Windrush: Blood Price (Jack Windrush Book 3)

by Malcolm Archibald

  'I know they ran circles around you, Windrush, but even the Burmese dacoits managed that.' Snodgrass altered the direction of his assault, much to Elliot's relief.

  'Is this the right time for bickering?' Colonel Maxwell sounded genuinely angry, which was most unlike him. He jerked a long thumb over his shoulder. 'When the Cossacks sneak past one of our best officers and leave that?'

  Jack looked again. While Elliot had been duty officer in the camp, he had been in his tent recovering the full use of his leg and had heard nothing as the Cossacks had infiltrated and left the thing in front of Maxwell's tent.

  It was still there, grinning toward the open flap with its blonde hair flopping over the holes where the eyes should have been, and the jaw open in a perpetual scream. Ruthven had been returned, or at least his head had, and it seemed as though he had not died easily. It could only have been the Plastun Cossacks who had ghosted past the pickets to leave Ruthven's head thrust onto a stake only yards from Maxwell's tent.

  'They are taunting us,' Jack said.

  'They are playing the cat and banjo with our morale,' Maxwell said. 'They must know that it was you and I who set that trap for Anderson, and here they are, showing us how easy it was to kill one of our best men, and to slide through our lines to torment us.'

  'Why did they not cut all our throats and have done with it?' Jack asked.

  'They can do that anytime they like. Now within a day the whole army will know now inept we are to allow the Cossacks to waltz in. They treated us with total contempt.'

  Jack nodded toward Ruthven's head. 'They treated him worse than that, sir.'

  'Let's get the remains buried decently,' Maxwell said. He grunted. 'No blame attached to you, Elliot. You are not trained to cope with these Cossacks. They are like the Pathans in Afghanistan.' He shook his head. 'We could do with some Afghan veterans here but …' he left the sentence unfinished, unwilling to criticise the higher command with its bias against officers who had served in India. 'Windrush: you had better get yourself fit and ready to strike back against these dangerous fellows.'

  'When do we start the special training sir?'

  'In three days, Windrush,' Maxwell said softly. He nodded in the direction of Ruthven's head. 'And now that your men know exactly what they are up against, I trust that they will not croak.'

  'My men will do their best, sir.' Jack said. The easy manner in which Anderson's Cossacks had outmanoeuvred him rankled. 'We won't be defeated by these scoundrels.'

  'I'm glad to hear it,' Maxwell said. 'Get rid of that thing will you?' He walked away, lighting a cheroot.

  'Now you men have been specially selected by your officer,' Colonel Maxwell spoke with an edge in his voice. 'Most of you were with Lieutenant Windrush in his last attempt to ambush the Cossacks.'

  The men faced their front, looking as impassive as British soldiers were meant to when being addressed by an officer. Jack studied each man, seeing the little tell-tale signs that betrayed what they really thought. The fingers of O'Neill's left hand were drumming on the side of his trousers, showing that he was fighting his impatience. Riley was watching Maxwell through narrowed eyes as he calculated what the colonel's motives were. Logan's right hand clamped and unclamped; he would be mentally either strangling the officer or stabbing him.

  'That was a calamity,' Maxwell said. 'We lost far too many good men.'

  Jack saw the expressions of his men flicker, just slightly. It was so unusual for an officer to express any appreciation for the rankers, yet alone call them 'good men' that they were now off guard.

  'Next time,' Maxwell said, 'we will destroy them.' He smiled at the involuntary growl from the men. The 113th had suffered under a bad reputation of being poor soldiers for so long that since they had redeemed their reputation at Inkerman they resented any set back. These men wanted to get even with the Russians, particularly the Cossacks.

  Jack nodded. He had worried that the defeat may have drained their confidence. Instead it seemed to have hardened their desire to win.

  'This is corporal MacRae of the 93rd Highlanders,' Maxwell indicated a kilted corporal who stood on his left, 'and this is Sergeant Halloran of the Rifles.' He nodded to a slight, hawk-faced man in the green uniform of the Rifle Brigade. 'They are both specialists in their field. Corporal MacRae is probably the finest marksman in the British Army; he was a stalker in the Highlands. Sergeant Halloran trains the Rifles in independent action and thought. Between the two of them they will raise you to heights you did not think you could achieve and ensure you are able to out-shoot, out-think and out manoeuvre any Cossack in the Crimea.' He lowered his voice. 'In other words, gentlemen, last time we were soundly thrashed. Next time, I just said, we will destroy them.'

  Jack hid his smile: Maxwell seemed to like that phrase.

  'I am not sure how long you have, Windrush. Don't waste a minute, as Lord Horatio Nelson said.' Maxwell stalked away.

  Jack's twelve men had been removed from the trenches for intensive training. Now they were down by the coast, five miles from the main British camp, exposed to chill winds from the sea but far away from Russian artillery. Jack felt guilty that he was absent from the regiment as they faced daily bombardment and the threat of raids, but every man knew that orders had to be obeyed. His career as well as his life depended on ensuring the success of this new venture in soldiering. His future depended on him defeating the redoubtable John Anderson.

  'Right, you scarlet people.' Halloran had a soft Irish voice. 'You think you are soldiers. You are not.' He grinned at the expression on the faces of the 113th. 'Not yet. By the time Corporal MacRae and I have finished with you, you will look back on yourself and wonder who you were.' He looked over to Jack. 'Permission to begin, sir?'

  'Please do so, Sergeant.'

  Halloran's shout may have been heard in Sebastopol as he called the men to attention. Standing back, Jack allowed him to take control.

  For the next month, Halloran and MacRae drove Jack's men hard, with Jack watching, learning and participating as his leg grew stronger. He watched his men learn how to march Rifle style, with shorter, faster paces than they were used to. He watched them learn how to use cover effectively and fire independently, without waiting for orders; he watched them learn to think for themselves. He watched Halloran used his bawdy humour on soldiers who were an instant slow in obeying his orders.

  'I said get down, Fletcher. Down means on the ground! Would you be so slow if you had a woman beneath you?' Halloran demonstrated, throwing himself onto the ground and crawling forward like one of the lizards that infested the camp. 'That's how you go down! Not inch by inch like an old woman, with your arse sticking up as a target for every Russian sharpshooter in Sebastopol!'

  MacRae was different. Dark haired, dark complexion and soft spoken, he demanded perfection in shooting and was never without his rifle. If he was not firing it, he was cleaning it or making minute adjustments to the sights.

  'I bet he even takes it to bed with him,' Coleman said.

  'It will lie between him and whatever bint he sleeps with.' Thorpe patted his own rifle. 'Or maybe he takes it to bed instead of a woman. I can see him cuddling into it and speaking sweet nothings into the muzzle.'

  'He'll have other uses for the muzzle,' Logan said, and added obscene details that had the others laughing and looking around to ensure that MacRae did not overhear.

  MacRae had the men shooting from a prone position, from a kneeling position, from a crouching position and from a standing position. He taught them how to look for signs of the enemy. 'Look for a blade of grass that does not move with the wind, for a darker or lighter patch in the heather, for a rock that does not match its neighbours, for stones that have been moved from their position.' He walked around them, criticising, grousing, and actively looking for faults.

  'Do you know how deer know when they are being hunted?'

  'No, corporal,' Thorpe said.

  'Of course you don't, Thorpe. You are an idiot. A deer would see y
ou coming five miles away, hear you coming ten miles away and smell you half way across the country. Now do you know?'

  'No, corporal,' Thorpe said.

  'God but you are stupid!' MacRae was not a patient man. 'They know by your scent, man. They can smell you! And I can smell every one of you, every man here has his own distinct smell. Well, if I can smell you, then so can the Cossacks.' He lined them up and walked around, sniffing loudly.

  'Do you know what you are going to do?' MacRae said. 'You are going to wash in sea water to get rid of the human stink and then you are going to cake yourselves in local mud, grass and heather, or whatever they have for vegetation in this damned country.' He stopped, frowned and pointed to Riley. 'You!'

  'Yes, corporal.' It was never easy to disturb Riley's equanimity.

  'I want you to go to that tree,' MacRae pointed to a scrubby oak about two hundred yards away. Run to the far side of it and face the other direction. I will send a man toward you. Shout out the second that you know he is coming.'

  With a glance at Jack for confirmation, Riley trotted to the tree. MacRae waited until he arrived, then threw a pipe at Logan. 'Light up and walk quietly toward the tree.'

  Logan did so, and before he got within fifty yards, Riley roared out: 'I can smell pipe smoke!'

  'Good man!' MacRae praised. Calling back Logan, he ordered Coleman forward. 'No smoking now.'

  The men of the 113th watched with some curiosity as Coleman walked forward. He followed his training, did not rush and avoided dry leaves, loose pebbles, twigs or anything else that might make a noise and so give his position away.

  Jack was fascinated at this contest between the careful Riley with his shady past and experience of avoiding the police, and Coleman, veteran of the Burmese jungle and God-knows what before he joined the army.

  Coleman passed the fifty yard mark where Riley had scented Logan, and carried on. At thirty yards he began to move faster, as if intending to rush the tree, and at twenty he slowed again. There was no sound from Riley.

  At ten yards he stopped.

  'He's going to make it,' Thorpe said. 'Go on Coley!'

  'Nah; Riley will hear him.' Logan said, just as Riley shouted out:

  'I hear something!'

  'Coleman: halt where you are. Riley, come out from the tree.' MacRae gave crisp orders. Riley emerged.

  'You did well, Coleman. I neither heard or smelled you until I spoke.' Riley gave a little half-bow that might have been respect or mockery; Jack was never sure.

  'You see the difference,' MacRae said. 'So when you are on picket duty, or due to go on picket or patrol, no smoking; that gives away your position every time. No smoking and no eating anything that has a powerful smell such as onions: the nose is as sensitive as the ears or eyes for detecting people – and that means that you can smell the enemy as much as they can smell you.'

  'I can smell Thorpey from here,' Logan said, to much laughter.

  'You can go to hell, Logie,' Thorpe said, and Jack thought it best to intervene before the two descended from verbal to physical aggression.

  'Now this,' MacRae poked at the fire beside him so the flames rose, and then held up the bayonet that Logan kept brightly polished and honed so sharp it could slice a human hair, 'is no use to anybody.'

  'Gi'e it to me and I'll show you how useful it is, corporal,' Logan glowered. Jack knew that his bayonet was probably the only thing in his life of which Logan was proud.

  'Look at it!' MacRae held it up so the weak winter sun reflected from the burnished blade. 'It's like a beacon. Any animal, any hunter, any Russian, will see this flash a mile away, know where you are and either run away or come after you and slice you open.'

  Logan grunted. 'If they come after me they'll know all about it.'

  'So we do this,' MacRae said, and plunged the blade of the bayonet into the fire. 'We darken and dull the blade so it does not attract attention.'

  'You dirty bastard, MacRae! That's my bayonet!' Forgetting all about discipline and respect for authority, Logan threw himself at MacRae, to find himself face down on the ground within seconds.

  'I'll teach you how to fight as well,' MacRae said calmly. 'Once you learn not to bring shiny brass buckles and buttons into the field.' He stepped back. 'You boys have so much to learn I am surprised you ever took the Queen's shilling.' Stepping back, he allowed Logan up and blocked the expected punch. 'I was a corner man for Bendigo Thompson, Logan; you can't beat me.'

  'You knew Bendigo?' Jack stepped in. He had no doubt that MacRae was an excellent pugilist, but he also knew that Logan was quite capable of pulling a knife, razor or any other lethal weapon when MacRae least expected it. 'He was one of the great prize fighters.' He helped Logan to his feet. 'Shake his hand, Logan; it will be an honour to learn from Bendigo's corner man.'

  It was in the middle of February that Colonel Maxwell returned. He reined up on his horse and dismounted with a flourish.

  'How are they getting on, Halloran?'

  'Not too bad, sir,' Halloran gave a casual salute. 'Another six months and they might be half decent soldiers.'

  'And you MacRae? How are they shaping up?'

  MacRae screwed up his face. 'They are passing fair shots, sir, except for Fletcher. He is as likely to hit the sun as anything he aims for. Their tracking is better than it was and they are able to recognise how to find cover in the folds of ground; they know not to move on the skyline and what to look for. I've shown them the rudiments of prize fighting. Give me another month…'

  'You don't have another month,' Maxwell said. 'We don't have another week. We've lost too many men in the trenches to spare even a dozen. Windrush, you and these men are returning back to the regiment.'

  'Yes, sir: so what was all this training for?'

  'Don't croak, Windrush. Just follow orders.'

  Jack fought his frustration; his men were going back to war as ordinary infantry.

  Chapter Eleven

  February 1855

  'You are not quite yourself tonight,' Jack said. 'You're jumpy. What is in your mind?'

  Helen's smile was not convincing. 'I was not thinking anything really.'

  Jack pulled up her cloak until it covered her neck. Her hair was soft against the back of his hand. 'Try to keep warm, Helen. Let's keep moving.' He slipped an arm into hers and walked along the beach. Six weeks after the abortive ambush, his leg was nearly back to normal and he had found a soldier who had once been a cobbler, so his damaged boot was functional as well. Most officers would have bought a new pair at once, but his funds did not run to such luxuries.

  'This is where we first met,' Helen looked around her. 'You were naked.'

  'I remember,' Jack felt a flush of embarrassment. These old days, only a few months back, seemed very long ago and in retrospect he seemed very innocent in the ways of war.

  'Mother did not want me to see anything,' Helen persisted in the subject. She looked sideways at him. 'I wanted to see everything.'

  'I hope you found it worthwhile!' Jack said.

  Helen's small smile was not encouraging. Her silence was worse.

  'How is your leg?' Helen asked at last. 'You are still limping a little.'

  'Much better,' Jack said. He had looked forward to being with Helen but now he just felt awkward. He had so much to say but the words would not form in his mouth, while Helen, who could be so articulate, seemed no better.

  'I heard that the Russians are murdering British officers,' Helen said at last.

  'That seems to be all they can do now,' Jack tried to sound cheerful. 'They know they cannot beat us in battle and we are holding them inside Sebastopol. They can only murder us like dacoits in the night.'

  'I hope they do not murder father.' Helen looked out to sea as if to escape from the Crimean peninsula.

  'Is that what is worrying you?' Jack put an arm around her. He was not sure if he was relieved that she had told him, or frustrated that he could not do more to help. 'Your father is one of the most capable men I have e
ver met, and one of the finest soldiers. I do not think there is a Russian alive who could touch him.'

  She looked at him sideways, tossed her dark hair in a way that sent a shiver through him and, at last mustered a smile. 'Thank you, Jack. I hope you are right.'

  'That's more like it!' Jack said. 'That's more like the Helen I know!'

  'You were wounded,' she stopped walking and touched the remains of the cut on his forehead. 'If that was a fraction to the side, or a bit deeper you would have been killed.'

  'It was only a fragment of rock,' Jack said. 'I have had a lot worse.'

  'It will leave a scar,' she ignored his words. 'How romantic!' Her smile broadened. 'You can tell your grandchildren how you braved the Russian bear and were wounded in the service of queen and country.'

  Jack laughed. 'I don't think being hit in the heel of my boot and having a stone skiff my head counts as wounded, not when others lose their arms and legs.'

  'It counts for me!' Helen defended him. She began to walk along the side of the surf with her feet leaving little impressions on the shingle. She had small feet, Jack noticed.

  'I would not like you to lose an arm or a leg,' Helen said. 'Or a head.'

  'I will try to keep them all attached to my body,' Jack kept the conversation light. He was not comfortable discussing such things with his girl.

  'I heard that Commander Ruthven lost his head.' Helen said.

  'He did.' Jack confirmed.

  'I knew him.' Helen said shortly. 'Father always said that he was a good man. Mother liked him; I suspect she had plans for him and me.'

  Jack blinked. Ever since he met Helen he had thought of her as his girl, an exclusive partnership. The thought of her with Ruthven or any other man gave him an agonising twist of jealousy. Suddenly he knew that he wanted her all to himself and for ever. He wanted to marry her. The thought had played through his mind for some time, but Helen's remark had propelled it to the forefront of his thoughts.

  'Helen…' he said, and stopped. He knew he could not ask her. He was a lowly lieutenant with a lieutenant's meagre pay, and a reluctant addition from his step-mother. He could not afford a wife. With his promotion to captain blocked, he was stuck at this rank for the foreseeable future. A lieutenant's pay would not cover even the most austere of lifestyles and he was determined to give her the best he could