Windrush: Blood Price (Jack Windrush Book 3)

by Malcolm Archibald

  The sound of marching increased as the troops passed them on the road; somebody laughed, a horse trotted past, its hooves raising a spark from a stone, the sound increased to a climax and then faded into the distance.

  'They've gone,' Jack said softly. 'I hope there are not many more or our journey back will be perilous to say the least.'

  O'Neill grunted. 'Look at our lads sir. They're better than the Rifles and quieter than the Cossacks. We'll get back safely.'

  Jack nodded. The dark had faded sufficiently for him to see his men. They moved in the same open formation, silently, cautiously but covering the ground. As they walked they looked around, testing every step, aware of all that was happening; they were professional soldiers.

  'Halt men.' Jack gave quiet instructions. 'This might do.'

  The road curved and dipped to bridge a small stream that struggled over a rocky bed, and then rose afterward in a series of tight loops. Trees straggled down both slopes, clustering tightly around the bridge, while unidentified birds called to each other, proclaiming their ownership of insect-hunting territory.

  'That's our spot,' Jack said. 'They will have to slow down to cross the bridge and negotiate the bends and we're so far behind their lines they won't expect us.' He pointed to the break of the road. 'We'll leave a man on the crest on either side and the remainder of us will wait at the bridge itself. Dawn is approaching now so they won't be long. We'll take the prison wagon when they are on the bridge, get rid of the guards and hustle the prisoners away.'

  'We'll have fun getting back through the Russian lines in daylight, sir.' O'Neill said.

  'We're not going to try.' Jack nodded north. 'We're going that way, deeper into Russian territory.'

  'What?' O'Neill stared at him.

  'The land between here and our lines will be filled with Russian troops. They won't want to lose their prize prisoner, so we go where they will never expect. A day up there, and we'll come back after dark.'

  O'Neill nodded. 'You're a crafty man, sir.'

  'Thank you, sergeant.' Jack took O'Neill's words as a compliment.

  With a man posted where the road began to dip, and another at the northern side of the gully, Jack and the remainder positioned themselves on either side of the bridge, staggered so their rifle fire would not hit each other, and waited for the light to strengthen. Sheltering in the lee of a gnarled oak, Jack watched the sun ease above the heights to the east. The sky lightened, then altered colour to silver, tinged with ochre as long bars of light penetrated upward toward the heavens and downward past the slopes to dapple the rough grass with light and shadow. There was undoubted beauty here in this strange land so far from Herefordshire and his own Malvern hills; different again to the green lushness of Burma or the glare of the Maltese sun. Jack listened to the bubble of the stream over the rounded pebbles and the swish of branches in the pleasant breeze. The birds continued to call, their song sweet and melodious.

  'It's hard to think that we're at war.' O'Neill caught his thoughts. 'We should not spoil such a beautiful place with bloodshed and death.'

  'Tell that to the Russians,' Logan said. 'They started this bloody war.'

  'Did they?' Riley said quietly. 'I thought it was some sort of dispute about Holy Places in Jerusalem.'

  'Nah; that's nonsense. Johnny Russ started it when he sunk the Turkish fleet, so we had to go and sort him out. They're bloody warmongering bastards.' Logan had a simplistic attitude to the war. 'Anyway, the Russians are the enemy so we have to kill them.'

  'Quite so,' Riley said. Although he was Logan's constant companion he knew better than to disagree too strongly with him.

  'Fletch's signalling: something's coming.' Williams gave the warning and they assumed their positions with scarcely a rustle of leaves. Jack looked around; his men had learned how to merge with their surroundings so although he was close, he could hardly see them.

  The clopping of horse' hooves sounded first, followed by the rumble of wheels. The men of the 113th stiffened, ready for action, but relaxed again as a farmer's cart growled past, with a pair of oxen driven by an ancient grey-bearded man.

  Growing heat wakened insects that hummed around the heads and faces of the 113th, annoying, biting and causing men to curse and fruitlessly wave their hands.

  'Keep still,' Jack hissed. 'Ignore them.'

  'It's as bad as bloody Burma.' Thorpe said.

  'Nothing like as bad,' Coleman replied. 'Your memory's gone, Thorpey. I said that would happen if you ate so many onions.'

  'It's nothing to do with onions,' Thorpe hissed. 'Hey sergeant, Coley says that onions make me lose my memory.'

  'He's right, Thorpey,' Kelly joined in. 'Onions are the worst things possible…'

  'Quiet' Jack hissed them to silence. 'Fletcher is signalling again.'

  This time the sound was louder; the definite throb of marching boots as well as the grinding of wheels on the road.

  'That could be our boys now,' Jack peered up the incline to where Fletcher stood within a clump of trees.

  The sound of marching increased. Jack calculated that there were thirty men at least, with the rumble of heavy wheels and the jingle of horse's accoutrements. Four Russian infantrymen appeared, and then a small huddle of men wearing the red tunics of British infantry, walking round shouldered and with shuffling feet, guarded by another group of rifle- carrying Russians. Two Russian officers rode tall horses on the flanks, watching everything that was happening. Behind the infantry were two carts, one large and closed and the other open to the elements, with another half dozen Russian soldiers as rearguard. Two men sat in the open cart; one was heavily bandaged in the face and had one arm in a sling; the other was William Windrush, sitting at attention, arms folded across his chest and glowering.

  Well done, William, Jack said to himself. Keep your head up and don't bow to these Russians. He gave a long, low whistle, his pre-arranged signal that their target was coming, and sensed his men tense up.

  The Russian infantry marched down the slope and crossed the bridge before they turned around, rifles ready, and shouted harsh orders to the British prisoners.

  Obviously disheartened by their defeat at the Redan, the redcoats walked slowly with their heads down; they no longer looked like the proud men who had carried their bayonets to the Alma and the bloody field of Inkerman. Jack felt his anger grow and promised that he would free these captives and make them soldiers again.

  One or two of the British prisoners looked around as they stepped onto the bridge. One man hesitated, as if contemplating escape, until a Russian shoved him onward and kicked him on the leg. Another of the guards laughed, slotted his bayonet into position and jabbed it in the prisoner's direction.

  'I'll deal with you later, Johnny Russ,' Jack promised.

  As the guards hustled the redcoats across the bridge the closed wagon rolled on, its iron bound wheels crunching the timber and shaking the entire structure. Jack saw slight movement as his men inched forward.

  'Wait' he breathed. 'Don't go too soon. Wait for my signal.' Despite their training, he knew that they were on a hair-trigger; they would be incensed at the sight of British prisoners and desperate to set them free.

  The moment the closed wagon neared the end of the bridge, the open wagon jolted on to the beginning with William sitting in the same position. Now he was closer Jack saw that William was gagged. He grunted. What was the point of that? Did the Russians think he could shout for help all the way to the British lines?

  The bridge creaked under the weight of both wagons. Jack counted to five and shouted:

  'Now 113th! Fire!'

  Half his men fired at once and when the echoes of the first volley were fading, his second section fired and the first reloaded, so the Russians were under a constant fusillade.

  Two of the guards were down, one lying still, the other writhing and gasping. As Jack watched another two fell; one crumpled to the ground and the other knocked clean over the parapet of the bridge.

 
; 'Come on, men! Take the bayonet to them!' Jack burst from the shelter of his tree and scrambled down the slope, revolver in hand. His men followed, yelling to release the pent-up tension of the long wait. With four of their number out of action, the remaining Russians tried to fight, firing wildly and belatedly trying to fit bayonets. One officer drew his sword, only for Logan to jump up at him, bayonet thrusting. The horse reared, kicking, as Logan took hold of the crupper with his left hand and stabbed with his right. His bayonet sliced into the officer's side, below his ribs; the officer groaned and slumped forward. As the horse sped away, Logan let go and fell to the ground, swore, rolled and bounced back up again. The second officer looked on in horror before tugging at his pistol. Jack did not see who fired the shot that tumbled him backward. The horse panicked and galloped off with the rider wounded and swaying in the saddle.

  And then it was over. The Russian guards were either dead, wounded or on the run, with the two wagon drivers staring at the ambushers and the British prisoners grinning or holding out their hands to their rescuers.

  'That was easy enough,' Riley said, wonderingly.

  'Ansar was right again,' Jack said as he holstered his revolver. 'That man deserves a reward.'

  O'Neill was frowning. 'There's something wrong here,' he said. 'These lads: look at their uniforms. The facings don't match.'

  'What?' Jack was more concerned with his brother than the redcoats. 'They probably got mixed up in the Redan. Get them sorted out, Sergeant, and retrieve the Russian rifles.' He strode to the open wagon.

  'Helloa Will!' Jack said cheerfully as he hauled himself up the tailboard. 'You look well!' He shook his head as he saw that William was shackled to the seat. 'I wondered why you sat so still. We'll soon have these off you!' Raising his head, he shouted, 'Riley; we need your expertise here!'

  William moaned through his gag and shook his head violently. His eyes were wide. Jack grinned. 'I thought you'd be pleased to see me.' Stepping across the wagon, he worked on the knot of the gag. 'This is well tied, but we'll soon have you free.' He frowned. 'Where the devil is Riley? Riley! Hurry up! We can't dawdle here; Johnny Russ is bound to have heard the shooting and they will send men from Sebastopol.'

  'There is no need for men from Sebastopol, Lieutenant Windrush.' That slow drawl was shockingly familiar. 'Johnny Russ is already here.'

  Jack turned around, reaching for his revolver. John Anderson thrust a long-barrelled pistol under his chin and slowly shook his head. 'No, Windrush.' His face crinkled so the scar writhed across his cheek. 'Two officers and both called Windrush. I will look into that.' He deftly removed Jack's revolver. 'I'll take care of this in case you are tempted to be a martyr.' He smiled. 'I have another use for you.'

  'And what would that be?'Jack glanced toward his men and felt sudden despair. They had been disarmed and herded into a sullen clump, while the men Jack had believed to be British prisoners were prodding at them with pistols. A dozen Cossacks strutted around with rifle and bayonet. The situation had altered with terrifying speed, from easy victory to shocking defeat. 'You treat my men decently, Anderson. They are British soldiers and honourable prisoners of war.'

  'Oh Lieutenant Windrush, I know exactly what they are.' Lighting a long black cigar, Anderson sat on the bench beside William.

  Jack saw that the flap of the covered wagon flapped open; presumably the Cossacks had been sitting inside, waiting for the 113th to drop their guard. Jack felt sick: Anderson had out-manoeuvred him yet again, and his men would pay for his inadequacies as an officer.

  'Ah, the price of trust,' Anderson mocked. 'And you thought you were doing so well.'

  He turned suddenly as two of the 113th leaped at their guards. Logan crashed his forehead against the closest Cossack, knocking him to the ground, and pushed Riley beyond the ring of guards. 'Run, Riley, run!'

  Taken by surprise, the Cossacks recoiled, except for one man who lowered his rifle and fired. The shot echoed through the trees; somebody yelled. Jack saw Riley stagger to the parapet of the bridge. He remained there for a second, staring open-mouthed at Logan, then he fell, turning a complete cartwheel until he hit the water with a resounding splash.

  'Riley!' That was Logan's voice. Evading the guards, he ran to the parapet and looked down. 'Riley!'

  Of course it would be Logan and Riley, Jack thought. Logan would retaliate against anybody show of authority and the ex-cracksman would be the worst affected by the prospect of a prison. So that was him gone; another good man, a man Jack liked to think of as a friend, lost to this pointless bloody war.

  The Cossacks and red-coated Russians shoved the 113th into a sullen clump 'You filthy bastards!' Logan yelled, 'you dirty…' One of the Cossacks smashed the butt of a rifle onto his head. Logan dropped, and the Russian delivered half a dozen hefty kicks to his ribs.

  'Leave that man!' Jack roared, until a Cossack thrust a bayonet under his throat and growled something that was undoubtedly a threat.

  Another British soldier lay in a spreading flood of blood with his throat cut from ear to ear. That was Dunn, a solid, cheerful man from County Cork. Now he had two dead: Dunn and Riley. Jack closed his eyes; death was a soldier's lot but Riley had never suited the soldier's life and he had a loyal wife who would miss him. No: this was not the time to mourn; he had to concentrate on his present situation.

  As Anderson snapped an order, a pair of wiry Cossacks thrust Jack onto the bench beside William and fastened shackles around his ankles.

  'Now I know you can cause me no trouble.' Anderson looked curiously from Jack to William and back. 'There is a resemblance between you,' he said. 'Are you brothers?'

  'That's hardly your concern,' Jack said, at exactly the same moment as William shook his head violently.

  'I see,' Anderson smiled. 'We will discuss this later. I have the very place for you two.'

  'Never mind about us; just you make sure you treat my men well. If you hurt any of them…' Jack could not finish the sentence. Manacled in the back of a wagon, miles behind Russian lines and with an efficient looking Cossack holding a bayonet to his chest, he was as helpless as he had ever been in his life.

  'Anderson shook his head. 'Your men will be cared for, Lieutenant Windrush.' His smile was not pleasant. 'If I were you, I'd be much more concerned about yourself.' Giving brusque orders to the guard, Anderson jumped off the wagon. The small convoy began to move again, with the prisoners of the 113th a sour, snarling assembly inside a fence of Cossack bayonets.

  'March to attention, 113th!' Jack shouted. 'You're British soldiers; damned well act like it!' He saw O'Neill look directly at him, then square his shoulders and bark to the men. Kelly and Coleman supported Logan who was bleeding profusely from his head.

  'We're the 113th!' Logan yelled, wincing at the obvious pain his own shouting caused him.

  The cry was taken up by the others. 'We're the 113th! 113th!'

  '113th!' Jack joined them, roaring out the regimental number. 'They could not beat us fair so they used trickery! 113th!'

  He saw them respond as the pride returned, and then his guard thrust a filthy rag in his mouth and twisted it behind his head, gagging him. O'Neill frowned and moved forward as if to interfere, only for the guards to lower their bayonets into an impenetrable steel hedge.

  Gagged and manacled, Jack could only watch in itching frustration as his men marched away, captives of the Cossacks and with each step taking them further into Russia.

  Chapter Twenty One

  The room was long, low and stuffy. Jack moved, felt the weight of chains and swore. He probed at his mouth with his tongue and tasted blood. 'At least they've taken out the gags.' He said.

  'They're going to kill us,' William's voice was clear. 'That's their plan.'

  'Not much of a plan is it?' Jack said. 'If they were going to do that they've had plenty of opportunities. They could have shot us or slit our throats anywhere on the road. No; they have something else in mind.'

  'I heard you shouting for the baby butch
ers.' William said after a pause. 'You've found your true level then. I'd be obliged if you did not talk to me. Unlike you, I am a gentleman.'

  Jack thought of O'Neill, always loyal, Thorpe and Coleman who baited and ribbed each other until the fighting started, when they became closer than kin, snarling Logan and urbane Riley, opposites in character but loyal companions… 'Yes I have found my true level, William. I have found men who are true whatever the situation, and the worse the conditions, the more they stick together.'

  There was no response from William.

  Jack sighed. 'That's a bit juvenile, don't you think?'

  Chained to the wall, Jack's movement and arc of vision was restricted but he could see they were in a stone built building with wooden rafters festooned with cobwebs and a lean-to roof. There was straw on the ground and a single door of heavy wood with a large key hole. He pulled at his shackles, testing them for strength. They were iron, rusty and so heavy they were not easy to even lift. The staples that attached them to the wall were as thick as a man's forefinger while the lock with which they were fastened was between his wrists and well out of reach.

  'It looks like we have to wait and see what Anderson has in mind for us.'

  Still silence. Jack grunted and shuffled his feet. He heard something moving in the straw. Cockroaches or rats or mice; he could smell them. He shuddered. If he fell asleep they would be all over his body with their foul diseases and sharp claws and teeth. He shrugged: did it matter? Were rats worse than the lice that infested the trenches? That was all part of soldiering as well; not quite the glorious images with which he had grown up.

  Dim light seeped from somewhere, although he could not see a source. There may have been a window high up, beyond the veil of cobwebs. Jack scanned the chamber. The light was stronger in the far corner; that must be where the window was situated. He lifted his arms; not that the knowledge was any good to him when he was manacled. Jack swore in frustration; until now he had no idea how great a torture such a simple thing as chains were. Every movement scraped the rough iron against his ankles or wrists, rubbing away the skin and causing him discomfort. Was this to be his future?