Windrush (Jack Windrush Book 1) - Malcolm Archibald

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Historical Military Fiction Set In The Burmese War

Windrush (Jack Windrush Book 1) by Malcolm Archibald

Book excerpt

Moulmein, 1852

'Welcome to the 113th Foot.' Colonel Murphy stared at Jack across the width of the desk while a punkah-wallah slowly pulled the cord that rotated the fan which stood above his head. He dropped his eyes. 'Home to all the sweepings that the gutter rejects.' He poured gin into a heavy glass and tossed it back in a single swallow, refilled the glass and repeated the procedure. Jack noticed that he only used his right hand; the left sleeve of his tunic was empty.

Sweat eased from Jack's scalp under the regulation forage hat and trickled down the length of his spine. 'Thank you, sir.'

'Thank me?' Murphy paused with the next glass halfway to his mouth. 'You've little to thank me for, Windrush. You will remember what Wellington called the British Army? He called them the scum of the earth. Well, the 113th gets the refuse of that scum – rapists, thieves, blackguards of all descriptions.' He drank the gin and poured himself another. 'I would not be surprised if we had a murderer or two, or a blasted Whig, like as not.'

'Yes, sir.' Jack had never taken any interest in politics, but he knew his father had been a Tory and the Whigs were the opposition, so he supposed that Colonel Murphy shared his father's opinions on matters political.

'And cowards.' Murphy's eyes were red-rimmed as he again raised them to hold Jack's gaze. 'You'll have heard the stories, no doubt.'

'There have been rumours,' Jack said cautiously.

Colonel Murphy banged his glass down on the desk. 'So don't expect any glory here, boy.' He shook his head. 'Not for us the celebrated battles and newspaper headlines. Oh no, we had one battle, and we ran away. Now we get garrison duty at the arse end of the empire, so we die of fever and ague. If there is a hell hole or disease-ridden swamp anywhere, that's where they will send the 113th.'

'Yes, sir.' Jack could not think what else to say. Indeed, this port of Moulmein did not appear to be the healthiest place in the world.

Colonel Murphy gasped in a breath of humid air. 'As you are no doubt aware, Windrush, every regiment of the British Army carries their reputation and history on their colours.' He did not wait for Jack to agree or disagree but continued. 'Do you know how many battle honours the glorious 113th displays?'

'Yes, sir.' Jack had scoured London's bookshops for a book on the regiment to read them on the interminably long voyage from England. He had not found any; the 113th was not the sort of regiment about which people wrote books or published memoirs.

'Well?' Murphy's hand hesitated on the neck of the gin bottle. His eyes were like shining sable at the foot of blood-red pits. 'How many?'

'None, sir,' Jack said quietly.

'Exactly; none, sir.' Murphy tore his hand away from the bottle. 'So what heinous crime did you commit to join this illustrious regiment? Did you bed the wrong woman? Steal the family silver? Cheat at cards?'

'None of these, sir.' Jack had expected a vastly different interview when he first met his commanding officer.

'None of these, sir,' Murphy repeated. 'Of course not. Well, Windrush, you are with us now, God help you, and I have work for you. I expect you have heard that we are at loggerheads with the Court of Ava?'

'I have heard we have a dispute with the King of Burma,' Jack agreed cautiously. Every British officer he had met since his interview with General Beaumont had spoken hopefully of a possible war with Burma. He watched as a great-winged moth fluttered around the lamp.

'Yes, well, I will explain the situation for you.' For a moment, Murphy looked like a colonel of the British Army and not a hopeless lush as he concentrated on the matter at hand. 'We fought the Burmese back in '25 when they invaded our territories, and the war ended with the Treaty of Yandaboo, which guaranteed our trade and the security of our merchants.'

Jack nodded. 'I have heard of it, sir.' He had frantically read about the Burmese War on his journey to Moulmein.

'Aye, well, the Burmese have broken the treaty,' Murphy said. 'They insulted our merchants and stuck one poor beggar on a pestiferous island in the Irrawaddy River. It was the rainy season, so the river naturally rose, and only blind luck saved him from drowning. Then the governor of Rangoon did worse than attempted murder.' Murphy pushed the gin bottle away as he warmed to his subject. Lantern light gleamed from pink scalp between his thinning red hair. 'He put a ship's master in the stocks – a British captain, mark you – so we have demanded compensation from the Emperor of Ava or the King of the Golden Foot or whatever fancy name he chooses to call himself.'

'Yes, sir.' Jack flinched away from a flying beetle.

'You may know that the King, Emperor or what-not of Ava tried to intimidate us before, back in '39 when we were embroiled in that Afghan nonsense.' Murphy's voice was growing in clarity. 'Mister Gold Foot promised to drive us from the lands of Tenasserim which we conquered in the war of '25. He led a large army, or the rag-tag that the Burmese call an army, to Rangoon but when we sent over a brigade and a couple of steamers the Lord of the White Elephant and Brother of the Sun and Moon – as he also calls himself – decided that peace was better than war. Perhaps our victories in China helped convince him that fighting us put him on a hiding to nothing.'

'Yes, sir.' Jack nodded again. He waited to hear why the colonel was telling him all this. He watched as the beetle balanced precariously on the edge of the gin tumbler.

'And you are wondering what all this has to do with you.' Murphy echoed Jack's thoughts. His eyes, hazed with drink only a few moments previously, were now sharp. 'Well, Mr Windrush, His Excellency Lord Dalhousie in his wisdom, sent HMS Hermes, Captain Fishbourne, an interpreter called Captain Latter and Uncle Tom Cobley and all to sort the matter out.' He shook his head. 'All that for a king who calls himself the Brother of the Sun and the Moon.'

'Yes, sir.' Jack wondered anew where this conversation was leading.

'Dalhousie may have thought the Burmese would bow before the presence of the Royal Navy, but Captain Fishbourne found otherwise. There was more trouble and more insults, as one would expect of a savage race that believes it is superior.' Murphy put the gin bottle away in the desk drawer. 'Don't look so wearied, Windrush, there is a point to all this. I have not called you here purely to give you a lesson in politics.'

Jack hoped that his boredom had not been too evident.

'To cut a long story short,' Murphy said, 'Fishbourne acted with a high hand, as one would expect from the Royal Navy. He used his bluejackets to board and seize one of the Burmese king's ships.' Murphy's smile was unexpected. 'So that set the ball rolling. Fishbourne emptied Rangoon of everybody who was in danger from the Lord of the Golden Foot and his minions and brought them to Moulmein. And there we have it. We are now at war with the Empire of Burma; the navy, the army, the Honourable East India Company, you, me and the 113th Foot.' Murphy's smile faded as he leaned closer to Jack.

'That is not official yet, of course, but it is a fact. I think Fishbourne wanted to burn Rangoon down there and then, but his men were sailors on land, ducks out of water. We are soldiers and,' the smile dropped completely, 'we are the 113th, Windrush, the Baby Butchers, the pariahs of the British Army, and we have to prove ourselves.'

For the first time, Jack felt the injured pride beneath Murphy's exterior. 'Yes, sir. I wish the Army to regard our regiment as equal to any outside the Guards.'

Murphy's eyes were level. 'That will be a hard task, Windrush, a hard task to win back lost honour.' He stared at Jack as if working something out. 'I know your father. He is a good man, but a Royal Malvern through and through.'

The change of tack took Jack by surprise. 'I did not know you knew him, sir.'

'What did you do to anger him?' The question was brief and straight to the point.

'He's dead,' Jack was equally blunt.

Murphy re-filled his glass. 'All soldiers die.' Jack was pleased that he didn't pursue the question. 'Very well, Windrush; you will want to redeem yourself from whatever misdemeanour you naturally do not wish to discuss, and I wish to raise the reputation of my regiment.' He scowled. 'Baby Butchers by God; I'll show them Baby Butchers!' The colonel looked directly into Jack's eyes. 'You see me as a drunken old wretch, Windrush, but I see you as hope for the 113th.'

Jack raised his eyebrows. He wasn't sure what to say.

Murphy continued. 'Tell me, Windrush, who do we remember when we think of the Buffs at Albuera? Is it the Colonel of the regiment? No, it is young Ensign Thomas, who wrapped the Colours around his breast to save them from the French.'

Jack nodded. 'Yes, sir.'

'And take Chillianwala, when our regiment ran like stricken rabbits, there was one ensign of the 24th, a boy no older than you, Windrush, who took the Colours from the staff and wrapped them around his body so the Sikhs could not capture them.'

'Yes, sir,' Jack said again.

'There are others,.' Murphy half stood at his desk, possibly in honour of the youths of which he spoke. 'You will have heard of Lieutenant Dick, the Engineer who was first on the wall at Jhansi and of Ensign Havelock who stormed the abattis at Vera?'

'Yes, sir.' Jack had heard of some of these heroes.

'That is what I want from you, Windrush. I want you to win glory and renown so when men talk of the 113th they think of your exploits and not the infamy of Chillianwala.'

'Yes, sir.' Most of these those men died winning glory; does the colonel want a martyr?

When Murphy sat down again, his eyes were clear. 'A man with your name does not belong in this place of regimental disgrace. You belong in a more distinguished regiment, Windrush, but for whatever reason, you are with us.' He scuffed the beetle from its perch on the rim of his glass. 'If you had the funds you would be elsewhere, so you must achieve glory to have your name spoken of in the same manner as these other heroes, and in so doing you will raise the reputation of the 113th.'

Jack nodded and repeated, 'Yes, sir,' once again.

'Now, to business.' Murphy pulled a small sheaf of documents to the centre of his desk. 'There will be an expedition to fight the Burmese, but the powers-that-be will not send the 113th. We are being split into penny packets and used to garrison the eastern frontier of India from Assam to Arracan, in case the Burmese launch an attack.'

'Will they attack, sir?' Jack asked.

Murphy ignored the question. 'However, I know the Colonel of the 18th Foot, the Royal Irish. He and I served together when we were about your age, and I have persuaded him to accept some of our men as replacements.' Murphy paused for a moment. 'I am sending you into Rangoon with a dozen men. God help us but finding a dozen good soldiers from the 113th is not easy, but we'll do our best. I want you to push yourself forward at every opportunity, Windrush. Show the world what the 113th is capable of.' Murphy leaned back in his chair and tapped long fingers on the desk. 'The Burmese are a proud and warlike race. They will not like us being in what they think is their territory, and I anticipate strong resistance.' His grin was fierce. 'Your job is to face the enemy, Windrush, treat them with courtesy and respect, and then destroy them.'

'Yes, sir.' Jack nodded. He didn't hide his smile. When he first entered this room, he had thought Colonel Murphy a broken old drunk, but now realised he was only a disillusioned veteran soldier who wanted the best for his regiment. 'When do I leave, sir?'

'I wish you to join the expedition as soon as it's created. Until then, get used to the climate and the people and get to know the regiment.' Murphy shuffled his papers before looking up again. 'Try and find a decent sergeant to take with you. Perhaps you could locate a fellow called Wells; he appears a cut above the usual standard.'

'Yes, sir.' Jack hesitated. 'Thank you, sir.'

Murphy did not answer; his hand strayed to the gin bottle.

'Right, you misbegotten bastards!' Sergeant Wells glared over the line of men who stood at what they fondly imagined was attention in front of him. 'You were sent to this regiment because your own did not want you.' A head taller than most of the men, he marched along the line, counting slowly. 'One, two, three, four and five; five rejected blackguards.' He lowered his voice to a roar. 'And you are all mine now!' He stepped closer to them. 'I don't know why you were unwanted, and I don't care what crimes your dirty little paws have committed. I only know that you think you have had a shabby hand in life.'

Jack watched the performance from the shade of a grove of peepul trees. He knew Ranveer was behind him but didn't notice the tall officer who strutted to join him.

'You got here then, Windrush.' The voice was familiar, but not welcome.

“Great historical fiction... highly recommended for anyone interested in the period”

— Amazon Review

“If you ever read Cornwell, especially the Sharpe series, you will love Windrush... Well done”

— Amazon Review

“A thoroughly captivating war novel”

— Amazon Review

Book Details

AUTHOR NAME: Malcolm Archibald

BOOK TITLE: Windrush (Jack Windrush Book 1)

GENRE: Historical Fiction

SUBGENRE: War Fiction / Military Fiction

PAGE COUNT: 273

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