'Put on your percussion caps,' Jack ordered quietly. He felt the tension mount. This would be an unrecognised skirmish in an unknown sideshow in a minor war. There was no glory here if he won and a sordid, forgotten death if he lost. Above them a pair of vultures circled, sensing death.
'Keep in line and march slowly,' Jack had heard of some regiments which could fire and march simultaneously, but he had not trained his men to do that. 'When we are at a hundred paces, we will halt and fire a volley.'
He could see the Burmese clearly now; they were watching the advance of this small handful of British soldiers with more curiosity than aggression, speaking to one another and pointing without fear.
'Halt!' Jack ordered, and added, 'dress the line, sergeant.'
By God, if I am to die out here I want to die like a soldier.
'Present!'
Five muskets clicked into place.
'Fire!'
Four muskets fired; Coleman swore. 'Mine misfired, sir!'
'Reload; Coleman, draw that charge.'
One of the horsemen had gone down in a kicking mess of horse and man. The others had halted as if they could not believe the effrontery of such a small number of men in attacking them.
Jack felt the heat like a great weight pressing on him. He wiped away the sweat that formed on his eyebrows and dripped across his eyes.
'Present: fire!'
Another horseman fell; the others wheeled about and withdrew. The downed horse kicked and screamed. Three more vultures joined the circling pair.
'Back we go men,' Jack felt a mixture of elation, relief and confusion.
Why did they not ride forward and wipe us out? The enemy is throwing away their advantage.
The cannon roared again as they returned. 'That's the gateway heavily damaged sir,' Bertram reported. 'Four direct hits.'
Commander Marshall opened his telescope and examined the stockade. 'That's our way in then. Fire another two rounds, and then everybody double forward. We'll have that place under control before night.'
'What about the guns, sir?' Bertram asked. 'If we leave them unattended, the Burmese will take them.'
'The Burmese will be too busy running away from us to even think about a couple of stray cannon,' Marshall said.
'But the cavalry, sir,' Bertram was obviously concerned about his guns.
'Our soldiers chased them away. You saw them flee. My orders stand; get your men ready for the assault, Lieutenant Bertram.' Marshall pointed to Jack. 'Windrush; you lead the attack. Head directly for the gate and don't stop for casualties. And if there is any of that Chillianwalla nonsense I will personally shoot you like a dog and hang your men. Do you understand?'
Jack nodded, 'oh, indeed sir. The 113th will take the position of honour while you stay behind us.' The words were out before he could restrain them.
'You impudent blaggard!' For a moment Jack thought Marshall was about to hit him, but the commander restrained his temper. 'I'll report you to your commanding officer, Windrush. You have not heard the last of this, by God! Attend to your duty, Windrush.'
'Yes, sir.' Jack said.
'You've not heard the last of this by God,' O'Neill quietly repeated Marshall's words in a high-pitched tone. 'That's the first time I've heard an officer speaking up for the 113th, sir.'
I should not encourage other ranks to speak against their superiors but damn it; these men have not put a foot wrong.
'We are all 113th, O'Neill, but I am not proud of what I said.'
'That's all right, sir, I'll be proud for you.'
'And me too,' Coleman added. 'Bloody John Company tarry-arses!'
'Enough now!' Jack quietened them down, 'get yourselves ready for the assault. Now we have to show these bluejackets how to fight.' He raised his voice. 'Forward the 113th!'
'Jesus in Heaven, was Rangoon not enough?' Thorpe muttered, hesitated a little and followed the rest.
The men lurched forward, musket in hand, bayonets fixed, heads bowed as an instinctive subconscious means of protection against the musketry, jingal balls and cannonade expected from the stockade walls.
'Don't linger, boys; we're the 113th. Let's show these John Company people what real soldiers can do: charge!' It was the first time that Jack had used that word in earnest. He ran forward, increasing the length of his stride as the musketry began from the stockade. He saw long spurts of white smoke and heard the whizz and thump of balls on the ground. It did not matter; he was in command, he could not be touched: he was invulnerable.
'Charge!'
The remains of the gateway were directly ahead, gaping open as the artillery had left only fragments of wood hanging from shreds of what had once been the hinges.
'Cavalry! The cavalry are behind us!' Jack heard the panic in the shout and looked over his shoulder.
The Cassey Horse had moved across the maidan and had formed into three long lines behind the advancing British. They rode at a trot with their lances held low, like mediaeval knights. Long grass concealed the legs of their horses, so they looked deformed, horse heads and the top half of men floating above a yellow-brown cloud, yelling some Burmese war cry.
'Sir: there's infantry on the flanks as well. They've cut off our retreat!' O'Neill pointed to the side. The maidan was alive with Burmese infantry, moving through the long grass on either side of the small British force.
Coleman wavered; he half turned, until Wells pushed him onward.
'Forward Coleman! There's nowhere to go, lad. Our only chance is to take the stockade. Charge, man, charge!'
'Come on the 113th!' Feeling very melodramatic, Jack drew his sword and rushed on. He had been born to soldier; fighting was the day-dream that had occupied many of his childhood hours, leading his regiment in a death-or-glory charge toward the enemy.
The gateway was thirty yards ahead; twenty; ten; Jack could see the interior of the stockade with half a dozen Burmese watching the British charge. He heard Wells roaring a challenge, heard O'Neill whooping like an Irish banshee, heard Coleman repeating the same obscene word again and again, and then the ground opened underneath him, and he was falling, to land with a terrible thump. There was excruciating pain in his left leg, and other bodies were landing beside him; somebody was screaming in terrible agony, Wells was shouting something he could not understand, and the entire world had changed.
Chapter Fourteen
Pegu Province: November to December 1852
For a long time, the pain dominated Jack's life. He closed his eyes and fought the scream that he wanted to emit, but knew he could not. All his life he had been trained to control his emotions, as a British gentleman should. His mother – or the cold-eyed woman he had thought of as his mother - had taught him never to react to pain by inflicting more of the same, which was a lesson reinforced at the boarding school where he had suffered his childhood and youthful years.
Jack dragged back these lessons now and put the pain into perspective. There was more than one pain; there was the overall mental pain of defeat, and there was the single sharp agony in his left thigh. It was that latter pain that he found hard to control; it was that pain he had to identify and ease, or at least understand.
He looked around. He was one of three people inside the defensive pit, a hole with pointed stakes pointing upward for the attackers to fall on; a trou de loup as the technical experts would term it. The Burmese had camouflaged their trap with mats of dry grass, and he had led the 113th straight in. Coleman was on his left, lying on his side with blood on his head, and Graham, screaming with a pointed stake through his groin and another deep in his chest. Jack looked at his thigh; the point of the stake had gone straight through and out the other side. The pain came in waves. His sword lay between the stakes, the ineffectual glitter of its blade mocking him.
Oh dear God, we are at the mercy of Bo Ailgaliutlo. Instead of bringing honour and glory to the 113th I have led them to another defeat. The Curse of the 113th.
The desultory firing ceased, in its place c
ame Burmese voices and high pitched laughter. When Jack looked up a circle of Burmese faces peered down at him, somebody pointed and laughed, and three wiry men in loincloths and brief turbans jumped into the pit. They ignored the British soldiers and lifted the muskets and Jack's sword, which they tossed up to their companions.
Two men stood over Graham, who continued to scream high pitched. One Burmese with a deep gouge down his face sat on him, so he slid further onto the stake, while the other laughed at the renewed screams.
'You filthy bastards!' Jack gasped, 'torturing an injured man! You dirty hounds!'
Leaving Graham, the dacoits stepped to Jack and stared at him. One kicked his injured leg while the other fingered his uniform.
'British officer,' Jack said. 'Leave my men alone!'
The two Burmese spoke again, ignoring Graham and the stake that was thrust through Jack's leg until Graham gave a long gurgling moan. Jack became aware of a man on the lip of the pit watching everything that happened. He wore a faded red jacket, but it was the eyes that were familiar.
'Halloa!' Jack heard the catch in his voice. 'Are you Bo Ailgaliutlo, the Englishman?'
The man in the red jacket looked at him but said nothing.
'Help Private Graham,' Jack said, 'he is badly wounded and needs attention. He cannot harm you in his condition. Please.' He found it difficult to be polite to a renegade and enemy to his country, but Graham was one of his men. 'Please, Bo Ailgaliutlo.'
The man in the red coat said something and one of the Burmese in the pit drew his dha and stepped toward Graham.
'No!' Jack shouted, 'help him!'
The man looked directly at Jack, and then pulled back Graham's head, so his throat was bare and slowly, deliberately cut his throat. Graham gurgled as the blood poured out of him.
'You dirty murdering bastard!' Jack tried to wriggle free of the stake but the pain intensified and he shrank back, swearing. Bo Ailgaliutlo watched expressionlessly from above, then spoke again and pointed to Jack. The Burmese with the dha stepped forward and grabbed hold of Jack's hair.
'Let go!' Jack swung a punch. He knew it was unavailing, but he was determined not to make it easy for them.
So this is how I die; murdered in a stinking pit in Burma by a dacoit. No glory and no honour, no brave last stand around the colours, no medals and no admiring witnesses. Sordid, dirty and unknown, here dies Jack Windrush: unwanted bastard.
'You leave Ensign Windrush be!' Jack was unaware that Coleman was conscious. 'I said, you leave Ensign Windrush be, you dirty Burmese devils!'
Bo Ailgaliutlo said one word and held up a hand. The Burmese knifeman paused. Bo Ailgaliutlo spoke again, and the knifeman put his dha away.
'What is your name?' Bo Ailgaliutlo spoke with difficulty as if he found the words painful to use.
'Ensign Jack Windrush of the 113th Regiment of Foot,' Jack said. 'And this is Private John Coleman of the same regiment. The wounded soldier your brute so foully murdered was Private Henry Graham…'
'He was dying in great pain,' Bo Ailgaliutlo said slowly. 'My man did him a great service by killing him. He would have lingered for hours with no hope of survival.' He changed to Burmese again, giving sharp orders.
The Burmese crowded around Jack and examined the stake through his thigh.
'What are you going to do?' Jack asked.
They ignored him, grabbed the stake and ripped it bodily out of the ground. Jack screamed, and yelled again when they hoisted him between them and dragged him to the surface.
Control yourself; British officers do not show pain.
Bo Ailgaliutlo looked closely into Jack's face, nodded and gave more orders.
Jack bit deep into his lip as the Burmese laid him on face up on the ground. Bo Ailgaliutlo stood over him as they brandished a dha and put it to his groin.
So now I am to be tortured. Well, I know nothing of any use to anybody.
One of the Burmese patted his pockets as expertly as any London pickpocket. He said something to his companion, thrust his hand in deep and came out holding one of Jack's golden Buddhas. They laughed and ransacked Jack's clothes, removing both Buddhas and Jack's pocket-book.
'So you've been looting have you?' Bo Ailgaliutlo shook his head. He held out his hand and took the Buddhas and the wallet. Flicking through the pocket-book, he tossed all the coins and bank notes to the Burmese. 'I'll look through your papers later, Ensign,' he said and spoke to his followers.
The Burman sliced open Jack's trousers from waistband to ankles and pulled them away, and then Bo Ailgaliutlo tied a tourniquet around his upper thigh.
'This will hurt,' he said, and held Jack down while the Burmese pushed the stake right through his leg and out the other side.
Jack heard himself scream and then merciful unconsciousness released him from pain.
He opened his eyes. There was mottled sunlight through darkness and the sound of rustling. Pain: always pain, in everything he did there was pain. He looked around. He was in a large wooden hut with a roof of thatch through which sun seeped in motte-filled bars. Pain. There were other people there, men, some of whom he recognised, others he did not.
'The officer's awake.' That was Thorpe's voice.
'Welcome back, sir.' There was dried blood caked from O'Neill's head to his chin, and his uniform was torn across the breast. 'You've been out for two days, near as I can judge.'
'Where are we?' Jack's head thumped with every word while both legs were ablaze with agony. He looked down; he was lying on his back, chained by the wrists to a long pole and with his bare legs raised above his head and fastened to another pole. There was a mess of leaves and ripe bananas on the wound in his thigh from where the worst pain throbbed around his body.
'In some prison hut, sir,' O'Neill said. 'A lot of the lads are here but not all. Some of the sailor boys are here as well.'
Jack closed his eyes and allowed the pain to wash over him.
I am a prisoner of the Burmese. I have led my men to defeat and disaster. I am a failure as an officer.
'Roll call,' Jack heard the strain in his voice. 'Let's see who is here.' He heard his voice as a croak. 'Sergeant Wells: call the roll if you please.'
There was silence for a moment before O'Neill spoke again. 'Beg pardon sir, but the sergeant did not make it. He's not here, sir.'
Wells dead! That wise, subtle, cunning veteran killed.
'How did he die?' Jack asked.
'I don't know sir.' O'Neill shook his head.
'Does anybody know?'
Nobody knew. Nobody had seen him fall. Thorpe and Armstrong had survived, with O'Neill and Coleman, but all the others of the 113th were gone. The seamen had also suffered casualties, with officers as well as men falling before Burmese shot and blades. There were only forty prisoners in that hut, some wounded and all despondent.
'Not the best day, then,' Bertram's voice sounded from the far corner of the hut. 'I saw the Commander taken, so he's still alive, but I don't know where. Old Sinclair is dead though. One of the cavalrymen spitted him clean.'
'So what happens now?' Lieutenant Buchanan asked weakly. In common with all the others, he was chained on his back. He rattled his chains in despair.
'We have two choices,' Jack said. 'Either we sit and wait for rescue, or we try and get out of here ourselves.'
'Let's hope that Lieutenant Hook had the sense to get back down to Rangoon,' Bertram said. 'Even without engines he should be there within a week or ten days, and there could be a relief column up within a month at the most.'
'A month!' Buchanan lifted his feet, so the chains rattled. 'I can't stand a month like this.'
'Hopefully, they'll come before that,' Jack said. He looked up as the door opened and two Burmese entered, escorting Bo Ailgaliutlo between them.
'You are Windrush,' Bo Ailgaliutlo did not waste time.
'I am Ensign Jack Windrush of the 113th Foot,' Jack agreed.
Bo Ailgaliutlo nodded. 'Are you any relation to Major William Windrush?'
'General William Windrush was my father,' Jack lifted his chin.
Bo Ailgaliutlo stepped back slightly. 'So he made General rank did he, and you are his pup.' He leaned closer, his eyes china-blue and laughing. 'You may be useful as a bargaining token, later.'
'You knew my father did you, you traitorous blackguard,' Jack's tongue betrayed him once more.
'I knew of him,' Bo Ailgaliutlo did not seem concerned by the insult. 'I am surprised you are in the 113th. That family always served in the Royal Malverns.' He nodded to the Burmese and snapped an order that saw Jack released and dragged out of the hut with his leg trailing behind him. He yelled once and bit his lip against the pain.
'Keep your chin up, Windrush!' Bertram shouted.
'Don't you hurt the Ensign you dirty bastards!' Coleman added but chained as they were, the 113th could do nothing but shout encouragement as Jack was dragged out. They were in a group of huts within the walls of the stockade, with groups of Burmese men and women walking around, some armed, others not. A few stopped to watch him.
'You treasonous blackguard,' Jack tried to ignore the shooting agony of his injured leg. 'As soon as General Godwin hears about this he'll send a relief column and destroy your fort and all your men. You'll hang, Bo Ailgaliutlo.'
'I very much doubt that Ensign Windrush,' Bo Ailgaliutlo said dryly. He said something in Burmese and the two silent guards pulled Jack to a line of upright poles set in the centre of the stockade. 'How will the good general find out when we have captured your lovely little boat?'
Jack felt the nausea rise within him as he saw that there was a man tied to each pole. 'Dear God,' he said, 'what have you done to them?'
'We killed them,' Bo Ailgaliutlo said.
'You barbarian; you murdering dog!' Jack recognised the first mutilated body as Lieutenant Hook and the second as what remained of Knight. After that he stopped looking for all the men had been sliced and hacked to death.
'Barbarian?' Bo Ailgaliutlo shrugged. 'That is entirely possible, Ensign, but only a moment ago you threatened my men and me with hanging, while your Sergeant Wells tortured a wounded prisoner; the kettle and the pot are both black in wartime, my upstanding gentlemanly friend.'
Windrush (Jack Windrush Book 1) Page 20
