Windrush: Blood Price (Jack Windrush Book 3)

by Malcolm Archibald

Jack hesitated; he was a British officer and a gentleman, trained to treat women with respect. 'Let her go,' he said, 'unless she is a threat.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  Scrambling away from his cover, Jack weaved his way forward. In the dull dun-green of the ravine, Anderson and Ansar were hidden, but he could see a patch of Snodgrass's scarlet and a smudge of Valeria's blue dress; the others would be close by.

  Stalking his prey in the manner that MacRae had taught him, Jack circled around that flash of scarlet, and then crawled closer. For once Snodgrass was silent and still, making Jack's task much easier. He heard the crack of Kelly's rifle and hoped there was another Russian less.

  The scarlet uniform was like a beacon, startlingly red among the undergrowth. Jack circled slowly, thankful for the marker. Revolver in hand, he slid between two rocks, took a deep breath and threw himself down, to find an empty space.

  The scarlet jacket had been artfully draped over a bush, with Valeria's dress placed on a stick beneath the lower bough of a stunted oak.

  'The bastard's tricked us!' Coleman said.

  'He's tricked us,' Thorpe agreed.

  'Get out of here!' Jack shoved Thorpe aside as the pistol cracked. He saw Coleman stagger, turned and fired two quick shots.

  'Coley!' Thorpe reached out as Coleman fell. 'They've shot Coley!'

  'Get down, Thorpe!' Jack snarled. He saw Anderson and Valeria both aiming revolvers at him and then Thorpe was charging forward, yelling incoherently and bayonet pointing.

  'Thorpe!' Realising that there was no reasoning with him, Jack followed, pointing his revolver and searching for Anderson.

  Instead he saw Valeria, standing in the open with a revolver in her hand. She swivelled to face Thorpe, and although she moved quickly, Thorpe sidestepped as if she was standing still and plunged his bayonet into her chest, shouting his hatred.

  'You killed Coley!'

  'Valeria!' That was the first time Jack had seen Anderson look upset. The American hesitated, swivelled toward Thorpe and raised his revolver.

  'No,' Jack said, and squeezed the trigger of his pistol. The hammer clicked on an empty chamber. Jack tried again, swearing, and lunged forward, seeing Anderson lift his pistol. The muzzle pointed toward him, seemingly as wide as the bore of a cannon, and he knew he was about to die.

  Anderson had won. After all the training, all the planning, the American had outwitted and out-fought him. It would end here.

  Jack did not see who threw the rifle, but it hurtled through the air like a mediaeval spear, with the bayonet thudding into Anderson's stomach. The American staggered, loosed off a single shot and crumpled. His bullet hit Valeria in the right side of her face and exited on the left side in a shower of blood and brains. Jack reached Anderson as he fell to his knees

  'Valeria!' Anderson reached out for his wife, only for Thorpe to jump on him, boots hammering.

  'You killed Coley; you killed my friend!'

  'Coleman's not dead,' O'Neill retrieved the rifle he had thrown. 'He's contemplating the heavens, avoiding work again.' He pulled Thorpe away from Anderson. 'Look for yourself.'

  Coleman lay on his back with blood seeping from his right leg. He raised a hand as Thorpe approached.

  'I thought you were dead, Coley!' Thorpe said and kicked his uninjured leg.

  'Quite the old married couple,' O'Neill said. Others of the 113th formed up behind him, grinning.

  'There are some Russian infantry over there…' Jack stopped as Kelly arrived and threw a smart salute.

  'The Ruskis have cleared off, sir. I shot another and the rest hooked it when the boys arrived.'

  'Well done, Kelly.' Jack returned his salute. 'And you O'Neill, how did you get here? How did you find us?' Jack asked.

  'We followed your trail,' O'Neill said. 'Between you and the cart even Riley could have followed you.'

  'Sir,' Coleman said. 'I can see the Malakoff from here.'

  'So can I, Coleman. So can we all.'

  'Yes sir, but it's near empty sir; there's nobody at the guns…'

  'You concentrate on getting back to hospital and getting that wound seen to. Thorpe will help you.' Jack said. 'We need to find Major Snodgrass. And we have to be quick. The Russians will send out another patrol soon.'

  'We've got Major Snodgrass, sir.' O'Neill said. 'He's back there with that Tartar fellow. He's unconscious but alive. Riley and Williams are looking after them.'

  A wave of relief passed over Jack. It was over. Anderson was dead, Snodgrass was rescued. The long duel was over. He swayed on his feet with delayed reaction and exhaustion, and realised what Coleman had said. 'Coleman! What do you mean, the Malakoff is empty!' He looked up at the tower, where Russian soldiers could clearly be seen. 'It's fully garrisoned.'

  'The guns weren't manned, sir,' Coleman said stoutly. 'There were soldiers but no artillerymen.'

  Jack took a deep breath. The longer they remained here, the more chance they would get attacked by the Russians, but Coleman may have discovered something vital. Down here in the ravine, their angle of sight to the Malakoff was different; neither French nor British would come here and see what Coleman had seen. 'O'Neill, set up a perimeter firing line; all round defence. And send that spy fellow Ansar to me.'

  There was definite movement at the head of the ravine; Jack saw the flicker of tree boughs shifting against the sky, heard the sound of boots scraping on rock and the clatter of equipment. If that was a Russian fighting patrol then his men were in danger, yet he had to confirm what Coleman had seen. It was worth risking his life, and that of all his men. 'Move, O'Neill! And get that blasted spy here now!'

  Ansar was bleeding when Williams and Riley dragged him to Jack, and his left eye was swollen and badly bruised.

  'You have acted the double agent once too often,' Jack tried to sound calm although very aware of the approaching Russians. 'You've cost us too many lives and too much trouble. I am not going to shoot you, I am going to allow Thorpe here to bayonet you and we'll leave your head for your friends.' He had not forgotten Ruthven's death.

  Ansar stiffened and looked at Thorpe, who stepped forward. 'They bastards shot Coley, sir, so I'll do it nice and slow, sir.' He ran his thumb up the edge of the blade. 'Nice and slow.'

  'I heard that the Malakoff was evacuated,' Jack said. He could distinctly see a body of men advancing on him down the ravine. The sun glittered on bayonets and buckles. Why did these things always happen at once? 'So we will be in Sebastopol in a day or so. You've lost your war, Ansar; that is a thought to take to your grave.'

  Ansar glanced at the Malakoff, where the Russian garrison were clearly seen. 'It is not evacuated,' he said.

  'It was a minute ago,' Jack said. 'Your Russian friends are running; you chose the wrong side.'

  The Russians were close now, their boots crunching on the rocks, their accoutrements clattering, bayonet tips catching the high sun. Jack hid his impatience: O'Neill would keep them at bay.

  'The Russians are not my friends,' Ansar spoke very quickly. 'I had no choice but to help them.'

  'The Malakoff,' Jack glanced at Thorpe. 'Keep that bayonet ready, Thorpe.'

  Ansar flinched when Thorpe took a step closer. 'The Russians have not left the Malakoff,' he spoke high pitched. 'The gunners only leave at noon when they change the guard. One set of men leave and then the other takes over.'

  Thorpe placed the point of his bayonet on Ansar's belly, a finger's breadth above the groin. 'Can I gut him now, sir?'

  'Not yet, Thorpe,' Jack stopped him. 'I might let him live if he tells me how long the Malakoff is empty for each day at noon.'

  Ansar cringed at the touch of the blade. 'About half an hour,' his voice rose with fear. 'Not the knife … shoot me instead… Anderson said he would murder my family unless I did as he said.'

  'Thank you, Ansar. You can put the bayonet away now Thorpe.' Jack breathed out slowly. Ansar had given him the key to the Malakoff, the crux of Sebastopol's defences. Now all they had to do was get back safely with
Major Snodgrass.

  'Here they come, sir!' O'Neill roared. 'Hundreds of them!'

  'Permission to fire, sir?' Thorpe knelt on the ground, rifle ready. 'Sir..?'

  'No!' O'Neill stood up. 'Don't fire! For God's sake don't fire! They're Frenchies!'

  'French?' Jack stared as the French Zouaves debouched from the slopes to the small clearing, long bayonets ready and faces grim. 'Vive la France,' he said, weakly. 'Vive la France.'

  Chapter Twenty Six

  'Well Windrush, you got him.' Colonel Maxwell leaned back in his chair with the cheroot smoke coiling around his head and the Regimental and Queen's Colours in their cases on either side of his desk.

  'Yes, sir,' Jack said.

  Maxwell nodded. 'I hear it was a private soldier who did the actual deed?'

  'Yes sir. Private Thorpe. He probably saved my life.'

  'There is talk of a new medal to be awarded for soldiers who have shown conspicuous gallantry,' Maxwell said. 'It is to be the equivalent of the French Legion d'Honneur and is to be awarded regardless of rank. I will put Private Thorpe's name down for it. It would be good for the regiment to have one of our own rewarded in such a manner.'

  Jack nodded. He could only imagine the comments if Thorpe was awarded some medal. Coleman, once he was recovered from the bullet in his leg, would have a field day, poking all sorts of fun at him.

  'More importantly,' Maxwell said, 'you settled with Anderson. It is a pity the woman was killed; that does not weigh fondly for the 113th. Some people still remember us as the Baby Butchers.'

  'Yes, sir. It could not be helped. She got herself involved in the fight and unfortunately was in the wrong place at the wrong time.' Jack had no regrets about Valeria's death. She had been an unpleasant woman at best.

  'Oh?' Maxwell raised his eyebrows. 'I heard that Thorpe bayonetted her.'

  Jack shrugged. 'Did he, sir? It was all a bit confused.' Jack thrust out his chin. He would not say anything to the detriment of his men. If they transgressed, then he would deal with them himself rather than passing anybody on to higher authority.

  'I see,' Maxwell smiled. 'Loyalty to one's men is always praiseworthy, Windrush.' He stood up. 'You'll be pleased to hear that Ansar is to be rewarded. That intelligence he gave us that the Malakoff is empty of artillerymen while they change the garrison could be invaluable. I have passed it on to the French higher command.'

  Jack shook his head. 'Ansar was working for the Russians, sir. It was Coleman who saw that the artillery in the Malakoff was not manned. If anybody gets an award it should be him.'

  'Quite so,' Maxwell said, 'but Thorpe is already in line for a medal. Two for the same skirmish on the same day is a bit excessive, don't you think? Neglecting Coleman's part will act as a counter to Thorpe's bayonetting of Valeria Anderson.'

  'Ansar was working for the Russians, sir.' Jack repeated. 'He would not have told us anything if I had not threatened to kill him.'

  Maxwell smiled. 'Not a very gentlemanly action, was it, Windrush? But necessary.'

  Jack nodded. 'I thought it necessary, sir.'

  'War is the art of compromise, Jack. We all start out with high ideals of gentlemanly chivalry, and then we learn that the reality is nothing like that. We have to make concessions, to let go of the high moral ground in order to win battles and wars.' Maxwell smiled. 'This war has changed you: you are growing into a useful soldier. You accepted the killing of a woman and you threatened a spy with a slow death. Now you must accept that Ansar is more useful alive than dead. Sooner or later we, or the Russians, will have no further use for his services and he will be killed. Until then…' Maxwell shrugged and said no more until he finished his cheroot.

  Jack waited; it was hard to believe that Anderson was dead. That shadow was lifted, that blood price was paid.

  'It is a pity about your brother,' Maxwell said. 'He is still a prisoner somewhere in Russia. They may boast of that.'

  'Yes, sir.' Jack had a suspicion that his failure to free Maxwell would return to haunt him in the future.

  'Well, the fault lies with Windrush of the Royal Malverns rather than Windrush of the 113th.' Maxwell stubbed out the remains of his cigar. 'You'd better take a day or so off, Captain Windrush. There is a certain young lady in Balaklava who may wish to see you. Dismissed.'

  'Captain Windrush?' Jack looked swiftly.

  'You were never officially refused the initial promotion.' Maxwell said calmly. 'I thought it best to withhold it until you grew into it. Think about it: the War Office did not have the time to hear about your promotion and rescind it.'

  'Yes, sir.' Jack said. Torn between anger at Colonel Maxwell's duplicity and delight at his confirmed promotion, he threw a hasty salute and stumbled out of the hut.

  'Well?' Elliot was waiting outside for him. 'What was the old man saying?'

  'He was saying that you have to salute your superior officer,' Jack said. 'I am Captain Windrush again.'

  'Oh begging your pardon your excellency,' Elliot stood stiffly to attention, saluted smartly and blew a loud raspberry. 'Are you going to celebrate your undeserved promotion with a bottle of brandy?'

  'Later,' Jack said. 'In the meantime I am going to Balaklava to see Helen.' Turning away he limped out of camp.

  The Crimean War

  The Crimean War was the largest war fought by Britain in the nineteenth century. There were over 650,000 dead on all sides, with around 475,000 of these Russian and 22,000 British. The majority of casualties were by disease, as was common in warfare until the 20th century.

  The war saw men march to battle wearing colourful uniforms and marked the transition between fighting with muskets and the more powerful and accurate rifles. It saw Britain's last major cavalry charge against a European enemy; it saw trench warfare, espionage and stupendous barrages of artillery, the use of railways and the telegraph, war correspondents, hospitals, the steam ship and the last hurrah of Britain's Napoleonic War veterans .

  The Crimean War exposed the limitations of Britain's small army, which had no reserve of man power to call on, so by 1855 the fighting regiments were depending on raw, young and virtually untrained troops, who did not fare well against the Russians during the battles to take the Redan. It was the French capture of the Malakoff in August 1855 that led to the fall of Sebastopol. That victory was thanks to intelligence that informed them when the Russian artillery men changed over, leaving the fortification temporarily weak. The British attack on the Redan that followed was an unnecessary disaster, for without the Malakoff, the south side of Sebastopol was untenable. The Russians evacuated the city and although the war ground on for many more months, the main objective had been achieved.

  For Jack Windrush, the future beckoned.

  Malcolm Archibald.

  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.

  Dear reader,

  Thank you for taking time to read Windrush: Blood Price. If you enjoyed it, please consider telling your friends or posting a short review. Word of mouth is an author's best friend and much appreciated.