Windrush (Jack Windrush Book 1)

by Malcolm Archibald

  'Here we go, lads,' Jack said. 'Fire!'

  The six shots seemed a pathetic response to the massed attack. Two of the attackers fell: the rest continued onward.

  'Reload,' Jack said.

  I am not afraid now. I am going to die, and I am not afraid. I am dying with men I now consider as friends and equals. These men of the 113th are as good as any soldiers in any regiment including the blasted Royals.

  The Burmese were thirty yards away, twenty, fifteen; their faces contorted with hate, their dhas raised.

  '113th!' Jack roared, '113th! Fire!'

  The muskets barked, bringing down two of the attackers.

  'Fix bayonets!'

  The sound of bayonets clicking into place was lost in the hellish batter of gongs and the yelling hordes of dacoits. Jack stood up and stepped to the forefront of his men. He had no ammunition left so held his revolver by the barrel.

  The volley of musketry came from behind them and knocked a dozen of the dacoits flat on their back. It was followed by a loud 'reload' and then 'fire!'

  'What the devil…' Jack looked over his shoulder. A paddle steamer was thrusting up the river, with a score of Company soldiers standing on the paddle boxes, firing at the Burmese. Even as Jack watched, the men on the starboard paddle box fired again, dense white smoke hiding them for a moment and clearing in time for the men on the port paddle box to present and unleash another volley.

  'Where did they come from?' Wells asked.

  'It's the relief column,' Jack guessed. 'Remember Major Hill sent the boats away?'

  He looked up as a file of Madras Fusiliers trotted on to the river bank. 'We heard the firing,' a young lieutenant said, 'and guessed that you might need some help.'

  'You guessed right,' Jack said. He was not sure whether to salute or not.

  The lieutenant seemed equally unsure, so they shook hands instead. 'Now could you fellows direct us to Pegu? I know it's around here someplace.'

  'Just allow me a moment,' Jack said, 'there's something I must retrieve first.'

  Chapter Nineteen

  Pegu January 1853

  'Did you hear the news?' Sergeant Wells asked, 'Dalhousie has annexed the whole of Pegu province from Burma. The war is over except for chasing away what's left of the Tatmadaw.' He glanced up at the great pagoda. 'This is British territory now.'

  'Do you think the regiment will be needed?' Only Myat could make the act of smoking a cheroot appear so elegant that Jack's heart raced as he watched her.

  God, she is beautiful.

  'No, Myat,' he tried to keep his voice neutral. 'The regiment is being sent back to Moulmein. We won't be involved in the clearing up process.'

  Myat patted Wells' arm. 'Good. Then Edmund and I will stay in Pegu.' She removed the cheroot from her mouth, examined the glowing tip and returned it.

  'What do you mean? You will travel with us to Moulmein and later, maybe, to England.'

  Wells shook his head. 'Sorry sir, my time is up now. You know I transferred to the 113th rather than take Myat to England? Well, we've decided to stay in Pegu now that it's under British control.'

  Jack stared at Myat rather than at Wells. The words came automatically. 'I don't want to lose you,' he said. He closed his eyes for a second and thrust his hand deep into the pocket of his tunic. 'Here, Myat; these are better with you than with me.' Pulling out the two golden Buddhas he had retrieved from the dead bodies of the dacoits at the river bank, he handed them over. He let his fingers linger on Myat's for one tiny fraction of a second.

  'You don't want them anymore?' Myat asked.

  'No, I don't want them anymore.'

  What changed? My men came for me. The men I fought beside, the men of my regiment, the 113th, not the regiment of the family that discarded me.

  Myat placed the Buddhas beside her. 'You had three battles to win, Ensign Windrush. You had to defeat your country's enemies, the enemies within your family and the enemy within yourself.' When Myat's eyes met his Jack realised she understood how he felt about her. 'You could not defeat the first two until you defeated the third.' She lifted one of the Buddhas, 'now you understand more what is important in your life, Ensign Windrush.'

  You are important in my life, Myat, yet you are unobtainable.

  Myat looked at Wells, 'there is something I must do, Edmund.'

  'What is that, Myat?'

  'This,' Myat stood up and gave Jack a long kiss on the mouth. She tasted of aromatic tobacco. 'That is for saving my life,' she said, and not until then did Jack see Lieutenant Lindsay watching with a look of surprise on his face.

  About the Author

  Born and raised in Edinburgh, the sternly-romantic capital of Scotland, I grew up with a father and other male relatives imbued with the military, a Jacobite grandmother who collected books and ran her own business and a grandfather from the mystical, legend-crammed island of Arran. With such varied geographical and emotional influences, it was natural that I should write.

  Edinburgh’s Old Town is crammed with stories and legends, ghosts and murders. I spent a great deal of my childhood when I should have been at school walking the dark roads and exploring the hidden alleyways. In Arran I wandered the shrouded hills where druids, heroes, smugglers and the spirits of ancient warriors abound, mixed with great herds of deer and the rising call of eagles through the mist.

  Work followed with many jobs that took me to an intimate knowledge of the Border hill farms as a postman to time in the financial sector, retail, travel and other occupations that are best forgotten. In between I met my wife; I saw her and was captivated immediately, asked her out and was smitten; engaged within five weeks we married the following year and that was the best decision of my life, bar none. Children followed and are now grown.

  At 40 I re-entered education, dragging the family to Dundee, where we knew nobody and lacked even a place to stay, but we thrived in that gloriously accepting city. I had a few published books and a number of articles under my belt. Now I learned how to do things the proper way as the University of Dundee took me under their friendly wing for four of the best years I have ever experienced. I emerged with an honours degree in history, returned to the Post in the streets of Dundee, found a job as a historical researcher and then as a college lecturer, and I wrote. Always I wrote.

  The words flowed from experience and from reading, from life and from the people I met; the intellectuals and the students, the quiet-eyed farmers with the outlaw names from the Border hills and the hard-handed fishermen from the iron-bound coast of Angus and Fife, the wary scheme-dwelling youths of the peripheries of Edinburgh and the tolerant, very human women of Dundee.

  Cathy, my wife, followed me to university and carved herself a Master’s degree; she obtained a position in Moray and we moved north, but only with one third of our offspring: the other two had grown up and moved on with their own lives. For a year or so I worked as the researcher in the Dundee Whaling History project while simultaneously studying for my history Masters and commuting home at weekends, which was fun. I wrote ‘Sink of Atrocity’ and ‘The Darkest Walk’ at the same time, which was interesting.

  When that research job ended I began lecturing in Inverness College, with a host of youngsters and not-so-youngsters from all across the north of Scotland and much further afield. And I wrote; true historical crime, historical crime fiction and a dip into fantasy, with whaling history to keep the research skills alive. Our last child graduated with honours at St Andrews University and left home: I decided to try self-employment as a writer and joined the team at Creativia … the future lies ahead.

  Also by Malcolm Archibald

  Jack Windrush -Series Windrush

  Windrush: Crimea

  Windrush: Blood Price

  A Wild Rough Lot

  Dance If Ye Can: A Dictionary of Scottish Battles

  Like The Thistle Seed: The Scots Abroad

  Our Land of Palestine

  Shadow of the Wolf

  The Swordswoman

/>   The Shining One (The Swordswoman Book 2)

  Falcon Warrior (The Swordswoman Book 3)

  Dear reader,

  We hope you enjoyed reading Windrush. If you have a moment, please leave us a review - even if it's a short one. We want to hear from you.

  The story continues in Windrush: Crimea.

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  Best regards,

  Malcolm Archibald and the Creativia Team