Windrush: Blood Price (Jack Windrush Book 3)

by Malcolm Archibald

  'And how do you intend to accomplish this miracle, Lieutenant, as you are entirely without funds or influence?'

  'That, Mrs Maxwell, I do not yet know.' Now that he had stated his honest wish, Jack had no intention of withdrawing from an objective he knew to be next to impossible. 'I only know that I will try for it and strive for it as long as I have breath in my body.'

  'Bravo, Jack Windrush!' Helen said again, this time clapping her hands with more vigour.

  'You are very vain-glorious, sir,' Mrs Maxwell said. 'I would prefer a more measured approach to your career.'

  'I have found, Mrs Maxwell, that the best laid plans often go astray,' Jack said. 'I will take life as I find it and hang the consequences.'

  'The consequences may not be as you desire,' Mrs Maxwell said. 'And however much my daughter may applaud your wishes, I would hope for more reason and less passion in future.' She folded her napkin with an air of finality. 'However, things are what they are. I am sure that you will be keen to return to your regiment so you can prepare your men for whatever deeds they are fit to perform.'

  Jack recognised the dismissal. 'Yes, Mrs Maxwell.' He rose and gave a stiff bow. 'Thank you for the meal.'

  'Your uniform is washed and ready,' Mrs Maxwell said. 'Once you are changed, Helen will show you out.'

  Jack hardly recognised his uniform. The Tartar servants had not only washed it, they had also expertly sewn together the many rents and pressed it so it was as neat as the first day he donned it. However even the most expert Tartar could not restore the colour to its pristine brilliance.

  'Don't mind Mother,' Helen whispered as they stood at the door. 'Her bark is worse than her bite. She means well, when all is said and done.' Her fingers rested on his sleeve.

  'I rather like your mother,' Jack said truthfully. He thought it better not to mention Helen's sudden mood swings.

  'She was not impressed by your impetuosity,' Helen rubbed his arm. 'I was. I rather admired your spirit.' She leaned closer. 'I hope you have your wish and take your wife to your home in Herefordshire.'

  'You know that I intend that wife to be you,' Jack said.

  She reached forward and placed two fingers over his lips. 'Hush, Jack,' she said. 'Fate is listening; don't temp it to intervene.'

  Taking hold of her fingers, he gently pushed them aside. 'You will be Mrs Windrush,' he said. 'I know it.'

  Smiling, she reached up and kissed him, softly, on the lips. 'Take care of yourself out there, Jack.'

  He was aware of her watching as he walked away. When he looked back she still stood in the doorway with lantern-light reflecting from the Tartar amulet that hung around her neck. She lifted her hand in farewell and he waved her safely inside.

  Chapter Sixteen

  May 1855

  'How many of these damned pickets have we done, sir? O'Neill lay in the shelter of a rock, peering into the dark. Above them, stars shone dimly from a dark grey sky, while a sliver of moon cast wan light on the tortured ground beneath.

  'I have lost count, O'Neill,' Jack swept his small telescope in an arc in front of their position. 'At least twenty since we captured the Quarries.'

  'And how many Cossacks have we killed?'

  'None,' Jack said shortly. 'We have only disposed of that party during Sir Colin's raid on the Heights and the men at the Quarries.' Jack gave the answer that O'Neill already knew. He checked his watch: two o'clock in the morning. The Cossacks were expected any moment now.

  'It's a complete waste of time sir, if you ask me. We spent two nights a week out here when the lads could be in a nice comfy trench or in their own tent in the camp.'

  'How many British officers have been murdered since we started these pickets?' Jack countered, and answered his own question. 'Also none. We have met Anderson out here and fought him at his own game. He knows we are stalking him.'

  'Maybe we have won, then,' O'Neill said. 'Maybe he's scared to face us.'

  Jack shook his head. 'Not this man. Anderson is not scared of us. He will strike when it suits him and according to one of Cattley's spies, that will be tonight.'

  'Would that be a Tartar spy, sir?'

  'That's right. A fellow named Ansar.'

  'They have been wrong before,' O'Neill reminded.

  'I know, but Mr Cattley swears by them; his spies give intelligence to him, he informs Colonel Maxwell and we are sent out. Cattley has assured me that this Ansar fellow has given good intelligence before, and this time he's given us the time, route and number of the Cossack raiding party.'

  'We'll see, sir,' O'Neill grunted and relapsed into silence. They lay a few feet below the summit of a ridge with long grass swaying in a breeze and the perfume of plants sweet in the air. Spread beneath them, the British camp looked peaceful, with flickering fire showing regular rows of huts and the sentries marching stolidly, unaware that the men of the 113th were waiting in ambush for Anderson's Cossacks.

  'Who is Anderson hunting, sir?'

  'One of our own, Sergeant. Ansar didn't know the name, only that it was an officer of the 113th.'

  'That will be Colonel Maxwell then, sir.'

  'I would imagine so… Sshh!' Jack had not heard anything unusual; after so long on campaign he was developing a feeling for danger. He could sense when things were not what they should be. Something was not right; his unconscious had seen a faint flash and his conscious mind had interpreted it as starlight reflecting on something metal. Now he knew exactly where to look, he concentrated on that area.

  They moved slowly from cover to cover, at least twenty men in dark clothing, with rifles in their hands and swords hanging from their hips. Ansar had said there would be twenty five; that was the exact number Jack counted.

  He shifted his foot, nudging O'Neill, who would pass on the message to the man on his left. There was no need for speech. Jack sensed their heightened awareness and knew they were watching and waiting for his command. He lay still, ignoring the insect that ran over his hand, ignoring the prickle of nervous perspiration that rolled down his back.

  Ansar had passed on the route the Russians would take and so far his information had proved accurate. The Cossacks were advancing, cautiously and professionally as they always did, on the exact line Ansar had said. Jack scanned the dim shapes, hoping to see the tall form of Anderson among them. When the leading Cossack reached a particular rock, he would give the order to fire.

  The 113th lay still, quiet but tense; waiting. The leading Cossack took a single step past the rock.

  'Now!' Jack said, and fired his revolver. The sound seemed to split the night asunder. Nine of his men fired at once. He had posted the remaining three fifty yards away and behind them in case Ansar had been mistaken and the Russians outflanked them; experience had taught him caution.

  Jack fired again; the muzzle flares had ruined his night vision so he aimed lower than before, guessing that the Cossacks would drop to the ground on the first shot. His men followed suit, with the more skilled firing faster so the second volley was ragged, and the third was more ragged still.

  'On them!' Jack shouted. He had already decided that to lie in no-man's land and participate in a duel against unequal numbers was to invite a war of attrition. The Cossacks would either melt away into the dark or would be reinforced and overwhelm his small force. Better to unsettle them with musketry and finish it with a charge.

  'Take the bayonet to them!' O'Neill yelled. 'With me the 113th!'

  They charged forward over the ankle-twisting ground, leaping the ragged rocks, avoiding the holes as they plunged down on the scattered Russians. No troops are at their best when taken by surprise in the dark, but the Cossacks resisted manfully, with only a few turning to run and the rest meeting the British with rifle butt and drawn shashka.

  Jack shot the first Cossack he met, pushed the wounded man aside and fired at another. A moment later he was in the midst of a melee with gasping, swearing men on either side of him and bayonets thrusting into cringing flesh. As always it was the st
uff of nightmares, a bedlam of yells and curses, screams and spurting blood. He fired until his revolver was empty, dropped it and drew his sword, to slash at men who appeared and disappeared in the dark. He saw terrified eyes and wide mouths screaming in anger or terror, hideous gaping wounds caused by the bayonet and men falling or turning away, hands raised in pleas for mercy.

  Then there was silence save for the ragged breathing of his men and the long drawn out moaning of wounded men.

  'Roll call,' Jack retrieved his pistol and reloaded. 'Sergeant; check our men for casualties.'

  'All present and correct, sir,' O'Neill reported. 'Hitchins has a slight flesh wound and Fletcher has a black eye. We caught them by surprise, that time.'

  Jack replaced his revolver into his holster. He knew these skirmishes and raids would never gain him glory or aplomb, yet they were every bit as dangerous as a full scale battle where promotion could be won. That was the price he had to pay for being in the 113th rather than a better known regiment. 'Are there any prisoners?'

  'No, sir,' O'Neill said. 'After the way the Russians bayonet our wounded in every battle, the lads don't take prisoners now.'

  'I heard a man moaning,' Jack said.

  'He's quiet now,' Coleman spoke with some satisfaction. Jack realised that he was right. There was no noise.

  'Has anybody seen Anderson? He's a tall man with one eye.' The American was not among the twenty three Cossack dead; two had escaped then, and one may have been Anderson. That man carried his luck with him. Jack swore softly and checked his watch. Five past two. The entire ambush and massacre had taken place in less than five minutes and in that time over twenty men had died, leaving wives as widows, mothers to grieve their children and children to live without a father. And for what?

  Jack sighed; it was best not to think like that. He had done his duty to the Queen and now could face himself in the shaving mirror without guilt or shame.

  'Let's get back, O'Neill. We can do no more here.'

  Colonel Maxwell leaned back in his chair, offered Jack a cheroot, smiled when his offer was rebuffed and poured two glasses of brandy instead.

  'That was our best result so far,' Maxwell sipped his brandy. 'You did well.'

  'Anderson got away, sir.'

  'You gave him a bloody nose and destroyed his raiding party.' Maxwell said. 'He will think twice about trying again. Indeed, you may have stopped him completely.'

  'I'd like another crack at him, sir,' Jack said. He tasted the brandy, so superior to the rot-gut stuff that Elliot kept their tent supplied with.

  'You're turning into as big a fire-breather as your brother,' Maxwell said.

  'Not really sir,' Jack tried not to flinch; William's name seemed to creep into every conversation with the Maxwell family. 'I just wish to settle accounts with Anderson. I want to kill him, sir.'

  Maxwell swirled his brandy around the bottom of his glass. 'War is a strange thing, Jack. It gives man such a surfeit of excitement that he can nearly forget the horror; he gets used to the thrill of pitting himself against danger and enjoys the glory of achieving victory.' He looked up. 'It can become addictive, Jack; rather than the soldier doing his duty, he can search for action for its own sake. He can also view the enemy, not as an honourable man fighting for his own flag and country, but as a personal foe, so rather than treating him as a soldier, he treats him as something evil.'

  'Yes, sir,' Jack said.

  'Can you understand that, Jack?' The cheroot was emitting wisps of blue smoke as it burned away, unheeded.

  'Yes, sir, and I agree. Anderson has made this war into something personal…'

  'I am not referring to Anderson, Jack, I am referring to you.' Maxwell remembered his cheroot, knocked off the half-inch of grey ash and drew smoke into his lungs. 'You should try these, Jack; they cleanse your lungs and calm the nerves.'

  'Me, sir?'

  'You, sir.' The smoke Maxwell exhaled wrapped around him like a blue-grey shroud. 'You are becoming obsessed with Anderson and his wiles. I ordered you to stop him and his Cossacks, and perhaps you have already done so. That ambush must have dealt him a grievous body blow. Now I want you to return to regimental soldiering.'

  'Sir … we have not completed the job. As long as Anderson is loose, then the Plastun Cossacks are a danger.'

  Maxwell ignored Jack's outburst. 'We have also learned that Ansar can be trusted. He gave us accurate and concise intelligence. I will keep in touch with Cattley and if – and I stress the word if – I hear of Anderson planning any more operations, then you can be sure that I will send for you and your ruffians first.' Maxwell stood up. 'So well done, Windrush. Now you are relieved of that extra responsibility you can think how to gain that promotion you wanted, eh?' His smile was more of a father than the colonel of a regiment. 'Dismissed.'

  'Yes, sir,' Jack saluted.

  Obsessed? Jack repeated the word as he walked away. Was he obsessed with John Anderson? He shook his head: no. He was not obsessed: he was only trying to fulfil his duty. Once again he and his men were being returned to normal soldiering with the task not completed. And he was to 'think how to gain that promotion' he wanted. What the devil was that supposed to mean?

  Chapter Seventeen

  June 1855

  Colonel Maxwell looked over his assembled officers. 'We are on the eve of history,' he said quietly. 'You all know that this siege has been ongoing for many months and we are all weary of it. You know that we have mastered Jonny Russ in every battle we have fought, while he has proved tenacious, stubborn and ingenious in defending Sebastopol.'

  The officers gave a collective nod.

  Major Snodgrass raised his voice. 'We should have gone in last September; only the cowardly French stopped us.' He swayed as he spoke; he had started on his daily alcohol intake. Jack looked at him with distaste, wondering if he realised how lucky he was that Charlotte Riley was such a poor shot. Charlotte Riley had hated Snodgrass ever since he had got her husband flogged on the ship from Malta to the Crimea; perhaps Colonel Maxwell would consider her obsessive as well? Jack discarded that thought: he knew he should not brood on such things.

  'The French proved very brave as they took the Mamelon,' Jack said. 'And they have been the finest allies we could wish in this campaign.'

  Snodgrass's glower should have melted glass. 'They are poor soldiers and cowards to a man. They use thousands to do what we do with hundreds.'

  'This is not the time for dispute about our allies,' Maxwell killed the argument before it became too acrimonious. 'This is the time for listening.'

  There was a small murmur of agreement from the other officers present. There was no secret that Jack and Snodgrass disliked each other, or that Major Snodgrass had hoped for promotion after the battle of Inkerman.

  'All this time we have been opposed by two major fortifications,' Maxwell said, 'The Malakoff, which has frustrated the French, and the Great Redan, which has caused us many casualties.' His glance at Jack may have been significant.

  The officers nodded, with Snodgrass giving a weary sigh, as if he had no need to be reminded of such tiresome details.

  'In two days we will be mounting a major assault to remove these obstacles, so that if we are successful the city of Sebastopol, the object of this war and the cause of so much blood and suffering, will be defenceless before us.'

  There was a small gasp, followed by muted cheers, as if the officers could not quite believe what they were hearing. Jack looked over them; some were familiar, the same tired old faces he had known in Burma, but disease and hardship had borne heavily on the regiment so many were unknown, very young cheepers fresh from home, and a few men in their twenties and thirties who had bought promotion into this lesser regiment that was very slowly building its reputation.

  'When is the attack due, sir?' A new lieutenant asked. The brightness of his uniform indicated that he had not been in the Crimea for long.

  'The 18th of June.' Maxwell said without visible emotion. 'Which, as you will be aw
are, is the anniversary of the battle of Waterloo. I believe the idea is to cement the friendship between Britain and France by giving us both reason to celebrate on that date.'

  Snodgrass grunted audibly. 'Soothe their hearts over their defeat,' he said.

  'The Russians may guess we have something planned for that day,' Elliot said. 'They'll be expecting us.'

  'Let us hope we can overcome them,' Maxwell brushed his worries aside. 'Now here is a brief summary of the plan. The French are going after the Malakoff: you have no need to know more. We are assaulting the Great Redan.'

  'Is the 113th involved, sir?' Jack asked.

  'Not in the main assault.' Maxwell shook his head. 'Listen and learn. The Light Division will once again provide the bulk of the men for the assault on the Redan. Each man will carry a full canteen of water and an extra twenty rounds of ammunition in his haversack. The First Brigade, under Colonel Yea of the 7th Fusiliers will lead the right attack, with a hundred riflemen as a covering party, followed by seventy two men carrying wool sacks, also from the Rifle Brigade.'

  'What are the wool sacks for please, sir?' A thin faced ensign piped out. He looked uncomfortable, like a school boy who had walked into the teacher's staff room by mistake.

  'I will explain why later,' Maxwell said. He looked directly at Jack. 'There will be a number of officers and men, all volunteers, leading the storming party; this forlorn hope will be led by Lieutenant William Windrush of the Royal Malverns, a name with which we are all familiar after his heroics in the Quarry battle.'

  Jack felt the rapid pounding of his heart.

  'Is that a relative of yours, Windrush?' A bearded major asked pleasantly. He had recently posted into the regiment from India, as his sun-browned face testified.

  'All my relatives have renounced any association with me,' Jack tried to turn the truth into what he hoped would sound like a joke.

  The bearded major grinned. 'That sounds like my relatives,' he said. 'As soon as I joined the army they cut me dead.'

  'May I interrupt this conversation, gentlemen?' Colonel Maxwell said. 'Following the sack-men will be four hundred infantry of the 23rd Fusiliers and 34th Foot, under Lieutenant Colonel Lysons, who will advance alongside bodies of sappers and marines. The sappers and marines will carry ladders to mount the walls of the Redan when they get there.'