“That's better than marching around Presque House.” Murphy had a strange accent, Irish overlaid with New England.
Jack nodded. “Come on, then.” He pushed them off from the ice, grunted as the current caught them, and steered for the New Brunswick shore. I hope I don't precipitate a war, he thought.
The ice on the New Brunswick shore was as thick and the countryside very similar to that of Maine.
“Congratulations, lads,” he said. “We are now on British soil.” He waited for the words to sink in. “We will march to the nearest settlement and show them that Ireland has not forgotten what the British did.”
Kennedy, a red-haired, freckle-faced man with a fund of jokes, grinned and tapped the stock of his rifle. “Kill the English.”
“We're killing nobody!” Jack said. “We're not here to start a war. Not today, anyway.” Unfolding the map he had brought, he pointed to a small settlement that lay a bare mile away. “When we reach Glosterville, we'll post a note on the church, just to let them know we've called.”
Most of his men looked pleased with the idea. Kennedy did not.
Jack led them on a fast march until they came to the settlement, a group of houses clustered around an unpretentious wooden church. “Can any of you lads read?”
Kennedy was one of the two men who claimed to be scholars and Jack handed over the poster he had written. “Read this out.”
Looking happy to be singled out, Kennedy read slowly. “People of New Brunswick. This notice is a friendly warning from the Fenians of America. We wish to gain the freedom of Ireland from British control. We will not make war on the peaceful citizens of New Brunswick so you may sleep safe in your beds. It is only the authorities and the military who need fear. Even Wolfe cannot save you from the wrath of Ireland. Long Live the Fenian Brotherhood! God save the Irish Republic!”
If that did not warn the authorities of the Fenian threat, Jack thought, then nothing would. He had included the name Wolfe, as Smith had ordered. Now he had to wait.
The Fenians nodded in approval as Kennedy shouted the final words. By that time a small group of locals had gathered, some listening, others holding agricultural tools. One heavily bearded man cradled a baby. They did not look like the sort of people to oppress Ireland, or anybody else.
Jack nailed his poster to the church door, reread it for the benefit of anybody who failed to hear the first time and called across the local pastor.
“Could you see that this notice gets to whoever is governor of this part of the world?”
“I will do that.” The pastor was a young, man swathed in furs. “Now please get your armed men out of my parish. You are unsettling my parishioners.”
Jack did not need to force a smile as he pressed a note in to the pastor's hand. “You're a good man, Reverend. We're leaving.”
“We showed the Limeys,” Kennedy said. “We warned them!”
Jack's men were in high spirits as he led them back over the river, ensured the boat was returned to its proper owner and marched back to the house. They were singing, convinced they had struck the first blow for Irish freedom. Jack hoped that his mention of Wolfe and the letter he had handed over to the priest reached its intended destination and that his little incursion served as a warning to the Canadian authorities how vulnerable the border was.
As midwinter brought snow deeper than Jack had ever seen, O'Mahony seemed to have trusted Jack and left him alone for days at a time in the lonely house near the border, so Jack relaxed more as he trained his men. He kept the drill basic, unwilling to bring the Fenians near the standard expected of British soldiers while knowing he had to ensure he retained the trust of the Fenian leadership.
“Jack.” Helen had taken to watching him when the weather was good, standing outside the house, dressed in layers of clothes and waving whenever she caught his eye.
“Stand easy!” Jack ordered. The Fenians obeyed, with their boots thumping down on frozen snow. “Ten-minute break, boys!”
Lifting her skirt to keep the hem out of the wet, Helen walked towards him. “You've been busy, Jack.”
“I have to get these men in shape,” Jack said. “Where's your friend?”
“My friend? Oh, Walter is only here from time to time. He roams around the countryside, travels to England or Ireland and all sorts of places leaving me all alone.”
Jack shook his head. “Poor old you! And you leaving William for his company, too.”
“I'd have left William anyway,” Helen said. “You know that.” She allowed her eyes to roam the length of his body. “I'd have left him for you any time.”
“Where is Walter now?” Jack could see Dermot and Cormac watching him.
“He doesn't tell me,” Helen said.
“That's not very friendly of him,” Jack said. “At least you'll see him when he's here.” He smiled. “You sounded very happy together.”
“He makes me laugh, and he's exciting to be around,” Helen said.
“Does he share your room?”
“Oh, no,” Helen said. “He calls in only occasionally. He has a room on the same floor as you.”
Jack nodded. “I see. I thought you were closer than that.”
Helen shook her head. “He's exciting, Jack. Nothing more. I would have left William for young Ensign Snodgrass, or you. Especially for you.”
“Be careful, Helen,” Jack said. “I do not think that Mr Carmichael is all he seems.”
Helen's smile did not falter. “Neither are you, Jack. I know you too well. You're playing a double game.”
* * *
Riley had taught Jack the basics of lock-picking, and the rooms in Presque House had not been designed to keep out cracksmen. It only took Jack a few moments to break into Carmichael's room.
Lighting his lantern, Jack adjusted the shutter until it emitted a thin beam of light, closed the door and looked around the room. He felt the reassuring pressure of the revolver thrust through the waistband of his trousers and hoped he would not have to use it.
The same size as Jack's, the room was stark in its simplicity, with a bed, chest of drawers, roll-top desk and two chairs. Pushing open the desk, Jack flicked through the contents; pad of paper, pens, ink. Nothing of interest and the drawers were empty. This man Carmichael was too sensible to leave incriminating evidence in such a prominent place.
Jack pondered; what else had Riley taught him about searching? He checked the usual hiding places, with the light from his lantern bouncing around the room, casting weird shadows. There was nothing under the pillow or the bed, and when he shone the lamp up the flue, he saw only the blackness of residual soot. Only the rug remained, and under there, Jack saw a slight bulge.
Carefully rolling back the rug, Jack shone the lantern on the slender leather packet beneath, opened the two small buckles and peered inside. There were two rectangular sheets of paper, both in Russian, a language Jack recognised by sight but could not read.
Russian. I have to tell Smith somehow.
As Jack prepared to leave the room, he saw a single ragged scrap of paper in the fireplace. The paper seemed to be the all that remained from a larger sheet that Carmichael had torn and burned. Lifting it, he saw a confusion of letters that meant nothing, followed by the words English HQ. Jack copied the letters: Cto alpla
Now that is undoubtedly a code. But where is the English HQ, and the headquarters for whom?
Jack puzzled over the words, frowned, and swore as he heard footsteps thudding in the corridor outside. Returning the two sheets of paper under the carpet, he rolled to the curtains and remained down.
The footsteps halted outside the door. Somebody tapped. “Walter?”
Jack swore softly.
“Walter? It's me, Helen. Are you there? I thought I saw a light in your room.”
Jack kept silent as Helen rapped on the door again. He waited for a few moments until her footsteps sounded and returned to the documents. Tempted to take them away, he knew that would immediately end his usefulnes
s as an agent of the queen, so he retrieved both sheets, selected a pen and paper from the desk and copied down as much as he could, struggling with the unfamiliar words and script.
We were right – Carmichael is Russian. Now why the devil are the Russians involved with the American Fenians?
Jack heard voices, checked his watch and swore. Copying out the Russian script had taken much longer than he thought. Hastily tidying the packet back where he had found it, Jack moved to the door. Now he had to contact Smith. How the devil could he do that?
* * *
Jack saw the horseman trot up to the front door of Presque House, dismount and throw the reins to a servant before striding inside, as confident as if he were coming home.
So you are back, Walter Carmichael.
Jack kept his light off and door ajar, listening to the sounds of the house and watched Walter stride along the corridor to his room. Even before he reached the door, Helen arrived with her arms outstretched, waiting for him. Jack watched, unsure of what he thought.
Are you a traitor, Helen? Or are you merely what you seem, a flighty woman annoyed with her husband and seeking a romantic adventure to alleviate the boredom of married life with an inattentive spouse.
Jack remembered Smith's words. “If you find him, I want you to kill him,” and his immediate response that he was not an assassin. Yet now, knowing Carmichael was Russian, and seeing him with Helen, Jack's previous resolution faltered.
Yes, Mr Smith, I could kill the man who calls himself Walter Carmichael. I am not acting as an English gentleman, so I could descend a further rung of the ladder and become an assassin.
* * *
As Jack's Fenians became more restless through the winter, Jack increased the length of their marches and the frequency of their drills. When the bad weather closed in, Jack sent them back to their makeshift barracks and walked around the grounds of Presque House, wondering why he was there.
“Wolfe.” The voice was little more than a murmur, like a variation of the breeze, and so low that Jack thought he had imagined it until it came again. “Wolfe.”
“Wolfe,” Jack repeated.
“Captain Windrush.”
Jack couldn't see where the voice was coming from. Reaching for his revolver, he turned around. “I'm Captain Windrush.”
The man emerged from behind a tree. He was swathed in furs and wearing snowshoes and a deep hood and a thick beard covered the lower half of his face.
“Donald Fraser.” The man threw back his hood, removed one of his mittens and held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you.” His accent was educated, with a pleasant Canadian twang.
“How do you do.” Jack shook hands, thinking it strange to meet a Canadian on the borders of Maine.
“Wolfe,” Fraser said as if that were sufficient explanation for his presence there. “We got the note you left.”
“Oh?” Jack was not yet ready to admit who he was. “Which note?”
“Mr Smith was very interested.” Fraser had Smith's habit of not answering a direct question.
“I'm glad you got in touch,” Jack said. “I may have other things to interest you.”
“Come and tell me.” Fraser replaced his gloves and led Jack into the forest. “Your two shadows are in the house; I think they've given up following you.”
“Cormac and Dermot?” Jack nodded. “They're dangerous, if not the sharpest men in the world.”
“I've been watching you for a while.” Fraser led them to what appeared to be a pile of snow but which proved to be a small hut well camouflaged by a covering of snow and ice. “Brush over our trail.” He handed Jack a tree branch to conceal the tracks they had left.
“Coffee?” Fraser had the interior of the hut surprisingly comfortable and poured out two cups of coffee. “So what do you have to tell us?”
Jack explained what he had seen and heard, ending with: “He calls himself Walter Carmichael but Corporal Riordan was convinced he was not Irish and I am nearly certain he is Russian.”
Fraser looked up sharply, with his coffee cup halfway to his mouth. “Russian? Are you sure?”
“I recognised and copied the Russian script,” Jack said. “But I don't know what the documents say.”
“Do you have the copy with you?”
“No.” Jack shook his head.
“Leave it in the trees,” Fraser said. “I'll see it gets to the proper place.” He grinned. “I'll be watching you.”
“There was something else, too. A garbled scrap of code and something about an English HQ.”
“Code?”
“It said Cto alpla,” Jack remembered.
“That means nothing to me,” Fraser agreed. “Leave it with the rest.” he pointed out a distinctive stand of white birch trees. “Under the third tree there.”
“I'll do that,” Jack said.
“As soon as you like,” Fraser said. “Now you'd better get back before Dermot and Cormac get worried about you.”
After they shook hands, Jack moved away, with Fraser smoothing the snow behind him to remove any trail. When Jack looked back a moment later, Fraser was gone, and only the trees remained, with the snow falling softly between them. Jack nodded. Although he could not see Fraser, he no longer felt abandoned and alone.
All that winter, Fraser brought news to Jack about conditions in Canada. There were small murmurings in various places and several Fenians arrested in Toronto, while angry Orangemen met to pledge their loyalty to the Crown.
“The colonies are bristling with rumours,” Fraser said, drinking his coffee. “Either the Fenians are going to launch a full-scale attack with American aid, or the Orangemen and regulars will squash them without mercy.”
“Did you get the letters translated?” Jack asked.
“They are Russian, as you thought,” Fraser said. “Your fellow seems to be a Russian agent, but what his objective is, we don't know. The documents are fairly routine, with consular addresses and some details of the Russian presence in Alaska.”
“Were they useful?”
Fraser shrugged. “That's for the men at the top to decide.”
“And the coded message?”
“That meant nothing to us,” Fraser admitted.
“Best make sure Peshawar and the Khyber are well guarded,” Jack said. “If Russia is causing trouble in Canada, their real objective will be somewhere completely different.”
Fraser smiled. “I'll pass that little nugget on. Have you much experience of the Russians?”
“I fought through the war in Crimea,” Jack told him. “Including some clandestine work against the Plastun Cossacks.”
“Aye.” Fraser sipped more coffee. “You'll know them, then.” He paused as if wondering what to say. “I passed your letter to your wife along.”
“Thank you,” Jack said. “Mary will be worrying about me.”
“Wives are like that.” Fraser spoke with long gaps between his sentences. “There is one more thing.” He handed a sealed letter to Jack. “I was to give you this. Make sure you destroy it.” He held up a hand. “No, don't open it when I'm here. I don't want to know the contents.”
Jack tucked the letter away. “I'd like a method of contacting you in an emergency, say if I find anything of importance, or if I need help.”
Fraser shook his head. “I can't guarantee anything,” he said. “I travel between here and elsewhere.”
“Where?” Jack asked.
“Best you don't know,” Fraser said. “In case you're discovered. I do have other agents to meet, you know.”
“Who?” Jack asked and smiled. “I know, it's best I don't know. Can I contact you?”
“I'm here every Wednesday, at or near the stand of birches. That's the best I can do.” Fraser tapped Jack on the back of his hand. “Go, now, and see what Smith says. Don't tell me.”
Nodding, Jack retraced his steps to Presque House, concealing his trail as he always did and holding the package under his coat. Breaking the seal outside the grounds of
Presque House, Jack pocketed the ten silver dollars and read the simple note.
“Capture C and hand to F. S.”
* * *
Capture C? That must mean Carmichael, while F was Fraser and S must be Smith. Jack shook his head. Why did these people have to talk in riddles? How the devil am I to capture Carmichael? As in any military campaign, he thought, I must neutralise his strengths and strike at his weakest point.
The ancient Chinese philosopher and military strategist Sun Tzu said, “Attack their weaknesses,” and Jack knew what Carmichael's weakness was.
Jack burnt the note in his fire, watching the ashes crumble away. He was glad he did not have to murder Carmichael, although capturing him might prove more difficult. Sorry, Mary; you won't like what I have to do.
“Cormac.” Jack approached the large man. “I must ask you to look the other way for a while.”
Cormac looked instantly suspicious. “Why's that?”
“A woman,” Jack said.
Cormac and Dermot exchanged knowing glances. “That little redhead from the cookhouse?”
“Indeed no.” Jack knew the woman; bright and bubbly, the redhead was popular with the few Fenians who remained at the house. “The dark-headed one.”
“Oh.” Cormac looked disappointed. “Helen. She's moody.”
“She never talks to me,” Dermot said. “She treats me like dirt.”
That sounds about right, Jack thought. Helen would see no profit in meeting either of these two men with their limited intellectual ability.
“You go right ahead, captain,” Cormac said with a grin.
“Thanks lads,” Jack tossed a dollar to them. “I'll see if she treats me better.”
Helen answered the door to Jack's knock without hesitation. “Helloa, Jack.” She looked slightly dishevelled as if she had been sleeping. “What do you want?”
“Your company,” Jack said. “Are you alone?”
Helen's smile could not have been broader as she stepped aside. “Not while you're here, Jack. Come on in.”
The room was tidy except for the bed, which Helen hurriedly began to make. “I was having a nap,” she said. “It's so dull being trapped here all winter.” She ran her fingers down his arm. “I'm glad you came.”
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