Windrush: Blood Price (Jack Windrush Book 3)

by Malcolm Archibald

  Mown down in their scores, the surviving British infantry kept moving across that hellish plain until they reached the abattis, the immense barrier of tangled trees and branches that acted as the outer defences of the Redan. Here they stopped, unable to advance further, still under heavy fire and with men dropping in swathes.

  'Where's William?' Jack muttered to himself. 'Where are you, Will?'

  'I beg your pardon sir?' O'Neill asked.

  'Oh, nothing; I was talking to myself,' Jack said.

  'Windrush! There's our signal!' Elliot sounded more like his excited self as he pointed upward, and Jack pushed all thoughts of William to the back of his mind as he rose. His duty now must be to his men.

  'Come on lads!' He raised his voice above the staccato drum-beat of artillery and the hoarse cries of fighting and dying men. 'It's our turn now! Let's show the world what the 113th can do!'

  Jack had only met Major General Eyre once before but knew him as a competent commander. In his early 50s, Eyre had helped organise the commissariat at the beginning of the campaign, finding wagons and horses from all sorts of unlikely places to assuage the supply problem. Despite that, he was not known as a fighting general; Jack wondered if he was the right man to lead a diversionary attack that might distract a sufficient number of Russian guns to give the main assault a chance.

  Eyre stepped to a slight eminence in front of the 18th Foot, the Royal Irish, who made up the bulk of the attacking force. He spoke in Gaelic and when he finished the men yelled loudly, raising their bayonetted rifles high.

  'What did he say?' Jack asked.

  'He said he hoped their deeds that morning would make many a cabin in old Ireland ring again,' O'Neill translated for him, 'but there was no need for that. Look at these lads!'

  All Jack knew about the 18th was their nickname of Eyre's Greyhounds because they always exercised at the double. He had never seen a regiment so animated as these Royal Irish. Every single man was straining to get forward, their eyes bright, teeth showing behind parted lips as they waited for Eyre's order to advance.

  'Bugger the French,' Logan said, 'these lads will march all the way to St Petersburg and slaughter any Russian that gets in the way.'

  'Shabash the 18th!' Coleman reverted to the language of the Burmese veterans. 'Shabash!'

  The second that Eyre gave the signal, the 18th foot, with Jack's 113th among them, powered forward toward the Russian rifle pits that guarded the Picket House Ravine route to the Merchant Harbour. The 38th and 44th were only a hairsbreadth behind, ready to sweep any Russians aside.

  Leaving the Right Attack to deal with the Redan, Eyre pushed forward. Keen to fight, the 18th Royal Irish exchanged laughter and Gaelic phrases to which O'Neill responded in kind as the 113th raced forward with them. Sitting secure behind their sandbags, the Russian defenders prepared to receive them.

  While the Right Attack remained pinned down at the abattis, the Irishmen of the 18th and Jack's fifty of the 113th threw themselves at the rifle pits. The Russians, as brave as ever, rose to meet them but nothing could withstand the frenzied Irish attack. A number of the 18th stood on top of the parapet, shooting downward and laughing as they cleared the front rank of defenders, and then others of the 18th and 113th leaped over the sandbags and charged on. With bayonet and boot, they cleared the Russian works, disposing of any Russians who fought back; taking a handful of shocked prisoners and watching the survivors turn tail and run.

  'Well done boys!' Jack checked his men; he had no casualties. For once the 113th had been second into action as the 18th Foot proved their mastery of the bayonet.

  A blood-smeared Irishman, tall enough to be a hero of the Fingalian stories dragged an equally large Russian by the collar. 'Go it lads!' The Irishman yelled. 'There are plenty more of them yonder. Hurrah for old Ireland!' He broke into Gaelic, which brought a chorus of yells in return.

  'Onward!' Somebody shouted. Jack did not know who. He pulled himself out of the Russian trench and ran forward, pistol in hand, in the wake of the retreating Russians. There was something madly stimulating in this pursing a fleeing foe, a feeling that Jack had never experienced before. In Burma the enemy had simply melted away into the jungle and in his previous encounters with the Russians they had withdrawn in good order and huge numbers.

  'Come on lads! Sebastopol lies before us!' Riley was fully as intoxicated with victory as the Irish were. He ran forward, bayonet levelled, whooping, with Logan at his side and the 113th in open order as they had been trained.

  'Take that Russian cemetery, boys!' Eyre pointed forward. The walled cemetery sat on a spur that thrust forward precariously above Dockyard Creek.

  Between the British and their objective, Russian riflemen held a number of stone walls, each an obstacle that would have delayed a lesser force but Eyre's brigade was not to be daunted. They attacked the walls one by one, pushing back the defenders and pushing down the stones as Russian bullets whined and buzzed around them. Casualties mounted.

  Leaving the dead behind, the 18th pushed on down the Picket-House Ravine, the gulley that separated the British and French armies, with the slogans of the Irish echoing and the boots of the regiments on their right as regular as a parade ground drill. The party of the 113th kept up pace for pace as they advanced toward the cemetery above the glittering waters of the Dockyard Creek.

  'Push on,' Eyre said. 'Don't stop!'

  'Come on lads!' Jack had no need to encourage his men as they raced the 18th Foot toward the Russian riflemen. The defenders had time to fire a single ragged volley before the British were on them. There were a few moments desperate struggle among the scattered gravestones and then the British pushed out the defenders and raced on, excited, exhilarated, laughing with the intoxication of success.

  'We're shoving them back all the way to St Petersburg,' Logan yelled. 'Stay and fight you Russian cowards. You can't run for ever.'

  'You men,' Eyre pointed to a section of the 18th, 'stay here, hold the graveyard. The rest of us, come on!'

  The British cheered, scenting victory as they ran on into the suburbs of the city. Jack looked around; there were a number of Russian troops hiding around the solid, green-roofed houses, with the guns of the Garden Wall Battery scowling down at them.

  'We're winning!' The possibility of victory had restored some of Elliot's bounce. 'We're actually going to take Sebastopol at last!'

  The houses were neat, clean and seemingly untouched by war. As they approached, the Russian infantry retired, orderly, disciplined and obviously under orders. O'Neill booted open the door of the nearest house and thrust inside, with Logan and Riley at his back.

  Jack heard the high pitched wail of a woman and O'Neill's voice.

  'You're all right, my pretty; you've no reason to be feared of us. We're British soldiers, not murdering Cossack brigands.'

  Jack followed inside to see O'Neill trying to pacify an obviously terrified woman while Logan held a wriggling infant and Riley just looked helpless.

  'Logan: put that child back down, the woman thinks you're going to eat it or something. O'Neill, take the men outside the house and stand guard in case somebody else frightens these good people.'

  The woman continued to howl as Jack ushered his men away only to realise that British soldiers had already made themselves very much at home in the houses that straggled toward the city walls. He heard the soft tinkling of a piano and sniffed at the rich aroma of coffee.

  'That's as far as we can go,' General Eyre pressed a hand to a bad head wound. 'At least until we conquer the Redan.' He pointed to the grim muzzles of the guns in the Garden Wall Battery. 'We don't have the manpower or resources to storm the walls, but as long as we're here, these guns will be firing at us and leaving the Right Attack alone.'

  'Yes, sir.' Jack agreed. 'My men will try and hold their attention.'

  Eyre gave the glimmer of a smile. 'Well, we'll make ourselves as comfortable as we can. Look after your men, Lieutenant … what's your name?'

&nbs
p; 'Windrush, sir.'

  'Ah yes, Windrush.' Eyre wiped away the blood on his face. 'Any relation to the late General Windrush? Never mind; attend to your men.'

  'What's happening sir?' O'Neill had waited respectfully until Eyre walked away.

  'We've breached the outer defences but there are still strong-points and batteries between us and the city,' Jack said. 'We've to dig in here and distract the Ruskis from the main attack.'

  Elliot looked around 'How do we do that?'

  Jack shrugged as the elation of a few moments previously drained away. 'We sit tight and make a nuisance of ourselves until the Redan falls.' He remembered the carnage outside the abattis and pushed aside the thought of William amidst that horror of death and agony.

  'Our attack's been beaten back,' somebody shouted. 'The Russians have held the Redan: they have black flags flying above and are shooting at our wounded.'

  'Bloody murdering bastards!' Logan waved a fist in the direction of Sebastopol. 'Dirty murdering blackguarding bastards!' Falling to the ground, he aimed at the Garden Wall Battery and loosed a single shot. 'Die you bastards! That's one less.'

  'Logan's got the right idea,' Jack said. 'You're all trained in marksmanship; find the best cover you can and bowl over a few Russians.'

  With the main British and French assaults repulsed, the Russians began to concentrate on this diversionary attack with their artillery on the Strand and Barrack batteries opening up. Jack watched as the 18th Foot followed Logan's example in firing at the artillery embrasures.

  'What sort of rifle is that?' Jack asked a red-haired corporal who crouched at his side, aiming at the embrasures where the Russian artillerymen could be seen working their guns.

  'It's an Enfield sir,' the corporal's accent was as thick as Donegal peat and his eyes as innocent as spring. 'We only got issued them yesterday. They're babes in arms and fire as true as the Word of God.'

  Jack nodded. 'Thank you, corporal. Carry on; you're doing splendid work.'

  If these new Enfield rifles were an improvement on the Minies, he had to obtain some for his men. He would use anything that could increase their efficiency but first he had to ensure they survived this battle.

  The Russian fire increased, with roundshot rumbling along the roadway and crashing into the houses, sending fragments of razor-sharp green tiles among the men. Casualties mounted but the Irish, true to their reputation for devil-may-care bravery, did not falter. Being British soldiers, somebody had found alcohol and they passed around bottles of wine and cherry-brandy, laughing and singing amidst the carnage. There were men looting the houses, parading around in woman's shawls and bonnets and making obscene gestures to the Russian gunners. Kelly joined in, donning a long dress to turn his back on the enemy artillery, bend over and show his backside.

  'None of that, 113th!' Jack snarled. 'You are building a good reputation; don't ruin it for the sake of a Russian shawl or a bottle of kill-me-deadly rot-gut rubbish.'

  'Actually, sir, the brandy is first class.' Trust Riley to know good brandy.

  'Kelly! Get back into uniform!' O'Neill had been too busy firing to notice what his men were doing. 'Sorry, sir…'

  'Try and keep them under control, Sergeant.' Always anxious to give the 113th a respectable reputation, Jack did not see any humour in the situation.

  'Yes, sir; sorry, sir.'

  An outburst of shouting behind him caused Jack to turn around. Two men of the 18th were gesticulating and pushing at each other, careless of a Russian roundshot that bounced only fifty feet away. One roared at the other in Gaelic, and swung a haymaker of a punch that would have lifted his opponent clean off his feet if it had connected. Within a few moments a score of privates had formed a ring and were cheering their colleagues as they swapped punches.

  'Are all Irishmen mad?' Slightly bemused, Jack watched the fight for a few moments, reluctant to intervene in the affairs of another regiment.

  'Not as mad as the English,' O'Neill said after a few moments pause. 'We haven't attacked and conquered half the world, and had wars with most of the rest.'

  'But you are here too,' Jack said.

  'I am here because the alterative was to starve,' O'Neill said. 'Rotten potatoes: England's gift to Ireland.'

  Jack bit off his retort. He thought of the fertile fields of Herefordshire and the number of Irishmen who were fighting for the British crown, and wondered about the truth of all he had been taught. He contemplated reprimanding O'Neill for speaking in such a manner to an officer, remembered that he had initiated the conversation and looked away. Men in the heat of battle could become introverted and concentrate only on their own danger, or they could lose all restraint and speak about the most personal matters. O'Neill had temporarily dropped his professional mask to reveal some of the bitterness he obviously felt about the way his country had been treated. That was another factor that Jack resolved to watch out for in future.

  Jack did not see the end of the boxing match, and nor did he care who had won, if anybody. He was much more concerned with the Russian fire that increased throughout the day, pinning the brigade in their now vulnerable forward positions. With the failure at the Malakoff and the Redan, there was no possibility of a break through and it was all they could do to hold on.

  'Stand fast,' Eyre commanded, with blood soaking through the bandage around his head. 'Stand fast and fight; shoot at the gunners!'

  'Look at that,' O'Neill pointed to the harbour as Russian warships sailed as close as they could to the British positions. 'I thought Britannia ruled the waves.'

  'Aye, but Johnny Russ rules the harbour,' Riley said.

  With the Russian navy adding its toll of artillery to those opposing the brigade, the British position grew even more perilous. Men were falling dead or wounded, the ground was littered with mangled and desperately suffering men but they were soldiers and they fought back, pitting their frail bodies, bravery and Enfield rifles against the massive artillery of fortifications and battleships.

  'Bloody sailors on their bloody ships!' Logan fired at the massive three-decker. 'Fight fair you bastards!'

  'We're losing far too many brave fellows,' Elliot wiped away blood from a cut to his chin, looked at the scarlet smear on his hand and shrugged.

  'Maybe Raggles with try another assault at the Redan and take some of the pressure off us,' Jack replied.

  'And maybe he will sit on his arse and act the gentleman with the Frenchies,' Elliot said. 'We can expect nothing from him and that set of muffs he calls the staff. We're all going to die here; all of us.'

  'No we're not,' Jack denied. 'We're British soldiers; we will do our duty, hold our post and keep fighting until further orders.'

  At around five in the evening Colonel Adams of the 28th took over from the wounded Eyre. 'Keep firing men,' Adams said quietly, ignoring a charge of canister that shattered the walls of a house only twenty yards from where he stood. 'We'll hold out here as long as we can.'

  Elliot ducked as a Russian bullet smashed into the wall beside his head and ricocheted upward. 'There won't be many of us left by then,' he reached inside his tunic for his flask.

  The cannonade continued until dark, when Adams ordered them to withdraw from everywhere except the graveyard.

  'We'll keep this as a stronghold.' Adams said. 'Then at least we'll have some sort of gain from this day.'

  'Well, we've held on where nobody else has,' Elliot flinched as a roundshot bounced in front of them and hissed over their heads.

  'Don't bob!' Adams reprimanded severely. 'Better that the men see an officer killed than an officer who bobs before a Russian shell.' He stalked away, refusing to allow the enemy to see him waver.

  'We did our duty,' Jack said. He checked his men; of the fifty he had brought, eight were dead and two wounded. His own section, the men who had fought beside him in Burma and at Inkerman, was miraculously intact save for minor cuts and bruises. Others had not been so fortunate, Jack thought. Casualties were being loaded onto house doors in lie
u of stretchers. They had paid a high price to gain a few score yards of ground.

  'Careful with these wounded!' Jack waited until the last of his men were past him and made his way back to the British trenches. The day that had promised so much had ended in a bloody reverse.

  Chapter Eighteen

  June 1855

  Elliot no longer looked like an eager young officer. Unshaven for days, hollow eyed and with deep lines on his haggard face, he had aged ten years in the nine months since the siege had begun.

  'That was a bad day at the Redan,' he said. He poured something cloudy into a glass and drank it, added more and sipped before passing the bottle to Jack.

  'What's this?' Jack sniffed at the bottle and screwed up his face.

  'God only knows and I don't care. Some sort of kill-me-deadly concoction the Sawnies distilled out of corpses and swill.' Elliot swallowed some without any change of expression. 'It does the job.'

  'And what job is that?' Jack asked.

  Elliot looked up, his eyes glazed. 'It takes me away from this god-awful place,' he said. 'Every time I sleep, I see the dead, pointing accusing fingers at me and asking why. Either that or the wounded, screaming forever as they look for help I cannot give.'

  'You can't carry the burden of the entire war on your shoulders, Arthur.'

  Elliot gave a twisted smile. 'I don't have to. That is Raggles fault; he was to blame for that disaster on the 18th. He stopped the artillery so the men advanced over four hundred yards under hellish Russian fire. He did not ensure the French made a diversionary attack so allowing the Russians to catch our men in a cross fire. He ordered the attack even although the French had failed at the Malakoff so we had no hope of success. He had our men murdered; Raglan was to blame: nobody else.'