Windrush: Blood Price (Jack Windrush Book 3) - Malcolm Archibald

Historical War Fiction Set In 19th Century Russia

Windrush: Blood Price (Jack Windrush Book 3) by Malcolm Archibald

Book excerpt

December 1854

'Bloody mud,' Thorpe's voice came clearly to Jack as he toured the camp of the 113th Foot, the notorious Baby Butchers. 'We give Johnny Russ a hell of a towelling and what do the officers give us? Wet blankets and mud. Bloody Ruskis and bloody officers and bloody, bloody Crimea.'

'Good morning Thorpe,' Jack said quietly. 'I hear you are settling in nicely?'

'Oh, yes sir!' Thorpe scrambled a hurried salute. 'All fine, sir and congratulations on your promotion.'

'There was no promotion, Thorpe,' Jack said.

'Oh sorry sir, I heard a shave…'

'The shave was wrong. I am still Lieutenant Windrush; not the commander in chief yet.'

Standing to approximate attention amidst the lines of tents that the 113th called home, Thorpe looked confused. 'I never heard that you was to be commander in chief sir. I heard you was to be a captain.'

'That information is equally false,' Jack said solemnly. 'You have my permission to find whoever told you and give him a mighty kick up the breach.'

'Have I sir?' Thorpe's grin showed surprisingly white teeth. 'It was Sergeant O'Neill, sir,' Thorpe nodded toward O'Neill, who sat on a box of cartridges cleaning his Minie rifle.

'Well, perhaps better not kick him then,' Jack amended, 'unless you can run very fast indeed afterwards.' He looked over those of his men who had survived the battle on Inkerman ridge. Donnie Logan was there, small, ugly, indestructible and avoided by his fellows because of his explosive temper and tendency to extreme violence. Red-haired Smith sat on a rock staring vacantly into space; Jack was unsure if he possessed all his mental facilities or if he was merely uneducated like so many of the men who took the Queen's shilling. There was big Fletcher from Hampshire, slow of body, the worst shot in the army but loyal and steady. Williams from the South Wales coal mines, a quiet, hardy man with the chest of Hercules and short legs, carrying the blue-seamed scars of the pits on his face and body. Then there was Coleman, who had been with him through the Burmese campaign, a man who would avoid work as if it was fatal, but one of the best when the deck was stacked against them, and the enemy was flaunting his aces.

Jack greeted each man individually, recognising their good points and weaknesses, knowing them as men as well as soldiers. Some had been with the 113th since he had joined nearly three years before; others had transferred from the 118th when the regiments merged due to horrific casualties through battle and disease. All had proved themselves in fire and blood.

'I heard you were still a lieutenant, sir,' Riley threw a smart salute. 'Please accept my condolences. I know it's not my place to say sir, but the War Office has made a major blunder there.'

Jack nodded. 'Thank you for the words, Riley, and you are right. It's not your place to say.' He stopped beside the dapper private. 'You are an enigma, Riley; a gentleman ranker, a public school man with great skill in housebreaking and a talent for the theatricals.'

'Yes, sir.' Riley remained at attention, his face expressionless.

'I heard you turned down my recommendation that you take corporal's stripes, Riley.'

'Yes, sir. I've no desire for promotion. I would rather remain with the lads.'

'So I see. It might be easier for the good Mrs Riley if the army promoted you; that little bit extra money might come in handy for her.'

'I'd prefer to remain as I am, sir.' Riley kept his gaze fixed on Jack's forehead, not meeting his eyes.

'I understand; a man among faceless men, incognito and unknown.' Jack nodded. 'As you wish, Riley. Carry on.'

'Sir!' Riley produced another salute that would not have been out of place in the Brigade of Guards and remained at attention until Jack had walked past.

There were other men, men he had never fought beside; these were so far anonymous, tall men and short men, hard-faced veterans and large-eyed youths who wondered why they had fallen for the recruiting officer's blarney, so the army could pitch them into the relentless mincing machine called war.

'We are off to the trenches in an hour, men,' Jack reminded. 'Make sure you have eighty rounds of ammunition, and your rifle is clean. Check your bayonet can slide out of the scabbard quickly if required; bring water and food with you, keep your locks and muzzles free from mud and dirt.'

The veterans nodded; they had heard all this advice many times before and knew exactly what the army expected of them. There was no suspicion of heroism in any of their lined, tired faces. Heroes died quickly and messily in this Crimean War. The younger men merely looked exhausted even before their twelve-hour stint in the trenches began.

They ate first. Surprisingly there was Irish stew, nearly hot although Jack wondered what kind of animal had died to supply the men with food. It certainly did not taste like beef or pork; presumably, some unfortunate horse or mule that had died of overwork or lack of fodder. None of the men complained; they ate quickly, without relish and without appetite, all thinking of the ordeal and danger to come.

'No cold grunter today,' Thorpe shovelled his Irish stew into his mouth as if afraid somebody would take it from him.

'It's the last meal of the condemned man,' Coleman said. 'The officers like to feed you up before they send you to be executed, see? They must know Johnny Russ is up to something.'

'Is that so, Coley?' Thorpe looked around. 'I never knew that.'

'It's true,' Williams said. 'I'd better have yours, Thorpey.'

'What?' Thorpe drew his plate further away. 'You eat your own, Taff. You're not getting mine.' He kicked out at Williams with his nailed boot. 'Go on with you!'

'Enough, lads,' O'Neill stopped them. 'Keep your energy for the Russians.'

'Final check before we go forward.' Jack said. The men formed up in front of him in paper-thin greatcoats and in tunics that had once been scarlet and were now faded to every colour from pink to ochre, with most so badly torn and patched that their resembled uniforms in name only.

'Sir; when are we getting new uniforms?' Coleman might have read Jack's thoughts. 'These are falling to bits.'

Jack could answer that. 'The War Office has graciously decided that you all deserve a new issue of uniforms,' he said. 'They will be delivered in June next year.'

The men exchanged sidelong glances, said nothing and remained at attention.

Jack nodded, understanding their mood of sullen acceptance. 'Other regiments may be content to wait until things improve,' he said quietly. 'We are not other regiments. We are the 113th. We have our methods. I will leave you to discuss it among yourselves. If anybody has a legal solution, I want to hear about it. I do not wish to hear about anything that is against regulations.'

He let his words sink in. These men knew him; they knew he was on their side. They would understand what he meant.

There were over nine miles of British trenches in a sequence of lines known as parallels facing the defences of Sebastopol. As long as the siege lasted, these trenches were the most dangerous places to be in this war, the target of Russian artillery, Russian sharpshooters and Russian raids. They were also cramped, cold, wet and uncomfortable.

Jack led his men along the zig-zagging communication trenches that led to the front, feeling the mood alter with every passing yard. He looked up at the now familiar walls and fortifications of Sebastopol, with the outworks manned by resolute, skilled Russian artillerymen and formidable redoubts lined with the ugly snouts of cannon waiting for any British assault. The triangular earthwork of the Great Redan dominated the walls opposite the British lines, overlooking everything across hundreds of yards of open ground.

'Keep your heads down, men,' Jack reminded. 'The Russian sharpshooters just love to put holes in us.'

He heard the advice passed backwards from man to man as they moved forward from the first to the third parallel, so they were only about four hundred and fifty yards from the Russians.

'It's bloody freezing!' Thorpe said, loudly, for a scandalised O'Neill to hush him into silence.

'Shut your mouth, or Johnny Russ will hear you and do the army a favour by putting a bullet between your eyes. Her Majesty wasted a shilling when she bought you.'

The resulting laugh was low key but good to hear. The British soldier could laugh at any hardship as much as they could grouse. If the laughing and grousing ever ended, Jack knew that they were in real trouble. Black humour and regimental pride were the army's secret weapons.

Jack paused as a wolf called somewhere, the sound high, lonely and sinister.

'I didn't know they had wolves out here,' O'Neill said. 'Ugly things; worse than the bloody Russians.'

'Are you relieving us?' The speaker was a captain of the Royal Scots; hard of eye and face, with a bloody bandage on his left arm.

'We are,' Jack said. 'Lieutenant Windrush of the 113th.'

'Right, 113th. I am Napier of the 1st Foot.' The captain nodded forward. 'As you see we are directly opposite the Redan so watch for sharpshooters. They like to keep us on our toes.'

'We'll watch for them, thank you,' Jack said.

Napier nodded and gestured to his men to leave the trench. They moved past him in a long column, dragging their feet through weariness but every man with his rifle clean and ready. Napier was last to leave the trench. 'Good luck, Windrush. You lads put up a good show at Inkerman, I heard.' He nodded. 'One last thing. The Russians have been making some new rifle pits lately. So far there are none opposite our positions, but best be prepared.'

'We'll watch for them,' Jack said. 'Thank you, Napier, good luck.'

Napier strode along the communication trench, and Jack looked out from the breastwork of sandbags. It was only a few months since they first landed in the Crimea yet it seems as if they had been besieging Sebastopol for years.

'That's the Great Redan,' he pointed out the sinister wedge-shaped fortification.

'Yes, sir,' O'Neill nodded as though he had never seen the ominous shape before.

'That and the Malakoff are the keys to the Russian defence,' Jack continued. 'So they may be firing at us from time to time.'

As they looked to the right, where the high round tower of the Malakoff menaced the French lines, the Russians fired their fifteen-inch mortar. Against the darkening sky, the lit fuse could be seen dropping sparks as it rose, then descended in a dreadful arc with the terrifying sound that justified the name the British gave it: Whistling Dick.

'I hate these things,' O'Neill said frankly.

Jack nodded. 'I wish the man that invented them could stand on the receiving end. In fact, I wish all the men who invented these hellish weapons could stand on the wrong side of them, with the politicians beside them.'

O'Neill gave a sour grin. 'If that happened, sir, wars would end overnight, and you and I and all these brave lads would be out of a job.'

Jack contemplated the sergeant's words for a moment. 'It would be worth it just to see the politicians' faces.'

O'Neill laughed. 'Aye, and take the warmongering kings, queens and bishops too.'

The wolf howled again, the sound echoing through the night like some banshee from the dimness of history. A rocket hissed up from the French lines, flared briefly and fell, fading slowly, back down to earth. A rifle cracked over to the right where the French lines were, followed by a spatter of musketry; an uneasy silence descended.

'Welcome back to the trenches,' Coleman said. 'Bloody Frogs firing their bloody rockets all over the place.'

'Keep your voice down, Coleman,' O'Neill snarled.

Jack checked the positions. 'We were lucky the Royal Scots were here before us,' he murmured to O'Neill. 'They look after the position well.'

'Yes, sir,' O'Neill agreed.

'We will be equally careful with the trenches.' Jack said. 'It's another way of improving the name of the 113th.'

He moved on, every step sinking shin deep in cold mud, keeping his head as far beneath the sand-bag and gabion parapet as possible in case some Russian marksman had him in his sights.

'Somebody's coming up the communication trench,' Riley sounded nervous. Logan, his constant companion, dropped to one knee with his rifle pointing at the newcomers.

'Captain Windrush!' A light wind carried the harsh whisper.

'That's Lieutenant Windrush,' Jack said.

'Lieutenant Wolseley, 90th Foot, attached to the engineers.' The speaker was young, agile and eager. He started when he saw Logan ready to fire at him. 'It's alright, fellow, we're on the same side.'

'What can I do for you, Wolseley?'

'We're extending a trench forward to prepare a new parallel,' Wolseley glanced at Logan, who remained wary and on guard. 'I'd be obliged if you could ensure your men did not fire at us by mistake.'

'I'll pass the word on,' Jack pushed Logan's rifle downward. 'We'd best have a safe word: how about Rule as a challenge and Britannia as a reply?'

'Wolseley nodded. 'That will do.' He slid over the parapet into the dark, with ten men behind him armed with picks, shovels and gabions rather than rifles and bayonets.

'I don't fancy their job,' Riley said quietly.

'Aye; there are worse units to be in than the 113th,' Jack agreed. He had never thought to say these words.

They settled in, riflemen finding the most comfortable niches, non-commissioned officers growling at the men and officers hitching up their collars and hoping for a quiet night.

Williams was at the extreme right of the 113th's position, peering forward into the murk. 'Something is happening out there, sir,' he called, low-voiced. 'I can hear our sappers digging, but there's somebody else out there as well.'

'You would know about digging, Williams,' Jack said. He raised his head cautiously above the parapet to listen, praying that no Russian had his rifle trained on the spot he occupied.

'Yes, sir. They are about two hundred yards apart; the other lot is closer to Sebastopol.'

Another rocket soared up from the French positions, putting Williams' face in sudden silhouette. The hard jaw and prominent lines of nose and cheekbones were emphasised, with the eyes a sharp glint hidden by deep shadow. Jack ducked down at once.

'The Russians could be making another rifle pit,' he said.

'I would say so, sir.'

'Keep an eye on it, Williams.' Jack crouched beside him. The ground here was hard with a minimal cover of earth above hard rock, so it took immense labour to hack out every trench. With soldiers unable to dig deep, they used sandbags and gabions to build a protective barrier from enemy fire. The Russians would experience precisely the same difficulties. He imagined them only a few hundred yards away, the hard-worked peasant soldiers of the Russian army toiling away to remove these invaders of their holy land.

'Do you want me to have a look, sir?' O'Neill asked quietly. 'I could take Coleman and Thorpey.'

Jack shook his head. 'You stay here and watch the men. I'll go over.' A good officer would never order a man to do what he would not do himself. That was a cardinal rule he had learned as a child. He would not send a man into danger while he sat in the comparative safety of the trench. He would take Coleman and Thorpe: both veterans of the Burma campaign; men who had experience in creeping through thick forest with Burmese dacoits all around.

Their initial looks of disgust at having to reconnoitre altered quickly to the habitual phlegmatic expression of the British soldier when they did not wish their officers to know what they were thinking.

Book Details

AUTHOR NAME: Malcolm Archibald

BOOK TITLE: Windrush: Blood Price (Jack Windrush Book 3)

GENRE: Historical Fiction

SUBGENRE: War & Military Fiction

PAGE COUNT: 280