Windrush: Blood Price (Jack Windrush Book 3)

by Malcolm Archibald

  'Yes?' She had waited patiently as he hesitated.

  'I…' He stopped again. If he asked her to marry him and she said yes, then he was condemning them both to a lifetime of poverty, unless he could somehow manage to get promoted. If she said no, then he would think life lacked purpose and was not worth living.

  'I?” She opened her eyes wide and raised her eyebrows, encouraging him to continue. 'So far we have “Helen” and “I.” Is there more to come or is that the sum total of your conversation?'

  'I have this to add,' Jack said, and kissed her.

  'Now that was better,' Helen said a few moments later. 'I was beginning to wonder if you had stopped liking me.'

  'I would never do that,' Jack said seriously.

  'That is what you claim now.' Helen stepped back, placed her hands on his shoulders and looked at him. 'But then you will meet some pretty Tartar maiden, or a dusky beauty from Hindustan and all your thoughts of me will fly away.'

  'I won't…' Jack tried to push the thoughts of Myatt, the Burmese woman out of his head. That seemed so long ago now.

  'You will,' Helen was laughing without humour. She touched two fingers to Jack's lips. 'I know soldiers you see. I know what father is like and so does mother. You will promise to be faithful and mean it, but as soon as a pretty girl flashes her eyes at you, or nudges her hips against you, oh quite by chance of course, or flicks her skirt, or brushes her fingers down your arm, you will follow her wherever she leads, be that to battle or bedroom.'

  'That's not true,' Jack said.

  'Yes it is, Jack; that is the way of the world.' Helen sounded very old and very wise. 'You won't mean to, you won't think about it, but you are a good man, so women will wrap you around their little finger, as they do to father.'

  'I won't let them,' Jack began.

  'You won't be able to help yourself.' Helen stepped back. 'Now just be a good little officer and keep me company.'

  Jack forced his smile. As had happened before with Helen, this meeting had not gone to plan. He wanted to take her in his arms; he wanted to kiss those inviting lips; he wanted to tell her that she was in his thoughts all day and every day, he wanted to tell her that he fought the Russians for her, yet he could not. He stood at her side, mute, unable to articulate his feelings and agonisingly aware of the growing gulf between them. She took hold of his arm and walked delicately along the beach, chatting about inconsequential matters and leaving him burning with frustration.

  Chapter Twelve

  February 1855

  On the 22nd February, after months of inactivity, the Russians stole a march on the allies by occupying the Mamelon, a small but significant hill in front of their main fortification of the Malakoff. Taken by surprise, the French could only watch as the Russians streamed out of the city to grab the hill and quickly dig themselves in.

  That same night the French counter attack went in with much cheering and great élan. The fighting continued for hours with Jack and his men peering anxiously over the parapet and asking when it would be their turn to go and rout the Russians. Next morning they heard that the French had sent in five full battalions and the Russians had beaten them back. The trenches were no further forward than they had been two months previously. The Allied attack on Sebastopol was in stalemate and the defenders were pushing back hard.

  'Are we going to do anything about it, sir?' Jack asked.

  Maxwell nodded. 'Sir Colin Campbell intends to, Windrush, and he has requested that your men accompany him as guides.' He gave a grim smile. 'Make us proud of the 113th, Jack.'

  'I'll try my best, sir.' He said. It was not the sort of task that his men had been specially trained for, but better than crouching in a muddy trench and ducking every time a Russian cannon fired.

  'We are in the van of the van,' Jack said as his dozen men slogged forward under freezing rain interspersed with flakes of snow.

  O'Neill kept his head down, seemingly not impressed by the honour that was being afforded to this small party of the 113th.

  'What are we meant to do in this?' Thorpe said. 'It's cold enough to freeze the balls off a hundred brass monkeys, and they would all be warmer than me. I hope there are no Russians around in this bloody sleet.'

  'What is the plan again, sir?' O'Neill asked.

  'We are going past the Causeway Heights and against the Russian field army to remove the threat on our flank,' Jack said. 'Sir Colin Campbell and 1800 men, with twelve guns and our good selves, are going to take the hills above Tchorgoun before dawn. We will push out any Russians and wait for the French. Once we occupy the heights, 12,000 Frenchmen will capture the Traktir Bridge.'

  'If the Froggies are up to it,' O'Neill said. He looked over his shoulder at the long British column that slogged through the worsening weather. 'We'll be hard pressed to get anywhere.'

  'We are leading the army,' Jack said, 'so we had better not get lost. Remember all the training Halloran and MacRae drummed into us. He peered ahead into whirling snow that was nearly hypnotic as it formed a dizzying pattern of white flecks against the blackness of the night.

  'Windrush!' Sir Colin Campbell trotted up on his horse. 'Are you sure we are moving in the right direction?'

  Jack unfolded his map. 'I believe so sir. It is hard to tell when we can't see any landmarks in this muck.'

  'It would help if there was a road,' Campbell said, as if talking to himself. 'You keep in touch, Windrush. I don't want any heroics that may alert the enemy.'

  'No sir; no heroics.' Jack looked upward and around. He had been selected to lead Sir Colin's column because he knew the Causeway Heights. As usual in the army, nobody had made allowances for the weather. Jack folded away his map and slogged on; he wondered what Sir Colin would think if he confessed that the last time he was on these hills he had been outmanoeuvred and out fought by the Russians. Sometimes it was better to say nothing and hope not to be found out.

  The snow increased as they slogged on, and twice in the next hour a messenger toiled up to Jack, panting and red faced, with orders to halt because first a gun, and then a waggon, had overturned in the snow.

  'There was no sign of Johnny Russ last time we were here,' Thorpe said. 'And then once we crossed the bloody valley there he was, all waiting for us the bloody ambushing bastard.'

  'He's come back,' Coleman said softly. 'He's come back to the Heights just to get you, Thorpey boy. He's going to cut off your arms and legs and chop off your head and leave it as a warning because you're the ugliest soldier in the whole British Army.'

  'Did you hear that too?' Fletcher asked. 'That shave is going around the camp. They say that Johnny Russ has offered a reward to the man who cuts off Thorpey's ugly head.'

  'I heard that,' Logan grunted. 'The French have said he's like one of they gargoyles on the churches. They're after him too.'

  'That's not true!' Thorpe denied indignantly. 'Tell him that's not true, sergeant.'

  'Keep quiet the lot of you,' O'Neill snarled. 'Save your energy and listen for the Russians.'

  A hush descended on the 113th, broken only by the hiss of falling snow, Thorpe's sullen mutter that 'it wasn't bloody true' and the Highlanders swearing as they righted the wagon.

  'We've to get up the Heights by dawn,' O'Neill said. 'I can't see us getting there by then.'

  'Dawn is around seven I think.' Jack said. 'Sir Colin wants us up the heights by half past five so we can threaten the left of the Russian's positions.'

  'Whose stupid idea was this?' Thorpe's voice muttered again through the snow. 'Marching through a bloody snowstorm all bloody night to attack some stupid bloody Russian hill in the middle of bugger all.'

  'That's enough croaking from you, Thorpe!' O'Neill shouted. 'And once is all the warning you'll get from me!'

  'Move on!' The stentorian order came from behind them and Jack led them on again. He was the leading man in the only allied force to be advancing against the enemy so at that moment he was the most forward allied soldier in the Crimea. What would Helen s
ay to that, he wondered. Probably something obscure, he told himself, or something disapproving. She could be hard work, that woman.

  The snow worsened, with another wagon slithering onto its side so once again the Highland infantry became labourers as they strained muscle and sinew to lift it back onto its wheels.

  'We're losing time,' O'Neill said, glancing at his silver watch. 'If the Russians catch us marching in the open in daylight their artillery will dice us.'

  'If this snow continues, they won't be able to see us,' Jack said and raised his voice. 'Don't stand still, men! Keep your bodies moving, keep some warmth!'

  With the wagon back on its wheels, the column moved off again, trundling slowly across the rough landscape with the men stumbling over unseen obstacles and trudging through deep snow.

  'That would be some target for a squadron of Cossack cavalry,' Jack looked back along the lumbering column, half seen through the snow.

  'Do you want me to scout ahead, sir?' O'Neill asked. 'I could take Hitchins or Coleman.'

  Jack contemplated for a moment. 'Best not, O'Neill. In this stuff we might lose touch with each other and I don't want to lose you to the Russians.'

  'We won't get lost, sir.'

  'You won't get the chance to get lost,' Jack said.

  'Sir…' Logan interrupted.

  'Keep your voice to yourself, Logan,' O'Neill snarled.

  'Yes, sergeant, but there is something ahead.'

  'How the hell…' O'Neill began. 'What, Logan?'

  'I don't know, sergeant; I just feel it.'

  Jack frowned. When an old soldier and a street fighter like Logan said that he felt something, it was best to take heed. 'O'Neill, I'll follow your advice. Take Logan, Hitchins and Coleman; probe ahead and see if there is anything there.'

  'Aye, sir,' O'Neill said. 'Come on Logan; if there's nothing there, you'll find yourself marching in full kit in every waking moment…' his voice diminished as his figure faded in the howling snow.

  'The rest of you, keep alert,' Jack shouted. 'There may be Russians around.'

  'Windrush! Sir Colin sends his compliments and are you sure we are on the correct path.' The speaker was a major, with a red hackle conspicuous in his forage cap, in case anybody doubted he was in the Black Watch.

  'I believe so sir,' Jack said. 'There may be some Russians ahead; I have sent some men in front to check.'

  'Out there?' The major waved a hand in front of his face as if that would clear a path through the snow. 'They won't see a blasted thing in this!'

  'My men can smell the enemy sir,' Jack said and immediately regretted sounding so vainglorious.

  The major grunted. 'I hope so,' he said. 'They won't find them any other way.'

  There was a brief break in the snow so the Fedioukine Hills were seen, glowing white against the pre-dawn dark. 'Damn this weather,' the major said.

  'Sir!' O'Neill appeared through the snow, a ghostly figure with a covering of white. 'Logan was right, sir.'

  'How many, O'Neill?'

  'Hard to say sir.' O'Neill screwed up his face. 'Only a small force I think.'

  'What's that?' The major immediately looked interested. 'What is your sergeant saying?'

  'There are Russians ahead, sir.' Jack said. 'I'll go with my men and find out more.'

  'I'll have a detachment of the 42nd sent forward,' the major said. 'You're not having all the fun.' He turned away, moving quickly.

  Jack swore; the presence of another regiment might compromise his men's new skills. However, he was outranked and must obey orders. On the other hand he remembered the 42nd from the battle of Alma; vigorous, well trained and experienced, they had routed the Russians opposed to them without apparent effort. Now they ploughed through the snow, all kilts and beards and bayonets, with as much disregard for the weather as they had fear of the enemy.

  'Where are these Russians then?' The lieutenant in charge looked as energetic and eager as his men.

  'About half a mile in front and on the right flank, sir.' O'Neill answered.

  'How many?' The lieutenant asked.

  'I am not sure, sir,' O'Neill said. 'It's hard to tell in the dark.'

  'Very good, sergeant. The Black Watch will take care of them.' The lieutenant seemed pleased at the thought of action after the cold slog through the night.

  'The 113th will play its part.' Jack was unwilling to relinquish everything to these kilted men. 'After all, we found the enemy.'

  The Black Watch lieutenant nodded. 'Well said, Lieutenant…'

  'Windrush.' Jack said.

  'Gillespie; any relation to General Windrush?'

  'He is a distant relative.' Jack could not disown his late father yet knew that detailed explanations would not be acceptable.

  'Very good,' Gillespie asked no more questions. 'Lead on, MacDuff.'

  O'Neill took the lead, with the others of the 113th in an arrow-head formation around him and the Highlanders a reassuringly solid block behind.

  After ten minutes, O'Neill held up his hand and the 113th stopped. Gillespie barked an order to halt the Black Watch.

  'What's happening, Windrush?' Gillespie asked.

  'My sergeant has seen or heard something,' Jack said quietly. Once again he wished that the Highlanders had not accompanied them. He knew they were splendid soldiers: none better, but they were far noisier than his 113th. 'Could you keep your men quiet, Gillespie? We don't want to alert the Russians.'

  Leaving Gillespie to control his men, Jack moved forward with O'Neill and Hitchins.

  'This way, sir,' O'Neill said softly. 'That MacRae fellow was right. I can smell Johnny Russ a mile away and he's making enough noise to wake the dead.'

  Jack nodded. Until then he had not been aware of the drift of wood smoke, tobacco and of something cooking, meat of some sort. Now he heard a low murmur of voices and the chink and jingle of metal. A horse whinnied softly.

  'Over there, sir,' O'Neill pointed to his right.

  There were about a hundred Russians, as far as Jack could judge, grouped around three camp fires that were sheltered under low canopies. In the dark and snow it was hard to make out their uniforms but he thought they wore the black of Cossacks, while the presence of horses argued for cavalry. One group shared what looked like a huge pipe; the scent of tobacco drifted plainly to him.

  'We can attack them or avoid them,' Jack reported to Gillespie. 'Maybe we'd better ask Sir Colin for permission.'

  'I have already sent a runner back to him.' It was obvious that the Black Watch did not waste time. 'He'll bring orders any minute.'

  Jack nodded; it was good to work with soldiers such as these.

  'Sir,' the Highlander was short, freckled and with a wispy sandy beard. 'Sir Colin sends his compliments sir, and asks if you could you please deal with these blasted Cossacks.'

  Gillespie grinned. 'Thank you, Munro. You lead the way, Windrush; your men found them.'

  By the look of the 42nd, they were relishing the prospect of fighting the Russians after their long march in the cold. They stamped their feet and gripped their rifles as if already disposing of the enemy.

  The first Cossack sentry loomed from the dark. He looked up briefly but before he had time to speak O'Neill thrust a bayonet into the side of his neck. 'Thank you Sergeant Halloran,' O'Neill said softly as he laid the body down.

  Coleman dealt with the second man in the same manner and the Cossack camp lay before them. There were two lines of horses on either side of three small fires, with the Cossacks sleeping on the outside.

  'Well done, Windrush. Remind me not to argue with your men.' Gillespie said. 'The 42nd will take it from here.'

  'My boys will be in it too,' Jack was determined not to allow the Black Watch all the glory.

  Gillespie's smile was heart- warming. 'Quite the firebrand aren't you, Windrush? Don't get in our way then!'

  Although outnumbered at least two to one, the 42nd did not hesitate as they formed a thin line that barely managed to outflank the Cossack camp
. At a quiet order from Gillespie they fixed bayonets, with the sinister succession of snaps loud in the dark.

  'No firing,' Gillespie said, 'the sound will alert the Russians that we are coming.'

  Jack saw the nods of approval, the bared teeth of men desperate to fight after a winter of frustration and disease and felt the ripple of tense excitement that the two Black Watch sergeants had to suppress.

  'Wait for Lieutenant Gillespie's word and follow his commands,' Jack said. He knew he was equal in rank to the Highland officer, but common sense dictated that the man who commanded the larger force should take command of the operation.

  'The 42nd will advance!' Gillespie barked.

  The Highlanders moved at once; the 113th a fraction later as men looked at Jack for confirmation before they stepped forward.

  '42nd!' Gillespie roared, forgetting the need for silence, 'keep together!'

  The united force levelled bayonets and marched into the camp. One brave Cossack fired a single shot, to be immediately bayonetted by three Highlanders. Others surrendered, crying 'Christos', or fled in understandable panic. The British marched through the camp, killing anybody who showed resistance and rounding up those who surrendered. The whole operation took only minutes.

  'Hey, sir,' Logan said. 'These are Cossacks, same as ambushed us last time.'

  'Just take their rifles and swords from them, Logan,' O'Neill said. 'We don't need your help in identifying them.'

  'That was easy enough,' Gillespie thrust his broadsword into its scabbard.

  'Useful too,' Jack checked his revolver. He had not needed it. 'The Cossack that escaped will run right back to their positions and we can follow their tracks.'

  'That rifle shot will have given us away,' Gillespie said.

  'Maybe not.' Jack checked to see that his men were all there. They were fraternising with the 42nd and Logan was relieving a Cossack of the burden of a bottle of something. 'Nervous sentries are prone to fire during the night. If we press on now the Russians will not be ready when we arrive.'