Windrush (Jack Windrush Book 1)

by Malcolm Archibald

  'Sir!' Wells shout brought Jack back to the alert. 'Burmese!'

  There was a single musket shot, and then a small fusillade, a long drawn out scream that could have been part of that terrible dense forest and then thick silence. Powder smoke drifted acrid between the trees. Jack shuddered as a huge spider scuttled out of a hole in the trunk of the tree he sheltered behind. A bird called in the distance and the jungle noises started again.

  'Wells!' Jack heard the tension in his voice. 'Wells; are you all right?'

  'The bastards tried to sneak past, sir,' Wells shouted. 'O'Neill gutted one. He's still alive.'

  There was a sharp squeal and then O'Neill's voice. 'He's not alive now, sir.'

  'Keep alert,' Jack felt the hair on the back of his neck raise at the casual manner in which one of his men had disposed of an enemy, but this was war at the fringe of Empire. These men faced brutal reality, not the sanitised romanticism of the newspapers. He peered through the dim light, hoping to see a Burmese soldier before the Burmese saw him.

  The 51st tramped through the fringe of the jungle with the artillery from the fort banging away and roundshot crashing and ripping through the trees.

  'There go the 51st!' Knight shouted.

  'Shabash the 51st!' O'Neill yelled, high pitched.

  Staring into the green jungle, Jack could not see the actual assault on the stockade, but he heard the deep throated cheer of the 51st Foot and the sudden acceleration of musketry as the Burmese defenders fired at the advancing column.

  Movement in the jungle in front attracted his attention. 'Here they come again!' he yelled and fired in the general direction of the noise. Jack saw leaves flicker and a flat, intent face and then the Burmese advanced with a rush, flitting from tree to tree, firing muskets and ducking away again.

  Pryor stiffened and looked down at his arm, where a feathered stick seemed to have sprouted. 'That's an arrow,' he said in amazement and yelled as another whistled through the trees and thumped into his side. 'They're using bows and arrows!' Leaning his musket against the bole of a tree, he pulled at the arrow in his arm.

  'Get down!' Wells yelled, 'get your bloody head down!'

  'Look for cover,' Jack shouted. 'We're just targets standing. Get behind a tree and fire back.' He blinked as an arrow thumped into the trunk of a tree six inches from his head, and then there was a spatter of musketry from the Burmese. Jack suddenly realised that this was not a formal set piece battle such as characterised British military thinking since the peninsula and had come to its Indian apogee in the Sikh wars: this was warfare against a different type of enemy and needed different tactics. 'Fire at will boys! If you see the enemy, fire! Don't wait for orders!' That was not something he had ever expected to say in the British army, where volley fire had been the norm for centuries. Wells will not agree. He heard a spatter of musketry from his men. Good lads! Fight them!

  'They're coming at us!' That was Thorpe. 'I can see them!'

  'Get back Thorpe! Don't just look! Get behind a tree and shoot the buggers!' Wells' voice cracked through the forest. 'Fire lads! Send the bastards to hell.'

  Now that the 113th were free of the restraint of waiting for orders, they loaded and fired faster than Jack had expected. The sound of their musketry was like rolling thunder until Jack realised there was no fire coming toward them. 'Stop firing boys! We're shooting at nothing.'

  The firing died away leaving the acrid drift of burned gunpowder and the low gasps of the 113th. The silence was stifling. 'Anybody hurt? Call the roll!' Jack listened to the names as the men shouted out. Only Pryor was silent.

  'Pryor? Where are you, Pryor?' Jack's voice echoed in the trees.

  'Here he is, sir,' O'Neill sounded casual. 'He can't answer though; he's dead.'

  Pryor stood erect beside his tree with five arrows in his body and one through his mouth.

  That's two of my men dead.

  'Hold still boys; check your ammunition and keep watching.' One by one the sounds returned to the jungle as birds and insects filled the void.

  The cessation of violence was as unsettling as its sudden eruption had been. Jack controlled his ragged breathing and nudged Coleman, 'go and see what's happening at the White House Picket. Tell the colonel that the 113th has secured his flank and repelled a Burmese attack.'

  The sound of firing from the stockade increased and then died away to a succession of single shots. Then there was cheering and then silence.

  It was forty anxious minutes before Coleman returned, with his hat awry and his uniform ripped by trailing thorns. 'The stockade has fallen, sir.' He threw a belated salute.

  'How?' Jack asked.

  'The 51st did it, sir. They threw four ladders against the walls and some major, I heard he was a Sawney called Fraser, was first up.' Coleman blinked as a flying beetle investigated his face.

  Jack brushed the beetle away. 'Carry on Coleman.'

  'There were wounded, sir. The Burmese hit a lot of the 51st and some of the sappers. I think there was an officer killed as well but it was the heat that done for them more than the Burmese.'

  Jack realised that his men had gathered to listen to the news. 'Get back to your positions, 113th! We have not won the day yet!'

  Coleman continued: 'once the 51st mounted the walls, the Burmese fell. We have the stockade sir.' Close to Coleman was older than Jack had realised. He was about thirty, with the thin physique of a slum dweller or a man who was a habitual drinker, which description covered a large proportion of the British Army, Jack realised.

  'Were there orders for us, Coleman?' Jack asked.

  Coleman had the grace to look guilty for a second. 'Yes, sir. We have to move forward and allow the 51st to take over the flank guard.'

  That was it; no thanks and no recognition for the 113th, but that was not unexpected in the army. We did our duty without glory or fuss. We stood our ground; we did not run.

  Jack raised his voice. 'Well done men: you did yourselves and the regiment proud.' He gave orders for Pryor's body to be carried with them. Only eleven men left now.

  Chapter Seven

  Rangoon: April 1852

  There was a scattering of bodies on the scrubby ground that led up to the still smouldering wooden stockade, victims of heat as well as Burmese resistance. Amidst the carnage, many men of the 51st lay in whatever shade they could find with their white caps and the sun flap over the neck their only protection against the relentless sun.

  'It's hot,' Coleman said.

  'It's bloody India,' O'Neill added.

  'It's bloody Burma,' Wells corrected. 'Brave men to storm this place,' he nodded to the ladders that leaned against the logs.

  That should have been us; we had as much danger but no glory.

  Jack stepped through the wide open gate of the White House Picket. Ammunition for the Burmese cannon, iron balls and stone, was piled everywhere but it was the strength of the stockade that impressed him. He had expected a single palisade wall of undressed teak, but instead, there were three layers of defence, with a ditch that ran along the exterior, backed by an outer wall of timber about ten feet from an inner wall of brick. The Burmese had filled the space between the walls with earth cannon fire would be less effective. Jack inspected the reverse slope, up which the Burmese had dragged their cannon.

  'These Burmese know how to fight,' he said.

  'The 51st did well to take this place,' Wells gave his professional opinion. 'These Burmese lads know their stuff.'

  The white house that gave the stockade its name was sheltered well within the walls. It was a wooden building of vague white appearance with a flight of steps leading to a large doorway. 'This way for the loot, lads,' Thorpe, last in battle, proved to be first in theft as he led his colleagues up the stairs, musket at the trail.

  The interior was dim and busy with British and Indian soldiers all staring at a colossal statue of a sitting Buddha.

  'Is that God?' Private Smith asked. He removed his hat as the vicar had probably taught h
im in his village church and stared, open mouthed, at the statue. 'Have we attacked a Holy place?' He sounded scared at the thought.

  'It's like their god,' Wells told him. 'That's Buddha.' He looked around and lowered his voice. Jack moved closer to the colossal statue. 'Sometimes they have precious stones in these places, lads, rubies and diamonds and gold. That is loot for us, once the officers have gone.'

  'This officer is going nowhere,' Jack told them. 'And being caught looting means the cat or even the noose.'

  'Don't get caught then,' that was Lacey, a scar-faced man in his late twenties.

  'Any more of that lip and you'll be first at the triangle, Lacey;' Wells' voice was sharp.

  'You lot – what regiment?' The major was short, red faced and very erect.

  '113th sir,' Jack reported.

  The major's red face darkened to scarlet. 'Good God! The Chillianwalla wallahs! I see you've come after all the fighting is over. Well now you're here you can make yourselves useful and throw all these Burmese cannon balls and grapeshot down the well.'

  'We were guarding the flank, sir,' Jack's attempt to defend his men failed as the major marched away without a further word.

  'Come on lads,' Wells pointed to the nearest pile of ammunition. 'You heard the major.'

  'If I wanted to be a bloody labourer I would have stayed in Donegal,' O'Neill said, but he was first to lift a cannon ball and drop it down the well.

  'What a waste,' Coleman shook his head, 'we could sell this lot for a pretty penny in any metal dealer.'

  'But think of the shipping costs,' Graham said, 'the carters always charge by the mile.' He looked upward at the azure sky. 'How far is it to Carlisle, boys? About three thousand miles at a penny a mile … How much is that?'

  'More than you can afford, anyway, Graham,' Wells growled.

  'No sergeant. I was thinking I would do the carting; get hold of one of these Burmese bullock carts and charge you all to take your cannon balls…'

  The firing interrupted them.

  'Stand to!' an officer of the 51st shouted, 'man the walls!'

  'Here we go again,' O'Neill dropped a cannon ball and lifted his musket. 'There's no bloody peace in Burma.'

  Jack raced two ensigns up to the parapet and arranged his men alongside him. 'To me the 113th!'

  'These Burmese lads know their business, sir,' once more Wells approved. 'They built the stockade well. We can see everything from up here.'

  'It's their country: they should know it well.' Jack said.

  Wells was quiet for a moment. 'It's not actually their country sir if you don't mind me saying. We're in Pegu province; the Burmese are invaders here.'

  Jack frowned. It's not a sergeant's place to lecture an officer. 'I hardly think that matters just now, Wells.'

  'Yes, sir.' Wells nodded toward the Golden Pagoda that dominated the whole area.

  'That place will not be easy to capture either, sir.'

  'Never mind that,' Jack heard the tension in his voice. 'Watch for these Burmese soldiers.'

  Jack concentrated on the jungle where they had held back the Burmese, but from this height, he also saw that there were more patches of jungle, interspersed with scrubby plains.

  'Watch the maidan, lads,' Wells shouted, 'that's the open bits, for the benefit of you ignorant Johnny Raw bastards.'

  Moving between the forest land and crossing the maidan were bands of Burmese, some wearing black quilted tunics, others bare chested, some sporting spiked helmets, most bare legged and all carrying long muskets, or the ubiquitous if varied Burmese dha with its gently curving, vicious blade.

  'They are not going to attack us are they?' Wells sounded more curious than apprehensive. 'They have no chance of taking the stockade back from British infantry.'

  'They won't even get close,' O'Neill hefted his musket and sighted on one of the scurrying figures. 'They are far out of range, but the gunners will get them.'

  'There's hundreds of them,' Thorpe said.

  'And they're all after you, Thorpey,' Coleman nudged him. 'They told me that when we were in the jungle.'

  'Just keep quiet and wait for orders,' Jack said.

  O'Neill was correct. Every time the Burmese clustered into an appreciable group, the artillery opened up and either scattered them or sent them scurrying to the patches of jungle for shelter. The British soldiers cheered with each explosion. 'Shabash the gunners!'

  When the bugles sounded stand down, most of the infantry returned to seek shade, except a few who remained to watch the fun.

  'They've got one of our lads prisoner!' O'Neill shouted. 'Over there!' he pointed to a patch of barren maidan between two areas of jungle, 'there's a man in British uniform.'

  Jack focussed on the group that O'Neill indicated, just as the British guns opened up. One shell landed close-by, throwing up a fountain of dirt and stones. When the dust drifted away the men were Burmese were gone and so was the man in the scarlet jacket. One body lay crumpled on the ground.

  'They've taken him away with them,' O'Neill said flatly. 'God help the poor bugger. These savages will have him pulled to pieces by elephants.'

  We should go and rescue him; that would bring the 113th to prominence.

  'You,' a voice of authority intruded, and the stocky, erect major glared at them. 'What's your name, sir? Windrush? Why are your men not doing as I ordered? Get these cannon balls down that well sir!'

  By mid- afternoon the interior of the stockade was insufferable, and the men were drooping with the heat. One by one they staggered to find whatever shade they could as all work within the stockade eased to a stop. Even the bustling major slid into the shelter of the White House.

  'It's bloody hot,' Coleman said.

  'You're always bloody hot,' Knight snarled at him.

  The Engineers and Sappers had been busy destroying what they could not save. As the afternoon wore on, they set the White House Picket alight, so smoke and flames added to the torment of the sun. British soldiers drank copious amounts of water and waited for the relief of darkness. O'Neill stamped hard on a scuttling scorpion. Even the sepoys searched for shade.

  'Get these cannon balls shifted,' Jack ordered. He swatted in vain at the insects that coiled around his face.

  'Camp outside the walls!' the order came from officer to officer, so the soldiers withdrew from the stockade they had won and found rest for the night. Some slumped on the ground while others sought beds of straw beside the artillery or kept close to the ditch.

  'O'Neill, you and Coleman take first watch. Smith and Armstrong relieve them at two in the morning.' Jack posted pickets, haggled for water and food, had the men check their ammunition and obtained more from a harassed supply officer before he could relax. All the time the ships fired over their heads in a pyrotechnic display that kept some men awake while others slept so deeply that it seemed nothing could have woken them. Ranveer's blue turban was unmistakeable as he ghosted around the camp, finding fresh water where there was none to be found, ensuring Jack was fed and keeping a low profile.

  So this is campaigning on the outer fringe of Empire? I am not sure if I can live like this for the next forty years of my life. Or less if the fever gets me.

  As the sun sunk, the walls of the White House collapsed in a welter of sparks, so only the huge figure of Buddha was left, sitting on his mound surrounded by flames and smoke. The statue looked disapproving of this army of northern barbarians that had broken his peace, his eyes inscrutable as he sat in silent splendour.

  Simultaneous with the destruction of the White House, the woman appeared. One minute Jack was lying on the ground trying to rest before the troubles of the next day, and the next the woman was amongst them, watching the flames leaping around the statue.

  'That will bring trouble,' she spoke English in a strange sing-song accent. 'It is not wise to interfere with Buddha.'

  'There's always trouble in war time,' Wells lifted a hand to acknowledge her presence. His eyes smiled.

  The woman
stood in the middle of the bivouac. She was slim and quiet, with the ubiquitous light jacket of Burmese women and a blue satin longyi that wrapped itself around her hips and legs with such grace that Jack had to tear his gaze back to her face. She was unsmiling and unafraid, with her hair coiled in a tight cylinder on top of her head and long earrings dangling at the side of her neck.

  He inhaled her perfume of sandalwood oil as he struggled to sit up.

  'What are you doing here, miss?' He asked as the woman looked around her.

  'What are you doing here, British soldier?' The woman's eyes were dark as they held his.

  'Teaching a tyrant a lesson,' Jack knew he sounded pompous even as he spoke, 'and upholding the honour of the British flag.'

  The woman looked pointedly to where the fire was dying down around the White House. A spiral of sparks rose above the head of the Buddha before it dissipated. 'Where is the honour in destruction?'

  'There is honour in bravery and courage,' Jack said. Who is this woman and what does she want? Despite himself, he inhaled again. The sandalwood was intoxicating.

  When she looked directly at him, Jack saw dark shadows in her eyes. Who are you?

  'It is better to conquer yourself than to win a thousand battles,' she said.

  'What the devil does that mean? Who are you, miss?' Jack looked around. There were no other women in this place of men. Soldiers of the Queen's army mingled with those of the Company's forces, infantry, engineers and artillerymen working, sleeping or trying to sleep as the guns of the Royal Navy and John Company kept up a desultory fire on the new town of Rangoon and the golden temple. Ranveer stood in the shadows, one of a handful of Indian servants.

  The woman did not look afraid, although she was alone amidst hundreds of alien intruders. Nor did she smile as she folded herself onto the ground and sat, back straight and arms at her side, looking directly at Jack. 'You are an officer here,' she stated.

  'I am,' Jack agreed.

  'And tomorrow or the next day you will lead your men into the Shoe Dagoon, the Golden Pagoda.' She said the words as if they were facts.