Windrush: Cry Havelock (Jack Windrush Book 4)

by Malcolm Archibald

  'There goes Maude,' Prentice said as the British artillery advanced from the copse to within four hundred yards of the advancing enemy. Cannon fired at cannon, with Maude's skirmishers also busy, the range of their Enfield rifles taking the Mutineers by surprise.

  'Aye, that's what you get for not accepting new rifles.' Logan snarled. 'See what you're missing?'

  The Mutineers halted in seeming confusion. In the middle of them, a man gave orders from the back of an elephant.

  'There's Tantia Topi,' Elliot said. 'Bastard- in- chief to the head murderer.'

  'We're after you, elephant man,' Logan shouted.

  'Watch your flanks,' Jack warned.

  The Mutineer cavalry had been riding on both flanks, far outnumbered the small numbers of riders with which the British could oppose them. On the left, the eighteen or so British Volunteers rode out bravely and in a frantic skirmish turned back the Mutineers.

  'Good lads these Volunteers,' Elliot approved.

  'Not so good over there,' Prentice pointed to the right where native cavalry under British officers guarded the flank. 'Listen!'

  Faint through the continuing duel of the cannon, some of the Mutineer horsemen could be heard shouting to Havelock's native cavalry. The sound carried above the thunder of the guns and crackle of musketry, with isolated words reached them, high-pitched, sinister in the stifling heat.

  'I'd wager my pension and yours they're trying to get our sowars to change sides,' Prentice said.

  'Oh, God no! If they succeed, we'll have no cavalry left!' Kent glanced over his shoulder as if preparing to run away all the way to Allahabad.

  'Our sowars don't look too happy at all,' Prentice loosened his revolver in its holster.

  'Look! There's Pallister, the sowar commander.' Jack saw the slender figure shouting an order, and the thin, stirring bugle call of the charge came to them, high above the hammer of the guns. 'Jesus! He's charging alone!'

  They watched the drama unfold. Pallister had sounded the charge, lifted his sword and spurred forward toward the Mutineer ranks. One other British officer immediately accompanied him and then four of his native troopers. The remainder hesitated, unsure what to do. Some looked toward Havelock's small army, others to the Mutineer cavalry opposing them.

  With the odds in their favour, the Mutineer cavalry also sounded the charge and crashed into the much smaller British force. Amid a flurry of activity, with the sun flashing off sword-blades, Pallister was unhorsed and lay on the ground, stunned.

  'He's a goner,' Kent said.

  'No, look!' Elliot pointed as a few of Pallister's men formed a body around him and carried him off the field while others fled. The Mutineer cavalry waited for a few moments, turned and retreated. With the skirmish over, a couple of horses lay kicking on the damp ground, half hidden by mist and rising steam.

  'Who can you trust in this damned country?' Kent asked.

  'Ourselves,' Jack said quietly. 'And the men.' Again he fingered Helen's letter. And nobody else.

  While Jack had been watching the cavalry, Maude had pushed forward his guns to within two hundred yards of the Mutineers; in a hectic exchange of fire he had either destroyed the opposing artillery or forced them to run and now concentrated his fire on their infantry. White smoke added to the mist haze as Maud's artillery battered the enemy ranks.

  'Advance,' Havelock ordered briskly. 'Take the village.'

  'Cry Havelock,' Elliot misquoted Shakespeare, 'and let loose the dogs of war.'

  The British moved forward in three columns; elements of the 113th, the 78th Highlanders, the 64th and 84th Foot marching to engage a much larger body of Mutineers on the plains of India. After months of massacres and disasters, Havelock's men were drawing Britannia's sword.

  With Maude's artillery and accurate musketry flaying them, the Mutineers stood to face the oncoming British until a shot crashed into Tantia Topi's elephant. Tantia Topi fell clumsily, unhurt but shaken. Temporarily bereft of their commander, the Mutineers lost heart and began a slow withdrawal.

  'They're running!' Prentice said.

  'Get the bastards!' Quiet Whitelam shouted.

  'Keep your ranks!' Jack ordered. 'Stay together!' In the right-hand column, the 113th marched forward steadily as the Mutineers' withdrawal turned into a rout.

  With the 64th in the centre and the left, the 78th Highlanders as the hinge and the 84th beside the 113th, the British pushed on. Not yet defeated, the Mutineers formed up behind the garden enclosures until the British came close and the accurate fire of the Enfields forced them back to the mud wall of Fatehpur itself.

  'Here's where it gets interesting,' Elliot said as he marched three steps in front of his men. 'It's not much of a place, is it? A few houses and a wet road.'

  'And there's the irregular cavalry,' Jack said, 'with the Mutineers chasing them. Halt.' He waited until the broken remnants of the British right flank guardians fled past, to the jeers of the 113th, and then ordered: 'Prepare! Fire a volley at the enemy cavalry!'

  'Fire!'

  Other officers took up Jack's shout and volley after volley crashed out. The Mutineer horsemen reeled back in disarray, leaving a tangle of dead and injured men and horses on the ground. The advance continued, stolid and disciplined. As the right column had been disposing of the cavalry, the centre and left had pushed past the defending wall at Fatehpur and attacked the fast-retreating enemy rearguard.

  'They're broke!' Elliot shouted as the Mutineers finally turned and ran, leaving behind all their artillery, bags and baggage. 'We've beaten them! Havelock has beaten the pandies!'

  Jack reached for a cheroot to celebrate and swore when he remembered he had none left. 'That must be the easiest battle I've ever fought in.' He said. 'The pandies hardly fired a shot at the 113th.'

  'Let's hope for more of the same,' Elliot said.

  'Maybe the mutiny's over,' Kent sounded hopeful. 'Maybe now they've been defeated in battle the rebels will surrender?'

  'Maybe,' Elliot said. 'Although I doubt it.'

  The men cheered at this first success for weeks. They knew the British habit of losing the first few encounters and then grinding out an eventual victory, yet their exhaustion proved stronger than their elation. The cheering did not last. Unable to advance another step, they halted, collapsing with the heat, and reached for water bottles or crawled into whatever shade they could find.

  Havelock looked over the field of battle. 'Thanks be to Almighty God, who gave us victory,' he said. 'Now we will march to retake Cawnpore.'

  After their nineteen mile march and decisive victory, Jack, remembering the slaughter of the Alma and Inkerman, expected scores of casualties, but the British had only lost a dozen men, all by sunstroke. Not a single Mutineer shot had taken effect.

  'Loot!' Coleman said loudly. 'We have two six-pounders and ammunition, ten other pieces of artillery, tumbrils of all sorts of goods and a victory. I'll march with Havelock any day of the week.'

  Ignoring the victory and the bloody corpses of the slain Mutineers, Riley stared forward. Jack knew he was thinking of Charlotte, held prisoner by Nana Sahib.

  Chapter Nine

  'Jack,' the voice was soft and feminine. 'Jack.' It was also persistent. He stirred and looked up. Mary stood in the shade of a palm tree, smiling down at him.

  'What the devil!' Jack stared at her. 'What the devil are you doing here? You should be safe in Allahabad!'

  'It's not safe in Allahabad,' Mary squatted beside him, her eyes serene. 'Colonel Neill is establishing a reign of terror that Herod would be proud of.'

  'For God's sake, woman! We're on campaign. The pandies could attack any minute and destroy us.' Jack felt his temper rising. 'You could be killed or worse.'

  'That is as possible in Allahabad under Colonel Neill as here,' Mary did not flinch from his tongue. 'In fact, we're probably safer here with the 113th to protect us.'

  Jack shook his head, sighing. 'How did you get here?'

  'In a commissariat waggon,' Mary
admitted at once. 'We asked the driver to give us a lift.'

  'We? How many of you are there?' For a moment Jack had a vision of a score of women packed into the waggons and all descending on his 113th for sanctuary.

  'Only Jane and I,' Mary said. 'Are you not pleased to see me?'

  Contrarily, Jack knew he was. 'You make sure you look after yourself,' he said.

  'You too, Captain Jack,' Mary said softly.

  'It's good to see you again,' Jack said, reluctantly and cursed inwardly as Lieutenant Kent blundered up with a request for help in something he should have been able to manage by himself. By the time Jack had sorted the matter out Mary had vanished.

  After a day of rest in which Havelock disbanded the Irregular cavalry and used them as baggage guards instead, the tiny army resumed its advance on Cawnpore.

  'You Sikhs,' Havelock ordered, 'I want you to burn Fatehpur; show the rebels what happens when they oppose us.'

  Elliot tipped back his hip-flask as they tramped on through the rain. 'I never trusted these Sikh fellows anyway. You don't know when they'll turn and stab you in the back.'

  'The Sikhs are all right,' Jack defended them. 'I had a Sikh orderly in Burma; you could not find a better man.'

  With only eighteen horsemen left to both guard the flanks and scout ahead, Havelock was blind and vulnerable, yet pushed on remorselessly.

  'I hear Colonel Neill is coming up in support,' Jack said

  'God help the pandies if he gets here,' Elliot said. 'He'll hang everyone in sight.'

  Jack nodded. He had a sudden, sickening picture of Jane and Mary hanging from one of the sad trees beside the Great Trunk Road. 'Go and look after your men,' he said curtly. 'Young Parker had a rusty lock on his rifle this morning; the men have to care for their equipment in this damp weather.'

  Elliot opened his mouth to say something, closed it quickly and said, 'yes, sir' and marched stiffly away.

  Jack felt for a cheroot, swore at his empty pocket and chased away the images of Mary and Jane. He had sufficient to think about without introducing any more women into his life. He touched the crumpled letter in his breast pocket. Damn Helen Maxwell.

  'What if she's dead,' Riley said, 'what if the murdering bastards have killed Charlotte?'

  'They won't have,' Logan clamped an empty clay pipe between his teeth. 'Your Charlotte is too intelligent to get herself killed. She'll be fine; you'll see.'

  'Do you think so, Logie? Honestly?' Riley looked to Logan for support, for reassurance, for anything to ease the burden of worry from his mind. Five paces in front, Jack could only sympathise; there was nothing he could do to help. Charlotte Riley was from a much lower class than Riley, their gentleman ranker, and had followed him faithfully to the Crimea and now out to India. Indeed, Jack had never seen a married couple so devoted as the Rileys. A ranker's wife could be widowed by shot, shell or cholera on Monday morning, bury her man in the afternoon and choose another by noon on Tuesday. Many soldiers and their wives took their marriages lightly, and some women had a couple of men in reserve for when their current husband died. That was not the case with Charlotte, or with Riley.

  'I heard Nana Sahib had them all shot down like dogs,' Riley said.

  'I heard different,' Logan said stoutly. 'I heard the women and children, and some of the men were spared and are held safe.' He chewed on the stem of his pipe. 'Nana Sahib would be a bloody fool to hurt them now we're coming to get him.' Logan removed the pipe from his mouth and jabbed it into Riley's arm. 'Trust me, Riley, son, your Charlotte is in the pink.'

  Women again, Jack thought. They were always a worry. Men were better off without them; life would be so much simpler. God he wished he had kept a cheroot. This constant blasted rain and humidity were wearing him down. He marched on with the thoughts and images chasing each other through his head; Helen; the men hanging by the side of the road, the massacre at Gondabad and always Sarvur Khan. The road stretched before him, jarring his ankles with every step while the sweat irritated the old Burmese wound in his leg. Now he had Mary and Jane to worry about as well as his men, and half the blasted rebels in India gathering to murder him.

  Jack swore, thought of the march to Balaclava and then of Helen. He touched the crumpled letter in his breast pocket and sighed. Damn Helen Maxwell.

  'Pandies!'

  Jack's mind leapt back to the present. Borrowing a telescope from a panting Fusilier captain, he peered forward. About half a mile ahead a small town ran parallel to the road, with men moving behind solid earth walls and the sinister muzzles of artillery glowering outward. An earth-and-rock barricade wall blocked their onward passage, with the bobbing heads of defenders visible behind.

  'That's Aong,' Elliot said quietly.

  As so often in this part of India, there was a scattering of settlements, too small to be termed villages, around the main town, with one between the British and Aong. It looked empty under the rain.

  'It seems as though we will have to fight to get past Aong.' Jack examined the ground.

  Havelock lifted his binoculars. 'I can see two guns. Captain Barrow, take the Volunteers; ride ahead and see what's happening.'

  The Volunteers cantered forward; there was the sharp crack of artillery, and they returned at speed, with a cannonball bouncing along the road behind them. On sight of the Volunteers, a body of seven hundred red-coated Mutineers advanced from Aong to occupy the huddle of houses between them.

  'Good tactics,' Jack approved.

  'Cavalry, sir.' Prentice pointed to the left. 'And there.'

  Jack nodded. British trained, the Mutineers had sent their cavalry to harass the British flanks while they waited with artillery and infantry in the centre. It was a classic manoeuvre, time-honoured and dangerous.

  'Tytler, take the Madras Fusiliers; move around Aong. Captain Maude, bring your battery to the front and fire on the entrenchment.' Havelock gave crisp orders. 'Renaud, take two companies of Fusiliers and the 113th, push the Pandies from the hamlet.'

  Renaud nodded to Jack. 'Watch how the professionals fight, Windrush!' He gave a grin. 'You Queen's soldiers have a lot to learn about warfare in India.'

  'Bloody arrogant Company wallah.' Logan gave his own professional opinion as he slotted his bayonet in place.

  They moved forward in extended order, silent and with bayonets glittering. The Mutineers opened up with volley fire, jets of white smoke obscuring the front of the hamlet as the British advanced.

  'Right boys,' Jack felt the pent-up anger of the 113th. 'Remember Gondabad!' Drawing his sword, he dashed forward, knowing his men were following. A few yards away, Renaud did the same.

  'Cry Havelock!' Elliot used the same slogan as before, 'and let loose the dogs of war!'

  'Did Shakespeare not write Cry havoc?' Prentice asked.

  'Only because he had never met our general,' Elliot was grinning again.

  'Remember Gondabad!' Jack's men echoed his shout and together with the Madras Fusiliers, they charged. Jack saw Renaud stagger and fall and then they were in the hamlet among the red-coated Mutineers. There were a few moments of frenzied fighting, bayonet to bayonet, flashes of bared teeth in brown faces, of moustaches and huge brown eyes, of drifting powder smoke and wild curses.

  'Come on lads!' Jack emptied his revolver at the defenders. 'Gondabad!'

  'Up the 113th!' Somebody shouted, and the Mutineers were withdrawing, leaving a litter of dead behind them and the mounting roars of the victors.

  'We're coming for you!' Coleman shouted. 'You back-stabbing murdering bastards!'

  'Charlotte!' Riley screamed. Kneeling at the corner of a house, he loaded and fired at the retreating Mutineers. 'Charlotte!' Logan was at his side, small, scarred and ugly, guarding him like a West Highland terrier.

  'Look, sir.' Rivulets of sweat had formed light grooves on O'Neill's powder-black face. 'Their cavalry is attacking.'

  Jack swore as he saw the Mutineer cavalry advance on the British baggage train, half a mile in the rear.

&nb
sp; 'They're after loot,' Thorpe was cleaning blood from his bayonet.

  'Maybe,' Jack reloaded his revolver. 'The baggage train has our food and ammunition, our tents and equipment. Without it we are crippled; it's a good move by the Mutineers.'

  'There's the 78th!' O'Neill said.

  A line of British soldiers, distinctively Highland by their kilts, opened fire on the cavalry. Jack saw the individual jets of smoke merging into a whole, saw men tumble from the Mutineer's saddles and then the cavalry withdrew. Distance muted the sound of musketry, so it sounded like the innocent popping of children's toys.

  'Well done the Sawnies!' O'Neill said.

  'We're advancing again,' Jack said and waved his men onward. The 113th and the Madras Fusiliers marched out of the village toward the town of Aong as the Mutineers fired a few scattered shots and withdrew. Maude's artillery battered the enemy rearguard.

  'They're fighting better today,' Jack said as one of the Fusiliers crumpled to the sodden ground.

  'We trained them well,' Prentice was five steps to his right and two in the rear, marching erect with his sword in hand.

  'Keep the pace up,' Jack broke into a trot, hoping to get his men into the cover of the town before the Mutineers could recover and blast them with artillery or volley fire.

  Spread out to offer a less tempting target, the 113th moved into Aong, to find it deserted save for the bloodied bodies of dead and wounded Mutineers and a litter of baggage and stores.

  'They must have plenty ammunition to leave so much behind,' O'Neill rapped his knuckles on the breach of a cannon. 'And guns.'

  Jack checked his watch. 'It's two hours since the action began,' he marvelled. 'It seemed a lot quicker.'

  Birds circled above, waiting for the men to pass so they could feast on the corpses and fragments of dead bodies that lay scattered around the village. While the griffins tried to come to terms with what they had just seen and endured, the veterans played cards, sought shade, drank from their water bottles or slept. Jack was constantly amazed at the ability of the British soldier to sleep in any situation.