Windrush (Jack Windrush Book 1)

by Malcolm Archibald

  'I cannot see the future,' Jack said. He felt vaguely uncomfortable

  'It will happen,' the woman said. The flames rising from the White House Picket sent shafts of orange light through the dark, throwing dancing shadows over the woman, so she appeared to be moving although she sat still and serene amongst the supine soldiers.

  Jack waited for her to speak, surprised that his men did not make ribald comments and suggestions. Instead, they watched and listened as the guns fired and the orange flames reflected from the dark pressure of the Oriental sky. Only Wells seemed aware as he cleaned his musket and kept his gaze fixed on the elegant Burmese woman.

  'Will my regiment win glory and honour?' Jack asked.

  The woman seemed to consider for a long time before replying. 'It will be a victory soon forgotten,' she said.

  'But still a victory,' Wells confirmed. He shrugged. 'Victory is better than defeat, and all victories in the East are distorted before they reach the ears of the West.'

  God, that is deep from a sergeant! I will have to watch this man.

  'Are there an East and a West, or is there just a world with false divisions created by tyrants and kings?' The woman's voice was musical, serene in that place of war and the drift of powder smoke.

  'Without kings, there are no countries, and without countries, there is chaos and disorder,' Wells met her words. 'British victories will bring peace to more people.'

  'There is always a reverse to any coin; a victory for one is a defeat for another, and always there is a loss for all.' The woman seemed to have a private conversation with Wells, with both speaking in riddles that Jack did not understand.

  'That is true,' Wells agreed, 'but better peace under one flag than discord under many.' He relapsed into silence as the woman again focussed her attention on Jack.

  'You have three battles, British officer,' she said. 'And you must be victorious in the one you do not acknowledge to have success in the others.' She stood up. 'Our paths will cross again.' When she laid a hand on his arm, Jack felt as if her light touch had thrilled right through him.

  'At least tell me your name,' Jack asked, but the woman slid through the sleeping ranks without another word. Jack watched the shimmer and shift of the tight longyi around her hips until she merged with the dark.

  'You've been in India a long time, Sergeant,' Jack said. 'Do many women appear in the middle of our camps?'

  Wells shook his head. 'No, sir. That woman is different.' His grin was unexpected and took years from his age. 'I've never met a woman before who can quote Buddha in the middle of a British encampment. Burma is a most interesting place.'

  'It could be,' Jack agreed, 'but how do you know she was quoting Buddha?'

  Wells closed his mouth so firmly that Jack was sure he heard the click of his teeth. 'I read about it, sir,' he said. The tone of his voice told Jack that the sergeant would say no more.

  Wells knows far more than he is saying. I thought that other ranks were only here to make up the numbers. This sergeant has his own personality.

  Jack did not raise his voice; he knew his servant would not be far away. 'How about you, Ranveer? What did you make of her?'

  Ranveer shook his head. 'I think she is trouble, sahib.' His smile was sudden and very white, 'but all women are trouble.'

  Wells' laugh was loud enough to wake the Burmese. 'You got that right, Ranveer!'

  Jack closed his eyes and tried to ignore the intermittent batter of the guns. The image of that Burmese woman filled his mind, and he was sure he could still smell sandalwood long after she was gone.

  Smoke from the burning town of Rangoon rose thick enough to mask the sun as the 14th of April began.

  'The Burmese will know we're coming,' Thorpe muttered as he checked the percussion lock of his musket and slid his bayonet in and out of its scabbard. 'They'll be waiting for us.'

  'It's hardly a secret,' Coleman adjusted the length of puggaree that protected the nape of his neck from the sun. 'We spent all yesterday battering them with artillery, and we are forming up in the open to attack.'

  O'Neill took a swig from his water bottle. 'Let them wait; let them do anything they bloody like,' he said. He tapped his musket. 'They can dance and sing and bang their bloody gongs from Monday until Christmas if they like, it won't make a bit of difference when we get in among them. There's not a Burmese alive will face British soldiers with musket and bayonet.'

  The mocking laughter came from a passing group of the 80th Regiment. 'Not a Burmese alive by Christ! And that from one of the Baby Butchers; thank the Lord there are no Sikhs in Burma, lads or the 113th would turn tail and run!'

  'They'll do that anyway, Sikhs or Burmese or Afghans,' another of the 80th said. 'Just pretend Rangoon is full of babies and women boys; then you'll be brave again!'

  'You bragging blackguards!' O'Neill lunged for the men of the 80th but outnumbered twenty to one he was knocked to the ground, and the boots were going in before Jack arrived to calm the situation down.

  'Can't you control your men?' He bellowed to the nearest officer, a thin faced youth with a sword that seemed intent on getting between his legs and tripping him. The lieutenant gave him a wave but said nothing.

  O'Neill swore loudly as the 80th filed past, rank after rank of grim faced men. He sorted out his rumpled uniform, adjusted his cap and raised his voice. 'Shabash the 80th! Give them the bayonet, lads!'

  'Poor buggers,' Wells said, 'they are the storming party.' He looked ahead where the walls and cannon of Rangoon waited, with the great golden cones of the pagoda thrusting skyward amidst the drifting smoke of the British bombardment.

  The stocky, erect major pushed O'Neill aside and nudged Jack. 'Windrush: here's one of the engineers' plans of the Burmese stockade. Clear the way for the 80th. I want them to arrive at the walls in good order, so you and your blackguards ensure there are no Burmese skirmishers in their path.'

  'Yes, sir!' Jack felt his heart lift.

  In front of the main assault: we are leading the army; honour and glory for the 113th!

  'Come on lads; you heard the major: at the double!' Jack led them forward. As before he knew he could not look backwards at his men. He had to trust them to keep pace with him and hope that Sergeant Wells kept them in line.

  'Uriah the Hittite' Wells said quietly, 'sent to the forefront of battle.'

  'Oh, sweet Jesus save me!' That was Thorpe's voice.

  The 80th foot were veterans of the First Sikh War, hard bitten, hard eyed and hard of tongue. They gave a rueful cheer as Jack led his handful of 113th past them.

  'Here come the Baby Butchers: we're safe now lads!'

  O'Neill responded with obscene comments that Coleman and Armstrong copied, and then they were in the van of the army and moving quickly toward the walls of Rangoon.

  'How far do we have to advance?' Coleman asked.

  'About a mile,' Wells replied, 'and the Burmese will have men in every thicket and patch of jungle.'

  Between the British and Rangoon was an area of mixed maidan and thick outcrops of jungle, with lesser areas of scrub and small trees.

  'Do we have to take another stockade, sir?' Wells asked.

  'More than that,' Jack unfolded the plan he had been given and tried to read it even as he trotted forward. 'There is a moat and then a bund even before we get to the wall.'

  Wells glanced at the plan and then squinted toward Rangoon where only the great Golden Pagoda was visible above the patches of jungle. 'The map doesn't show a stockade,' he pressed his point.

  'No,' Jack agreed. 'But according to this plan, there's a mud wall sixteen feet high right around the town.'

  'The 80th will love that,' Wells said.

  'There's more. The Burmese have cannon mounted on a rampart at the top and more artillery in pagodas through the town.' Jack checked his men. They were in an extended skirmishing line, moving quickly. 'And jingals as well, whatever they are.'

  'They're like large calibre muskets,' Wells told him quietly.
'They are ugly things that outrange our muskets. If a ball from a jingal hits you, you'll know all about it.'

  'Mary!' O'Neill was the nearest private soldier. 'The wall is sixteen feet high? How are we meant to get up that? Bloody jump?'

  'We're not going up at all,' Jack told him. 'That's the 80th's job. We just clear the way for them.' He nodded toward the Golden Pagoda. 'That will be the hardest fight for the most magnificent prize. Our informants tell us that the Burmese have solidly fortified it with a double layer of cannon and…' he stopped as a cannon ball whizzed past him and thudded into the ground. A fountain of mud rose six foot in the air before subsiding with a brown spatter. Jack noticed that his men had instinctively bunched together. 'Spread out boys and watch your front!'

  The 80th was immediately behind them, with the Madras Fusiliers and Madras Native Infantry slightly in the rear. The Bengal Native Infantry were to the left, advancing well.

  'They're moving fast,' Wells said.

  Of course: nobody wants to linger when the enemy is firing at them.

  'Keep within sight of each other,' Jack ordered as they crossed the maidan, 'but spread out for God's sake.' He pointed to a patch of jungle that lay in their path. 'If I were the Burmese commander I would have men stationed in there.'

  He glanced behind him: the 80th were in column, marching solidly behind their officers. There was the drift of regimental music: 'Come lasses and lads' as bow-shouldered men staggered under the weight of long storming ladders. They seemed distorted by the heat, as if they wavered, some looked elongated, others foreshortened, but they did not hesitate. Despite the Burmese artillery that blasted shot at them, they were as steady as if they were on parade.

  A musket shot cracked from the patch of forest, followed by a dozen more that whizzed past without hitting a single man. 'Give them a volley and forward with the bayonet, lads!' Jack fired three shots from his pepperpot toward the drifting musket smoke and then broke into a run.

  Should I be scared? Why am I not scared?

  With his legs seeming too light for his body and his breath rasping in his chest, Jack covered the thirty yards to the forest in ten seconds that seemed like ten minutes.

  'Don't stop,' he shouted as soon as his men were within the outer fringes, 'use the bayonet; kill anything in your path.'

  He advanced slowly, one cautious step after another with the ground soft underfoot and the surroundings a hundred shades of green. There were no bird noises now, merely the pad of feet and the harsh gasp of nervous men, a single animal scream, the sudden crack of breaking twigs and the occasional loud report of a musket, whether British or Burmese he could not tell.

  The green faded to grey then turned to brilliant light and Jack was out the other side of the jungle and on to a broad area of maidan. He saw a group of agile Burmese infantry in front, running to the next deeply forested patch, fired two shots without result and rammed cartridges into his revolver as he waited for his men to catch up.

  'Roll call!' he announced and listened to the list of names. 'Where's Smith? Has anybody seen Smith?'

  'No, sir.' There was a collective shaking of heads.

  'He was my right- hand marker sir, and I thought I heard a noise,' Coleman said, 'I thought it was some bird or something.'

  'Go back and look; O'Neill, you go with him.'

  He watched his two men disappear back into the jungle. He saw the walls of Rangoon about half a mile ahead with spurts of smoke from the defending cannon and jingals. He heard the lively music from the advancing 80th and the fire of the British cannon and howitzers howling overhead.

  'Forward lads: Coleman and O'Neill can catch up.' I cannot spare the time to wait.

  Then it was onward again, pacing toward the walls of Rangoon with the tension building every second. God, I wish I was leading an entire company and not a mere handful. I wish I had the colours on display. I hope the general is watching us.

  'Smithy's dead, sir,' O'Neill's voice broke his images of glory. 'We didn't find his body, but we got this.' He held up Smith's head with the mouth wide open in a silent scream and the eyes staring. Blood dripped onto the ground.

  'Bloody barbarians,' Coleman sounded shocked, 'bloody evil barbarians!' He raised his voice 'they cut Smithy's bloody head off!'

  'Keep moving forward,' Jack could not help staring at Smith's face. The eyes seemed to accuse him. 'Shoot anything that is not British.'

  They walked on, holding their muskets ready, bayonets pointing forward and upward and each man waiting the chance to avenge Smith. There was no talking now and no laughing, merely a determination to advance on Rangoon and slaughter the enemy. Jack saw a roundshot hit a file of Bengal Native Infantry. The men closed up at once. A doolie carrier jolted up with a palankeen for the screaming wounded. A jingal ball passed in a black blur.

  A group of black-jacketed Burmese appeared in front of them as though they rose from the ground itself. Imbued with anger after the death of Smith, the 113th fired without orders and roared forward.

  'Blood, blood, blood!'

  The Burmese fled, leaving one man still on the ground and two writhing wounded. Armstrong and Graham plunged in their bayonets, and the 113th moved on, still not sated, still vengeful after the death of Smith. They are more affected by his decapitation than if the Burmese had shot him: why? He would be dead either way.

  A large calibre shot ploughed into the earth a yard from Jack's feet, and a few minutes later another on the other side.

  They are targeting me as an officer. Well, let them: murdering bastards.

  'Come on the 113th! Remember Smithy!'

  Standing erect to show he was not scared, Jack marched on. Twice he saw movement among small patches of scrubby bush and each time he halted his men, fired a volley and led a rapid advance. Both times the Burmese fled before the 113th reached them.

  'Kill the bastards,' Coleman knelt for better balance, aimed and fired. 'Missed again!'

  'You're a cross eyed bugger Coleman,' Wells jeered.

  'You try it!' Coleman looked up, eyes wide. 'You're always full of words sergeant.'

  'Keep moving!' Jack fired at the pagoda, knowing it was a waste of bullets but he had to do something.

  'Kill the bastards!' O'Neill loped forward, whooping high pitched.

  The bulk of the Burmese fire came from a small pagoda directly in front. It stood on a low wooded hill with open maidan on either side that stretched as far as the outer defensive wall of Rangoon.

  'That's a perfect killing ground,' Armstrong said.

  To their right, the 40th Bengal Native Infantry seemed to agree. They took one look at the Burmese shot landing like metal hail on the open maidan and withdrew hastily behind the hillock. The Madras Fusiliers filed up in perfect order to join them.

  The advance has stalled.

  'Fix bayonets!' the order passed from officer to officer, and a sinister snicker ran through the ranks as each man clicked his bayonet in place. The sun glittered on hundreds of wickedly sharp blades; Queen Victoria's final argument. The army took a deep breath and waited for the next stage. High above, vultures circled in an azure sky.

  'We'll be charging the ramparts soon,' Wells said.

  'How soon?' Coleman looked up at the stout mud walls where the gilt hats of the defenders were clear, and jingals fired round after round at the attackers.

  'As soon as the guns have blown a breach,' Jack told him. He ducked as a jingal bullet whistled above his head. The large calibre shot disappeared somewhere to the rear.

  I recognise the different sounds already; the cannonball is like tearing cloth, the jingal whistles and the musket ball is silent unless it hits a rock, when it ricochets with a high pitched whine. I am becoming a soldier.

  'Move on!' Jack did not see General Godwin give the order but he heard it pass from officer to officer.

  'Right lads,' He stepped forward. 'The 113th is in the van.'

  The entire attacking force rose behind him, Queen's and Company regiments creating c
olumns of scarlet on the dun maidan. They continued their advance toward the walls of Rangoon. The world was concentrated into a series of disjointed images and thoughts, each one a picture of horror or bravery, each one vastly important to the man involved and each merging into a confused whole, a monstrosity of sound and agony of which Hieronymus Bosch would have been proud.

  'Down!' the order was countermanded, and Jack motioned to his men to comply. They lay on the open maidan with the Burmese fire plunging above over the 113th as the gunners targeted the main attacking force. There were groans and cries as bullets and roundshot found their mark.

  Jack watched a column of black ants march past his nose, relentless on their collective business.

  'Are we to lie here all day?' Wells asked. 'We should either go forward or back. Sitting here being shot like targets is only encouraging the Burmese.'

  'It's only been a few moments,' Jack bellowed back over the noise of the guns. He checked his watch. Good God! It's nearly half past eleven! We set off before seven. What happened to the time?

  'Sir!' Wells nodded toward the Golden Pagoda. 'There's a storming party forming.'

  Jack saw a mixed force gathering opposite the eastern side of the pagoda. There were around five hundred men, 80th foot, 18th Royal Irish and agile sepoys of the 40th Bengal Native Infantry.

  'They have their work before them,' O'Neill said softly. 'Look at the ground they have to cross.'

  Wells sucked in his breath, 'that's bad, bad ground,' he said.

  Jack knew he lacked the experience these men had gathered in their campaigning in India, but even a Griffin like him could see that difficulties faced the storming party. The British rear positions, from where the artillery battered at the defences of Rangoon, were half a mile from the walls, with a shallow valley in between, scattered with patches of jungle and small clearings.

  If the attackers managed to pass these obstacles, they faced a steep hill topped by the Golden Pagoda itself. That was the most heavily defended position in Rangoon, if not in all of Burma, with three terraces, each protected with a wall manned by Burmese infantry and artillery. The first wall held the lighter guns, then the medium and finally the heavy artillery on the tallest, broadest and strongest wall.