Windrush: Cry Havelock (Jack Windrush Book 4)

by Malcolm Archibald

  'Fifteen years, sir. I came out in '42.' Kent flinched at the call of a monkey.

  'You know the country better than I do, then. Have you seen much action? Afghanistan? The Punjab, Burma?'

  'No, sir. I've been on garrison duty in the south all the time.'

  Jack frowned. For a man to spend fifteen years in India yet avoid all the wars argued for the damnedest of bad luck; or no thrust at all. Kent seemed to be the sort of officer the 113th used to have but had gradually removed either by natural wastage or carefully considered postings. 'This might be something or nothing, Kent. I'm not sure yet.'

  'Sir!' O'Neill hurried up. 'Thorpe thinks he can smell smoke, sir.'

  'Send Thorpe to me.' Jack knew O'Neill would not approach him with a triviality.

  'Smoke sir.' Rivulets of sweat ran down Thorpe's tanned face.

  'Could it be a cooking fire?'

  'No, sir,' Thorpe shook his head emphatically. 'I know how smoke smells, sir.'

  'If I recall, Thorpe, a magistrate found you guilty of arson and gave you a choice between jail and joining the army.'

  'Yes, sir. I can smell buildings burning, sir, and cooking meat. It smells sweet, not like animals. I think it's people, sir. Dead bodies.' Thorpe shook his head slightly to dislodge the bead of sweat that hung on the end of his nose.

  'Thank you, Thorpe.' Jack dismissed him and strode forward to join the advance guard. He tried to look less worried than he felt.

  'Come on, lads. We might have work ahead of us.' He had made it his business to know the men's names and faces, yet many were still strangers. Most had the thin, suspicious faces of urban slum dwellers, sharp-eyed and underfed, with bodies small in stature and quick in movement. 'Stay with me.' Lengthening his stride, Jack paced ahead with the picket hurrying at his heels.

  'Sir! Listen!' The leading man, a Liverpudlian named Parker, pointed ahead. 'That's gunfire, or I'm damned.'

  Jack stopped, feeling the sweat soaking through his tunic and the sudden jangling of his nerves. He recognised the feeling as a warning of danger.

  'I don't think you're damned, Parker.' He heard the high-pitched crack of a pistol, followed by the deeper bang of an Enfield. Only officers carried revolvers while the men used rifles. Another shot sounded, followed by a fusillade. Dear God in heaven; what was happening? Had some group of badmashes been foolish enough to attack a British cantonment?

  'Spread out. Watch your flanks; you, corporal,' Jack pointed to a man and searched for his name. 'Corporal Evans; give my compliments to Lieutenant Prentice and tell him there is smoke ahead and possible gunfire. Tell him we are hurrying ahead and ask if he would kindly increase the pace of the men. Have you got that?'

  'Yes, sir,' Evans said.

  'Off you go then.' Jack turned away. 'The rest of you follow me. Load, but I want no firing unless I give a direct order.' He did not want some poor civilian killed if the man was only celebrating some local god or hunting a tiger.

  The next shot was distinct, followed by another, and then a ragged volley. 'What in God's name are they firing it?' Jack spoke without expecting a reply. 'Dacoits would never come near a British cantonment!'

  'Dunno, sir,' Parker said. 'Will I run ahead and find out? I'm a bit of a scud.'

  'No,' Jack said at once. 'If there's trouble I want us arriving all together, not in penny packets.' He raised his voice. 'With me, men!'

  They advanced at the double with rifles at the high port and boots pounding on the pucka road. The firing increased, and Jack heard a high-pitched scream.

  'That sounded like a woman,' Thorpe said.

  'You should know if anybody does,' Parker muttered. 'What's happening?'

  The trio of native horsemen emerged from a copse fifty yards in front of them but reined up when Jack and his picket pulled up short.

  'Who are you?' Jack asked sharply. He had to shout so the horsemen could hear him.

  'Musgrave's Horse,' the man was heavily bearded with a twisted turban and what might have been a uniform tunic, dark blue and ornate.

  'Oh thank God,' Jack said softly and then louder. 'Are you Company cavalry?'

  The man's teeth showed white behind the beard. 'Yes, sahib. We are Company cavalry.' More riders formed behind him, bearded, wild looking men in all sorts of uniforms who ranged across the road and merged into the trees on either side. They sat their horses like experts and some fingered the tulwars or sabres they wore.

  'What's happening ahead?' Jack asked as the firing continued, now with more screaming. 'Have you sent a patrol to find out?'

  'No sahib,' the bearded man called. 'We already know. The Scarlet Storm has arrived.'

  'What?' Jack frowned. 'Don't talk in riddles man! Stand aside. I'm Captain Windrush of the 113th Foot, and we're coming through.'

  'No, sahib,' the bearded men said. 'You are not.' He snapped an order, and his men drew their swords and formed up behind him, some bearded faces grim, others grinning but all with their swords held against their right shoulders.

  'The devil we're not!' Jack was not sure what was happening. He knew the sowars, the native cavalry, were as loyal as the sepoys. 'Stand aside when I order you, sowar!'

  There was a further outburst of shooting from the direction of the cantonment and more shouting. Somebody screamed; the sound distinct.

  'That was another woman.' There was concern in Parker's voice.

  There was no reason for a woman to scream in a British cantonment. 'Stand aside sowar, damn you!' Flicking open the button that secured his revolver in its holster, Jack felt, his men tense behind him. The situation was getting ugly, and these capable-looking cavalrymen outnumbered his small picket. Musgrave's Horse? He had never heard of them. 'Who's your commander? Where are your officers, sowar?'

  The sowar spokesman shouted an order and the cavalry began to move forward. Another order and they presented their swords for the charge. More appeared from the trees, so the horsemen outflanked and heavily outnumbered Jack's small advance party.

  'Form square!' Jack gave the only order he could. 'Bayonets … fix!' He heard the snick as experienced hands fitted the triangular blades. Each of his men now held a weapon sufficiently long to repel a cavalryman provided discipline held and their courage did not crack. These were British soldiers: they would stand and die rather than run.

  'Unless you withdraw I will treat you as hostile!' Jack shouted to the mounted men. What the devil is happening here? These were Company sowars who had taken the salt of the East India Company, men who had proved their loyalty on a hundred battlefields across India over the past century. He could not think of them as the enemy; they were friends.

  The cavalry began to move faster, still with the swords extended. Jack did not see who gave the order as a bugle sounded, thrilling in its purity.

  'Sir,' Parker said. 'The black bastards are attacking us!'

  There was no doubt of it. This situation was no exercise organised by Jeffreys, no drunken game created by an over-exuberant cavalry commander. These sowars, these British-trained men were advancing on his small party of the 113th.

  Jack grunted; the sowars had made a mistake. Cavalry needed room in which to manoeuvre and on which to build momentum for a charge. These men were too close; at most they would manage to gain a trot before they hit the 113th, which may work against broken troops but not against disciplined British soldiers. Feeling sick at heart, he gave orders that would set his Queen's infantrymen fighting Company cavalry.

  'Present!' The Enfield rifles slammed down, ten muzzles pointing, ten perspiring British soldiers wondering what was happening as they aimed at allies and friends, ten soldiers obeying orders, ten fingers poised on ten triggers.

  Jack swore, hoping the sowars would withdraw. He could not fire on these men. There must be some mistake. Yet if he did not fire the sowars could sweep right over his small detachment and wipe them out.

  The horsemen were closing; he could see every detail of their faces, see the flaring nostrils of the horses, and s
ee sunlight glittering on the points of the swords. Oh God; I may start a war here. Or perhaps one has already begun? My duty is to my men first and foremost.

  'Fire a volley at thirty yards!'

  'Sir?' Parker looked around. 'They're John Company, sir.'

  'I know what they are; obey orders, damn it!'

  The cavalry was picking up speed, the hooves causing the ground to tremble. The sowars let out a great yell, and some leant forward, in their saddles, thrusting out their swords, so the viciously-sharp points were three feet closer to the British.

  The rifles pointed, men altering aim as the enemy advanced through shimmering heat that distorted their bodies and shapes.

  Oh God let this be the correct decision. 'Fire!'

  The shots rang out; powder smoke jetted in the old familiar way, acrid, white and ugly. Three sowars fell. The rest roared out their battle-cry and increased their pace.

  'Load!' It was mechanical now. Fate had case its dice and training took over. Jack mouthed the orders, knowing his men would obey. 'Home! Return! Cap! Volley at twenty yards.'

  The men obeyed, biting the cartridges, pouring down the charge, ramming like automated demons, bringing back the Enfields, putting on the percussion caps.

  'Ready … present!' The rifles extended again. The sowars were closing fast, and Jack knew he had hesitated too long.

  'Fire!'

  Four more sowars staggered in their saddles or fell; one horse screamed. The remaining riders powered closer to Jack's tiny group; they were Company cavalry, as brave and skilled as any fighting men in the world.

  Jack aimed his revolver. I should have fired sooner; my hesitation has cost these soldiers their lives in some skirmish for which I don't even know the reason. 'Present bayonets!'

  The foot long triangular blades thrust forward in a sharp-pointed hedge. They looked puny in comparison to the long swords of the pounding cavalry.

  'Number Two Company of the 113th will advance!' Lieutenant Prentice's voice was welcome. 'Halt; prepare; load, fire!' The orders came in quick succession at the exact time the sowars reached Jack's men. Intent on the situation in front, Jack could not spare even a glance for what was happening at his back until the rifles volleyed out. At least ten sowars fell, and the cavalry wavered.

  'Load! Fire!' Jack ordered. He heard the crunch of boots and Prentice was beside him, smiling.

  'I thought it best to come up, sir.'

  'You thought correctly,' Jack said. 'Glad to see you, Prentice.'

  The sowars withdrew in good order, vanishing into the trees without fuss or noise. Only the dead and wounded were left.

  'These seem to be Company Irregulars, sir! I thought it was a band of dacoits.' Prentice sounded curious.

  'I don't know what's happening, Prentice.' Jack ordered his men to form up. 'We're marching into the cantonment. Keep alert.' He raised his voice. 'Load!' There was a rattle of cartridge boxes and the ripping of paper and then silence. A long-tailed green parrot squawked high up and then more silence, broken only by the whinnying of injured horses and soft moaning of the wounded sowars.

  Jack looked around. 'O'Neill; take ten men and act as the advance guard. If anybody tries to stop you…'

  'We'll kill the bastards,' Logan said with an evil grin.

  'Quite,' Jack said. Logan was always morose unless he was drunk or in action. He raised his voice. 'Quarter column and watch the flanks. If anybody attacks, shoot them flat.' About to tell his men not to wait for orders, Jack considered for a moment and decided it was best to leave it. He did not want a Johnny Raw from some industrial hell's kitchen firing on an innocent villager just because he looked out of place.

  They moved forward quickly, stopping for nothing and with firing breaking out ahead and then becoming desultory. The smell of smoke increased.

  'Sir!' Coleman threw a hurried salute. 'The Sarge… Sergeant O'Neill says to tell you there's trouble sir. The cantonment is alight, and there's sepoys killing us everywhere.'

  'That makes no sense, Coleman.' Jack glared at him. 'I'll come myself. Prentice; take charge; bring the men and take care.' He ran forward.

  The smoke was denser now, acrid in the back of his throat while intermittent gunfire sounded. Somebody was shouting; a child's voice screamed 'mother' again and again and then ended abruptly, a man laughed high pitched, and there was a renewed spatter of gunfire.

  'Jesus, sir,' Thorpe said. 'Something's happening in the cantonment.'

  'Sir!' Coleman pointed to the side of the road.

  The woman lay face-down with her dress pulled to her waist and a gaping wound in her left shoulder. Bare legs gleamed, and her blonde hair was a tangle across her back.

  'Dear God in Heaven!' Jack stopped only for a moment to crouch beside the body. Pulling down her dress to make her decent, he felt for a pulse. There was none. Turning her over he saw her eyes were wide open. Both her hands were closed into fists, with her nails broken and fingers smeared with fresh blood.

  'That's Mrs Alcorn, sir,' Coleman said helpfully. 'Sergeant Alcorn of Number One Company's missus.'

  'Thank you, Coleman,' Jack said. He stood up, pulled out his revolver and moved on. He felt sick.

  'Sir!' O'Neill called to him from behind a cactus. 'Careful sir; there are sepoys ahead.'

  'There are meant to be, O'Neill. They're on our side.'

  'Not today they're not, sir,' O'Neill said. 'Look ahead.'

  The cantonment was a shambles, with the 113th barracks ablaze and half the officer's bungalows surrounded by mobs of red-coated sepoys. The noise increased with every step, high-pitched laughter and yelling, the occasional eruption of gunfire mingled with the crackle of flames, the pounding of feet on the ground and the constant rumble of voices.

  There is a scarlet storm coming to India. Jack remembered Fraser's warning. Well, here it is. The sepoys have revolted. He looked around the cantonment. Number One Company of the 113th should be here, together with headquarters staff and a few dozen servants as well as two regiments of native infantry and three troops of Company cavalry. All he could see was mobs of native infantry running around with no order or discipline, and a scattering of bodies on the ground.

  'Oh, Jesus, there are women there.' Parker said. 'What's happened?'

  I don't know.

  Parker was correct. Women in light-coloured night-clothes lay bloody and dead among the bodies of British officers and the occasional servant or sepoy.

  There was no training to help him in a situation such as this. The native troops, the utterly loyal sepoys and sowars, had mutinied. Despite the warnings, the sight was shockingly unexpected. The loyalty of the sepoys was the bedrock on which British India stood. Sepoys were men of solid character whose conditions of service was superior to those of the Queen's infantry. For a moment Jack could only stare in total disbelief.

  'Where are our men, sir?' Prentice was remarkably calm. 'Where is Number One Company?'

  'I wish I knew, Prentice.' There was an outburst of firing even as Jack spoke. 'That was volley fire so it could be them now.'

  'Yes, sir.' Prentice said, and reminded: 'The sepoys also fire in volleys, sir.'

  'Advance in echelon by platoon,' Jack ordered. He had witnessed Colin Campbell's Highlanders marching and firing in echelon at the battle of the Alma and had trained his company until they were proficient. It was an ugly irony that his first chance to see how it worked was against a rabble of soldiers who until very recently had been friendly.

  Jack had never thought to see a British cantonment in flames, or British-trained sepoys acting like a rampaging mob. He saw a large group around his bungalow, yelling and shouting as they threw all his possessions outside and destroyed them. He saw a tall naik pulling on his dress uniform and parading around to the cheers and laughter of his fellows, and a grey-haired Havildar lifting his dress sword and holding it up to examine the quality.

  'Permission to fire, sir?' Prentice asked.

  'Denied,' Jack said immediately. 'There are a h
undred of us,' he said. 'If all the sepoys have mutinied there are over two thousand in the cantonment, plus the sowars.'

  'What is your plan, sir?'

  'Gather as many survivors as we can and get out.' Jack said. Everywhere he looked there were burning buildings, and among the drift of smoke, scattered British bodies lay in a score of positions.

  A group of sepoys looked up as they passed and some pointed, yelling and waving their rifles. Others joined in, shouting challenges or cursing. When they realised these British were capable of retaliation, they did not attack.

  'Look!' Prentice nodded to the nearest bungalow where a group of sepoys clustered around something that struggled on the ground. 'What's happening there?'

  'It's a woman!' Riley was looking around in something like horror. 'Sir! They've got a British woman!'

  Jack nodded; he felt the anger rise hot within him as he realised what was happening. The sepoys had surrounded a British woman and were watching while three men kicked her back and forward.

  'It's Mrs Pringle,' Prentice said suddenly. 'Lieutenant Pringle's wife. He's in Number One Company.'

  I was speaking to her last week, Jack thought. She's from Northumberland, a lovely lady. 'Kill the bastards,' Jack said softly. What happened was more of a massacre than a battle as the men of the 113th, confused by this mutiny of the sepoys and angered beyond reason at the sights and sounds, charged forward. Intent on their fun, the sepoys hardly had time to look up before the privates of the 113th began work with bayonet and rifle butt.

  'Mrs Pringle.' Prentice was first to the crumpled form of the woman. He looked up. 'She's dead, sir.'

  'So I see.' Jack had seen death take many forms in his five years as a soldier, but nothing he had seen shocked him as much as he was at that moment. To have sepoys turn on British women and burn a British cantonment in India, a place the British felt was a second home, was beyond comprehension. He wanted time to withdraw and think about events, to put things in perspective and consider the reasons for this nightmare. However, he knew he had to deal with the situation as it arose, and worry about the whys and wherefores later.

  'Sir!' O'Neill gave a formal salute. 'Riley and the rest are worried about their wives and families, sir. They ask if they can go to search for them.'