Windrush: Blood Price (Jack Windrush Book 3) Page 6

'And I'm Arthur.' Elliot thrust out his hand. 'I'm destined to be a duke and a general. My mother told me that.'

  Jack shook his hand in solemn salute. 'Mothers know lots of things,' he said. 'I'll have to meet mine one of these days.'

  'You'll like mine,' Elliot said. 'She's a widow you know. My father was a parish clerk and mother saved all her money to get me through Sandhurst.' He slid to the ground, still talking. 'Pleased to meet you, Jack the bastard.'

  'Here,' Jack addressed Elliot's recumbent form on the muddy grass. 'When you become a general and a duke, I'll have to call you sir.'

  'That's good,' Elliot said. 'I'd like to be called sir. My mother would be pleased if I was a general.' He closed his eyes. 'General Lord Arthur Elliot. I like the sound of that.'

  'Jack Windrush of Wychwood Manor will do me,' Jack said as he finished the last of Elliot's whisky. 'That's all I want; my own house in Herefordshire. And Helen.' He dropped the flask. 'Is there any more of that whisky Arthur?'

  Elliot's only reply was a long snore. Jack looked at him. 'Lucky bugger,' he said, 'you're going to be a general and you know your mother.' He sighed and relapsed into a day dream where he walked up the drive of Wychwood Manor with Helen at his side, showing her the wonders of his ancestral home, with the centuries of Windrush history and all the memories of his childhood. 'You'll be the lady of the manor Helen,' he promised in his mind. 'You'll get to love the old place as much as I do.'

  Jack sighed again as the whisky made him melancholic. He knew he could never return to Wychwood Manor; he could never take his place as master of the house in which he had grown up. He was destined to be a low ranking officer in the disreputable 113th, fighting bloody campaign after bloody campaign until he died of some stinking fever in some god-forsaken spot of the world, or until a Burmese dacoit, Russian sharp-shooter or Sikh warrior ended his career.

  That was to be his destiny; a life of suffering followed by a sordid death. Rule Britannia. He slid onto the floor beside Elliot and lay there until he fell asleep.

  'You're looking remarkably smart today.' Jack surveyed his men. Only a few days ago they had come out of the line so badly dressed that any respectable tramp would have shied away in disgust. Now Smith and Williams sported new trousers while Fletcher had decent boots and Riley and Logan had a full uniform with scarlet jackets and black trousers. 'Was there a delivery of new uniforms during the night?'

  'Something like that, sir,' O'Neill said.

  'Which unfortunate regiment lost their uniforms?' Jack noticed the rough stitching where the yellow facings of the 113th had been cobbled on over the original colours. 'Don't tell me. The Malverns.'

  'Have they sir?' Thorpe's attempt to look innocent failed completely. Coleman swore at him from the corner of his mouth.

  'I would think so. They are the only regiment near us who have clean uniforms to lose.'

  'That's unfortunate…' Thorpe tried again until O'Neill blasted him to silence.

  'I presume that there is no evidence left behind,' Jack mused. 'There is nothing that could possibly be traced to us.' He directed the words to Riley.

  'I don't know what you could mean, sir.' Riley remained stiffly at attention.

  'I think you do, Riley. After all, you were a professional cracksman.'

  'That was only a rumour, sir…'

  Jack moved on before Riley said something to incriminate himself. With so many British soldiers falling sick through exposure, he could not blame his men for taking care of themselves in any way they could and if the newly arrived Royal Malverns could not look after their own equipment, then that was their look-out, not his.

  Jack sniffed openly. 'I can smell cooking as well. As if somebody has cooked fresh meat.'

  'Can you sir?' Thorpe spoke again. 'It must be coming from the Frenchies sir.'

  'Do they eat rabbit?' Jack wondered.

  'It's not rabbit; it's hare sir.' Thorpe corrected.

  'Ah,' Jack said. 'So you recognise the French cooking smells too.'

  He stepped on, to stop in front of Hitchins. 'How did you catch your hare, Hitchins?'

  Hitchins face assumed a look of total innocence. 'Hare sir?'

  'You didn't shoot it, did you?'

  'No, sir.'

  'You used a snare, then.' Jack nodded. 'Well done.' He hid his smile and walked on. A noted poacher such a Hitchins would know exactly how to snare a hare, even out here in the Crimean uplands. It was good for the men to realise that he knew and understood their skills and weaknesses.

  'Dismiss,' Jack said, hopefully casually, as Colonel Maxwell joined him. He had no desire for the colonel to catch out his men in their looting activities.

  'Come along, Windrush and we will inspect the men and see how they're bearing up.'

  'Yes, sir,' Jack said. He could not say anything else although he knew it was not usual for the colonel of a regiment to check on his men in an army where even some of the officers would hardly recognise the commander in chief. Of all the senior officers only Sir Colin Campbell of the Highland Brigade seemed genuinely concerned about the rankers under his command.

  'You there!' Maxwell called cheerfully as Smith and Williams bent over a small fire. 'What are you doing?'

  'Cooking lunch sir,' Smith slammed to attention.

  'No, don't stand for me; just carry on what you were doing,' Maxwell said. 'I am not here to intrude.'

  Maxwell crouched down beside them, acting the jovial commander although his eyes were shrewd. 'How are the rations?'

  Jack closed his eyes. In the Royal Malverns or any other quality regiment, the men would report that they were satisfied and there were no complaints. In this 113th, they were as likely to tell the truth with the addition of a few colourful expletives to add emphasis to their words. They might even mention Hitchin's hare.

  'The rations are shockingly poor, sir,' Smith said. 'They send up raw pork or raw beef with no means of cooking them, and green coffee beans when the lads drink tea or beer.' He looked up with a twisted smile on his face. 'The boys would like a beer ration, sir…'

  'Smith!' Jack started, until Maxwell bellowed his laughter.

  'I wager you would, Smith was it? I wager you would like a beer ration. So would I! He watched as Williams teased a flame from the small fire. 'Where do you get the wood from?'

  'We dig up roots, sir. There is no firewood supplied up here.'

  'No, there is not; and the coffee? How do you make it?' Maxwell sounded genuinely interested.

  'We put the beans into an old biscuit bag and pound it to a powder sir, and then try and boil it.'

  'I see; well good luck Williams and Smith.'

  Maxwell moved on with Jack at his side, nodding to Elliot, who sprang to attention and threw a salute that nearly knocked the forage cap off his head. 'Your men are coping better than most, Windrush.'

  'Yes, sir. That's one benefit of having a regiment of thieves and vagabonds.'

  Maxwell laughed. 'How are they in truth? Conditions are tough up here.'

  'They are indeed tough sir. The ramrods are frozen to the rifles most mornings that there is no rain, and the men live in constant mud. I have them putting covers on their rifle locks and muzzles to protect them, and we try to keep them warm as best we can.'

  'There is less sickness among our men than most regiments,' Maxwell said. 'And no scurvy, I note.'

  'No, sir,' Jack agreed. 'No scurvy; we've been lucky.'

  'Mmm,' Maxwell glanced at Logan's glaring scarlet uniform and looked away again. 'I heard that there was a consignment of lime juice at the harbour but the powers-that-be won't issue it without the requisite forms.'

  'I heard that sir,' Jack did not wish to pursue that line.

  Maxwell did. 'I also heard that some enterprising fellow had broken into the warehouse and liberated an entire keg.'

  'Is that so, sir?'

  'It is so,' Windrush. 'How is your Private Riley? Is he still with us?'

  'He is, sir.' Jack wondered how much else the colonel knew.<
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  'Good man, that Riley. He's a useful sort of fellow.'

  Jack nodded. 'He is, sir.'

  'And the good Mrs Riley?'

  Jack could not answer that; Riley had married without permission and had brought his wife with him on the troopship, disguised as a private soldier.

  'Charlotte Riley is a decided asset to the regiment.' Colonel Maxwell said. 'My wife swears by her, and she is a first class scout. She alerts Riley to the cargoes that are piled up to rot beside the harbour.' Maxwell smiled at Jack's discomfort. 'Don't forget that I am not only a regimental colonel, Windrush.'

  'Yes, sir.' Jack knew that Maxwell was heavily involved in gathering intelligence for the British Army, even though General Raglan despised the use of espionage and largely ignored his reports. He hesitated for only a second. 'Anderson is back, sir, with the Plastun Cossacks.'

  'So I heard,' Maxwell did not turn a hair. 'I have my informants, Windrush. He'll remember us, so you'd better be prepared.'

  Jack nodded. 'Yes, sir. The Cossacks, or some other Russian regiment, were making threats against the 113th in general and Major Snodgrass in particular.'

  'I'll warn the major,' Maxwell said calmly. 'I except the Cossacks are peeved at his killing of their Major Kutuzov.'

  'I expect so, sir.' Jack had not informed Maxwell that it was Charlotte Riley who had fired the fatal shot. Some things were best left unsaid. 'What are we going to do about Anderson, sir?'

  'Nothing,' Maxwell said flatly. 'We hope he leaves us in peace.' He smiled. 'Now get some rest, Jack, and let Major Snodgrass take care of himself. After all, the man who killed Kutuzov must be a formidable adversary.'

  'Yes, sir,' Jack wondered exactly how much Colonel Maxwell did know.

  The Colonel's expression did not alter. 'You may be interested to know that the Royal Scots are being moved to another section of the Attack.' He did not flinch as a Russian cannon fired a single shot. 'Another royal regiment, the Royal Malverns, are taking their place here. I know they are new to the war but they have a good reputation.' He looked sideways at Jack. 'I believe you already know them. Even so, we may have to baby sit for a while.'

  Jack swallowed hard. 'Yes, sir,' he said. That was another complication he could do without.

  'There is a Lieutenant Windrush with them.' Maxwell's eyes probed him.

  'Yes, sir.'

  'A very personable, decent chap,' Maxwell said. 'We met briefly when I spoke to their Colonel Welland.' His grin took years off his age. 'Charm must go with the name.'

  'Yes, sir.' Jack was tiring of that phrase.

  'He'll be your brother,' Maxwell said.

  'My half brother, sir.' That was hard to admit.

  'All right then.' Maxwell nodded. 'We'll see if this other Windrush fellow is as good a soldier as you are. With Anderson and a sotnya of Plastun Cossacks opposing the Malverns he will have to learn quickly. Is this his first campaign?'

  'I believe so, sir. I am not sure where the Malverns have been stationed.'

  'London,' Maxwell said flatly. 'I thought you may have kept an eye on them. After all, you did hope to join them once.'

  'Yes, sir,' Jack said.

  Maxwell smiled. 'Enough said on that subject, eh?'

  'Yes, sir.' Jack agreed. His life had just become more complicated than he liked. With a very dangerous enemy to face and his half brother fighting alongside him in a regiment he had hoped to join, he felt beset both emotionally and physically. He sighed, wondering what his life would have been like if he had gone into the Royal Malverns with his mother's approval and his father's influence and wealth behind him. Promotion and recognition would have been virtually assured.

  But he would not have known the close comradeship of the rogues and vagabonds of his 113th. Would he be prepared to lose that intense mutual loyalty?

  Jack took a deep breath, thought of Wychwood Manor and the serene beauty of Herefordshire. He wanted desperately to introduce Helen to both, yet knew that was virtually impossible.

  'Jack?' Elliot's voice broke his reverie. 'Are you all right? Here's something to warm the cockles…' he held out his flask. 'There is more in the tent.'

  Jack forced a smile. 'Come on then, Arthur; lead on MacDuff.'

  Chapter Five

  11 December 1854

  The firing woke Jack. He was inured to the occasional grumble of Russian artillery and could sleep through the intermittent crash of falling mortars, but this was a new, if familiar sound. This was the regular crackle of musketry augmented by the ear-battering crash of controlled volleys.

  'Arthur!' Jack shook Elliot awake. 'Listen!'

  'That's more than a raid,' Elliot said. 'Are we assaulting Sebastopol at last?'

  'I think Raggles would have let us know if we were,' Jack hauled damp trousers onto cold legs, dragged wet boots onto his wet stockings and slipped on his limp damp jacket. Buckling on his sword belt, he checked his revolver and opened the flap of the tent.

  The camp was astir with officers hastily dressing as they hurried between the tents, officers' servants dashing on errands and faces turning anxiously toward the firing.

  'Windrush!' Major Snodgrass tucked a flask inside his tunic as he appeared. 'Get along to the front and see what's happening. Elliot: you form up a couple of platoons in case they are needed.'

  'Yes, sir.' A cold dawn was greying the eastern sky, spreading broad white fingers across dark clouds. Jack could smell powder smoke and hear the crash of volley fire as he stumbled into the communication trench that led forward. As always his feet sunk into cold mud; he followed the zig-zags, bumped into a man staggering in the opposite direction and cursed.

  'Where the devil are you going?' Jack snarled.

  'Hospital,' the man said, and only then did Jack see that his right arm hung uselessly inside his tunic and blood smeared his face.

  'So you should,' Jack tried to make amends. 'I see you're from the Royal Malverns.'

  'Yes, sir,' the soldier tried to come to attention.

  'Stand easy man.' Jack said. 'What's happening up there?'

  'Russians, sir. Thousands of them. They came out of the dark right at our trenches. We did not see them until they were close.'

  'Thank you; off you go and get that wound attended to.' Jack stepped back to let the man squeeze past and hurried on, ducking as a bullet whizzed overhead.

  'The Russians are coming!' Tousle haired and wild-eyed, the private staggered back along the communication trench. 'They've broken through!'

  'Well stop them!' Jack stood directly in his path. 'You are a British soldier: go and act like it!'

  The man stared at him. He was unwounded, with a smooth face smeared with mud, and the buff facings of the Royal Malverns.

  Jack turned him around and pushed him toward the front. 'Where is your rifle?'

  'I dunno, sir.'

  'You'll have dropped it in the action. Go back the way you came and find it. If you can't, then take one from one of your dead or wounded comrades. Either way, find a rifle and get back to your place in the line.' Jack kept his voice low and issued clear instructions. He knew that fighting in the trenches was confused and it was easy for men to get lost. Shouting at the man would only make him worse. 'Get along now and do your duty.'

  The man nodded, but another volley made him flinch. He ducked, shaking with fear, but if he ran away, he was liable to be charged with desertion in the face of the enemy, which could mean execution. Better to be killed by the Russians than hanged in disgrace.

  'You can't make me!'

  'You took the Queen's Shilling, son … what's your name?' Jack grabbed the private as he tried to push to the rear. 'What's your name?'

  'Bredon, sir.'

  'And your first name?'

  'Tom, sir.'

  'Well Tom; this is war. Nobody likes it but it's part of the soldier's bargain. Imagine what your mother would think if she saw you had deserted? She would not be happy at all, would she?'

  Bredon shook his head, obviously close to
tears. 'No, sir.'

  'Well go and make her proud Tom. Make her proud of her son.' Jack turned him around again, feeling the lack of muscle on his skinny shoulders, and gave him a gentle push toward the front. 'Come on, Tom. I'm going with you.'

  The volley firing had increased in the few moments since Jack had stopped Bredon. With one hand on the private's shaking shoulder, Jack pushed forward, ducking again when a high pitched whine told of a stray Russian shot passing close overhead. As he neared the third parallel the communication trench was busy with wounded men.

  'You!' Colonel Welland's voice sounded above the noise of battle. 'What's your name …? Windrush. What the devil are you doing here?'

  'Colonel Maxwell sent me sir, to see what the situation was.'

  Welland paused to roar a string of orders to his men. 'Did he, by Jove? Well my compliments to Colonel Maxwell and the Royal Malverns have the situation very much in hand. Blasted cheek the Russians have trying to attack us!'

  Jack looked around. The Royal Malverns lined the trenches in a rigid scarlet line, aiming and firing in near perfect unison as the sergeants barked out orders. Some were grinning, others concentrating on the task in hand as they fired at the grey-coated soldiers who massed only a couple of hundred yards in front of them.

  Welland marched along the trench, erect, his forage hat bobbing as he moved, not deigning to duck at the incoming Russian fire.

  'William!' Jack saw his brother in the centre of the trench. 'Is this all they have done? March up to the trenches, fire a volley and retire.'

  'We're forcing them back you fool,' William pushed him aside. 'The Russians are poor soldiers; they have never met the Royal Malverns before. We're thrashing them.'

  Jack blinked as the Royal Malverns fired another volley, the white smoke jetting out to lie low along the front of the trench, and then drift with the slow breeze, filtering into the sandbags. The Russians withdrew another twenty paces and fired their own volley, with some shots crashing home. Two of the Royal Malverns fell back, one with a bullet through his head, the other yelling at his smashed shoulder.

  'Hot work, men but we're defeating them!' William shouted encouragement.