Windrush (Jack Windrush Book 1)

by Malcolm Archibald

  'They can't be that bad,' Jack said hopefully.

  'They're gutter bred scoundrels to a man. You've heard the stories no doubt?' Snodgrass asked. He snapped his fingers and pointed to the drinks cabinet. A soft-footed servant brought him another bottle of gin, opened it and poured a generous glass. 'You will have heard how the regiment was raised to put down the Radicals in England and how they charged a meeting in Liverpool, bayoneting and clubbing the civilians?' He tasted the gin and screwed up his face in disgust. 'This is watered down pony-piss.'

  'Yes, sir,' Jack said. 'The regiment is known as the…'

  'Baby Butchers,' Snodgrass finished the sentence for him. 'And don't call me 'sir' in here. They killed a dozen civilians and wounded over a hundred at that Radical meeting. Among the dead were two babies under a year old.'

  'That was a long time ago,' Jack said.

  'It was in 1819,' Snodgrass finished the gin in the glass and signalled for a servant to pour him another. 'The regiment was never abroad until the 1840s; our first action was in the Sikh Wars.' He sipped the gin. 'This is not so bad once it numbs your palate.'

  'I heard we were in the Sikh Wars.' Jack looked away. 'That was another less than glorious occasion I believe.'

  'Chillianwalla,' Snodgrass said only the one word and then glanced at the servant to ensure he was not listening. 'One of the hardest fought battles in India; the regiment's introduction to glory and what did they do?' He shook his head and dropped his voice to a whisper. 'They ran away. As soon as the Sikh artillery got our range, we threw away our muskets and ran as fast as God would let us.'

  Jack drew a deep breath. The thought of a regiment of British infantry running before any foe was disturbing; the idea of British soldiers fleeing from an Indian army was frightening. The British could only control the huge population of India because of their reputation for moral and military superiority; once that was damaged who knew what the outcome might be. He glanced at Ranveer; what must that inscrutable, shrewd man think of this defeated and disgraced regiment.

  'Colonel Murphy wants the 113th to redeem its reputation,' Jack said.

  Snodgrass snapped his fingers for more gin. 'Not quite Windrush old fellow. Colonel Murphy does not want the 113th to redeem its reputation; Colonel Murphy wants you to redeem the reputation of the 113th.' He pushed the servant aside and grabbed the gin bottle for himself. 'He knows that none of us will be willing to risk life and limb for a lost cause, but you are young and idealistic. You did not see the men's faces as they broke and ran: we did.'

  'Did you try and stop them?' Jack asked.

  'I fired shots in the air and walloped them with the flat of my sword,' Snodgrass said, 'but they were too far gone. I've never seen such a disgusting display. British soldiers!' he shook his head. 'These are not soldiers, and I doubt that they are even men!' He surveyed Jack over the rim of his glass. 'Murphy is an old woman, Windrush; the affair at Chillianwalla broke him. You are a fool if you think you can restore any pride or courage to this regiment and a bigger fool if you think any other regiment would accept you now. The curse of the 113th has already tainted you. God help you.'

  I have no interest in women, the stigma of an illegitimate birth and now the curse of the 113th: what do I have except some mad act of bravery. God, I hope that the Burmese fight.

  Chapter Five

  Rangoon River, Burma: April 1852

  The mosquitoes were waiting as soon as they reached the deck. Not in ones and twos, or in companies, but in entire regiments and brigades. They swarmed everywhere, like a biting black swarm that attached proboscis to every square inch of exposed flesh in their search for blood. Jack swore and scraped a hand across his face. With the insects came perspiration that broke out immediately and soaked through the thick serge of his uniform within minutes.

  'If this is the Kingdom of Ava they can keep it,' an anonymous Hereford voice murmured, and somebody else barked a short laugh.

  'They can keep the whole bloody East,' Coleman grumbled until Sergeant Wells roared them all to silence.

  'Just get on deck,' Jack ordered, 'and prepare to support the Navy.' He said no more, for Sergeant Wells would take care of the details.

  They clambered up, one by one, with their once scarlet tunics faded to a dozen shades of red from ochre to ominous blood, and lined up against the rail of Rattler. The wash of the corvette broke on the banks on either side of the river and set small fishing boats rocking in the current.

  'Bloody mud, bloody forest and bloody mosquitoes,' Coleman hawked and spat over the side into the Rangoon River.

  'Keep your mouth shut Coleman and watch for the Burmese.' Wells' ordered.

  Rattler chugged on with her screw churning the brown river to a creamy froth and unseen birds calling in the background. Jack looked over his dozen private soldiers; there was no need to inspect Wells. There were other infantrymen on board, but only these twelve were his. They lined the rail, held their muskets and stared at the slowly unfolding landscape.

  Burma stretched on either side of the river, an unknown, alien land of jungles and rice fields, mud flats and mosquitoes, small villages of thatched huts and the strange calls of unseen animals. A flock of parrots exploded from the branch of an overhanging tree, their plumage bright against dark leaves.

  'Do you think they'll attack us, sir?' Wells asked.

  Jack shook his head. 'I don't know sergeant,' he remembered what he had read about this land. 'They are an aggressive people, well used to warfare. They won't like us invading their territory like this.' He glanced along the spar deck, where the thin line of British soldiers faced outward. 'The King of Ava has mustered twenty thousand men I heard, so he must be confident of facing us.'

  Wells glanced around. Representatives of different regiments lined the rail, all sweating under the punishing sun and waiting for something to happen. 'We're a long way from England, sir.'

  Well, that was stating the obvious. Jack nodded. 'Indeed we are,' he nodded to the guns of the corvette and the other ships of the flotilla, both steam and sail powered, that accompanied them on this expedition. 'But we have firepower, backed with infantry.' Every turn of the corvette's screw carried them further up the river and further away from Moulmein and the main British base. He watched their wash set small ripples easing across the boggy rice-fields that lined either bank. Men and women stopped working in the fields to see them pass; a child gave a hesitant wave until his mother hurried him away from these strange intruders in their land. A family clustered around a huge water-buffalo, the man in a broad hat, the woman in a brilliant blue longyi with a baby at her breast. High above, vultures circled in an azure sky.

  Jack watched as a single ship chugged from upstream and passed with a flurry of signals. Two officers stood on the raised poop-deck behind a tall funnel, while an ominous row of bodies lay wrapped in sail cloth on her spar-deck.

  'That's Serangipatam' one of the ship's officers said quietly, 'John Company's black ship.'

  Jack watched her pass. 'Where has she been?' He could smell the jungle from her.

  'Only God and the commander know,' the officer nodded to a tall man in an immaculate uniform who stood on the poop. 'And you've got more chance of hearing from God than getting information from the commander. Best tend to your own business, Ensign.'

  'We're slowing down,' Private Easterhouse said softly, and Jack realised that the beat of the engine had altered, the creamy lines of their wake lessened, so they vanished into almost nothingness before reaching the rice-fields.

  'What's that?' Coleman pointed ahead. Even through the slight mist that had risen to obscure one bank of the river, Jack could see the glinting light.

  'What the devil is that?' Smith repeated the words as every eye on that side of the corvette peered into the mist.

  'It's the Golden Pagoda of Rangoon,' Jack guessed quietly. 'That is Burma's chief religious site and one which they will fight to defend.'

  'We're in the province of Pegu; the locals don't consi
der themselves as Burmese,' Wells spoke so quietly that only Jack heard him. How the devil does a ranker know that?

  Mention of the word gold had an instant effect. Heads turned, and fingers pointed over the side of the boat. The pagoda's tall cone thrust upward from misted trees to soar toward the clouds. Set a good mile back from the bank of the river it still dominated the area.

  'Get back to attention!' Wells roared.

  'Don't concentrate on the pagoda,' Jack said quietly, 'but be prepared for hard fighting. The Burmese have built stockades and are masters of defending them.'

  I am approaching my first action; I should be scared and excited, but this does not feel real. I am somebody else looking down on me.

  'We are anchoring,' Wells said as Rattler eased to a halt on the pagoda side of the river. The other ships of the flotilla followed suit until there was a long line of British vessels anchored bow to stern, sails furled, smoke oozing from tall funnels and the multi-crossed flag of the Union hanging limply in the sulky heat. It was an array of British military power blatantly displayed far up a river in this south eastern corner of Asia. Shafts of sunlight escaped from the fraying fingers of mist to seep between the banyan trees and create sparkling ribbons on the brown water.

  'Impressive, isn't it, Wells?' Jack nodded to the ships.

  Wells glanced and shrugged. 'Yes, sir.' He did not look impressed. 'The mist is clearing, sir.'

  As a boy, Jack had often stood on the ridge of the Malvern Hills and watched the ground mist smeared across the Worcestershire plains. He had seen the spires of the churches protruding from the silver grey blanket, and the tops of the tallest trees, and then the mist had gradually cleared to reveal the countryside. This Oriental mist was different, denser, sinister even, lacking the cosy friendliness of his native land. It seemed to cling to the tall pagoda that swept upward from the huddled buildings of Rangoon as if reluctant to reveal the intricate details to the British invader.

  'That's impressive, sir,' Wells indicated the pagoda. It was easily the largest building in Rangoon with the apex of its cone glinting gold under the kiss of the sun and the sliding mist below. It soared above the squat domestic buildings and lesser pagodas that huddled together to make up the new town of Rangoon. Wells nodded toward the guns of Rattler and the other British ships that were forming into a long line in the muddy water of this tributary of the Irrawaddy. 'It's a sin that we have to blow it to bits.'

  Now that's another unusual sentiment for a ranker.

  Jack nodded to the ground between the banks of the river and the temple where the old town of Rangoon had so recently stood. Now that settlement was gone, destroyed by word of the King of the Golden Foot and the materials had been used to build a series of stout stockades.

  'The Burmese agree with you,' he said quietly. 'We have to get past that lot first.'

  From their position in the centre of the river, Jack could see the ugly snouts of cannon protruding above the log ramparts and the heads of inquisitive defenders bobbing around as they watched the creeping British advance.

  The enemy is there; even now some Burmese soldier might be pointing me out and planning to shoot me.

  Jack watched as the British ships lifted anchor again and manoeuvred for the best position for the attack. The officers on Rattler shouted orders that saw the corvette throw great hawsers astern to the forty- four gun frigate Fox. The pennant of Commodore Lambert hung in the humid air. Somewhere an animal screamed high pitched; a monkey perhaps.

  'That's the man in charge then,' Wells indicated Lambert's flag.

  Jack said nothing. It was not an officer's place to reply to a sergeant. He watched the scurry of activity on the frigate and wondered how these seamen, used to life on the broad reaches of the world's oceans, felt being confined in such a small space as the Rangoon River.

  'Take the strain!' A lean lieutenant roared as Rattler's engines increased their revolutions until the noise increased to a whine. The tow rope tautened and vibrated. The water under Rattler's counter churned to a creamy brown.

  'Slow ahead!' the officer shouted, and the corvette inched forward with the sailing ship fifty feet behind and a handful of seamen watching over the towing cable. Over on the far bank, a man slowly guided a pair of water buffalo through a rice field, ignoring the spectacle that Britain had provided for his enlightenment.

  Rattler moved on, slowly, towing the frigate astern as they eased closer to Rangoon with its impressive pointed pagoda and the outlying stockades that sat, squat and menacing, as guardians of the Burmese Empire. The atmosphere was heavy, humid; the air so dense it was hard to breathe while every movement brought the exasperating prickle of perspiration.

  'Shoal water, sir!' a seaman in the bow shouted.

  Jack had hardly seen the captain on their voyage from Rangoon, but now he took control.

  'Cast off the tow,' the captain ordered. 'Fox has deeper draught than us; she will run aground here. Slow ahead; stand by the guns!'

  A seaman threw the tow rope into the muddy water and Rattler moved on alone. The seamen hurried to the guns as she eased yard by yard closer to the teak stockades that barred any landing. Jack could see the heads and shoulders of the captain and the first lieutenant on the bridge as they scanned Rangoon with their telescopes. Below them, the spar deck of Rattler was busy with white clothed, tight-trousered seamen readying the five huge 32- pounder broadside cannon or the even more massive pivot 68-pounder that occupied the bow. The officers gave sharp orders as the powder monkeys, the young boys who carried cartridges to the guns, scurried around, laughing and joking despite the stern words and occasional blows.

  'So here we are,' Jack said to himself, 'thirty miles up a tributary of the Irrawaddy River in a flotilla of ships, facing an unknown and savage enemy.' For the first time, he felt a prickle of excitement. He was about to earn his pay. He had chosen this career; fighting was his only way back up to where he belonged.

  'There's movement there,' Wells pointed to the nearest of the defending stockades. The defenders were clustering around cannon; the ugly black snouts protruded through embrasures on the parapet.

  They're going to fire first. I am going to be under fire. Jack felt something cold run down his back and his buttocks involuntarily contracted. Why that particular part of me? He fought the desire to laugh. Nerves! It's the same feeling as I had when summoned to the Rector's study.

  The captain leaned over from the bridge to give explicit orders to his crew.

  'Get ready men, but don't fire unless they do.' His voice carried across the corvette. 'Let them open the ball, but we'll close the final curtain. Do your duty, Rattlers and look out for one another.'

  The sun had burned away the mist, so the Golden Pagoda was like a blinding blaze of splendour. A sough of furnace-hot wind stirred the palms and set a hundred bells ringing, with the faint tinkling a macabre musical backdrop to the impending scenes of slaughter. Without the mist, the defending stockades were clear, their tall teak walls formidable and the muzzles of cannons bared in dark defiance. Smoke rose from the interior.

  Jack saw the heads of the Burmese scurrying behind the stockade walls. He saw the puff of white smoke a second before he heard the sound of the cannon, and for a fraction of a second, he saw the black streak of the shot coming toward him.

  'Happy Easter,' Coleman muttered.

  Jack nodded. He tried to ignore his suddenly dry throat. He was under fire; the war with the Burmese Empire had begun, and he was right in the front line. Father would be proud of his illegitimate son. He saw one of his men duck: that was Thorpe, a heavy set man with a pock-marked face.

  'No bobbing!' Wells' voice was hard. 'You're British soldiers so bloody act like it.'

  The Burmese gunners fired in a rolling barrage that concealed the delicate tinkle of the temple bells. He counted fifteen British steamers plus the frigate Fox and a sailing brig: have more come up when I was not looking? Or did I miscount? He saw the orange flares from the muzzles of the cannon, he
saw the long jets of smoke, and he heard the sharp crack of Burmese artillery as they targeted the British vessels in the narrow river.

  So this is war. Jack fought the impulse to duck

  'They're firing at us,' Coleman murmured.

  'And we'll fire back,' Sergeant Wells replied. 'Now keep your tongue behind your teeth and act like a British soldier Coleman, you useless bastard.'

  Jack saw a long column of water where a Burmese cannon ball landed only a hundred feet from the ship. Thorpe swore and began to tremble slightly. Wells stepped behind him.

  'Easy lads,' Jack controlled his fear. He had not known what to expect when he was under fire, but it was the strangest feeling, a mixture of intense excitement, wonder and fear. 'Keep calm and face your front.' He glanced at the men of the other regiments; they would know the reputation of the 113th and would be waiting to jeer the first sign of wavering.

  'Fire,' the captain ordered. He removed his cap and gestured toward the nearest stockade, 'rattle them, Rattlers!'

  Rattler retaliated, with the five thirty- two pounders of her broadside firing simultaneously. The shock heeled the corvette to one side and unbalanced the unprepared infantry who lined her spar deck. Most staggered, and some fell.

  'Get back to the rail!' Wells sounded almost apoplectic as his men clattered to the deck. He landed a full-blooded kick on Thorpe's backside. 'Stand up you idle blaggard! Get up there you black-hearted buggers!'

  'Careful, redcoats!' A grinning seaman called. 'We're firing now.' He gestured to the cutlass he wore at his waist. 'Soon be time for hand to hand fighting, sojer-boys. You can watch that too and learn what to do.'

  'Bloody tar-backs!' Coleman picked himself off the deck, grabbed his musket and glared at the sailor. 'Away and trim the webs from your toes you tarry-arsed bastard.'

  Jack stepped forward before Coleman attacked the offending sailor. 'Get back to your station, Coleman! Show these sailors how the 113th behave.'