Windrush (Jack Windrush Book 1)

by Malcolm Archibald

It was rough sandstone, crudely carved. 'Are you sure this is genuine?' Jack held it up.

  'Of course, I'm sure!' Lucinda snatched it back at once.' Hot eyes replaced her incipient smile.

  'Of course, Lucinda is sure,' Lindsay echoed. 'You ignore him Lucy; he's not worth your time.' He put an arm around her as the tow began with a jerk.

  'I meant no offence, Lucy.' Jack said.

  'My name is Lucinda,' she silenced him with a look that would have caused the Biblical plagues to flee from Egypt.

  The ten- hour journey up the Mahmoudieh Canal to Aftieh would have been uncomfortable enough with just the hot sun and rough benches to contend with, but Lucinda's turned shoulder and Lindsay's barbed comments made things infinitely worse. Jack barely noted the fellaheen working on the canal bank or the long strings of camels that patiently plodded past.

  When they reached Aftieh, Lindsay helped Lucinda up to the quay and guided her on to the slightly scruffy steamer that took them to Cairo. Jack huddled in the lee of the paddle-box and looked miserably at the beautiful feluccas that sailed the Nile waters as they had for centuries.

  'I'll be grilled long before we even get to India,' Rands complained as he looked at the carriage that was to draw them across the desert from Cairo to Suez. Six mules stood patiently waiting for the eighteen- hour drag. Behind the rickety wagon, a score of Egyptian workers piled British baggage onto a string of lean camels.

  'You'll get used to the heat,' Jack found himself enjoying the high temperatures. 'I was born out East.'

  'That might explain rather a lot,' Lindsay said as he fanned Lucinda.

  'The English never get used to the heat,' Lucinda raised her face to the draught of hot air. 'Father told me that.'

  'Perhaps Windrush is only part-English,' Simpson said. 'He certainly has dark enough hair to pass for a native, and I have noticed he does not suffer in the heat as we do?'

  'Withdraw that!' Jack knew he could not let such an insult pass.

  'It was said in haste,' Lucinda shook her head, 'really, Jack, you must put a curb on that hot temper of yours!'

  'His hot temper must come from a hot climate, eh Windrush?' Lindsay turned away, leaving Jack with nobody on whom to vent his frustration.

  From Suez, it was another voyage on Oriental across the painted Indian Ocean to Madras. They disembarked at the dock, with the ensigns and cadets split up with handshaking and promises of eternal friendship. Jack watched Lindsay accept a folded note from Lucinda, took a deep breath and lifted his single trunk. He had neither need nor money for a porter.

  'Our life begins here,' Rands looked around at the confusion of noise and colours, the press of people, the beggars that held out hopeful hands and the thin thread of British officers who pushed through, each man an island amidst a breaking ocean of Indian humanity. 'I wonder if we'll ever get used to this place.'

  'You hate India for a month and then love it for ever,' Jack quoted a family saying. He had vague childhood memories of all the noise and bustle and colour of this country and here he was experiencing it again as if the intervening fifteen years had never been.

  'Where are you off to?' Rands asked.

  'Calcutta,' Jack said, 'and wait for marching orders.'

  'I'm off to the Frontier,' Rands said, 'Peshawar and all points north.' His grin was triumphant, 'where is the august 113th based?'

  'All over the shop,' Jack tried to keep the despondency out of his voice, 'but nowhere near the Frontier. Assam, Arracan, Bengal … Everywhere they are not needed.'

  Rands sucked in his breath. 'All on the East side of India? Hard luck old man.' He lifted a hand in farewell, turned his head to the north and stalked away, with his head and shoulders rising above the mass of the crowd.

  Lucky beggar.

  Jack watched him go, balanced the trunk on his shoulder and then searched for transport.

  Fort William was the principal military base for Calcutta, but Jack felt nothing but gloom as he mingled with hordes of soldiers sick with identified or unidentified fevers all clutching medical certificates to take them back home. The streets were dim and the humidity oppressive; during the day the population was ill tempered, and at night the streets were dark, with the few oil lamps emitting as much smoke as light.

  He stood outside his quarters, a tiny dark building where the air that penetrated only added malodour from the street outside to the stinks from the lack of sanitation within.

  Well, this is India, my home now. I hope I don't have to wait long for my marching orders.

  He looked up as a massive bird hovered above, so close that it blocked the only shaft of sunlight to brighten the street. Jack looked up and waved his hand in a vain attempt to scare it away.

  'I wouldn't do that, ensign,' a malarial-faced major with hollow eyes scolded him. That's an adjutant bird. There are standing orders that to kill or even injure one is gross misconduct and you don't want that as the start of your career.'He peered at Jack's uniform and demanded: 'how long have you been out East?'

  'I just arrived, sir.'

  The major grunted. 'Oh, you are a complete Griffin. Of course, that sort of thing is expected from Griffs.'

  Don't argue with a superior officer. 'I won't shoot any adjutant birds, sir, despite my inexperience.'

  The major frowned, 'watch your words, Ensign; they'll get you into trouble if you're not careful.' He looked upward. 'There's a storm coming in. You'd best get shelter for the night.'

  'Yes, sir,' Jack watched as the major marched away. He could not have been more than forty but looked like an old man. But he was still a British soldier, straight backed and proud.

  'Ensign Windrush?' The corporal was gaunt and worn, with a face bronzed by a decade out East.

  'That's me, Corporal.'

  'General Beaumont sends his compliments, sir, and could you report to him at once.'

  'Thank you, Corporal,' Jack returned the salute as formally as he could.

  Beaumont is somewhere on the other side of Calcutta. How the devil am I to find my way there? There's never a gharry-wallah when you want one, and anyway, they might not be working with the weather deteriorating as it is. I have to walk.

  Jack signalled to one of the many natives who crowded near the British quarters hoping for employment. 'You, fellow, do you know where General Beaumont might be?'

  The man nodded and bowed, holding his hands before him and his palms pressed together.

  'Take me there will you?'

  Jack did not see from where the man obtained a lantern. 'This way sahib,' he set off at a smart walk, turning every few seconds to ensure that Jack had not fallen behind. Jack watched the lamplight flicker on the wiry, near -naked brown body and found he was smiling with half-forgotten memories from his childhood.

  I remember you, or men very like you. You're as tough as teak and you never give up.

  The wind increased minute by minute until pieces of rubbish skipped through the streets and people looked for shelter within the dingy houses. Within fifteen minutes tree branches flew free and white European faces peered anxiously from windows as brown faced servants struggled to close clattering shutters. Darkness fell as swiftly as it always did in the tropics, so only the dim light from the lantern was left, flicking back and forth as the wind caught it.

  The street ahead was narrow, empty of people except those who had nowhere else to go: a Company cornet fighting to hold his hat on his head, a pair of pencil-thin sweepers searching for shelter, a beggar hiding his battered bowl within the scanty folds of a filthy loincloth. Jack saw their faces as a series of vignettes, big eyes and open mouths set against faces scared or resigned and then vanishing again as the wind flicked the lantern light away.

  Then the light was blown out. The dark was sudden, frightening with the violent gusts of wind as the unseasonal cyclone battered Calcutta.

  'Halloa! The light's gone out!' Jack yelled. 'Come back, fellow! Lantern wallah!'

  There was no response except the rising howl of the wind, t
he batter of flapping shutters and the clatter as gusts blew objects around the narrow street. A large section of wood crashed against the ground a few feet from Jack, then something that shattered into a thousand shards on his other side. Palm fronds flapped in a crazed frenzy somewhere close by, heard but unseen in the dark.

  There was a terrible crack of thunder followed immediately by a flash of lightning that temporarily illuminated the street ahead, showing whirling rubbish, crashing shutters and torn branches of trees. The returning darkness seemed all the more intense after the brilliant light. Jack took a deep breath and moved on, hoping to dodge the worst of nature's missiles and find General Beaumont's quarters.

  He walked straight ahead, trusting in luck not to fall over anything and cursing when something caught him a glancing blow on the leg. Only when the lightning flickered again did Jack realise he had taken the wrong route. Rather than walking along a relatively broad street, he was in a morass of tiny flat roomed houses separated by alleys so narrow he wondered how any human could negotiate them. He sensed that a score of predatory faces had turned to watch him intrude into their private world.

  'You don't belong here.' The voice came from the deep dark.

  'I am a British officer,' Jack felt for the pepperpot revolver at his belt.

  'I know sahib, and this is no place for a British officer.'

  Jack peered into the night. 'A British officer can go anywhere in India.'

  The resulting laugh was more amused than insulting.

  'Show yourself, damn you! Stop hiding in the shadows and face me like a man!' Jack pulled out the revolver.

  'Is this British officer so scared of a voice in the dark that he has to use a pistol?' The tone was gently mocking.

  'Who are you, damn you?' Jack stood still, aware he was being ridiculed but not sure what to do. Mercifully another flash of lightning showed a broad shouldered man in a blue turban a few feet from him.

  'Ranveer Singh,' the man said, and added as instant darkness returned, 'I was once a soldier of the Khalsa.'

  'You are a Sikh,' Jack aimed his revolver.

  'I am a Sikh,' Ranveer agreed, 'and I fought against the British in two wars, but we are no longer enemies, so you do not need the pistol.'

  'What do you want with me?' Jack asked.

  'I want to stop you from getting killed,' Ranveer had to stand sideways to squeeze through the narrow alley. 'A pack of these dogs might murder a lone British officer on a dark night. Where are you going?'

  'I am heading for General Beaumont's headquarters.' Despite Ranveer's words, Jack did not holster his pistol.

  'I will take you,' Ranveer said, 'follow me, sahib.' When he left the alley, Jack saw that the tulwar in his belt had a silver handle.

  This man was no ordinary soldier of the Khalsa. He is an officer and a gentleman.

  'My name is Windrush,' Jack tucked his revolver away, 'Ensign Jack Windrush of the 113th foot.'

  General Beaumont hardly glanced up as Jack stepped into his office. 'Your servant can wait outside,' Beaumont said. His own Indian servants stood in a silent row of uniformed men behind his desk. In the darkest corner of the room, the punkah-wallah wore only a loin cloth as he worked at the unending task of keeping the great fan in the ceiling moving by the string attached to his big toe. Jack thought it best not to mention the typhoon that battered at the corners of the building.

  Beaumont looked at Jack over a tall pile of documents, all tied with ribbon and fastened with a seal. 'Which one are you?' As Jack looked bemused, Beaumont snapped, 'what's your name, Ensign? Who the devil are you?'

  'Windrush, sir, 113th Foot; I was ordered to report here…'

  'Piece of nonsense, Windrush; your orders are being sent out together with all the other officers.' Beaumont sifted through the documents in front of him. 'With all this uncertainty in Ava, half the officers in India are being sent east, even griffins that are no good to man nor beast.' He hauled out a document, glanced briefly at the front and tossed it casually across to Jack, 'there you go, Windrush; there are your marching orders, now get out. You're dismissed.'

  That was very casual and where in creation is Ava?

  Jack stood outside the office with the document in his hand, aware that Ranveer watching without any expression on his face. He broke the seal and unfolded the paper.

  Moulmein: I have to report to Moulmein, wherever that may be.

  'I'm off to Moulmein,' he spoke without thinking.

  'You will need me,' Ranveer stated.

  'Why will I need you?' Jack stared at him.

  Ranveer's grin was white through his neat beard. 'You got lost walking across Calcutta, Sahib. What hope is there for you in Burma?'

  Burma? Is that where I'm going? The disappointment was like a kick in Jack's stomach. That's the opposite side of India from the Frontier.

  'I will get us prepared,' Ranveer said solemnly.

  Jack felt too sick to argue.

  Chapter Four

  Moulmein 1852

  'Welcome to the 113th Foot.' Colonel Murphy stared at Jack across the width of the desk while a punkah-wallah slowly pulled the cord that rotated the fan that stood above his head. He dropped his eyes; 'home to all the sweepings that the gutter rejects.' He poured gin into a heavy glass and tossed it back in a single swallow, refilled the glass and repeated the procedure. Jack noticed that he only used his right hand; the left sleeve of his tunic was empty.

  Sweat eased from Jack's scalp under the regulation forage hat and trickled down the length of his spine. 'Thank you, sir.'

  'Thank me?' Murphy paused with the next glass half way to his mouth. 'You've little to thank me for, Windrush. You know what Wellington called the British Army? He called them the scum of the earth. Well, the 113th gets the refuse of that scum, rapists, thieves, blackguards of all descriptions.' He drank the gin and poured himself another. 'I would not be surprised if we had a murderer or two, or a blasted Whig like as not.'

  'Yes, sir.' Jack had never taken any interest in politics, but he knew his father had been a Tory and the Whigs were the opposition, so he supposed that Colonel Murphy shared his father's opinions on matters political.

  'And cowards,' Murphy's eyes were red-rimmed as again raised them to hold Jack's gaze. 'You'll have heard the stories, no doubt.'

  'There have been rumours,' Jack said cautiously.

  Colonel Murphy banged his glass down on the desk. 'So don't expect any glory here, boy.' He shook his head. 'Not for us the celebrated battles and newspaper headlines. Oh no, we had one battle, and we ran away. Now we get garrison duty at the arse end of empire, so we die of fever and ague. If there is a hell hole or disease ridden swamp anywhere, that's where they will send the 113th.'

  'Yes, sir.' Jack could not think what else to say. Certainly, this port of Moulmein did not appear to be the healthiest place in the world.

  Colonel Murphy wheezed in a breath of humid air. 'As you are no doubt aware, Windrush, every regiment of the British Army carries their reputation and history on their colours.' He did not wait for Jack to agree or disagree but continued. 'Do you know how many battle honours the glorious 113th displays?'

  'Yes, sir.' Jack had scoured London's bookshops for every book on the regiment and had read them on the interminably long voyage from England. There had not been many; the 113th was not the sort of regiment about which people wrote books or published memoirs.

  'Well?' Murphy's hand hesitated on the neck of the gin bottle. His eyes were like shining sable at the foot of blood red pits. 'How many?'

  'None, sir,' Jack said quietly.

  'Exactly; none, sir,' Murphy tore his hand away from the bottle. 'So what heinous crime did you commit to join this illustrious regiment? Did you bed the wrong woman? Steal the family silver? Cheat at cards?'

  'None of these, sir.' Jack had expected a vastly different interview when he first met his commanding officer.

  'None of these, sir,' Murphy repeated. 'Of course not. Well, Windrush, you are with us no
w, God help you, and I have work for you. I expect you have heard that we are at loggerheads with the Court of Ava?'

  'I have heard we have a dispute with the King of Burma,' Jack agreed cautiously. Every British officer he had met since his interview with General Beaumont had spoken hopefully of a possible war with Burma. He watched as a great-winged moth fluttered around the lamp.

  'Yes, well, I will explain the situation for you.' For a moment Murphy looked like a colonel of the British Army and not a hopeless lush as he concentrated on the matter at hand. 'We fought the Burmese back in '25 when they invaded our territories, and the war ended with the Treaty of Yandaboo which guaranteed our trade and the security of our merchants.'

  Jack nodded. 'I have heard of it, sir.' He had frantically read about the Burmese War on his journey to Moulmein.

  'Aye, well, the Burmese have broken the treaty,' Murphy said. 'They insulted our merchants and stuck one poor beggar on a pestiferous island in the Irrawaddy River. It was the rainy season, so the river naturally rose, and only blind luck saved him from drowning. Then the governor of Rangoon did worse than attempted murder.' Murphy pushed the gin bottle away as he warmed to his subject. Lantern light gleamed from pink scalp between his thinning red hair. 'He put a ship's master in the stocks – a British captain, mark you – so we have demanded compensation from the Emperor of Ava or the King of the Golden Foot or whatever fancy name he chooses to call himself.'

  'Yes, sir,' Jack flinched from a flying beetle.

  'You may know that the King, Emperor or what-not of Ava tried to intimidate us before, back in '39 when we were embroiled in that Afghan nonsense.' Murphy's voice was growing in clarity. 'Mister Gold Foot promised to drive us from the lands of Tenasserim that we conquered in the war of '25. He led a large army, or the rag-tag that the Burmese call an army, to Rangoon but when we send over a brigade and a couple of steamers the Lord of the White Elephant and Brother of the Sun and Moon – as he also calls himself - decided that peace was better than war. Perhaps our victories in China helped convince him that fighting us put him on a hiding to nothing.'