Windrush: Blood Price (Jack Windrush Book 3)

by Malcolm Archibald

  Cattley had his answer ready. 'Beyond the Causeway Heights,' he said. 'Sir Colin has reported that the Russians have pulled back their infantry and artillery as far as Tchorgoun. You may go and ensure that is correct.'

  'Campbell's Highlanders are active in that area. Anderson will think it strange that the 113th are in their territory,' Jack said.

  'The Russians will know that the 113th are a maverick regiment that are given the dirty jobs,' Cattley said. 'I make sure that the word is spread around.'

  Jack nodded although he was not certain he wished that sort of reputation for his men.

  'I'll take a standard patrol of an ensign, a sergeant and twelve men,' Maxwell said. 'And you can dog me with your ruffians, Windrush. Let's hope they are up to this sort of work.'

  Jack took a deep breath. He knew he was pitting his group of rejects, petty criminals and poachers against some of the most highly skilled soldiers in the world, and on ground of the enemy's choosing. It was a lot to ask of his reluctant warriors. 'My men will do their duty,' he said. 'You can't ask more than that.'

  'We'll have to go forward of the British positions and live rough,' Ruthven said. 'Normally I'd prefer the Rifles for this sort of work; they are trained for individual thought. Can your men of the 113th handle living outside the regimental framework?'

  'The men I have in mind can,' Jack said truthfully. 'They are not exactly model soldiers.'

  'All right. No uniforms,' Ruthven said. 'Scarlet is too conspicuous; and no word to the press. If that blackguard Russell gets to hear of this he'll publish it in the Times and the Russians will know all about it the same day. Johnny Russ doesn't need spies as long as they have the blasted newspapers.'

  'Maybe we should shoot Russell as well,' Maxwell suggested. Jack was not sure if he was joking or not.

  'His reports are doing some good,' Cattley said. 'The public are becoming aware of the hardships our army endures on their behalf.'

  'All right then,' Ruthven said. 'We know what is happening. Colonel Maxwell will take a dozen of his men on patrol past the Causeway Heights toward the Tchorgoun. They are the bait. Windrush will be out there already with his men in dark clothes, so when this Anderson fellow and his Cossacks come, he will be there to confront them. I'll go out with Windrush and then hunt down Anderson.'

  Jack nodded. 'It seems as if we are putting your men out as sacrificial lambs, sir.'

  It was Cattley who replied. 'They all took the Queen's Shilling, Windrush. They will take their chance the same as you or anybody else. Now I'll leave you to iron out the fine details between you.'

  Chapter Eight

  December 1855

  A northerly wind swept powdery snow onto the Causeway Heights and the valleys on either side. Jack looked over his men as they slouched over the rough ground in their dark clothing and woollen hats. He had ordered them to keep silent, but heard Thorpe's low voice muttering obscenities and Coleman grumbling at his side. Logan and Riley were together, the small-built man matching the taller cracksman stride for stride; while Smith and Fletcher had their rifles shouldered and endured the stinging snow without complaint. There were new men as well, Kelly and Rourke, Spilsbury and Painter, all with a rumbustious reputation that fitted well with his veterans of Burma and Inkerman. Williams and Hitchins acted as rearguard, turning to look behind them every ten steps, as they had been trained, while O'Neill was in front, moving as silently as if he was in the Burmese jungle, or off to hack the tail from a Donegal landowner's horse.

  'I'll leave you here,' Ruthven was more cheerful in the field than he had been in the tent. 'I'll find a cosy little position up there,' he used his long rifle to indicate the Fedioukine Hills that bulked dark and sinister beyond the North Valley. 'Don't spend too much time here, Windrush; Maxwell is supposed to check these positions, not you.'

  'I am aware of that, sir,' Jack said. 'But I want to make sure there are no Russians between us and Campbell's Highlanders if we have to make a hasty withdrawal.'

  Ruthven nodded. 'I see; I'll leave you to it. Don't bother to look for me, you won't see me, but I will be watching you.' He vanished into the dark, carrying his rifle as though it was a toy.

  Jack led his men along the Causeway Heights, checking the old gun positions that the Russians had taken from the Turks and manned to such good effect against the Light Brigade only a few months before. As Colin Campbell had reported, the Russians had now abandoned them. They lay empty and forlorn, with a few already-rusting cannon balls, sundry broken pieces of equipment and scattered sandbags as reminders of that bloody day.

  'Check number three redoubt,' he ordered O'Neill. 'Take Thorpe and Coleman with you.'

  O'Neill was back within ten minutes. 'All clear sir. Only rubbish and a mouldering corpse.'

  'There was nothing in the pockets,' Thorpe said, until Coleman jabbed a sharp elbow into his ribs.

  'All right,' Jack let the comment pass. 'We'll cross the valley and get into the Fedioukine Hills; keep the men together, O'Neill.'

  The North Valley funnelled stinging snow at them, forcing the men to walk with their heads down and eyes half shut. Jack looked around; even at a hundred paces the Causeway Heights were already a dim white glow behind them and the Fedioukine Hills ominous ahead. He felt naked walking across this bloodied valley, with the memory of recent carnage almost tangible.

  'The Russians will doubtless have their own pickets out,' he said. 'Keep as alert as possible, men.'

  The ground was rocky and harsh, with tough tussocks of grass and the possibility of their boots disturbing loose stones. Jack checked his map, following the route they had pre-arranged so he could be in position before Colonel Maxwell began his dawn patrol. Features that seemed obvious on the map were only dim blobs in the dark and even the shape of ravines and ridges looked different, despite the providential snow that highlighted harsh edges and gave form and contour to the landscape.

  'We follow this gulley,' he said to O'Neill 'and wait at the top of the ridge there for the colonel.'

  O'Neill peered around into the dark. 'It's as black as the Earl of Hell's weskit,' he said. 'God only knows what's out there.'

  As he spoke a wolf howled, the sound raising the small hairs on the back of Jack's neck. 'I hate wolves,' he said. 'Come on, let's get up there.'

  The gulley was deeper than Jack had expected, with a trickle of frozen water at the bottom surrounded by beds of reeds. Nights of frost had frozen the reeds so any careless footstep snapped them like a pistol shot.

  'We may as well have a brass band!' O'Neill said as they advanced to the accompaniment of cracking reeds and subdued curses.

  'Halt, men,' Jack called softly. 'Every Russian for a mile will hear us.'

  'There's easier ground on the slope,' Hitchins revealed his poacher's skills. 'Above the marshland.'

  'We'll try that,' Jack was not happy about deviating from their agreed route but there was no choice. Continuing to march through brittle reeds was not practical. 'Lead on, Hitchins.'

  The lower slope of the gully was rockier, with a series of low but harsh ridges that they had to negotiate one at a time. The wind increased, blasting snow into their faces and threatening to blow them off each ridge.

  'This looks like it,' Jack held the now sodden map at the best angle to catch what light there was. 'There is a hollow in the rocks. We'll settle here for the rest of the night and set up sentries. Kelly; you have first watch; O'Neill, ensure the men are hidden.'

  Rocks and boulders cut the worst of the wind. The men lay in what shelter they could find.

  'Keep an eye out,' he ordered Kelly. 'And wake me the second you see or hear anything that does not seem right. Do you have a watch, O'Neill?'

  'Yes, sir,' O'Neill showed a fine silver watch with intricate numbering. 'It was my grandfather's sir.'

  'Oh indeed? May I?' Jack looked closer at the face. 'Was your grandfather Russian, O'Neill?'

  'Not at all sir. He was a good Donegal man all his days.'

  'Then
how did he come by a Russian watch?' Jack shook his head, smiling. 'No matter, as long as it tells the time. Wake me at three in the morning and I will take over.'

  Jack was at his lowest in the small hours of the morning. He rolled over, unsure where he was as O'Neill shook him awake. Muttering incoherently he dragged himself upright. 'Anything happening, Sergeant?'

  'No, sir.' O'Neill said.

  The snow had stopped and profound blackness covered the Heights.

  'There's a good spot to watch from over there, sir,' O'Neill volunteered. 'It gives a wide view, or it will when the light increases.'

  The rock he indicated perched above the centre of the gulley, with a natural hollow on top that acted as a semi-sheltered lookout. Jack could feel some residual warmth from O'Neill's body heat.

  'Any sign of Russians?'

  'There was nothing sir. It's as quiet as midsummer in the Lakes of Killarney.' O'Neill said.

  'How was Kelly?'

  'He's a good Connaught man, sir; with a twist of tongue that is a delight to hear and a heart as bold as a Bengali tiger.' O'Neill's accent always became more pronounced when he had been in company with other Irishmen.

  'Wil he fit in?'

  O'Neill nodded. 'He will, sir, without a doubt.'

  'Go and get some rest, O'Neill. The Colonel's patrol will be along in a few hours.' Jack lay in the hollow on top of the rock with the pull of the wind and the immensity of space all around him. He felt a long way from home. The only consolation was that Anderson was even further from the United States than he was from Britain.

  Dawn came late, easing from the east as the sun rose from the Black Sea. Remembering happier times when he sat on the Malvern Hills, Jack thought of the sun burning off the morning mist and revealing the spires and steeples of churches, and then the trees of apple orchard and field boundary and finally the little villages. He snapped back to reality as the same sun revealed only ridge after ridge of harsh rock with the deep, shadowed ravines in between.

  The movement caught his eye because it was unusual. Taking the telescope from inside his tunic, Jack focussed on the Causeway Heights. There was a file of men there, with the scarlet uniforms showing up like a smear of ink even in this dim light.

  'Twelve, thirteen, fourteen,' Jack counted to himself. 'So here we begin. Colonel Maxwell is approaching in the birth of the day, with thirteen sacrifices for the Russian bear. If Anderson and his Cossacks hear of this, they will be leaving Sebastopol soon.' He scanned the ground for sign of Ruthven but saw nothing. 'I hope to God that you are there, Commander.'

  Sliding off the look-out rock, Jack shook O'Neill awake and spread his men out across the rocks, watching for the Russians. Ensuring they were alert, Jack returned to his post. Now all they could do was wait, watch and pray. Especially pray, Jack thought, remembering the skill of Anderson and his Plastun Cossacks.

  Colonel Maxwell ensured that the old redoubts on the Causeway Heights were empty before leading his men across the North Valley. They moved faster in this exposed place, with scouts out in the approved manner and their faded red coats like drops of blood in the gutter of the valley.

  'The Russians can't fail to see them,' Jack said.

  'That's for certain, sir.' O'Neill said quietly. 'Let's hope they take the bait.'

  Crossing the North Valley safely, Maxwell's men vanished in the tangle of scrub and rocks of the Fedioukine Hills. The hills were not high, but rugged and the expected presence of Russians added an atmosphere of tense expectancy, as if they knew that there was sordid murder impending.

  'Sir,' O'Neill's whisper sounded like a cavalry bugle in the winter hush. 'Over there!'

  Jack followed the direction of his pointing finger. There was a patrol of dark-uniformed infantrymen walking softly across the hills. He counted twenty, with long muskets in their hands and shashkas at their belts. He focussed his telescope on the tall officer who led them: it was not Anderson.

  'Cossacks,' O'Neill said. 'They must have seen the colonel.'

  'I would say so,' Jack slackened the revolver in its holster. If that was the famous Plastun Cossacks he was not very impressed. They moved quickly enough across the ground and appeared formidable but they were no more concealed that Maxwell's patrol was.

  He swivelled his telescope, searching for Anderson. He could not see the tall American. Hopefully Ruthven had him covered.

  'Right 113th; here is where we earn our shillings. We stalk the stalkers. Hitchins, you were a poacher; you and I will lead. O'Neill; you cover the rear.'

  Keeping a bearing on the Cossacks, Jack pushed on down the gulley with his men behind him. The Cossacks moved in a long line, silent and swift over the rough ground. Jack followed, wincing whenever one of his men kicked a pebble or cursed as they splashed into a puddle or slipped on the snow-smeared ground. Fortunately the Cossacks were too far away to hear and continued on their path until they were quarter of a mile ahead of Maxwell. Their officer raised a hand and they took to ground forming into a wide semi-circle directly on the route that Maxwell's men were taking.

  'Halt!' Jack whispered. 'Now we wait.'

  The 113th slid behind convenient rocks that overlooked the Cossack positions or burrowed behind wind-battered bushes, sighted along the barrels of their rifles and waited for orders. Jack climbed slightly higher, searching for Colonel Maxwell, Ruthven and Anderson. He tried to control his ragged breathing and the rapid pounding of his heart. This was soldiering; small scale, intense and lacking glory, but to use Mr Cattley's phrase: all part of the soldier's bargain.

  Maxwell had his men under control, moving slowly and cautiously as befitted a patrol into territory very lately held by the enemy. The Cossacks lay in silent ambush, predators defending their own holy ground.

  'When do we take them, sir?' O'Neill aimed aiming at a tall Cossack.

  'Not until they move against Colonel Maxwell,' Jack said. 'I want to see Anderson first. I want to make sure he does not get away.'

  The breeze dropped. There was a slight clink from the direction of Maxwell's men and a muttered curse. One of the Cossacks shifted slightly. They pushed forward their rifles, aiming at the approaching British soldiers.

  'I still can't see Anderson,' Jack swivelled his telescope, searching into crevices and hollows behind rocks, scanning the shadows, feeling his frustration mount. If Anderson was not here, then this entire operation was a waste of time. A bird rose from cover, the fluttering of feathers loud. It flew toward the west, fading to a speck in the distance.

  'They're coming close,' O'Neill sounded anxious. 'Unless we attack now sir, the Cossacks will shoot some of our lads.'

  Maxwell marched at the head of his men, tall and upright, conspicuous in his colonel's uniform.

  'He is not afraid at all,' Jack said, 'even though he knows he is the bait.'

  'Jonny Russ is getting ready,' O'Neill warned.

  The Cossacks settled to aim, shifting slightly in their positions. Jack swore softly: should he risk Maxwell's life by allowing the Cossacks to attack and hopefully reveal Anderson's position so Ruthven could shoot him? Or should he strike first and prevent any British deaths?

  'Ready men,' he said softly. 'Pick your targets.'

  This felt like murder, shooting unsuspecting men in the back. Fighting his disquiet, Jack took a deep breath and sighted his revolver on a Cossack on the extreme right. 'Aim.'

  The shots splintered the silence before Jack gave the order. They came from behind and were completely unexpected. Jack saw Spilsbury jerk backward with fragments of bone and a gush of blood erupting from his skull, while Smith slumped forward with two bullet holes in his back.

  'They're behind us!' Jack swivelled round. Powder smoke drifted across a broad swathe of the ravine from the position they had occupied the previous night. 'They've got us marked out.' He fired three quick shots at his old look-out rock, hoping that Anderson was up there. 'Scatter lads; don't give them a solid target.'

  The Cossacks fired again, with Painter fallin
g, yelling in pain, writhing on the ground and holding his stomach. Jack's canny veterans had moved at the first volley and were weaving between the rocks, some taking aim at the new threat, others firing at the original target.

  'O'Neill; take three men and engage the Cossacks below us. The rest of you reply to those above!'

  The firing became general as the Cossacks below and above them fired almost continuously and Maxwell's men retaliated. Another of Jack's men dropped: he did not see who it was.

  'Where's Anderson?' He shouted. He could not see the tall American, or Ruthven. Fletcher stood up to get a better aim at the Cossacks above them.

  'I can't see him,' O'Neill hauled Fletcher behind the cover of a rock. 'Keep your head down you bloody idiot!'

  A bullet pinched off a rock at Jack's side, leaving a raw scar tinged with blue lead. Another whined overhead. He checked his men; apart from the wounded and dead they had all found cover and were firing back, cursing or silent, while white powder smoke hung low around the gulley. Painter was screaming in pain; another Russian bullet hit him, raising a shower of bright blood from his arm.

  'We can't stay here,' Jack shouted. 'We are between two fires and more Russians could come at any time. 'We have to break out and join Maxwell.'

  'What about Anderson?' O'Neill fired upward, where the Russians were nearly invisible behind their screen of rocks.

  'Forget him. The Cossacks knew we were coming.' Jack fired three quick shots at the Russians behind them. 'We have to break free or we'll be trapped here.'

  'We can't leave Painter behind!' O'Neill said.

  'I'll get him,' Jack said. Painter was on his side, holding his stomach; blood pooled around him. A third Russian bullet hit him, this time in the hip. He screamed anew.

  'Sir!' Logan shouted. 'Some of they Cossack bastards are creeping round the side of us.'

  'Thank you, Logan!' Jack shouted. 'Were moving out, men,' he said. 'Fix bayonets; we're going right through the Cossacks in front. Keep together, try and bring the wounded with you, leave the dead and kill anything not British that gets in our way. Ready?'