Agent Of The Queen

by Malcolm Archibald

  Jack took in the situation without conscious thought. “Come on the 113th!” he shouted. Aiming quickly, he fired at the cigar-wielding Fenian. “Follow me!”

  “Windrush!” Throwing his glass at Jack, Walsh pulled a pistol from inside his jacket.

  Jack saw the cigar-wielding Fenian stagger backwards, then shifted his aim to Walsh. Most of the other men dashed for the door, getting in each other's way as they tried to escape the supposed attack by the 113th.

  The boom of Snodgrass's shotgun stopped the Fenians' flight. The blast caught one man squarely in the body, propelling him back into the room in a welter of blood and shredded flesh.

  “At them, the 113th!” Snodgrass shouted. “Fire at will!” The rapid crack-crack of his revolver added force to his words. Another Fenian fell, with the remainder either running back into the room or throwing themselves on to the floor.

  Walsh was the first to recover. “It's a trick! There are only two of them,” he shouted. “Kill them!” While some Fenians charged at Snodgrass, two lunged at Jack, swearing. He shot the first, sending him spinning across William on the table, quickly altered his aim and tried to fire at the second, cursing when the revolver jammed.

  “Damn and blast the thing!” Jack tried again, with the same result, and staggered as the Fenian grappled with him.

  “Kill him!” Walsh shouted.

  The Fenian grabbed Jack by the throat, with his fingers wrapping around the red marks the hangman's noose had left. Jack gasped, crashed the barrel of his revolver on the man's head and raked the muzzle down his face. When the Fenian yelled, loosening his grip, Jack rammed a knee into his groin. The Fenian gasped in agony and doubled up. Pushing him aside, Jack looked for Walsh.

  The Russian had hardly moved. He stood at the foot of the table with his pistol aimed at William, as calm as if he had been in a gentleman's club.

  “You can watch your brother die, Windrush,” Walsh said, “and then I'll kill you.”

  With his revolver jammed, and the table between him and Walsh, Jack could do nothing as Walsh straightened his arm.

  “No!” Bleeding from a gash on his face, Ensign Snodgrass pushed through the fleeing Fenians to enter the room. He fired at Walsh and missed.

  Turning at once, Walsh fired two rapid shots. The first missed but the second hit Snodgrass in the stomach, knocking him backwards. As Snodgrass crumpled with his face twisted in agony, Jack jumped on the table, trod on William and leapt on Walsh.

  The Russian slammed an elbow into Jack's face, fired a shot that missed and ran out of the open door. Jack looked around. Save for the dead and wounded, he and William were the only people in the room. Where did Carmichael go?

  “Cut me loose,” William shouted.

  Ignoring him, Jack crouched over Snodgrass. “You'll be all right,” he said. “It's not serious.”

  “It is,” Snodgrass said calmly. “I'm dying. I can feel it.” He writhed in a spasm of agony. “Jesus, that hurts. It's sore, Captain.”

  “You did well, Ensign,” Jack said. “You acted like the true British officer you are.”

  Snodgrass nodded, coughed bright blood and gasped. “Could you tell Father that I'm sorry?”

  “You can tell him yourself,” Jack said.

  “I'm dying, Jack,” Snodgrass said. “Please tell Father that I'm sorry.” His anguish was evident. “Please, Windrush?”

  “I'll tell him,” Jack said. “I'll also tell him that you died with honour and bravery, like the true British officer you are.”

  “But the court-martial,” Snodgrass said.

  “They'll rescind the judgment,” Jack said. “They'll reinstate your rank.”

  Snodgrass writhed again, coughing up blood, gasped in pain and died with his hands clutching at Jack's arm.

  “Poor little bugger,” Jack said. “You had so much promise and so much potential.”

  “Never mind him,” William said. “Cut me free, for God's sake before the blasted Fenians come back.”

  “They were Russians.” Lifting a knife from the belt of a dead Fenian, Jack sliced through William's bonds. “Get some clothes on, William and let's hunt them down.”

  Reloading his revolver, Jack left the room. Judging by the bodies, dead and wounded, in the corridor, Ensign Snodgrass had put up a good fight. Cursing that neither of the Russians was among the casualties, Jack ran along the corridor.

  If I were Walsh, what would I do? I would head for Ireland, where I have friends. Jack paused. Walsh would go to the stable for a horse. When he found the stable empty, he would run for the nearest town to hire a horse or a carriage.

  The pistol shot took Jack by surprise, with the bullet gouging a chunk of wood from the panelling at his shoulder. Ducking instinctively, he wheeled around, revolver in hand. A second shot tugged at the sleeve of his jacket, tearing the cloth without hitting him. This time he saw the muzzle-flare and the jet of powder smoke from a doorway a few yards along the corridor.

  “Don't run, Walsh! I'm coming for you.” Stepping carefully, Jack moved along the passage, weaving from side to side to disrupt Walsh's aim. He knew how difficult it was to snap-shoot with accuracy, but the closer he came to Walsh, the easier the target he would present.

  “Windrush!” The shout came from behind him. Jack jumped to the side as the revolver crashed out, with the bullet passing uncomfortably close. He saw Carmichael duck away, fired an instant too late and saw his bullet punch into the door frame.

  Mary will kill me for destroying her house, Jack told himself, and controlled his laugh, recognising it as the onset of hysteria. His nerves felt so stretched he wondered if they might break, leaving him a gibbering wreck. He had seen it happen after battle in the Crimea and India when strong men collapsed with nervous strain. Jack took a deep breath; I have a Russian in front and a Russian behind me. Which one is more dangerous?

  If I show myself, either of them can shoot me, but on the other hand, if they attempt to leave the room, I can shoot them. We are all equally trapped.

  “Windrush!” That was Walsh's voice. “You can surrender now.”

  “Surrender?” Jack forced a laugh. “You're stuck in England with your allies dead or imprisoned. The authorities know about you while the police and army are now hurrying to arrest you. You can give yourself up for a fair trial, or fight me and die like a soldier.”

  Walsh's laugh sounded genuine. “You have things inverted, Windrush. You're trapped in this house between two armed men. Your young ally is dead, you are a hunted fugitive, a cashiered officer and neither the police nor your army knows where you are.” He paused for a moment. “Furthermore, Windrush, we have your woman. Will you surrender? Or shall I kill her, slowly?”

  “What?” Jack shuddered at the thought of Mary in Walsh's hands. “I don't believe you.”

  Walsh laughed again. “That's your choice, Windrush. Wait!”

  Backing into a recessed doorway, Jack looked up and down the corridor. A woman's scream rang through the house, and then Walsh's voice sounded once more.

  “Do you want to hear her again?”

  Shaken, Jack gripped the butt of his revolver, fighting the desire to rush into the room where Walsh waited. He knew that would be suicide. “If you harm one hair of her head, I swear to God I'll make you suffer, Walsh.”

  “One hair of her head?” Walsh laughed and again, there was a prolonged woman's moan.

  “Do you recognise this, Windrush?” He threw something from the door of his room, not appearing long enough for Jack even to attempt a single shot.

  The length of black hair appeared to have been torn out by the roots. Stooping, Jack lifted the hair, pressed it to his nose and recognised the scent. He swore softly.

  “I'll kill you, Walsh, or whatever your name is.”

  “Throw down your pistol and come out, Windrush, if you value your woman.” Another scream followed Walsh's words, and then a woman's voice.

  “Don't you dare surrender, Jack Windrush! Fight!”

  The
next scream was more prolonged.

  When Jack started forward, Carmichael fired twice. The first shot lifted splinters from the wood panelling while the second nicked Jack's left thigh. He gasped, staggered and fell back into his doorway.

  “Are you still alive, Windrush?” Walsh taunted him. “So is this pretty little thing. Shall I make her less pretty?”

  As a professional soldier, Jack knew he should not allow frustration to overcome his caution. All the same, he lunged forward again, this time expecting Carmichael to fire. Falling to the floor, Jack crawled down the corridor, closer to Carmichael, and fired three shots the instant the Russian appeared.

  The first shot scored a lucky hit in Carmichael's arm. Gasping, he dropped his pistol, which skidded across the wooden floor, far out of Jack's reach. The second shot hit the panelling, and the third crashed into the door, slamming it against its stopper. It bounced back, cracked into the retreating Russian, sending him staggering into the corridor.

  Jack's fourth bullet caught Carmichael square in his handsome face, smashing his nose and exiting out the back of his head. Giving a prolonged gasp, the Russian collapsed backwards.

  Jack emptied his revolver into the Russian.

  “That's you dead, you bastard,” Jack gasped. Keeping low, he rolled into the shelter of the room, with powder smoke thick in the corridor and his injured leg stinging. Now I have Walsh to kill. He fished in his pocket for cartridges. There were none.

  “Good evening, Captain.”

  Jack looked up. Riordan sat on a wooden chair, with his Enfield rifle pointed directly at Jack's head.

  “Your gun's empty, captain, and at this range, I can't miss.” Riordan said. “I've been waiting to get you.”

  “I helped you escape,” Jack said.

  “You used me to infiltrate the Brotherhood,” Riordan said, “and now we have you.” He raised his voice. “I've got him, Walsh!”

  “His name's not Walsh,” Jack said. “He's not even Irish – he's a Russian using Ireland for his own ends.”

  “I don't care,” Riordan prodded Jack with the muzzle of his rifle.

  “Bring him here,” Walsh shouted. “He can meet his wife.”

  “You can die together,” Riordan gave a little smile. “How romantic. Turn around and walk out slowly.”

  With the muzzle of the Enfield pressing hard into his spine, Jack stepped over Carmichael's body and along the corridor. He contemplated sudden flight, but knew Riordan had been right; a trained veteran could not miss at that range.

  “Bring him in,” Walsh was waiting at the entrance to the room with his revolver pointed at Jack. “Now I have you both.”

  Riordan pushed Jack into the room. “Here's your husband, Mrs Windrush,” he said.

  “That's not my husband.” Helen was sitting on a chair, tied hand and foot with one eye bruised and her lips swollen.

  “You've got the wrong woman,” Jack said. “That's not my wife.”

  “I'd like the honour, though.” Helen lifted her chin with the spirit that had always characterised her. “Hello, Jack. I'm sorry, I can't greet you properly.”

  “That's all right, Helen,” Jack gave a little bow. “Circumstances seem against us at present.”

  Helen's smile seemed genuine. “We'll be together in death, Jack, although we could not be together in life.”

  Jack gave another little bow. He tried to think of something comforting to say, but the words did not come. “I never stopped liking you, Helen.”

  “I know,” Helen said. “I'm happy with that.”

  “Enough of this,” Riordan said. “Can I shoot him now, Walsh?”

  “Oh, ladies first.” Walsh pressed his revolver to the side of Helen's head.

  Lifting his chin, Jack held Walsh's gaze. “You're a brave man, Walsh, murdering an unarmed woman.”

  “See you on the other side, Jack,” Helen said.

  “Not yet, I think.” The voice came from the doorway.

  Jack started as Mary entered the room with a pistol in her right hand and a cheroot in her left. She fired once, sending Riordan staggering back as Walsh turned to face this new threat.

  Grabbing the Enfield as it fell, Jack swung it, catching Walsh on the arm. Unbalanced, Walsh fired, with the bullet smashing into the wall behind Mary, who fired again and missed, as Jack reversed the rifle and pressed the trigger. The bullet crashed into Walsh's chest, propelling him backwards into Helen, clattering both to the floor. Stepping over Helen, Jack smashed the rifle barrel against Walsh's head.

  “We want him alive,” he said.

  Standing in the doorway, Mary took a long pull at her cheroot and passed it over to Jack. “What about her?” She pointed at Helen with the muzzle of her revolver. “Is she going to cause trouble for our marriage? If so, I can end it now and say she died in the fighting.”

  “No.” Jack drew on the cheroot. He could feel himself beginning to shake as reaction set in. “She won't cause any trouble.”

  Mary did not lower the pistol. “If you do, Helen, I'll be ready for you.”

  Jack took the revolver from Mary. “There's no need for that. Where did you spring from?”

  “I was upstairs all the time,” Mary explained. “This is my home, after all. I had to wait until I could get a pistol.”

  Jack stared at her. “You're a cool one.” He imagined Mary listening to the alien voices in her house, planning her move. “What have I married?”

  “Me,” Mary said, with her eyes fixed on Helen.

  “Listen!” Jack said. “Can you hear that?” Stepping to the window, he looked outside. “Your husband is back, Helen, and he's brought help.”

  Half dressed, William sat astride a black horse, with a troop of cavalry behind him.

  Helen snorted. “I hoped the Fenians would kill him.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  LONDON, AUGUST 1866

  Smith peered at Jack, sighing. “Well, Windrush, you were moderately successful. You exposed the Russians and disposed of their men, but also revealed yourself as an agent.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jack agreed.

  “Naturally, that compromises your usefulness with us. Now that everybody knows what you've been up to, we can no longer send you on any similar expeditions.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jack felt no disappointment. “Did you find out Walsh's and Carmichael's real names?”

  Smith glanced at the open file on his desk. “Walsh is a Russian named Markovic. We captured him in London during the Crimean War, when he tried to blow up a Royal Naval ship. He joined the Fenians in jail and escaped from Dartmoor some years ago. We think imprisonment unhinged him because he still seemed to believe he was fighting the Crimean War.”

  “He was a victim of the late war, then,” Jack said.

  “Quite,” Smith said. “Carmichael wasn't even Russian. He is a Pole called Bajek. As far as we can ascertain, he worked for Russia because they hold his family hostage. The world is a wicked place, Windrush.”

  “Indeed, sir.”

  Smith closed the file on his desk. “Because I can no longer use your special talents, I have decided to return you to regimental duties. As it's no longer a secret you have been working in the secret service, I have advertised that fact, to negate the previous stories of your court-martial and restore your reputation as a British officer.”

  “Not all British officers will look kindly on my acting the spy,” Jack said.

  “That cannot be helped,” Smith said.

  “My brother?” Jack asked. “What happened to him? He must have lost prestige, with the Fenians capturing him during their raid on the Royal Malverns.”

  “Quite the contrary,” Smith said. “Major William Windrush could land in a cesspit and come out smelling of lavender. He's getting the credit for recapturing the escaped prisoners and fighting off the Fenians.”

  “The Fenians captured him,” Jack reminded Smith.

  “He resisted torture.” Smith gave a little smile. “Then he escaped and brough
t help. Your part will never be fully known. That's part of the price of being an agent of the queen, you see. You work in the shadows, while others get the glory.”

  Jack shook his head. “When I first joined the army, I was after glory. Now?” He shrugged. “Now I know it for a false mistress. There was nothing glorious about young Snodgrass dying before his life had properly begun or the slaughter on Inkerman Ridge.”

  When Smith looked up, there was no humour in his eyes. “Poor men join the army because they are hungry. Wealthy men join because of a sense of duty or hunger for glory. We need glory.”

  Jack nodded – he knew that Smith was had a point. “I'd prefer some advancement, sir. I have a wife and family to support.”

  “You should be thankful you're not in jail for treason, Windrush. After all, you did help Riordan to escape.”

  Jack nodded, knowing Smith was right.

  “There is one more thing.” Reaching into his top drawer, Smith produced a small bell. When he rang it, Helen walked in.

  “Good morning Jack.” Dressed modestly in a dark crinoline, Helen did not look like the woman who had shared Jack's adventures.

  Jack hid his surprise. “Good morning, Helen.” He stood up and Helen took his chair as if by right.

  “Mrs Windrush has been working with us,” Smith said quietly. “You may have guessed she was the woman in Berwick, laying her snares for Bajek and Markovic.”

  “You caused that riot in Berwick?” Jack asked.

  “It was fun,” Helen said. “I didn't expect to see you there, though.”

  “You led young Snodgrass astray and encouraged mutiny in my company.”

  “I knew you could deal with it.” Helen's smile did not falter. “It was a shame about Peter, though. He was a nice young boy.”

  Jack looked away. “Aye. Well, Helen, for the life of me, I cannot think of anybody more suitable for the position of a spy. What does William say?”