Windrush (Jack Windrush Book 1)

by Malcolm Archibald

Jack kicked with his right foot and tried to flail his arms in a vain attempt to break the stranglehold. The man who held him was too powerful. Jack saw the open space of the maidan vanish as he was pulled further into the dark blur of the forest. He thought of his revolver, but even as he reached for it, his attacker threw him to the ground and kicked him savagely in the ribs.

  There were three of them, bare- chested Burmese, standing around him. One thumbed the edge of his dha and smiled.

  Is this death?

  The vision came to Jack. He was standing at an old gate on the western foothills of the Malvern Hills. It was dusk with that soft pale pink hue settling over the glorious patchwork of fields and orchards that stretched all the way across Herefordshire to the blue hills of Wales. The terraced slopes of the British Camp were to his left while a pair of owls exchanged soft calls in the gentle air. That was his country: his England. That was where he belonged.

  I am not dead yet, by God!

  Jack relaxed for a moment, allowing the Burmese to think he was too petrified to move, and then grabbed for his revolver. Flicking open the small stud that fastened the holster took only a second, but that fraction of time enabled the first Burmese to leap up and stamp on his wrist. Jack winced at the flaring pain.

  No: don't give up; pain is temporary, death is eternal. Buddha says that suffering is the essence of life.

  He roared, switched hands and drew the pistol with his left.

  Dear God, did I load it after the ambush in the gully?

  Jack pulled the trigger. The hammer rose and fell with a sickening click. Empty chamber! He tried again and the revolver bucked against his wrist, and the shot cracked out. The nearest Burmese jerked as the bullet thumped into his stomach. He looked down in astonished curiosity as the blood began to seep out and then covered the wound with his hand as he crumpled to the ground.

  As Jack fired again the second Burmese ducked; the bullet flicked past his turban to lose itself somewhere in the dark undergrowth behind. Jack swore and aimed for the same man even as the third threw himself on him.

  He felt savage satisfaction as his bullet hit the Burmese in the arm, spinning him round, but then the third man was on him. Jack tried to aim, but the Burman kicked the revolver from his grasp. He swung a punch, missed and felt something hard crack against his jaw. The force was sickening. The second blow caught him in the stomach, and he doubled up, gagging.

  The revolver was two yards away, lying under a fallen branch and just within his orb of vision. Can I make that?

  The pain in his stomach was intense. He steeled himself for it to increase as he lunged, and then two more figures came into view.

  One was the tattooed Burmese boy. The other casually lifted the revolver and pushed Jack with his foot.

  'Oh so it's you, Ensign Windrush,' Bo Ailgaliutlo said. 'I wondered who would be foolhardy enough to rescue our sepoys. I might have known it would be the wild Windrush boy.'

  Jack tried to shake himself free of Burmese hands, thinking quickly. This man has been a British officer: he will understand the notion of honour and truth. 'You should surrender,' he said. 'If you surrender and voluntarily give information that helps us, Major Hill will ensure you have a fair trial. He is a good man, and I will speak up for you as well.'

  Bo Ailgaliutlo surveyed Jack. 'That is an interesting offer, Ensign Windrush. Jack isn't it? You don't mind if I call you Jack; it is an unusual name for a Windrush; they are usually William, Adam or George.' He stepped back. 'I know your family, you see. You are suggesting that I give up my position here to willingly become a prisoner of the British, at best to endure years in jail, at worst to dangle from a rope.' He shook his head, 'Of course, your words would save me for General Godwin would listen with great attention to one of the Windrushes; even a lowly ensign.'

  Bo Ailgaliutlo's laugh echoed through the trees. 'Last time I was going to hold you as a hostage in case the British were victorious, but now I have seen the blundering slowness with which General Godwin moves I have no fear of being caught.'

  Jack shrugged. 'So kill me then.'

  Don't give this renegade the satisfaction of seeing I am afraid.

  'We will, but don't rush to death, Ensign; it will wait for you.' He spoke sharply, and the Burmese began to drag Jack back toward the river. 'You may welcome it after my men have finished with you.'

  The tattooed boy watched as two sturdy dacoits dragged Jack to his feet and pushed him all the way to the riverside where Bo Ailgaliutlo had his encampment, a rudimentary clearing where the river gurgled at the sterns of war-boats drawn up on the bank.

  'Home sweet home, eh, Jack?' Bo Ailgaliutlo looked closer at him. 'How's the leg? Still sore?' His eyes were diamond bright.

  Jack realised that the night was waning when he could see across the river to the far bank. Wisps of morning mist were settling on the rippling water, swirling around floating branches that flowed down to Rangoon and freedom.

  Bo Ailgaliutlo cracked out another order, and the Burmese began to wrestle Jack's jacket off. When one stuffed a hand deep inside the pocket, let out a yell of triumph and dragged out one of the Buddhas, his companions crowded round. For a second Jack was unattended. He rolled away and jumped up, pushed over a surprised Burmese, grabbed his dha and staggered toward the river.

  He had no plan and no idea; he only hoped to put some distance between himself and the dacoits. He heard Bo Ailgaliutlo shout something, glanced back and saw half a dozen dacoits running after him, shouting and brandishing naked dhas.

  Jack felt the weight of the Buddha in his pocket. That was his treasure; it would pay for the next step in his career, make him a lieutenant. He had lost half already; he needed the remaining Buddha. He tripped and staggered as his leg failed him. The mud was warm and comfortable beneath his face.

  No; move Jack!

  Jack pushed himself up and staggered on, swearing, with tears and sweat stinging his eyes.

  The dacoits were closing, shouting, calling after him. Bo Ailgaliutlo was at their head, running with an expression close to hatred as he powered along, holding Jack's revolver in his hand.

  That tattooed boy stood in his path, grinning, holding a curved dha. Jack swerved away from the river bank and plunged into the jungle. He swore as his jacket caught in the thorns and branches of the undergrowth. He tugged, looked behind him, checked his remaining Buddha was secure, tore his jacket free and swore again. The Buddha thumped against his thigh with every step. What was his plan? To where would he run?

  If I stay in the jungle, they will catch me. The Burmese are fresher and more used to this kind of terrain. That boy is between me and the river. I have to find somewhere to hide.

  There was nowhere. There was only the jungle or the river itself, dark and muddy and probably teeming with carnivorous fish.

  Jack swore again, loudly. He had to slow down the dacoits, so he could hide in what remained of the dark. Once the dawn swooped up properly, he would be too visible. He needed a few moments.

  There is only one solution.

  Swearing, unhappy but aware he had no choice, Jack pulled his remaining Buddha from his pocket and turned around. There was a single beam of sun filtering through the trees, and he held it up, so the light caught the gold and reflected it in the faces of the rapidly advancing Burmese.

  Bo Ailgaliutlo shouted what was possibly a warning, but when Jack tossed the Buddha over their heads and into the bush about half the dacoits dived after it. Three hesitated and then followed their companions, which left only Bo Ailgaliutlo and the boy to chase after Jack.

  I can fight one man no matter how experienced he is. I can fight him. I have a chance.

  Jack dropped his jacket, turned and fled, gasping at the stabbing agony of his leg. He heard Bo Ailgaliutlo's footsteps pounding behind him, turned and tried to still the beating of his heart. Bo Ailgaliutlo came to an abrupt stop and raised his revolver, but before he pressed the trigger, Jack had ducked and charged.

  An instant before h
e made contact he lowered his shoulder and met Bo Ailgaliutlo with a solid thump. He knew the renegade must be much older than him, but he was solid muscle and bone, so the shock of contact made both stagger.

  Bo Ailgaliutlo grunted and smashed the butt of the revolver onto Jack's neck. Jack winced but held firm, as the gun thumped down again and again. He locked his hands around Bo Ailgaliutlo's back and tried to lift him, swearing. Both men were snarling now, grunting with effort.

  Jack suddenly jerked his head up, catching Bo Ailgaliutlo under the chin, so he staggered back. Jack followed up by hooking his right leg around Bo Ailgaliutlo's left and throwing him backwards. The renegade clung onto Jack, so they fell together and rolled in the mud beside the banks of the river.

  Jack grabbed Bo Ailgaliutlo's hand and tried to prise his fingers from the butt of the revolver. 'You bastard!' Bo Ailgaliutlo snarled, 'I'll finish you!' The renegade put forward his head and bit into Jack's arm, worrying until Jack swore, but did not let go.

  'That's foul language from an English gentleman,' Jack grunted, 'and you were a gentleman once weren't you?' He felt the renegade's teeth grinding in his arm, felt his flesh tearing open and the hot blood flowing. 'You can be English again. If you confess your past and give up to the general.'

  He brought up his head again, trying the same trick as before but this time Bo Ailgaliutlo moved his chin aside. Instead, Jack thrust forward his knee, hoping to find the renegade's groin.

  'Is that how gentlemen fight now?' Bo Ailgaliutlo opened his mouth to taunt. 'In my day we faced each other with fists.'

  'So stand and fight like a gentleman,' Jack invited, 'and not like a Burmese dacoit.' He wrenched his arm away from Bo Ailgaliutlo, balled his fist and smashed it into the renegade's face, again and again. He felt a bone breaking, but Bo Ailgaliutlo was stubborn.

  Jack released his hold so suddenly that Bo Ailgaliutlo fell forward; his grip on the revolver loosened and Jack lifted his boot and raked it down his shin. It was an old trick but effective as the renegade swore loudly and lifted his leg; Jack punched him in the throat, grabbed the revolver and stepped back.

  What do I do now? Kill a man in cold blood? Waste time in tying him up? No by God; imagine the glory if I bring him back with me. It would make my name and bring instant promotion; I lost my Buddhas, but this is even better.

  'Now, you traitor, you're coming with me!'

  Bo Ailgaliutlo's mouth opened. He glanced into the forest. 'My men will be here soon.'

  'Your rabble is fighting over trinkets,' Jack's single contemptuous word dismissed the Buddhas that were to bring him advancement.

  Bo Ailgaliutlo looked directly at Jack. 'Shoot me then, Jack Windrush, but you can't take me prisoner to the British.' His smile was sudden, 'but you won't kill me either, can you? You're an English gentleman; you can't commit cold-blooded murder.'

  Jack gestured with the revolver, 'move, Bo!'

  'You should be in the Royals, Jack Windrush, not the lowly 113th,' Bo Ailgaliutlo's eyes gleamed with an expression so familiar that Jack paused. 'Why are you in the 113th, Ensign Jack Windrush of Wychwood Manor? The Windrushes always gained commissions into the Royals. What did you do to fall out of grace?'

  'Keep quiet!' Jack snapped. He could hear the dacoits moving close by. Is it Bo Ailgaliutlo's plan to keep me occupied until his men arrive? He jabbed the muzzle of the revolver toward the renegade. 'Get moving toward Pegu, or by God I won't kill you clean. I'll shoot you in the stomach and let you die by inches!'

  'If I shouted now,' Bo Ailgaliutlo lowered his voice, 'or if you fired a single shot, my men would be here in minutes. They would track you down, and your death would take days.' There was that look again, that devil-damn-your-hide glint in his eyes that Jack knew so well.

  'But consider, Jack,' Bo Ailgaliutlo said, 'ask yourself why I did not kill you when I had you as a prisoner. I told you that I kept you alive as my bargain in case the British were victorious but you surely knew that was a lie. I could not kill you just as surely as you cannot hand me in for the pleasure of Major Hill.'

  'Why the devil not?'

  'Don't you know yet? Blood calls to blood; I am a Windrush, just like you,' Bo Ailgaliutlo held out a hand. 'How do you do? If you are Will's boy, then I am your Uncle George.'

  Oh Dear God in heaven. Jack's mind rushed back to Wychwood Manor and the portraits in the hall. He remembered tentatively flicking back the curtain that concealed Uncle George, the man with the devil-damn-your-hide eyes; the man who had defied convention to join the East India Company army and who had supposedly died out East.

  'Your portrait is covered up,' was all he thought to say. He did not take the proffered hand.

  'I am surprised it is even there at all.' George said, 'what do they say about me?'

  'That you married a native woman and drowned at sea.' Jack told him. He kept the revolver pointed at his uncle's stomach. There was a new sound in the background, a throbbing beat that did not belong in this forest.

  'Both wrong,' George said, 'I lived with a few women but never married them; there must be a round dozen little Windrush bastards running about the East somewhere, one of my boys is around here, flaunting his tattoos like a picture book. Nor was I lost at sea. I suppose that was a convenient lie to hide the truth. Your father knew I joined the King of Ava of course…'

  'I don't wish to know your sordid past,' Jack lied. The mention of Windrush bastards hurt. 'Come on: we are going to Pegu.' He motioned with the pistol once more.

  'Yes, Ensign Windrush,' that devil-damn-you glint was stronger than ever. 'Let's tell Major Hill everything, how the traitor Bo Ailgaliutlo is a Windrush and your uncle.' He raised his eyebrows. 'Now you had not thought that, had you? Imagine what that will do to your career, and the reputation of your family.'

  Jack paused.

  He's right. If the Army learn that Bo Ailgaliutlo the renegade is a Windrush, I will never advance further and my name will suffer.

  'Difficult choice isn't it?' George was smiling again. 'You'd better decide quickly. My men will be along any second. Come on now, Jack, what will you do now? Murder your uncle, or hand him to the hangman and destroy your career and the family name? Or escape now and tell nobody. If you leave now I will hold my men back – that's a promise, and you know that we Windrushes are honourable English gentlemen…'

  As he spoke, George threw himself forward and grabbed at the pistol. Instinctively Jack squeezed the trigger, but where the ball went, he did not know. George was on top, his hand on Jack's throat.

  'But of course I discarded all that gentlemen nonsense years ago,' he lifted the pistol high and released his grip. 'Go free, Jack. Run, boy.'

  Jack saw the blur of movement to his left but could do nothing as Wells thrust his bayonet straight into George's side and twisted the blade to enlarge the wound. George's eyes opened wide, still with the devil-damn-you look, and then he stiffened, and blood gushed out of his mouth. Wells lifted his boot and shoved the still writhing renegade off his blade.

  'And that's him dead and gone,' he said. 'One traitor less,' he spat his contempt on the twitching body. 'I would have liked to see him hang though.'

  For a moment Jack could only stare at the corpse. He had found and lost an uncle within the space of five minutes. He was numb, unsure what he should think.

  'Sir…' Wells said, 'we'd best be going. The Burmese are close.'

  'How did you get here?' Jack found his tongue. 'I ordered you to get the men back safely to Pegu!'

  'All back safely sir,' O'Neill emerged from the shade of a banyan tree. He gave a smart salute that did nothing to quell the impertinence of his grin. 'And the sergeant asked Major Hill's permission to come and look for you.'

  'You're a pair of utter fools,' Jack told them.

  'Yes, sir, and us too sir,' Coleman, Armstrong and Thorpe added themselves to the list, 'and Ranveer is here as well, sir.'

  Before Jack could think of a suitable retort, there was the report of half a dozen muskets.r />
  'Back to Pegu, boys,' Jack ordered, 'the dacoits are back.'

  Wells led the way into the forest, only to duck down. 'There is more this way, sir. Best try along the river bank.'

  Burmese gongs were sounding now, adding to that deep chunking throb that Jack had heard a few moments ago. He had a vision of half a dozen dacoits emerging from the shelter of a clump of bamboo, the smoke and flame of musketry and the zip of a bullet passing him close.

  'They are there as well.'

  What to do now? There are two choices: jump in the river or fight it out.

  'Form a square, boys,' Jack ordered.

  If they had not come for me they would be safe in Pegu; now they will all die by the river. The Curse of the 113th.

  They lay down behind whatever cover they could find. Jack burrowed into the mud behind a rotting tree trunk and tried to ignore the ants that scurried around him. A few months ago he would have recoiled from their bites, but now they did not matter. He looked around; his men were in a semi-circle with the river at their back and the Burmese in the jungle all around, firing at every movement.

  'Lucky these Burmese lads are poor shots,' O'Neill winced as a ball lifted the hat from his head.

  'It's the heat,' Coleman reloaded as he spoke. 'It rots the brain.'

  'You should be all right then, Coley: you don't have a brain, to begin with,' Wells aimed and fired. 'Got the bastard!'

  Ranveer laughed out loud. 'Do you British always joke when you are about to die?'

  'Who's about to die, Ranveer? We're winning!' O'Neill said. 'In a few moments they will come out with the white flag and surrender, you see if they don't.'

  O'Neill's optimism appeared unjustified as the sound of gongs intensified, and the numbers of Burmese increased. The volume of fire was so intense that it became difficult for the men of the 113th to raise their heads. Jack watched with some curiosity as a small column of ants began to explore his arm, intent on protecting their territory.

  'Here they come!' Wells had to shout above the increased noise of the drums and that strange throbbing sound.

  The Burmese emerged with a rush, a solid wall of men carrying dhas and muskets.