The train stopped in a featureless plain, with a group of men lurching noisily off, to the waves of their fellows and a rolling blanket of tobacco smoke.
“We've been watching you, Windrush.” Cormac slid beside Jack.
“All the time,” Dermot arrived at his other side with a cigar thrust in his mouth.
“That must have been interesting for you,” Jack said casually.
“Mr Walsh wants to speak with you,” Cormac said.
“Good,” Jack said. “Let's go to him.”
A crowd of Fenians began to bawl out an Irish song, with the Gaelic words lost on Jack and the fighting of a few moments before having ended in a flurry of good fellowship and handshakes for all.
“Well met, Windrush,” Walsh greeted Jack. “I doubted your sincerity until I saw you fighting. The British Army cashiered you, I believe.”
“That's right,” Jack said.
“You'll want to get back at them,” Walsh's disturbingly pale eyes fixed on Jack.
“I do,” Jack agreed.
“Yet you argued for a retreat,” Walsh said.
“If we had fought and lost,” Jack said, “the cause would have ended there and then. Now we can fight again.”
“Stay close,” Walsh stepped to the head of the compartment. A shaft of weak sunlight illuminated his face, playing on the scar until Jack thought it dominated all else. “Listen to me, anybody who wishes to continue the fight against our real enemies, the British.”
There was movement in the carriage as some men moved closer and others, who had seen enough fighting, quietly shifted away. Jack remained where he was, watching and listening.
“That was a poor end to a lacklustre invasion,” Walsh said. “We spent a few days in British territory, shot a few militiamen and slunk away with our tails between our legs.”
The gathered men listened, some nodding agreement, others showing their disapproval.
“I say we go back,” Walsh thundered. “I say we return over the Canadian border and show the British what angry Irishmen can do in a real war.”
This time there was more of a reaction, with most of the audience drifting away and a few others sliding into the carriage. Jack observed the ebb and flow of the crowd and noted the calibre of the men who gathered around Walsh. He had seen the type too often in the British army not to recognise them. They were the roughest of the Fenians, the wild men that other, decent, men tended to avoid. Kennedy was among them, grinning fiercely, while Riordan listened with a cynical twist to his mouth.
One tall, lean man with a long Colt revolver hanging low on his hip raised his voice. “I'm with you, Walsh. My name's Butler, and I rode with James Lane.”
Walsh raised a hand. “You were a Kansas Jayhawker, were you?”
“I was that,” Butler said. “And Kennedy here was at the sacking of Osceola.”
Jack knew that the sacking of Osceola in Missouri was one of the worst atrocities in the early years of the American Civil War, leaving the town a smoking wreck.
“That's the sort I want,” Walsh said. “I want men who are not afraid to fight and men who are not afraid to kill.”
Jack grunted. He had heard about Lane and the Kansas Jayhawkers, irregular riders who fought a guerrilla war along the Kansas-Missouri border. If all Walsh's followers were of that calibre, Canada could experience a much rougher time than they had so far.
Walsh looked directly at Jack. “Are you with us, Windrush?”
“I'm with you.”
“Me also.” The accent was German, the man squat, with long blonde hair and a flowing moustache. “I am Becker. I fought with the French in Algeria and Sherman in Georgia.”
Walsh's grin was among the most evil that Jack had ever seen. “That's my sort,” he said. “Stay with me, boys.”
* * *
They slipped away from the main body at the next station, 50 of the most hard-bitten Fenians and mercenary soldiers, joined by Jack Windrush, ex-captain in the British army, with Patrick Walsh in command.
“Get horses,” Walsh ordered. “I don't care how. Our cause is more important than the complaints of a few civilians. Beg, borrow or steal.” He raised his voice further. “We might be Fenians, but as from today, we'll also be known as the Green Company. Now go and find horses!”
Such an order appealed to the Green Company. They scattered around the small town of New Horizon, yelling slogans that belonged to the late Civil War or earlier conflicts on the opposite side of the Atlantic. Jack watched them for a moment before searching for a stable where he could buy a horse. Whatever part he was playing, he was still a British gentleman. Choosing a spirited chestnut gelding with the name of Destiny, Jack carefully calculated how much to pay the dealer, advised him to lock the stable door before the Fenians could get away with the remainder of his stock and purchased a serviceable if worn, saddle.
“Rough times, mister.” The stable owner looked at Jack through weary eyes. “I thought we were finished with wars for a while.”
“So did I,” Jack agreed. “Keep safe.”
Not all the Fenians had bothered with saddles – the wildest of the Jayhawkers rode bare-backed, galloping around the town whooping and yelling, showing off their trick riding and firing pistols into the air. Becker stood outside the church, smoking a long pipe as he cleaned his rifle.
God Help Canada when this lot are set loose. Jack thought of the settled, peaceful Canadian communities, totally unprepared for an eruption of battle-hardened badmashes such as these mounted Fenians. With Walsh in charge, there would be little or no restraint.
“With me for Ireland!” Walsh shouted as he gathered the Green Company in New Horizon's small central square. “To Canada!”
“To Canada!”
Some of the riders had hung bags of biscuit or meal on their saddles, others had appropriated new boots, hats, bottles of rum or whatever else they fancied. Walsh led them north in a cloud of dust, a wild bunch of 50 riders intent on causing as much mayhem as possible, and, Jack suspected, more intent on violence than on any political conviction about Ireland or anywhere else.
Jack remained with them for the first day, until they were 30 miles north of New Horizon in a sparsely populated area of woodland and small secret lakes.
“We'll stay here tonight,” Walsh ordered, “and tomorrow we'll strike out for the Canadian border and teach the British what an invasion means. We'll set the frontier alight like in the old days of the Kansas-Missouri border war.” His laugh was loud and coarse. “We'll give them 100 Osceolas!”
The Green Company camped beside a dark lake in the shadow of a group of tall trees, with the men passing around their rum, singing Fenian and other songs and growing progressively louder as the evening wore away.
“I'll take first watch, Walsh,” Jack volunteered.
“First watch?” Butler laughed. “We're in friendly territory, you Limey bastard.”
“He's right, Windrush,” Walsh said. “There's no need for precautions until we're in Canada. Get some sleep – we have busy days ahead of us.”
Jack waited until the last of the revellers lapsed into drunken slumber before he rolled away from the camp and led Destiny into the trees.
I have to warn the Canadian authorities, Jack told himself. That's more important than sticking with Walsh.
Within 10 minutes, Jack suspected that somebody was following him. Within 20 minutes, he was certain – no man could survive on the North-West Frontier of India without being aware of every unusual sound and movement. Slowing his horse, Jack allowed his pursuer to close the gap, then rode in a circle to come up behind him. Drawing his revolver, he hid it under a fold of his dust-coat.
“What the devil do you want?”
There were two of them, Dermot and Cormac, with pistols loose in their holsters and Spencer repeating rifles cradled in the crook of their arms.
“You're deserting,” Dermot said, raisng his rifle. “You're a dirty Limey deserter.” Cormac grinned, patting his revolver.<
br />
Jack knew he had to act quickly, or these men would kill him or drag him back to Walsh. He had no intention of ending his career at the wrong end of a Fenian's rifle. “You two men had better return to the Green Company,” he said.
“You'll be coming with us, Limey.” Dermot lifted his rifle until the muzzle was levelled at Jack's chest, “or we'll drop you right here.”
Jack fired on Dermot's last word. Even as he saw the bullet crash into Dermot's stomach, he was wheeling Destiny around, anticipating Cormac's attack. He heard the bark of the rifle before he completed his manoeuvre and felt the wind of the shot as it whistled past his head.
Cormac forced a bullet into the breach of his rifle, swivelling the barrel to aim. Jack extended his arm and fired in the same movement. He saw his shot crash home, saw Cormac stagger in the saddle and heard him curse.
With blood seeping from a wound high in his chest, Cormac lifted his rifle again.
“You Limey bastard.”
“That's right,” Jack said. “That's exactly what I am.” Deliberately aiming at Cormac's head, Jack fired again. The bullet smashed between the man's eyes, jerking his head back and killing him instantly. His horse bolted, carrying its dead rider along with it.
Dermot was slumped in his saddle, bleeding heavily. For a moment, Jack contemplated killing him outright. No! I am still a British officer and gentleman.
“Down you come.” Easing the man from his saddle, Jack removed his rifle, pistol and a long knife. “I'll dress your wound and leave you here,” he said.
Dermot glared at him through pain-dulled eyes.
“You might live, and you might die,” Jack said, “and quite frankly, I don't care either way.” Dressing the man's wound as best he could, Jack propped him against a tree and left him there. “Thank you for your horse,” he said, and rode away northward, towards Fort Erie. It would be a long ride.
* * *
“What do you mean?” Colonel Ferguson was a Canadian officer with grey in his black hair that matched his grey eyes. “We've repulsed the Fenians. We chased them back over the border to the United States. The American authorities are dealing with them.”
“There are others,” Jack said.
Ferguson eyed Jack up and down. “And who do you say you are?”
“I am Captain Jack Windrush of the 113th Foot.”
“The devil you are,” Ferguson said. “I know that name. Captain Jack Windrush was court-martialled and cashiered for helping the Fenians.” Ferguson stood up, reaching for the revolver that hung in its holster behind his chair. “You're a damned Fenian yourself, man!”
“I'm working for British Intelligence,” Jack tried to explain. “If I were a Fenian, I'd hardly come here to warn you about another Fenian raid, would I?”
Ferguson paused. “Perhaps,” he allowed, still with one hand on the butt of his revolver. “Or you could be raising a false alarm to lead us in the wrong direction.”
Jack remembered the note that Smith had left him. “Perhaps the names Wolfe or Fraser might help.”
Ferguson looked up sharply. “Tell me about Fraser.”
“No.” Jack shook his head. “You know who I mean.”
“Wait here,” Ferguson ordered. Abruptly standing, he strode from the room, to return a few moments later with a man Jack struggled to recognise until he realised it was none other than Donald Fraser, now clean-shaven and smartly dressed.
“Do you know this man?” Ferguson asked him.
“I can vouch for him,” Fraser said. “This gentleman is sound. Do you have intelligence for us, Captain?” He listened as Jack explained about Walsh and the Green Company.
“A company of 50 men, you say?” Ferguson shook his head. “I can call up the volunteers and round them up.”
“Are the volunteers mounted?” Jack asked.
“They're mostly infantry.”
“The Green Company are all horsemen,” Jack said, “hard-riding Jayhawkers, veterans of the Kansas Border War and the US Civil War, bitter Fenians and the rag, tag and bobtail of all nations. I have nothing but admiration for the courage of the Canadian volunteers, but the Green Company would ride rings around any volunteer infantry.”
Ferguson glanced at Fraser and then at Jack. “What do you suggest, Captain Windrush?”
“Meet fire with fire.” Jack thought as he spoke. “I want a few dozen desperadoes. I want as many frontiersmen and mounted men as you can raise, the more ruffianly, the better. I'm going to play the Green Company at their own game.” He knew his smile would have disgraced a long-dead skull. “On my last campaign, I dodged Pashtun tribesmen in the mountains north of India. I doubt the Jayhawkers are any less friendly or more skilled.”
“I know some of the very men. How long do we have?” Fraser asked.
“Hours rather than days,” Jack said. “I hope to God we can stop them in time. See what you can raise, Fraser, and as quickly as you can.”
Chapter Twenty
LOUISBURGH, CANADA, JUNE 1866
The settlement of Louisburgh was not much of a place. Named after its founder, Louis de Ville, it had never grown past the size of a hamlet, despite its antiquity. Centred on a solid church with an ornate wooden spire, and with a cobbled square, on which a monthly market attracted local farmers, Louisburgh boasted fewer than 30 houses, mostly of timber. The town's only claim to fame was a rumour that General Wolfe had passed through, although others scoffed at the notion, asking why the great general should visit such an out-of-the-way place. Apart from that vague legend, there was a story of a marital scandal involving a woman with two husbands at some point during the last century. Apart from these semi-legendary stories, nothing significant had ever happened in Louisburgh, which suited the citizens.
So there was consternation when the half-hundred riders appeared from a fold of ground that morning in June, riding hard and yelling fit to raise the dead. Old Mr Riel, 70 years old, was leading his ancient horse across Main Street when he heard the drumming of hundreds of horses' hooves. He looked up in surprise, lifting a hand as if to ward off the oncoming horde. The last thing he saw was a tall man with a scar pulsing on his forehead before the bullet took him between the eyes.
Mary and James Brown were leaving the general store with their monthly supply of goods for their small farm, bickering happily as long-married couples do. James Brown was lifting a keg of molasses onto his wagon when the riders erupted into the street. “Stand back, Mary,” he said. “This could be trouble.” He was reaching for his shotgun when Butler the Jayhawker lifted his revolver. The first two shots missed; the third hit Brown in the left leg, smashing his shin. He yelled, falling sideways but still holding the shotgun.
“Jim!” Ignoring the bullets, Mary Brown ran to her husband of 23 years.
“Get back, Mary!” James screamed the words as he levelled his shotgun. Another bullet hit him in the left arm, breaking the humerus bone.
“Jim!” Mary screamed. Mary dived forward, trying to cover her husband's vulnerable body with her own. “Leave him alone!” Others of the Green Company reined the horses in, firing.
Two bullets hit Mary simultaneously, one in her lung and the other breaking her left knee. She collapsed on top of James, choking on her blood as James squeezed the trigger of his shotgun. The pellets sprayed in a wide arc, with one nicking the arm of a rider.
“You bastard!” Kennedy snarled, and fired the remaining rounds of his pistol, with his laughing companions doing the same. James and Mary died together without ever knowing why.
Patience Forster was running an errand for her mother when the Green Company rode into town. In all her 15 years she had never been more than five miles from Louisburgh and had only spoken to strangers on market day. Patience had thought her life dull and often talked about going travelling with her young man, Matthew, whom she had known all her life. She dreamed of venturing as far as Toronto or even Montreal. Patience stared in excitement as the horsemen galloped in, whooping and shouting. Waving, she foll
owed one of the riders, asking who they were and what they were doing.
“Come with me, and I'll show you.” Becker bent from the saddle, scooped Patience up in a single movement and threw her face-down across his horse.
“No!” Patience screamed, kicking her legs, but her struggling was in vain as Becker kicked in his spurs and galloped to a barn.
“You're mine, little lady,” Becker said, laughing as he halted his horse and kicked open the barn door. Grabbing Patience by her newly-washed hair, he dragged her off the horse and into an empty stall.
Jean Le Mesurier was the descendant of one of the earliest French settlers in Canada, although he had no connection with France except his ancestry and his name. Now he ran the local store, attended the parish church and hoped some day to marry the middle-aged Widow MacAlister. All Louisburgh smiled, knowing that the widow played Jean against his great rival, Donald Vincent, a younger man who ran the stables and was set to become one of the richest men in town. That day Jean had just served Mary and James Brown and heard the commotion in the street.
“What is happening out there?” Jean asked Widow MacAlister, who was sitting comfortably in the small room behind the shop, sipping a cup of the finest imported Indian tea.
“It sounds like somebody's shouting,” the widow said. She was not an inquisitive woman and preferred to allow the world to leave her to spin her webs of romantic intrigue with Jean and Donald. “Best leave them to it, Jean.”
“No, that's gunfire,” Jean replied. “No doubt about it.” Loading one of his stock of hunting rifles, Jean walked to the door, just in time to see James and Mary Brown die under a torrent of revolver bullets. A quiet man, Jean was also one of the best hunters in Louisburgh. Shouting to the widow to remain inside the store, he aimed his rifle and shot dead Butler the Jayhawker. Jean was reloading when Kennedy drew another revolver and fired five shots at him. Despite the close range, the first three bullets missed, but the fourth and fifth crashed into Jean's chest, throwing him back against the window of his store. The widow ran out, stared in incomprehension at the crumpled, still-living body of her favoured intended, and screamed as the gunman fired a fatal shot into the storekeeper's head and pushed the widow inside the store.
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