'Here we go again,' Elliot said.
'Captain Windrush!' Jack recognised the sun-reddened cornet that approached him. 'I have a message from Sir Colin for you, sir.
'Thank you, Cornet.' Jack read the note the cornet handed him. 'Please convey my respects to Sir Colin and inform him that I will act immediately.'
Elliot watched as the cornet galloped away. 'That young Griff needs his bottom kicked. What does Sir Colin say?'
'We've to patrol ahead of the column and see if there are any enemy in the topes.'
'Is that not what the cavalry are meant to do?' Elliot asked.
'Aye, but we do it better,' Jack said. 'Right Elliot, take the right flank, Bryce, take the left. I have the centre with Ensigns Wilden and Peake.' Jack gave unhurried orders. 'Advance in extended order lads, loaded rifles and bayonets fixed. If in doubt, shoot.'
'What if they're civilians, sir?' Elliot asked.
'Do you think any civilians will still be here, with two armies about to do battle?' Jack paused. Elliot had made a valid point. 'Don't shoot any civilians and look out for Jayanti and her women.' By now, everybody in the 113th knew the real purpose of their mission. 'If you kill any of them, mark the spot. I want to see the bodies later.' I want that woman who mutilated Ensign Green.
The 113th moved forward slowly, probing every tope for signs of the enemy and stopping to drink at the streams. The heat was punishing, pounding them into the Indian soil, making every movement torture while each man moved with a circlet of flies around his head, and dust in his boots.
The first tope was of bamboo, crackling in the heat, tall and serene. Logan swore as a colourful snake slithered away. 'It's bad enough with the bloody pandies, let alone the buggering wildlife.' He stepped back to allow the creature to escape.
The 113th moved on, checking the treetops, probing the undergrowth, wary of an ambush.
'Sir,' Greaves spoke quietly. 'Something is moving in front. I don't know what.'
Jack nodded. Too experienced to show any alarm, he peered to his left. 'Whereabout, Sergeant?'
'There's a dip in the ground sir, and I swear I saw a shadow move. There's no wind.'
'I'll have a look. Be ready to support me.'
'Yes, sir.'
Patrolling alone was unprofessional. Leaving his men was wrong. Jack didn't care. He could not send a man to do a job he would not do himself; no proper officer would. With the dry grass brittle under his boots, he stepped forward, one hand on the butt of his revolver. Every yard took him further from his men and closer to the enemy. The notion came that at that moment he may well be the most advanced infantry soldier in the British Army.
A single bird rose from a tope two hundred yards to his left, and then another. The second bird called, the sound harsh in the oppressive air. Jack shook away the memory of the melancholic beauty of the blackbirds calling around the Malvern Hills. The ground dipped, as Greaves had said, and Jack felt the handle of his revolver slippery with sweat.
One moment Jack was walking over an empty landscape and the next the woman in the black turban was in front of him, watching. She was medium height with the bottom half of her face veiled and she had the most intense eyes Jack had ever seen.
Jack loosened his revolver in its holster. The woman wore similar clothing to the other female warriors, with green baggy clothes, black turban and the khaki veil over the lower part of her face. She also wore a studded leather glove on each hand and didn't carry any weapons.
'Who are you?' Her voice had the musical intonation of most Indians. To Jack, raised in Herefordshire, it sounded nearly Welsh.
'I am Captain Jack Windrush of Her Majesty's 113th Foot.' The woman seemed unconcerned by either the heat that hammered down on them or the circling flies. 'Who are you?' He'd already guessed the answer.
'I am Jayanti,' the woman said. She held Jack's gaze as if challenging him.
The rumours are correct, Jayanti exists. 'I've heard of you.' Jack felt the butt of his revolver slip a little in his hand. He contemplated lifting it, firing and ending this quest here and now.
'I would not try.' Jayanti seemed to read his mind. 'At this moment I have five rifles pointed directly at you. All I have to do is raise my hand, and they will fire.'
'I could still kill you,' Jack pointed out. 'A life for a life and your life is more important to your cause than mine is to Her Majesty.'
Gauging Jayanti's feelings was hard. Her eyes remained as intense as ever. 'I am unarmed,' Jayanti said. 'You are a British gentleman. Your code prevents you from killing me.'
'You're a clever woman, Jayanti,' Jack said. 'Sufficiently clever to realise that you cannot win this war. My Queen can send out many more regiments of professional fighting men with the most modern equipment.'
'You are a clever man, Captain Windrush,' Jayanti echoed his words. 'Sufficiently clever to realise that although you may win this campaign, you ultimately cannot win this war. India will wait until the time is right and then overwhelm you. Britain is many thousands of miles away. India is here.'
'Why are you telling me this?'
'Because you are different from the others,' Jayanti said.
'I am no different from any other British officer.' What does she mean?
Jayanti stepped back. 'Think about what I said, Jack Baird Windrush. You are different. And look out for your men. There are others very close by who do not wish to merely talk.'
'Come back!' Jack shouted, just as the rifle cracked and a spurt of dust rose a yard in front of him.
'Five rifles, Captain,' Jayanti reminded. She took another step back and vanished as suddenly as she had appeared.
'Sir!' Sergeant Greaves shouted. 'Cavalry!'
They erupted from the riverside, a horde of irregular cavalry with flowing robes and flashing swords. Jack swore. Spread out in the open, his men would be easy prey to these superb Indian horsemen.
'Form square!' He shouted as he ran back, all thought of Jayanti forgotten in his sudden concern for his men. 'Form a square!'
The 113th ran toward him, with the officers and NCOs hectoring the men, pushing the few laggards and watching the fast-approaching cavalry through nervous eyes.
'By platoon!' Jack ordered. 'Remember your training!'
The cavalry advanced at a canter, their hooves kicking up a curtain of dust through which only their heads, shoulders and waving swords were visible. A walnut-faced private, limping from an old Crimean wound, stumbled as he ran for the square, and sprawled in the dust. As if in slow motion, Jack saw the veteran rise and stare at his fellows, now fifty yards away. The veteran's rear-rank-man hesitated and ran to help, arm outstretched. Three rebel cavalrymen galloped free from the press toward the lone private. With one leg injured, the veteran fell to one knee and levelled his rifle. Then the cavalry was on him, a sword flashed in the sunlight, and the private's head rose in the air. His comrade turned and ran toward the rapidly-forming square.
One minute the injured private was alive and the next he was dead. He had been some mother's son, reared in the hell's kitchen of an English industrial slum, or in an Irish cabin or Scottish clachan. Some months from now the private's family would learn of his death and would mourn him for a day or a month or perhaps dismiss his memory with a shrug. He would have been born with hope and love only to die in a pointless skirmish many thousands of miles from home.
Rule Britannia. The poorest always paid the price of Empire to ensure profit for the richest.
Jack's men formed around him, taking their positions as automatically as they had done on a score of training exercises and field days.
'Front rank, kneel!' Jack ordered. There were no more stragglers out on the maidan, and already the charging cavalry was past the private's decapitated body.
'Second rank, cap!'
The men fitted their percussion caps, the replacements with shaking hands, the veterans with studied calmness.
'Ready!' The rifles came to the present on all sides of the square, a hundre
d British Enfield rifles ready to blast the approaching cavalry. It was the same formation that Wellington had used at Waterloo and not much different from the schiltrons that King Robert the First had used at Bannockburn over five centuries previously.
The cavalry increased their pace from a trot to a canter, half-seen in the dust, hundreds of fierce warriors, some of the best horsemen in the world, veterans of battle and skirmish.
The 113th faced them, the old soldiers' expressionless and the replacements white under their sunburn, wide-eyed, scared. Tongues licked dry lips; hands shook on the stocks of Enfields.
'Steady, lads,' Jack said. 'It's only men sitting on horses.'
'Come on you bastards.' Logan gave his ubiquitous invitation. 'Wee Donnie's waiting for you!'
'Cry Havelock!' somebody shouted, prolonging the final vowel so the others could join in. 'Let loose the dogs of war!'
'Ready!' Jack glanced to his right and left. His men were holding, the replacements drawing strength from the veterans. 'Second rank, on my word, fire a volley… Ready… Fire!' The Enfields cracked; the bullets sped toward the advancing cavalry. Unable to see for the dust, Jack could only imagine the chaos, the fallen horses, the injured men, the blood and agony and death.
'Second rank, cap and load! First rank, present!'
The cavalry emerged from the dust, wild men from the plains wielding curved swords, professional warriors ready to savage these northern invaders from across the kala pani, the black water.
'First rank, fire! Second rank, present!'
The rifles hammered again, and this time the cavalry were so close that Jack could see the havoc. Horses fell, screaming, torn by lead bullets. The riders immediately following trying to get past them, leaping over the kicking legs and writhing bodies. Men shouted, struggling to control their mounts.
'First rank, cap and load. Second rank, fire a volley!'
The bullets hammered in, remorseless, maiming, killing, wounding. The leading horses turned away, nostrils flaring, terrified, some falling under the hooves of the cavalry immediately behind.
'Second rank, cap and load! First rank, fire a volley!'
The 113th acted like a machine, firing and loading, aiming into the mass, professional soldiers doing their job, the cutting edge of Empire, the ultimate tool in Queen Victoria's arsenal, the little men at the sharp end who enforced the politicians' snake-tongued words.
'They're breaking, sir!' Greaves shouted.
'First rank, cap and load. Second rank, fire a volley!'
The 113th was unsupported. Cavalry could have charged into the enemy's flanks and completed the rout or artillery could have fired grapeshot into the retreating enemy horse. As it was, the 113th could only stand in their square and watch their enemy ride away.
'Come back and try again!' Logan roared.
Only a few yards in front of the square, thirty men and horses lay in a tangle, some dead, others writhing or groaning. The rebels had paid the price for attacking the 113th.
'Keep in formation,' Jack ordered. 'March back to camp.' The incident was over, and it would be foolish to remain out on the maidan in case more cavalry appeared, this time backed by musket-carrying infantry or artillery to blast his small square to bloody fragments.
Only when Jack returned to camp did he realise the full implications of what had occurred.
'Jayanti called me Jack Baird Windrush. How the devil did she know that? How does she know my full name?'
Elliot shrugged. 'I'm blessed if I know, Jack. These Indian fellows have spies everywhere. I wouldn't be surprised if half the bearers and doolie carriers in the column were giving information to the enemy. Why, they'd cut their granny's throat for a rupee and hand back the change.'
Jack nodded and tried to shake off the feeling that something was very wrong. How would a leader of irregular Indian low-caste warriors know his full name? Why would she approach him and, if she had five rifles aimed at him, why did she not kill him where he stood? There was more to Jayanti than he knew.
What sort of pickle has Colonel Hook landed me in?
The 113th didn't have much time to recover. That evening, 4th May 1858, Khan Bahadur Khan prepared to defend Bareilly. The British Army buckled its collective belt, checked its powder was dry and sharpened its bayonets for the test ahead.
'Here we go again.' Elliot loaded his revolver, tamping each bullet down the barrel and checking his percussion caps. 'Lord, I shall be very busy this day. I may forget thee, but do not forget me.' He looked up. 'And may God have mercy on us all.'
Jack couldn't muster a smile. 'I hope He has, Arthur, I do hope He has sufficient mercy for us all.'
The senior officers gathered around Sir Colin Campbell with the heat bouncing from the ground and the smell of men's sweat potent in the air. Jack glanced around the stern, bearded faces and the uniforms that spoke of glory and triumph, and wondered what the public back home would think if they ever experienced the reality of war.
'Windrush.' Campbell always muted his Glasgow growl when he explained his plans for a forthcoming battle. 'I know your men are expert in skirmishes and ambushes, scouting and picket work. It's time they made their name in a major encounter.' Campbell's dour, moustached face glared at Jack.
'My boys were at Inkerman, sir, and with General Havelock's advance on Cawnpore and Lucknow.'
'I am aware of that, Windrush.' Campbell gave what he probably believed was a smile. 'That's why I'm putting your 113th on the front line.'
'Thank you, sir.'
'Khan Bahadur Khan means to fight,' Campbell said. 'He has positioned his artillery on a range of sand hills directly on our line of advance. He also has cavalry on the flanks, so we have to keep formation, or he'll ravage our infantry.'
Jack wondered if he had thanked Campbell too soon. Glory and honour were all very well for the officers and the reputation of the regiment, but all too often it came at the price of maimed and broken men.
'We will advance in two lines,' Campbell informed the gathered officers. 'In the front line will be the Highland Brigade, the 113th, the 4th Punjab Rifles and the Baluch battalion. I will place a heavy field battery in the centre to counter the enemy artillery, and we'll have horse artillery and cavalry on the flanks. If Khan Bahadur Khan unleashes his horse, our guns will shatter them from a distance, and our cavalry will destroy what remains.'
There was nothing original about Sir Colin's plan. It was methodical, practical and sound.
'The second line will include everybody else,' Sir Colin said. 'Nobody will be left behind. The siege train, the baggage and the camp followers, the wounded and the sick will follow the fighting men.'
Elliot checked that his hip flask was full, pulled his sword from his scabbard to ensure it didn't stick and gave a weak smile. 'Good luck, Jack.'
'Good luck, Arthur.' They shook hands, and Elliot lifted his flask in salute.
'Here's to the next to die.'
'The next to die,' Jack echoed. He couldn't think of life without Elliot. After years of bloody campaigning, they were closer than brothers. 'Try to stay alive, Arthur. If you fell, I would have to tell your father what a rotten soldier you are and how little chance you ever had of becoming a captain, let alone a general.'
'And I want to see Helen again and tell her she married the better brother.'
During the Crimean War, Helen had left Jack for his half-brother, William, an officer in the far more prestigious Royal Malvern regiment and heir to the family house and fortune.
The men were also making their preparations for the forthcoming battle.
'If I die, Thorpie, make sure you see me buried, eh? Don't leave me for the wild beasts to eat.'
Thorpe shook his head. 'I won't Coley. I'll see you buried decent. You do the same for me, too.'
'I will.' Coleman sharpened his bayonet on a stone. 'Don't leave me, Thorpey, not out here. Swear that by the Book will you?' He produced a very battered Bible. 'Swear it, Thorpey.'
Thorpe recoiled sligh
tly. 'I can't read, Coley.'
'That doesn't matter. Just swear. God won't mind that you can't read.'
Putting his hand on the Bible, Thorpe mumbled, 'I swear not to leave your body for the beasts to eat.'
Coleman did the same. 'Thanks, Thorpey. You're all right.' He returned to sharpening his bayonet.
Jack saw Thorpe look away to hide the tears in his eyes. Men such as Thorpe, orphaned at a young age and deprived of familial affection, prized any sort of relationship.
'That's the way, lad.' Sergeant Greaves marched up to them. 'Use that bayonet properly mind, Coleman, and you too, Thorpe. I don't want you poking like an old woman with a knitting needle. When you see an angry pandy, you think of me, yell bastard, stick it right in him, twist and withdraw.'
'Yes, Sergeant,' Thorpe said. 'I always say bastard when I think of you.'
'Good lad, Thorpe. I knew you weren't as stupid as Coleman looks.' Greaves marched away to spread his words of encouragement.
At seven in the morning, the advance began, a slow march across the stream-seamed plain with the sun already hammering at the men. Within a few minutes, Khan Bahadur Khan's artillery opened up.
'Maybe if we kick up enough dust, they won't see us,' Thorpe began to shuffle his feet.
'Good idea, Thorpey,' Coleman said. 'The pandies will think the dust is a mist and all the noise is the monsoon starting. They'll all go home and let us win.'
'Do you think so, Coley?' Thorpe shuffled harder.
'Try and see,' Coleman said as a roundshot crashed into the ground in front of them, bounced once and rolled toward the extended khaki line.
'Jump over that ball! Don't try and block it!' Although the iron ball looked slow and cumbersome as it growled along the ground, it had tremendous momentum. In previous battles, Jack had seen raw soldiers try to stop a rolling roundshot with their feet, only to lose their entire leg. Somewhere to their right, the Highland pipes sounded, high and wild in the Eastern air.
'There are the pipes,' Logan said. 'Come on the tartan!'
The British advance continued, the slow, purposeful, remorseless march of professional infantry with a tradition of near-unbroken victory behind them. British, Sikhs and Baluchis marching side by side, bayonets and Enfields, turbans and the feather bonnets of the Highlanders mere specks on the dusty Indian plain.
Windrush- Jayanti's Pawns Page 7