Windrush (Jack Windrush Book 1)

by Malcolm Archibald

  Jack swore. The renegade had pulled his boat back into the darkness. 'Listen for the paddles,' he ordered.

  All at once there was silence save for the steady surge of the river and the throb of the engines. The musketry had stilled the usual night sounds of the river.

  'They've run away,' Coleman shouted. 'We've won!' He began to cheer until Wells snarled him into silence.

  'Two fathoms,' the leadsman's voice sounded, as it had probably done throughout the encounter.

  'Bertram: replace the broken lanterns; men, keep at the guns.' Marshall's voice sounded.

  'They're out there, waiting,' Wells peered into the dark. 'I can smell them.' He raised his voice slightly. 'Make sure you are all loaded and ready, lads. The dacoits aren't finished with us yet.'

  'What will their next move be?' Jack asked.

  'I don't know sir,' Wells said. 'I've never known dacoits to attack a well-armed boat before. Their typical tactics are to murder sentries or parties of foragers, burn villages and rob travellers. This Bo Ailgaliutlo fellow is different to any other I have encountered before. They say…' He looked away quickly and relapsed into silence.

  'They say?' Jack prompted. 'They say what, Wells, and who are they?'

  'Nothing sir,' Wells was uncharacteristically hesitant.

  'Spit it out, man!' Jack glanced around, 'any information could help, and hurry before they come back.'

  'I heard that this Bo Ailgaliutlo was a British soldier sir.' Wells said, 'that's all.'

  'We already guessed that,' Jack did not hide his irritation. 'You know something else, Wells; what is it, man?'

  'It was just something I overheard in one of the villages, sir. You know that I speak a little Burmese.' Wells looked away. 'Well sir, the Burmese in one of these villages we were in say that Bo Ailgaliutlo was a British officer, not just a private or even a sergeant.'

  'Good God!' Jack could not help the exclamation of surprise that burst from him.

  An officer? A gentleman? English gentlemen don't do such things. I would be prepared to believe that a ranker might join the enemy but not an officer.

  As Jack swung away, the Buddha in his pocket seemed twice as weighty as it had before. English gentlemen are not supposed to loot and steal either, yet I now know they do.

  'Thank you, Sergeant,' Jack tried to keep any expression from his voice.

  'One and a half fathoms,' the leadsman reported.

  'Slow ahead,' Marshall ordered, an instant before Serangipatam ran onto something in the river.

  The shock of the collision knocked most people on to the deck, with loose gear rattling forward and a line aloft parting with a sickening crack.

  'We're aground!' Bertram yelled.

  'Jesus God in heaven!' Knight blasphemed. 'What happened?'

  'It's the Burmese,' Thorpe shouted.

  Then the drums began again, a thunderous roar that came from all around, accompanied by loud chanting that raised the hairs on the back of Jack's neck.

  Serangipatam's engines raced, driving her further onto whatever she had struck. 'Stop engines; check for damage below,' Marshall's voice cut through the clamour. 'Fire the bow chaser; prepare to repel boarders!' His orders came in a rapid procession. 'Full astern! Mr Bertram, check for damage aloft. Mr Windrush, the dacoits will attack now, have your men ready.'

  The thunder of the drums rose to a crescendo and then stopped as a fusillade of musketry smashed against the hull and upper works of Serangipatam. One seaman staggered, cursed and grabbed hold of his shoulder. Bright blood seeped between his fingers. Easterhouse, the quietest of Jack's men, slumped to the deck, staring at the blood that pumped from his thigh.

  'Volley fire,' Jack stepped to the rail. He knew he was presenting himself as a target for every Burmese marksman, but he also knew he had to make an example to his men.

  'What's the target, sir?' Wells asked. 'We can't see a blessed thing.'

  'Aim for the muzzle flashes,' Jack said.

  'They're not firing,' Coleman pointed out.

  'I'll make them fire.' Jack felt the increased pounding of his heart as he spread himself out against the rail. 'Come on Bo Ailgaliutlo; here I am you traitor, you black hearted scoundrel! I am Ensign Jack Windrush of the 113th: come and shoot me!'

  As he had hoped and feared the Burmese responded with a fusillade of musketry, but shooting from moving boats at a shifting target on a river at night was not easy even for trained soldiers. For native warriors with poor quality muskets, it was nearly impossible. The musket balls spattered all around Jack, but not a single one came within a foot of him, while the muzzle flashes betrayed the Burmese positions. Jack cursed when a ball smashed the lantern at the starboard bow.

  'Fire lads!' Wells gave the order, and the 113th fired a volley. The muzzle flashes ripped apart the black of the night.

  'Slow astern,' Marshall ignored the battle that raged around as he concentrated on saving his ship. 'How is she forward?'

  'We're holed sir!' Bertram replied at once. 'We ran onto a pointed stake; the Burmese have staked the river here.'

  They feigned the attack with war boats to force us to move faster, so we did not see the stakes. Bo Ailgaliutlo is a subtle and dangerous man.

  'Half astern; fire both broadsides.' Marshall gave the order. 'Blast them with everything we have.' He raised his voice. 'Mr Windrush, keep your men firing if you will.'

  The roar of Serangipatam's weaponry interrupted Jack's reply. Each flare from the cannon muzzles revealed a vignette of the battle. Jack saw images of men of the 113th loading and firing, open mouths and moving hands, red jackets and concentrating faces. He saw seamen holding cannon balls or ramrods, clouds of white powder-smoke set against the black backdrop of night, spars and masts of Serangipatam ripped by Burmese musketry. And then, out of nowhere, a sea of tawny faces as a boatload of dacoits swarmed up the sides of the ship.

  'Cutlasses lads!' A lithe young lieutenant shouted as the vignettes merged into a tableau of violence and courage.

  'With me the 113th!' There was the shriek of steel as Jack drew his sword and dashed forward. 'Just use the bayonet lads! Don't shoot the bluejackets.'

  The Burmese on board surged toward the quarterdeck, slashing with their dhas in a silent frenzy as the 113th met them with bayonet, boot and musket butt. The naval officers gave sharp orders that drew the seamen together in a compact line; they drew their cutlasses and moved slowly forward, stamping, slashing, parrying and thrusting in a show of disciplined skill that Jack would have admired had he the time to watch.

  O'Neill lunged toward the groin of the first dacoit and when the man dropped his guard to defend himself, lifted the point of his bayonet and spitted him under the chin. 'And that's done for you!' he roared.

  Jack thrust at a fierce-eyed man in a large turban, missed and flinched as a dha hissed perilously close to his ear, recovered his aim and slashed instead, swore as the Burman parried, recovered and thrust at the man's stomach and saw him fall under the flailing butt of a British musket.

  'On me the 113th!'

  Then Serangipatam was moving faster, surging astern up the river and leaving the war-boats in her wake. Realising there was no hope of reinforcement from their fellows, the dacoits on board turned to flee, with redcoats and bluejackets cutting them down as they mounted the rail and jumped into the water.

  'Eradicate them, lads!' Lieutenant Hook must have been in his bunk for he was stark naked except for a belt as he swung at the dacoits with a cutlass, shouting encouragement to his seamen. 'Send them to Nirvana!'

  Within a few moments, the deck was clear of dacoits and the British stood in a panting, sweating group watching the few survivors swim out of the broken circle of light and vanish into the gloom. The silence was sudden and dense.

  'Roll call,' Jack shouted. 'Anybody hurt?' He saw Easterhouse crumpled on deck with blood around his thigh and his throat sliced open. Another of my men gone.

  Myat appeared amongst them, passing the seamen without a glance
. She looked at Wells, her eyebrows raised. Only when he nodded did she approach Jack. 'Are your men unhurt, Ensign Windrush?'

  Jack counted the 113th, 'one dead, all the others present and upright.'

  Myat looked around; her eyes flicked up and down the length of Hook's naked body and moved away.

  I wonder what that woman is thinking.

  'Get this rubbish off my deck, Lieutenant Bertram. I want all these bodies removed and the decks scrubbed of all blood.' Marshall's voice cut from the quarter-deck.

  'How about the wounded, sir? Shall we…'

  'Throw them overboard,' Marshall did not allow Bertram to finish his sentence. 'Lieutenant Hook: we are leaking forward where that stake penetrated: fix it. Lieutenant Sinclair, check for damage aloft. I heard something fall when we hit. Get it sorted. Lieutenant Buchanan, see to our casualties.' Marshall was fully dressed including a blue jacket tightly buttoned to the neck and his uniform cap square on his head. 'Stop engines. Ensign Windrush, position your men to guard the ship; I want no more dacoits on board.'

  With her engines stopped and anchors out, Serangipatam sat in the centre of the river, silent, licking her wounds as Bertram restored her circle of light. There was no sentiment as the seamen tossed the dacoits overboard, dealing with the wounded as casually as the dead and ignoring any pleas they may have made for mercy.

  'If they caught any of us,' Wells said, 'they would torture us to death. We are kinder than they are; remember what happened to Smithy or that lad on the raft.'

  Jack thought of the portraits on the wall in Wychwood Manor; generations of Windrushes looking noble in front of various battlefields. There was no romance in war on this frontier.

  Dawn brought the usual mist that hung low on the river and concealed the banks, so visibility was little better than at night. Jack positioned his men all around the ship and paced the deck in a non-stop circle as the morning sounds of birds increased, and the insects hummed and buzzed around his ears.

  'They'll be watching everything we do,' Wells thumbed the lock of his musket. He glanced toward the quarter-deck where Myat stood beside Marshall. 'I'll be happier once we are on the move again.'

  'At least we know we are on the right path,' Jack said. 'Bo Ailgaliutlo must be out of temper with us to risk a full- scale attack.'

  'It's unusual, sir' Wells agreed. 'I've never known a dacoit to attack a warship before, especially one with a military escort. I think this fellow is Burmese army rather than just a bandit.'

  'Slow ahead,' Marshall ordered. 'Take us to where we hit the stakes.' He stalked to the bow. 'Mr Hook, have you plugged that leak yet? Mr Sinclair, is all sorted aloft? Mr Buchanan, get the men to breakfast if you please.' He passed Jack without a word and peered into the mist. 'This muck will be clear within twenty minutes; I want to be on the move by then. Mr Bertram, when we reach the stakes, man the launch and check ahead; remove any obstacles you find. Windrush, you take the jolly boat and escort him.'

  Chapter Twelve

  Pegu Provence October 1852

  The jungle felt closer and even more menacing from a small boat in the open river. Jack fingered his revolver as Bertram slowly rowed forward, testing underneath the water with a long pole to search for stakes or other obstructions.

  'Here we are,' Bertram reported at once. 'They've staked the deep water channel.'

  'Mark the stakes with a flag,' Marshall shouted from the bow of Serangipatam. 'And secure a line around them.'

  Rough-hewn and pointed, the stakes protruded from the water in an irregular line, securely hammered into the bed of the river and lethal. Bertram stripped off and jumped in the river to tie a line around each. 'There are more stakes underwater,' he reported.

  Insects soon found the men in the boat, buzzing and biting despite any attempts to swat them.

  Hurry it along.

  Jack watched Bertram slide under water with a slender line. He looked around; the jungle crowded on them, overhanging trees seeming to invite agile dacoits to ambush them.

  'There are no drums,' Wells scanned the riverbanks. 'Why are they not taking advantage of us when we are static?'

  'Maybe we killed so many of them yesterday they have to regroup,' Jack hoped.

  Bertram surfaced with a surge of water and hauled himself on the boat. 'That's one' he handed the line to one of the seamen. 'Secure this to a stronger cable, Hughson.' He winked at Jack. 'Three more and we'll have a gap wide enough for old Seringy to pass through.'

  Taking another length of the thin line, he poised on the edge of the boat and dived in again. Green water surged and subsided. Jack watched his pale body under the surface for a moment and returned his attention to the river banks.

  'That's two,' Bertram was gasping when he emerged. He rested his arms on the side of the boat before pulling himself in. 'Two more to go.'

  'How's progress Lieutenant Bertram?' Marshall called.

  'Half way, sir,' Bertram replied. He jumped back in the water just as the first arrow thrummed into the wooden plank at Jack's side.

  'Where did that come from?' Jack eyed the imaginary shelter of the boat's low freeboard. He knew he could not duck in front of the men.

  'The left bank, sir,' Wells scanned the jungle. 'I can't see anyone.'

  Jack flinched as a blue-rumped parrot screeched above him. 'Keep alert,' he knew the order was superfluous.

  'Yes, sir.'

  The third arrow thumped into the prow of the boat an inch from a sailor.

  'There's only one archer I think,' Wells was as calm as if he was sitting in an English pub.

  'That's three done.' Bertram was gasping. He leaned on the gunwale for support. 'All right up here?'

  'All under control,' Jack told him. 'You get your breath back before you go back below.'

  'There he is!' Armstrong aimed and fired in the same instant, with the sound of the musket sending a hundred birds screaming from the trees.

  'What…?' Bertram looked his astonishment.

  'It's nothing for you to worry about, sir. You get a line on that last stake.' Jack ducked at the whistle of another arrow. 'Will somebody get that blasted archer?'

  This time the 113th was ready, and four muskets blasted in unison.

  'There he is,' Jack saw a flicker of movement in the trees, and shouted: 'don't shoot! It's only a boy!'

  'He's a dead boy!' Armstrong would have fired had Jack not grabbed the barrel of his musket.

  'I said hold your fire! We're not here to shoot children!' For a second the two men glared at each other, and then Armstrong dropped his eyes.

  'Sorry, sir.'

  Jack released the musket and pushed Armstrong away. 'Try and get that line done quickly, Bertram, could you?'

  Bertram submerged with a swirl. The 113th scanned the jungle.

  'Wells: shout out that we are friends. If he does not fire, neither will we.' Jack took a deep breath and stood upright. 'You men keep down.'

  'I don't know how to say that, sir,' Wells said, 'but I'll do my best.' He stood beside Jack and shouted: 'twé-yá-da wùn-tha-ba-deh,'and then lowered his voice. 'I think that means good to meet you, sir.'

  'Now get down, Sergeant.' Jack remained standing until Bertram surfaced.

  'Get back on board,' Marshall ordered, 'and get some clothes on Bertram. You're a naval officer.'

  Bertram scrambled hastily into his uniform as sailors passed the line from the stakes to Serangipatam. 'Get us back to the ship, lads.'

  'Half astern,' Marshall ordered as soon as they stepped aboard.

  Serangipatam steamed astern with a great rush of water breaking creamy brown along the river bank. Jack joined the men in the bow as the cable tautened then began to vibrate.

  'Nothing's happening, sir,' Sinclair reported.

  The river at Serangipatam's counter churned into a creamy froth as her engines strained and then all four stakes leapt out of the water and floated, double pointed and barbed half way down the length.

  'Halt engines,' Marshall ordered qui
etly. 'Quarter speed ahead; Bertram, put a leadsman in the bows.'

  'That's one more advantage of a screw steamer over sail,' Bertram was grinning. 'If we were only sail powered we would have had much more difficulty with these stakes.' He gestured toward the banks of the river. 'These Burmese won't understand how we can go back and forward at will without using oars or the wind or even the river current. It will be like magic to them.'

  Jack looked to the dense foliage that crowded each bank of the river. 'Even so,' he said, 'it was a well- worked ambush, and they pressed forward well. Bo Ailgaliutlo knows his business.'

  Bertram winked. 'Aye he does,' he said, 'but so does Commander Marshall. The dacoit chief has met his match this time. The commander will hunt him down and drag him back to Moulmein in chains, or hang him from a convenient tree.'

  A few weeks ago Jack would have been surprised to hear such bloodthirsty sentiments from a fresh faced youth like Bertram, but the reality of war on the frontier had hardened him. Death and disease and the slaughter of innocents had stripped away childish illusions.

  'Best thing for renegades and dacoits,' Jack agreed. He fingered the golden Buddhas in the pockets of his shell jacket. It was as well Bo Ailgaliutlo did not organise an ambush where that young archer had been.

  Marshall had not shifted from the poop. 'Sinclair, put a scout boat a cable's length in front to watch for stakes and other obstacles.' He pushed his cap square on his head. 'Keep your men alert, Windrush.'

  'Yes, sir.' Jack saw the figure standing static on the branch. At first, he thought it was part of the tree, and then he focussed. It was a youth, perhaps fourteen years old and so covered in tattoos that it was hard to see where the boy ended and the tree began. As soon as Jack saw him, the boy backed off a pace and sped up a creeper so fast that Jack found it hard to follow him.

  'Was that a monkey, sir?' Thorpe had seen the movement.

  'Something like that,' Jack said. He had seen that tattooed boy before: Bo Ailgaliutlo had sent a spy and knew exactly what they were doing.

  Progress slowed to a crawl as they inched up the river, with the oarsmen replaced every two hours and the soldiers every four. There were no more attacks that day, no sound of drums, nothing except the constant swish of the river, the natural sounds of birds and the ever-present hum of insects.