Agent Of The Queen

by Malcolm Archibald

  “They ran when we appeared,” Peebles said.

  As he leant against the tree, Jack could see the trail. “Follow them,” he ordered. “Don't give them a minute to reorganise.” He glanced around. “You should find my men somewhere, a dozen of the best.”

  “That will be Sergeant Doherty's command.” The lieutenant was quick on the uptake. “I sent them to the right flank.”

  “That's them.” Jack took command. “I want them in the centre, right behind the Green Company and pushing hard.”

  “Will do, sir,” Peebles said.

  “Do you have a spare horse for me?”

  “Are you fit to ride, sir?”

  Jack frowned, not used to lower-ranking officers questioning him, but these Canadians had minds of their own. “I'm fit,” he said. “Bring me a horse and a weapon of some sort.”

  Back in the saddle with a carbine in his hand and hiding the weakness that made him sway as he rode, Jack sent two scouts ahead. “Follow them up, boys. Don't give them space.” When Doherty cantered up with his men, Jack greeted him with a wave and led them in front of the Canadian troops.

  “I'm glad to see you again, sir,” Doherty said, as Barton gave a brief nod of acknowledgement. “I heard you had a rough time.”

  “Aye, rough enough,” Jack croaked.

  The Green Company had ridden too fast to make any attempt to cover their tracks. Once again, Jack assumed a hunter's role, reading the trail, searching for riders breaking away from the main body. There were 50 volunteer cavalrymen, mostly very young, all excellent horsemen and enthusiastic soldiers, if untested in war.

  When they reached a small hillock, they found signs that the Green Company had split up, riding in a dozen different directions.

  “Good tactics,” Jack commented with grudging approval as he called up the lieutenant. “Now they will either double back to get around our flanks, or they'll have a prearranged rendezvous somewhere. Spread your men out and shout if you see anybody that should not be there.”

  “Yes, sir.” Lieutenant Peebles understood. “My men will hunt them down!”

  “I'm sure they will, Peebles. I have every faith in them.”

  Sending Barton ahead with two of his best riders, Jack increased the pace of the pursuit, pressing the Green Company hard while retaining cohesion with his inexperienced troops.

  “Keep in sight of one another,” Jack ordered.

  When the crack of a rifle sounded from the left flank, Jack spurred towards it, hoping the rest of the line kept formation. “Who fired?”

  “I did, sir.” The volunteer could not have been more than 17, a smooth-chinned boy with steady grey eyes.

  “What did you see?”

  “An armed horseman resting beside that tree, sir.” The volunteer pointed to a stunted oak. “He didn't respond to my challenge.”

  “Did you hit him?”

  “No, sir. As soon as he saw me, he jumped on his horse and rode away.”

  Jack nodded. “You did well. Better luck next time.”

  If the man had been resting, others of the Green Company would also be tiring, Jack reasoned, peering ahead. The ground stretched on for ever in undulating farmland, patches of woodland and small rivers. What would he do if he were Walsh?

  He would have arranged a rendezvous for his men, gathered them together and thrust back to break through the thin Canadian line. Where? Where could the Green Company collect? It would have to be somewhere easily recognisable for men who did not know the countryside – a prominent feature, perhaps, or a village, small enough for the Green Company to dominate.

  “Lieutenant Peebles.” Jack still found speaking painful. “Are there any habitations around here?”

  The lieutenant screwed up his face in thought. “There are a few farms, sir, but only one village. Menzieshill, it's called. It takes its name from a settler named Menzies.”

  “Where is it?” Jack interrupted.

  “About two miles in this direction,” Peebles replied.

  “Thank you,” Jack said. Sending a horseman after Barton, Jack ordered him to ride hard for Menzieshill to see if Walsh was there. “Don't get into a fight,” he cautioned.

  “The fight's already started, I think,” Peebles said. “That's musketry!”

  The firing came from ahead, an intermittent crackle that broke the silence of the Canadian afternoon.

  “You're right,” Jack said. “Take your men towards the firing. Keep in formation in case Walsh is trying to trick us.”

  Increasing the pace from a fast walk to a trot, Jack took the lead, with his dozen riders at his back and the volunteers stretched out across the landscape 100 yards behind.

  “Captain!” Barton shouted as he galloped towards them. “The Green Company are collecting at Menzieshill, but I saw redcoats already there!”

  “Now we have them!” Jack said. Some smart Canadian officer had placed a garrison in the village. Even as he spoke, Jack heard the sputter of musketry again, and the wild yells of the Green Company. “Lieutenant Peebles! Sound the advance. I don't know the local terms, so have your bugler sound whatever it is that orders the men forward at speed.”

  “Yes, sir!” Grinning, the lieutenant snapped an order to the bugler. When the shrill notes rose, the volunteers increased their speed, converging on the tiny settlement of Menzieshill where it nestled on the southern slope of a low hill. Smoke spurted from a dozen rifles on the perimeter of the village, repulsing the advance of a swarm of horsemen.

  “Ireland for ever!” The cry came to Jack, high-pitched above the musketry as at least one of the Green Company yelled defiance.

  “After them, boys!” Jack tried to shout, with his injured throat strangling the words before they emerged. He heard the bugle of the volunteers somewhere behind him and glanced over his shoulder. Peebles must have given an order he had not heard, for every volunteer holstered his carbine and drew his sabre, with the sound of steel clearing the scabbards bringing back vivid memories of the Crimea and the Mutiny.

  The Green Company hesitated, horses rearing, turning as their riders were unsure which way to ride. Jack sensed their confusion; with a stubborn defence in front and an unknown number of cavalry in the rear, they were in a bad situation. Walsh was prominent in the middle of his men, shouting as the Green Company fragmented. Some fired at the approaching volunteers; others kicked in their spurs and fled, while a desperate few charged towards Menzieshill.

  Ignoring the rank and file, Jack galloped straight for Walsh. Shouldering aside the wild-eyed Kennedy, Jack levelled his carbine. “Surrender, Walsh, or I'll blow your brains out!”

  Glaring sideways, Walsh shouted something Jack did not hear before galloping away with a dozen of the Green Company forming around him. Jack fired, missed and spurred forward as his men followed, firing into the mass of the Green Company.

  On the south, the volunteers closed the gap, but the Green Company riders were desperate. When some turned to fight, the volunteers cut them down, the long sabres glittering in the sun. Jack saw two or three men with their hands high in surrender.

  “They're getting away!” Doherty cried.

  “Follow!” Jack's voice failed him again, so he pointed forward, hoping that his borrowed horse had the stamina to continue. The defenders of Menzieshill fired a final volley at the rapidly retreating Green Company and then Jack was galloping past.

  The volunteer cavalry made a final surge, rounding up another two stragglers before the Green Company surged through the gap with Walsh in the van and the remnants of his men streaming in his wake. Unable to urge his horse to more speed, Jack saw the Green Company racing away. The volunteers were behind them, while in front the vast entirety of Canada offered almost limitless space in which Walsh could hide.

  “Night's coming on.” Doherty nodded to the sinking sun. “We'll lose them, sir. Permission for Barton and me to ride ahead and get Walsh?”

  Jack was about to give his consent when he saw the flash in the distance. “Wait, D
oherty. That's sunlight on steel – something is happening over there.”

  Walsh had led the Green Company into a shallow, westward-facing valley, dotted with small apple orchards. As they galloped on, a line of men rose from an area of dead ground at the west. Even from half a mile away, Jack recognised the scarlet uniforms of British, or Canadian, soldiers. Walsh hesitated, with his horsemen rearing up or altering direction to try the heights to north or south. Jack nodded as more scarlet-clad figures appeared on both ridges, with the dying rays of the sun reflecting on naked bayonets.

  “It's Balaclava all over again.” Doherty fingered the scar on his face. “Except this time the enemy is trapped in the valley.”

  Jack agreed. Walsh had led his command into a trap, with the redcoat infantry on three sides of the valley and Jack's horseman closing up the rear.

  “Charge forward!” Walsh's voice was loud and clear as he spurred forward to try to burst through the infantry at the head of the valley. Most of the surviving Green Company followed his lead, thundering towards the scarlet line in front. Jack saw the long roll of smoke as the infantry fired a volley, then they calmly stood to receive the charge. Sunlight glittered on bayonets as a second line supported the first.

  The Green Company charged on, losing men as the flanking infantry opened fire. The infantry closed the trap, advancing part-way down the hill slope, to halt, reload and fire again.

  “Walsh's beat,” Doherty said as men and horses tumbled and fell. Some turned to run, only to discover Jack's horsemen blocking their retreat.

  “He is,” Jack agreed. “Bugler, give the call to advance at a walking pace, picking up prisoners.”

  “I don't think we have that one, sir.”

  “Well, do it anyway,” Jack croaked.

  Some of the dismounted Green Company raised their hands in surrender as the Canadian infantry alternatively fired and advanced, with the wicked bayonets glittering in front of them. Only a few men remained with Walsh when the final handful of horses reared up at the hedge of bayonets. Jack distinctly saw Walsh come off his mount, with a section of infantrymen surrounding him. With the fall of their leader, the surviving men of the Green Company surrendered.

  “Come on, lads,” Jack said. “Let's go and collect prisoners. It's over.”

  And thank God it's over. Now I can get back to Mary.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  CANADA, JUNE 1866

  Fraser sipped from his silver hip-flask, smiled and offered Jack a drink.

  “Thank you,” Jack accepted gratefully. “I needed that. Was the ambush your idea?”

  “Not mine,” Fraser said. “That was Colonel Ferguson. He knew the Green Company would come this way, so he prepared accordingly.” Taking back the flask, Fraser sipped again and returned it to an inside pocket. “Local knowledge is invaluable in this sort of business.”

  “That's true.” Jack surveyed the prisoners as they sat in a disconsolate group under the watchful gaze of the volunteers. “Well, if the Fenian threat is all finished now, I can get home. My wife will be missing me.”

  Fraser nodded. “That may be so. In the mean time, we'll extract as much intelligence from the prisoners as we can.“ He shrugged. “Although I doubt we'll learn much. This bunch seem to be the dregs of the dregs. The only man of any interest is Walsh.”

  “If that is his name.”

  “Aye. I have my doubts about that man.” Fraser sighed. “He's over there if you want to talk to him. I must say, Windrush, I don't know how you can soldier for a living. I can agree with the man who that the only thing worse than a battle won was a battle lost. There was far too much human suffering in this encounter, so God knows what Inkerman was like.”

  “It was hell on earth,” Jack replied quietly. “I'll speak to Walsh.”

  * * *

  “You bastard Windrush.” Bloody faced and tightly bound, Walsh glared at Jack from the wreckage of his plans. “That's twice you've crossed me.”

  “Aye, and now you'll face a fair trial and the noose.” Jack lit a cheroot, trying to disguise his shaking hands as reaction set in. “You're finished, Walsh; your raid was the last throw of the Fenian dice, and it failed. The Canadians defeated every invasion. You'll never conquer Canada.”

  “Conquer Canada?” Walsh gave a harsh laugh as the blood coursed down his cheek and dripped from his chin. “You still don't understand, do you? Canada was only a pawn in a different game.”

  Jack stiffened. For a moment he remembered Jayanti's game of chess during the Indian Mutiny, where British soldiers were the pawns. “Aye, you want an Irish republic, or so you say. Is that your objective, Walsh?”

  Perhaps the stress of battle or sheer exhaustion had dented Walsh's self-control for he swore in a language that Jack had hoped never to hear again, adding in English: “We'll destroy the whole British Empire.”

  Jack took a deep breath. “Even if you do establish an Irish Republic,” he said carefully, “the British Empire will survive.”

  “Ireland is only another pawn,” Walsh said.

  Jack stored the words away. “Your Fenians are finished, Walsh.”

  “Canada is one piece on the board.” Walsh returned to his chess analogy. “Ireland is another. We'll strike again and again. Like the Hydra, we have many heads.”

  “Aye, and we can cut them all off, one by one.”

  “Two will grow for each one you cut off.” Walsh sneered and looked away. “You might win a battle or two, Windrush, but ultimately you'll lose the war. The British Empire is too fragmented, with too many pieces spread over too much of the planet for you to defend them all. As soon as one piece falls, others will follow.”

  “Not in my lifetime, Walsh,” Jack said. “Not as long as we have the Royal Navy to connect the pieces. The sea is our highway, not a barrier.”

  Jack stepped away, paused and lit a cheroot. “Tы далеко от святой россии – you are a long way from Holy Russia,” he said casually, using almost the only Russian phrase he knew.

  “Россия со мной всегда,” Walsh replied without thought. “Russia is with me always.”

  Jack moved away without another word. He had found out what he wished to know. He had suspected there was something not right about Walsh – now he knew the man was Russian.

  * * *

  “Russian? Are you certain?” It was the first time that Jack had seen Fraser look shaken.

  “I suspected something when I found he was friendly with Carmichael, the Russian agent who recruited for the Fenians. I knew he was false but when he was exhausted, he muttered in Russian.”

  “Does that mean the Russians are behind the entire Fenian movement?”

  “You can ask that when you question him.” Jack remembered Walsh's mention of the Hydra, the multi-headed monster of Greek mythology. “I don't think Mr Walsh is finished with us yet. I believe he has something else planned.”

  “You could be right,” Fraser said.

  “Have you had any luck with that code of Carmichael's yet? Cto Alpla?”

  Fraser gave a small shake of his head. “I passed Cto Alpla on to our experts with no success at all. Nobody has any idea what it may mean.” He looked up sharply. “I didn't know you spoke Russian.”

  Jack shook his head. “I know only a few words. I wonder if Sergeant Doherty could help. He was a Russian prisoner of war after Balaclava.”

  “Bring him,” Fraser ordered.

  Pleased to try to help, Doherty gazed at the scrap of paper for a long time but finally shook his head. “No, sir. I know some Russian, but not much. These words mean nothing to me. They look like gibberish.”

  “Maybe that's all they are.” Jack hid his disappointment. “Thank you, Doherty. Now it's back to you, Fraser. You'd better question Walsh.”

  “We'll send him back to Britain for that,” Fraser said. “He'll join the important Fenians prisoners the government is holding.” Standing up, he held out his hand. “Well, it was good working with you, Capta
in. With the capture of Walsh, your work here is done –you can cut along home now.”

  Jack nearly gasped with relief. “It was good working with you, too, Fraser, or whatever your name is.”

  “It's Fraser. My ancestor was Simon Fraser, whom the British government executed for treason.”

  “Oh? My father was a Windrush who bedded an Indian.” Jack wondered if he had said too much.

  They shook hands. “I've got a woman to pick up, then I'll find a passage to England, home and beauty.”

  “I've never been there,” Fraser said. “Maybe one day”

  * * *

  “What happened to your neck?”

  They sat in Helen's large room in the Queen's Hotel in Toronto, with the cheerful noise of traffic seeping in from the road below.

  “People have always said I'd live to be hanged,” Jack said. “They were nearly right.”

  Helen pulled down Jack's collar for a closer look. “It's a bit of a mess. You have a whole collection of scars, as I recall.” her eyes were bright with mischief. “I might wish to count them again some time.”

  “Mary wouldn't like that.” Jack did not mention that he had many more scars since Helen had last seen them.

  “That woman always spoils our fun,” Helen said. “What have you been doing, Jack Windrush?”

  “My duty,” Jack said.

  “You always put your duty first,” Helen said. “That's what put us apart last time, Jack. We'll have to ensure that we put ourselves before duty this time.”

  “There is no this time,” Jack said. “I'm taking you back to England and leaving you there.”

  “Oh, Jack, after everything we've been through!”

  Jack was never sure whether Helen was mocking him or being serious. “I'm going back to Mary. I strongly advise you to try to reconcile your differences with William.”

  “Helen pulled a face and mimicked him. “I strongly advise you to try to reconcile your differences with William. How formal, Jack. Surely you can be easy with me.”

  Jack looked away, trying to hide his emotions. Despite his love for Mary, Helen still managed to unsettle him. “Let's get back where we belong.”