The 113th Foot.
Jack stared at the fateful number and swore quietly to himself. 'I'm going into the 113th Foot; oh good God in heaven; the Baby Butchers, the lowest of the low.'
The 113th Foot was the regiment that nobody wanted to join. There had been other regiments that bore the same number; the 113th Highlanders who had lasted for two years before being disbanded in 1764, and a later infantry regiment that had been raised and disbanded in 1794. Both these regiments had been fine, honourable units with no stigma attached; this latest incarnation was not. If his step mother had wanted to make her revenge on his illegitimacy as hurtful and shameful as she could, she had succeeded. Jack knew little about the 113th except for their nickname of the Baby Butchers, but that was enough to make his heart sink. Leaning back against the plaster wall of the inn he once again fought the tears that threatened to unman him.
Gaining the seven hundred and fifty guineas a year had been a tiny victory in a day of catastrophic defeat. From being a landowner and officer in one of the finest regiments in the British Army and an income of ten thousand a year, he had descended to an unwanted bastard with a commission in the most inferior of all formations and barely enough money to scrape along as a junior officer, yet alone a gentleman. His mother had barred him from his home and the only way of life he knew, and with such a meagre allowance he would never be able to purchase his way into a decent regiment.
113th Foot!
He heard the song even through his gloom, the words familiar from his youth.
'Squire Percy well mounted, away he did ride
James careless with hounds coupled close by his side
Then off to St Margaret's park did repair
For Reynard long time had been harbouring there.'
'And what's the matter with you?'
'I beg your pardon?' Jack looked up. The voice had been female, but rough; it had been the voice of a countrywoman. The Herefordshire accent was pronounced. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
'I asked what the matter was.' She was dark headed and perhaps seventeen, with an attractive plumpness that would probably turn to fat within a few years but which suited her very well at present.
Jack first inclination was to ignore such a personal question from a girl so obviously below him socially, but her smile was friendly, and he needed to talk to somebody. 'I have just lost my family, my status and my life,' he told her. He edged further away when she perched herself on the wooden bench at his side. Her scent of grease and soap and cooking was not unpleasant.
Her sympathy was obvious. 'Was it the fever that killed them?' He flinched as she placed a warm hand on his arm. Her blue eyes prepared to fill with tears on his behalf.
About to explain what had happened, Jack shook his head. He was duty bound not to speak of his misadventures. 'I'd prefer not to talk about it.'
She patted his arm and snuggled even closer. 'I understand; losing your family is too painful.' Her eyes were soft with sympathy. 'And you sound like a gentleman, too.'
Jack said nothing to that; at that moment he was unsure exactly what he was. The edge of the bench foiled his attempts to pull away.
'Not talking? Poor little man.' She was smiling again, rubbing her hand up his arm in a very familiar manner. 'They call me Ruth.' Her smile was broader than ever.
'And I am Jack.'
Her kiss took him by surprise; he recoiled and put a hand to his cheek.
'What was that for?'
'Because you needed it,' Ruth told him seriously. 'If somebody needs something, and it's in our power to give it, we should do so. That's in the Bible.' She tried to kiss him again, but he moved aside.
Used to the reserved girls of his own class, or shrinking and respectful servants, Jack was unsure how to react. He recoiled slightly until the innkeeper asked if he wanted anything.
'Two tankards of ale, please,' he said, paid with the loose change in his waistcoat pocket and watched Ruth hold the tankard with all the aplomb of a man.
'So you have no family left,' Ruth smiled over the rim of the pot.
'None left now,' Jack agreed. He held up the commission, 'and I'm in the 113th, not the Royals.'
Ruth frowned. 'You're going to be a soldier?'
'An ensign in the 113th,' Jack looked for sympathy but found none.
'You're going to be an officer?' Ruth recoiled slightly as her eyes widened. 'So you've no responsibilities for anybody, and you're going to be an officer? What are you complaining about?' She pulled further away, with her smile fading. 'All you have to do is get promoted to a general, and you'll have all the money in the world.'
'It's not as easy as that…'
'Life is never easy,' Ruth told him. Her frown made her look older than her years. 'How is it not easy?'
'You have to buy your way up,' Jack began to explain the system.
In common with every officer and potential officer, Jack knew exactly how the system worked. A British Army officer would purchase his commission as an ensign in the infantry or cornet in the cavalry, and then systematically buy his way rank by rank until he was in command of a regiment. It was a system that produced men such as Wellington, but one which favoured the wealthy, whether inefficient or not, while even the best of the poor were condemned to fill the most junior ranks unless by some freak of foolhardy bravery they caught the eye of an influential superior.
Jack realised that Ruth was listening intently to him.
'I have not got enough money. I might manage to purchase one step, from ensign to lieutenant in a fourth-rate regiment, but no more. I have to be known.'
'So the toffs have it all their own way then,' Ruth's tone betrayed her opinion of the upper classes. 'Ordinary officers can't get on at all then.'
'Only if they are extremely lucky and are seen being stupidly brave.'
Those words led Jack to his next logical step. As well as money, and every bit as important to an officer was courage, but here again the wealthy, the aristocracy, held all the advantages. They were brought up to danger in the hunt and hardship at public school; it was part of life. While a private soldier, a sergeant or an unknown officer may spend a lifetime of hardship and courageous acts, he was doomed to be unreported and unknown while every action of an aristocratic officer was gloried over and exalted. The son of General Windrush would be known; the illegitimate son of a kitchen maid was doomed to anonymity.
Jack heard his words trail away. He was saying far too much to this unknown girl.
It's all the fault of my blasted mother!
In some ways, Jack could not blame his step mother for her attitude. She had, after all, kept her dislike of him nearly hidden for eighteen years when every time she saw him must have been a reminder of her husband's infidelity, but still, he felt sick, discarded and bewildered. He closed his eyes against the shameful tears.
Ruth's voice had a hard edge. 'Look around you, Jack, and tell me what you see.'
He did so; weavers and small farmers, a shepherd or two, a group of hirsute Welsh drovers with silver belt buckles; their associated women and children. All the people in the inn huddled together in small groups, some eating, some drinking, but all wearing work-worn clothing and with faces bearing traces of hardship and hunger.
'And how many have a chance, even the smallest of chances, of doing what you do? None,' she answered her own question. 'They are born into poverty, live a few reckless years of youth and then grow old toward pauperism.'
Jack nodded, unsure what point she was trying to make; these people were different from him; they were from the labouring classes while he was a gentleman; he could not compare his life to theirs. But Ruth obviously could and suddenly, frighteningly, so could he. The realisation was appalling in its simplicity. As a bastard, he was no longer a gentleman. As a maid servant's son, only a combination of fortunate circumstances had allowed him a decent education and granted him a commission. These people, these dirty, uncouth, loud, poverty ridden people, were closer to him in blood
than his step mother.
'Dear God.' He leaned back in his seat, staring at her.
'Dear God? I don't know about that, Jack, but I do know you've been given a better chance than any of these people will ever have.'
'Dear God,' Jack repeated. He took a deep breath and looked around the inn. The hurt and shock were raw, tearing away everything he had so recently taken for granted. Maybe this was where he belonged, living with these basic, unlettered people, a man with no future and no prospect of anything save infirmity, poverty and death. Maybe he was more like his mother, the unknown, unnamed and unconsidered maid servant, used only for sensual pleasure, than his father, the honoured, feted and distinguished general.
Ruth was still watching him, her eyes curious in her broad, friendly face. 'I think that commission thing gives you a chance of escape,' she told him.
'By God you're right.' The commission into the lowly 113th, which had seemed an insult only a few moments before, was now a golden key to a future far brighter than anything the denizens of this inn could ever know. He held it again, seeing not a descent into the abyss of a poor quality regiment, but the first small step back to respectability, honour and a position to which he had always felt entitled. The thick paper seemed suddenly fragile as if it might crumble or blow away, taking his newly precious future with it.
He had to move. He had to find his new regiment and start his career; he had to clamber onto the slippery ladder of success and reach for the heights. With no money, he could not purchase promotion, but he could earn it and step into the shoes of officers killed in action. 'Here's to a bloody war,' he drained his tankard and rose, contemplated touching Ruth's arm but pulled away. 'I must return to my lodgings. Tomorrow I catch my coach to London.'
Ruth lifted her ale. 'God speed, Jack.' She winked at him over the rim of the glass,
It was only when he tried to pay for his ale that he realised Ruth had picked his waistcoat pocket. He shook his head; she had taken her opportunity when she could and had taught him a lesson far more valuable than the few coins she had removed. Luckily he had the sense not to keep all his money in one place when entering a public inn; he was young but not that green, and besides, her advice had proven more valuable than a pocketful of coins.
Jack had been aware of the noise outside for some minutes, but now he looked up as it escalated. 'What the devil is happening out there?'
Ruth had disappeared, but the other denizens of the pub looked equally interested as the racket increased. One woman hurried to the door and peered into the street outside. She withdrew her head hurriedly. 'It's a riot! The redcoats are attacking the blues!'
As the woman spoke, something heavy crashed against the window, cracking one of the small panes of glass. The woman at the door screamed; men rose from their seats to stare outside.
'What the devil?' Jack said again. He stalked forward, joined the woman at the door and ducked when a bottle smashed against the wall a yard away from his face. A sliver of glass nicked his forehead. He blinked away the thin trickle of blood and looked around. There was enough light left to see the group of men who clustered outside a row of half-timbered houses across the road. The men were gesticulating at three uniformed police who stood side by side, gripping long staffs.
'Get moving you blue-bottle bastards,' one shouted, 'we don't need your kind here.'
As Jack watched, the police began a slow walk across the road, each tapping his staff in the palm of his left hand.
'Get back to where you belong,' one of the police advised. 'Or you'll spend the night in the lock-up.'
The words acted as a catalyst. The men unfastened their belts and began to chant 'down with the blues!' One wrapped the belt around his fist, so the brass buckle acted as a vicious weapon, the others swung the belts around their heads, with the buckle blurring and lethal. As they came into the wavering light of the street lamp, Jack realised that they were all wearing military scarlet. He fingered his commission and wondered if he should try to use his new rank to pacify the situation.
Would they listen to me?
Would they listen to a Johnny-raw ensign? My presence would likely make things worse.
There were a few seconds of frantic activity as the police defended themselves. Jack saw the staffs rise and fall, heard the ugly crack of wood on heads and the whirr and snap of the belts, and then the soldiers surged around the thin blue line, boots thumping into police ribs, faces and legs.
'Down with the blues!' A soldier with a pock-marked face continued to chant.
'Stop that!' the voice was of a young woman. She hurried over from the other side of the street, 'you brutes! Stop that at once, I say!'
Jack shifted uneasily from foot to foot. It was one thing to stand aside from a straightforward contest between police and the army and another to allow a woman to take charge.
The women stepped fearlessly toward the grunting mass of redcoats. 'You have done enough to these poor fellows,' she poked at the nearest soldier, a man of about thirty with a cropped head and a face seamed with scars. 'Leave them alone.'
When the crop-headed soldier looked up his eyes were wild. He swore and pushed the woman away.
A gaunt faced private grabbed her. 'You're a saucy little whore aren't you?' He put a hand over her mouth, swore and pulled clear. 'The bitch bit me!'
'She's got a dash of temper then,' crop-head gave a high-pitched laugh. 'Give her this way, and I'll cure the poxy little flirt!'
The other soldiers stopped their relentless kicking of the prone policemen and looked up. 'She's a looker,' a sandy haired soldier said in a hard London voice. 'What are you doing here, Mary-Jane?' He stepped on a prone policeman as he approached the woman. 'Want a real man do you?'
The woman did not back away. 'There are ten of you attacking three policemen,' she said, 'that is an ill game.' She looked from one soldier to the other, perhaps hoping for support or sympathy, but finding neither. Her voice rose, 'I think you should all return to your barracks.'
'Oh, that's what you think is it?' The gaunt soldier pressed his face against hers as his companions gathered around, encouraging him with animal sounds and gestures.
'Go on, Pete, you show her.'
Pete put a hand on the woman's shoulder and pushed her back; she staggered, and her bonnet fell off. Large boots trampled it underfoot.
'Take your hands off me,' her voice was high now as her confidence drained away.
'I'll put my hands wherever I bloody well choose,' Pete grabbed her shoulder and pulled her close. 'Come on boys; let's have a little fun here.'
Jack had been watching, hoping that the situation would resolve itself without the need for him to become involved, but now he left the shelter of the pub doorway and strode across the street. As he got closer to her, he realised that the woman was younger than he had first supposed. She was perhaps twenty, while her accent and bearing suggested she came from a refined background.
'Enough of that!' He tried to inject authority into his voice. 'Leave that woman be.'
Pete put one arm around the woman's throat and the other round her waist. 'What has it to do with you?' His eyes were flat, poisonous, 'who the hell are you?'
Jack tried to stare the man down. 'I am Ensign Jack Windrush,' he said grandly, 'and I order you to leave that woman alone and return to barracks.'
'A bloody boy soldier,' the crop-headed redcoat said, 'a babe fresh from the cradle. Piddle off home to your mama, Ensign Jack Windrush, and don't interfere with men's work.'
'It's no work for a man to bully a defenceless woman.' As soon as Jack said the words he knew he sounded like a school prefect rather than an officer who held the Queen's Commission.
Pete laughed and planted a rough kiss on the woman's lips, which brought a cheer from his companions. The woman tried to push him away, her eyes now desperate as she looked at Jack.
One of the police groaned and tried to sit up, 'leave that woman' he called.
'You shut your mouth, bluebottle ba
stard!' As the sandy haired soldier began to kick the policeman into insensibility, Jack ran forward. He knew he would not have any chance against ten hard bitten redcoats, but he might manage to unsettle one.
'Quick!' he barged straight into Pete, unbalancing him by surprise more than force, and pulled the woman clear. 'Run!'
'I will not!' The woman said. 'Who are you to give me orders, sir? I am…'
Jack stepped between her and the crop-headed man. 'This is no time to argue!'
The woman hesitated and gestured to the policemen on the ground. 'We can't leave them…'
Jack pushed her in front of him. 'We have to,' he said. He looked down the street; there was nowhere to hide except the pub, and the soldiers would follow in there. Already Pete was beginning to recover, swearing foul vengeance as his companions urged him on.
'Get the bastard, Pete, rip his innards out!'
'Knock his head off, Pete and take the bloody woman!'
As they spread out and sidled toward them, Jack shouted: 'Run!' and pushed the woman in front of him. Unsure which direction was safest he headed for what he hoped was the centre of town. There might be more people there, and numbers could mean help and safety. The woman hesitated. 'Run, damn it!' Jack repeated. He dodged a drunken punch and struck back, feeling the satisfaction of his knuckles crunching on bone. The sandy haired soldier reeled backwards, cursing, and the woman moved at last. Hitching her long skirts above her ankles, she scuttled up the road.
'After her!' Pete roared, pushed Jack aside and followed, with his companions in his wake.
Hampered by her long skirt and with only a few yards of a start, the woman hardly crossed the street before George caught her. He grabbed at her sleeve and yanked her backwards. 'Come here my pretty.'
Rather than scream, the woman whirled around within Pete's grasp and kicked him solidly on the shins. A few steps behind, Jack barged the soldier to the ground and pushed the woman in front of him. 'Keep running!' he ordered, but he knew they could not get far. There were too many soldiers, and now their blood was up they sounded like a pack of hunting dogs, baying for the kill.
Windrush (Jack Windrush Book 1) Page 3