Windrush (Jack Windrush Book 1)

by Malcolm Archibald

  Was that it? Was that my first battle? It was over in seconds.

  'Follow them!' O'Neill lifted his voice in some Gaelic slogan that lifted the hairs on Jack's scalp. He grabbed hold of O'Neill's arm.

  'No! They know the jungle. They will cut us to pieces in there.' He dragged O'Neill back. 'Stop here!'

  'Cowards!' Coleman pushed to the front of the redcoats and waved a closed fist. 'Come back and fight!'

  'You are very brave now they're running,' Wells was not smiling.

  'More to the point, Sergeant Wells, is that none of our men ran.' He raised his voice. 'Well done men. We chased the enemy away.'

  'Sir,' Wells nodded to the jungle. 'The Burmese have not run far.'

  Jack was aware of the Burmese warriors gathering at the edge of the bush but more aware of the circle of bluejackets who listened to every word he said. He had led his men to a minor victory. We have not spilt any enemy blood, but we faced them, and nobody ran away. That is a good way to end the day.

  Chapter Six

  April 1852: Rangoon

  'They won't stand a chance,' Coleman sat in the centre of the boat with a man on either side and his musket upright between his knees. He looked toward the still smoking remnants of the stockades that had barred the British landing on this bank of the Rangoon River. Now the route to the Golden Pagoda lay open. 'They ran away from us last time, and they'll run again.'

  Jack let him talk. In the two days that had elapsed since the bombardment of the stockades, reinforcements had joined the British fleet. Vessels of the Honourable East India Company had brought up hundreds of soldiers, both Queen's and Company's, and now instead of three boats from Rattler and a handful of redcoats and bluejackets, dozens of boats were rowing across the river, each with its quota of soldiers. All peered eagerly into the pre-dawn dark and hoped for a brief victorious fight followed by plunder.

  Jack surveyed the scene: he saw the proud Midshipmen or bearded petty officers in the stern of each boat directing the naval rowers while the redcoats sat in disciplined ranks waiting for their opportunity. There were the Royal Irish of the 18th Foot, the 51st Regiment and four hundred of the 80th Foot as well as immaculate sepoys of the Bengal and Madras Native Infantry from the Company's army plus some capable sappers and miners. Backing the infantry were pieces of artillery, precariously balanced in the boats. Together with the navy and company ships, it was the largest collection of British military might Jack had seen gathered in one place.

  And my men of the 113th are part of it.

  Jack grinned, unable to hide his sudden pleasure at living the life he had always wanted. Here I am fighting for the Queen in this strange humid land, facing the Queen's enemies and seeing exotic and captivating places.

  'There's that Golden Pagoda,' O'Neill blinked away the sweat from his eyes. 'That's what we're taking today, boys.' He licked his lips. 'Gold and silver and jewels,' he said. 'I heard that that place is stuffed with rubies and emeralds for the taking.'

  'How did you hear that?' Coleman jeered. 'Your thick Irish ears can't understand English yet alone Burmese.'

  'One of the sweepers told me,' O'Neill ignored the insult. 'He said he had seen hundreds of rubies and piles of gold.'

  'I heard there were dragons and monsters there,' Graham's Cumbrian accent was every bit as incomprehensible as O'Neill's Donegal.

  'And guns,' Wells grunted as a single cannon shot sounded across the ruins of the stockades. 'This may not be as easy as the last time.' He nudged Thorpe with the side of his boot. 'None of your grousing, Thorpey-boy; I'm watching you, and I'm up to all your dodges.'

  'They're firing at us,' O'Neill said as a spurt of smoke emitted from the Golden Pagoda followed a second later by a deep bang. 'They want you Thorpey!'

  'Keep together boys,' Jack ordered. 'Remember that we're with the 51st Foot, and we're going after the White House Picket.' He indicated their target, a stockade that stood directly between the landing party and the Golden Pagoda. 'After that,' he pointed ahead, 'we are advancing on the Pagoda itself.'

  'Will the Burmese fight?' Coleman sounded anxious.

  'I bloody hope so,' O'Neill's words brought general laughter. 'The quicker they fight, the quicker we can kill them and get the loot!'

  '113th!' The word cut crisp across the mud flats. 'Form up beside us.'

  The 51st looked like veterans, sun bronzed and fit. They glowered at the newcomers and only reluctantly made room for them. 'Bloody Griffins and Johnny Raws,' a corporal complained. 'Well, I hope you know how to fight.'

  'I'm Major Reid,' a stocky, tanned officer introduced himself, 'of the Bengal Artillery.' He jerked a thumb toward the stockade that blocked their path. 'We are the leading unit and your men have to escort us so we can blast the Burmese out of the way.'

  'You can rely on us,' Jack hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. Not only Thorpe had started at the report of the gun from the pagoda: Coleman and a couple of others had looked decidedly nervous as well.

  'You take the right flank,' Reid ordered and returned his attention to his artillery.

  The right flank was that furthest from the landing place, and the least covered by the guns of the Navy. There was an area of open ground, a maidan between the advancing British and the dark scrub jungle that spread on either side of Rangoon.

  'Open order, men, keep in front of the guns but not too far in case the Burmese get between us.' Jack tried to sound confident.

  We are the foremost troops of the British Army: the 113th is in the van.

  They moved forward slowly with the guns in the middle of the formation, and the sound of gunfire behind as the ships of the fleet exchanged shot and shell with the defenders of the pagoda. Thorpe ducked as a shell whizzed low overhead, then looked around with a guilty grin on his face.

  'That was one of ours,' Wells' voice was flat. 'As soon as it sees your uniform the cannon ball will stop and go elsewhere.'

  Thorpe's grin altered to a relieved smile. 'Is that right, sergeant?'

  'Of course, it is,' Wells said, 'so keep your head up and don't bob.'

  'Oh Jesus save us,' Coleman shook his head.

  The cannon ball rammed into the ground a few paces in front of them, bounced and splashed into the mud.

  'Jesus; they're firing at us!' Coleman's voice rose into a near screech.

  'Stand!' Jack put a hand on Thorpe's shoulder to prevent him from running. 'We're British soldiers; they are only a raggy-arsed bunch of jungle-wallahs.'

  'That was one of theirs,' Wells had not flinched.

  There was further gunfire; more balls whizzing past or slogging into the mud. Coleman pointed a shaky finger. 'Look over there!'

  At first, Jack could see nothing and then as his eyes accustomed themselves to the shape and shadow of the jungle; he saw human shapes flitting about between the trees. Drums sounded from somewhere, but whether from the jungle or the stockade he could not tell. A gong sounded brassily between the scream and crash of artillery.

  'The Burmese lads are hard to see,' Wells said.

  Jack nodded. 'Their clothes and colour blend with nature: unlike us.' He was suddenly aware that the scarlet of the British Army looked bold and martial on parade or when armies were manoeuvring in civilised warfare, but out East, in the jungle, the red-coated British soldiers made excellent targets.

  'Open up,' Jack realised that his men had bunched together, 'and advance on these Burmese skirmishers.'

  The gongs continued; he could not tell when they had started, he only knew that they were there, everywhere, in his head, surrounding him, penetrating his thoughts. They were the sound of Burma and a reminder that he an intruder in this beautiful, frighteningly alien land. Gongs and artillery, the muted swearing from his men, the sharp crack of musketry: this was his unique introduction to warfare.

  Jack looked forward, where the Burmese gunners were firing from the White House Picket. It was a formidable stockade, larger and stronger than any they had destroyed so far in this war, an
d the Burmese defenders seemed determined and active. Their cannon fired again, and Jack saw some of the sepoys of the Madras Native Infantry fall; their line immediately closed up. A high pitched scream sounded across the battle field, just as the gongs raised their sonorous beat.

  'Advance on the jungle skirmishers,' a red faced colonel ordered. 'You fellow' he pointed a plump finger at Jack, 'take your men and clear that blasted jungle. We're fighting on three fronts here, damn it.'

  Jack saw the cannon on the White House Picket fire again, and the 51st Foot form up for the assault. There would be glory there, and honour for the regiment that overcame the Burmese in that stockade, but none for the 113th if they merely guarded the flank against jungle skirmishers.

  We are no longer the front markers: now we are a sideshow.

  'They're getting bolder, sir,' Wells said.

  A score of Burmese emerged from the jungle, moving fast as they weaved from cover to cover. One dropped to his knees and fired his long musket.

  'They're going to harass our flank as we attack the White House Picket,' Wells pointed out the obvious.

  'Volley fire!' Jack ordered. 'One round: fire!' He stepped close to Thorpe. 'Take your time men and mark your target.'

  Twelve muskets cracked in a ragged volley. None of the Burmese fell.

  'Fix bayonets!' Jack said. More Burmese appeared from within the wall of the jungle, sturdy, active men with black padded jackets and long muskets or dhas. Some fired back with the white spurts of smoke swift to appear, slow to dissipate against dark foliage. Others slipped around the sides, intending to outflank the 113th. Muzzle flares momentarily gleamed on the naked blades of a dozen dhas.

  'Spread out!' Jack ordered. He fired his revolver at the closest of the Burmese and saw the man stagger but recover. 'Hold the line! Don't let them entice you into the forest.'

  'No bloody chance of that,' O'Neill said. 'Once we go in there they'll chop us to pieces.'

  'Load!' Jack realised that his men were standing with empty muskets. I have to tell them even the simplest thing. He saw Thorpe glance behind him, searching for safety. 'Look to your front Thorpe! You took the Queen's shilling, now earn it!'

  'But sir!' Thorpe's eyes were unfocused; his breath came in short bursts. 'Sir…'

  'Come on Thorpey,' Wells encouraged, 'a shilling a day: good pay for the privilege of fighting the Queen's enemies!'

  'Fight them, man!' Jack pointed to where the Burmese advanced from the jungle, crouched to fire and moved again. 'There is the enemy, Thorpe: kill them, and we'll be safe!'

  The British artillery fired again as Reid slewed his four guns around to point at the White House Picket. Roundshot arced overhead and ripped down, too fast for the eye to see.

  'That bloody fort is right in our path,' O'Neill glanced at the stockade. 'Until we destroy it we are stuck here for the Burmese to hit us on two fronts at once.'

  'Ignore the stockade,' Jack loosed two shots at the flanking enemy and swore as the hammer clicked on an empty chamber. He fumbled for cartridges to reload. 'Our job is to contain the Burmese in the jungle.'

  A panting corporal of the 51st ran up, musket at the trail. 'Are you in charge of the 113th, sir?'

  'I am,' Jack admitted.

  'Colonel St Maur sends his compliments, sir, and could you push the enemy back from the jungle edge sir? He's going to lead the 51st through the jungle to take that fort, and he wants his flank secure.'

  Damn! We'll lose all our advantages in the jungle.

  'Pray inform Colonel St Maur that the 113th will secure his flank,' Jack said. He raised his voice. 'Come on lads; we're needed! The whole advance depends on us!'

  Jack estimated that there were between thirty and fifty Burmese on the fringe of the jungle, some firing, others merely making threatening gestures with their dhas. He paused for a moment to complete loading his revolver, dropped a cartridge in nervousness or excitement, he was not sure which and let it lie as a brassy memory on the grass. 'Right lads,' he tried not to duck as a Burmese bullet hissed past his head, 'fire a volley and this time hit some of the bastards, and then take them at the charge.'

  Jack remembered an uncle who told him that very few soldiers ever stood against a British bayonet charge. The fear of facing men intent on spitting them like meat on the end of eighteen inches of sharpened steel was usually enough to break even the firmest confidence. Looking at the Burmese swordsmen, he hoped that his uncle's theory was proved correct. These dhas looked hideously dangerous.

  'Present,' he gave the order. Twelve red jacketed men slammed their muskets against sweat-stained shoulders. Twelve Brown Bess muskets pointed toward the swarming Burmese.

  'Fire!'

  Twelve spurts of flame; twelve jets of white smoke; twelve lead balls hurtling toward the Burmese. Even as three of the enemy fell, two to kick and writhe on the ground, one to lie in a crumpled heap, Jack shouted:

  'Drive them back boys! Bayonets and charge! Follow me, 113th!'

  With his pistol in his left hand and sword in his right, Jack ran toward the Burmese, hoping that some at least of his men were behind him. He did not expect Thorpe to follow.

  The Burmese stood longer than Jack had hoped. One brave man stepped toward him, wielding a dha with a long straight blade. Jack squeezed the trigger of his revolver, missed the first time but saw the second shot smack home and the man stagger. The Burmese looked at the bleeding hole in his chest, and Jack swiped wildly with his sword, caught him a glancing blow that opened a cut on his arm and rushed past, yelling.

  'Kill them!' That was O'Neill, 'kill them all!'

  'Blood, blood blood!' Knight had remembered the lessons from his bayonet drill.

  'Jesus Christ; Jesus bloody Christ!' Coleman was alternatively cursing and praying, but he was there with the rest, slashing and thrusting at fresh air with his bayonet.

  The Burmese did not stand long. Most fled into the jungle before the 113th arrived and only three put up any resistance. O'Neill finished the swordsman that Jack had wounded while Pryor bayoneted a stocky man who stood and swung his musket like a club. Coleman and Wells each thrust their bayonets into the body of the third Burmese, and Wells finished him with savage kicks from his iron studded boots.

  'Well done lads,' Jack counted his men. All twelve were there, with Thorpe at the rear, panting, wild eyed and his cap askew, but still with them. 'Now keep within sight of each other. We're going into the jungle; dress the line, men.'

  There was no gradual build up. The maidan ended at what seemed a solid green wall of scrub and bamboo, dark, seemingly impenetrable, familiar to the Burmese but utterly alien to soldiers brought up in the neat fields or urban slums of Britain.

  Major Reid's four guns were firing hard with their shot crashing into the White House Picket, with the Burmese guns replying in an irregular ripple of orange flame along the parapet. Jack saw two of the Company sepoys bowled over by a Burmese shot, and another scythed by chain shot so he lay screaming with both legs shorn off just above the knees. Dark blood pumped onto the ground.

  'Hot work,' Wells cleaned his bayonet with a piece of oily rag. 'Is this your first action, sir?'

  'It is,' Jack admitted. 'I know it's not your first.'

  When Wells shook his head, Jack saw a gleam of grey hair under his cap. 'No, sir.'

  'You are a veteran then,' Jack decided that any question could wait until later. 'Good; I want you to lead the right wing, and I will take the left. Keep in touch, and we'll push these Burmese back as far as we can.'

  'Yes, sir,' Wells looked relieved; fighting the Burmese was obviously easier on his nerves than answering what may have been awkward questions about his past.

  'Thorpe, Coleman: you are with me.' Jack decided. 'Reload!' He waited until everybody was ready, glanced back at the main army and saw a general officer, presumably St Maur, marshalling a column of the 51st ready to assault the stockade.

  'Follow me, lads,' Jack stepped over the threshold of the jungle and into another world. The
heat on the maidan had been oppressive, but here it combined with intense humidity to bring out the sweat in great rivers that had his tunic soaked even before he had advanced ten paces. The mosquitoes that he had tried to ignore were joined by a dozen other types of insect, each of which seemed set to bite or sting as they buzzed around his head or fed on the sweat from his face and body. A female monkey crouched on a high bough cradling her young, and then turned and fled, shrieking.

  'Keep in touch, 113th!' his words seemed hollow in the green dimness. 'Push on!'

  He could hardly see the man on his left yet alone any Burmese. A bird called, the sound harsh and ugly compared to the blackbirds and song thrushes of the Malvern Hills. He stepped on, hoping there were no snakes or whatever other wild creatures were native to this hostile environment.

  The noise must have scared them all away, like that monkey. Keep moving.

  'All clear, sir!' Wells' shout echoed through the trees.

  Jack shouted an acknowledgement and stepped forward. There was no sign of the Burmese; they had melted away as if they had never been. 'Push on,' he ordered, 'give the 51st as much space as they need.' When he looked behind him he saw only tangled undergrowth, creepers twisted around the boles of unknown trees and sunlight frond-filtered to a dull grey.

  There was the distorted sound of marching feet as the 51st entered the jungle in a dense body, a succession of sharp orders and honest British swearing, echoing in the brush.

  'Far enough, boys,' Jack shouted. 'Hold your positions and shoot any Burmese that comes close.'

  Shoot any Burmese? I can't see anybody to shoot.

  The 51st was marching now, crashing through the fringe of the jungle that Jack and the 113th had cleared of any opposition. A flanking file passed Jack, led by a lithe looking engineer officer with red hair and a peeling, sunburned face. He stumbled over a trailing creeper, looked down and shouted something to a squad of men who carried a storming ladder.

  Go for glory 51st, while we rot in the jungle.