Agent Of The Queen

by Malcolm Archibald

  Young Mrs Greenthorpe was asleep in her house when the bullet smashed through her window and killed her. Her death was merciful as it meant she did not witness the fate of her three children after Walsh ordered the Green Company to set fire to her home. Abraham Greenthorpe was less fortunate as he was working in his blacksmith's forge at the time. Hearing the screams of his children, he ran into the flames to rescue them and died knowing that everything in his life was gone. Walsh watched dispassionately, not sharing the glee of his men.

  “Loot whatever you wish,” Walsh ordered. “Kill everybody and burn the place down. I want Louisburgh to be a warning to the entire British Empire.”

  Walsh watched as his Green Company completed ravaging the small settlement that had never before seen any trouble. He watched as his men hunted out the women for their pleasure, not caring about age or condition. He watched as the Louisburgh men were gathered together and shot, and the young children thrown into the flames.

  “This is better,” Kennedy laughed, with innocent blood speckling his face.

  “Kill them all,” Walsh ordered.

  He watched as the Green Company systematically looted the houses of anything alcoholic or valuable, drove out the horses, killed the pet dogs and cats and finally gathered in a roaring, drunken, rabble in the cobbled square. Smoke and flames arose from what only two hours previously had been a quietly prosperous town.

  “We ride in five minutes,” Walsh noticed that two of his men still held terrified, weeping women. “Get rid of the women. They'll only slow us down.”

  The first man obeyed immediately, pressing the muzzle of his revolver against the head of his captive and blowing out her brains. The second was more reluctant. “This one's fun,” he said. “She'll keep me warm at night.”

  “Get rid of her,” Walsh said. “I won't repeat my order a third time.”

  “I'm not in the army,” the man said. “I'm not here to answer to you.”

  Without another word, Walsh drew his pistol and shot the man. The woman fell, silent and shocked, from the saddle. As she lay whimpering on the ground, Walsh lifted his hand. “Ride out,” he said. “We head eastward.”

  Yelling, driving their captured horses before them, the Green Company trotted away from the burning settlement. Walsh saw them all away, circled and shot the woman who still lay sobbing on the ground. After a single glance around, he stepped his horse over the corpse of the Fenian he had killed and followed his men. Patience twitched, moaned once and lay still.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  FORT ERIE, CANADA, JUNE 1866

  Jack surveyed the dozen men that Fraser had gathered for him. Weather-beaten and hard of face, they gazed back at him, unflinching. “My name is Windrush, Captain Jack Windrush, late of the 113th Foot and the Corps of Guides.”

  “I read about you.” The speaker had an Irish accent and a deep white scar across his face. “You were cashiered for supporting the Fenians.”

  Captain Ferguson pushed himself away from the wall against which he had been leaning. “Captain Windrush is working with me.”

  The scarred man looked Jack up and down. “Are you the same Windrush who fought at Inkerman?”

  “I am,” Jack said.

  “Aye,” the scarred man nodded. “You and the 113th held the ridge until support came up.”

  “That was us,” Jack agreed.

  “I was in the 8th Hussars,” the man touched his scar. “I got this at Balaclava.”

  Jack held out his hand. “It is a privilege to shake hands with one of the Light Brigade.”

  “Troop Sergeant Doherty. I was a year in a Russian prison,” Doherty grinned. “So I missed what seems to have been the worst part of the campaign.”

  “Nothing could have been worse than that charge,” Jack said. “I saw part of it from a distance.”

  Doherty suddenly smiled. “So you're Fighting Jack Windrush. What do you want us to do?”

  “There is a band of some 50 or so mounted Fenians about to raid Canada,” Jack explained the situation as his audience listened.

  “Where are they?” Doherty asked.

  “They hit Louisburgh yesterday.” Fraser had been a silent spectator. “They wiped the place off the map and killed most of the residents.” He waited for a few moments as the horsemen digested the information. “There was one survivor, a young woman named Patience Forster. When I spoke to her, she told me that some of the men shouted Irish slogans. They called themselves the Green Company.”

  “Telegraph every town in a radius of 200 miles,” Jack drew on his experience in the Indian Mutiny. “Tell them to watch out for these raiders. Call out the local militia and Volunteers and have them guard the main settlements and bring in everybody from outlying farms and isolated hamlets.”

  Fraser nodded. “I'll see to it.”

  “Raise as many mounted men as you can and have them scout for signs of these raiders. Don't let them ride alone – order them to watch and listen.”

  Ferguson took scribbled notes. “I'll notify the military garrisons.”

  Jack raised his voice. “Right, lads, I want every man to take two spare horses and enough food and water for three days at least.” He waited for the nods of acknowledgement. “Each man to carry a rifle with 100 rounds of ammunition, plus a knife and blankets. We are hunting the hunters, lads, and the odds are on our side.”

  “What's the plan, sir?” Doherty asked.

  “We head towards Louisburgh. We'll ride in extended order across the countryside, look for the smoke of burning buildings, call at every settlement we come to and when we meet this Green Company, we will herd it towards the nearest defended town.”

  “When do we start, sir?”

  “We ride in two hours. Gather what you need.”

  They left in an extended line, scouring the land ahead, with each man keeping sight of his neighbour. Even with the best maps that Fraser could get hold of and his men's local knowledge, Jack barely expected to find any trace of the Green Company in the vastness of Canada. He was not surprised when the first day brought no success.

  Fraser had passed on the warning, with most of the farms and small hamlets deserted or on alert, so that men watched Jack's riders from behind shuttered windows, and gun barrels protruded from hastily made loopholes in barn doors.

  They camped for the night on a small, wooded knoll, with men posted on sentry duty and the horses knee-haltered to prevent them straying.

  “This does not seem right for Canada,” Doherty commented, puffing on a stubby pipe. “It's the most peaceful land in the world.”

  “Aye,” Jack agreed. “But it only takes a few angry men to turn quiet into chaos.”

  An hour before dawn, Jack climbed the tallest tree on the knoll, to survey the surrounding countryside for fires.

  “Over there.” A tall, lithe Canadian named Barton had joined him. “There's a glow on the sky just beyond the horizon.”

  “So there is, by God,” Jack said. “Something's burning. Rouse the men.”

  Riding in column with outriders on each side and Barton scouting ahead, Jack's men trotted towards the fire. A band of grey across the eastern horizon heralded encroaching dawn, with the strengthening light dimming the fire-glow.

  “Smoke!” Barton galloped back to report. “I can smell smoke, Captain.”

  “It could just be a household fire,” Jack said. “Or somebody burning rubbish.”

  “It could be.” Barton did not sound convinced.

  “Which direction?”

  “Somewhere over to the east, Captain.”

  Jack pondered for a moment. “All right, extended formation, as we were yesterday. Barton, lead the centre of the line.”

  They rode forward slowly, breaking to cross fences and skirt copses of trees. After a few moments, Jack also smelt smoke, and urged Destiny forward, speeding up the rate of advance.

  The farm had been prosperous, with a generous farmhouse surrounded by barns and storehouses. Now it was a charred wre
ck, with smoking timbers fallen inwards into what had been a family home.

  “Search for bodies.” Jack had seen too many such tragedies during the Indian Mutiny to become emotional. Reining up at the highest point of the farm, he scanned the area with his field glasses, looking for smoke, fire or any unusual movement.

  “No human bodies,” Doherty reported after a few moments. “Only animals.”

  “It could have been an accidental fire,” Barton said.

  “Too many hoofprints,” Jack said at once. “Somebody raided this place, so my guess would be the Green Company. Are you a local man, Barton?”

  “Born and bred,” Barton replied proudly.

  “If you were raiding here, where would you head next?”

  Barton creased his forehead as he considered the question. “The DuProis place,” he said at last, “about five miles to the northeast.”

  “Lead the way,” Jack said.

  They smelled the smoke a minute before they saw the orange glow of flame through a screen of trees.

  “Spur, lads!” Jack ordered. “We might catch this Green Company in the act. Scout ahead, Barton.”

  “Right, Captain,” Barton spurred his mount forward as Jack organised his men in a column. He halted them a quarter of a mile from the DuProis farm, wary of ambush, and pushed Destiny forward. He heard the shouting as he closed.

  “Captain.” Barton emerged from a copse of trees. “The Green Company is there.”

  “Right, Barton.” Jack stared ahead. “Did you see any sentries? Any lookouts?”

  “Not one, sir,” Barton answered. “They're too intent on looting the place.”

  Jack nodded, thinking fast. “Good.”

  Returning to his men, Jack gave brief instructions. “We don't know how many of the enemy there are, or how they will react. Stay together, shoot anybody who shows resistance but make sure we don't shoot any civilians. Our password is Victoria, with a counter of Canada.”

  Some men nodded, with others repeating the words. When Doherty ran a hand down his scarred face, Jack wondered if he was thinking of the valley at Balaclava.

  “Follow me.” For a moment, Jack wished he had his Guides with him, men who were born and bred to this type of warfare. But he shook away the thought. These Canadians were good men. All they lacked was some experience. “Make sure you're loaded and ready.”

  As the familiar combination of excitement, fear and exhilaration swept through him, Jack pulled Destiny around. It did not matter if the enemy were Russian Cossacks, Pashtun tribesmen or Fenian irregulars, the sense of danger always affected him in the same way.

  They rode into a spectacular dawn with bands of silver and orange brilliant to the east as Jack led his men at a fast trot. As they advanced, the flames became more visible, rising behind a screen of tall trees, with smoke coiling blue-brown into a lightening sky. Drawing his revolver, Jack dug in his spurs and raced forward, ready to fight. He heard his men behind him, the noise of the horse's hooves a constant drumming on the hard ground.

  Silhouetted against burning buildings, the Green Company did not hear Jack's horsemen approach until they were only a few yards away. One bearded man turned, his mouth open in surprise, shouted something and fell as Doherty shot him from the saddle. The others scattered, some firing at these unexpected attackers, while the majority fled without a second glance.

  “They're on the run!” Barton yelled.

  “Aye!” Jack had to shout above the crackle of flames and roar of collapsing buildings. He noticed a couple of his men pulling away in pursuit. “Keep your formation, lads!”

  Riding on, Jack circled the farm, flushing three more raiders, all of whom spurred into the surrounding countryside. “That's only nine. Where are the others?”

  Sudden flames from a neighbouring farm answered him. “They've spread out,” Doherty said.

  Jack nodded. “We'll hunt them farm by farm.”

  With the brightening daylight, it was not hard to follow the column of smoke to the neighbouring farms. Angered by this attack on innocent civilians, the Canadians lost their quiet demeanour, firing the instant they saw the raiders.

  I'm turning these men into soldiers, Jack told himself. They are superb raw material, hardy, amenable to discipline and good shots.

  Riding from farm to farm, leaping over fences, and driving the Green Company before them, Jack's men heard concentrated musketry ahead.

  “Listen, sir,” Doherty said. “That sounds like a skirmish.”

  “Maybe the Volunteers have found them,” Jack said, “or even one of the regular battalions.” He coughed in the acrid smoke. “Come on, lads; keep your formation! Let the redcoats see we're not some rabble like the Green Company.”

  With the sun surprisingly warm above them and smoke drifting through the once-peaceful countryside, Jack trotted towards the sound of the guns. The firing increased in volume before it died away to an intermittent splutter.

  “That's not regular British infantry,” Jack said. “There's no volley fire.”

  “Canadian Volunteers, perhaps?” Doherty hazarded.

  “Perhaps,” Jack allowed. “Barton! Ride ahead!” After their skirmishing, there was no need to warn him to take care. These Canadians were fast learners.

  Barton was back within minutes. “It's a farmhouse,” he gasped. “The Fenians are attacking a farmhouse.”

  That explained the lack of disciplined firing. Some stubborn farmer had refused to abandon his home and was trying to fend off the raiders.

  “We'll hit the Green Company in the rear,” Jack said.

  “The farmer will think we're reinforcing the Fenians,” Doherty said. “We've no uniforms to show we're British.”

  Jack swore, knowing that Doherty was correct. “I wish I had the foresight to bring a union flag.” Well, it was too late now. He thought rapidly. “When we get close,” he decided, “shout out God save the queen. I don't want anybody shot by mistake!”

  “Right, sir!” Doherty replied. “We'll do her majesty proud.”

  “Make sure your rifles are loaded!” Jack pushed in front of his men. Not knowing how long the civilian defenders could hold out, he decided that a direct attack was better than a more cautious approach.

  “Hard and fast, lads!” Jack said. “Keep together, shoot any of the enemy and good luck to all of us.”

  “Good luck, Captain,” some of the men called out.

  The farmhouse was smaller than any they had encountered so far, a square, stone-built structure, two storeys high with shutters over the windows. Surrounding the building, the Green Company were firing intermittently, with the occasional rush forward. As Jack watched, a defender thrust his rifle between two shutters and fired a single shot.

  “Run, you Fenian bastards!” the defender roared. “You'll get nothing here! No surrender!”

  “No surrender!” The words were echoed by others inside the house, with both male and female voices joining in.

  “They're not surrendering,” Barton said, with a smile.

  “Right lads!” Jack shouted. “After me!”

  Yelling, “God save the queen,” Jack's men charged forward, taking the attackers in the rear and scattering them. Jack kicked in his spurs, had a glimpse of a lean, sun-browned face pointing a rifle at him, fired and galloped on without seeing the result of his shot. He heard his men chanting, “God save the queen,” behind him as he led around the outside of the house, firing at any of the Green Company they saw.

  “God save the queen!” The words came from inside the house. “No surrender!”

  Faced by a stubborn defence and without knowing the strength of the force that was attacking them, the Green Company ran, leaving three of their number on the ground.

  “Doherty! Barton! Follow them; see where they go. Everyone else remain with me.” Jack dismounted and approached the farm.

  The defenders emerged from the front door, still holding their weapons. One middle-aged man and two men in their late teens or twenties
held rifles, with a younger boy carrying a pistol. Two women, each brandishing a large knife, peered over the shoulders of their men.

  “Captain Jack Windrush, late of the 113th and the Guides,” Jack removed his hat and gave a little bow to the women. “Your family did very well, sir.”

  “No surrender,” the middle-aged man replied. “I'm Simon Armstrong. We're Orangemen, you see.” He grinned. “We held Londonderry against the Fenians in 1690, and we'll defend the Boyne today.” He indicated his farm.

  Jack nodded. Here was another example of a centuries-old conflict continued in another continent. Would people ever learn to put aside their arguments, allow the past to remain in the past and move into the 19th century?

  “Quite so,” Jack said. “I congratulate you on a brave stand, whatever the historical reason.” He replaced his hat. “Now I must leave you, for I have raiders to pursue.”

  “Good luck, captain.”

  Without another word, Jack applied his spurs and trotted in the direction the Green Company had taken. Following their trail of flattened grass and broken branches, it was only a matter of minutes before he caught up with Doherty and Barton.

  “They're riding fast, sir,” Doherty reported. “There are about 20 of them, as far as I can make out, so there must be more ahead.”

  “Given the casualties they've taken,” Jack said, “I'd estimate that Patrick Walsh, or whatever his real name is, has around the same number.”