jack had determined to force the issue. He had warned the officers about the drill and tried to counter the Fenians' attempt at sabotage. He had told nobody, not even Lieutenant Byrne, of his expectations, although he expected that the news of the drill would be all over the neighbourhood within 10 minutes.

  All right, Fenians. Let
's see how dedicated you are. Riordan hinted that the 113th would mutiny and I'm giving you the opportunity.

  When F Company formed up, Jack led them out of the gate, setting a fast pace towards the cove at Tradoney. Rifles at the slope, F Company marched away with the sound of their boots echoing from the ground and their left arms swinging. The countryside was fresh after the recent rain, sweet-scented, with the swish of the sea an ever-present in the background.

  “How are the men this morning?” Jack approached Byrne, who marched alongside the men.

  “They seem in good spirits, sir,” Byrne replied.

  Did he sound guarded? Jack nodded. “That's what I thought.” He looked around. They had passed through the fertile belt and were marching through bleak countryside, with small, bare fields scoured by the wind. “We'll see what today brings.”

  Byrne frowned. “Are you expecting anything, sir?”

  “I have a suspicion that something may happen today,” Jack said. “That fellow Riordan gave me a warning, remember.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, if you'll take the lead, I want to watch the men.”

  Byrne nodded. “Very good, sir. If you'll excuse me.” He hurried to the head of the column as Jack studied each face, trying not to concentrate on the man he had watched the previous evening. Somewhere among these men were another eight Fenians, awaiting their chance to mutiny, to spread death and dishonour in his regiment. Even worse, one of his small band of officers was passing information to the Fenians. Jack could not prevent the anger from spreading through him. He had helped drag the 113th from the worst regiment in the army to a disciplined fighting unit, and now some malcontents were going to destroy it in the most dishonourable way possible.

  No! Jack exclaimed inwardly, studying the men as they filed past. I'll lead these men to battle and see us all killed before I'll give in to mutineers. I'll shoot the bastards myself and sleep easy afterwards. He frowned as the man who had sabotaged the rifles muttered something to his companion. So that's the face of the enemy. I'll be watching you closely, my lad.