Windrush- Jayanti's Pawns

by Malcolm Archibald

  The rising sun scorched the British while busy insects feasted on their sweat. Every so often, the rebels fired a volley that cut through the branches above the attackers' heads and dropped leaves and twigs on their prone bodies. Between the gunfire, there was birdsong and the occasional scream of a monkey. Always, there was the buzz of flies and the moaning of the wounded.

  A few yards from Jack a man yelled and grabbed his leg. 'Snake!' He half rose, there came the sharp crack of a rifle, and he fell without another sound.

  'Shot right through the head,' Armstrong said. 'Good shooting by the pandies.'

  'That came from above,' Riley said. 'They've got sharpshooters in the treetops.'

  Jack frowned. Uda Devi, the woman who had killed so many men in the second relief of Lucknow, had sheltered in the top of a tree. Perhaps the mysterious Jayanti woman used the same technique.

  'Don't stand up,' Jack ordered, 'try and scan the trees.' He shifted slightly, heard the crack of a rifle and flinched as a shot thumped into the tree at his side. That was too close.

  'I see him, sir,' Whitelam, the ex-poacher whispered. 'Don't move an inch.'

  'Where is he?'

  'About sixty yards to your right, halfway up a tall peepul tree. For God's sake, don't move sir, he's watching you.' Whitelam's words brought cold sweat to Jack's forehead despite the baking heat. To know that an expert sharpshooter was waiting for him was unnerving.

  'I'm going after him,' Jack decided. Better moving than lying as a target.

  'He's pointing his rifle right at you, sir.' Whitelam spoke in broad Lincolnshire as the strain worked on his nerves. 'You won't be able to move fast enough before he fires.'

  'I'll catch the bastard's eye, sir,' Logan said. 'I'm no' lying here all bloody day just to keep some pandy bugger happy.'

  'You keep your head down, Logan!'

  'Aye, right sir. So I will.' Logan was moving on the last word. Rolling from his cover, he ran back to distract the sharpshooter. Jack was on his feet before the rifle's echo reached him. He had to run the sixty yards to the rebel's tree before he or she could reload, and then climb up the bole without either the sharpshooter or the defenders of the fort shooting him. It was a tall order.

  Another shot sounded, followed by Logan's voice. 'Missed the bugger! He moved.'

  Jack glanced up and saw a drift of white gun smoke from a peepul tree. That must be the one. He hurried towards it, unfastening his sword belt as he did. The sabre was long and would be cumbersome as he climbed. He felt a bullet whiz past him as somebody fired from the fort, but hitting a moving figure at over a hundred yards amidst waist-deep scrub was nearly impossible.

  The lower few feet of the peepul's trunk was smooth, without handholds, so Jack had to throw himself upward to grasp the lowest protruding bough. He climbed quickly, hoping the sharpshooter had not yet reloaded.

  There was more shooting from the fort, and another bullet knocked splinters from the bole of the tree. Jack looked upwards, gasping. He could see only a tracery of branches and foliage; there was no sign of the sniper. Grabbing for the next handhold, he hauled himself up. As a boy, Jack had enjoyed birds nesting in the woodland around the Malvern Hills and the grounds of his school. He had never expected to use his tree-climbing skills hunting rebels in Rohilkhand.

  'He's searching for you, sir!' Whitelam's voice floated to him. 'I'll try a shot.'

  'No! You can't reload!' Jack shouted.

  Something dropped from above, rustling through the leaves and missing Jack's shoulder by a few inches. He looked down and saw a spear quivering in the ground, swore, pointed his revolver upwards and fired a single shot. He didn't expect the bullet to take effect but hoped to unsettle the sharpshooter. This situation was unnerving, playing hide-and-seek with a sniper while climbing a peepul tree.

  Jack knew that after he'd fired the six chambers in his revolver, he had no weapon. Without time to reload, he had to hit the sharpshooter or rely on his strength and experience to defeat him. That could be interesting, as many rebels were veteran warriors with more skill in close-quarter fighting than he had.

  Jack cursed as a dense clump of branches blocked his view up the tree. 'Can anybody see him?'

  'Twenty feet, sir!' Whitelam shouted. 'He's twenty feet above you!'

  The musketeer fired as Whitelam spoke, with a puff of white smoke giving his position away. Jack dragged himself upward into the thick foliage, hoping to catch his quarry while he reloaded.

  Thrusting his head between two branches and uncaring of the scrapes and scratches, Jack saw a small timber platform above him. The sharpshooter squatted on top, wearing a black turban, with a grey cloth covering the lower half of his face. Is that the same man who mutilated Ensign Green?

  The man looked down, and for a moment, Jack stared straight into his eyes. They were brown and strangely gentle, without any of the viciousness he had expected. Jack lifted his revolver, took quick aim and swore as the sharpshooter moved to the side.

  Inching higher, Jack tried to climb onto the platform, pulling back as the sharpshooter kicked at his head. Firing involuntarily, Jack had no idea where his shot went. The sharpshooter vanished.

  He must be somewhere on the platform. Jack crouched immediately beneath the rough timber. He wondered if a bullet from his revolver had the power to bore through the platform and hit the man, and if so, would it be able to inflict a telling wound? He had four shots left, should he try, and maybe waste a bullet?

  The spear point crashed through a gap between the planks, grazing Jack's shoulder. He flinched and yelled, and the spear withdrew, to plunge down again, harder than before. Simultaneously, a bullet thudded into the tree a few inches from Jack's leg.

  Jack jerked his leg aside, swearing. Jesus! There's more than one sniper! There was another somewhere, firing at him. Jack glanced around, saw only the tops of trees and launched himself upward. If he remained where he was, he would be a target for the second sharpshooter. If he kept moving, he would be harder to hit.

  Dragging himself over the edge of the platform, Jack rolled on the timber as the sharpshooter lunged at him with a spear. He was a lithe man, clothed in baggy green. As the spear thudded into the platform, an inch from his groin, Jack pointed his revolver at the sharpshooter and squeezed the trigger. The shot sent the man staggering backwards. Jack fired again, and again, seeing the bullets smack into the sharpshooter's body, seeing the flower of blood as each shot pushed the man further back. Jack squeezed the trigger again, realised that the hammer was falling on empty chambers and rose to a crouch.

  The sharpshooter tottered on the edge of the platform, stared at Jack, made a last ineffectual lunge with the spear and fell backwards. Jack watched him bounce through the branches and land on the ground far below.

  'You were a brave man,' Jack said. 'You were worthy of a far better cause than rebellion and mutiny.'

  Sitting on the platform and hoping that he was out of the vision of any more snipers, Jack began the laborious process of reloading his revolver. He had to place each round down the muzzle and into the chamber and then fit the percussion cap. As he worked, he looked around. A jezzail lay on the platform, the old-fashioned but accurate musket used by Afghan tribesmen. There was also Minié rifle with a quantity of ammunition. Four spears, a long steel dagger and a tulwar, completed the weapons. His erstwhile opponent had prepared well for the fight.

  'Captain Windrush!' Riley's voice floated from below. 'Are you all right, sir?'

  'All right, Riley,' Jack called down. 'Keep under cover. There are other sharpshooters.' Replacing his revolver in its holster, Jack lifted the Minié, remembering using the weapon in the desperate action at Inkerman where the 113th rediscovered their soul. He loaded it quickly and scanned the trees for movement.

  The jets of smoke from the fort attracted Jack's eye an instant before he heard the reports, and a dozen musket balls hummed around his tree, flicking off leaves and crashing through the branches. None came close. Jack knew that the mutin
eers would be lucky to hit him with the weapons they had, yet with so many men firing it would only be a matter of time before one found its mark. He moved to the northern side of the tree, so the bole afforded some protection. Even from here, the forest concealed most of the British and Sikh force although Jack could see men and officers cowering on the ground, under bushes and behind trees. The rebels had stalled the British advance and held the upper hand. Jack grunted; Sir Colin had been right about the use of cannon.

  Ignoring the fort, Jack studied the trees, spotting an occasional spurt of white smoke where other sharpshooters fired at the British lines. Distance or foliage concealed the majority of the snipers, so only one was visible. Jack steadied himself and aimed the Minié. The rebel wore the same baggy green clothing, black turban and drab veil as the man Jack had killed.

  Jack's shot splintered the timber at the man's feet, making him leap aside but doing no further damage. Jack grunted and rolled away as the sniper scanned the trees to see who had shot at him. Knowing his gun smoke would reveal his position, Jack lay prone for a few moments as flies explored his face. As soon as a bullet sprayed chips from the bole of the tree, Jack stood to reload.

  Looking towards his adversary, Jack saw him doing the same, and it became a race between the two as they hammered bullets down the rifle muzzle and placed the caps on with nervous, desperate fingers. Jack was a fraction slower and saw the enemy's Minié rise. He flinched as the muzzle flared orange and he felt the passage of the bullet, and then he steadied himself, took a deep breath and fired.

  The bullet took the sharpshooter high in the chest. He staggered, fell and dragged himself to his feet, looking for his adversary. Jack reloaded with desperate haste, fired again and missed. Despite his wound, the sharpshooter began to load a jezzail. The superbly balanced weapon was lighter than the British rifles and had a more extended range. Jack threw himself down, rolled away and lifted the jezzail that lay beside him. He'd never fired one before, hoped it was loaded, aimed and fired in a single movement. The kick was less than he expected, and he didn't see where the shot went.

  For a moment, Jack stared at his opponent across the intervening foliage, and then both moved together, scrabbling to load. Jack chose the rifle, the enemy lifting the jezzail and both concentrating on their weapon and oblivious to anything else. Jack knew that he was faster than most at loading, yet his wounded enemy was first and was aiming the jezzail while Jack lifted his Minié.

  Both shots merged in a double crack. Jack felt the tug on his right sleeve even as he saw the opponent stiffen and fall. He took a deep breath to still the hammer of his heart. That had been close. These black-turbaned musket men were expert. Now he should leave his perch before another targeted him. I've been lucky twice; if luck deserts me, I'll be dead.

  Kicking the weapons to the ground, Jack swung over the edge of the platform and slithered down the tree, swearing as he hit half a dozen branches on his descent.

  'Welcome back, sir,' Whitelam said, 'and keep your head down. The pandies are angry at you.'

  Jack agreed as a cannon fired from the fort, spraying grapeshot all around. Throwing himself to the ground, he rolled to the back of the tree and lay still as the enemy used him as a target. How old am I? Twenty-five? If I was a cat, I'd already have used up all my lives.

  'We've to withdraw, sir,' Elliot reported. 'The general's ordered in the artillery.'

  'Bloody General Walpole!' Jack heard one of the 42nd shouting. 'He cannae organise a simple assault. Look at the dead – Walpole's a murdering sot, so he is.'

  Others seemed to agree, to judge by the comments. With their unblemished record of victories now spoiled, the Highlanders were incensed, blaming Walpole for their defeat.

  'The Sawnies are right,' Thorpe said. 'Walpole's a murdering sot.'

  'Enough of that!' Jack shouted. 'Get back to the camp and leave the moaning to others.' Jack knew that he should nip any criticism of the higher command in the bud, for criticism led to disobedience and then mutiny, and this war started with mutinous soldiers. The 113th trudged back with their heads down and murder in their hearts, and as they withdrew, artillerymen pushed forward two eighteen-pounders and a pair of mortars.

  'Leave it to the artillery.' Jack looked at the dead and wounded that the abortive attack had cost. Ordinary soldiers always pay the price of a bad commander's folly.

  'People laugh at Sir Colin for his caution,' Elliot said. 'He's a far better commander than Walpole or a hundred Walpole's will ever be.'

  Jack didn't respond directly. 'Take command of the men.'

  'Where are you going, sir?'

  'To look at those sharpshooters I killed,' Jack said. 'Do you remember Uda Devi, the woman the Highlanders shot outside Lucknow?'

  'I do,' Elliot said.

  'She fought the same way, shooting from the top of a tree. I wonder if either of those snipers were women.' Jack realised he was shaking. 'I hope one was Jayanti. It was only good fortune that they didn't kill me.'

  'Good luck, sir.' Elliot handed over his hip flask.

  Not caring if Elliot saw him trembling or not, Jack took a deep draft. The taste no longer mattered; he needed the alcohol to settle his nerves. 'Thank you, Arthur. Get the men safely back.' He returned to the jungle.

  The eighteen-pounders began their bombardment, shaking the ground and pouring acrid smoke through the trees. There were no birdcalls now, and even the insects seemed subdued as Jack searched for the peepul where the first sniper had been. There were so many trees, and all looked so similar that it was ten minutes before he located the peepul and another five before he found the body. It lay a few yards from the foot of the peepul, face down and already furred by flies.

  'Sorry, my brave enemy.' Bending over the crumpled, bloody mess, Jack turned him on his face and pulled off the veil.

  'Oh, dear God, I was right.'

  The face of a young woman stared sightlessly up at him. She was darker skinned than most indigenous people of the area, lithe and wiry. Jack guessed her to be around twenty years old.

  'Why?' Jack asked, 'why must a girl like you die?' He sighed. 'Rest easy, warrior woman. You fought bravely for what you believed.'

  The second markswoman had fallen into a tangle of vegetation. Jack eventually saw a leg sticking up and cleared the undergrowth until he found the body. Kneeling down, Jack gently unrolled the veil that covered the lower face. Again, young features stared at him, twisted in death.

  'Go with your God,' Jack said, 'or rather, your Gods.' He unfolded the veil and replaced it over the woman's face to protect her from the questing flies.

  'So now we know,' Elliot said when Jack passed on his information. 'Colonel Hook was correct, and we're on the right track.'

  'I wish we had some spies we could trust.' Jack lit a cheroot. 'General Walpole doesn't seem to favour our normal information gathering techniques. We can't plan anything based on two dead women.'

  'Could we not ask the trooper who escaped from Ruhya Fort?' Elliot asked. 'He seems like a handy sort of fellow.'

  'I think he's gone back to Hodson's Horse.' Jack was pleased that for once he knew more than Elliot did.

  'That's a shame.' Elliot passed across his hip flask. 'We must carry on blind then, and hope for a break.'

  'At least we know a little more.' Jack sipped at the flask. 'We know that female warriors are fighting for the rebels and the fact that they all dress the same indicates they're in the same unit. I wish we knew how many of them we have to face.'

  Elliot retrieved his flask. 'Could you imagine a whole army of Uda Devis? The women here are every bit as dedicated as the men.'

  Jack thought of his stepmother's calculating years-long wait to unleash her vengeance on him. 'That could be true for women in general. We place them on a glass pedestal, we call them weak and emotional, we claim they lack common sense, and we say we have to look after them.' He shook his head. 'Except for a couple of fleeting encounters in Hereford and on the boat to India back in '51, I had
never spoken to a woman until I met Myat in Burma. I knew nothing of them.'

  Elliot grinned. 'I know what you mean. Public schools aren't the best preparation for mixing with women. Some of the officers I've met seem genuinely afraid of them.' He laughed.

  'You never talk about women,' Jack said.

  'I've got four sisters.' Elliot sipped at his flask. 'I know they are neither angels nor demons.' He grinned. 'Some days they are a mixture of both! Now your Mary—'

  'She's not my Mary,' Jack denied at once.

  'Methinks you doth protest too much.' Elliot's grin returned. 'Your Mary has more of the angel than the demon in her.' His expression became serious. 'Be careful there, Jack, my lad. While your old amour Helen may have enhanced your career, what with her being a colonel's daughter and all, Mary will not, however delightful a woman she might be.'

  'We are not here to discuss Mary Lambert,' Jack said.

  'Of course not.' Elliot switched the subject with ease. 'Did you hear about poor Colonel Grey?'

  'Colonel Grey? What about him?' Jack asked.

  'He's dead. Dysentery.' Elliot grunted. 'That's another colonel the 113th has lost.'

  'This regiment is hard on colonels,' Jack said. 'We hardly get to know them and then they're gone.'

  'That is so.' Elliot shrugged. 'Death is common out here.'

  'Too common,' Jack said. 'And it comes too young. That woman I shot was about twenty years old, and a Dalit, I think. That's an untouchable, the lowest caste in India.

  'I know what a Dalit is, Jack, damn it!' Elliot said.

  'One in every six people in India is untouchable.' Elliot shook his head. 'I can understand why the Rajahs fight us. They want control over their lands again. I can also see the sepoys' point in mutinying if they believed that we were interfering with their religion. But I don't understand why the untouchables fight. Every other caste despises them and condemns the untouchables to the lowest and most menial jobs. One would think they would welcome British help, and maybe wish us to end Hinduism and the caste system.'