Beyond The Frontier (Jack Windrush Book 9) - Malcolm Archibald

Windrush: Beyond The Frontier - book excerpt

Prologue

RAMSUD VALLEY, AFGHANISTAN MARCH 1878

All four men had been riding all day, so their horses were tired, with drooping heads and dirt-streaked bodies. The riders were tense, checking their surroundings, and occasionally touching the long swords they wore at their waists.

Around them, snow streaked the mountain sides, austere peaks nodding to the blue abyss of the sky, voiceless witnesses to the horsemen who rode through an alien land. From time to time, a man appeared on the slopes, careful to keep beneath the skyline as he watched the riders. Once, a youngster levelled his jezail, the long musket of the tribesmen, until an elder pushed down the barrel and shook his head.

“No,” the elder said, speaking in his native tongue. “They are known.”

Although he was desperate to try out his marksmanship on these strangers in his land, the youngster obeyed.

The four horsemen rode on, aware of their danger, as the elder signalled to a warrior across the valley. In turn, the warrior lifted his hand to a third man, further up, and the signals accompanied the strangers as they penetrated deeper into the mountains.

As the sun dipped and the four horsemen halted to camp, a troop of riders ghosted from the hills and surrounded them. The leader stepped toward the four men as his followers levelled rifles. He wore a twisted red turban around his head, while his long, faded, red tunic swung open to reveal the Khyber knife at his waist.

“Have you come to see Bacha Khan?” the man in the red turban asked without preamble.

The tallest of the four men nodded. “Bacha Khan instructed me to bring an escort of three men.”

“You were wise,” the man in the red turban said. “We told the tribes not to molest a group of four. Any more or less and they would have killed you.”

The tall man touched his forehead. “I’m glad you did not.”

“Come with us,” the man in the red turban said as his riders formed around the strangers.

The four horsemen doused their fire and rode on, now with the tribesmen acting as a close escort. When the sun sunk behind the mountains, the tribesmen neither faltered nor took heed of their weary hostages but continued to ride. Only when the moon rose, glossing the sky in the gap between two peaks did the red-turbaned man speak to the strangers.

“Another hour and a half-hour,” he said.

The tall stranger patted his pale grey horse. “My horse is tired.”

“He can rest when we arrive,” the red-turbaned man said.

The tall man nodded. He was naturally laconic, but when he did speak, people tended to listen, for his voice carried the stamp of authority and his bearing the assurance of command. Behind him, a heavily bearded man sighed, touched the revolver at his belt and patted the neck of his white horse.

Perhaps for the benefit of the strangers, the tribesmen slowed a little, following a high pass where the wind plucked at them, and the moon seemed so close they could nearly reach up and touch it.

The riders halted at the highest point of the pass, the kotal in the native language, and the tall man raised his binoculars and peered ahead. He saw the fort rising from a knoll in the centre of the narrow valley, moonlight highlighting its soaring towers and bathing the harsh walls in gentle light.

“Is your headman there?” the tall man asked.

“Yes,” the man in the red turban said.

They negotiated the path down into the valley with the tribesmen never straying more than a few yards from the visitors and the call of a jackal lonely in the night. Once in the valley, it was a comfortable ride to the fort, while the tall man approving the sangars and artillery emplacements on either side.

As they approached the fort, torches flared along the battlements, and the gate opened before them. The four horsemen clattered inside, with the tall man and two others placing their hands on the hilt of their swords.

Only two of the tribesmen rode inside the fort. One was the man with the red turban and the other an elderly, white-bearded man with a pulwar – a single handed, curved sword native to the country - at his belt and a long jezail strapped to his back. Both dismounted the moment they reached the central courtyard, where a group of men waited to greet the four horsemen.

“Welcome, my Russian brothers.” The man who stepped forward was wiry rather than muscular, with kohl lining his green eyes. The torchlight reflected from the bejewelled hilt of his pulwar as he addressed the tallest of the horsemen.

“It is not me you should greet,” the tall man said. He indicated the quiet, heavily bearded man who remained on his white horse. “May I introduce General Mikhail Dmitriyevich Skobelev?”

The green-eyed man smiled. “The famous White General,” he said. “Or should I call you Goz Ganly, Bloody Eyes?”

“You can call me anything you like,” Skobelev said, “as long as I can get off this damned horse.”

The green-eyed man’s smile did not falter. “The hospitality of the fort is open to you, General.”

Chapter 1

MALVERN HILLS, ENGLAND APRIL 1878

“Jack! Jack!”

The shouted words barely penetrated the chaos. Jack saw only a confusing swirl of faces, British and Indian. He heard the crackle of flames and the snarl of fighting men, while a female voice screamed in the background. A man reared at him, teeth bared, eyes wide and a bloody tulwar in his hand. Jack scrabbled for his revolver, as the fear rose to choke him.

“You’ll not kill her, you bastard!” Jack felt he was moving in slow motion, as though the revolver was ten times its correct weight, while his attacker moved with the speed of a pouncing panther.

“Jack!” The voice was frantic now, and somebody was gripping his shoulder.

Jack lifted his revolver, aimed between the staring eyes, and pressed the trigger. Nothing happened. The revolver misfired. The eyes widened further; they were brown, with long lashes, Jack noted, and the tulwar, the deadly sword of the Indian sub-continent, swung down, hissing through the air in terrifyingly slow motion. Aware it was futile, Jack lifted his revolver to try and block the blood-slicked blade.

“Jack!”

Strong hands on his shoulder, a voice in his ear. Jack flinched from the oncoming tulwar, opened his eyes, to blink in the candlelight.

“What?” Jack blinked again, hearing his harsh breathing.

“It’s only a nightmare. You were having a nightmare.” Mary was beside him, her face concerned, yet reassuring. “It’s all right. You’re home.”

“Home?” Jack looked around at the familiar furnishings of their bedroom in Netherhills. The marble-topped table with the ewer and pitcher on top, the brass candelabra, the pendulum clock on the wall, and Mary’s clothes draped over the back of a chair; all was as it should be. “I was back in India.”

“I know,” Mary said. “I’ve been married to you for nearly twenty years. I know where you were.”

“In the Mutiny.”

“I know that, too,” Mary said. “You were shouting in Urdu and Pushto, with some Anglo-Saxon for good measure.” She shook her head, faintly smiling. “The language was shocking.”

Jack sat up, aware that his nightshirt was drenched with sweat. “Sorry about that.”

“So you should be. I’m a well-brought-up lady, and I’ve never heard such words before.” Mary stepped to the window and pulled back the curtains. “The sun’s up, Jack. It’s time you were too. Today’s going to be a busy day.” She watched as Jack rose, casually slapped his backside as he stripped off his nightshirt and shook her head. “You’re like an old fighting dog, Captain Jack. How many scars have you collected in your wars?”

“Less of the old, please, and too many.” Jack stepped into the bath a servant had prepared the previous evening. It was a habit he had picked up in India and maintained whenever he could. A cold bath woke him up for the day ahead.

Mary watched him lower himself, smiling at his grimaces. “You are a strange man, Jack, torturing yourself every morning.”

Jack nodded. “At the moment, I agree with you. Once I get out, I’ll feel better.”

Sliding onto her front, Mary rested her chin in both hands. “I’ll watch you.” She smiled as Jack rose from the bath, cascading water onto the floor and blowing hard. “Yes, Jack, I see that you feel better!” She laughed and rolled away as Jack retaliated by splashing her.

“Is it only twenty years since we married?” Jack asked. “It seems more like fifty!” He left the room quickly, only returning when he remembered he was still undressed and the house contained young female servants. “Pax?”

“Pax,” Mary said, smiling. “Come on, Jack. We have a busy day ahead of us.”

***

The Malvern Hills of western England were green and low, never exceeding fourteen hundred feet, but Jack still preferred them to any other range he had ever visited. He had grown up in their shadow and knew every nook and cranny, every hidden copse, every path and secluded well on the slopes.

“When I die,” Jack said, pulling the reins to halt Mathon, his horse. “I want you to bury me here.” He allowed his gaze to wander along the ridge.

“In the Windrush vault?” Mary stopped at his side, lifting her face to the wind.

“No. That is closed to me. As a bastard son with a Eurasian mother, I will never be allowed in there.” Jack shook his head. “Anyway, I prefer the open air. I want to rest here, with all of Herefordshire on one side, Worcestershire on the other, and the cool English winds brushing my grave.”

“You’re very morbid this morning,” Mary said.

Jack laughed. “Not really. Death comes to us all, and I can’t think of a better place to lie for eternity.”

Mary pulled a face. “There is plenty of time to think of death, Jack.” She spread her arms. “On a glorious day like this, we should think only of life, and the race. I do hope that David does well.” She smiled. “I wish he had kept his first name. I much prefer Andrew to David.”

Although Mary had christened their son as Andrew, he preferred to be known as David.

“He’s adamant he will be David, so we’ll call him that,” Jack said. “He will do well in the race; he’s one of the best rough-riders I have ever seen.”

“Your nephew, Crimea, is also good,” Mary warned. “And he’s two years older.”

“Aye, and at least two stones heavier.” Jack produced two cheroots from inside his tunic. Lighting both, he passed one to Mary, then put the second between his lips. “It’s strange. William and I were only adequate on horseback. Our sons are both much more skilled.”

Mary drew on her cheroot. “Why did your brother call his son Crimea?”

“William called him William Crimea, so all the world knows that William gained the Victoria Cross there. The lad’s known as Crimea to avoid confusion with his father.”

“Ah, I see,” Mary said.

The crowd began to gather, with officers and men of two regiments, the 113th Foot and the Royal Malverns, scattered among the local population. Most spectators came on foot, some on horseback, chattering and voicing their opinion of the coming point-to-point race. The officer’s clipped voices sounded above the more homely Herefordshire and Worcestershire accents, with the other ranks speaking in every tongue and dialect from Caithness to Cornwall.

“Good morning, sir, and good morning Mrs Windrush.” Young Lieutenant Trent gave a smart salute as he limped past. “It’s a glorious day.”

“It is that, Trent,” Jack replied, “but it’ll rain in an hour or so.” He indicated the gathering clouds to the west. “Are you not taking part in the race?”

“No, sir.” Trent indicated his left leg. “I twisted my ankle. I’d not show well, I’m afraid.”

“I see,” Jack said. He waited until Trent walked away before shaking his head.

“You don’t like him, do you?” Mary asked.

“No,” Jack said. “He’s a British officer, and he’s pulling out of a competitive event because of a sore ankle.”

“Perhaps he’s afraid of shaming the 113th by performing badly.” Mary tried to defend the lieutenant.

“There’s no shame in losing,” Jack said sourly. “There is shame in being afraid to try.” He drew on his cheroot. “Come on, we’ll get ourselves a decent viewpoint before the hills get busy.”

The military section of the crowd parted as Jack led Mary to a hillock that afforded the best view of the upcoming race. Some of the locals peered curiously at Mary’s darker complexion until Jack treated them to a glare, after which they looked hastily away.

“They’re still not used to having a Eurasian as a neighbour,” Mary said.

“If anybody says anything, let me know,” Jack said. “I’ll treat them to a good kick up the backside.”

“Eloquently put, husband, dear,” Mary said quietly. “I am so lucky I married a man of sophistication and loquacity.”

Jack frowned. He could not tell Mary how much others’ treatment of her hurt him.

From their hillock, Jack and Mary had a view of the entire Malvern range, and when Jack lifted his binoculars, he could see the horsemen gathering at the summit of End Hill.

“There they are,” he pointed out to Mary, “and our boy is right in the middle, where he belongs.”

“Let me see.” Mary borrowed Jack’s binoculars and focussed on the riders. “I see him!” She waved her hand, momentarily forgetting that David did not have binoculars attached to his eyes.

When Trent joined them on the hillock, Jack pulled rank and requisitioned the lieutenant’s binoculars, knowing that prising his own from Mary’s hands would be impossible.

There were twenty-four riders grouped at the summit of End Hill, eight from the Royal Malverns, seven from the 113th, eight hopeful locals and David. All were young men, with the military riders being lieutenants or second lieutenants, the most junior rank of officers. The object was to ride the length of the main Malvern range, from End Hill to Summer Hill following a marked route that took in many summits. A sergeant of each regiment waited at each peak to mark their passage, with both the regimental colonels plus local dignitaries at the finishing point.

“David’s looking confident,” Mary said happily.

“Arrogant young pup!” Jack hid his pride behind a gruff front as he watched the riders. Crimea was to the left of Jack, with the two cousins seeming to ignore each other. Jack frowned; he did not wish his fraternal dispute to continue to the next generation. Life in the army, if David joined, was sufficiently fraught without any added burdens.

The riders came to the mark, a ribbon stretched across the grass, and a middle-aged man, the Master of the Malvern Hunt, held a pistol in the air. Tall, supple, and red-haired, David looked relaxed as he whispered in the left ear of Tweed, his brown gelding. Beside him, Crimea was taut, eagerly studying the length of the course. A young Herefordshire man, Adam Hanley, cracked a joke to which all the riders gave a nervous laugh.

The Master of the Hunt called them all to the line and raised a small pistol. Jack saw the puff of smoke a second before he heard the crack of the shot, and the riders bounded down the hill.

“They’re off,” Mary told the world without moving Jack’s binoculars from her eyes.

Crimea immediately powered to the front of the pack, shouldering aside a very young second lieutenant of the Royals, and leaning far forward in his saddle. David hung back a little, allowing a front group of four riders, including Crimea and Adam Hanley, to make the running. Behind David, the main pack strung out as riders chose their favoured route down End Hill.

“He’s waiting for the leaders to make a mistake,” Mary explained why her son was not immediately in front.

Jack grunted, watching as Crimea pressed his spurs into the horse’s flank. Already he was a neck ahead of Adam Hanley, his closest rival, and gaining half-an-inch with every stride. “Come on, David,” he said. “Don’t let Crimea pull too far ahead.”

By the time the riders had reached the foot of End Hill and headed up the grassy slopes of North Hill, they were already well spaced out. Crimea led Adam Hanley, a lithe lieutenant of the 113th named Harcourt, and a second lieutenant of the Royals. Then came David, a full two lengths behind, and the remainder followed in a long, straggling line of hopeful officers and local men desperate to show they could compete on their familiar hillsides.

“Move, David!” Mary shouted as the riders spurred along the ridge towards the next hill, with Crimea increasing his lead with every minute.

David seemed content to remain in his present position between the two groups. However, Crimea resorted to his whip and spurs, so by the time they reached North Hill, he was a clear three lengths ahead. The sergeant on North Hill, a broad-chested man of the Royal Malverns, cheered on his officer.

“Come on, David!” Mary nearly screamed. “Don’t let them get too far in front!”

Jack gripped Trent’s binoculars so hard his knuckles were white but said nothing, content to allow his wife to shout for both of them.

Rain swept from the west, dampening the grass, so some riders struggled to find footing for their mounts. Crimea continued, faster if anything, with Lieutenant Harcourt and Adam Hanley his main competitors. David fell behind, pushing at Tweed without resorting to the whip.

“Come on, David!” Jack muttered, bit through the end of his cheroot, cursed, and lit another. Mary did not lower the binoculars from her eyes.

As the riders streamed up the hill, it became evident that the majority was already out of the competition. Only the three riders beside Crimea were in the running, with David seemingly cantering behind and the rest only making up the numbers.

“He’s falling further back,” Jack said.

“David knows what he’s doing,” Mary spoke without moving. “I know my son; he’s like you, always got some ploy up his sleeve.”

Jack grunted again. “I am nothing like that. Come on, David, use your spurs for God’s sake!”

Mary glanced at her husband. “Blasphemy won’t help, Jack. Have a little faith.”

“I have all the faith in the world,” Jack said, “but I can’t stand to be beaten by William’s brood!”

“You’re as bad as they are,” Mary said and raised her voice. “Come on, David!”

North Hill led to Sugarloaf Hill, then the long haul to the Worcestershire Beacon, the highest point on the range. A mixed group of Royals and 113th stood on top, marking off the riders as they approached. Crimea was comfortably in front, with Adam Hanley next while Harcourt struggled desperately to close the gap.

“Good lad that Harcourt,” Jack said. “He’s not giving up.” He swivelled his gaze back to David, now a full eleven lengths behind the leading riders.

From the Worcestershire Beacon, the riders had a long descent down a ridge, where an area of broken ground split the leading group. By now well in front, Crimea avoided the broken ground, taking a wide detour, which the remainder of the leading group followed.

“What’re you doing, David?” Jack asked as his son finally put his head down, kicked in his heels and powered forward right into the series of rocks and gulleys. “You’ll break your fool neck! It’s only a blasted race, damn it!”

Mary gave a strange little laugh. “That’s the way, Andrew David Windrush! Show them how to ride!”

“That’s dangerous ground,” Jack insisted.

“David knows what he’s doing,” Mary insisted. “He’s had this planned all the time.”

Crimea looked sideways at David and spurred harder, using the whip unmercifully, so his horse bounded forward, while David pushed across the uneven ground, overtaking Harcourt and Adam Hanley.

“There’s a deep gulley ahead,” Jack failed to hide his concern. “We used to go rabbiting there. The ground is treacherous with the old burrows. Be careful, Davie!”

“David knows what he’s doing,” Mary said. “It’s Crimea who concerns me. He’s quite prepared to kill his horse to remain in front.”

Crimea was now six lengths ahead of his rivals, spurring and whipping like a man demented. In the meantime, David was approaching the gulley. Jack watched, knowing that David either had to ride around, or negotiate the downward slope and then face the rise on the opposite side. Either choice would lose him time, while Crimea was at the furthest point of his circuitous route. There was a single gnarled, wind-blasted apple tree that Jack used as a marker. Once Crimea reached that, all he had was a short, smooth pull up the slope to the winning post, where the colonels of both regiments waited.

David did not hesitate. While Jack expected him to lose speed to negotiate the gulley, David leaned forward, spoke to his horse, and kicked in his heels, just once. Tweed responded with a sudden burst of speed and a massive jump.

“Dear God in Heaven!” Jack breathed as for a moment he saw horse and rider suspended over the gulley. Jack had an image of David, his hat flying from his head, his body thrust forward to help his horse and his face animated as the horse leapt the chasm. If David failed, horse and rider would tumble down the steep side of the gulley, with broken limbs a near-certainty and a fractured neck a possibility.

“David!” Mary screamed, her voice alone in the sudden hush that descended on the crowded Malvern Hills. Hundreds of pairs of eyes and a score of binoculars focussed on the drama as David urged Tweed across the gap.

Tweed landed at the very edge of the gulley, scrabbled with his front hooves, and moved on, with David leaning forward in the saddle. Once across, it was a straight run up the slope to the finishing post at Summer Hill, but the hill was steep, and Crimea was pushing his horse harder than ever.

“Crimea is not giving up, yet!” Mary said.

Jack nodded. “He must be wondering how David can do it. So am I.”

“He’s your son,” Mary said. “Always full of surprises.”

“The young idiot could have broken his neck.” Jack concealed his pride.

With David now in front, Crimea used his whip and spurs to urge on his mount.

“Come on, David!” Mary shouted.

But the detour around the broken ground had been too much. Crimea’s horse was visibly tiring, so David’s lead increased to a full five lengths on the final hundred yards to the summit. Adam Hanley edged Harcourt on the last leg, with both riders grinning to each other as they finished behind Crimea and David.

Jack lowered Trent’s binoculars and realised he had bitten through his second cheroot. The stub lay on the grass at his feet, so Jack lit another.

“I told you David had a plan,” Mary said with her voice hoarse with shouting. “Shall we go?”

Jack nodded. “Yes, let’s see David in his moment of triumph.” He returned Trent’s binoculars, mounted Mathon and headed for Summer Hill. Mary kept level with him, and by the time they reached the finishing post, half the officers of both regiments were present.

As a neutral, the colonel of the local Volunteers presented the trophy, a small silver cup. He smiled as he handed it to David and made a short speech.

“Congratulations, Andrew David Baird Windrush,” he said with his whiskers bouncing at every word. “Your regiment will be proud of you!”