Windrush- Jayanti's Pawns

by Malcolm Archibald

  Black Turban shouted something, and a rush of mixed warriors and mutineers charged between the 113th and the Colours. One lifted the staff and held it high, with the yellow-buff fly crushed and stained with Green's blood. A surge of mutineers came to help, cheering at their psychological triumph.

  'Come on, lads!' Logan led the counter-charge, sliding under a mutineer's bayonet to gut him, roll across the ground and rise in the middle of the enemy ranks. When Riley followed, with Coleman and Thorpe at his back, all the fight left the mutineers, and they fled in disorder. The warriors remained, standing around their leader, clashing their tulwars on round shields and flaunting their prize. The man in the black turban stepped to their front, lithe, slim and undoubtedly in command.

  Jack aimed at Black Turban and fired his final round, cursed as he hit a retreating mutineer, holstered his pistol and drew his sword. 'You and me, Black-hat!'

  Black Turban waited for him, tossing his tulwar from hand-to-hand, his eyes focused on Jack. The sun glinted blood red on a ruby ring on the index finger of his left hand.

  Sergeant Greaves was at the forefront of the charge that smashed into the warriors' flank, and a melee began, bayonet and rifle butt against sword and shield. The force of the 113th pushed the enemy back, and the wiry man holding the Colours staggered as Logan smashed his rifle butt into his face.

  'Sir!' Jack didn't see who shouted, he remained intent on facing Black-Turban. 'The Sikhs are in the Kaisarbagh!'

  The man in the black turban glanced down at the writhing Green and slid his tulwar into the ensign's groin, twisted and stepped back into the mass of the warriors as a corporal lifted the Colours.

  'You monster!' Jack roared as Green's screams redoubled. 'I'll find you!'

  A bank of powder smoke momentarily obscured the enemy as Jack knelt beside the writhing ensign.

  'Let's have a look at you,' Jack said and flinched. The tulwar had destroyed Green's face, splitting one eye, cutting off his nose and leaving a bleeding gash across his mouth. No girl would look at him again. Jack only glanced at the bloody horror of Green's groin and looked away quickly. 'It's not too bad,' he said. 'The surgeons will soon put you right.'

  Patting Green's shoulder, Jack stood up. In the few seconds he'd spent with Green, the battle had moved on. The 113th was roaring over the walls of the Kaisarbagh, in company with the 10th and the Sikhs.

  Without time to reload his revolver, Jack drew his sword and ran, jumping over the dead and wounded of both sides. He had two objectives in his head: lead his men to victory and find the man in the black turban.

  Once over the Kaisarbagh wall, he found himself in a series of magnificent gardens with fruit trees and marble arbours, sparkling canals and tinkling fountains.

  'We're in paradise.' The sheer beauty of his surroundings forced Elliot to stop in admiration. The whine of a bullet passing close by brought him back to reality.

  'Keep after the pandies,' Jack ordered, 'there will be time for sight-seeing later.' He ran into a sequence of courtyards overlooked by Venetian windows and with mutineers appearing on the roof above to fire and then disappear.

  'Stand and fight!' Jack yelled.

  'Maro Firinghi Soor! somebody shouted with another voice adding,'Allah Akbar! Angrez kaffirs!'

  Jack stepped sideways as a tall, shaven-headed Pathan appeared in a doorway and fired a jezzail. The Pathan shouted something, half drew the long cleaver known as a Khyber knife, held Jack's gaze for an instant and then slid away.

  'Stand and fight!' Jack slashed uselessly with his sword and ran on, with a press of the 113th and Sikhs at his back. The Pathan vanished into the maze of courtyards and gardens, and Jack tried to follow, brandishing his sword as he burst into the palace itself. Men of the 113th were behind him, exclaiming at the treasures that surrounded them. There was more wealth in one room than they would ever see in ten lifetimes.

  'This is more like it!' Private Armstrong, saturnine and predatory, said. 'Bugger the pandies.'

  'Leave the loot!' Jack warned. 'There are still mutineers around!'

  Soft carpets deadened the sound of their feet; silk hangings decorated the walls, mirrors reflected their images so for a second Jack prepared to strike at a wild-eyed swordsman before he realised it was himself.

  'They're running!' Elliot sounded amazed. He stood with his pistol in his left hand and his sword in his right, panting as the mutineers and warriors began a fighting withdrawal from the Kaisarbagh.

  'Stand and fight, you pandy bastards!' Logan waved his rifle at them; blood dripped from the bayonet. 'Remember Cawnpore!'

  After the massacres at Cawnpore and Meerut, the British had no mercy. They killed anybody who did not immediately surrender. Jack watched without emotion. The penalty for mutiny and treason had always been death, and the mutineers had murdered British women and children. In this war, there was little mercy on either side.

  'Loot!' somebody else shouted, and the cry spread among the British and Sikhs. As the enemy fled, the attackers realised that they were safe and within a selection of buildings that held immense wealth. 'Loot, boys, gold and jewels for us all!'

  With those words, the drive eased from the attack as men turned their attention to rapaciousness rather than soldiering. What they couldn't steal, they destroyed, so in minutes the Kaisarbagh became an orgy of pointless vandalism and theft.

  'Stick together, 113th!'

  Men ignored Jack's shout as they delved into rooms to see what loot they could find.

  '113th! To me!' Jack roared. He didn't want his men scattered around the Kaisarbagh where they could be vulnerable to enemy ambush. Capturing a town or palace was the most testing time for any military unit. Regiments held together in battle or on the parade ground, but British soldiers were prone to the temptations of loot or drink.

  'Sir!' Riley ran up with small, ugly Logan at his side.

  'I thought you'd be first at the looting, Riley.' Jack knew that Riley had been a cracksman, a professional thief before he joined the army.

  Riley shrugged. 'There's as much smashing as stealing, sir. These lads have got no idea.'

  Jack glanced around. Most of the veterans were with him, together with some of the replacements, the Johnny Raws who hadn't yet recovered from their first sunburn. Armstrong was missing, which didn't surprise him. 'Well done, lads.'

  The black-turbaned leader appeared from behind a fountain. He looked directly at Jack, raised his tulwar in salute and vanished. Jack did not see where.

  'Who was that sir?' Logan was on one knee, aiming his rifle. 'I cannae see the bastard.'

  'I don't know who he was,' Jack said, 'but I think we will see him again.' He replaced his sword in its scabbard. And when we do, I will kill him.

  Chapter One

  Lucknow, April 1858

  'We have trouble, sir.' Sergeant Greaves came to attention and saluted.

  'What sort of trouble, sergeant?' Jack asked.

  'We have two men missing, sir.'

  Jack sighed. Sergeant O'Neill would have sorted such a thing out himself without recourse to an officer. 'Let me guess – Thorpe and Coleman.' Two old soldiers with a liking for drink and women, Thorpe and Coleman were nothing but trouble when the 113th was in cantonments and worth their weight in gold when the bayonets were out.

  'No, sir,' Greaves said. 'Riley and Logan.'

  'That's unusual,' Jack responded. 'Have you asked Mrs. Riley where her husband might be?' Charlotte Riley was a sensible woman who usually kept her husband out of trouble.

  'No, sir.'

  'Come on then, sergeant.'

  Charlotte Riley was washing clothes in a wooden tub. She looked up when Jack arrived, drew the back of her hand across her forehead and nodded acknowledgement. Behind her, a group of women similarly engaged stopped work to listen. Three children, dressed in clothes inappropriate to the weather, scampered back inside the native huts the 113th had appropriated for temporary married quarters.

  'Good morning, Captain Windrush.'
Charlotte Riley spoke guardedly, with her eyes bright and wary.

  'Good morning, Mrs. Riley. We seem to have mislaid your husband.'

  'Have you?' Charlotte's eyes widened.

  'We have, and that other reprobate, Donald Logan.'

  'Wee Donnie?' Charlotte Riley smiled. 'Now there's a surprise.' She eyed Jack. 'It must be important for you to be involved, captain. How long have they been gone for?'

  'Two hours, Mrs. Riley.' Sergeant Greaves replied at once.

  'Oh, is that all?' Charlotte sounded relieved. 'Don't concern yourselves, gentlemen, they'll be back.'

  'How do you know?' Sergeant Greaves asked.

  'Riley wouldn't leave me behind.' Charlotte returned to her washing. 'He's not deserted.'

  'That is true.' Jack knew that Riley was close to Charlotte. 'Do you have any idea where they might be, Mrs. Riley? I'd like to find them before they end in serious trouble.'

  Charlotte pondered for a moment. 'Well, Captain Windrush, Riley is not interested in other women, so don't think of brothels. Neither he nor Wee Donnie drinks much, so it's not that.' She shrugged. 'They'll turn up. I can't think what else interests them.'

  I can. Jack remembered that neither Riley nor Logan looted the Kaisarbagh. Why not? Riley had been a professional cracksman, a high-class thief, and Logan was a street Arab from Glasgow, always on the lookout for what he could take for nothing. The only reason they would not join in the general orgy was if they had something else in mind. 'They haven't deserted,' Jack agreed. 'Thank you, Mrs. Riley. Sergeant Greaves, go and find Thorpe. He can help us.'

  'Thorpe, sir? Yes, sir.' Greaves was too much of an old soldier to reveal his surprise.

  Thorpe was on guard duty, standing outside the regimental lines with his rifle in his hands. He slipped a stubby clay pipe inside his mouth as Jack and Greaves approached.

  'Stand at attention when an officer is present, Thorpe!' Greaves roared.

  'I am, sir,' Thorpe mumbled.

  'It's all right, Thorpe, you're in no trouble,' Jack said. 'And you'd better take the pipe out of your mouth before you burn your tongue.'

  'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.' Thorpe looked uneasily from Greaves to Jack.

  'We have come to you,' Jack said, 'because you are an old soldier, a veteran of battle and siege.' He could feel Greaves staring at him, wondering what he was doing. Officers didn't normally speak to private soldiers in such a friendly manner.

  'Yes, sir,' Thorpe was equally suspicious.

  'You know all that's going on,' Jack continued. 'Where everybody is and who has secrets.'

  'Yes, sir.' Thorpe gave a little smile.

  'I thought I could rely on you, Thorpey.' Jack clapped him on the shoulder. 'We fought together in Burma, remember?'

  'Yes, sir,' Thorpe said.

  'Now, I need your help. I have to tell Riley something, and I can't find him. Do you know where he is?'

  'Yes, sir.' Thorpe didn't remove the pipe from his lips, so a puff of foul smoke accompanied every word. 'He's down by the River Goomtee for a little swim. Remember when we evacuated Lucknow last year, sir? They were the days, eh?'

  'They were, Thorpey, they were indeed. Whereabouts by the river is Riley?'

  'He's where we evacuated the city, sir, last time we was here.' Thorpe frowned, evidently thinking he had made that plain. 'Do you want a smoke, sir?' He produced a sweaty handful of something vaguely resembling tobacco. 'Me and Coley make it with cow dung and weeds, sir and a bit of real baccy when we can find any.'

  'No thank you, Thorpe. You might need it.' Jack hastily withdrew before Thorpe began patting his shoulder and calling him Jack.

  'Down by the river Goomtee.' Greaves repeated. 'Why the devil would he be down by the river? And it's not for a swim.'

  'I agree with you, sergeant, and we'll soon find out. Come on.'

  'I'll bring a picket, sir.'

  'No need, sergeant.' Jack shook his head. 'I know these men.'

  'That's what I mean, sir. So do I.' Greaves grimaced. 'Riley is a smooth-tongued blackguard, and I can feel Logan watching me every time I turn my back. He's gallows bait, that one, sir.'

  Jack smiled. 'You'll get used to them, Greaves. You only joined us a few months ago, didn't you?'

  'Yes, sir. Three months ago. I was in Number Three Company in Malta when this mutiny blew up.'

  'You'll get to know the men. Come on, sergeant.'

  Jack saw the flash of white skin in the water as he marched along the muddy bank of the Goomtee. 'Riley!' He roared the name.

  Riley started, and Logan appeared from behind a ruined building, rifle in hand.

  'What are you doing, Riley?'

  'Swimming sir.' Riley was the picture of innocence as he stood stark naked and thigh deep in water. 'It's hot.'

  'Swimming!' Greaves raised his voice to a roar. 'You should be on duty, Riley! By God, I'll have you two at the triangle before I'm through.'

  Jack saw Riley's expression alter. Once before, Major Snodgrass had ordered Riley flogged and neither he nor Charlotte had ever forgiven the major. Now his eyes narrowed at the threat.

  'Aye, would you?' Logan shifted his rifle enough to cover Greaves.

  'There won't be any of that if you're back on duty within the hour.' Jack hardened his voice. 'And you'll remain under Sergeant Greaves direct supervision until I say otherwise. Logan!' Jack turned around. 'Your tunic is not buttoned properly, and your rifle is loaded. You're on extra guard duty tonight once the sergeant finishes with you! Now get back to camp, the pair of you!'

  Jack watched as Greaves force-marched both men away. He looked back at the river where sad trees dipped their branches into the slow-swirling waters, and colourful birds hunted for insects. If he had Sergeant O'Neill with him, rather than Greaves, he would have found out more, but Greaves didn't know his men. Now it was unlikely he would ever discover what Riley and Logan had been doing at this river.

  Lighting a cheroot, Jack sauntered back to the 113th's lines, glad that the campaign was nearly over. He had been fighting since the previous summer, battle after battle and march after toiling march. He had lost count of the number of actions he'd survived and only knew that he needed rest, a period of peace. Surely now that Lucknow had fallen, the pandies would throw in the towel.

  Please God, let this nightmare end soon. I have had enough of killing and death for a while.

  'Soldiers? You're not soldiers! You're babes just out of the crib! You ain't a pukka soldier until you've had a nap hand.' Sergeant Greaves paced slowly along the line of replacements, meeting the gaze of each man and saying nothing until he reached the end. 'Soldiers? I've seen Sawnies fresh from the heather who knew more about soldiering, Paddies straight from the bogs who could march better and Cockneys from the stews who had more brains.'

  'He's not bad.' Watching from the side-lines, Coleman gave his professional opinion as he sucked on the stem of his pipe. 'Not as good as O'Neill, but not bad.'

  'I wonder if he can fight as well as he can talk.' Thorpe dealt out the greasy playing cards.

  'He did no' bad at the Kaisarbagh,'Logan said. 'He never ran away, anyway.'

  'Let's see how he is when we're not winning,' Coleman grunted at his cards.

  Riley examined his hand. 'Did you shuffle the pack, Thorpey? You've given me five aces.'

  Logan grunted. 'Aye, me too. You're a cheating bastard Thorpey.'

  'No I'm not,' Thorpe looked up, 'I'm not a cheating bastard, sir.'

  'They're pulling your leg, Thorpe. Ignore them and get on with the game.' Jack eased the sudden tension.

  'He's right, Thorpey. Concentrate on the cards.' Coleman said. 'That blustering sergeant will pull the beer trick soon. See if he doesn't.'

  'All right,' Sergeant Greaves returned to the centre of the line. 'Step forward two paces, all those who drink beer.'

  The replacements glanced at each other in wonderment, deciding what trick the sergeant was playing. Greaves waited, with the sun drawing the sweat from his face and e
vaporating it nearly simultaneously. Two men took a deep breath, and one stepped forward.

  'They always fall for it,' Coleman said.

  Logan glanced at Riley. 'Aye. Bloody fools.'

  'So you drink beer, do you?' Sergeant Greaves thrust his face close to that of the lone volunteer.

  'Yes, sergeant.' The man looked about twenty, with neatly shaped black whiskers and red skin peeling from his nose. Jack couldn't place which part of Scotland his accent was from, although it was vastly different from the harsh gutter Glasgow of Logan.

  'Do you eat bread and cheese?' Greaves asked.

  'Sometimes, sergeant,' the private said.

  'Well, that's nice. You eat bread and cheese and drink beer. You'll need that for you are about to become a soldier. Now, what's your name?'

  'MacKinnon, sergeant. Alexander Mackinnon from the Island of—'

  'Well MacKinnon, we have a Sergeant's Mess here. I want you to trot along and tell them that nice Sergeant Greaves has sent you to have one bottle of beer with his compliments.' Greaves watched as MacKinnon hurried away.

  'The rest of you,' Greaves spoke in a conversational tone, 'are lying dogs. You lied to your friendly sergeant about not drinking beer, and for that, you will double around the square with your bundooks above your head, until I tell you to stop. Now move, you lying bastards! Don't drink beer eh? By the living Christ! If you're the army, thank God we've got a navy.'

  'Stupid buggers,' Thorpe said with neither malice nor sympathy. 'I'm having three cards.'

  'An officer is coming,' Riley warned.

  The officer was tall and slender, with black hair slicked back and lapping his neck and a moustache that drooped past the ends of his mouth. He wore the insignia of a lieutenant colonel.

  'Stand up, lads,' Jack said quietly as Sergeant Greaves called his section to attention and slammed an immaculate salute.

  'Oh, don't bother with that nonsense,' the officer spoke to Greaves. 'I'm looking for Captain Windrush. Captain Jack Windrush.'

  'That's me, sir,' Jack stepped forward.

  The colonel subjected Jack to prolonged scrutiny. 'You're Captain Jack Windrush?'