Windrush: Cry Havelock (Jack Windrush Book 4)

by Malcolm Archibald

Something like a smile twisted across Riley's mouth. 'Yes. I don't trust these pandies with women and children.'

  'They'll be all right. Charlotte's too canny to be hurt by any badmash.' Logan patted Riley's shoulder. 'Cheer up, Riley; we've been through too much to stop now, and Charlotte will be waiting for you, eh?'

  Jack walked away. He could not help and felt he was eavesdropping on a very personal conversation. They marched forward, toward the Mutineers' positions, toward Nana Sahib's main army, and with Cawnpore the prize in the distance. The rain began again, hissing onto the paddy-fields, pattering onto trees and bouncing off the road.

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

  'Havelock,' Prentice repeated the name without enthusiasm.

  With his few mounted Volunteers riding around his force, Havelock advanced the column along the Grand Trunk Road until about half a mile from the fork where a line of trees gave some cover.

  'We'll halt here,' Havelock said, 'and engage the enemy. Barrow, take a company of the Madras Fusiliers ahead, on either side of the road. Make lots of noise and act like the whole army.'

  'Yes, sir.' Barrow was a grey-headed Captain with a cheerful smile. 'Did you hear the general, Fusiliers? You are to pretend you're the whole army!'

  'We are the whole army, sir.' A Fusilier sergeant shouted. 'These Queen's men are just here to make up the numbers.'

  'Cheeky bugger,' Logan reacted predictably. 'Go on, John Company; give them hell!'

  Jack watched as the cavalry and Fusiliers extended into skirmishing order and spread out on both sides of the road. Within a few minutes, the Mutineers' artillery opened fire, lambasting the road junction they believed Havelock's men would have to take.

  'Bloody fools; they should have held their fire until they saw the main body,' Prentice said. 'They're wasting ammunition and firing at nothing.'

  With the Mutineers blasting away, Havelock led his main force through the screen of trees that sheltered them from the left flank of Nana Sahib's position.

  'We've left the baggage behind,' Kent said, 'the pandies could take it and cut us off from Allahabad.' He looked over his shoulder. 'Havelock has forgotten the basic rules of war.'

  'He knows what he's doing.' Prentice said.

  'But we're trapped between the Mutineers and the Ganges,' Kent said. 'If they attack us we've nowhere to retreat.'

  'We won't be withdrawing,' Jack said quietly. 'There's no retreat in this war. We fight and we win, or we die, and British rule ends.'

  'Havelock out-smarted you again, pandy-boy,' Elliot said as the Mutineers hastily tried to drag their guns to meet the new threat on their flank.

  The British marched on; ignoring the Mutineers' shot that soon battered down on them. Men fell to lie still or thrash in agony under the pelting rain.

  'When do we fire back?' Kent ducked as a roundshot screamed overhead.

  'Don't bob!' Jack said. 'The men don't like to see officers bobbing. We're advancing to Nana Sahib's flank.' He checked on the men; they marched steadily, rifles slung over their shoulders, heads down. The 113th had faced worse in the Crimea; they were dogged and determined but some of the younger soldiers in the 84th and 64th winced as the Mutineer's heavy artillery thundered around them.

  In front and on the left flank, the kilted 78th fixed bayonets.

  Jack nodded. 'Havelock is going to do a Gough,' he said and raised his voice. 'Bayonets … fix!'

  'Get the buggers,' Logan's voice was distinct. 'Take the bayonet to them.'

  The British marched on, with three of the Mutineers' guns able to bear on them and the iron balls crashing out, killing and maiming the advancing men.

  'Give the order!' Jack heard Riley's voice behind him. 'Give the order!'

  'The 78th will charge,' Havelock ordered.

  'Why not us?' Riley asked.

  Although Jack had seen the advance of Campbell's Highlanders at the Alma, and the stand of the 93rd at Balaclava, it was the first time he had witnessed a full Highland charge. He watched with professional interest.

  Colonel Hamilton was in the van, and the pipers played the high pibroch of the glens to encourage men who needed no encouragement. There was no other sound, no cheering and not a shot was fired as the 78th swarmed forward with kilts swaying and bayonets probing. The twenty-four pounder fired grape-shot as they crossed flooded fields, felling men and causing the waters to foam and fizz. As the Highlanders closed with pointing bayonets, the gunners panicked and left the cannon. Now there was a cheer as the 78th leapt over the defending wall of the village and down into the Mutineers' positions.

  'Shabash the 78th!' O'Neill shouted.

  For a few moments, there was a frantic melee as the Highlanders raised and plunged home their bayonets, and when the triangular blades bent they finished the job with rifle-butt and then pushed on, rolling up the Mutineers' flank.

  'It's us now!' As the Highlanders dealt with the rebels in the village, the whole British line advanced against the enemy's positions. The Mutineers had not been idle, and their twenty-four pounder opened fire.

  'We're pushing them back,' Elliot said. The Mutineers were slowly abandoning their positions in the face of the British bayonets, but they were not going easily. A British soldier looked in horror as a tulwar sliced his arm clean off; another fell sideways, his left leg severed. The Mutineers were not giving in easily.

  'The twenty-four pounder will cause damage,' Jack said. He saw Havelock gallop across to the 78th and point urgently sideways.

  The gesture was sufficient. With hardly a pause, the Highlanders flowed over to the gun in a welter of tartan, bare knees and gleaming bayonets. Some of the Mutineers attempted to fight back; others turned at the sight of the charging 78th. The result was never in doubt as the Highlanders thrust forward with bayonet, boot and rifle-butt.

  'The pandies are running.' Beads of sweat balanced on Elliot's eyebrows.

  'Not very fast,' Jack said. 'They are still organised.'

  The bulk of the Mutineers withdrew to another village around a mile down the road, where they waited for the pursuing British.

  'Stay in your formation, 113th!' Jack restrained the more eager of his men and glanced over the advance. The 64th were on the left, the 113th and the 78th in the centre and the Madras Fusiliers on the right. In front, still vastly outnumbering Havelock's column, the Mutineers shouted challenges.

  Exhaustion and heat forced the British to stop, with men collapsing on the road and others draining their water-bottles as they faced this new threat. The rebels waited, peering down the sights of muskets and rifles, brandishing the terrible tulwars, preparing the artillery. Jack focussed his telescope and swore. Sarvur Khan was in the centre of the enemy lines, smart and suave as ever, with a long Khyber knife thrust through his belt and a jezail, the Afghan musket, balanced over his shoulder.

  'You bastard,' Jack said softly. 'You murdering, oath-breaking bastard.'

  Havelock rode in front of the British, small and dapper, with his eyes darting around, seeing everything. He knew his men. Rather than appeal to glory or valour, he used the old British method of inter-regimental rivalry.

  'Come, who is to take that village, the Highlanders or the 64th?'

  'How about the 113th?' Coleman asked indignantly.

  'Who cares about the baby butchers?' An Irish voice jeered. 'Watch the 64th and learn how it's done!'

  Jack could not understand the Gaelic response of the Highlanders, but there was no mistaking their resolve. They quickly formed a line, pushed the light company to the flank to provide covering fire and advanced, shoulder to shoulder with the younger men of the 64th Foot.

  Jack and the 113th could only watch as the Mutineers' skirmishers held their ground for only a few moments until the 78th and 64th scattered them and plunged on to the village.

  'Should we join in, sir?' Coleman stamped his boots on the ground.

  'We should stay put and wait for orders.' Jack said.

  As the 78
th and 64th cleared the village, the Madras Fusiliers advanced into the flanking plantation and drove out the defenders at the point of the bayonet.

  'Now's our time,' Jack said as the 113th and the remainder of the British followed on, joined up with the 78th and 64th and formed up as Havelock gave his usual brisk orders.

  'Consolidate,' Havelock said briefly, 'fill your water bottles and march on. Follow the enemy.'

  'We don't know what's ahead,' Jack said. 'The Mutineers may have fled right back to Cawnpore, or they may try another stand.'

  Elliot nodded, wiping the sweat from his face. 'We'll soon find out.'

  Filling their water-bottles from the village well, the British moved on, regiment after regiment with their equipment rattling and boots chunking on the ground, men sweating, swearing and wilting under the sun as the Indian plain slid past. Ahead, the road rose to a small ridge, apparently shimmering in the heat.

  'Cawnpore's not far away now,' Logan said. 'Your Charlotte will be pleased to see you, eh?'

  'I hope so,' Riley said. 'I've gone to a lot of trouble getting together all these men and guns, just to rescue her.'

  'Aye, Queen Vicky done you proud,' Logan said.

  The instant Havelock's men breasted the rise the Mutineers' artillery opened up. Orange flames jetted through a haze of smoke, and busy artillerymen could be seen darting around the breeches of their guns.

  'Oh, good God,' Jack stopped, 'Nana Sahib has gathered all the Mutineers and rebels in Hindustan.'

  The rebel army stood before them, once more blocking their route to Cawnpore, with a twenty-four pounder in the centre, flanked by a pair of smaller pieces. Rank upon rank of Mutineers waited for the British to attack.

  'And there's Nana Sahib himself.'

  The rebel chief was sitting on an elephant, walking up and down the ranks of his men while a band played the wailing Indian music that Jack found strangely appealing. He stared at Nana Sahib, wondering what in his mind as he led his army against the people who had occupied India for so long they thought of it as home. A stray shaft of sunlight flashed on a ring on Nana Sahib's left hand.

  'Lie down.' Havelock's order came. 'Lie on the ground.'

  Rather than stand to offer an easy target, the British lay down in their ranks, as they had done at Waterloo.

  'Keep your locks dry,' Jack shouted. 'Keep the rain from the muzzles! Anyone with a rusty rifle will have me to answer to – if he lives!'

  'It's nearly impossible to keep away the rust in these conditions,' Elliot said.

  'They can try,' Jack replied. 'It may save their lives.' He glanced over his men. 'Nana against Havelock in a straight fight! We've marched twenty miles today and fought a pretty stiff action. Our artillery is still trundling up the road, while our horses are exhausted, and the few cavalrymen we have are utterly knocked up.'

  'All the odds are in Nana Sahib's favour,' Prentice agreed.

  Jack looked forward. 'How many men does Nana Sahib have?' Nana Sahib had arranged his army in three units, with the twenty-four pounder already hammering at the British ranks. 'Eight thousand? Ten thousand? And by the look of it, many of them are fresh against our haggard few hundred.'

  Elliot sipped at the contents of his silver hip-flask and offered it to Jack. 'He must have emptied every man from Cawnpore.'

  Shaking his head to the flask, Jack checked his revolver. 'This won't be an easy victory.'

  'No victory is easy for the men who fall.' Elliot drank again.

  With his previous horse shot from under him, Havelock now rode a small pony, which was hardly an inspiring sight compared to the huge elephant of Nana Sahib. Ignoring the plunging shot from the Mutineers' twenty-four pounder, Havelock turned his back on the enemy to address his men. Jack thought his voice was more higher-pitched than usual, either through tiredness or nervous strain.

  'The longer you look at it men, the less you will like it. Rise up. The Brigade will advance, left battalion leading.'

  'Never us,' Elliot muttered. 'Does that man not know I need to be a hero so I can advance in rank and be a field marshal and please my father?'

  'Obviously not,' Jack said. 'You'll have to remind him. Here we go again.'

  'Cry Havelock,' Elliot shouted.

  'And let loose the dogs of war,' Prentice finished for him.

  They moved forward slowly, with solid shot from the twenty-four pounder hammering them, pulping men into scarcely recognisable jellies of blood and brain, meat and crushed bone. Behind the regular deep boom of the gun, Indian music drifted toward them as Nana inspired his men to fight.

  At three hundred yards, with the Mutineers' forces becoming ever clearer, the cannon changed to grapeshot that scythed through the British ranks. Men fell, screaming, with legs and arms missing and intestines spilt over the sodden earth.

  'Good shooting,' Elliot approved. His nerves had calmed as soon as the battle began, as they always did. 'We trained them well.'

  'Too well,' Prentice said.

  With Major Sterling and Lieutenant Henry Havelock well in front, the 64th led the assault. Men were dropping, the dead to lie still, the wounded to writhe and kick and groan but the remainder advanced in a silence whose grimness must have chilled the defenders. Only when they were close did the 64th let out a cheer, lower their bayonets and plunge forward toward the massive cannon.

  'Shabash the 64th!' O'Neill shouted as the British advanced.

  There was a sudden roar of musketry from the Mutineers, accompanied by orange jets of flame through thick powder-smoke. Men fell, knocked back by the force of musket-balls, to lie still or twist in pain. After the first volley, the Mutineers' fire altered to a long-drawn clatter and then as the British wall advanced they turned and retreated, still in some formation.

  'Stand and fight, you cowards!' Logan shouted. 'I want to kill you.'

  'Look,' Elliot touched Jack's arm. 'The guns.'

  For hours the British artillery had been had been bogged down a mile in the rear with their bullocks too exhausted to move. Now four cannon had arrived in the midst of the brigade. They hurriedly unlimbered and busy gunners loaded, aimed and fired with more speed than Jack had ever witnessed before.

  'The pandies don't like that much,' Elliot said as Havelock waved them on.

  The 113th crossed the earthwork barrier with its dead and dying Mutineers, knowing they had defeated a more numerous enemy, knowing they had won once more and not caring about anything except the result. They pushed on with the artillery punishing the retreating Mutineers and the miles to Cawnpore diminishing with every hour.

  'Look! Away in the distance; there are our artillery barracks!' Prentice pointed forward. 'There's Cawnpore!'

  The fast semi-tropical night was rushing on them as the Mutineer army finally disintegrated and fled, leaving nothing between Havelock's men and Cawnpore except a couple of miles of open territory.

  'We've done it,' Prentice sounded amazed. 'Holy Havelock's battered our way through to Cawnpore.'

  'We've beaten then in five battles,' Elliot said, 'and today they outnumbered us by five to one and in a good defensive position.'

  Jack nodded. 'We lost some good men though. I'd guess about a hundred casualties there.'

  'Stuart Beatson's gone, I hear,' Elliot added quietly. 'Cholera.'

  'The Adjutant-general? We'll miss his hard work.' Jack ran his gaze down the length of the column. There seemed very few men to retake a city. He heard a snatch of conversation from the ranks.

  'This time tomorrow, Riley, you'll be with Charlotte,' Logan was saying. 'You can cheer up then and stop being such a sour-faced bugger.'

  'The men sound happy,' Elliot said. 'Normally after a battle, they are quiet and thoughtful.'

  'They know we're saving the women,' Jack said. 'They're hungry and tired, with no shelter or food, but they've won their self-respect.'

  Dapper and unruffled, Havelock rode his pony around the men, told them he was 'satisfied and more than satisfied with them', nodded and withdrew to
his tent.

  'High praise from Holy Havelock,' Jack said. 'Tomorrow the men get their real reward.' He saw Riley stare toward Cawnpore, touched Helen's letter and shook his head.

  Bloody woman.

  And then he looked down the road, wondered where the baggage train was and hoped Mary was all right.

  Chapter Eleven

  There was an explosion from Cawnpore during the night as the men lay muttering and shaking with reaction on the damp ground. Some looked up from fitful sleep; others turned over and heard nothing.

  'What the devil?' Jack jerked upright.

  'I've no idea,' Elliot said.

  The reflected glare faded slowly while a whiff of powder-smoke reached them from the city, some two miles away. 'Nana Sahib is saying goodbye,' Jack guessed. He lay down again, decided he could not sleep and rose to inspect his men. Most were asleep, with the pickets on watch leaning on their rifles and staring at Cawnpore or into the darkness around the camp. One of the 113th had died of dysentery during the night.

  'There's pandy cavalry out there,' Coleman said. 'I can hear their hooves hammering.'

  'If they get too close, Coleman, you have my permission to shoot them.'

  'Oh, aye, sir; I'll do that all right.' Coleman sucked on an empty pipe. 'Did you hear the shave, sir?'

  'Which one, Coleman?'

  Coleman dropped his voice to a whisper. 'They say Nana Sahib murdered all the women and children, sir.'

  Despite the humidity of the night, Jack felt a chill run down his spine. 'Oh, God I hope not. Best not let Riley hear that, Coleman. He is anxious about his wife.'

  'I know, sir.' Coleman lifted his head. 'I hope it's only a lie.'

  'So do I, Coleman, so do I.' Taking a deep breath, Jack continued his circuit of the British lines. The darkness of India seemed to become more intense, the heat more oppressive.

  When rumour crystallised into fact, the mood of the British hardened.

  'Not Charlotte,' Riley said, again and again. 'They can't have killed Charlotte.' He sat on the ground, head in his hands, with Logan at his side.

  'It may not be true,' Logan said. 'Charlotte might have got away.' He looked up, face twisted in grief for his friend. 'Tell him, sir. Tell Riley that Charlotte could still be alive.'