Windrush (Jack Windrush Book 1)

by Malcolm Archibald

  And Myat? Where were Myat and Ranveer?

  'Did you kill everybody on board?' Jack asked.

  'Not everybody; we are not as ruthless as the British.' Bo Ailgaliutlo did not elaborate. He spoke again in Burmese, and his men pulled Jack inside a small hut. They proved their experience in this sort of operation when they chained Jack to a log with a few skilful moves and stood back.

  'Now, I have two hostages,' Bo Ailgaliutlo pointed to the far corner of the hut, 'and I only need one. Which of you will I keep alive and which will I give to my men, or my women, to dispose of?'

  'Damn you, you murdering traitor,' Jack said. He peered into the far corner of the hut. Commander Marshall lay on the ground, securely tied down.

  What do I do now? We are prisoners of a renegade in the heart of Burma. The Burmese have captured my ship, and all my men are dead or prisoner. Yet Bo Ailgaliutlo knows my family and to judge by his accent; he is well educated. He was no private soldier; he was a sergeant at least, or perhaps a gentleman ranker.

  'Is that you Windrush?' Despite his predicament, Marshall's voice was as acidic as ever. 'Damn you for an incompetent buffoon! I sent you to chase the cavalry away, and they merely circled us. I sent you to make a path for the main assault force, and you immediately fall into a ditch.'

  Jack did not try to contain his tongue. 'The whole affair was pointless, sir, attacking a stockade with a handful of men and two small cannon.'

  'You give me impudence, Windrush! I will put that in my report, depend on it. Your career is at an end now for nobody will employ you after this little fiasco.'

  Does this man realise he is a prisoner?

  'Both our careers could be at an end, sir if Bo Ailgaliutlo decides to kill us. He has already murdered half your crew.'

  'Nonsense; I am a Commander in the Honourable East India Company's navy; he knows that if anything happens to me the Company's vengeance would be swift and terrible.'

  'Yes, sir, but nobody knows where we are, and Bo Ailgaliutlo has captured Serangipatam so there is nobody to carry the news.'

  Marshall relapsed into silence.

  'How long have we been here?' Marshall asked later.

  'They captured us two days ago, sir, maybe three,' Jack said. 'If we are lucky General Godwin might send an expedition to rescue us in a month or so.'

  That is unlikely. We are on our own. We must survive as best we can.

  After a while a fat Burmese waddled in with a mess of rice and fish and fed them, thrusting his fingers deep into Jack's mouth.

  Jack counted the passing of time by the visits of that man with the rice. There were periods of darkness and periods of light, and there was feeding time. Every so often a pair of burly Burmese would haul him outside into sunlight so bright it hurt his eyes and throw buckets of water over him.

  'Bath night,' Jack tried to make a joke of it, although Marshall said nothing.

  After the drenching, the guards took Jack back to his place in the hut and shackled him down. At first, he counted the days. After a while he stopped; it did not matter what day it was as they were all the same.

  After a space of time, the guards dragged Commander Marshall away from the hut. Jack never saw him again; he did not miss him; he preferred his own company. The routine continued. Jack found that it was quite pleasant to lie and allow his mind to drift. He thought about the dreams of his early life and the tortured pleasures of public school, the abortive ambitions of military glory and the concentration on his career that allowed no time for please. Then he thought of Myat Lay Phyu.

  She was not as young as he had first thought, but he found it hard to judge the age of these Burmese women. They were all wondrously slender. He thought of her serenity and that determined thrust of her chin and the way her longyi slid over her hips. Something disturbed his daydream. A sound.

  What was that sound? It was like marching feet as if an army was on the move. Better think of Myat and…

  The scratching was irritating. At first, Jack ignored it, but when it persisted, he looked over to the gloom of the far corner. 'Go away,' he whispered, 'leave me in peace.'

  The scratching continued, growing louder.

  'Ensign Windrush!' The voice was quiet but distinct.

  'What?' Jack tried to cudgel sense into his dazed brain. 'Who's there?' He was so used to the silence that he had to work out the meaning of the words. 'What is it?'

  'It's me, sir.' The voice was familiar, but Jack could not remember from where. Weeks of solitary captivity had dazed his mind.

  'Who is that?' He tried to twist around in his chains.

  'Sergeant Wells, sir. I've come to free you.'

  'You're dead,' Jack said and giggled. 'Am I dead as well? Are you taking me to the next place?'

  'You're not dead, sir.' Wells' hard tones were painful after the silence of the hut. 'Nor am I.' He was unshaven and his hair was unkempt, but he still wore his uniform. He crawled across the floor with a knife in his hand. 'How are these chains fastened, sir?' Wells examined them briefly. 'Oh I see; it's a simple catch; we'll soon have you out of here.'

  'Most of the men are dead: Graham, Knight, Lacey have all gone. Myat and Ranveer too, I think.' Jack found the words tumbled out of him.

  'Myat is alive, sir,' Wells worked on Jack's chains. 'This thing is rusted in the humidity, sir.' 'And Ranveer is here too.'

  Myat is alive?

  'Commander Marshall's dead,' Wells swore as he struggled with the chains, 'beg pardon for the language, sir but this rust is hard to shift. When were you last released if I may ask?'

  Jack shook his head. 'I don't know sergeant. What day is it?'

  'I don't know sir. It's the middle of November I think.'

  'How about the men, Sergeant? Have you freed them too?'

  'No sir; they're in a different place.' Wells gave a little grunt as he freed the bolt on Jack's ankle chain. 'That's it, sir. Can you move your legs?'

  Not an inch.

  'Give me a minute,' Jack knew his muscles were weak after many weeks immobile, but he desperately wanted out of the hut. He held forward his arms. 'Can you get these manacles off too?'

  'Yes, sir. Hold still.' Wells freed the bolts and threw the manacles on the ground. 'I'll help you, sir.'

  Jack tried to stand, but although the wound in his left leg was healing, neither leg could bear his weight. 'I'll have to crawl.'

  Moving crab-wise across the ground, Jack followed Wells to a gap in the wall.

  'Do you have him safe?' Myat crouched at the gap, her face as impassive as ever.

  'Safe but weak,' Wells said. 'Come along, sir.'

  Even the humid air of the stockade smelled sweet after the dense confines of the hut. Jack took a single deep breath and began to cough until a hard hand closed on his mouth.

  'It is better to keep quiet, Sahib until we are away from this place.'

  'Ranveer!' Jack could not help his grin as he pushed the Sikh's hand away. 'I thought you were dead as well.'

  'If you can keep silent, Ensign Windrush, 'we might get away from here alive.' Myat shook her head in disapproval.

  Only then did Jack notice the corpse on the ground. The Burmese sentry lay on his back with a single wound on the side of his neck. 'Was that you, Sergeant Wells?'

  'No sir: I got that one over there.' Wells pointed to a second body at the back of the hut. 'This one was Ranveer.'

  Jack looked around the stockade. 'Where are all the Burmese? The place is nearly deserted.'

  'I'm not sure sir. The place has been full of warriors all this time, but the last two days Bo Ailgaliutlo gathered them all in their boats and yesterday they paddled down the river. That's how we could get you out. We've been watching the stockade since they captured you, but this was our first chance.'

  And this is the man I thought was conspiring against me.

  'Thank you, sergeant. I am more grateful than I can say.' Jack tried to stand again, staggered and Ranveer grabbed him before he fell. 'How are the rest of the me
n?'

  'What's left are in that hut there,' Wells nodded to the large hut that stood in the centre of the stockade. 'There are about a dozen guards, sir, a few too many for us to handle.'

  'We're not leaving them behind,' Jack said. 'What weapons do we have?'

  'My musket sir, Ranveer's tulwar and whatever these two Burmese fellows carried.'

  'Bring their muskets and dhas over,' the idea formed in his head even as he spoke. 'They don't know there are only two of you, and a woman and a weak-as-water officer. Let's make them think there are more of us than there are.'

  Jack watched the sentries on the large hut for around quarter of an hour. As Wells had said, there were twelve of them, all armed with musket and dha.

  'They don't appear very vigilant,' he said. 'They gossip together and smoke their cigars.'

  'Why should they be vigilant?' Wells asked. 'They have had the lads as prisoners for weeks without any difficulty. Our men are chained hand and foot and fed rice and water. They are in no position to do anything.'

  'We have three muskets. How much ammunition do we have?'

  'I have thirty rounds, sir and these fellows,' Wells indicated the dead Burmese, 'had a few rounds, some of stone balls, some lead.'

  'That will have to do. Myat: do you know how to load a musket?'

  'Of course, I do, Ensign Windrush.' Jack was sure there was mockery in Myat's nod.

  'Here is what we do. We will take a musket each and open fire on the sentries. With luck, we may hit some of them, but more likely we will merely alarm them. The object is to make them believe we are an entire relieving column, so shout like the devil.' He saw Wells and Myat exchange glances.

  The sentries were in two groups, one at each end of the hut, with one man occasionally slouching away on some errand of his own. The acrid smell of Burmese tobacco drifted across the compound.

  'We will concentrate on one group,' Jack decided. 'That way we might scare half of them away and the remainder should be easier to manage.' He pointed to the huddle of sentries who were closer. 'Sergeant, you know your own weapon best, so you keep that while Ranveer and I will use the Burmese muskets. Myat, please load for me. My hands are not working very well.'

  Sheltering in the angle of Jack's former prison, they aimed at the guards. The musket felt heavy and clumsy in Jack's grasp but he fought his weakness.

  I have led my men to defeat and captivity. I must do something right.

  'On my command,' Jack said softly. 'Ready, present … fire!'

  Two of the muskets cracked immediately; Jack's hung fire for a second and then fired. One of the Burmese soldiers fell, yelling and the others turned in surprise to see from where the attack came.

  'Reload!' Jack handed his musket to Myat, 'and shout out!'

  '113th! To me the 113th!' Well's roar echoed around the stockade, joined by Jack's much weaker croak.

  Ranveer had a deep throated roar: 'Bole So Nihal, Sat Sri Akal!'

  Wells fired again, with Ranveer a few seconds later and Jack third. Another of the dacoits slid down, kicking and writhing. The others were raising their muskets or had run for cover. Jack aimed at the back of one of the running men and fired. The man yelled, grabbed at his leg and fell, to wriggle on the ground.

  That's for Lacey and Graham.

  'Keep firing,' Jack ordered. He ducked as a Burmese ball thumped into the corner of the hut a few feet from his head. Wells shouted again and fired a third time.

  'Watch your flanks!' Jack warned.

  The second group of Burmese was coming around the side. They advanced at the run, some holding their muskets, others having drawn their dhas.

  'Get that lot,' Jack ordered. He grabbed the reloaded musket from Myat, aimed at the centre of the group and fired. His ball took the leading man square in the chest and threw him backwards, so he collided with the man immediately behind him. Both fell. The remaining four hesitated; two turned around, and two raised their dhas high, screamed what was obviously a battle cry and rushed toward their attackers. Wells fired and missed, Ranveer fired and hit one of the retreating men, drew his tulwar and charged forward.

  'Bole So Nihal, Sat Sri Akal!'

  'You crazy Sikh bastard!' Wells yelled, slotted home his bayonet and ran to help. Jack took one step, staggered and collapsed. He could only watch as Ranveer sliced the advancing Burmese across the stomach and then chopped at his head. The Burmese fell at once. Wells spitted one of the retreating men and followed on to disappear around the corner of the building.

  'Be careful Edwin!' Myat stood up sharply, her hand to her mouth.

  Edwin? I had not thought of Sergeant Wells being an Edwin: and how did Myat find out?

  'Musket!' Jack held out his hand. 'Wells can take care of himself: where is my musket?'

  Myat's eyes were wide as she looked at him, and then she seemed to remember what she was doing and hastily reloaded.

  For a few moments, Jack heard Ranveer's war cry alongside Wells' roars and the lighter voices of the dacoits. He took the musket from Myat as three Burmese exploded from cover with Wells and Ranveer behind them.

  'I told you Wells would be fine,' Jack said. He dragged himself to a kneeling position and aimed at the leading Burman. Waiting until the man was only twenty yards away; he targeted his stomach and pulled the trigger. The weapon jerked viciously in his hands, and the Burman staggered. Ranveer finished him off with a backhanded slash across the ribs.

  'Two got away,' Wells threw a smart salute. 'They ran before we could reach them.'

  'You could have got killed!' It was the first time Jack had seen Myat show any real emotion. She stalked up to Wells, shouting in a mixture of Burmese and English, and slapped him hard on the arm. 'You could have died, Edwin Wells!'

  Jack thought it best to look away as Wells shouted back at Myat, his English also mixed with a smattering of Burmese words. 'You are very concerned with the life of a British soldier.'

  Myat looked at him with eyes that retained vestigial anger. 'Don't you realise yet, Ensign Windrush? He is my husband!'

  Oh dear God in heaven! Jack stared at her. 'Wells is your husband?' He tried to control the emotions that threatened to engulf him.

  'Myat.' Wells reached out a hand but paused when it was evident that he was too late. Myat had said the words. He stiffened to attention. 'Myat and I were married more than ten years ago, sir.'

  'Legally?' Jack asked.

  'By Burmese custom, sir.' Wells remained at attention.

  A lot made sense now. That was why Wells elected to stay in India. A British soldier with a native wife would not find life easy in England. Myat would not be accepted by the convention-bound sergeant's mess, while the other sergeant's wives would have cold-shouldered her at the least.

  'It was Myat who rescued you from Gandamack,' Jack said.

  'Yes, sir,' Wells remained at attention.

  'Was Myat the reason you transferred to the 113th when your first regiment returned home?' Jack noticed that Myat was standing shoulder to shoulder with Wells, man and wife facing trouble together.

  'That's correct, sir.' Wells remained at attention, despite the fact that Myat linked her arm with his.

  'Did your old commanding officer know of your marriage?' In some regiments, even non-commissioned officers had to seek the colonel's permission before they married. It would be a very broad minded colonel indeed to permit a soldier to marry a native woman.

  'No, sir.' Wells said.

  Marrying without permission was an offence. Wells had made himself liable to the cat and perhaps even dismissal from the army with the loss of his pension.

  'Colonel Murphy may be more understanding, Sergeant,' Jack said. 'I would wait to see what his views may be before you approach him. I will ask him what he thinks of such matters and let you know.'

  Wells' salute would have graced any RSM in the Brigade of Guards. 'Thank you, sir.'

  Another thought chilled Jack. He remembered the thoughts that had occupied him when in captivity. He had
considered a liaison with the wife of a ranker: that was one of the worst crimes imaginable for an officer. Was that his mother's passionate blood showing? He shook away the thought: he had more immediate concerns than an abortive romantic liaison.

  'Now shall we get the other prisoners free?' Jack said. 'Ranveer, could I borrow your arm, please?'

  Jack said nothing as Myat came to him. She touched his shoulder lightly. 'You had three battles to fight; against your country's enemies, against your conscience and against yourself. You are winning the third.'

  Wells tore open the door of the prison hut. 'Officer present! Stand to attention 113th.'

  It was the smell that hit Jack first. It was the smell of men locked up for weeks in a confined space with no facilities and no sanitation. With Ranveer supporting him, he stood in the doorway.

  'Lie still men; Sergeant Wells and Ranveer Singh will free you. We are leaving this place just as soon as we can.'

  There were not many left alive. Coleman, Thorpe, Armstrong and O'Neill crawled out of the hut, followed by five of the seamen. All the others had died of disease or neglect. Lieutenant Bertram was the only surviving naval officer, and he was yellow with fever.

  'Feed these men up,' Jack ordered, 'We will stay in this stockade until we are fit to move.'

  Myat pressed her hands together and gave a deeper than usual nod to Jack. 'The men stink, Ensign Windrush. They need to wash and you also need some clothes to cover yourself.' She ran her gaze down him from face to feet and back.

  Jack had forgotten he wore only his shirt. He shifted uncomfortably as Myat smiled.

  'Your men may be jealous.' She handed over a strip of material. 'A loin cloth,' she told him. 'Would you like me to show you how to tie it in place?'

  'No, thank you,' Jack hurriedly covered himself. 'I'm sure I can manage.'

  Myat wrinkled her nose. 'Maybe you should manage a wash as well,' she suggested.

  'More important than washing,' Jack turned the conversation around. 'We need weapons.' He raised his voice. 'Sergeant Wells!'

  'Sir!' Wells stiffened to attention and Jack ignored the winks that he and Myat exchanged or the manner in which Myat also came to attention in unsmiling mockery.