'Hitch's off in his own world,' Coleman said. 'Hey, Hitch, let us know when you come back, will you?'
'What's to do, Hitch?' Thorpe copied Coleman. 'Let us know where you are.' He looked at Coleman for approval. 'He's in a different world, Coley.'
'So are you, you Jemmy block!' They grinned at each other in amicable disharmony.
Jack nodded. He may be destined to be a lowly lieutenant for the remainder of his career, but he knew that he and these men had forged something special, something unique. Together they had created a unity out of a mass of the most unlikely material that even the British Army had to offer. 'Carry on, men,' he said.
He had one last chance to defeat Anderson and impress Helen. An image of her came into his mind, with her knowing, vibrant eyes and the way she could say so much with a single look or a toss of her hair. John Anderson and his Cossacks stood in the way of his passage to Helen. If he did not defeat Anderson, there would be no promotion; without promotion, he could not afford marriage. It was a blood price; Anderson for Helen. Jack took a deep breath. He had to kill Anderson to win his woman; it was mediaeval, even pagan, and yet as he sat in the midst of his unscrupulous bunch of warriors, he wondered if that was how life had always been. Men picked a woman to create offspring; women picked a man to protect and provide.
Where did love and romance come in?
Jack shook his head. Perhaps they were only devices used by story-tellers and poets, men of the pen rather than men with practical experience of the real world outside the cloister and fire-lit room.
'Come on lads! We have training to do! Fletcher: your shooting is still poor…'
Chapter Twenty Four
'Are we all set?' Colonel Maxwell puffed on his cheroot, appearing the epitome of calmness as he stood above Jack.
'Yes, sir.' Jack looked around his men. They had used the short summer night to move into their positions and now they were hidden in the folds of the landscape, invisible men with rifles, waiting for Anderson and his Cossacks.
Jack had chosen this spot carefully. Sir Colin would halt here for a few moments in a pre-arranged plan. It was far enough away from the British lines to be isolated and therefore vulnerable, yet close enough to the Russians for a raiding party to be able to hit and run. If he was Anderson, he would have chosen this spot to attack.
Maxwell grunted. 'I can't see your men.'
'They're here, sir.' Jack raised his voice. 'Answer the roll: O'Neill!'
'Sir!' the voice came from what looked like a rock a few yards to Jack's left.
'Riley.'
'Sir.' A tuft of grass on the right.
'Hitchins.'
'Sir.' Even Jack could not see where Hitchins was hiding.
'All right, Windrush,' Maxwell said. 'Now all that remains is for Sir Colin to come into play and the Cossacks to fall for it.'
'Yes sir. If you don't mind, sir, could you stand elsewhere? If Johnny Russ is watching you through a telescope he will wonder at you standing there talking to yourself.'
'Quite so, Windrush. Well, the best of luck to you and your brigands.'
'Thank you, sir. And please remember to stick to the marked path, and for God's sake keep Sir Colin on the path too.'
Nodding, Maxwell ambled away, whistling softly and staring at the landscape as if he had never seen it before. Jack followed his gaze; the walls of Sebastopol were to their north, with the road to Balaklava running rough and busy in either direction. His men lay concealed around the old gun batteries overlooking the Woronzoff Road. This was where the battle of Balaklava had been fought the previous year. Now it was his turn. Here the 113th either stopped Anderson's Cossacks, or died.
'There is no retiring from here, 113th,' he said softly.
'We'll show the bastards,' Coleman said. 'You see if we don't.'
'We'll show them,' Thorpe echoed. 'Eh Coley?'
'That's right, Thorpey boy, that's right.'
The August sun peaked, bringing sweat and then evaporating it again in seconds. Jack reached for his watch, remembered that he had lost it in the Russian village, swore silently and lay still, with the grass and foliage tickling his face and the flies a constant irritation. This waiting was the worst time as the tension rose and he worried that there was something he had forgotten, something he had not done, some detail he had overlooked. But then it was too late for worry or doubt as he felt the ground vibrate beneath him.
'Here we go, boys,' O'Neill's low voice carried on the breeze.
Shifting slightly, Jack peered forward through his telescope. He had created an arc of vision that allowed him to see the length of the Woronzoff Road as well as the North Valley and the heights down which the Cossacks must come.
There was no movement there. The valley was bare and the heights opposite lay baking in the sun, with no smear of tell-tale dust, nothing to signify the passage of the enemy. Jack shifted his position slightly to widen his viewpoint. He could undoubtedly hear movement and now the slightest whiff of tobacco came to him. Not the refined variety smoked by British officers but the stronger type favoured by the Cossacks. Jack lowered and folded his telescope and reached for his rifle.
He stiffened at the sound of singing and the murmur of voices; the Cossacks certainly would not be singing as they came on their mission of murder, unless it was another of Anderson's tricks. The rumble of wheels was next as a small, two wheel cart rolled into view. A moustached man was driving the ox that pulled it while a woman in Tartar clothes and a family of children sat on top of its cargo of hay. Fodder for the British horses, Jack realised. The man was laughing; his wife was singing. Jack cursed again and hoped they passed quickly.
He heard the clump of marching feet; British soldiers. That would be Sir Colin's escort. Jack swore for a third time. The Tartar family had chosen exactly the wrong time to appear. Hopefully they would pass before the Cossacks attacked; if they did attack.
There was an outburst of noise as the Tartar woman yelled high-pitched and stretched out a hand. Ignoring her mother, one of the children jumped off and ran into the rough grass beside the road.
Jack swore again. There were snares set at that side of the road, wire loops that could maim or kill a man, yet alone a small child. He watched in apprehension as the little girl hurried through the grass. She stopped, looked around her, lifted her dress and squatted.
'Dear God, be careful,' Jack breathed. He saw an arm rise from the grass and pull her down, heard the Tartar mother scream and saw the father lift his long whip and follow his daughter, shouting.
'What the devil's happening?' What's all that screaming?' That was the voice of a British officer. Exactly on time, Sir Colin's party advanced along the marked path, with the dozen British infantry heavy footed and the four horsemen drawing their sabres and forming a tight group around Sir Colin.
Jack held his breath; that young girl must have run into ground where the Cossacks were hiding, and one had grabbed her. He had not even notice them come up: God these Cossacks were good. Jack raised his voice. 'Don't fire until you see something, lads!'
And then there was only the Tartar family and the whinny of a single horse to break the silence. Both the Cossacks and Jack's men lay still, waiting for the enemy to make a move as Sir Colin's escort tightened around him, horsemen twitchy, nervous and infantry stolid, with rifles ready to fire. Jack peered through the foliage; the Tartar mother grabbed her child by the arm and hauled her, complaining and protesting back to the cart.
Sir Colin barked an order and his infantry formed a solid square of bayonets around him. The four horsemen rested their swords against their right shoulders and stared at the seemingly empty landscape. Somewhere aloft a bird called, the sound haunting, nearly eerie.
'Best not go on, Sir Colin,' one of the British horsemen said in languid tones. 'We don't know what's happening.'
'I can't see anything, damn it,' Sir Colin's testy Scottish voice sounded. 'And I'm damned if I'll retire without good reason. Move on!'
Expressionless, the infantry opened their formation and marched forward, with the mounted men giving Sir Colin more space as they walked their horses, still scanning the ground on either side. The Tartar cart rolled along the road, with the mother alternatively scolding her daughter and hugging her tightly.
Taking a deep breath, Jack watched as Sir Colin and his entourage passed slowly by. Unless the Cossacks moved very soon, the whole operation would have been pointless, Anderson would have won and he would remain a lowly lieutenant. The alternative was to start a messy skirmish with a cunning and skilful foe he could not see.
'I see you!' One of the escorting horsemen shouted, pointing his sabre into the grass. 'You, fellow! Stand up at once!'
Jack sighted in the direction the horseman pointed, yet he did not see the man who fired the shot.
There was a jet of white smoke and the horseman staggered. He dropped his sword. 'Good God,' he said, putting a hand to the ominous stain that spread across his chest.
'Fire at these beggars!' Sir Colin said, as Jack gave the same order. In an instant the ground at the side of the track was in confusion as the escort, the 113th and the Cossacks fired simultaneously.
Standing in the open, most of Sir Colin's escorting redcoats fell at once. The three remaining returned fire as two of the horsemen thrust in their spurs and charged forward and one came close to Sir Colin to protect him.
Jack had no need to issue orders; his men knew what to do. As soon as the Cossacks had fired, the smoke gave away their position; the 113th aimed, fired and charged forward with the bayonet, yelling.
Taken in flank and by surprise, the Cossacks were momentarily confused. Some rose to fight, three chose to run and others lay still, hoping not to be seen. It was a forlorn hope with the powder smoke lying still in the calm day.
Jack had marked his target: a man who lay under a blanket of woven grass and leaves. The Cossack turned, eyes opening wide and mouth forming either a scream or a challenge as Jack approached. Without stopping to think, Jack knocked the Cossack's rifle aside, plunged in his bayonet and twisted. The Cossack's face contorted in agony, blood spurted from his mouth and he fell forward onto the blade. Pressing his foot against the body, Jack pushed it off the bayonet. He looked around.
Sir Colin Campbell was scrutinizing him with his crumpled, craggy face expressionless. Two horsemen were formed around him, sabres out. The three surviving infantrymen stood among their dead and wounded comrades and loaded their rifles.
Jack took all that in at a single glance. His duty was to protect Sir Colin and crush the Cossacks; his concern was for his own men.
O'Neill was a few yards away, wiping the blood from his bayonet. Thorpe and Coleman were finishing off a Cossack with professional efficiency, their fire-darkened bayonets plunging in and out again. He could see all the rest, except Hitchins. There was no time to look for him; the Cossacks were retiring at speed, covering each other, firing to slow down any pursuit as their initial confusion vanished and their expertise took over.
'Press them,' Jack ordered. This part of the proceedings would take careful management; he wanted to force the Cossacks onto the traps he had set, which meant keeping them moving far enough in front to keep his men safe, yet not so far that they had time to reload their rifles or get clean away. 'And watch for Anderson!'
His men responded with a will. Swearing and shouting, they followed the Cossacks, forcing them backward toward the man-traps. Jack grunted in grim satisfaction when the leading Cossack gave a sudden scream and collapsed, holding his leg. The others looked toward him, and then a second man yelled and fell with his leg trapped between the serrated fangs of a man-trap.
'Now halt,' Jack said, 'load and aim. I want prisoners.' He scanned the Cossacks who stood in a ragged line, fingering their rifles, eyes darting from the 113th to the terrain, no doubt wondering where the traps were and how they could avoid them. Jack raised his voice. 'You men; if you surrender you will be well treated.'
In return the Cossacks either lowered their rifles so the bayonets pointed toward Jack's men, or drew their shashkas.
'They're going to fight,' O'Neill warned as the Cossacks began a slow advance.
'Fire,' Jack said.
The volley rang out, felling three of the Cossacks. 'Load again,' Jack said. This was too much like murder. Cornered by an unknown number of man-traps and facing nine of the 113th, the Cossacks knew they had been defeated. They could either run, hoping to avoid the terrible traps, fight or surrender. Brave warriors, they chose to fight.
'Here they come,' O'Neill hefted his bayonet.
'I wish Logie was here,' Ryan said quietly. He was not the best man in the no-holds-barred savagery of hand-to-hand combat.
The 113th met the Cossacks with a line of lowered bayonets. Knowing he was no match for a Cossack blade-to-blade, Jack dropped his rifle and pulled out his revolver, firing as the Cossacks charged. He dropped one man, missed another and then they were around him, agile, wiry men gasping, slashing with their swords, thrusting with bayonets as the 113th responded with bayonet, rifle-butt and iron-shod boot. With no mercy sought or granted, it was a desperate, bloody encounter.
A moustached Cossack came straight for Jack, shouting as he lowered his bayonet. Jack fired once, seeing the man flinch as the bullet ripped into his bicep, and fired again, hitting him in the centre of his chest. The force of the bullet stopped the Cossack dead; he stared at Jack as blood seeped and then vomited from his mouth, tried to say something and collapsed, gasping and kicking, choking.
O'Neill swung his rifle like a club, knocking a Cossack off his feet and then trampling him underfoot. Riley was down, trying to protect himself from a Cossack who was trying to stab him with his shashka.
'Riley!' Jack dashed across, aiming his revolver. He tried to count the number of bullets he had left: he had fired two in the initial rush and two at the bayonet man. He fired again, missed as his target moved, fired his final bullet and saw the man flinch as the shot grazed his hip. The Cossack glanced up, raised his shashka to plunge it into Riley's stomach and crumpled as somebody's bloody bayonet protruded from his chest.
'And that's done for you,' Thorpe said calmly, twisted the blade and withdrew. 'Come on Riley; up you get.'
Jack stepped back, trying to reload. The ground was strewn with dead and dying men, mostly Cossacks although Wilkinson, one of his newer arrivals, was lying in a crumpled heap.
'Did we take any alive?'
'Two sir,' O'Neill sounded laconic. 'They fell into Hitchins' mantraps.'
'And Anderson?'
O'Neill shook his head. 'He's not here, sir. Either he escaped or he was never here to begin with.'
Jack swore and checked his men. Hitchins was missing and Wilkinson was dead. 'Has anybody seen Hitchins?'
'He's gone, sir. Johnny Russ done for him.' Thorpe threw a belated salute as he spoke.
'A pity: he was a good man.' Jack would miss the burly, quiet spoken ex-poacher. He never caused any trouble and never shirked his work. Remembering his tale of the magistrate, Jack sighed: Hitchins would have been better to choose the jail rather than the army. Mourning would have to wait. At present it was more important to find Anderson. If the American was still loose, then he could re-create another group of assassins and begin the whole process again.
The first Cossack glared up at him. With his right leg trapped and mangled by the iron teeth of the man-trap he was in terrible pain, although none of it showed on his face.
'Can you speak English?' Jack spoke loudly; that was the only way foreigners could be made to understand.
The Cossack spat at him, drew his shashka and tried a wild slash that Jack parried.
'Shall I shoot him, sir?' Thorpe asked.
'No; the Russians treat their prisoners decency; so shall we.'
'They murder our wounded sir; he's wounded,' Thorpe voiced steps that were logical to him. He raised his bayonet.
'No,' Jack pushed the blade aside. 'We don't do that. Where is t
he other prisoner?'
He had no need to ask. The second Cossack was more vocal in his suffering, swaying and moaning over his shattered leg. Jack crouched at his side, removed the man's shashka and tossed it away. No doubt one of the 113th would salvage that for a souvenir or to sell for drink or a short time with a woman in Balaklava.
'You are in a lot of pain,' Jack spoke slowly and distinctly. 'Can you speak English?'
The man nodded. His leg was a mess; the iron spikes had shattered the shin so Jack could see shards of bone protruding through the flesh.
'I know you,' Jack said. 'You were the young guard that helped Captain Windrush.' He remembered the mobile eyes and the small show of sympathy.
The man whimpered; his eyes moist with tears. 'He is a British gentleman.'
'So am I,' Jack said. 'I want to release you from your pain but I need you to help me first.'
The man bit his lip to prevent himself crying out.
'Where is Anderson? The American who commands you? Where is he?'
'I can ask him, sir,' Coleman asked. 'If we twist the jagged bits they'll hurt more.'
Jack glared at him. 'Get back out of this, Coleman! Sergeant! Hunt the area for any Cossacks that could be hiding; and spring these blasted traps in case some local blunders into them.' He knelt beside the suffering Cossack. 'I will have you out of here as soon as I can, soldier.'
'I can't say anything,' the man shook his head.
'That is a great shame.' Hating himself, Jack stood up. 'We won't kill you. We will leave you here for your own people to find. It might be a day or so, if they come back for you at all. Until then you will be alone with your pain.' He stepped away slowly. 'The teeth of the man-trap will slowly close as the spring works, so the longer you are there, the worse it will get. At night the wild beasts will come for you as you writhe in agony…'
'He is in the British camp,' the Cossack nearly screamed the words.
Windrush: Blood Price (Jack Windrush Book 3) Page 25
