'Yes, sir,' Jack nodded again. He waited to hear why the Colonel was telling him all this. He watched as the beetle balanced precariously on the edge of the gin tumbler.
'And you are wondering what all this has to do with you,' Murphy echoed Jack's thoughts. His eyes, hazed with drink only a few moments previously, were now sharp. 'Well, Mr Windrush, His Excellency Lord Dalhousie in his wisdom sent HMS Hermes, Captain Fishbourne, an interpreter called Captain Latter and Uncle Tom Cobley and all to sort the matter out.' He shook his head, 'all that for a king who calls himself the Brother of the Sun and the Moon.'
'Yes, sir.' Jack wondered anew where this conversation was leading.
'Dalhousie may have thought the Burmese would bow before the presence of the Royal Navy, but Captain Fishbourne found otherwise. There was more trouble and more insults, as one would expect of a savage race that believes it is superior.' Murphy put the gin bottle away in the desk drawer. 'Don't look so wearied, Windrush, there is a point to all this. I have not called you here purely to give you a lesson in politics.'
Jack hoped that his boredom had not been too evident.
'To cut a long story short,' Murphy said, 'Fishbourne acted with a high hand, as one would expect from the Royal Navy. He used his bluejackets to board and seize one of the Burmese king's ships.' Murphy's smile was unexpected, 'so that set the ball rolling. Fishbourne emptied Rangoon of everybody who was in danger from the Lord of the Golden Foot and his minions and brought them to Moulmein. And there we have it. We are now at war with the Empire of Burma; the navy, the army, the Honourable East India Company, you, me and the 113th Foot.' Murphy's smile faded as he leaned closer to Jack.
'That is not official yet of course, but it is a fact. I think Fishbourne wanted to burn Rangoon down there and then but his men were sailors on land, ducks out of water. We are soldiers and,' the smile dropped completely, 'we are the 113th, Windrush, the Baby Butchers, the pariahs of the British Army and we have to prove ourselves.'
For the first time, Jack felt the injured pride beneath Murphy's exterior. 'Yes, sir. I wish our regiment to be regarded as the equal to any in the army.'
Murphy's eyes were level. 'That will be a hard task, Windrush, a hard task to win back lost honour.' He stared at Jack as if working something out. 'I know your father. He is a good man, but a Royal Malvern through and through.'
The change of tack took Jack by surprise. 'I did not know you knew him, sir.'
'What did you do to anger him?' The question was brief and straight to the point.
'He's dead,' Jack was equally blunt.
Murphy re-filled his glass. 'All soldiers die.' Jack was pleased that he did not pursue the question. 'Very well, Windrush; you will want to redeem yourself from whatever misdemeanour you naturally do not wish to discuss, and I wish to raise the reputation of my regiment.' He scowled, 'Baby Butchers by God; I'll show them Baby Butchers!' The colonel looked directly into Jack's eyes. 'You see me as a drunken old wretch, Windrush, but I see you as hope for the 113th.'
Jack raised his eyebrows. He was not sure what to say. Murphy continued.
'Tell me, Windrush, who do we remember when we think of the Buffs at Albuera? Is it the Colonel of the regiment? No, it is young Ensign Thomas, who wrapped the Colours around his breast to save them from the French.'
Jack nodded. 'Yes, sir.'
'And take Chillianwalla when our regiment ran like stricken rabbits, there was one ensign of the 24th, a boy no older than you, Windrush, who took the Colours from the staff and wrapped them around his body so the Sikhs could not capture them.'
'Yes, sir,' Jack said again.
'There are others,' Murphy half stood at his desk, possibly in honour of the youths of which he spoke. 'You will have heard of Lieutenant Dick, the Engineer who was first on the wall at Jhansi and of Ensign Havelock who stormed the abattis at Vera?'
'Yes, sir.' Jack had heard of some of these heroes.
'That is what I want from you, Windrush. I want you to win glory and renown so when men talk of the 113th they think of your exploits and not the infamy of Chillianwalla.'
'Yes, sir.' Most of these men died winning glory: does the colonel want a martyr?
When Murphy sat down again, his eyes were clear. 'A man with your name does not belong in this place of regimental disgrace. You belong in a more distinguished regiment, Windrush, but for whatever reason, you are with us.' He scuffed the beetle from its perch on the rim of his glass. 'If you had the funds you would be elsewhere so you must achieve glory to have your name spoken of in the same manner as these other heroes, and in so doing you will raise the reputation of the 113th.'
Jack nodded and repeated 'yes, sir,' once again.
'Now: to business,' Murphy pulled a small sheaf of documents to the centre of his desk. 'There will be an expedition to fight the Burmese, but the Powers-that-be will not send the 113th. We are being split into penny packets and used to garrison the eastern frontier of India from Assam to Arracan in case the Burmese launch an attack.'
'Will they attack, sir?' Jack asked.
Murphy ignored the question. 'However, I know the Colonel of the 18th Foot, the Royal Irish. He and I served together when we were about your age, and I have persuaded him to accept some of our men as replacements.' Murphy paused for a moment. 'I am sending you into Rangoon with a dozen men. God help us but finding a dozen good soldiers from the 113th is not easy, but we'll do our best. I want you to push yourself forward at every opportunity, Windrush. Show the world what the 113th is capable of.' Murphy leaned back in his chair and tapped long fingers on the desk. 'The Burmese are a proud and warlike race. They will not like us being in what they think is their territory and I anticipate strong resistance.' His grin was fierce. 'Your job is to face the enemy, Windrush, treat them with courtesy and respect, and then destroy them.'
'Yes, sir.' Jack nodded. He did not hide his smile. When he first entered this room, he had thought Colonel Murphy a broken old drunk, but now realised he was only a disillusioned veteran soldier who wanted the best for his regiment. 'When do I leave, sir?'
'You will join the expedition as soon as it's created. Until then get used to the climate and the people and get to know the regiment.' Murphy shuffled his papers before looking up again. 'Try and find a decent sergeant to take with you. Perhaps you could locate a fellow called Wells; he appears a cut above the usual standard.'
'Yes, sir,' Jack hesitated, 'thank you, sir.'
Murphy did not answer; his hand strayed to the gin bottle.
'Right you misbegotten bastards!' Sergeant Wells glared over the line of men that stood at what they fondly imagined was attention in front of him. 'You were sent to this regiment because your own did not want you.' A head taller than most of the men, he marched along the line, counting slowly. 'One, two, three, four and five: five rejected blackguards.' He lowered his voice to a roar; 'and you are all mine now!' He stepped closer to them. 'I don't know why you were unwanted, and I don't care what crimes your dirty little paws have committed. I only know that you think you have had a shabby hand in life.'
Jack watched the performance from the shade of a grove of peepul trees. He knew Ranveer was behind him but did not notice the tall officer who strutted to join him.
'You got here then, Windrush.' The voice was familiar but not welcome.
'Good morning Lindsay,' Jack did not attempt to sound friendly.
'He's a strange man Sergeant Wells,' Lindsay ignored the snub. 'He's an old India hands; when his regiment sailed for home, he transferred to your lot. God knows why. I would not trust a man like that.' He snapped his fingers and shouted, 'cigar' to a Burmese servant who stood a few feet away.
Jack wiped the sweat from his face. 'Maybe he likes the climate.'
'Oh no,' Lindsay casually slapped the servant on the head and dragged smoke into his lungs. 'These niggers are lazy scoundrels.'
Jack vaguely remembered the attentive servants who had looked after him when he was a young boy in India and said nothing.
'Now you idle, useless bastards,' Wells was shouting again, 'I will teach you how to shoot, although God alone knows why anybody would ever trust things like you with a broken stick, yet alone a bundook.'
Wells lifted the musket he carried. 'This is your friend; you do not treat her like your wife. I know how blaggards like you treat women; you are rapists and rogues and not fit to be near a woman. No; you treat Bess as if she was your immortal soul if you still have one, which I doubt.'
Insults with dark humour: does it work? Jack remembered the ugly group of soldiers in Hereford and wondered how accurate the sergeant's words were.
'Let's begin with the basics,' Wells said. 'This is a Brown Bess musket. It is what you will use to kill the queen's enemies. Bess weighs ten and a half pounds, and a good marksman can hit his target at eighty yards. However, Bess is a difficult lover; she has a stiff trigger, and you are weak and stupid. That means that when you pull the trigger, you will open your hand like so,' Wells extended the fingers of his right hand. 'Because you believe that gives more power to your hand. In doing so of course, you lose control of Bess, and she recoils. The first time she does so, you are taken by surprise, and she cracks you one.' Wells stepped suddenly forward and smacked the butt of his musket against the jaw of the tallest recruit. The man stepped back. 'I did not say you could hold your face! Stand at attention!'
Lindsay gave a little snort of amusement. 'Take note, Windrush; that is how you treat rankers and women. I know you avoid women.'
Jack said nothing as Ranveer withdrew. Wells continued.
'The second time you try, you will expect the recoil and hold back your head. By doing so, you cannot aim, so your enemy, be he Pathan, Sikh or Frenchie, will charge up, slaughter you and piss on your disembowelled body. Now, that is a bad thing and disappoints the Queen whose shilling you took and who keeps you in smart uniforms and good rations. Now you don't want to disappoint Her Majesty, do you?'
The recruits shook their collective heads. The tallest man had the beginnings of a bruise on his chin.
'No: good. So we will do something to ensure that Her Majesty is pleased, won't we?'
The men nodded without enthusiasm.
'Lift Bess!' Wells ordered. 'And follow my lead. First, we take a cartridge, like so,' he held up the short stubby cartridge so that even the densest of the private soldiers could recognise it, 'and we tear it open, like this…' he tore the top with his teeth. 'Of course, you could use your fingers, if you have a third hand, but the good Lord, in his wisdom, granted us only two, unless you are some many-armed Hindu goddess.'
Jack smiled at the expected subdued laugh. Wells is playing them like a violin.
'This Sergeant Wells is good,' he said to the silent Lindsay.
Lindsay grunted. 'He knows how to keep discipline. That seems to be hard for your lot. My sepoys do what they're told if they know what's good for them.'
'The 113th will do better next time,' Jack said.
Lindsay snorted. 'I doubt it. Not with Colonel Lushy in command, and officers who are scared of women.' He snapped his fingers for another cheroot.
Jack felt the words rise to his mouth. A lush was a drunkard: he had seen Murphy with the gin bottle. 'Are you implying cowardice, Lindsay?' He knew that he had to respond to such an accusation. Cowardice was the worst possible insult for a British officer.
Lindsay held the cheroot for the servant to light. 'What makes you think I was referring to you at all, Windrush: unless the boot fits of course.' He puffed smoke and pushed the servant away before lazily addressing Jack. 'Are you scared of women? You had no interest in the delightful Lucinda.' His smile had all the sincerity of a cat enticing a mouse into its paws. 'Or in any other woman, I believe.'
Jack felt the colour rise to his cheeks as Lindsay's smile broadened.
'Sahib…' Jack had not heard Ranveer come up. The Sikh gave a brief bow.
'Not now, Ranveer,' Jack heard the tension in his voice. 'Ensign Lindsay and I are having a discussion.'
Should I call him out? Is duelling legal in India? Is it worse to break the law or have one's honour insulted and abused?
'Yes, Sahib, but you did ask me to come to you immediately I find the women.'
'What? What nonsense are you talking Ranveer?' Jack looked around, irritated at this new distraction.
Ranveer was not alone. He had three women with him. Two were obviously local girls with cheap longyis wound around their slender bodies and sandaled feet nervous in the dust. Both wore orchids in their black, coiled hair. The third was from further west, a Dravidian from southern India, Jack guessed, with caste marks on her forehead and a large brass ring in one ear. He tried to hide his sudden unease.
'You asked me to find a girl for you, sahib,' Ranveer bowed again. 'I could not find the particular girl you requested. Perhaps these three will make up for that?'
He's trying to help. How the devil did he know?
Jack saw the sudden interest in Lindsay's face. He took a deep breath. 'No, take them away, Ranveer. I only want that one woman: no other will do.'
'Yes, Sahib,' Ranveer said. He ushered the women away less gently than Jack would have wished.
'You are only interested in one particular woman then?' Lindsay's eyes watched the departing women, never straying from the slide of longyi around their backsides.
That's disgusting. 'So it would appear,' Jack tried to sound mysterious.
'I see,' Lindsay flicked ash toward Sergeant Wells, who continued to harass his squad with well-worn invective. 'Well, better to play the field old man, remember that marriage ruins the prospects of young officers,' he shook his head slowly, 'not that there are many prospects in your unhappy regiment if that lot is an example of their prowess. My sepoys would tear holes in them.'
Jack controlled the anger that Lindsay roused in him and continued to listen to Sergeant Wells.
'I already told you to ignore the taste of the powder,' Wells shouted. 'Ram the cartridge well home, then the bullet, and put the cap on – easy.' He swung the musket to his shoulder and aimed directly at the face of one of the men. 'Now repeat what I said, Coleman or I'll blow your bloody head off.'
Coleman visibly paled. 'Jesus Sergeant! Careful! That thing's loaded!'
'Then you had better be correct, Coleman: repeat what I said.'
Coleman took a step back as he gabbled the sergeant's instructions.
'Not quick enough, Coleman; now prepare Bess.' Wells kept the musket pointed at Coleman's face as the man fumbled to tear the cartridge, remembered to bite it but trembled so much that a third of the coarse black powder spilt down his chin.
'That's you dead, Coleman,' Wells took one step closer, so the muzzle of his musket was only eight feet from Coleman's face. 'You dropped half your powder, so your ball will not fly true, and the Sikhs are now running at you and hacking at your guts with a great big tulwar. Duck!' He screamed the last word even as he pulled the trigger. There was a click as the hammer of his musket cracked down but no report and no puff of powder smoke.
Wells grinned as Coleman threw himself backwards. 'That was a misfire, Coleman; you are still alive, God knows why. You have to watch for misfires and depend on your left or right- hand man or your rear marker to watch out for you, and you for him.'
Wells pulled his musket back to the on-guard position. 'You are a soldier and part of a section in a company, in a regiment, in the British Army, but when the Ghazis come screaming Allah Akbar from the high hills, then you will feel all alone in the big wide world.' He unsheathed his bayonet and clicked it home. 'But you are not alone, Coleman. Even you have this little lady; you and she are lovers; the only lover an ugly useless bastard like you will ever know. Together you can destroy anybody that gets close enough.' His smile encompassed all the men there. 'Now I will teach you how to kill.'
'Time we were gone Windrush,' Lindsay continued to stare at the retreating women. 'The hand to hand stuff is all very well for the men, but hardly for gentlemen, I think.'
'I don't agree,' Jack did not move. 'The more we learn about our profession, the better, surely.'
'Oh God you griffs are such bores,' Lindsay tossed his cheroot aside. 'I have better things to do than spend my day chatting to the Queen's Griffins. Good day to you,' tipping forward his forage cap, Lindsay sauntered in the wake of Ranveer and his trio of women.
I hope you catch the pox
'Blood!' Wells screamed the word. 'Blood, blood, blood; come on lads, shout out!'
Jack had started at the sheer volume of sound that came from Wells' lungs. Now he watched as the sergeant trained his men in the gentle art of slaughter by bayonet. He showed them lunges and parries, how to use the point and the edge, and had them yell 'Blood' and 'death' and 'kill' as they rammed the bayonets into the boles of the nearest tree.
'Next time,' Wells promised, 'I will find you a live pig to practice on.' His men watched through eyes that were dull with fatigue.
I want him, whatever his history, I want that man with me.
'I'm not sure which is worse,' Major Snodgrass sipped at his gin and growled at the punkah-wallah to work harder at the fan, 'the heat, the humidity, the insects or the blasted natives.'
Jack looked around. The officers' mess of the 113th consisted of a thatched Burmese hut with a fan in the ceiling, a table, a dozen wickerwork chairs and a cabinet of drinks. Ranveer stood, smart in the livery of the 113th but was only one of the dozen or so Indian servants who outnumbered the officers three to one, while the Regimental and Queen's colours were encased in half-cleaned glass as if ashamed to admit they did not bear a single battle honour. Jack remembered peering into the officer's mess of the Royals when he was a child, staring in awe at the glittering silver and the trophies from scores of campaigns, the cased colours held in pride and the aura of assured victory.
'I hear you are going up-country?' Snodgrass raised a lazy eyebrow.
Jack nodded. 'Colonel Murphy wants the regiment represented in the war.'
Snodgrass shrugged, rolled the gin around the glass and swallowed it. He leaned across the table toward Jack. 'Here's some free advice, Windrush; keep your head down, never volunteer and let the sergeants deal with the men. Maybe flog a few now and then so they respect you but aside from that, avoid them.'
Windrush (Jack Windrush Book 1) Page 6
