'How are they going to scale these walls?' Coleman asked. 'They don't have a single ladder.'
'See that gate?' Wells pointed to a large doorway in the centre of the main East wall. 'The artillery will weaken that, and the boys will storm their way through. After that…' he shrugged, 'after that its boot and butt and bullet and bayonet and bugger anybody who tries to stop them.'
'There they go!' Wells said.
The columns of British and Indian troops began to move across the broken ground.
The idea came to Jack fully formed. The 113th been ordered to lead the 80th to the walls of Rangoon. It had achieved that. Now, this advance had stalled. The attack was going in on the eastern wall.
'Thorpe! Run to General Godwin and advise him that the 113th is joining the storming party!' Jack spoke the instant he made his decision. Colonel Murphy ordered me to raise the reputation of the 113th, and there will be no better opportunity than to take part in the storming of an important and heavily defended town.
What did Clausewitz say? It is even better to act quickly and err than to hesitate until the time of action is past.
Time to act! 'Come on 113th! We're going to take Rangoon!'
'Oh, Jesus Christ!' Coleman's voice rose high pitched as Wells grabbed his arm and pushed him onward.
O'Neill gave a high pitched laugh and ran forward, chanting his Gaelic slogan.
'Come on lads,' Jack leapt in front of his men, 'join the Royal Irish!'
He ran forward, aware that the faster they covered the open ground in front of the town, the less time the defenders had to shoot at them. He heard Wells raise a cheer but only O'Neill and Graham joined in, and then they were on the flank of the 18th Foot with a red faced colonel staring at them and a company of the 40th Bengal Native Infantry marching in impassive ranks. Jack did not notice how they crossed the valley or negotiated the jungle. He was leading his men on an assault, with colonels and General Godwin watching; all eyes were on the 113th; all eyes were on him.
Jack scraped out his sword. Light flashed on the curved blade. 'Come on the 113th!' He ducked as a British roundshot howled past his head and crashed into the pagoda gate. His men were lagging, with Wells pushing them on and O'Neill five paces in front.
The British artillery fell silent as the infantry approached the gate.
'It's all up to us now,' a captain of the Royal Irish drew his sword and put his shoulder to the heavy teak. His men followed, cheering as their combined weight burst open what remained of the gate, and the Queen's and Company infantry crashed through. Rangoon lay before them.
'Onward lads!' Jack thrust his sword upwards, 'with me the 113th!'
Oh Jesus: where do we go now? This attack is a Royal Irish show: it's their decision.
The gate opened directly onto a long series of steps that climbed the centre of the pagoda's terraces, flight after flight of steep stone stairs with strange carved beasts placed in prominent positions.
'Sir?' Wells ducked as a musket ball smacked into the wall a foot from his face. 'Do you have orders, sir?'
As men of the Royal Irish pushed through the door and mingled with the 113th, Jack looked around. Burmese soldiers defended the terraces above. Some stepped on to the stairs to aim at the intruders.
One of the Royal Irish yelled and looked at the scarlet stain that spread across his chest. He dropped his musket and slowly crumpled to the ground. A moment later another grunted and clutched at his shoulder.
'Sir…' Wells aimed at the Burmese and fired.
'That's our way, lads,' the Royal Irish lieutenant pointed upward, then staggered as a musket ball thumped into his chest. He looked at Jack through wide eyes and slid down the wall.
I am the only officer here just now; I must take the lead.
'Follow me, men!' With his revolver in his right hand and sword in his left, Jack took the steps two at a time, ducking and weaving to put the Burmese musketeers off their aim. The steps were steep and seemed to go on forever, with musket balls and the larger jingal balls hammering and pinging from the stonework. There were more shouts behind him as the Burmese found their mark, but the British and sepoys continued up the stairs.
Jack saw the gilt hats and black padded jackets of the defenders as they stood on the ramparts, firing downward, yelling, inviting the British to come on, but then he was level with them on the first terrace with his leg muscles screaming for relief. He flinched as a stalwart defender fired at him, shouted as the ball skiffed his forage cap and blasted the Burman away with two shots from his revolver. A group of Burmese rushed to challenge him, hesitated, fired a couple of rounds and turned to run as the Royal Irish, and the 113th poured onto the terrace.
'Come on, lads!' Wells levelled his bayonet.
O'Neill surged past, laughing.
'Blood!' Knight roared, 'blood and death!' The men of the 113th followed in a phalanx of stabbing blades and swinging musket butts.
Leaving the 113th to deal with the lowest terrace, the Royal Irish poured up the steps, shooting and cheering as they fought their way toward the higher levels. Those of the defenders who turned to fight were killed out of hand while the rest turned and fled.
'Come back and fight!' O'Neill shouted.
A lone Burmese soldier turned to face Jack. He shouted something, levelled his musket and fired, with the flint striking a spark only a few feet away from Jack's head but no succeeding spurt of smoke.
Misfire, by God
Jack pointed his revolver in the man's direction and squeezed the trigger. He cursed as the hammer clicked on an empty chamber.
Damn it! It's empty!
With no time to reload and the Burmese coming at him with his square-ended dha, Jack dropped his revolver and swung mightily with his sword. Although he had attended a few fencing classes, nothing had prepared him for the rush and fury of a fight to the death on the terraced defences of the Golden Pagoda in the heart of Burma. His swing missed by a foot. The Burmese slashed sideways at his neck. Jack could smell the garlic on the man's breath.
Jack parried the dha with his sword, but the force of the attack sent him staggering backwards. He withdrew a step to regain his balance, saw the triumph in the Burmese soldier's face and lunged forward. The Burmese side-stepped with ease and aimed a vicious swipe that would have gutted Jack like a rabbit had he not sucked in his middle. The dha hissed past so close that it ripped one of the brass buttons from his tunic.
For a moment Jack was unaware of anything else. All that mattered was the sword fight between him and this doughty Burman. They clashed again, blade to blade, muscle to muscle, and eye to eye: Occident and Orient on either side of sharp steel and both combined by the desire to kill and a fear of death.
Jack knew he was the taller and possibly the stronger, but the Burmese warrior was fast and muscular, skilful with his dha. Within a minute Jack was on the defensive, backing away along the terrace with the Burman following, unsmiling as he concentrated only on killing this insolent British invader.
The musket shot came from behind him. The Burmese warrior stiffened and put a hand on his stomach, just as a British soldier lunged at him and thrust a bayonet hilt deep in his chest.
'And that's done for you, son,' O'Neill said, as the warrior crumpled to the ground. He put a foot on the man's stomach and hauled his bayonet free. 'Sorry to interfere, sir, but you seemed to be getting the worst of it.'
'Thank you, O'Neill,' Jack felt the sweat pouring from him. 'I rather think you saved my life there.'
O'Neill grinned. 'You can remember that next time the peelers haul me before you for being drunk and disorderly.'
Jack realised that the firing and roaring of battle had altered to cheering and shouting, with occasional loud whoops and the crash and rattle of destruction.
'What's happening?'
'The Burmese have bolted sir.'
'They've bolted?' Jack stared as O'Neill casually cleaned his bayonet on his victim's jacket.
We've won. I've led the 113th
to our first victory.
'Yes sir and now we'll loot the place sideways,' O'Neill grinned. 'Come on, sir or the Royal Irish and the sepoys will get all the best stuff.'
'Stop that!' Jack yelled. 'We're not here to rob.' But he knew that from time immemorial soldiers had looted any place they had taken by storm. It was one of the few perquisites of the job.
Jack stepped to the edge of the terrace and watched as the British and Indian soldiers ran riot. Some scattered to the many smaller pagodas, laughing as their officers temporarily lost control. Most ran straight to the Golden Pagoda. Jack heard the loud cries of joy as some found loot, and raised voices as men from rival regiments disputed ownership of useless knick-knacks or priceless statuettes from the pagoda.
'Come on boys! There's gold and rubies here!'
This part of Rangoon seemed dedicated to religion, with the Golden Pagoda being only the largest of a collection of Buddhist temples. Their basic design was always the same, an irregular pagoda with a very shapely top, surmounted by an umbrella within a fringe of wind-powered bells, so every movement of the air was accompanied by a delicate melody that sat ill with the sounds and sights of battle. It was hard to reconcile the essential religious message of peace when dead bodies polluted the entrance and unheeded blood pooled at the foot of guardian statues.
There were more shrines with sculptures of Gautama, the local incarnation of Buddha, sitting within open spaces, sometimes in solitary splendour, often with companion statuettes in alabaster or gilt-covered brick. After the thunder of battle, the call of birds sweetened the air, while the swaying of brilliant green trees cast flickering shadows over a place that had been beautiful before British shells wrought their destruction. Jack leaned on a huge stone crocodile to gather his thoughts. The woman watched him through thoughtful eyes.
'Are you back?' Jack asked.
'I've never been away.' Although the woman spoke quietly, her words were very audible. The raucous jesting of a mob of redcoats faltered as they saw her. A blood stained corporal made an obscene suggestion, then dropped his eyes as she ignored him. They shuffled past and only stared when they were a dozen safe yards away.
Safe? Why did I choose that word? A woman is a rarity in their lives. Let them look. They know only cheap prostitutes and officers' wives who would scarcely acknowledge them as being of the same species. This woman is different.
'Are you not afraid?' Jack indicated the shambles of battle's aftermath and the narrow-eyed soldiers.
The woman did not blink. 'They are only men,' she said with such devastating calm that Jack could not respond.
'Why are you here? Are you following me?'
'This is my country; why are you here? Are you seeking me?' The woman smoothed a hand over the outside of her longyi in the most sensual gesture that Jack had ever seen. He realised he was staring at her hips.
For God's sake man, you don't even like women: remember?
'You are the most infuriating woman to talk to,' Jack told her.
She straightened up again. 'Then don't talk.'
'What is your name?' Jack asked when it became apparent that the woman was not going to move away.
'What is yours?' she countered.
'I am Jack Windrush.' He waited for her to respond.
'Jack Windrush,' in her mouth the name sounded as musical as the temple bells. 'Jack Windrush.' She nodded and walked away with her hips stirring her longyi and her slender upper body as erect and straight as any guardsman. The private soldiers of the Royal Irish stepped aside to let her pass. One touched a hand to his cap.
The woman smiled softly and drifted away.
She did not tell me her name. What was the meaning of that meeting? Why do I feel so differently about her?
'Loot boys! Find some gold to take home!' That was a Midlands voice, perhaps from Birmingham, and the words seemed to remain in the sultry air.
If I found something precious, I could buy my way into another regiment. After today's action people will know my name, so they might forgive my illegitimate birth.
The thought came fully formed into Jack's mind. It overcame a lifetime of training and habit, so he nearly ran down the stairs and stopped at the entrance to the Golden Pagoda. There was a crowd of soldiers lying prone on the steps, some with their tunics open, some squeezed into whatever shade was available. Others had draped themselves an enormous statue of Buddha, on whose head one man had carefully placed a white British cap, complete with the flapping neck guard. They looked up as Jack passed, and some scrambled to their feet.
'Rest easy men,' Jack said and entered the pagoda.
The difference in temperature was immediate, with the tall conical roof keeping the interior cool and dark and pleasant. Half a dozen soldiers wandered around, staring open mouthed at the dragon statues and the huge Buddha, with their voices muted as if they were in church, which, Jack surmised, in a way they were.
He had expected to see a single statue of Buddha with perhaps rows of pews as in a church back home. Instead, he was confronted by a vast open space surrounded by an unknown number of statues in gold, porcelain and brass, with Buddha sitting cross legged with a smile of peace on his face. He did not see the source of the light that gleamed from the soft sheen of gold and reflected from a hundred precious stones.
Jack stopped in awe. He had not expected the magnificence or the beauty of this temple to Buddha, or the sheer wealth of the statuary and adornments. Nor had he expected to experience such an atmosphere of sanctity.
These are no primitive people; this is as fine a building as Hereford Cathedral; finer even and much richer.
Jack felt an urge to kneel before the shrine of this serene Eastern deity, if indeed it was a deity, he was not sure. Is Buddha a god? A draught of wind set the temple bells ringing, softly at first and then louder, until they seemed to fill the vast space below the conical roof. The melody penetrated his thoughts, so there were only the chiming bells inviting him to submit to their calming authority and forget the avarice and aggression of the world outside. Jack stood in front of the huge golden statue and met the almond-shaped eyes, so expressionless, yet accusing him of theft and murder and invasion.
'This is a grand place, Coley!' that was O'Neill's voice, loud and cheerful and uncaring of man, devil or eastern deity. 'There's enough gold in here to keep us in drink for the rest of our lives.'
'And women,' Coleman sounded strained. 'We could buy a brothel, Paddy, and fill it with the best doxies that London has to offer.'
The coarse, matter of fact soldier's voices broke the spell, and Jack saw the pagoda in another light. Rather than a spiritual place of awe and wonder, it became just a fancy Eastern temple with meaningless statues and a collection of gold. With gold, Jack could buy promotion, buy his way into a better regiment, maybe even the Royals, and acquire land and property in England. Without money he was a nobody, an undistinguished and impoverished ensign.
A pocketful of golden boys would pay for my step up; a hatful would make me Captain. But I am an English gentleman, a man of honour. No: I am the son of a servant! In the eyes of the respectable, I am illegitimate with no right to a commission in the Army. I am a fraud in a very precarious position.
The golden Buddhas sat in splendour, serene, sublime, internally untouched by the mad wastage of man around their temple. Jack glanced around, more furtive and mean than he had ever felt in his life. He slipped over to the darkest quarter of the temple and stood beside a row of sitting Buddhas. They are only idols, false gods: they mean nothing. They were of various sizes from some small enough to slip unnoticed into his pocket to others the size of a well-grown child.
Jack took a deep breath and lifted the smallest; it was heavier than he expected, with the gold warm to the touch and smooth under his palm. For a second he pretended to examine the workmanship, checked that nobody was watching and then slid it inside the right side pocket of his tunic. It fitted comfortably.
Now I am a thief, no longer fit to be an of
ficer of Her Majesty or a British gentleman.
With the code of honour cracked, it was easier to continue. The next Buddha fitted into his left pocket with only a slight bulge and a feeling of vague discomfort that he ignored. Jack lifted the third and was wondering where to store it when he heard an outburst of raucous singing as a group of men from the Royal Irish came toward him, their iron shod boots crashing on the floor and their voices raised in disregard for the sanctity of their surroundings.
'Oh sorry sir,' a smoke-blackened corporal said, 'we did not see you there. Attention boys!'
The men behind him stiffened to attention, with one trying to hide the loot he had picked up.
'You men keep out of trouble,' Jack acknowledged the salute with a flick of his finger he hoped looked casual.
What if they saw me looting? Dear God, what if they saw me? I've ruined my reputation and career.
We saw you, sir,' the corporal's words made Jack feel suddenly sick.
'You saw me do what, Corporal?' The statuettes were heavy in his pocket; Jack was sure that the men of the Royal Irish were hiding their accusation behind the impassive stares private soldiers adopted when facing an officer.
'In the assault, sir,' the corporal grinned. 'We saw you charge up the stairs. You were good enough to join the Royal Irish sir if you don't mind me saying so!”
Jack nearly sighed with relief. 'Thank you, Corporal, but it's hardly your place to comment on an officer.'
'Yes sir,' the corporal's smile was replaced by the same lack of expression as his men. 'Beg pardon sir.'
'And you,' Jack prodded the man who held the statuette, 'can return that where it belongs. Looting is a flogging offence.'
He walked on without another word. He hoped he had acted like a typical British officer, so there was no suspicion of his actions within the pagoda.
Gentlemen don't steal. But I am not a gentleman.
The golden statuettes seemed so weighty that Jack felt as if his pockets reached to his knees. He slowed down, grateful for the swift onfall of night to mask the guilt he knew shone from his face.
Windrush (Jack Windrush Book 1) Page 12
