Windrush (Jack Windrush Book 1)

by Malcolm Archibald

  'Bo Ailgaliutlo may wish to negotiate a surrender,' Jack ventured.

  'There will be no negotiation. Bo what's-his-name threw that card in the fire when he murdered my men.' Marshall fixed Jack with a poisonous glare. 'You'd do well to attend to your own business, Ensign, and leave the important decisions to your superiors.' He turned on his heel and marched away, erect and unapproachable.

  Jack nodded after his retreating form. 'Yes, sir,' he said and returned to his small command.

  'Take plenty water,' he reminded Wells, who nodded.

  'We will, sir.'

  'How much ammunition do we have left?' Jack asked.

  'Ninety- two rounds per man, sir.' Trust Wells to know exactly. 'We have one man sick and all the rest fit and able to fight.' He stood at attention.

  'Who's sick?' Jack asked, 'I wager it's Thorpe.'

  'Not this time sir; it's Knight. He's down with fever.' Wells unbent a little. 'It's genuine sir. We've been lucky so far; the last time I campaigned in these parts we lost about seven- tenths of the men through disease and most of the rest were sick at one time or other.'

  'Very well, leave him behind.' Jack decided. 'Give him twenty rounds of ammunition and distribute the rest among the men.'

  Marshall had his bluejackets well trained. They used winches and pulleys to hoist both the ship's six pounders into the long boat and rowed ashore, where Jack's 113th provided a guard for a bridgehead that expanded hourly. It only took six hours to land the expedition; forty men from Serangipatam, seven of the 113th and the officers, with Hook left reluctantly behind with orders to guard against Burmese attack.

  'I will come too, sahib.' Jack had almost forgotten about the efficient Ranveer, but now he touched the hilt of the tulwar he always wore. 'One sword may make all the difference.'

  'You were a warrior were you not?' Jack asked.

  'I was a soldier of the Khalsa,' Ranveer confirmed.

  Can I trust him? It is only a few years since we fought two very sanguine wars against the Sikhs. What if he harbours resentment against us? What if he was the traitor and not Myat?

  'Guard my back,' Jack decided to take the chance. 'This could be a bloody affair.'

  Ranveer's grin reached his eyes.

  At the riverbank all was hustle with some seamen fitting drag-ropes to the guns, others checking knots or piling up stores and a working party headed by the ship's corporal hacking out the beginning of a road into the jungle.

  'Do we know how far this stockade is, sir?' Jack approached Marshall.

  'Of course, I know.' Marshall was not pleased with the question. 'My informant at the last village was very specific about the location.'

  'May I ask how far, sir?' Jack glanced back at Serangipatam. She floated twenty yards off the bank, festooned with boarding nets, her funnel stark and useless with no engineer to work the engines. Bo Ailgaliutlo had deprived them of their chief advantage in one night; he might well have other surprises ready.

  'Less than a mile,' Marshall unbent a little. 'We should reach it this evening, take it tomorrow and be back on board the next day.'

  Jack phrased his next question carefully. 'Do you wish me to scout ahead, sir?'

  'Devil take your impudence!' Marshall shook his head. 'I said I knew where the stockade is, Ensign. I want you to ensure your men fight when ordered.'

  'Yes, sir.' Jack stiffened to attention. 'They will fight, sir.'

  'Best not ask the Commander too many questions,' Bertram advised quietly. 'He likes to keep things close to his chest.'

  'So I see.' Jack said. He indicated the bustle on the riverbank 'but why is Bo Ailgaliutlo allowing us to land in peace? He could have harassing parties out shooting at our sentries and disrupting our movements. If I were him, I would make our life very difficult.'

  Bertram shrugged. 'These Oriental fellows think differently from us. Maybe it's Ramadan or some other festival. Maybe they think their stockade is too strong. Maybe they just cannot be bothered.' He shook his head. 'Whatever the reason, it's better for us and so much the worse for them.'

  It was early afternoon before the expedition set off from the riverbank. A dozen seamen in white shirts and trousers led the way, protected from the sun by straw hats and from the dacoits by four soldiers of the 113th. They hacked out a path for the two six-pounders with cutlasses and cursing effort. The cannon were next, hauled by sheer muscle power along the very rough track with two more soldiers as an escort. The remainder of the seamen followed with Marshall at their head and Armstrong as rearguard. Jack remembered the artillery needed to reduce the White House Picket and thought it a small enough force to try and reduce a Burmese stockade in the middle of the forest.

  'Haul away lads!' Bertram ordered. He lent his wiry strength weight to the ropes. 'Keep these guns moving!'

  The presence of so much sweating humanity attracted insects, so the British moved at the centre of a host of biting, stinging creatures that no amount of swatting and arm waving discouraged.

  'Bloody mosquitoes,' Coleman swore in frustration.

  'They like you,' O'Neill told him. 'The more that bite you, the less that come to me!'

  Progress was slow, with the cutlass men having to be replaced every half hour as they toiled in the heat and Jack moving around his men in a constant circle.

  'Is everything all right sergeant?' Jack slapped at a mosquito that probed at his neck. The jungle was dense here with bushes wrestling each other for the filtered light, creepers choking the trunks of trees and undergrowth hiding God-only-knew-what horrors.

  Wells was in advance of the others, peering forward. 'Everything is in order, sir,' he reported. 'This jungle lasts for another hundred yards or so and then there is a bit of a maidan.'

  'Any sign of the Burmese?'

  'Nary a trace sir. They are as quiet as the grave.' Wells wiped the sweat from his forehead. 'Shall I scout past the maidan, sir?'

  'Commander Marshall does not wish that, Sergeant.' Jack said, 'so we just press on.'

  Wells nodded. 'Very good sir.' Only an experienced sergeant could say one thing while a slight inflexion of tone indicated the exact opposite.

  The Burmese appeared to have vanished as the British hacked at trees and vegetation that all shed their quota of insect life onto cursing seamen and hauled guns that were reluctant to move on the yielding ground. Life was a nightmare of gasping, muscle-wrenching effort, biting insects and cursing men.

  Jack only saw the stealthy movement because he was looking exactly in the right place. He started at the gleam of dark eyes; the boy looked at him briefly and vanished among the vegetation, hidden by his tattoos.

  'Keep watch, men,' Jack said. 'The dacoits are watching us.' He loosened his revolver in its holster.

  'I wager they have all fled,' O'Neill pushed aside a tree bough and cursed as a giant spider scurried over his boots. 'They must hear us coming, and they've run.'

  'Nah,' Coleman stamped at the spider, missed and nearly overbalanced. 'They're waiting for us in their nice fort, all comfortable and safe while we wear ourselves out here.'

  That tattooed boy is one of Bo Ailgaliutlo's followers. Why don't they attack while we are vulnerable?

  'Sir!' Wells' salute was not as precise as normal. 'We've reached the maidan, sir.'

  The sun was in the west, the colour of burnished brass as it scorched the earth below. Swathed in tall yellow grass, the maidan stretched on either side of the toiling British, as far as the jungle covered Pegu Yoma range to the south and another forest belt on the east. In front, it reached for perhaps a mile, when it ended at a small knoll backed by dark green bamboo.

  The knoll stood alone, bare of trees in its lower slopes and crowned with a stockade, topped with a huge flag.

  'There we are then.' Wells' voice was quiet. 'Now we can see them, and they can see us.'

  That's the lair of Bo Ailgaliutlo. If we can destroy this place, then I can rejoin the main force.

  'It's a relief to get out of that blessed jungle.
' Bertram wiped sweat from his face. 'And in the open, we have all the advantages.' He grinned, 'the dacoits should have attacked us back there; they have missed their chance.'

  Jack thought of that tattooed boy. 'They know we are here,' he said softly.

  'Form a column!' Marshall gave orders. 'Windrush, throw your men out as skirmishers to guard the flanks. Push on men; I want the guns in position by nightfall.'

  With sweat discolouring their white clothes, the seamen mustered a mighty cheer and continued their labours, hauling at the heavy guns. The cutlass men joined them, so despite the waist high grass, they made faster progress across the flat terrain.

  'How do we set about reducing a fort?' Bertram asked.

  Jack remembered the manuals he had read on his journey to India. 'We aim at the bottom of the wall and gradually work upward,' he said.

  'That sounds easy enough!' Bertram patted the breech of the nearest gun.

  'Listen, sir.' Wells reported. 'The dacoits have woken up.'

  The drums started softly, a background throb that Jack barely noticed, and then increased to a roar that surrounded the small British force as they crawled across that sun-roasted grassy plain.

  'Sir! They're behind us!' There was fear in Thorpe's eyes as he ran to report.

  Jack glanced back. A score of black jacketed men stood at the fringe of the jungle they had so recently left.

  'Thank you Thorpe; now get back to your place. Do nothing unless they attack.'

  'Can I fire at them, sir?'

  'Only if an officer or Sergeant Wells gives permission,' Jack was moving even as he spoke. The column was barely a hundred yards long, with the cannon in front and men with ammunition and stores in the centre. The handful of 113th was hard pressed to cover all angles.

  'Over there, sir, on the fringes of the jungle.' Thorpe's finger shook as he pointed.

  The breast high grass made observation difficult, but Jack guessed there were around twenty Burmese standing in a tight knot around a tall man in a spiked helmet.

  'I see them,' Jack said. 'Keep an eye on them, Thorpe. If they look dangerous, let me know.'

  'They look dangerous now, sir,' Thorpe levelled his musket. 'Permission to fire, sir?'

  'No,' Jack pushed the barrel of his musket down. 'Not unless they threaten us. For all we know, they are from a friendly village just having a look to see who we are.'

  The column pushed slowly on, yard after hard-won yard with the wheels of the cannon crushing the grass and seamen and soldiers looking around, hands wary on cutlass and musket. Insects clouded around them, biting viciously

  'In front, sir,' Wells reported. 'Burmese.'

  There was another party of about a dozen men, watching them.

  'Give them a hail, Sergeant. Ask what they want.' Jack had to raise his voice above the roar of the drums.

  'Yes, sir.' Wells took a deep breath of the humid air and shouted something that Jack could not translate. There was no response.

  'Keep an eye on them,' Jack advised, 'but don't fire unless they threaten us.'

  There was another party on the right flank, watching but not interfering as the column moved closer to the stockade.

  'They're everywhere, sir,' Thorpe's voice rose.

  'They're only dacoits; we are British soldiers. Pull yourself together, man!'

  'This will do,' Marshall gave a sudden crisp order. 'Set up the guns Bertram. I want both ready to fire within an hour. We'll have British colours flying above this stockade by nightfall tomorrow.'

  Jack saw the puff of smoke from the stockade an instant before he heard the crack of the gun. 'That's the party opened,' he said.

  'Four pounder,' Bertram gave his professional opinion, 'and very short.'

  'Fire as soon as you are able,' Marshall gave a laconic order. 'Windrush; guard the flanks and rear; leave the front to us.'

  The second Burmese shot slammed into the ground fifty yards to their left and the third thirty yards to their right.

  'They've only got one gun, and a cock-eyed gunner,' Wells spat his contempt on the ground. 'We might take this place after all.' He looked skyward. 'The drums have stopped, sir.'

  Jack nodded; the silence of the drums had not registered with him, but now he realised they had been quiet since the cannon had fired. 'Maybe the same man fires the cannon and beats the drums,' he said.

  'That will be it, sir,' Wells agreed.

  Bertram had both cannon pointing toward the stockade, three hundred yards distant and rising eighteen feet above the grass.

  'Aim for the main gate,' Marshall ordered. 'We've no ladders, so we won't go over the wall.' He narrowed his eyes. 'Hurry it up, Bertram and we might get this over before dark today. I don't expect much resistance from a bunch of dacoits.'

  'Load!' Bertram ordered, 'and allow me to aim.' He supervised his gunners like a father with a brood of children, tutting and cajoling and double –checking all that they did. 'Good man; well done. Now fire; fire!'

  The double report echoed around the maidan, with the muzzle flare scorching the grass immediately in front of the guns.

  'Reload!' Bertram yelled as the whole British camp stared at the stockade to see the fall of shot.

  'Too far to the right,' Marshall used his telescope to observe. 'Two points to port, Bertram, and you've got him.'

  'Permission to fire sir?' Thorpe's voice rose to a panic stricken squeak. 'Burmese; hundreds of them!'

  Jack ran to the rear. Thorpe's hundreds numbered about twenty, advancing at speed from the jungle toward the small British force. Unlike the soldiers at Rangoon, they wore no uniform, only a variety of small turbans and loin cloths or longyis.

  'Fire, lads,' he said, 'and keep firing until they run.' He showed the way by emptying his revolver into the mass. He did not see the result as he bent his head to reload, snapping cartridges into the small chambers of his revolver. He dropped one, stooped to retrieve it from the ground and straightened up again. The firing had stopped.

  'Why are you not firing, Thorpe?'

  'They've gone sir,' Thorpe said. 'All of them.'

  The maidan to the rear was empty; the Burmese had vanished. The British were alone.

  'They might have just gone to ground; keep your eyes open.' Jack swore when musketry began on the right flank. He ran round there, to see O'Neill reloading. 'What happened here O'Neill?'

  'It might have been a probe sir, but I thought it best to let them know we were awake.' Both men flinched as Bertram's cannon roared out again, followed quickly by a reply from the stockade.

  'How many Burmese were there?'

  O'Neill screwed up his face in thought. 'Not sure, sir. They moved around a lot, bounding and bobbing. There might have been fifteen or maybe a score. No more than that.'

  The Burmese are probing our defences; they'll try the left next.

  There was only a single musket shot from the left, then a volley, followed by an irregular crackle. Jack arrived as Graham unsheathed his bayonet. 'Where are you going, Graham?'

  'After they dacoity buggers, sir. Them's the ones that murdered Lacey.'

  'Lacey's not dead,' Jack looked around.

  'They shot him, sir,' Graham clicked the bayonet in place. 'I'm going after the bastards.'

  'You'll stay put!' Jack said. He saw Lacey lying on the ground with his eyes wide open and half his chest blown away. 'What happened?'

  'They appeared from nowhere sir, one rose out of the ground and shot him and then more came and they all shot at Lacey and all ran away. I fired after them.'

  Another man gone; they are killing my men off one by one and testing us. Rear and both flanks; they are harassing us.

  'How many were there, Graham?'

  Graham took a deep breath and tried to concentrate. 'I don't know sir. Ten or so.'

  'Well, they've gone now. Keep a good look out.'

  There was another double bark from the cannon, another reply from the Burmese, and a wild cheer from the seamen as pieces flew from the gate of the
stockade. Once again, the dacoit's shot fell short.

  'Good shot, sir! That was a six if ever I saw one!' Sinclair shouted.

  Jack nodded. 'Try again, Bertram!'

  'Silence!' Marshall snapped the word. 'You are British seamen, not schoolchildren. Keep firing Lieutenant Bertram. I expect a hit every time, not one hit in every half-dozen attempts.'

  The drumming began again, low and ominous.

  'They like their music,' O'Neill said and ignored Marshall's stare.

  'What's that?' Coleman pointed to movement in the distance.

  'It looks like cavalry,' O'Neill said. 'I didn't know the Burmese had cavalry.'

  Cavalry; the word spread around the British force; and every face turned towards this new threat.

  'Keep your positions,' Jack ordered. He stepped beyond the pickets. Colourful in the distance, the Burmese cavalry loomed above the grass. With the heat and their constant movement, it was hard to estimate numbers, but Jack guessed about fifty, perhaps more. They looked lithe and efficient, with long lances and light coloured uniforms.

  'Deal with them, Windrush,' Marshall ordered. 'Bertram, hurry along with that gate. I want it destroyed, not tickled.'

  'Aye, aye, sir,' Bertram said.

  Deal with them? I only have a handful of men!

  'Right lads' Jack gave swift orders. 'Thorpe; watch the rear, Armstrong, take the left flank, all the rest come with me.'

  I have five men to face an unknown number of cavalry which could be very good or very poor.

  'Sergeant Wells; what are Burmese cavalry like?'

  'Cassey Horse,' Wells screwed his face up. 'I hear they are well disciplined and ferocious when they think they are winning, but not so good when things go against them.'

  'Well then, let's see if we can make things go against them. Form a line and follow me.' Jack made a swift decision that went against the very first maxim when facing cavalry. I should form a square and wait for them but how can I do that with only a handful of men?

  The grass swished beneath their feet and tangled around knees and ankles, so Coleman stumbled and swore. As they moved, the cavalry advanced toward them with both forces converging in the maidan, while the cannon roared behind them and white powder smoke hung low and acrid.