Windrush: Blood Price (Jack Windrush Book 3)

by Malcolm Archibald

  They nodded or grunted, with Logan showing his teeth in what could have been a grin of pleasure at the prospect of a fight, or a snarl of hatred at Russians or officers, Jack was not sure which. Bayonets were drawn in a series of metallic rasps, and clicked sharply into place. They looked like mediaeval spear points, black in the dim.

  'On my word,' Jack said, 'and shout out 113th loudly in case our own men fire at us. Ready?'

  They nodded. He saw them clearly then, anxious, gaunt faces, bearded or part shaved, white with strain, hollow eyed and scared. His men. 'Right boys; I am going first, follow me and don't stop except to bring the wounded.' He raised his voice in a shout.

  '113th!'

  They echoed his roar as they exploded from their positions, charging down the rocky hill with bayonet, boot and bravery, hiding their fear behind naked aggression as they poured into and through the Cossack positions.

  It had been bad moving slowly over the rocky, uneven ground. It should have been worse running downhill at imminent risk of tripping and breaking limbs, with the Russians firing at them and the yells of '113th' ringing out. However there was something exhilarating about running alongside his men, shouting; ready to kill.

  Jack made a dive for Painter, to see Kelly at his side, his blue eyes intense, red hair flopping as his forage cap fell off.

  'Painty!' Kelly crouched at the side of the wounded man. 'It's all right, chum; we'll get you safe.'

  Painter looked up, eyes wild with pain. 'Shoot me!' he begged, 'Please shoot me!'

  'We can't,' Kelly said. 'Sir, we must help him!'

  A bullet smashed into a rock beside Kelly, spreading savage splinters. One sliced Kelly's face above the eye. He barely winced. 'Come on Painty: I'll carry you.'

  'I'll take his feet,' Jack heard himself speak. He sounded remarkably calm considering that his heart was racing and he was flinching inside at the bark of every Cossack rifle, imagining himself lying in Painter's place, incoherent with pain.

  'Yes, sir.' Kelly propped Painter up, apologising for the suffering he was causing. 'Come on Painty; we'll get you to hospital.'

  The next bullet hit Painter in the side, spraying blood over Jack and Kelly and killing the wounded man outright. Jack's first feeling was of anger at the Russians for shooting a helpless man, but that quickly transformed into immense if guilty relief that Painter was dead and out of his agony.

  'Bastards!' Kelly did not disguise his feelings. 'You dirty murdering Russian bastards!'

  'Come on Kelly: he's gone.' Grabbing Kelly by the shoulder, Jack shoved him away. His men were still running toward Maxwell's patrol, dodging bullets and yelling '113th' to ensure their comrades did not shoot them.

  'I'll do for you!' Kelly promised the ambushers. 'I'll bloody do for you!'

  'Move, Kelly! They'll keep!'

  There were a score of Cossacks in front, and more rose from both flanks as Jack followed his men. Slipping and sliding, jumping over the uneven ground, shouting as they ran, the men of the 113th battered through the Cossack line. Jack fired his revolver, unsure if he hit anybody, jumped over a man lying behind a rock, saw O'Neill plunge his bayonet into somebody's chest, heard Fletcher roaring in anger or panic and stumbled downhill, gasping with effort. Logan stopped to help Riley, who yelled as a bullet nicked his left arm, Thorpe was swearing non-stop, blood caked Kelly's face, and then they were through and scurrying down the slope toward Maxwell.

  Three of Maxwell's redcoats lay on the ground, two dead and one kicking wounded.

  'Did we get Anderson?' Maxwell asked, calmly. He had a cheroot in his mouth and his revolver in his hand.

  'I did not even see him,' Jack said. 'They ambushed us!'

  'Retire,' Maxwell said at once. 'Get out of here.'

  'How about Ruthven?' Jack glanced behind him, flinching as a Russian bullet ricocheted from a rock at his side.

  'Our responsibility is to our men,' Maxwell fired two shots in the Russian's direction. 'Besides, he's big enough and ugly enough to look after himself. Take the rear guard,'

  'Thorpe, Coleman, Logan, Kelly; you're with me. The rest of you, accompany Colonel Maxwell.' Jack picked his most experienced men plus Kelly, who wanted to kill and kill again. He knew it was unfair to rely so heavily on a handful of men, but they were the best he had; they would not let him down while Kelly was incensed at Painter's death and only wanted to kill Russians.

  The Cossacks were moving. Jack saw the quick, subtle actions of black clad men as they flitted from cover to cover, with one section firing as another advanced.

  'God but these lads are good,' O'Neill fired his rifle and ducked behind a rock as bullets whined and pinged around.

  'We'll discuss them later,' Jack glanced over his shoulder. Maxwell's men were retiring in good order, firing and withdrawing. He saw another redcoat crumple to the ground. 'Fire a volley, lads!'

  The rearguard fired, with white powder smoke lingering across the rough hillside.

  'They're coming down the flanks,' Thorpe said.

  'Let the buggers come,' Logan growled.

  'Retire to that group of rocks,' Jack indicated an outcrop twenty yards behind them. 'We'll make another stand there.' He fired again, more out of defiance than in hope of hitting anybody.

  The Cossacks were advancing with caution rather than speed, firing and ducking, so there was a constant flow of bullets heading toward Jack's men. He heard the howl of a wolf again and glanced at O'Neill.

  'Did you hear that?'

  'Aye,' O'Neill finished loading and began to withdraw. 'That was no wolf,' he panted, as he slipped on a loose stone and recovered before he fell. 'That was the Cossacks signalling to each other.'

  Jack nodded. He threw himself into the gap between two rocks and fired at a black-uniformed man who momentarily showed himself. A revolver was a notoriously inaccurate weapon at any range, and after running down a hillside, Jack did not expect his shot to take effect. Unscathed, the Cossack vanished behind a scrubby tree.

  'How many are there, do you think?' Although most officers would consider it bad for discipline to ask the opinion of a sergeant, after fighting alongside O'Neill in Burma as well as in the Crimea, Jack thought they understood each other.

  'About fifty, I think.' O'Neill sounded calm as he fired again. He reloaded quickly. 'These lads are much different to the Russians we met at Inkerman.'

  Jack glanced around. The Cossacks were advancing on both flanks as well as in front. Coleman aimed and fired, bringing a Cossack down. Jack was glad he had veterans with him; men with no experience might panic in such a situation, in front of the lines and lacking their habitual support from the regiment. Kelly was shouting threats and firing, temporarily careless of his life. Jack hauled him back behind cover, knowing that it was useless. Kelly had to be given his head until he got over the death of Painter; it was part of his personality.

  'Two minutes, lads, fire away and then we retire again.' He glanced behind him. Maxwell's force was a good quarter of a mile away and looked safe. 'We'll go to that break of ground there, just above the North Valley.'

  The Cossack rose from the rocks at Jack's feet, with his shashka drawn and glittering. 'What the devil…' Jack fell backward, swearing. He squeezed the trigger of his revolver without aiming and did not know where the bullet went. The Cossack poised the blade above Jack's throat, and died as Kelly thrust his bayonet between his ribs.

  'And that's done for you,' Kelly snarled, twisting the blade viciously. 'Come on, sir,' he said, kicking the Russian corpse, 'up you get!'

  Jack hauled himself to his feet. In the few seconds that had passed, the Cossacks had moved appreciably closer. The black uniforms looked ominously dangerous as they dodged and weaved from cover to cover.

  'Time lads!' Jack knew he would relive that second with the Cossack later; just now he had to get his men to safety. 'Off you go!' He reloaded hastily, stuffing cartridges from his pouch into the chamber of his revolver, dropping one and watching the shiny brass canister fall, tu
rning end over end on its journey to the ground. It seemed to descend very slowly and by the time it landed he had snapped shut the revolver and the last of his rearguard were on the move.

  Seeing the 113th break cover, the Cossacks raised themselves to advance, which allowed Jack his first clear target. Mindful of the time and the danger, he took careful aim at the nearest man and squeezed the trigger. The Cossack staggered, jerking to the side, wounded but not dead. Suddenly callous in his desperation to avenge his casualties, Jack aimed and fired again. He saw the man's head pull back and he ran a few more steps and fell.

  'That's for Smithy you Russian bastard,' Jack said, and only then did he run after his men.

  The rearguard threw up a fine covering fire, with Jack hoping that none had lingering resentment against officers. If they had, they would have the perfect opportunity of squaring their account.

  'Come on, sir!' O'Neill's roar sounded above the crackle of musketry.

  Jack weaved as he ran, hearing the harsh rasp of his own breathing, feeling the constriction in his throat and the tightness across his chest. He heard the distinct crack of the Russian rifle at the same instant as something that felt like a twelve pound hammer smashed into his foot. The force of the blow spun him in a half circle so he faced the direction he had come; there was no immediate pain, only a sensation of shock. He lay on the ground for a minute or two, staring upward, where dark grey clouds etched against a lighter grey sky, with pale rays from a hidden sun easing past.

  'Sir! Lieutenant Windrush!' That was O'Neill's voice, but why was he so insistent?

  'Sir! The Cossacks are coming!'

  Jack rolled over, tried to stand, swore as his leg refused to take his weight and crashed back down again. He raised his revolver and fired wildly at the Cossacks that were rushing toward him. Somebody grabbed him by the collar and dragged him backward over the rough ground, ripping his trousers as he saved his life.

  Jack winced at the crack of a Minie rifle beside his ear.

  'Are you wounded bad sir?' Riley crouched beside him, his arm bloody. 'Is it your leg?'

  'I can't feel a thing,' Jack said. He looked down, fearful in case he had lost his limb. Instead he saw that the heel of his boot was missing and everything else was in place.

  'They got your boot, sir,' Riley said.

  'I'm all right,' Jack tried to stand again, swore as he realised that he had lost all feeling in his leg. He hopped, balancing on his right foot. 'Where are the Cossacks?'

  'Coming on fast,' Riley said. The rearguard was firing hard to keep them back.

  'Once we cross the North Valley we'll be safe,' Jack said. He checked their escape route. Crossing the North Valley was easier said than done: it lay between their present position and the Causeway Heights. Open and empty, it was a dangerous place for them to enter in the face of the skilled Plastun Cossacks.

  'Fire one more round, men,' Jack said, 'then reload and run as fast as Christ will let us!'

  Once in the North Valley only speed and luck would save them. Jack took a deep breath, tried to put his weight on his left leg and hoped he would make it. 'Right! Move!'

  His men obeyed at once, dashing away from the shelter of the rocks and into the valley. His Burma veterans scattered, while the new men clumped together for the illusion of mutual support, thereby presenting the Cossacks with larger targets. Ensuring that none of his men were left behind, Jack rolled onto his feet and hopped onwards. Twice he tried to put weight on his left leg, and both times he staggered, wincing and swearing.

  His men were well ahead, running across the valley, dodging and jinking as the Cossacks musketry crackled behind them. Jack saw a man fall and begin to crawl along the valley floor until a second and then a third bullet smashed into him and he lay prone.

  Jack swore at the loss of another good man, but he had his own problems at that moment as his left leg dragged behind him. Alternatively hopping and crawling, he faced the valley, which seemed a huge expanse of bare, bullet-swept land. Noticing his weakness, the Cossacks aimed at him, so bullets smashed and ricocheted from the rocky ground all around. He gasped as a chip of rock sliced open his forehead; he yelled involuntarily.

  'Come on, sir!' That was O'Neill's voice and then there were men all around him, his own 113th and kilted redcoats from a Highland regiment. Somebody lifted him across their shoulders and carried him at a fast trot across the valley, with the crackle of musketry from the Highlanders and 113th easing the Russian fire.

  'You're safe now, Lieutenant,' somebody said, and Jack looked up to see the moustached face of a Highland major looking down at him. 'The 93rd will look after you.'

  Chapter Nine

  January 1855

  Jack looked up at his left leg. Swollen to twice its normal size, it was black in colour and sat useless on top of the bed. He sighed and lay back, watching the canvas roof of the tent bulge under the weight of snow.

  'Sorry to neglect you, Windrush.' Maxwell nodded to him. 'Now we can discuss that last operation.'

  'Yes, sir,' Jack said. 'It was not a success.'

  'It was a disaster.' Maxwell said.

  'How many men did we lose, sir?'

  'You lost Spilsbury, Painter, Smith and Rourke. I lost six of mine. The Russians were waiting for us; they outmanoeuvred, outshot and out-fought us that time.' Maxwell took a deep breath. 'And Ruthven is missing. There has been neither sound nor sight of him since that patrol.'

  Jack grunted. 'We can assume that the Cossacks got him then; he will be either dead or a prisoner.'

  'How's the leg?' Maxwell sat on the edge of the bed.

  'The doctor says it will be fine sir. I have to start exercising it tomorrow. Nothing is broken; it is just wrenched and badly bruised.'

  Good; you'll need it later.' Maxwell said. 'Another officer was assassinated yesterday; a French major. They cut his throat and left him in front of the Zouave's camp.'

  'That is a bit of a challenge,' Jack said. 'The Zouaves are good.'

  'They are top quality soldiers,' Maxwell glanced around the hospital tent. Most of the men present were far too intent on their own misery to pay heed to what others were saying. 'These murders are causing Cattley and I a great deal of worry. Ruthven was the best we had; he was careful, methodical, daring and experienced. If the Russians can get the better of him, and their Plastun Cossacks are undoubtedly running rings around our infantry, then we are in serious trouble.'

  Jack swung around on the bed and placed his foot gingerly on the ground. All feeling had come back, so the touch was painful. He pressed downward, testing to see how bad it was. 'We beat them in three pitched battles, sir.'

  'The old army did,' Maxwell said quietly. 'The long service men we landed with last year are thinned out terribly now, Windrush. Not so much by battle casualties but through disease. I doubt that one in three of the men who fought at Alma or Inkerman are still in the ranks, apart from Campbell's Highlanders. The other regiments are filled with untrained boys, and we are still losing men day by day to cholera, dysentery and the like.'

  'Yes, sir.' Jack was aware of the virtual disintegration of the British Army.

  'And now these Plastun Cossacks are probing right into our camps, murdering at will. Something must be done about them, Windrush.'

  'Yes, sir.' The leg was painful to stand on. Jack took a step without falling down. He could manage this. He gritted his teeth; he had to manage this.

  'I have arranged for special training for you and your men, Jack, so select twelve of your finest. I am not going to be bested by some American with a colonial chip on his shoulder and a bunch of blasted Cossacks at his back.'

  Jack gasped as the pain in his leg increased. 'What sort of special training, sir?'

  'You'll find out soon,' Maxwell said. 'In the meantime, enjoy your rest. You'll need it.'

  'Yes, sir.' Jack tried to hobble the length of the tent, holding on to the poles for support. He took a deep breath and asked the question that had been in his mind from the momen
t Maxwell stepped into the hospital tent. 'How is Helen, sir?'

  For an instant Maxwell looked confused, as if he had difficulty in remembering who Helen might be. 'Oh she is well enough, Windrush. They are both keeping well.'

  'Yes, sir. Thank you.' Jack wanted to ask more; he wanted to know every detail of Helen's life; above all he wanted to see her again. At the beginning of this campaign there had been opportunities for him to meet her in Balaklava, but the progress of the siege had limited Jack to the British camp and the trenches.

  He gathered his courage and opened his mouth, but Maxwell was stalking out of the tent, leaving Jack to battle his frustration. He did not expect Helen to visit him here, in a tent filled with sick and gravely wounded men; no woman should see such sights as he experienced on a daily basis. All the same he was disappointed that there had not even been a note. He had sent her half a dozen … there was no sense in pining. Helen may be as busy as he had been, or there could be twenty perfectly legitimate reasons for her not replying. In the meantime he had to get fit enough to lead his men again. But what the devil was special training and what had Colonel Maxwell in mind?

  Jack swore; that tall American, Anderson, cast a long shadow.

  Chapter Ten

  January 1855

  It was worse because nobody heard them coming and nobody saw them leave. The pickets had been on full alert all night, the sergeants had checked them regularly and Elliot, the duty officer, had kept to his strict routine. Yet the Cossacks had still got through to Maxwell's tent.

  'I never left my post,' Elliot sounded ashamed.

  'You must have been utterly lax to allow the Russians past you!' Major Snodgrass was red in the face, either from rage or because he had been drinking. Jack suspected it was more likely to be the latter, tinged with a strong dose of fear in case the Cossacks came after him next.

  'The Cossacks are expert at this sort of thing, sir,' Jack knew it was unwise to disagree with a senior officer, but he did not like Snodgrass and saw that Elliot was colouring under the verbal attack.