Windrush: Crimea (Jack Windrush Book 2)

by Malcolm Archibald

  'It's not much,' Jack said, 'but Riley and I were hiding when we heard some people talking.'

  'Go on.' Maxwell listened as Jack explained his previous actions in Malta and everything he had overheard. 'This American. Do you think he was the same man as you saw in Malta?'

  'I am certain, sir.'

  Maxwell nodded grimly. 'John Anderson.'

  'You know him, sir?' Jack said. Apparently, Colonel Maxwell was more than a regimental officer.

  'We have crossed paths before,' Maxwell said. He looked up with something like his old smile. 'You stumbled upon the very man I was trying to get into Sebastopol to find.'

  'You were going into Sebastopol?'

  Maxwell nodded. 'The patrol I led was to drop me off near the city. Things did not work out quite as planned. However, your arrival altered the situation.' His eyes narrowed. 'Are you certain he was the same man as you saw in Malta?'

  'Yes,' Jack said.

  'Then that is bad.'

  'I told you the words I heard,' Jack said. 'They mean nothing to me.'

  'They mean a lot to me.' Maxwell sounded as sober as Jack had heard him. 'Maybe Bulloch would be better explaining this to you, Windrush but as you are already involved, I will give you a brief outline.' He poured them both a drink from a dark bottle. 'French brandy,' he said, 'from my Zouave friends.'

  'Thank you.'

  'Now, you know that we, the French and the Turks and facing Russia in this war. You may also know that Austria is hovering on the wings, not quite sure which way to jump, and Sardinia is also considering joining in to show the Powers how important they are.'

  Jack sipped at the brandy. 'No, sir. I was not aware that Austria and Sardinia might take part.'

  'Well, they may. That is a fact, and the grim reality is that we need all the help we can get. Oh, when it comes to an open battle our troops are as brave as they come; you saw that at the Alma, and they will carry on without complaint whatever the conditions. You see that every day in the trenches.'

  'They are good soldiers, sir.' Jack thought about Coleman and Thorpe. They complained about everything but still got the job done.

  'Other armies may have mutinies and panic retreats; not ours.' Maxwell said. 'That is the good side. The bad side is the lack of experience in the higher command.' He leaned closer to Jack. 'I trust you to keep anything between us confidential, Lieutenant. You may think I am croaking by saying all this, but you know it is correct. Our commanders dislike each other, and although we have vast experience in fighting in India, many of our higher commanders do not like so-called Indian soldiers. They don't think that experience fighting Afghans and Sikhs, or even Burmese, is relevant when it comes to fighting Europeans.'

  'I had heard that sir.' Jack had noticed the tension between officers who had experience of the wars in India and those who had not. He had put it down to pure jealousy. Perhaps that old British failing of class consciousness and snobbery had more to do with it.

  'Add to that our poor administration and lack of numbers.' Maxwell said. 'Look at our men; we are losing about fifty to a hundred a day through sickness and disease and maybe two or three to Russian fire.' He stopped and shook his head. 'I don't know what the situation was like in Burma,' he said.

  'About the same, sir. We lost far more to disease than to the enemy.'

  'We can't continue like this,' Maxwell said. 'Apart from the suffering to our poor fellows, our army is diminishing at a frightening rate. That's why we need the Austrians and Sardinians as Allies. We are not like France and Prussia or even Russia. We don't have conscription to build up our army.'

  'No, sir,' Jack said.

  'And that is where your American friend, John Anderson comes in,' Maxwell said. 'Mr Bulloch will have told you a little about this Stevensen fellow in Malta. I never saw the fellow, but he was Russian of course, a Russian agent taking notes on British shipping in Valetta to see what ships and what regiments are sailing to the Crimea.'

  'I had guessed as much, sir.' Jack said. 'There is another thing that you should know and may wish to pass on to Mr Bulloch, sir.'

  'What may that be, Windrush?' Maxwell had the glass to his lips.

  'That fellow Stevensen, sir; he and Major Kutuzov are one and the same.'

  The glass halted with the contents untouched. 'Now that I did not know, young Windrush.' Maxwell placed the glass carefully on his desk. 'That would explain why he held me and came looking for you. Thank you, Lieutenant. That will go in my report to Mr Bulloch.'

  Maxwell held up his hand. 'Well, he was wasting his time spying on us; however successful h was with other matter. The Thunderer is giving out as much information about our troop movements as any Russian could desire. It is Russia's best ally in this war.'

  Jack nodded. 'I have heard that.'

  'And so on to your American fellow. John Anderson as I said, originally came from Maryland but he marched west with the American army.' Maxwell sloshed more brandy into his glass, offered the bottle to Jack and smiled when he declined. 'All the more for me then.'

  'Why are the Americans interested in this war?' Jack asked. 'They have nothing to do with the Crimea.'

  'No they don't. You are right,' Maxwell said. 'But they have no love for us, you know. We have already fought two wars with America: their independence war back in the 1770s and that stupid little debacle in 1812 when they tried to snatch Canada, and we burned their capital.'

  'And lost at New Orleans,' Jack murmured.

  'Quite,' Maxwell agreed. 'The United States is expanding rapidly; they seem set to fill up half that continent. As you are also aware, they recently fought a war with Mexico and grabbed California and other areas on the west, giving them a Pacific coastline.'

  Jack nodded, 'yes sir, but the Pacific is a long way from the Crimea.'

  'But not so far away from the Russian possessions in Alaska.' Maxwell selected through the papers on his desk and unfolded a map of the world. He pointed to the west coast of North America. 'Here is California.' He said, 'and up here is Alaska, where the Russians are. And in between are our North American possessions.'

  'I see, sir,' Jack said.

  'Now, I have it on good authority that Russia is not particularly interested in retaining Alaska. They are moving southward in Asia toward Bokhara and Samarkand, which will put their southern frontier dangerously near our possessions in India.'

  'Hence our Afghan war.' Jack said and was surprised at Maxwell's nod of approval.

  'You have been doing your prep, haven't you? That is unusual in a junior officer. But you are right; that was why we moved into that God-forsaken country.' Maxwell poured himself a third glass of brandy, again offered the bottle to Jack and sat back down. 'Now, more important for the current situation, the United States is already giving some clandestine aid to the Russians. They allow Russian ships to sail under the American flag, and supply their North Pacific bases, while American companies have a monopoly to sell the Russian American company's goods, things like that.'

  'Would the USA join in a war with Russia against us?' Jack asked.

  'They would be foolish to do so in the long run,' Maxwell said. 'Although short term the results would be unpleasant. The United States has a huge number of merchant ships that could be armed and used as privateers, which could do untold damage to our shipping in the early stages, but this is 1854, not 1814. Naval technology has progressed apace, and no armed merchant vessel could stand against a modern warship so after a year or so the Royal Navy would sweep them off the seas.' He took the bottle closer. 'However, that first year would be crucial and may be sufficient to tip the balance in Russia's favour, and would certainly divert British attention from this land war to the sea. You will not have heard of the Cottman Mission?'

  'I have not,' Jack agreed.

  'It is fairly secretive. All we know is that an American named Thomas Cottman was in St Petersburg early this year and spoke to various Russian big-wigs about the USA buying Alaska. That is all.'

  'Does t
hat concern us?'

  Maxwell shrugged. 'The USA owning Alaska is neither here nor there. It is far more important that the USA could float privateers to attack our merchant shipping while we are in a European War. That information you found tends to confirm our suspicions.'

  'Yes, sir.' Still numbed by his hasty dismissal from the 113th, Jack found this deluge of new information bewildering.

  'Of course, Windrush,' Maxwell said, 'I do not expect you to involve yourself any more in such things. I have had you transferred to my 118th, and you will do your duty like any other regimental officer.' His smile was more kindly than Jack had expected. 'I suggest that you put all this political work behind you now and concentrate on your real job.'

  Maxwell stood up. 'Now you have given me much to think about, while you should forget all about Anderson and his like. You leave them to me, and take your men to the 118th; then go and get some sleep. I want you on duty in the trenches tomorrow.'

  Jack nodded. It has been an eventful day.

  Chapter Seventeen

  British Lines

  October 1854

  'Bloody 118th bloody Foot; bloody army; bloody weather and bloody Russians!' Coleman was doing his best to disprove Colonel Maxwell's words that the British soldier accepted all discomforts without complaint.

  'That's the spirit, Coleman!' Jack encouraged him. 'We're in the 118th now; part of the Second Division so let them see how the old 113th view the war.'

  'Bugger the 113th,' Coleman spoke with feeling. 'They can't even take care of their Colours.'

  Jack looked around at his new surroundings. He knew he should feel in disgrace at being removed from the 113th, but instead, he felt fresh enthusiasm at being part of a regiment that was young in the British Army but much more accepted. The 118th carried no regimental stigma such as the Baby Butcher tag of the 113th; they had not run in terror at Chillianwalla and were not composed of the men the other units of the British Army had rejected. He was part of a respectable British regiment in the second division, a fighting unit of which he could be proud.

  'Welcome to the 118th,' Captain Dearden had said with a tired smile. 'You transferred from the 113th, I heard.'

  'Yes, sir,' Jack waited for the habitual abuse, but Dearden only nodded.

  'Sound move, Lieutenant;' he said. 'And I heard you were in Burma and escaped from Sebastopol.'

  'I did, sir,' Jack agreed.

  'The Colonel told us about you,' Dearden held out his hand. 'Veterans are doubly welcome.' He had glanced over Jack's men. 'They seem a handy bunch as well. With the number of men we're losing now we are grateful for a soldier of any quality, yet alone men who have tasted powder-smoke and fought the Russians.' He nodded his approval.

  'Thank you, sir,' Jack said.

  'Nothing to thank me for,' Dearden must have been around thirty-five, Jack guessed, but strain and fatigue had added at least ten years to his face. 'Now get settled in and get to know the men.' He had called Jack back and lowered his voice. 'Best not get too close to them, Jack. It's harder when they die if you knew them well.'

  Jack nodded. That was good if belated advice from an experienced officer.

  The men were a decent bunch, Jack decided, mainly countrymen from southern England with a sprinkling of Scots and the ubiquitous Irishmen. Two were Welsh, saturnine, dark-haired men with sardonic humour and wiry bodies. He tried to learn some names as they rested in camp preparatory to another day in the trenches. There was Corporal O'Hara, who seemed surprisingly popular with his men, Aitken, a Border Scot with curly blonde hair he had trouble keeping under control. Behind them were Fletcher from Hampshire with his big slow smile and equally large slow body. Then there was Williams from South Wales and Smith, a man with a shock of red hair and a vacant look about him.

  'Have your men ever used the new Minie Rifle?' Dearden asked.

  'No, sir.' Jack admitted. 'We had the old Brown Bess, India pattern that we brought with us from Burma.'

  'Ah,' Dearden had a smug look on his face. 'Then they are in for a treat, Windrush. It's a sound weapon. I'll have Corporal O'Hara teach them the basics. You attend too, eh? Best to know what the men are doing in case you have to fire the thing yourself.'

  'Yes, sir,' Jack agreed.

  'No time like the present eh?' Dearden said. 'We don't waste time in the 118th you see. Follow Nelson's advice: waste not a minute! Come along then.'

  Despite his Irish name, O'Hara had a broad Liverpool accent, a red face and a cheerful demeanour that won Jack's liking and the respect of the men in minutes. He ushered them to a natural amphitheatre quarter of a mile behind the tented camp of the Second Division and handed out a Minie to each of the men from the 113th, plus one to Jack.

  'Here we are then, lads, and you, Sir. This rifle is the Minie, the best thing to come out of France since Bonaparte. Except for brandy of course; and women.' He allowed the men to laugh. 'As you see, it is over ten pounds in weight and, if you stick the muzzle against your eye…' he demonstrated, 'it has three greasy grooves in the barrel, so it is a rifle rather than a musket.'

  Jack watched the men hold the muzzle against their eye. 'Make sure that thing's not loaded, Coleman!' He acknowledged the laughter of Thorpe and Logan. 'Sorry to interrupt, Corporal O'Hara.'

  O'Hara held a small oval bullet high between finger and thumb. 'This is the bullet. It is conical, not round as you have used until now, and it's a bit smaller, with a little hollow in its arse.' Once again he accepted the small ripple of laughter. 'You will all note the grooves that fit the rifling in the barrel. Don't we, Coleman?'

  'Oh yes, Corporal,' Coleman said.

  O'Hara grinned. 'Good; you can explain it all to me later. When you have a big bad Russian in your sights and press the trigger, expanding gas smacks the arse of the bullet, and it shoots into the rifling, which spins it like a child's top. That makes it more accurate, see? And it goes further too, so we can destroy them before they can get at us.'

  'Corporal,' O'Neill asked, 'how far do they carry?'

  O'Hara pursed his lips. 'They are said to be accurate up to six hundred yards,' he said. 'I've never fired one that far although I heard that the Sawnies slaughtered the Russian cavalry at long range at Balaklava.'

  Riley looked at Jack, who shook his head and allowed O'Hara to continue.

  'This beauty,' he held up the Minie, 'can fire a bullet through four inches of pine at half a mile, so if the Ruskies are in column, you shoot the leading man and kill the fellow behind him as well. I have heard that one bullet can kill fifteen men in a row, but I doubt that.'

  'Now, pay attention lads, and you too Sir, if you will. With the old Brown Bess, you had to ram the bullet down the barrel, which took time. With this one, you merely drop it in, so you load quicker, fire faster and hit longer.' O'Hara looked around. 'Any questions? No? So why are you sitting around looking at me? Get these bloody things cleaned you idle buggers.'

  Jack wondered if the corporal had forgotten that there was an officer in the audience. Better not remind him.

  The camp was busy with men and officers, a few supply wagons coming up the atrocious track from Balaklava and the surgeon inspecting the sick.

  'Where are your boots, soldier?' The female voice was unexpected, and the sight of two horsewomen was so surprising that Jack had to look twice to confirm he was correct.

  The private stood to attention. 'I lost them, ma'am. The mud in the trenches sucked them right off my feet.'

  'That won't do,' Mrs Colonel Maxwell said sternly. 'You will get frostbite with no boots on.'

  'That's the colonel's lady and their daughter,' Dearden said. 'The wife is a decent soul; she's accompanied Colonel Maxwell all over the globe.'

  'We have met before, briefly,' Jack said.

  Helen rode straight-backed through the camp. Although she must have been aware that every male eye would be fixed hungrily on her, she appeared quite relaxed, even taking the time to smile to the men who spoke to her and laughing at the sallies of O'Hara.
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br />   'Did you meet young Helen as well?' Dearden asked.

  'Very briefly,' Jack gave a guarded reply. The memory of his attempted dalliance still embarrassed him.

  'She is a wild young thing,' Dearden shook his head. 'It does not pay to allow children too much freedom, and she was brought up in and around army camps and barracks all around the globe. Children should be sent away to school as early as possible if they are to be respectable. That girl will be trouble; mark my words.'

  'I can believe that,' Jack said. It was common knowledge that all young boys should be sent away to school to be educated as soon as they reached the age of seven, if not earlier. He had not thought about girls; presumably, the same rules would apply.

  'Dearden…' Colonel Maxwell appeared at the entrance of his tent, 'No, Windrush, you'll do. I want you to get down to Balaklava and see about getting us a pair of soldier's boots.' Mrs Maxwell's voice sounded again, and Maxwell withdrew inside the tent for a few seconds. When he emerged, he was slightly flushed. 'No, Windrush, I think many of the men may have lost their boots. You had better get a couple of dozen pairs.' He looked over his shoulder and then out again. 'Take my daughter's horse to carry them.'

  'Yes, sir,' Jack said.

  Helen smiled down at him from the back of the horse. 'I've just come from Balaklava' she said, 'and now I have an escort to take me back.'

  'I don't think the Colonel intended you to come along as well,' Jack could not meet her smile.

  'Father said to take my horse,' Helen pointed out.'He must know that Maida does not react well to others riding him. Therefore I must come along too.' She smiled down at him. 'Or are you going to drag me off and leave me here among all these men, alone?'

  'I was not going to do that,' Jack said. 'I rather hoped you would dismount of your own accord.'

  'Well I rather think that I won't,' Helen said.

  Jack sighed; Dearden was correct; this girl was trouble. 'Do you ever do as you're told?'

  'No,' Helen's smile was every bit as engaging as her father's. 'Shall we repair to Balaklava before you get into trouble from your colonel?'