Windrush- Jayanti's Pawns

by Malcolm Archibald

  'Stand to,' Jack said quietly. He'd convinced himself that Batoor would betray them and now expected nothing else. 'Load and cap, have your bayonets ready.'

  'It's Batoor,' Coleman said.

  Here we go. Jack unbuttoned his revolver.

  'He's brought camels,' Coleman said, 'and some camel drivers.'

  'Anybody else?' Jack asked.

  'No, sir.'

  Jack breathed out in relief and fastened the button of his holster. His initial faith in Batoor had been justified.

  * * *

  They moved out an hour after sunset, with flitting clouds reflecting the blossoming light of the moon.

  'Sergeant.' Jack called O'Neill over. 'Keep alert.'

  'Yes, sir.' O'Neill put just enough emphasis on the phrase to inform Jack he didn't need an officer to instruct him in the obvious.

  'Watch Riley and Logan,' Jack kept his voice low. 'I wouldn't be surprised if they decided to slip away with a camel load of loot.'

  'Aye, sir.' O'Neill nodded. 'I had thought that as well, although it's Armstrong that's been wandering recently.'

  'Armstrong?'

  'Yes, sir,' O'Neill said. 'Twice this week he's left the house to go into Lucknow.'

  'I'm sure you can handle him, sergeant. In the meantime, take care of Logan and Riley.'

  O'Neill raised his hand. 'Can you hear that tinkling? That's camel bells. I made sure each driver has them. It will make us more audible, but the locals know the sound anyway. If I hear bells from anywhere except in our convoy, I'll know somebody's running off with them.'

  'Good man, sergeant.'

  Leaving Lucknow behind, they headed into the darkness, with Jack watching for trouble from his men as much as from an enemy. The camels walked in single file, not hurrying but covering the ground at a steady pace and easing over the road with no apparent effort. The men marched alongside the camels; rifles slung over shoulders, hats pulled low and boots kicking up dust. Jack checked each man, trying to gauge his mood. Thorpe and Coleman marched side by side, not speaking much but as relaxed as veteran soldiers should be. MacKinnon and his rear rank man, Mahoney, were slouching a little, while Armstrong and Whitelam were a little apart. Jack turned his attention to Logan and Riley.

  Riley remained very close to the rearmost camel, nearly touching the driver, while Logan looked wary, turning to look behind him every few steps. What are you waiting for, Logan?

  The quarter moon revealed the road stretching ahead across the plains. Even in the night, sweat soaked through Jack's uniform tunic, forming beads on his eyebrows and easing down his face. He felt as if he had been journeying across India for years, marching through the hot darkness, worrying about his men, waiting for the sudden ambush, listening for the cry of “Din, din!” or “Allah Akbar!” or the crisp orders of the British-trained mutineers.

  As they approached a grove of palm trees, something rustled above Jack's head, a night hunting bird or a bat perhaps. He quickened his pace. He must have passed a hundred such topes in the past few weeks, with each one a possible site for an ambush. Hurrying to the front of the convoy, he stepped beside MacKinnon.

  'Is everything all right, here?'

  'Yes, sir,' Mahoney answered at once.

  'I'm not sure, sir.' MacKinnon was eyeing the palm trees. 'I've got that queer feeling again.'

  'So have I, Mackinnon,' Jack said. 'Careful now, lads.'

  The column speeded up, with Jack watching until the last camel passed the tope. Palm fronds hissed slightly in the oven-hot breeze, with a host of insects descending on the marching men and lizards watching them through stony eyes. There was no ambush, and Jack breathed his relief as they moved on over a featureless plain.

  'My camel's lame, sir,' Armstrong shouted. 'The brute's limping.'

  There is always something. Jack hurried over, shouting for Batoor to join him.

  'Here, sir.' Armstrong pointed to the camel's front left leg. 'He must have injured it somehow.'

  'Let me see,' Jack knelt beside the camel. 'I can't see anything.' He sensed movement and shifted sideways. Armstrong's blow crashed into his shoulder rather than the back of his head. Even so, the force was sufficient to knock him face-down into the dust as Armstrong fired his rifle.

  That shot was a signal for a high-pitched yell as a mass of men rose from hiding in the surrounding grass and rushed onto the convoy.

  'Fire!' O'Neill took command. 'Shoot the buggers flat!'

  Jack tried to rise, staggered and fell again when Armstrong smashed him a second time with the butt of his rifle. He heard the irregular crackle of musketry as his men fired, then the patter of many feet on the ground and the calling of camels.

  Logan's voice shouted, 'Would ye, you dirty bastard?' and then came the hammer of hooves.

  'Fight them,' Jack shouted. He rose again, dazed, and pulled his revolver from its holster.

  In the few moments that he'd been on the ground, the raid had finished. Only one camel remained, with Thorpe holding grimly onto the reins. Mahoney was thrashing on the ground, cursing as he clutched the gaping wound in his chest, and Riley lay still.

  'Roll call!' Jack shouted. 'O'Neill, is everybody accounted for?' Still dizzy from the blow to his head, Jack peered around him.

  'No, sir.' O'Neill was wiping blood from the blade of his bayonet. 'Mahoney is wounded, sir, Riley is down, and Logan and Armstrong are missing, as well as five camels and their drivers.'

  'Armstrong was part of whatever happened,' Jack said. 'He knocked me down and fired a signal shot.' You warned me, O'Neill. You told me that Armstrong was wandering in Lucknow and MacKinnon knew something was wrong. I'm to blame. I have to make amends. Has Logan joined Armstrong?

  Jack knelt beside Mahoney. 'Let me see that wound.'

  Mahoney shook his head, pressing his hand against his chest. His eyes were huge. 'No, sir.'

  'Let me see!' Jack eased Mahoney's hand away. Blood seeped from a long if shallow, gash across Mahoney's chest. 'It's not bad,' he said. 'We'll soon have that sorted out.'

  'Logan!' O'Neill's yell split the night. 'Where are you, Logan, you Sawney dwarf!'

  'I'm here!' Logan emerged from the dark. 'I couldnae catch the murdering, treasonous bastard. How's Riley?'

  Logan wasn't part of it. Only Armstrong, then.

  'Dead,' O'Neill said at once.

  Jack felt a delayed thrill of horror. He was used to death, to losing men by bullet or disease but Riley was one of his old soldiers, a man who had survived the worst the Crimea had to offer as well as the battles for Cawnpore and Lucknow. Jack and he had shared hardships and adventures in and around Sebastopol.

  'No, he isnae,' Logan said at once. 'There isnae a pandy born that could kill Riley.' He knelt beside the body. 'Come on, Riley man, up ye get.'

  Unable to help Logan and Riley, Jack said, 'Bring me light.' He examined Mahoney's wound by the beam of a bulls-eye lantern. 'I'm going to have to stitch that, Mahoney.'

  'It'll be all right, sir,' Mahoney said.

  'If I don't, you'll bleed to death,' Jack said. And if I do, the wound will probably become infected, and you will die anyway.

  Jack blessed Mary for giving him an emergency medical kit as they removed Mahoney's shirt and laid him face up on a doolie.

  'Who has some alcohol?' Jack asked. 'Something to help this lad?'

  'I have sir.'

  'Good lad, MacKinnon. Help him drink it and then take hold of him. Make sure he lies still.'

  'I'll be all right, sir,' Mahoney said.

  'I know you will, Mahoney,' Jack said. 'But it's best to be sure.'

  Taking a deep breath, Jack began to stitch the wound together. He had no skill in such procedures so relied on the number of times he had seen army surgeons working with the wounded. Mahoney flinched under the initial prick of the needle and then lay as still as he could under Jack's cumbersome attention.

  'I'm sorry,' Jack said as he probed too deep with the needle.

  'It's all right, sir.' Mahoney's eyes
were huge.

  'There,' Jack said. 'That will do you, Mahoney. A fine scar to impress your girl.'

  'Yes, sir.' White under his tan, Mahoney managed to raise a smile. 'Thank you, sir. You will have to leave me behind, sir. I'll slow you down.'

  'No, Mahoney. We'll take you with us.' Jack had no illusions what would happen to a lone, wounded British soldier left alone in this part of India.

  O'Neill had organised the men into a defensive perimeter. 'What happened sir?'

  'Armstrong knocked me down and fired a shot as a signal to whoever attacked us.'

  'The dirty bastard. Do you know who it was, sir?'

  'No.' Jack shook his head. He had never liked Armstrong, but hadn't expected anything like this. He'd lost his treasure, lost a good man in Riley, and had another wounded.

  'See?' Logan's harsh voice sounded again. 'I telt ye that Riley wasnae deid. Come on, Riles, up on your feet.'

  'What was that?' Jack looked over.

  'It's Riley, sir. I'm telling you, he's no deid.'

  Jack stepped over. Riley lay on his side with ants already exploring the blood that pooled under him.

  'Who gave you permission to lie down, Riley?' Jack asked. 'Get up! We've a job to do!'

  Riley opened his eyes, closed them again and groaned. 'I think I'm dead, sir.'

  'Nonsense.' Jack could feel Logan's relief. 'It's an offence for a man of the 113th to die on the road. Get better at once, and that's an order.' Jack saw amusement on O'Neill's face. 'And when you report for duty, Riley, get a haircut.'

  'Yes, sir.' Riley held up a hand, and Logan helped him up. The cut on his head was already congealing.

  'Wash that scratch and get a bandage on it, Riley.' It was all Jack could say. 'Are you able to walk?'

  'Yes, sir,' Riley said.

  'We'll need a doolie for Mahoney,' Jack said.

  'Are we heading back to Gondabad, sir?' O'Neill asked.

  'No,' Jack said. 'We're going to chase whoever took our treasure. Whitelam! You're our best shikari. Follow the spoor.'

  'Yes, sir.' Whitelam accepted the order as calmly as he did everything else. 'It won't be hard, sir. Half a dozen camels and God knows how many men will leave a deep trail.'

  'MacKinnon, Batoor, you two have the first stint at carrying Mahoney. Whitelam, you take the lead. O'Neill, you're rear guard. Logan, look after Riley.' Jack gave rapid orders. 'I am damned if we'll allow some rebels to attack us and get away with it. They won't get the better of the 113th, and we need that gold.'

  Chapter Eighteen

  Whitelam was correct. Even in darkness, the trail was easy to follow, with the camels having churned up the dry ground and left plenty other evidence of their passing.

  'Sir,' Mahoney said. 'We'll slow you down. Leave Riley and me behind. We'll look after each other.'

  Logan glared at Jack. 'I'm not leaving Riley behind.'

  'Nor am I,' Jack assured him. However, he agreed that Mahoney had a point. Carrying a doolie and helping the injured Riley was slowing them down. 'O'Neill!'

  'Sir.'

  'Take Batoor and run ahead. Find our camels, find out how many men we're up against and report back to me.'

  'Yes, sir,' O'Neill said.

  With O'Neill's dust receding in the distance, Jack pushed on with the remainder of his party.

  Within an hour, they found a village, shuddering under the relentless onslaught of the sun. 'Maybe this is where the badmashes came from.' Coleman readied his rifle.

  'No,' Jack said. 'These are poor people; farmers, not warriors. Even if they got gold and jewels, they wouldn't know what to do with them.'

  They stopped at the well, with the men drinking all they could and filling their water bottles. Jack tried his meagre Urdu on the staring villagers.

  'Ram ram,' he said and indicated Mahoney on his doolie. 'Medicine man? Doctor?' He asked hopefully. The villagers stared at him, and he wondered if they had ever seen a white man before, let alone a whole patrol complete with rifles.

  'Hey, Johnnie!' Logan decided to take a hand. 'We need a doctor. A medical man, right?' He pointed to Riley's head. 'My mate's hurt, see? And so is Mahoney.' He lifted Mahoney's tunic, so the wound was visible.

  The villagers gathered around and called to one old woman, who limped forward and poked painfully at Mahoney's chest. Lifting her finger, she gestured toward the nearest of the huts.

  'She wants us to go in there,' MacKinnon said.

  'It could be an ambush.' Coleman was sceptical.

  'It's not,' MacKinnon said. 'Come on Mahoney, and the old biddy will sort you out.' One of the more active of the villagers took hold of the rear of the doolie and helped MacKinnon into the hut.

  'You lads stay here,' Jack ordered, 'keep in the shade and be careful. Coleman, take over out here. Let me know if anything happens.'

  The inside of the hut was dark and surprisingly cool. Noticing that Jack had his hand on the butt of his revolver, the old woman shook her head angrily at him, the caste marks between her eyes seeming to dance as she wrinkled her forehead. Chattering at Jack, she pointed to the ground.

  'Put Mahoney down there.' Jack tried to appear as if he was in charge of the situation. 'And bring in Riley. The old witch may as well look at him as well.'

  'She might kill him,' Logan said.

  'No.' MacKinnon shook his head. 'She will help.' He salaamed to the woman. 'Jai ram,' he said, and spoke to her in Gaelic.

  'Jai ram, sahib.' Another voice spoke from a gloomy corner of the hut, and an old man appeared, nearly toothless and with silver-white hair.

  'And who are you, grandfather?' MacKinnon salaamed again.

  'Naik Abhi Basu.' The old man slammed to attention and threw an impressive salute. '31st Bengal Native Infantry Regiment! Bhurtpore!'

  'He's a bloody pandy!' Logan lifted his rifle.

  'No, he's not!' MacKinnon stepped between Logan and the naik. 'He's a veteran. Did you not hear him?'

  Jack breathed out and returned the salute. He hadn't realised he was nervous. 'At ease, Naik. I am Captain Jack Windrush of the 113th Foot. These are Privates MacKinnon and Logan, and the wounded are Privates Mahoney and Riley.'

  Naik Basu's smile could not have been more extensive. While Logan lowered his rifle, MacKinnon held out his hand and greeted the naik in Gaelic. Within seconds, the two were talking like old friends, both in their native tongue and neither understanding a word the other was saying.

  'This naik was at Bhurtpore with Lake back in 1805,' MacKinnon said at length.

  'How the devil do you know that?' Jack asked.

  'He told me,' MacKinnon said.

  'You don't speak Urdu or Hindustani.' Jack shook his head.

  'He still told me.' MacKinnon looked puzzled as if astonished that Jack hadn'tfollowed the drift of the naik's words.

  Jack nodded. 'I believe you. Can the old woman help Mahoney and Riley?'

  'Oh, yes,' MacKinnon answered at once. 'She's a wise woman; she'll know what herbs and plants to use. She knows the Unani treatment, sir, that's normally Islamic, but it's spread to the Hindu areas. We could not have come to a better house. We can leave them here, sir, and they'll be safe,' MacKinnon said.

  'We won't.' Jack hardened his voice. 'I'm not leaving any of my men in the middle of India.' He watched as the old woman fussed over his wounded. She examined their wounds with surprisingly gentle hands and then gave sharp orders that had half a dozen younger women running around the village finding herbs while the old naik boiled a copper pot over a small fire.

  'You lie still, Riley,' Logan said. 'The old besom will sort you out.'

  When O'Neill returned from his solo patrol, he was hot, dusty and exhausted. 'They've stopped for the day, sir,' he reported. 'About a hundred and twenty men and some women, with a few looking as if they know what they're doing and the rest only to make up the numbers.'

  'Is Armstrong among them?'

  'Yes, sir.' O'Neill touched the lock of his Enfield. 'I had him in my sights. He's with the l
eaders.'

  'Right, Sergeant. Keep them under observation and report back.'

  'Yes, sir.' O'Neill immediately turned around.

  With both wounded stripped to the waist, the old woman created poultices from the gathered herbs.

  'You take care of them, granny,' Logan said as MacKinnon helped the woman to apply the poultices. The woman gave MacKinnon instructions in Hindi, and he obeyed with an instinctive grasp of what she needed.

  'How long will this take?' Jack asked.

  'Not long, sir.' MacKinnon looked up from Mahoney's chest. 'I've seen old witchy-women like this before. They leave the herbs on for a day or a night, and it sucks out all the poison.'

  Jack glanced outside. Time was precious. He wanted to recover the stolen treasure and get back to Gondabad before Jayanti executed her prisoners. He could ill-afford even a day, yet if he left these men unattended, they might well die.

  'We can spare one day,' he said, hoping that was sufficient time for his men to recover. He glanced at the sun, thought of Mary back at the temple and wondered if the burden of command was prematurely turning his hair grey.

  Would I have it any other way? No. Jack gave a rueful smile and stepped across to Riley. These were his men, and he would care for them every way he could. I will wait until these men are fit, and then I will regain our treasure.

  Chapter Nineteen

  'Sir,' O'Neill panted. 'They're still moving.'

  They waited on the crest of the ridge with the trees baking around them, looking down at the convoy. The five camels swayed as they walked, with the escort a straggling crowd carrying more sticks and spears than firearms.

  Jack frowned, embarrassed that this rabble had bested his professional soldiers. Lifting his binoculars, he scanned the mob until he found Armstrong, riding a small horse near the head. 'I see you, you back-stabbing bastard.'

  'Is that Armstrong, sir?' O'Neill asked.

  'Yes.' Jack passed over the binoculars.

  'He's talking to somebody,' O'Neill said. 'I can't see who for the dust.'

  'Nor can I.' Jack glanced over his men. 'We'll find out tomorrow when we get our loot back.'