Windrush: Blood Price (Jack Windrush Book 3) Page 3

  'Now!' Ben shouted.

  'Helen!' Jack balanced in the stern and held out both arms but he need not have been concerned. Closing her eyes, Helen had obeyed immediately, jumping forward despite her raft being on the crest of a swell ten feet above the dinghy.

  Ben had judged it perfectly. The raft sunk exactly as the dinghy rose so Helen had only a fraction of a second between the two and then she was tumbling into Jack's arms, gasping for breath, wet and cold and thankfully safe. He felt her rapid heartbeat through the saturated canvas of her shirt.

  'Get her onto the harbour wall; quickly now!' Ben noticed Jack's reluctance to release her. 'We have more to save.'

  'Ben's right,' Helen murmured. 'I have to go.' Breaking free from Jack, she scrambled up the harbour wall. 'Don't mind me,' she yelled. 'Help the others.'

  'Come on Mrs Maxwell,' Jack urged, but she stood defiantly erect.

  'I am coming last,' she said, and pushed one of the younger crew members to the edge of the raft. 'Take this boy next!'

  Only when all her charges were safe did Mrs Colonel Maxwell calmly step on to the dinghy.

  'I thought it would be you that came,' she handed over Jack's revolver. 'Wherever Helen is, you are not far away. Well, Captain Windrush, now that you are here you may as well make yourself useful; help us eject whoever has moved into our house. It will be some jumped up little nobody with a high opinion of himself no doubt, or a long-nosed honourable with a Horse Guards accent and scarcely enough brains to fill a pea-pod.'

  Jack glanced at Ben, who nodded. 'Thank you for your help,' he said.

  'It was needed, Captain Windrush.' Ben held his gaze with very steady eyes. 'Best do as the lady says, I think.'

  Only when he turned away did Jack realise that Ben knew exactly who he was yet had not once called him 'sir'. He did not care a damn.

  Chapter Two

  British Camp, Crimea, November 1854

  'Twenty one ships,' Elliot marvelled. 'We lost twenty-one ships in that storm, hundreds of men and thousands of tons of supplies. It's worse than a major naval defeat.'

  'And now look at the weather,' Jack gestured to the world outside their re-erected tent. 'It's snowing.'

  'Prince held all the winter clothing for the army: 25,000 fur caps, 8000 sealskin coats, 40,000 fur coats…' Elliot continued, counting off each item with his fingers. 'All gone to furnish Davy Jones' Locker.'

  'How do you know all these things?' Jack asked. 'You know everything about everything!'

  'Natural genius,' Elliot lay back on his camp bed and produced a small silver hip flask. 'We also lost twenty days' hay for the horses, and that will be crucial. The horses will be hungry.'

  Jack nodded. 'There is not much fodder for them here.'

  'They'll die,' Elliot said bluntly, 'and that means no cavalry to scout, or to chase the Russian Cossacks, and we know how scared Johnny Russ is of our cavalry since Balaklava. Also, with no horses how do we get what supplies we have left from Balaklava to the camp? It is a logistical nightmare.'

  'The men will have to carry them,' Jack said, remembering the journey between the British trenches and the supply base. He had found it difficult enough without carrying anything. How much harder would it be for men laden with food and ammunition? 'Let's hope we capture Sebastopol soon or this siege will drag on into next year.'

  'God forbid,' Elliot tucked away his flask and folded his arms behind his head. 'We're losing men every day to disease and the weather; think what it will be like when winter really arrives.'

  'Oh I'm sure old Raggles will have a plan to deal with that,' Jack said.

  'I'm sure he will,' Elliot did not recognise the sarcasm in Jack's tone. 'We are holding nine miles of ground now, Windrush; I hope these reinforcements arrive soon. The men are getting perilously scarce on the ground.'

  'Sir!' the corporal who entered the tent was thin and weary, with his uniform showing more brown mud than scarlet cloth. 'Sorry to disturb you, sirs,' he looked from Windrush to Elliot and back. 'Colonel Maxwell sends his compliments and could Captain Windrush please join him in his tent at his earliest convenience.'

  'Thank you, corporal,' Jack said. 'Pray inform … no, hang it, I'll be along directly.'

  'Best be quicker than that, old man,' Elliot said as the corporal withdrew. 'Old Max can get a bit testy when he's kept waiting.'

  'There is no need to stand to attention, Windrush,' Colonel Maxwell sat behind his desk with a slight frown creasing his forehead and an open document in front of him. 'We know each other well enough by now.'

  'Thank you, sir.' Jack glanced around the tent. About three times the size of the canvas hovel he shared with Elliot, it was far better equipped, with a desk that had probably been liberated from Balaklava, a carved chair and even a small stove that emitted the luxury of warmth from glowing red embers. The cased Regimental and Queen's Colours of the 113th Foot stood in one corner. Jack allowed himself a small smile. After this campaign the regiment would have at least one battle honour to inscribe on the colours: Inkerman would sit proudly as the first name on the buff silk. Mind you, Jack mused, that would only occur if the authorities decided that sufficient men had been sacrificed to the battle gods to warrant an honour.

  'I have bad news for you I'm afraid, Windrush.'

  Jack stilled the sudden increase in his heart rate. 'Do you sir?'

  'The War Office has rejected your promotion to Captain.' Maxwell did not attempt to blunt his words. 'They claim that you are too young and inexperienced yet.'

  Jack felt as though somebody had kicked him in the stomach. He tried to keep the disappointment from his face. 'I see sir. Will I be able to appeal against their decision?'

  'I have already done that on your behalf,' Maxwell said. He looked away for a moment. 'I know that this must be a grievous blow, Jack, and nobody deserves promotion more than you after your exploits at Inkerman Ridge, but I beg you not to do anything hasty.'

  Jack took a deep breath. 'I have no intention of resigning my commission sir, if that is what you mean.'

  He had no choice in the matter. In addition to his pay he had a miserly allowance from his step-mother that depended on him retaining his position as an officer in the army. If he sent in his papers, he would lose what status he had and all his funds. He would end up penniless and unemployable, to join the human detritus that infested the streets of industrial Britain or wandered the country lanes scrabbling for whatever work could be found. He had to remain a soldier of the Queen, whatever misfortunes the world threw at him.

  'I am glad to hear it, Jack. The army needs men like you, especially with this siege threatening to drag on and so many senior men resigning their commissions. Experienced officers are in a minority now.'

  'Yes, sir.' Jack bit off the hot words that threatened to escape from his mouth. He knew how much the men depended on their officers, while the politicians and War Office seemed to think nothing of soldiers, whatever their rank, allowing them to suffer and die as if they were mere wooden pawns and war just a game of chess without emotion or hardship.

  'I am sure we can straighten things out,' Maxwell said. 'Hang on there, and don't give up hope. I have my eye on you, Jack, and I will press your case as much as I can.'

  'Thank you, sir,' Jack wondered exactly how much influence the word of the lieutenant colonel of a lowly regiment had at the War Office. As far as he was aware, Maxwell had no lands or titles to back him up, and such things were deemed advantageous. The army still lived in the shadow of the Duke of Wellington who had believed that only the landed elite should command an army that in his opinion was composed of the scum of the earth.

  'In the meantime, I am sure that you will continue to do your duty.'

  Jack stiffened. 'Yes, sir.' He could have added 'of course sir' but knew that could be taken as insolence, even with such an understanding commander as Colonel Maxwell.

  'You did well in the harbour,' Maxwell added, curtly. There was no need for him to say more. They both understood t
here would be no awards for that rescue and no need for further words. 'We lost twenty one ships,' Maxwell mused, 'and hundreds of men.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Well, no good crying over spilt milk, eh?'

  'No, sir,' Jack agreed. He tried to look like a stoical soldier while he felt sick and betrayed by some faceless, heartless little clerk in the War Office who had probably never lifted a rifle or seen an angry Russian in his life.

  'Let's look on the bright side; we have defeated the Russian field army in three major encounters, we are besieging their main naval base in the Crimea, reinforcements are on the way and our families are safe and well.' Maxwell narrowed his eyes and looked directly at Jack. 'I have never heard you talk about your family Jack. I heard a rumour that you are related to the late lamented General Windrush of the Royal Malverns.'

  'Yes, sir.' Jack wondered if he should change his name. After all Sir Colin Campbell had altered his name from MacLiver to Campbell and he was now one of the best regarded soldiers in the army. Perhaps he should do the same and discard the name Windrush?

  Maxwell raised his eyebrows, obviously waiting for more information. Jack kept his mouth closed.

  'Perhaps the Windrush family will be able to stir up the War Office on your behalf,' Maxwell probed.

  'They won't, sir,' Jack forced out the words.

  'Oh? And why is that?'

  There it was; the direct question. 'Because I was born on the wrong side of the blanket, sir. General Windrush was my father but his wife is not my mother.' Jack heard the bitterness in his voice. Even three years after he had discovered he was illegitimate, Jack still found the pain hard to bear and the knowledge he could never take his place among the great and the good, or publically acknowledge his mother and his birth right hurt more than he would ever admit.

  'That is hardly your fault, Windrush!' Maxwell said at once. 'Damn it man, if the history of half the noble families in Britain were traced I wager there would be more bastards and miscreants there than in any back slum of Whitechapel or St Giles!'

  'Yes sir.' Although the words were intended to help, they did nothing to assuage Jack's personal discomfort.

  Maxwell burst into sudden and unexpected laughter. 'And I wager that there are a number of little Maxwells running around the world – and probably little Windrushes too, eh?'

  Jack forced a smile although his advances in the world of romance had been small and ineffectual. His main thrust had been directed at Maxwell's own daughter Helen. He had no wish to appear as a man of the world one day and then announce his affection for the Colonel's daughter shortly after. He had to try and retain his appearance of a steady, capable officer.

  'Right, Windrush,' Maxwell became the formal regimental officer again. 'You are on duty in the trenches tonight so I'm sure you have things to do and your men to attend. Dismiss.' He acknowledged Jack's salute with a single finger to his forehead.

  'Thank you, sir.' Jack had entered the colonel's tent as a captain. He left as a lieutenant with a heavy heart and the feeling that fate had condemned him to a life of poverty and failure.

  Chapter Three

  December 1854

  'Bloody mud,' Thorpe's voice came clearly to Jack as he toured the camp of the 113th Foot, the notorious Baby Butchers. 'We give Johnny Russ a hell of a towelling and what do the officers give us? Wet blankets and mud. Bloody Ruskis and bloody officers and bloody, bloody Crimea.'

  'Good morning Thorpe,' Jack said quietly. 'I hear you are settling in nicely?'

  'Oh, yes sir!' Thorpe scrambled a hurried salute. 'All fine, sir and congratulations on your promotion.'

  'There was no promotion, Thorpe,' Jack said.

  'Oh sorry sir, I heard a shave…'

  'The shave was wrong. I am still Lieutenant Windrush; not the commander in chief yet.'

  Standing to approximate attention amidst the lines of tents that the 113th called home, Thorpe looked confused. 'I never heard that you was to be commander in chief sir. I heard you was to be a captain.'

  'That information is equally false,' Jack said solemnly. 'You have my permission to find whoever told you and give him a mighty kick up the breach.'

  'Have I sir?' Thorpe's grin showed surprisingly white teeth. 'It was Sergeant O'Neill, sir,' Thorpe nodded toward O'Neill, who sat on a box of cartridges cleaning his Minie rifle.

  'Well, perhaps better not kick him then,' Jack amended, 'unless you can run very fast indeed afterwards.' He looked over those of his men who had survived the battle on Inkerman ridge. Donnie Logan was there, small, ugly, indestructible and avoided by his fellows because of his explosive temper and tendency to extreme violence. Red-haired Smith sat on a rock staring vacantly into space; Jack was unsure if he possessed all his mental facilities or if he was merely uneducated like so many of the men who took the Queen's shilling. There was big Fletcher from Hampshire, slow of body, the worst shot in the army but loyal and steady. Williams from the South Wales coal mines, a quiet, hardy man with the chest of Hercules and short legs, carrying the blue-seamed scars of the pits on his face and body. Then there was Coleman, who had been with him through the Burmese campaign, a man who would avoid work as if it was fatal, but one of the best when the deck was stacked against them and the enemy was flaunting his aces.

  Jack greeted each man individually, recognising their good points and weaknesses, knowing them as men as well as soldiers. Some had been with the 113th since he had joined nearly three years before; others had transferred from the 118th when the regiments merged due to horrific casualties through battle and disease. All had proved themselves in fire and blood.

  'I heard you were still a lieutenant, sir,' Riley threw a smart salute. 'Please accept my condolences. I know it's not my place to say sir, but the War Office has made a major blunder there.'

  Jack nodded. 'Thank you for the words, Riley, and you are right. It's not your place to say.' He stopped beside the dapper private. 'You are an enigma, Riley; a gentleman ranker, a public school man with great skill in housebreaking and a talent for the theatricals.'

  'Yes, sir.' Riley remained at attention, his face expressionless.

  'I heard you turned down my recommendation that you take corporal's stripes, Riley.'

  'Yes, sir. I've no desire for promotion. I would rather remain with the lads.'

  'So I see. It might be easier for the good Mrs Riley if you were promoted; that little bit extra money might come in handy for her.'

  'I'd prefer to remain as I am, sir.' Riley kept his gaze fixed on Jack's forehead, not meeting his eyes.

  'I understand; a man among faceless men, incognito and unknown.' Jack nodded. 'As you wish, Riley. Carry on.'

  'Sir!' Riley produced another salute that would not have been out of place in the Brigade of Guards and remained at attention until Jack had walked past.

  There were other men, men he had never fought beside; these were so far anonymous, tall men and short men, hard-faced veterans and large-eyed youths who wondered why they had fallen for the recruiting officer's blarney to be pitched into the relentless mincing machine called war.

  'We are off to the trenches in an hour, men,' Jack reminded. 'Make sure you have eighty rounds of ammunition and your rifle is clean. Check your bayonet can slide out of the scabbard quickly if required; bring water and food with you, keep your locks and muzzles free from mud and dirt.'

  The veterans nodded; they had heard all this many times before and knew exactly what was expected of them. There was no suspicion of heroism in any of their lined, tired faces. Heroes died quickly and messily in this Crimean War. The younger men merely looked exhausted even before their twelve hour stint in the trenches began.

  They ate first. Surprisingly there was Irish stew, nearly hot although Jack wondered what kind of animal had died to supply the men with food. It certainly did not taste like beef or pork; presumably some unfortunate horse or mule that had died of overwork or lack of fodder. None of the men complained; they ate quickly, without relish and without app
etite, all thinking of the ordeal and danger to come.

  'No cold grunter today,' Thorpe shovelled his Irish stew into his mouth as if afraid somebody would take it from him.

  'It's the last meal of the condemned man,' Coleman said. 'The officers like to feed you up before they send you to be executed, see? They must know Johnny Russ is up to something.'

  'Is that so, Coley?' Thorpe looked around. 'I never knew that.'

  'It's true,' Williams said. 'I'd better have yours, Thorpey.'

  'What?' Thorpe drew his plate further away. 'You eat your own, Taff. You're not getting mine.' He kicked out at Williams with his nailed boot. 'Go on with you!'

  'Enough, lads,' O'Neill stopped them. 'Keep your energy for the Russians.'

  'Final check before we go forward.' Jack said. The men formed up in front of him in paper-thin greatcoats and in tunics that had once been scarlet and were now faded to every colour from pink to ochre, with most so badly torn and patched that their resembled uniforms in name only.

  'Sir; when are we getting new uniforms?' Coleman might have read Jack's thoughts. 'These ones are falling to bits.'

  Jack could answer that. 'The War Office has graciously decided that you all deserve a new issue of uniforms,' he said. 'They will be delivered in June next year.'

  The men exchanged sidelong glances, said nothing and remained at attention.

  Jack nodded, understanding their mood of sullen acceptance. 'Other regiments may be content to wait until things improve,' he said quietly. 'We are not other regiments. We are the 113th. We have our own methods. I will leave you to discuss it among yourselves. If anybody has a legal solution I want to hear about it. I do not wish to hear about anything that is against regulations.'

  He let his words sink in. These men knew him; they knew he was on their side. They would understand what he meant.

  There were over nine miles of British trenches in a sequence of lines known as parallels facing the defences of Sebastopol. As long as the siege lasted, these trenches were the most dangerous places to be in this war, the target of Russian artillery, Russian sharpshooters and Russian raids. They were also cramped, cold, wet and uncomfortable.