* * *
Liverpool was as grey and uncompromising as when Jack last saw it, with the docks filled with the usual assortment of the unsavoury, the hard-working, prosperous ship-owners, down-at-heel seamen, pimps, crimps and prostitutes. Even so, it was good to be back in England, despite the grey drizzle that soaked them on arrival and awakened the dull ache of the wound Jack had picked up in Burma 14 years earlier.
“Right now, Helen. I'm going to leave you here while I notify the police about Walsh.”
“And I'm coming with you.” Helen took hold of his arm.
“I haven't the time to argue,” Jack said. “If you're with me you'd better keep up, although you should contact your husband and see if he'll take you back.”
“I don't want William,” Helen said. “I want you.” She looked sidelong at Jack. “Maybe you'd better ask yourself if Mary will have you back after you've spent so much time alone with me.”
“Don't try to sow discord now.” Jack did not admit that the thought worried him. As soon as he had warned the police about Walsh, he scribbled two letters to Mary, sending one to Netherhills and the other to their house in Berwick-upon-Tweed. Jack pushed that concern away. He had to concentrate on his duty.
* * *
“Glen Moray is due in on this tide,” the harbourmaster said.
“Good,” Inspector Rafferty of the Liverpool Dock Police said. He nodded to the squad of grim-faced detectives among the uniformed police. “My men are ready for this Russian fellow. Captain Windrush, I'll need you with me to identify him.”
“He's a dangerous man.” Jack ensured his revolver was fully loaded and ready for use in case Walsh tried to resist. “There might be somebody to greet him. Fenians or the like.”
“We're ready for whatever happens,” Rafferty said. “Don't you worry, Captain.”
“I'm sure you have things organised, Inspector.” Helen stood at Jack's side, smiling.
“You'd best stay out of the way, Mrs Windrush,” Rafferty advised. “It might get hectic here.”
“I shall,” Helen promised.
“I'll be happier when Walsh is back in custody,” Jack admitted. “Here's somebody coming now, Inspector.” He waited for the approaching constable's report.
“Glen Moray is entering the Mersey wearing a distress flag,” The constable said calmly.
“This way, Windrush.” Rafferty sounded equally calm. “We have the police launch ready for just such an emergency.”
“You stay on land, Helen,” Jack ordered as he boarded the steam launch behind Rafferty, with half a dozen uniformed men and two detectives following. The crew took her out quickly, coming alongside Glen Moray within 15 minutes of getting the message.
The captain greeted them. “Murder,” he said at once. “One of my crew has been murdered.”
Jack looked along the length of the ship's deck, where a dozen passengers congregated. He did not recognise any of the faces. “Have you checked your passengers?”
“I have,” the captain confirmed. “One man is missing, a Robert Emmet.”
“That's our man,” Rafferty said at once. “The real Robert Emmet led the 1803 rising in Ireland. Our Mr Walsh is using a false name. Search the ship, lads,” Rafferty ordered. “Heave to, captain. I don't want Glen Moray to dock until we locate the missing man.”
“That won't do, Inspector.” Jack felt infinitely weary. “You won't find him. I'll put 100 sovereigns to a false sixpence that our Mr Walsh is long gone.”
“We've been at sea,” the captain said. “He'd have had to jump overboard.”
“Then that's what he's done,” Jack said. “He'll either have swum for land, or he'll have a prior arrangement with some small boat to pick him up and bring him ashore. Your murderer is off the ship.”
“I'll still search the ship and question the passengers,” Rafferty said. “I might find something of interest.”
“You might,” Jack conceded. “Take me to this fellow Emmet's cabin.”
The tiny cubicle that Walsh had occupied was stark. The single bed was neatly made up, the bookshelf empty and the bulkheads bare of decoration of any kind. Rafferty found the single sheet of paper pinned to the underside of the bed. “See you later, Windrush,” he read. “Walsh must have known you would search the ship for him.”
“Aye,” Jack said. “He's a clever man, and a dangerous one. I'll have to get ashore now, inspector.”
“If he's already ashore,” Rafferty said, “he'll be hiding out somewhere along Scotland Road. That's where the criminal classes congregate.”
“He's not in Liverpool,” Jack said. “I think he's heading south to Hereford.”
“Hereford? That's a queer destination,” Rafferty said. “It's a bit of a backwater, isn't it?”
“He's heading for the barracks.” Jack was suddenly desperate to get ashore.
Rafferty raised his eyebrows. “No need to rush, then, Captain. I'll telegraph the local police, and they'll warn the garrison. The soldier boys will take care of him. Which regiment is it?”
“The Royal Malverns,” Jack replied. “Take me ashore.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
HEREFORD, ENGLAND, JULY 1866
Hereford bustled with activity as Jack pushed his horse through the accumulation of farmers' carts, coaches and pedestrians. Thinly sprinkled among the civilians, the scarlet tunics of soldiers showed the continuing presence of the Royal Malverns. Ignoring everybody, Jack rode to the barracks, where a solemn-faced sentry stepped across to deny him entry.
“Halt!” the sentry was young and nervous, evidently a recruit. “Where are you going?” He levelled his rifle.
“Well done, Private,” Jack said. “I am Captain Jack Windrush with an urgent message for Colonel Ledbury.”
The sentry blinked, looking confused. His training had not included this type of situation.
“It might be best if you called for your sergeant,” Jack suggested. “My mission is rather urgent.”
The sergeant marched up at the double, sent the sentry back to his post and stood to attention. “Excuse me for asking, sir, but are you related to our Major Windrush?”
“Vaguely,” Jack admitted. “Could you take me to Colonel Ledbury?”
“The colonel is not here at present, sir,” the sergeant said. “Major Windrush is in command. Shall I take you to him, sir?”
Jack swore silently. His half-brother was the last person he wished to meet. “Yes, Sergeant.”
Major William Windrush leaned back in the colonel's chair and surveyed Jack for a long 30 seconds. The Victoria Cross he had gained in the Crimea hung at his breast, proclaiming his heroism to the world. He bit the end from a cheroot, scratched a lucifer to light it and blew the smoke towards Jack. “I heard you further disgraced the Windrush name, Jack. Cashiered for helping a Fenian, for God's sake, and I thought you could not stoop any lower.”
Ignoring the barbs, Jack leaned across the desk. “Your regiment is in danger, William.”
“You call me sir.” William Windrush stood up. “And I won't listen to your lies. I'm putting you in the guardroom where you belong.”
“This goes beyond personal dislike, William,” Jack said. “The Royal Malverns, your regiment, your responsibility, is in danger.”
William shook his head. “This is England, Captain, not some primitive outpost of Empire. The Royals are in no danger here.” He snorted. “Why, man, we have half a dozen Fenians held securely in our cells and not a whisper out of any of them!”
“I assure you, sir,” Jack began, nearly choking on the term of respect, “there is a Russian agent loose in England, acting with the Fenians, and he intends to attack the Royals.”
William was silent for another long minute. “A Russian working with the Fenians! Really, Captain, that's too rich, even for you. The Fenians are a bunch of illiterate dreamers without any idea what they are doing. Working with the Russians indeed! What nonsense! I can't think of any reason why I should listen to the ramblings of a
half-caste traitor married to a nigger. Sergeant!”
Until that point, Jack had managed to control his temper, but William's insult to Mary tipped him over the edge. Lunging forward, he took William by the throat, just as the sergeant entered the room.
“Sir!” The sergeant saw a man in civilian clothes holding the commanding officer of his regiment by the throat and reacted accordingly. Grabbing Jack by the head, he hauled him backwards.
“Enough of that, you!”
Dragged away, Jack lost his balance and fell to the floor, where the sergeant, vastly experienced in quelling unruly soldiers, landed a couple of hefty kicks before applying an arm-lock. “What shall I do with this fellow, sir?”
William nursed his throat for a moment before replying. “Throw him in a cell, Sergeant, and don't be too gentle about it. This man is a cashiered officer and a traitor.” Stepping closer to Jack, William punched him hard in the stomach. “You'll be in good company in our cells – we seem to be collecting disgraced officers from the regiment you once tainted. Take him away, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.” Twisting Jack's arm painfully behind his back, the sergeant pushed him out of the office. “Guard!”
Four privates hurried up, their bayonets glittering in the light of hanging lanterns.
“This man is a traitor,” the sergeant said, “and he attacked Major Windrush.”
“Yes, sergeant,” one of the privates levelled his bayonet at Jack. “Do you want me to stick him, sir?”
“Not yet, Bryant. Maybe later.”
“Yes, sir.” Bryant sounded disappointed.
“Your regiment is under threat, lads!” Jack shouted. “The Fenians are planning to attack you.”
“Take that man away, Sergeant,” William ordered, emerging from his office, “and do something about the noise he's making, for God's sake.”
“Yes, sir! Come on, you!” Grabbing hold of Jack once more, the sergeant stuffed a handkerchief in his mouth and fastened it around the back of his head, ensuring the knot was tight. “Double!”
With Bryant adding encouragement with jabs from his bayonet, the sergeant marched Jack to makeshift cells below ground. “In you go with your friend.”
Opening the door, the sergeant pushed Jack inside, while Bryant added colourful threats.
“Bloody Fenian-loving bastard! I hope they hang you!”
Falling on his face, Jack rolled on to his back as the cell door banged shut, leaving him in complete darkness. He lay there for a moment, gathering his wits. This is the second time the army has thrown me in a cell. I hope it's the last.
After a few moments, Jack rose to his feet, aware that he was not alone.
“Welcome to the hospitality of the Royal Malverns.” The voice was soft and familiar.
Jack unfastened his gag. “Ensign Snodgrass? What the devil are you doing here?”
“The same as you, sir, by the looks of it.”
As Jack's eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he realised that faint light was seeping into the cell from a grilled opening far above their heads. Snodgrass was sitting on a plain plank bed with the wall supporting his back.
“It's good to see you again, sir, despite the unfortunate circumstances.” Snodgrass's face was heavily bruised, with his left eye nearly closed, while his uniform was torn and dirty.
“Have they been mistreating you, Ensign?”
“No worse than expected, sir,” Ensign Snodgrass said. “I did act the traitor.” He sounded resigned to his present state.
“What sentence did the court-martial give you?”
“They cashiered me, sir, plus 10 years' penal servitude.” Ensign Snodgrass gave a twisted grin. “The president of the court said they were treating me leniently because of my youth.”
Jack sighed. Ten years of the living hell they called penal servitude was anything but lenient. While locked away in solitary confinement, Ensign Snodgrass's guilt would eat at his thoughts, as was the intention. If he survived, he would emerge with his physical health permanently damaged and his mind broken.
“My advice is to do exactly as the wardens say, ensign, but don't dwell on what's happened. You cannot alter the past. All you can do is think what your life will be like when you're free again.”
“Free again?” There was a new cynicism in Ensign Snodgrass's voice. “I'll never be free again, sir. I might survive the jail, but all my life I'll know I betrayed my country and besmirched my honour.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “And I let my father down.”
“Try to put that behind you, Ensign,” Jack said. “Yes, you made mistakes, but you are young. We all make mistakes that we regret. God knows I've made plenty!”
“You never betrayed your country over a woman, sir!”
“You have your whole life to make amends for what you did, Peter.” Jack tried to ease Ensign Snodgrass's despair. “Some time, you will have an opportunity to salve your conscience. I know you will.” Jack slid to the cold stone floor and immersed himself in his thoughts. The army must be keeping keep its Fenian prisoners in Hereford before sending them to Dartmoor or some other secure prison. That would make the barracks a prime target; no wonder the Fenians intended to strike here.
“Why are you here, sir?”
Jack felt himself smile. “That's a long story, Peter. Suffice to say that I am also a cashiered traitor, according to the army. Now let's make the best of things while we can.”
“There's not much to make the best of, sir.”
“You have your youth, Peter. That's more than many people have.”
There was silence for a while, broken by Snodgrass's intermittent sobbing. Jack left him, knowing he could not help. Honour was the most precious commodity for an officer, more precious than life.
“I wish they had shot me, sir,” Snodgrass said, after a long pause.
“No, Peter. If you are alive, you could have a chance to redeem yourself.”
“In jail, sir?” Snodgrass sounded desperate. “How can I do anything if I'm locked up?”
Jack felt the thump before he heard the sound. “That was an explosion,” he said.
“Was it, sir?” Ensign Snodgrass asked without interest.
“Yes, it was.” Jack got to his feet. “By God, the Fenians are attacking the barracks already!” Walsh must have moved fast. He raised his voice. “Guards! Let us out! We can help!”
Another explosion shook the building, bringing down a trickle of dust and plaster from the ceiling. Ensign Snodgrass lay still as Jack hammered on the door.
“Guards! Let us out!”
When nobody responded, Jack kicked the door in frustration. “I can help! I know these people.”
A third explosion sounded, louder than the previous two, and more dry plaster descended from the ceiling, accompanied by a few small stones. “If this carries on there won't be anything left of the cells,” Jack said. “We'll be able to walk out over the rubble.”
“Walk where?” Ensign Snodgrass said. “We're both condemned men.”
“None of that!” Jack snapped. “You're a British officer! Act like one.”
“They cashiered me,” Ensign Snodgrass said. “I'm nothing.”
“Then make yourself something.” Jack kicked the door again. “Let us out!” He was surprised when a key turned in the lock.
A round-faced man in civilian clothes peered into the cell. “Identify yourselves!”
“Captain Jack Windrush and Ensign Snodgrass,” Jack said at once. “Who are you?”
“Are you the British officers jailed for aiding our cause?”
This man's a Fenian. Jack thought quickly. “Yes, that's us. Captain Windrush and Ensign Snodgrass, both bound for Dartmoor.” He shook his head to stop Ensign Snodgrass from speaking.
“Out you come, then; we're breaking the boys free.” The round-faced man was genial as he moved to the next cell with the same question. “Identify yourselves!”
That must have been the plan, Jack thought. He had guessed wrongly – rather t
han an attack on the Royal Malverns, the Fenians intended to free the prisoners.
“We're with you,” Jack shouted, dragging Ensign Snodgrass with him. “Up the Irish Republic!”
“I'm no Fe…” Snodgrass began until Jack clapped a hand over his mouth.
“Shut up, you fool!” Jack snapped. Holding the ensign close, Jack dragged him out of the cell. A dozen armed civilians surrounded them, some shouting Fenian slogans as they crashed open the remaining cells to release the prisoners.
“Come out, boys! Up the Irish Republic!”
Ensign Snodgrass struggled as Jack pushed him away from the Fenians. “Stay with me,” Jack hissed. “Let's find the leader of this raid.”
Hereford Barracks were in confusion, with parties of the Royal Malverns running around, some fully dressed, others only in their shirts or wearing trousers and a tunic. Jack heard another explosion and saw a sergeant leading a section of men in the direction of the noise.
“They're bombing the barracks,” Ensign Snodgrass said.
“So it seems.” Jack could see no casualties, nor hear the cries of wounded men. “Let's find a weapon.”
A young private ran past, clutching a rifle. “We've got to beat them,” he muttered, “we've got to beat them!”
“That man!” Jack pointed to him. “Halt!”
The young soldier stopped, staring at Jack in evident confusion. “Who are you?”
“Captain Windrush,” Jack said. “Lend me your rifle and whatever ammunition you have.”
“You're not in uniform,” the private pulled back. “How do I know you're an officer?”
Jack conceded the private had a valid point. Drawing himself erect, he adopted his most imperious tone and glared down at the boy. “Look at me!”
The private looked up at Jack. “Yes, sir.” He handed over his rifle.
“Thank you,” Jack said. “Now find your sergeant and tell him the Fenians are releasing the prisoners. Tell him that Captain Windrush says to bring as many men as he can find to the cells and shoot any Fenians. Have you got that?”
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