Agent Of The Queen

by Malcolm Archibald

  “Yes, sir.” Sweat coursed down the youngster's face at the responsibility Jack was handing him. “I've to find Sergeant Fletcher and tell him to bring men to the cells because the Fenians are freeing the prisoners.”

  “That's right. Off you go, lad.”

  “What happens now, sir?” Imprisonment and despair had robbed Snodgrass of his initiative.

  Holding his rifle, Jack nodded to the cells. “Now we go back, Ensign, and do our duty.”

  “Sir! We're no longer officers.”

  Jack checked and loaded the rifle. It was an 1860 pattern two-band Enfield. Trust the Royal Malverns to have the best weapons. “We are by inclination and training, Peter.”

  “The bombs, sir. Should we not help there?”

  “No.” Jack shook his head. “The explosions are a diversion from the prisoners. Whoever planned this attack knew what he was doing.” That would be Walsh, Jack thought.

  Ignoring the various groups of confused soldiers, Jack headed back to the cells. Flame licked skyward to his left, either the result of an explosion or a further refinement to the Fenians' diversionary tactics. Jack was not sure. Pushing Snodgrass behind him, Jack watched an armed civilian emerge from the cell-block. Without shouting a warning, Jack aimed and fired.

  The man spun around, roaring. Reloading quickly, Jack fired again, seeing his target stagger against the wall of the building.

  “One down.” Jack reloaded.

  “What's happening, sir?” The NCO was steady-eyed with neat whiskers.

  “Sergeant Fletcher?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I am Captain Windrush, and this is Ensign Snodgrass.”

  “Are you not prisoners, sir?” Fletcher held his rifle with professional skill.

  “We're British officers taking charge of the situation,” Jack said. “We can discuss the details later.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but are you related to Fighting Jack Windrush?”

  “This is Fighting Jack Windrush,” Snodgrass said, giving the first indication of returning confidence.

  Fletcher's grin was visible even in the dark. “What do you want us to do, sir?”

  “Follow me in, Sergeant, and shoot anybody carrying a weapon, unless he's a British soldier.”

  “Yes, sir.” Fletcher passed on the command to the men at his back.

  “And watch for a tall, thin fellow with a scar on his forehead. He's dangerous, he's Russian, and I want him kept alive if possible.”

  “Russian, sir?”

  “I'm not sure of the connection, sergeant. Were you in the Crimea?”

  Fletcher nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Then you'll know how dangerous the Russians can be.”

  “I do, sir.” Again, Fletcher passed the information on to his men. Jack spared them a glance. They looked an intelligent bunch compared to the average British soldier – an elite regiment such as the Malverns could pick and choose their recruits. Even so, Jack still wished he had his old command from the days of the Indian Mutiny. With Logan, Riley and Thorpe, he knew he could do anything.

  “Follow me, men.” Holding his rifle ready, Jack stepped towards the stairs.

  The Fenians fired first, charging up from the cells and erupting into the barracks. The first volley blew the head off a private.

  “Fire!” Fletcher shouted. “Blast the bastards to hell, lads!”

  The exchange of fire was intense but short. Not expecting to meet any resistance, the Fenians fired only a few shots before they scattered, with some running towards the barrack gate while the majority retreated hurriedly back to the cells.

  “Is there another entrance to the cells, sergeant?” Jack asked.

  “No, sir,” Fletcher replied as he reloaded his rifle. “They are just adapted storerooms with one entrance.”

  Jack glanced over his shoulder, where the escapees were nearing the gates. “Keep them confined, sergeant, until another officer arrives to take command. If any Fenian shows his face, shoot him flat.”

  “Yes, sir,” Fletcher said. “Where are you going, sir?”

  “I'm going after the ones that got away,” Jack said. “I'll be back.”

  “Yes, sir.” Fletcher hesitated for a moment. “It was a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  “You too, Fletcher.” Jack nudged Snodgrass. “Come on, Ensign. I'll wager that our Russian fellow is among that lot there.”

  “They've got the major!” Jack heard the shout before a flare of firelight revealed a tall figure struggling amid the fugitives at the barrack gate.

  “That's William,” Jack said. “That's Major Windrush.” For one betraying moment, he wondered if he should leave his half-brother to whatever fate the Fenians and their Russian allies intended, but he knew he would not. It was always his duty to help a fellow British officer.

  “Come on, Snodgrass!”

  Jack heard a burst of firing behind him as he raced towards William. Although he shouted for support, there was so much noise that he did not expect anybody to hear.

  “Come on, Snodgrass!” Jack ran to the main gate with the fugitives a good 50 yards in front. Riordan was one of the two who frog-marched William, with another in front and two in the rear.

  “Somebody's planned this,” Jack said. “These men intended to free the Fenian prisoners and grab William, Ensign Snodgrass.”

  The barrack gate leaned open, with the sentry lying in a crumpled heap as the fugitives dashed outside, where three dark broughams waited. The coach drivers huddled into concealing coats, with low-crowned hats pulled well down over their faces.

  “Damn them! They've planned this well,” Jack said. Increasing his speed, he grabbed at the nearest brougham just as the last of the fugitives dived in. For one moment, Jack stared straight into the man's face.

  “I know you,” he said, and then the fugitive slammed shut the door, and the coach driver cracked the reins across the rump of his horse. The brougham lurched into motion, dragging Jack with it. “Stop!” He held on with his left hand, with his right still gripping the Enfield. When the driver lashed backwards, the tip of his whip caught Jack's fingers, forcing him to release his hold. Jack staggered, ran a few awkward steps and stumbled to a halt, watching the broughams rumble into the night-dark streets.

  That was Walter Carmichael. We must have held him prisoner here.

  “Will we follow them?” Ensign Snodgrass asked.

  “They're faster than we are,” Jack said. “We'll need horses.” He thought rapidly. “You chase after the broughams to see in which direction they take; I'll find a couple of horses.” He pushed Snodgrass as he hesitated. “Go!”

  With the barracks in confusion, Jack found it easy to open the stable that held the officers' horses. Choosing two of the best, he hastily saddled them, grabbed a couple of revolvers from the unattended armoury and left, cursing the time the operation had taken. Harold Street was busy with people hurrying to see what all the noise was, but Jack pushed through, leading the second empty horse.

  “Snodgrass!” He shouted above the roar of the crowd.

  “Sir!” Sensibly, Snodgrass had climbed high on a building on the corner of Harold and Green Streets. He waved to Jack. “Over here!”

  “Which way did they go?”

  “Northward, sir.” Snodgrass mounted the horse with ease. “They were moving fast.”

  “Lead on,” Jack ordered.

  With the burning barracks lighting up the southern sky, Jack and Snodgrass trotted through Hereford and into the countryside, listening for the sound of the broughams' wheels as they peered into the fading dark.

  “We've lost them,” Snodgrass said.

  “Not yet.” Jack did not accept defeat so easily. “Look for somebody to ask. Country people notice anything out of the ordinary.”

  The ploughman was already at work, guiding his horse over the fertile soil. He looked up when Jack hailed him.

  “We're looking for three coaches,” Jack said.

  “I saw coaches, but I
don't know how many there were,” the ploughman said in a rich, unhurried, Herefordshire accent.

  “More than one?” Jack asked.

  The ploughman considered the question for a long 10 seconds. “Oh, yes. There were more than one.”

  “That will be them.” Despite his impatience, Jack knew there was no point in trying to hurry this man. “Did you see which direction they took?”

  “Yes.” The ploughman was about 30, with steady brown eyes. “They took the Worcester Road.” He waited a moment to contemplate the sunrise. “Then they left the highway for that side road there.” The ploughman nodded. “They'll get lost unless they're from Herefordshire.”

  “Thank you.” Lifting his hand in acknowledgement, Jack kicked in his heels, with Snodgrass a horse-length behind. The side roads in this part of Herefordshire were narrow, winding between high hedges that frustratingly restricted visibility. Guessing his route in a multiplicity of lanes, Jack knew he would be lucky to see anything. After half an hour, Jack knew he had lost the broughams.

  “Stop here.” Jack reined his horse in beside a tall elm. “Climb up there, Snodgrass and look for the coaches.”

  “Yes, sir.” Snodgrass clambered up faster than Jack expected. “I can't see anything, sir.”

  Jack swore. “Climb higher! Look for the glint of the sun on the coach roof.”

  “Yes, sir.” Snodgrass pulled himself up a further few feet. “I think I might see them, sir!”

  “I'm coming.” Older and more cautious, Jack hauled himself on to the bough that Snodgrass occupied.

  To the north, the long ridge of the Malvern Hills rose like an old friend while, to the east, Jack could see the convoy, three dark vehicles against a silver-grey dawn, with patches of mist clinging to the bodywork.

  “They took a different route from us, damn them,” Jack said.

  “We can catch them!” Snodgrass said.

  “No. Follow at a distance. I want to see where they're heading.” Jack passed over one of the revolvers he had picked up. “You might need this.”

  “Thank you.” Snodgrass thrust the revolver through the waistband of his trousers.

  Stopping every few minutes to check on the coaches, Jack and Snodgrass followed the side roads in a manner that would be bewildering to anybody not familiar with the Herefordshire countryside. Jack pushed closer, but far enough in the rear to be out of sight as he watched the broughams rock and lurch over the ruts.

  “Where are they headed?” Jack murmured to himself as the broughams took the road leading to the Malvern Hills. “There's nothing in Malvern except spa hotels.”

  As the sun burned away the early morning patches of mist, Jack realised the coaches' route would take them to the west of Malvern and towards the southern hills of the Malvern range. Where the devil are you going, Walsh? he thought. That's disturbingly close to Netherhills.

  When the convoy stopped at the end of a cart track, the passengers jumped out. Carmichael led the five Fenians up the track, pushing William before them as the broughams rolled away. Riordan acted as rearguard, with an Enfield rifle comfortable in his hands.

  “What do we do?” Snodgrass asked. “Who do we follow? The coaches or the escapees?”

  “We follow the fugitives,” Jack said. “The carriages are unimportant – they're only for transport.”

  After Jack's experiences on the North-West Frontier, following half a dozen men across familiar English countryside was simple. “Stay behind me,” he whispered to Snodgrass, “and if I tell you to do something, obey immediately.”

  “Yes, sir,” Snodgrass stiffened to attention.

  “And for God's sake don't get all regimental with me,” Jack said.

  “Sir, I'm not an officer!”

  “Shut up and follow orders!” Jack tried to shock Snodgrass to his duty.

  They're heading for Netherhills. Thank God that Mary is safe up in Berwick.

  The fugitives kept to the shelter of the hedgerows, with Riordan occasionally turning to look behind him, rifle at the ready. As Jack had thought, they entered the grounds of Netherhills House.

  Netherhills must be their English headquarters, Jack told himself. And why not? Isolated and empty, yet not far from Worcester with its connections to London and Liverpool.

  “Wait.” Jack put a hand on Snodgrass's shoulder. “We'll have to watch them first and see how many there are. I wish we had some means of getting help.”

  “I saw six, sir,” Snodgrass volunteered helpfully.

  “There might be more inside,” Jack pointed out.

  The fugitives slid into the main house by a side door, with Riordan lingering to check behind him before joining the others.

  “This way.” Jack ran across the still-unkempt grass to the house. “There's a window that doesn't shut properly.”

  “How do you know that, sir?”

  “This is my house.” Jack eased inside the house, wincing as Snodgrass's boots thumped on to the wooden floorboards. “Try to keep quiet, Snodgrass! We don't have to announce our presence to the Fenians.”

  Moving quickly through the dim rooms, Jack recalled the mess left by the men he had suspected to be poachers. Now he realised that had been the Fenians using his Netherhills as their base. I should have known! How could I be so stupid?

  Jack heard rough laughter from ahead, with the snatch of a Fenian song. “They must believe themselves very safe here,” he murmured to Snodgrass.

  “Yes, sir,” Snodgrass said. “Where are they, sir?”

  Jack pointed along a short corridor with four deeply inset doors. “I think they're in that room at the end.”

  “We can surprise them,” Snodgrass lifted his revolver. “We can kill them all.”

  “You bloodthirsty little devil,” Jack said. “That's the spirit!”

  Snodgrass shook his head. “If it weren't for them, I'd still be an officer. I hate them more than anything.”

  “We might not get your commission back,” Jack said, “but we can retrieve your honour.”

  “I want to kill them.”

  “I want the Russian, Carmichael, alive,” Jack said. “I want to find out their connection to the Fenian Brotherhood and if he can lead us to Walsh.” He glanced at Snodgrass. “We need more firepower than a couple of revolvers. You stay on watch here.”

  Although Jack had not spent sufficient time in Netherhills for the house to feel like home, the corridors and rooms were familiar as he hurried to the gun room. On his previous visit, he had left a shotgun for rabbits and carrion crows and a fowling-piece for any interesting game. Loading both, he grabbed a handful of cartridges for each and returned to Snodgrass.

  “Is anything happening?”

  Snodgrass was visibly shaking. “They sang for a while, sir, and then they began to talk. I couldn't make out what they were saying.”

  “You wait here,” Jack positioned Snodgrass in a recessed doorway with a field of fire the length of a corridor. “I'm going to go outside and burst through their window like the Sikhs attacking the Kaiserbagh. Hopefully, they'll think I am a whole company of men, and they'll run out that door to escape.”

  Snodgrass nodded. “Right, sir. What do you want me to do?”

  “You are Campbell's Highlanders at Balaclava. You hold the line, whatever comes out. Make so much noise the enemy think there are scores of Ensign Snodgrasses, all attacking them. Shoot the enemy flat, Snodgrass.”

  “You wanted prisoners, sir.”

  “Only one.” Jack handed Snodgrass the shotgun and a handful of cartridges. “Have you fired one of these before?”

  “Yes, sir. I used to shoot on my Uncle Bob's estate in Leicestershire.”

  “Good man. Do you remember the tall, handsome fellow the Fenians hustled out of the gate?”

  “Yes, sir. I think so.”

  “That's the Russian who calls himself Carmichael. Try not to kill him, but don't worry if you do. Blast the rest to kingdom come.”

  “Yes, sir.” Snodgrass checked the
shotgun was loaded. “What about your brother, Major Windrush, sir?”

  Jack considered for a moment. “He's a soldier. He has to take his chances like the rest of us.” Anyway, it will be better for William to be killed in action than to live as a prisoner of the Fenians.

  “I won't let you down, sir.”

  “I know you won't, Ensign Snodgrass.” Jack said. “Now do your duty.”

  Slipping outside by a side door, Jack circled to the window of the Fenians' room. The shutters were open but the Fenians had drawn the curtains, enabling Jack to creep up unobserved. With his revolver ready in his belt and the fowling-piece to hand, Jack eased up the window. The murmur of conversation inside the room blanketed the resulting creak as Jack heard the clink of glasses and a long moan, followed by somebody laughing. Waiting for a moment, Jack rolled through the now-open window and crouched behind the curtain, rifle in hand.

  “I wanted Colonel Ledbury!” That was Walsh's voice, as authoritarian as ever, “not some underling.”

  So you're here too, Walsh, Jack felt a surge of satisfaction. Whatever else happens, you're dead or captured before this day ends.

  “The colonel wasn't there. This officer was in command,” somebody answered, the accent from Connaught.

  “He's only a major!” Walsh said. “A man of no rank or importance. The British won't care about him.”

  Another voice intervened, laced with pain. “I am Major William Windrush! My name is well known.”

  Jack could feel the sudden tension in the room. “Windrush?” Walsh spoke again, his tones smoothly persuasive. “Are you related to my good friend Captain Jack Windrush?”

  “He's my brother,” William said desperately.

  “In that case, we'll kill you slowly, major, and send your head to decorate your officers' mess, minus your eyes, ears, tongue and nose.” Jack had heard enough. “Come on the 113th!” He roared, “follow me!” Shoving aside the curtains, he fired his fowling-piece into the mass of startled occupants, dropped it and drew his pistol.

  Jack did not count the men in the room. He saw William, spread-eagled naked on an oval table, tied wrist and ankle. Around William was a circle of faces, some familiar, others that Jack did not recognise. Walsh sat at the foot of the table, holding a brandy glass with a nervous-looking Carmichael at his side, while Riordan leaned against the door, nursing his rifle. The others must have been the local Fenians, one of whom had a lit cigar in his hand; Jack saw several burns on William's chest and guessed the Fenian had been torturing him.