Crimea Read online

  'Here's fun, Walter!'

  On a ledge overlooking the harbour, two red-coated captains stood beside a small brazier. The taller held a pair of tongs into the glowing heat as his companion watched.

  'That'll do Walter. Throw it!'

  Smiling, the taller captain withdrew the tongs, blew on a now-heated copper penny and tossed it over the wall, where a gaggle of raggedy urchins clustered. When the coin descended like manna from heaven, they ran toward it, with the most active leaping above his fellows. When the tiny, grubby hand closed on the coin the boy's scream rose high and shrill.

  'You scoundrels!' Jack had not seen the suntanned man in the old-fashioned cloak and broad-brimmed hat until he approached the two officers. 'That was an unmanly act!'

  'What the devil does it have to do with you?' The smaller officer stepped toward the suntanned man.

  'You wear the uniform of British officers and gentlemen,' the man was about fifty, with the brightest blue eyes Jack had ever seen. He grabbed at the tongs in the tall officer's hand and threw them over the wall. 'You are a disgrace.'

  'And you, sir, are an interfering fool.'

  The smaller officer noticed Jack watching, 'and who are you? Some sneaking puppy of the 113th, I see?' His mouth twisted into a sneer. 'Did you enjoy the show this morning?'

  With the bottles clinking in their basket, Jack faced the captain. 'Not any more than I enjoyed watching British officers sully their honour in this manner.'

  'Good God!' The smaller man stepped backwards. 'You preach, sir. You, a creature of the blackguard 113th, preach to me!'

  The frustration and disgust of the day chased any vestige of control from Jack's tongue. 'What do you mean sir, by insulting my regiment?'

  'What do I mean, sir? I mean this, sir!' Without hesitation, the captain slapped Jack backhanded across the face.

  'That's the way, Bradley! Show him!'

  The shock sent Jack staggering backwards, but instinct made him bring up his fists and land a left jab on Bradley's chin before he recollected his duty. He had just witnessed the result of a man striking a superior, and now he had committed the same offence. Dropping his fists, he awaited the inevitable retribution.

  'Go on Bradley!'

  Shaking his head, Bradley advanced, landing two stinging lefts to Jack's face before ducking low and punching wickedly into his groin.

  The sudden agony forced Jack double, but the sound of Bradley's loud laugh spurred him on. Fighting the pain, he rose again, blocked Bradley's next roundhouse right and threw a straight left that smacked hard against the captain's nose. Blood came in an immediate scarlet flow as Bradley yelped and stepped back.

  'Oh well done, sir.' The suntanned gentleman roared, 'now go on and finish him off!'

  'Nobody will go on. You will both return where you belong.' There was no mistaking the authority in the order, and Jack looked up. Major General Reading stared down at him. 'I witnessed you strike a superior officer. Either you send in your papers or resign, or I shall have you cashiered.'

  'Excuse me, sir,' the civilian stepped forward, removed his hat and bowed. 'I observed everything that happened here.'

  'And you are, sir?'

  'My name is Joseph Bulloch. I saw these gentlemen throw heated coins to the local boys, and this officer,' Bulloch indicated Jack, 'remonstrated with them. That one, Bradley, I believe, insulted his regiment and struck him; he quite naturally retaliated and then dropped his hands, whereupon you happened along.'

  General Reading grunted. 'Striking a superior officer is a grave offence, Mr Bulloch, as this lieutenant well knows.' He turned an imperious eye on Jack. 'What is your name, sir?'

  'I am Lieutenant Jack Windrush, sir; of the 113th Foot.'

  'And you two?'

  'Captain Bradley and Captain Walter, of the 118th Foot.'

  Reading hauled at the reins of his horse. 'Windrush, I want you to report to my headquarters at noon tomorrow.' Kicking in his spurs, he pushed on, leaving Jack to the jeers of Bradley and the torment of his thoughts.

  A host of tiny birds played around the tall trees that grew in the courtyard, and the scarlet uniformed men snapped to attention the instant Jack stepped through the door. The atmosphere of opulence and confidence only increased when he moved through the splendid palace, and the grandest of all was the room in which Sir John Reading greeted him.

  'Ah, Windrush.' Behind a desk whose size and splendour would have graced any royal court, Reading looked up from a pile of paperwork. 'You could make it on time, I see.' He indicated the gold-faced clock on the wall. The hands were just touching twelve.

  'Yes, sir.'

  'You and your regiment have recently arrived on this island, Windrush, yet you have already brought yourself to my notice.' Reading was obviously a man who came straight to the heart of the matter. 'You were at the execution yesterday morning and saw fit to brawl and strike a superior officer the same day. That is hardly an auspicious start to your career.'

  The clock had not finished striking twelve, and already Jack could feel that career sliding away.

  'Indeed, Windrush, I am contemplating discharging you from your regiment. If you are a typical example of an officer of the 113th, then the British Army is better off without you, or the 113th.'

  The clock sounded its final chord and whirred into near silence. 'The captain struck me first, Sir. I do not know if I am typical or not.'

  Reading grunted. 'Your regiment is known as the Baby Butchers, as their only actions so far have been to shoot into a mob of near-starving mill workers, and run away from a load of Indians.' Reading's eyes were sharp as any bayonet.

  'We saw some action in Burma, sir,' Jack reminded. Best not to delve into the 113th behaviour in the Sikh War.

  Reading snorted. 'A dozen of the 113th chased a handful of dacoits through the jungle while the rest sat around catching fever. The 113th, are poor material with poor officers and I am ashamed to have them under my command.'

  'They are British soldiers, sir, and they will act as such when the time comes.'

  'Don't bandy words with me, Lieutenant!' Reading leaned back in his seat. After a minute's contemplation during which the soft ticking of the clock dominated the room, he spoke again. 'So in your vast experience, Lieutenant, you think a taste of battle with cure all their ills?'

  'I know they will do their best, sir.' Jack said. 'They came up to scratch in Burma when it mattered.'

  Grunting, Reading tapped his fingers on the desk. 'You are Jack Windrush, late of Wychwood Manor. Your mother was a kitchen maid and father was Major General William Windrush; you believed you were destined for the Royals, so being posted into the 113th must have been a shock…' He held up his hand when Jack began to speak, 'don't interrupt me, boy. You are the son of an honourable man, but as a by-blow, you can never be a real gentleman.'

  Jack kept silent, listening to the sound of birds in the courtyard and feeling the warmth of the sun through tall windows. He could not object: Reading spoke only the truth. Being unable to join the Royals had been a sickening blow, but if Reading relieved him of his commission, Jack's life would be bleak indeed; he had no skills and no talents; his life was geared around his commission, and if that were withdrawn, his annual allowance would also end. He might have to re-enlist as a private soldier, and he knew he would never fit in with the hard men of the ranks.

  The loner hand of the clock jerked into motion, marking the passage of another minute before Reading spoke again.

  'However, Windrush, although you can never be a gentleman, there may still be a way in which you can retain your honourable position as an officer in His Majesty's forces.'

  Hope glimmered at the edge of a corridor of utter despair, but Jack kept quiet. I will not beg.

  'Indeed,' Reading said, 'I can't think of anybody better suited to the task I have in mind.' He rang a small brass bell that sat on his desk, and a very well presented lieutenant entered the room as if he had been waiting outside the door.

  'Fet
ch Mr Bulloch.'

  Jack looked up as Bulloch entered the room, doffing his hat. 'Good afternoon gentlemen. Is this the man you have chosen, General Reading?'

  'This is he,' Reading confirmed. 'He is an officer of bad blood from a regiment of scoundrels.'

  Bulloch raised both eyebrows but did not say a word. 'Shall I tell him, General? Or do you wish to do the evil deed?'

  'It is my duty, Bulloch.' Reading came straight to the point. 'Windrush; we have a Swedish diplomat presently in Valetta. His name is Stevensen, and we don't trust him.'

  That was blunt. 'Yes, sir. How does that concern me?'

  'I want you to find out all about him, in any way you can.' Reading leaned back in his chair as if the interview was at an end.

  'Sir,' Jack stared at the general. 'I don't understand. How am I meant to do that?'

  'You said yourself that you are a British Army officer, Windrush. If you wish to retain that station, I expect you to use your initiative.'

  Jack felt his heartbeat increase at the blatant threat. 'I am not sure what you mean, Sir.'

  'I mean, Windrush, you are to take any possible method to find out about this man.'

  'General Reading is giving you carte blanche,' Bulloch interposed. 'You may use any method including direct observation or personal intrusion into this fellow's home.'

  Jack opened his mouth to protest that he was an officer and not a spy until he saw Bulloch give a quick shake of his head.

  'Thank you, General, for permitting me to use the services of this officer,' Bulloch said quickly. 'I don't know much about you, Windrush, but I do know that you are a man of principle, courage and spirit. I saw that yesterday. You have been on campaign already I believe?'

  Jack nodded. 'Yes, sir. I was in Burma, at the capture of Rangoon and the siege of Pegu.'

  'That will do for me.' Bulloch replaced his hat. 'May I take him away now sir, and inform him of the details?'

  'What?' Reading nodded, 'yes, yes, take him away Bulloch and do what you will with him. Now I want results, Windrush. Find out about this man, and we can put this unpleasant situation behind us.'

  'I am no spy!' Windrush said as soon as Bulloch closed the general's door.

  'No?' Bulloch raised his eyebrows again. 'Is that such a bad thing to be?'

  'It is dishonourable,' Jack said. 'It is not the sort of thing a gentleman would do.'

  'Even if it may save thousands of lives?' Bulloch grin made him look like a schoolboy, except for the deep grooves that ran from the sides of his mouth to his nose. 'I am a spy,' he said, 'so according to your lights I cannot be a gentleman, yet my family has held lands in Hampshire since the Domesday Book and probably for a century or two before.' He laughed at the confusion on Jack's face. 'But enough on that subject I think, Windrush; we have important matters to discuss.'

  Bulloch had a small room at the top of the building, with a window that overlooked Piazza Tesoreria, the city's main square with its busy traffic and raucous people. 'Have a seat, Windrush,' he invited cheerfully, 'and I'll tell you what you need to know.' He slid into a heavily carved chair behind the desk, poured two glasses of red wine and passed one across to Jack.

  Unsure what to expect, Jack took the glass and sat opposite Bulloch. 'Thank you, sir. If I may make so bold, sir, who exactly are you?'

  'I am Joseph Bulloch, and I represent the British Government out here in Malta.' Bulloch grinned again. 'And that is all you need to know, Lieutenant Windrush.'

  Jack nodded. 'All secret is it? Well enough Mr Bulloch; so who is this Swedish fellow then, and why is he being investigated by the government?'

  Bulloch shrugged. 'We don't know, Windrush and that's the truth of it. He appeared unannounced in Valetta and took up a very respectable residence, and then some people visited in whom we are very interested.'

  'I don't understand,' Jack said. 'What sort of people.'

  'You may be just old enough to remember the Chartist troubles of '48 when there was near insurrection in Britain and half the kings of Europe lost their crowns.'

  'Vaguely, sir.' Jack said, 'I was at school at the time worrying about irregular Latin verbs.'

  'Fascinating things, irregular Latin verbs; we'll have to talk about them sometime.' Bulloch sounded genuinely enthusiastic. 'Well, Malta was not immune from the political disturbances. Out here there was a movement to get rid of the British and gain independence. It came to nothing, as most of these things do, but we keep an eye on the old members of the group.'

  'Is that so, sir?'

  'It is so, sir, and two of these scoundrels have come to see this Mr Stevensen.' Bulloch said. 'We have enough trouble with this Russian affair without Malta blowing up in our faces, Windrush, so I want to find out what Stevensen is all about.'

  'Don't you have any agents of your own, sir?'

  'Not that I can spare. The best I have is out East in Bulgaria; this Russian nonsense is soaking them all up. The Russians know what they are about and are trying to stir up trouble all over the Empire.'

  Windrush sighed. 'Why me?'

  'I believe General Reading already answered that. You were born on the wrong side of the blanket and are an officer in a blackguard regiment,' Bulloch said candidly. 'Therefore you are desperate to be accepted and can be manipulated into performing unsavoury acts that a true gentleman would never accept.' Bulloch's wide grin did not remove the shrewdness from his eyes. 'In short, Windrush, you are buggered. You can either comply with our demands and retain your position as an officer, or refuse and wave goodbye to that splendid scarlet uniform. Oh, and spend the rest of your life trying to explain why you lost your commission.'

  'I see,' Jack took a deep breath, recognising the truth. 'So what am I expected to do?'

  'It's quite simple,' Bulloch said happily. 'You are expected to break into Stevensen's house and see what incriminating evidence you can find. Oh and don't get caught. If a British officer should be caught doing such a thing Horse Guards would cashier him for sure, and the local police would throw him into some medieval dungeon to rot forever.'

  Jack felt his mouth gape open. 'How the devil do you expect me to break into a house? I'm a gentleman, not a housebreaker.'

  'You are an officer in the British army, Windrush.' Bulloch smile never faltered. 'There is nothing to which you can't turn your hand. And when you succeed, I will put in a good word with General Reading to have you sent east, if you are certain that is what you wish.'

  'Of course, I'm certain,' Jack said.

  Bulloch sighed. 'I'm sure I don't know why you young men are all eager to go and get killed.' Reaching down, he opened the middle drawer of his desk and produced a small leather case. 'This may come in handy,' he said. 'It is a lock-pickers wallet, made in Birmingham, like all the best cracksman's tools.'

  'Thank you,' Jack held the case awkwardly, unsure what to do with it. Eventually, he opened it and glanced inside. There was a collection of thin metal objects, each one the length of a small pen and with an intricately-shaped head. 'What am I meant to do with these?'

  'Use them,' Bulloch said. 'Now I don't even have a description of this Stevensen fellow, so I can't help you there, I'm afraid!'

  'I see, sir,' Jack said.

  'Thank you for your time, Windrush. I hope to hear about your success very shortly.'

  It was a blatant dismissal. Jack nodded, 'yes sir,' lifted his hat and left the room.

  The men slouched outside their quarters, red tunics undone and boot laces untied. Jack glanced around; according to the regimental records, there were thirty men based here at Ta Bubaqra, deep in the south of the island far away from the rest of the army. Not one looked up when Jack walked up. Some sat in a circle exchanging banter and curses as they played with dog-eared cards; others sat and scratched at insect bites as they sought shade in the lee of the stone-walled houses. Two men just stared into space through dull, hopeless eyes while another pored intently at a small, leather-bound book. Jack spared him a few seconds: many ordinary soldiers cou
ld not read a word; a man who chose to spend time with a book was a rarity and could be a barrack-room lawyer: major trouble.

  A corporal and a private soldier passed a water bottle back and forward, swaying as they sipped at the contents. Whatever it contained, Jack realised, was undoubtedly more interesting than water. He stopped beside the drinking men.

  'How are things, O'Neill?'

  The corporal started, looked up and stood to attention. 'Sorry sir, I didn't see you there.'

  'Pass over the bottle,' Jack ordered, 'I'm as hot as you are.' He took a quick swig. 'Local wine is it? I had to buy imported swill from Sicily. Trust you to find the good stuff.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Sit down man.' Jack sunk to the ground at his side. 'We fought together in Burma for God's sake.'

  'I was there too sir,' the second man said.

  'I remember, Thorpe,' Jack handed back the bottle. 'How could I ever forget you?' He acknowledged Thorpe's grin with a lift of his finger. 'Now listen, you two. We all know what sort of men we have in the 113th. I need a housebreaker.'

  'Have they kicked you out, sir?' Thorpe asked. 'Are you looking for a new career?'

  'Mind your tongue!' O'Neill belatedly remembered that he was a corporal and next in the chain of command.

  'I did not hear that Thorpe,' Jack said quietly. 'You men know the regiment as well as anybody else. Do you know of anybody who could help?'

  O'Neill screwed up his face. 'There's a lot of blackguards in the 113th, sir,' he hesitated, 'I don't know of any cracksmen though. That's a bit too skilled for this regiment.'

  Jack looked around at the slum-haggard faces of the privates. Recruited from the dregs of the gutters and the sweepings of the countryside, they were drunkards and brawlers, petty thieves and poachers. He recognised a pickpocket who had changed his name to hide from the law; one was a gentleman ranker soaked in gin, another a bigamist on the run from both his wives and the surly fellow was a policeman kicked out for brutality: welcome to the 113th Foot.