19th-century-historical-war-fiction-series-jack-windrush

19th Century Historical War Fiction Novel Series

Jack Windrush by Malcolm Archibald

Series Excerpt

As if to seek revenge on the victorious invaders, the weather tortured the British that night. The thermometer dipped well below freezing, covering the ground and trees with frost. British and Indian soldiers huddled close to the campfires or bundled themselves in their tents.

Jack checked the 113th pickets, ensuring they remained alert and kept his pistol loose in its holster as he shivered in the whistling wind.

“We beat them, sir, didn’t we?” Gifford asked.

“We did,” Jack looked upward at the brilliant stars.

“Have we won the war already?” Gifford sounded disappointed as if he wished to prove his valour in more fighting.

“Not yet, Gifford. The Afghans are tough people. We’ve won the first round, that’s all.” Jack forced a grin. “You’ll get your chance, never fear.”

Awalmir appeared at Jack’s elbow, thickly wrapped against the cold. “Your General Bowne was equally successful,” he reported. “He defeated Shah Sujah’s force at Ali Masjid.”

“Tell me more,” Jack did not ask from where Awalmir obtained his information.

“Faiz Muhammad held the fort of Ali Masjid against General Browne, but abandoned it when Browne attacked,” Awalmir said.

“That was fortunate indeed,” Jack said. He remembered Ali Masjid as a formidable position that guarded the narrows of the Khyber Pass.

“One of Bacha Khan’s men, a cousin of mine, informed General Browne that Faiz Muhammed abandoned the fortress,” Awalmir said, smiling.

“Was Bacha Khan involved in Faiz Muhammad deserting Ali Masjid?” Jack asked.

Awalmir spread his hands. “I do not know, Major Windrush.”

“I think you do,” Jack said. “I would like to meet this Bacha Khan, whoever he is.”

Awalmir’s smile widened. “I am sure you will, someday, Major Windrush.”

“Maybe that day you will inform me why you are here,” Jack said.

“To help you, Major Windrush, sahib,” Awalmir said, smiling. “As Bacha Khan ordered.”

The next day, Roberts sent patrols of irregular horse into the plain beyond the Peiwar Kotal and followed with his small army.

“Keep alert, boys.” Jack ensured he had scouts around the 113th, for he did not entirely trust irregular horsemen. “The Afghans are the world’s experts in ambushes, and the local tribes will not appreciate our presence.”

“Who are the local tribe?” Harcourt asked.

“The Mangals,” Jack said. “They are Pashtun, a fiercely independent people.”

Roberts spent the next few days tidying up, sending the wounded and the captured guns back to India, and patrolling the local area. Jack continued to train the 113th, lectured them on Pashtun customs, sent out strong patrols and ensured the NCOs and junior officers knew their jobs.

“You’re driving the lads very hard,” Captain Singer said.

“Better hard-driven than dead,” Jack said. “Afghanistan is not a good place to relax and rest on one’s laurels.”

Once again, Jack heard the complaints from the ranks. “Old Jack’s losing his nerve,” Private Hancock said. “He imagines that every shadow is an Afghan waiting to shoot him.”

“He was good once,” Ahern replied. “That must have been when we were fighting Napoleon.”

“Old Jack’s all right,” young Morriston said.

“You keep your teeth shut, Johnny Raw,” Hancock snarled, “or you’ll get the toe of my boot up your arse!”

Jack walked on. He knew that interfering in the squabbles of the other ranks would only make things worse. All the same, he would have a word with Sergeant Peebles to ensure he kept bullying to a minimum.

On the 6th December, as snow flurries hazed the surrounding hills, Roberts camped his army at Zabardast Kila. In this small village, the inhabitants either ignored the intruders or silently gathered to watch. Shortly after they arrived, Jack saw a man running into the hills and knew he was carrying information to the local Afghan commander.

“Should we not shoot him?” Singer gestured to the running man.

“Shoot an unarmed civilian?” Jack shook his head. “No. We haven’t come to that stage, yet. Out here, the enemy knows our movements even before the general informs his second-in-command.”

Next day, December Roberts ordered Colonel Brownlow to take a strong force of the 72nd and 5th Gurkhas, with two mountain guns to reconnoitre the road ahead. “Ensure the road to the Shutargardan Pass is passable for the column. Windrush, accompany Brownlow with a company of your 113th.”

“Yes, sir.” Jack knew that the irregular cavalry had scouted ahead, but cavalrymen were not the best judges of where infantry and artillery could march.

A Company formed up with bad grace, marching out of Zabardast Kila behind Jack, with Harcourt in charge of the flank guards and Second Lieutenant Gifford at the rear. They had marched only three miles before Harcourt ran up to Jack.

“Somebody’s watching us,” Harcourt said.

Jack nodded to the parties of Mangals who shadowed the British force. “I’d be more worried if we did not see anybody,” he said. “They’re letting us know they’re there.”

“Should we attack them?” Harcourt asked.

“No,” Jack shook his head. “If a cobra is sleeping, you don’t poke it with a stick. If the Pashtuns are only watching, you leave well alone and make sure your rifle is loaded.”

“You don’t like them, do you?” Harcourt asked.

Jack pondered before he replied. “I respect the Pashtun as fighting men above all others I have met, except maybe the Sikhs or Gurkhas,” he said. “I would not say that I dislike them, although I’d rather have them as friends than enemies.”

The Shutargardan Pass rose before them, steep-sided, rocky, partially wooded, and with the Mangals ghosting among the fir trees, watching everything without making any hostile moves.

“Windrush, you speak their language. Go and see what these men want.” Colonel Brownlow sounded worried.

“Yes, sir,” Jack had been a soldier too long to argue with a direct order. With Awalmir as his shadow, he rode towards the Mangals, who waited until he came close before disappearing into the trees.

“Hello!” Jack shouted. “I am Major Jack Windrush of the 113th Foot.” He heard his voice echo among the peaks.

“They will not reply,” Awalmir said.

“I did not think they would,” Jack said dryly. He tried again, shouting in Pushto. “We are here to ensure the Russians do not take over your country!”

Somebody laughed at Jack’s words, and the amusement spread until the entire hillside seemed to be laughing, yet still without a single visible Mangal.

“It is not wise to stay here, Major Windrush,” Awalmir advised. “The Mangals will lure us deeper into their hills, then they will kill us.” He made a gesture with his finger across his throat.

“You’re probably right, Awalmir,” Jack agreed, turning away from the Mangals.

Brownlow nodded when Jack gave his report. “We’ll push on,” he said. “Double the outriders and ensure every rifle is loaded.”

With the Mangals surrounding them from a distance, Brownlow’s force reached the foot of the pass.

“That’s far enough,” Brownlow decided. “We know the way.”

The Mangals remained as a sinister escort as they returned to report to Roberts.

“As long as the Mangals only watch,” Roberts said. “We’ll double the flank guards and keep everybody alert.”

Roberts’ column moved slowly, with every regiment having guards on the flanks and the cavalry on permanent patrol in front. Jack had an occasional glimpse of the Mangals, but the cavalry kept them at a distance. There were not even the customary isolated shots as the British reached the head of the high pass without incident. Jack admired the view of mountains and valleys; all Afghanistan seemed to stretch before them.

“We’re the first British soldiers to reach here,” Roberts sat upright in the saddle, “and the first Europeans, I think, yet I doubt anybody back home will ever hear of our exploits. We’re so far from civilisation here that nobody cares.”

“What’s ahead there?” Lieutenant Trent stared at the panorama of mountains and rocks.

“The road to Kabul,” Jack answered. For some reason, the name seemed to hang in the thin air, an ominous portent of disaster. Jack remembered the fate of the first British army to occupy the Afghan capital and fingered the butt of his revolver. The darkness seemed to close around him, despite the presence of General Roberts and thousands of skilled fighting men. “Aye,” he repeated, “the road to Kabul.” The soft green Malvern Hills seemed very far away.

***

On the 13th December, Sher Ali left Kabul, intending to journey to St Petersburg to ask the Czar to help fight the British. Two days later, a heliograph flashed the news to Robert’s camp.

Roberts invited the senior officers into his tent to hear the news. “With Sher Ali gone, his son, Yakub Khan, is now Regent of Afghanistan.”

“Sher Ali requesting Russian help is awkward,” Jack said as his earlier fears returned. “Lytton may have provoked a simultaneous war with Afghanistan and Russia.”

Roberts gave a bleak smile. “Our diplomats would be best shutting themselves in a box and keeping their mouths shut.”

Jack nodded. “That goes for all politicians,” he said.

“Amen to that,” Colonel Brownlow said softly. “We’re here to fight the queen’s enemies, not to fight at the whim of a politician.”

“One thing we can be certain of, gentlemen,” Roberts said. “The change of administration in Afghanistan does not mean peace for us. Keep your men alert.”

***

7th January 1879, Matoon, Khost Valley.

“Cavalry patrols are in, sir,” Jack reported. “They say that large numbers of Afghans have gathered on the hills.”

Roberts nodded, stroking his moustache. “We knew occupying Afghanistan would not be easy. We can expect an attack on the camp soon.”

Jack agreed. In some strange way, he felt relief, as if the weeks of tension would end when the Afghans attacked. Ever since the battle of Peiwar Kotal, groups of Mangals and other Afghans had shadowed the British patrols and watched the camp, always remaining in the fringes of the trees or among the rocks, and never responding to hails. Now, at last, the Afghans were in large numbers, riding under green and black banners. They shouted slogans as they neared British patrols and stood on the skyline as if challenging the British to remove them.

“113th, stand to,” Jack ordered. “Sergeants, ensure each man has his correct complement of ammunition and a full water bottle.” Jack knew that fighting was thirsty work, with the gun smoke irritating the throat as well as the eyes and nose. “Sergeant Peebles: put out ammunition boxes behind the lads, and tubs of water.”

“Yes, sir,” Peebles said.

“If the Afghans come,” Jack addressed the men, “remember your training and obey the officers and NCOs.”

“There’s Old Jack’s nerves playing up again,” Hancock whispered.

Jack said nothing. It was not a major’s job to argue with other ranks, that was the NCOs’ duty.

“Now grab something to eat,” Jack said.

The 113th sentries lay behind rudimentary defences, waiting for the inevitable attack; shallow trenches and tree trunks augmented the stone-built walls. A few men lit pipes, Dunlop oiled his rifle and sighted on distant trees, while Morriston’s lips moved in silent prayer. Ahern sharpened his bayonet, murmuring to Hancock, who barked a short laugh.

“Easy, lads,” Jack said. “This is what we’ve trained for. This is what we do.”

The attack came within the hour. It began with long-distance sniping that made the 113th, 72nd and Gurkhas duck for cover, and continued with a more prolonged fusillade.

“Bugler,” Roberts ordered, “Send every man to his station.”

“Come on, 113th!” Jack pushed his men to their places on the rough walls. “It’s time to earn the generous pay the government gives you.” He checked that Peebles had placed ammunition boxes and water every ten yards. “Keep your heads down until you have to! You’re soldiers, not idiots!”

The firing became general as the Afghans advanced on the camp. Jack could not calculate their numbers but guessed them at about eight thousand. He saw the fringed green-and-black banners thrusting above the charging horde and heard the old familiar cries of “Allah-il-Allah” and “Allah Akbar!”

The old thrill came back, distilled by fear, sharpened by experience. The product of generations of British officers, Jack assumed command automatically.

“A Company, aim. Lower your sights, MacDonald! Raise your barrel, Wilson - you’re aiming at the ground.”

Jack watched the Afghans’ rapid approach. All the tension had left him now; he was a soldier performing his duty.

“Number One Section: fire!” Jack stood behind his men, not ducking despite the bullets that whistled around him, aware that his presence reassured his young soldiers. “Number Two Section, fire! Number Three Section, fire!” He walked along the inside of the defences, momentarily unaware of the fear that gnawed at him, although he knew that the Afghans would be targeting him.

The 113th fired and reloaded, a double line of white topees and khaki jackets, a double line of Martin-Henrys.