Windrush: Blood Price (Jack Windrush Book 3)

by Malcolm Archibald

  Only a score of paces away, the Russian column had completely halted. The officers were in front, shouting, hauling at their men, pointing to the British positions, but there was no response. As the leading rank retired a pace, their officers began to beat the men with the flat of their swords, striking shoulders and backs indiscriminately and without effect.

  'Fire,' Campbell yelled again. There was another volley and more Russians fell and then the whole huge column was in retreat.

  'After them!' Logan yelled and would have leaped over the parapet in a single handed attack on the entire Russian army had Riley not roughly hauled him back.

  'Don't be a bloody idiot,' Riley said.

  Jack slid back behind the sandbags as the Russians withdrew. Nearly sobbing with exhaustion, he could say nothing as he surveyed the shambles of the Quarries. The British had taken and held a Russian strongpoint, but at what cost? Hundreds of dead and wounded lay among the bloodied sandbags, many of them the young recruits who had come out as replacements but too many, far too many, were veterans who made up the steel core of the British Army. While there was a human tragedy with every death, the British Army was too small to stand the loss of so many experienced men. If this rate of attrition continued, it would be a hollow force with only the appearance of an army, a drum with a martial skin and nothing within save children.

  He looked around; except for his own 113th, most of the faces he saw were very young; boys still in their teens handed a rifle, given minimum training and sent to fight a war they did not understand to defend a country that cared naught for their wellbeing or even existence.

  'We won.' Elliot was shaking, taking deep breaths of powder-polluted air to try and prevent himself from shaking.

  'We did,' Jack agreed. Now that the immediate danger was past, he remembered William and hoped he had survived.

  'That was my first major action,' Elliot said. 'It was nothing like I imagined.'

  'They never are,' Jack told him. 'Every battle is different yet they are all the same. Blood and bravery and suffering.' There was a young boy slumped against the parapet two yards away. He looked about fourteen with a smooth face and wide brown eyes. He was alive but sobbing bitterly, unable to stop himself.

  'I'm not scared,' the boy said, again and again, 'I'm not scared.'

  'Ain't war glorious,' Elliot, only a few years older, said quietly. He could not prevent the tear that seeped from his eye and slid a grimy course down his cheek.

  'Quite,' Jack agreed. He hoped that Helen approved. Nothing else mattered, really.

  Chapter Fifteen

  'He's quite the hero, is Lieutenant Windrush.' The news travelled around the British camp at Middle Ravine. 'He must be promoted for his actions, or be given some sort of award.'

  Jack heard the rumours spread, growing in the telling as each exploit of the now famous Lieutenant Windrush was repeated and magnified until the young officer became a mixture of Hector and Wellington, a paragon of military virtues, a man who only needed to draw his mighty sword to send the Russians running back to St Petersburg.

  'Have you heard the shave?' A night's sleep had restored some of the bounce to Elliot's voice although there were still dark bags beneath his eyes and new deep grooves from the corners of his mouth to his nose.

  'I heard it,' Jack finished oiling his revolver. He knew that most officers relied on their servant to do such menial work but he preferred to take care of his weapons himself. His life depended on them.

  Elliot sighed and settled onto the three legged stool he had bought for far too high a sum in Balaklava. 'They say that Lieutenant William Windrush is a hero who nearly captured the Redan single handed.'

  'I heard that,' Jack slipped the chamber back into his revolver. It whirred reassuringly as he spun it.

  'They say he is to be promoted to Captain with immediate effect.'

  'I heard that too,' Jack fastened his revolver back into its holster. It sat there, snug and comfortable.

  'They say the Queen was pleased with him.'

  'They would say that,' Jack slid his sword from its scabbard and checked it for rust. Wilkinson made excellent weapons but even they were not immune from the vagaries of Crimean weather. 'Although how Her Majesty has got to hear about it, and how her comments have reached us in so short a time I cannot imagine.'

  'Oh now.' Elliot looked up. 'Do I detect jealousy in your voice? A touch of the sour grapes perhaps because your half brother is getting recognition that you have so far been denied?'

  'Oh go to hell!' Lifting a boot, Jack threw it at Elliot, who caught it deftly with his left hand.

  'Oh temper temper, little soldier!' Elliot was grinning now. 'You must admit that your brother is of the stuff of heroes, attacking the Redan like he did.' He tossed the boot back, underhand and gently. 'Of course it's not fair and it's not right, Jack, but either you laugh at fate or it kicks you up the breech. Listen: this war is not going to plan; we've been stuck here in front of Sebastopol for months; our men are dying of cholera and fever, and even the navy is not exactly covering itself with glory. The good people in Britain need some good news to cheer them up at the breakfast table, and your young brother has given them that.'

  'I am not jealous,' Jack said. He did not try to analyse his feelings. Anger, yes; hurt, yes; definitely frustration that his life and career was stuck in a rut while his half brother seemed to have all the luck that fate could shower. Was that jealousy? 'Yes, maybe I am, a little,' he allowed, grudgingly.

  'Well said, sir!' Elliot produced a cheroot and tossed it in the wake of the boot. 'You win a cigar for honesty.'

  'Thank you.' Jack passed it back. 'I don't indulge.'

  'I know. If you did, I wouldn't have offered. These things are more precious than gold dust.' Elliot's grin nearly recaptured his old boyish self. 'As I was saying, the war needs a hero, someone to take people's minds off the mismanagement of the whole blasted campaign. And who better than your esteemed brother? Scion of an ancient English family, a handsome young man from generations of officers and gentlemen, an officer from a famous old regiment… he is a gift for any newspaper, a new figurehead for the army and a man who will be going places.'

  'While I languish here as a passed-over lieutenant in a regiment of scoundrels and blackguards.' Jack said.

  'Quite, young man.' Elliot said. 'That is exactly how things are.' He gave Jack a lopsided grin, 'even more strange, did you hear about the rogue Irishman fighting for the Russians?'

  'I did not,' Jack said.

  'Edward Hyde of the 49th met him during the truce to move the dead and wounded after the battle.' Elliot sucked on his cheroot. 'He said the Irishman was a sailor who married a Russian and settled there; what a queer war. There are so many Irish in our army that he is probably fighting against some of his cousins.'

  'Families are as complex as politics.' Jack slid the sword back into its scabbard with its inspection not complete. 'I am off to Balaklava,' he said. 'I'm back on duty at eight tonight; the men will damned well have to manage without me until then.'

  Elliot waved his cheroot in farewell. 'Take care, young officer and brother of a genuine hero.'

  Jack closed the flap of the tent and heard Elliot's voice again, quieter. 'Take care, Jack.' Sighing, he wondered if he could cadge a lift from the railway and save himself the walk to Balaklava. William a hero? He shook his head. Well, he could not deny his bravery at any rate.

  'When did you last have a bath, Lieutenant Windrush?' Mrs Colonel Maxwell challenged him as he stood in the doorway. She sniffed audibly. 'And when were these clothes last cleaned? Or changed come to that?'

  Jack felt as if he was a child being questioned by its governess. 'Some time ago, Mrs Maxwell,' he admitted. 'We have to make do with what we can in the trenches, and the camp is not much better.'

  'Don't you have any servants to take care of that sort of thing?'

  'I share one soldier servant, Ma'am…' Jack began.

  'Well get rid of him.' Mrs Colonel Ma
xwell interrupted. 'He's not doing his job.' Half turning away, she spoke sharply and rapidly in a language that Jack recognised as Tartar, although he did not understand the words. 'I've ordered my servants to prepare a bath and hot water to clean your uniform. Take it off, sir; take it off at once. You are not coming into my house in that state.'

  Jack started. 'But I've nothing else to wear.'

  'I can't help that,' Mrs Colonel Maxwell snorted. 'You should have thought of that earlier. I won't have you bringing dirt and vermin into my house, especially as you are coming to see my daughter. Either take it off or leave, and never come back.'

  'I can't stand here with no clothes on,' Jack argued, reasonably he thought.

  'Oh don't be foolish; I've seen a naked man before!'

  Jack looked around at the busy harbour. He told himself that he would rather face a hundred angry Russians than Helen's mother, which was nonsense of course. However uncomfortable his present situation, he knew he would survive to look back on it. There was movement at the side window, the twitch of the lace curtains that he knew were there at Mrs Maxwell's insistence, and the flicker of a human face.

  Helen was watching, listening and no doubt enjoying every minute of his discomfiture. Suddenly Jack gave a rueful smile; what did it matter if he was fully clothed or stark naked? He could be killed at any moment of any day, struck down by shot, shell or Russian marksman, felled by some loathsome disease or he could step on a fougass and lose his legs or worse. When compared to these horrors, did it matter if Helen or Mrs Maxwell saw him without his clothes? Society placed such importance on what they termed respectability, when nations were intent on blowing men to bloody gobbets for the sake of pride in a flag. There was something fundamentally wrong in an international system that allowed or even encouraged the utter obscenity called war, while pretending shock at the sight of a human body.

  'Do you have any alternative clothes I could borrow Mrs Maxwell?' Jack slipped off his tunic. He did not envy the man who had to clean that. 'Or shall I sit naked at your table?' The thought of the eminently respectable Mrs Colonel Maxwell entertaining a nude man nearly made him smile.

  He thought he detected a glint of reciprocal humour in Mrs Maxwell's eyes. 'I think I can find something' she said. 'Once you are most thoroughly scrubbed.' She leaned against the door post. 'Go on; get on with it.'

  Jack smiled across the collection of plates, platters and sundry items of crockery. Helen sat opposite him, radiant in a light blue dress and with her raven hair piled up on top of her head. 'You do look dapper in father's dress uniform' she said.

  Jack shifted uncomfortably. His previous mood of 'to-the-devil-with-it' had passed as quickly as it arrived. Now he did not know what was worse: turning up for this invited meal in his own battered and soiled uniform or wearing Colonel Maxwell's borrowed clothes.

  'Perhaps you will be a colonel some day,' Helen said. 'Do you think that will happen?'

  'I really don't know,' Jack said.

  'Your namesake will be,' Mrs Colonel Maxwell said bluntly. 'That other Lieutenant Windrush who nearly captured the Redan. His name is on everybody's lips.'

  'We are all talking about him,' Helen said. 'When first I heard what a champion Lieutenant Windrush was I got quite a start. I thought it was you of which they spoke. The idea!' she covered her mouth to stifle her little giggle.

  'No, it was that other Lieutenant Windrush,' Jack said. He was glad that Colonel Maxwell had not informed them that the heroic Windrush of the Malverns was his half brother. That would have been a very bitter pill to swallow.

  'Is Windrush such a common name in Herefordshire?' Helen asked. 'I hear that Lieutenant Windrush is from the Royal Malverns; and you have spoken to me about the Malvern Hills more than once.'

  'Oh?' Mrs Colonel Maxwell looked up from her plate. 'Is that so, Lieutenant? Are you both from the same county?'

  'Yes we are, ma'am.' Jack said.

  'How strange!' Helen said. 'Two lieutenants with the same name from the same county.'

  'It is not really strange,' Jack tried to turn the conversation. 'When we fought at the Quarries, the colonel in charge was named Campbell, the same name as Sir Colin bears. There are many Campbells in the army.'

  'Yes but we are not talking about Campbells. We are talking about Windrushes,' Mrs Colonel Maxwell replied, slightly tartly.

  'What does the name mean?' Helen asked. 'Windrush: it sounds like an autumn day or a character in one of Walter Scott's romances.'

  'It is a river,' Jack felt he was on safer ground. 'Windrush is the name of a river.'

  Lieutenant River.' Helen looked upward, repeating the name. 'No, I prefer Windrush. Lieutenant Windrush. Captain Windrush. Colonel Windrush.'

  Mrs Colonel Maxwell snorted. 'There was a General Windrush,' she said. 'He died a few years ago.'

  'I know,' Helen said. 'That hero Windrush is his son. The general was from the Royal Malverns as well.' She looked at Jack from beneath lowered eyelids. 'Maybe you should transfer to the Royal Malverns, Jack; it seems that it is a regiment where you get noticed, while the 113th merely languishes in the trenches.'

  'We do our bit,' Jack's defence of the 113th sounded weak even in his own ears.

  'Maxwell says the 113th used to be known as the Baby Butchers,' Mrs Colonel Maxwell said.

  'That is true,' Jack said. 'When they were first formed they were used to put down some the radical disturbance and some children were killed.'

  'That is an unfortunate beginning for any regiment,' Mrs Colonel Maxwell said. 'Other regiments have more impressive nick names: the Bengal Tigers, Pontius Pilate's Bodyguard, Blayney's Bloodhounds, the Diehards, the Devil's Own…' she reeled off a list that revealed her military knowledge.

  'I am sure that the Royal Malverns have a splendid history,' Helen said. 'Do they have a whole list of battle honours?'

  'They do,' Jack nodded. 'A whole list. They are one of the oldest regiments in the army, and one of the most glorious.'

  'Maybe you can indeed transfer,' Helen said, 'then they would have two Lieutenant Windrushes, you and the heroic William.'

  Mrs Colonel Maxwell glanced from Helen to Jack. 'I believe that our Lieutenant Windrush has heard sufficient about his heroic namesake,' she said. 'Perhaps it is time we changed the topic.'

  'Oh indeed mother,' Helen said, 'although I would dearly love to meet the hero of the hour. They call him the Lion of the Malverns you know, and already they are talking about a glorious career ahead of him; a second Wellington or Marlborough, they say.'

  'Is that what they say?' Jack murmured, and immediately wished he could retract the words as Helen threw him a look so venomous he should have died on the spot.

  'Yes it is,' she said quietly. 'Perhaps if you did something so gloriously brave they would say the same about you.'

  'Perhaps they would,' he retaliated as his mouth ran away with his sense. 'If I was the scion of a general and served in a fashionable regiment.'

  The ensuing silence lasted a tense five minutes before Mrs Maxwell broke it. 'Well this is pleasant isn't it? Three of us together and not a word to bless us with.'

  Jack forced a smile. 'I think the strain of this siege is having its effect.'

  'We have not properly thanked you yet, Lieutenant Windrush, for saving our lives in that most dreadful storm.' Mrs Colonel Maxwell said.

  'That was months ago, mother,' Helen said.

  'I am aware of the date, Helen.' Mrs Colonel Maxwell's rebuke killed any further conversation. The silence returned, more chilled and intense than ever.

  It was a further ten minutes before Jack tried again. Ten minutes in which the scrape of knife on china and the occasional flicker of the candles were the only sounds in the room. 'This is a lovely meal,' he said. 'I am very grateful to you for inviting me, Mrs Maxwell.' His smile felt like the grin on a century-old skull. 'It is far different from the usual fare in camp.'

  Helen opened her mouth for an immediate and no-doubt stinging retort, caught her mother
's warning eye and closed it again quickly.

  'It is the least we can do,' Mrs Maxwell put an edge in her voice, 'for the hero who risked his life to save ours. I am sure that Helen agrees.'

  When Helen looked up, there was a distinct flush across her face. 'I have already thanked Lieutenant Windrush for his actions,' she said, 'and of course I am grateful, mother.' She faced Jack directly across the table. 'You were extremely brave when you entered the harbour to save our lives, Lieutenant Windrush. I am sure that I never intended to convey anything other than gratitude for your bravery.' Her eyes did not waver.

  'I did not think otherwise, Miss Maxwell,' Jack noted her sudden formality and replied in kind. 'I was only doing my duty as a British officer.'

  'There now, that's better,' Mrs Colonel Maxwell smiled to her forgiven daughter and the nerve-strained Jack. 'Let's talk of the happy times to come when Sebastopol falls and this terrible war comes to an end.' She signalled to a servant to pour wine into her glass. 'Tell us all about Herefordshire, Jack, and your plans for the future.'

  The future? Jack was immediately tongue-tied again. He forced words into his mouth as Helen raised her eyebrows in query across the table to him. 'I hope to rise in rank,' he said slowly, 'and sometime I hope to return to Herefordshire.'

  'To take up the life of a farmer, perhaps?' Helen asked. 'I am sure that the other Lieutenant Windrush of the Royal Malverns will allow you to lease a farm from him, for I hear he has extensive lands there.'

  'Do you intend a bachelor's life, Lieutenant Windrush?' Mrs Maxwell ignored her daughter's intervention, 'or will you be seeking a wife sometime in the future.'

  'I intend to return to Herefordshire as a married man,' Jack felt his recklessness return. His smile was unforced and included Helen as much as Mrs Maxwell. 'I also hope to return to Herefordshire as my own man, not as a tenant to some spoiled lordling, and take my own wife to my own house that sits in my own lands and I intend her to be mistress of our household.'

  'Bravo, Jack!' Helen gave her first smile of the evening, accompanied by a gentle clap of her hands.