Beyond The Frontier E-Book

Malcolm Archibald

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

In the ninth book in the Jack Windrush series of military novels, Jack and the 113th Foot join the British invasion of Afghanistan in 1878, trying to counter an alleged Russian threat.

Training the young battalion for the trials he know will come, Jack's unit is assigned to Afghanistan, to a war created by Russian interference and British politicians. As the Amir of Afghanistan, Sher Ali, objects to the invasion, the British invade in three columns, with Jack's 113th joining a group led by General Roberts.

Between bloody battles, treacherous spies and friends who may be on either side, Jack must guide his men through a morass of dangers. But can he succeed and return home safely, or will he never see his wife Mary again?

Leseprobe

Beyond The Frontier

Jack Windrush Series – Book IX

Malcolm Archibald

Copyright (C) 2021 Malcolm Archibald

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Edited by Fading Street Services

Cover art by Cover Mint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

For Cathy

When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains And the women come out to cut up what remains Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains An' go to your Gawd like a soldier

The Young British Soldier – Rudyard Kipling

"Shabash the Guides!"

Major Jack Windrush

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 One

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!”

Mary nodded in approval that the colonel had included David's full name, as William Windrush tried to control his temper.

“I have not joined one yet, sir,” David said. “I have to pass Sandhurst, first.”

“I am certain you will succeed there,” the colonel said.

“Thank you, sir.”

Lieutenant-Colonel William Windrush of the Royal Malverns, Jack's half-brother, stood with a frown on his face as Crimea and David approached, both trying to wipe off the worst of the mud that spattered them. Crimea's face was dark with anger, while David tried to hide his customary smile.

“Well done, lads!” Lieutenant Colonel Arthur Elliot of the 113th Foot greeted them with an extended hand. “You are a credit to your regiment, Crimea. And that was a piece of inspired riding, David; my heart was in my mouth when you made that leap.”

“Thank you, sir.” David hesitated, before accepting the colonel's hand, for young men about to enter Sandhurst did not habitually shake hands with regimental colonels.

“And you, Crimea,” Colonel Elliot said. “You drove your horse long and hard. I have never seen a rider so committed.”

Crimea Windrush forced a smile as he shook Elliot's hand.

“You'll have a fine career in the Royal Malverns,” Elliot said. “You must be proud of your son, Windrush.”

“I am,” Colonel Windrush said, mounted his horse and rode away.

“You both did well,” Jack said. “And you other lads as well.” His rank as senior major of the 113th entitled him to have his say. “That was a hard ride for you all. You stuck to it well, Harcourt, and you too, Hanley.” For an instant, he was tempted to pat David's shoulder but refrained. He would not embarrass his son in front of so many people. “Now get yourselves cleaned up.”

“Yes, sir,” Harcourt and David said, while Hanley grinned. Jack winked at Crimea, who gave a half-smile that made Jack wonder if there was a decent young officer there, behind the sulky exterior.

“For you military lads, there's a joint regimental parade in two hours and a brigade dinner tonight, with family and guests. We can't have the British Army's newest second lieutenant looking like the last straggler of Corunna.” Jack favoured Crimea with a smile.

“Permission to leave, sir?” Crimea Windrush asked Elliot without responding to Jack's words.

“Major Windrush has just ordered you to leave. Cut along now.” Elliot watched as the young riders remounted their horses and rode away, with Crimea spurring to be in front. “And there we have the future of the British Army,” he said to Jack.

“Aye, there we have it,” Jack agreed, trying not to watch his son.

“Good morning to you, fair maiden.” Elliot bowed to Mary. “I trust you are keeping this man in order.”

“As best I can,” Mary said.

“That will be order enough,” Elliot said solemnly. “Where did your David learn to ride like that?”

Mary smiled. “He's good, isn't he? He was always comfortable in the saddle, but he's been spending time in Northumberland and the Borders recently, mixing with the local callants.”

“Ah,” Elliot said. “Reiver country. The Bold Buccleuch and his ilk.”

Mary's face lit up. “You've read Walter Scott!”

“Everybody's read Walter Scott, haven't they?” Elliot said. “My ancestors were from the Borders, after all. My name it is Little Jock Elliot, and wha daur meddle wi me!” He quoted the well-known saying. “And now, Mrs Windrush, I fear I must drag your husband away. We have a parade in less than two hours and a brigade dinner after that.” He bowed. “I will see you at dinner.”

“You will, Arthur,” Mary agreed.

Although both regiments, the Royal Malverns and the 113th Foot, shared an association with Herefordshire, they could hardly have been more different. While the 113th was one of the newest regiments on the Army list, with all its battle honours earned in the last three decades, the Royal Malverns was one of the oldest. The Royals had marched with Marlborough, had fought through three Jacobite risings, and faced the French in North America in the Seven Years War. They had suffered from disease during the Mysore Wars, struggled through the Corunna campaign, and stood in a stubborn square at Waterloo. Consequently, the Royal Malvern officers looked down upon those of the 113th as their social and military inferiors. When the rank and file assumed a similar attitude, the result was always bloodshed, with belts, boots, and fists ready to wreak instant vengeance. Officers, however, could not be so open, and the result was only bad feeling, condescension, and barbed insults.

After a march around the southern Malvern Hills, both regiments paraded through the town of Great Malvern, with the Royals in front, as was their prerogative, and their band attracting attention from both residents and visitors to the health-spa town.

“We'd be better doing field exercises rather than marching like wooden soldiers,” Jack rode Mathon a few yards behind Elliot. “Parade ground drills are not much good in modern soldiering.”

Elliot smiled. “You wanted regimental soldiering, Jack, and this is it. Show the colours, impress the ladies with bright uniforms and jaunty music and gather recruits for the Queen.”

“The Queen-Empress now,” Jack said, “Disraeli promoted her.”

“I remember,” Elliot said. “She'll always be Good Queen Vic to me.”

Jack grinned, “me too, Arthur. The Empress nonsense is only to keep upsides with this Wilhelm fellow, the Emperor of Germany.” He looked back over the 113th, noting with familiar dismay the preponderance of very young faces in the ranks. “I'd like to give these children some real training,” he said. “Get them ready if a war breaks out.”

Elliot nodded. “Let's pray for peace, Jack. More worrying, we have the brigade dinner soon.” Elliot had known Jack since both were young lieutenants in the Crimean War; years of hard service had cemented their friendship. “Your favourite.”

“I hate the blasted things,” Jack said.

“I know,” Elliot said, smiling. “It's worse than Inkerman for you.” He patted Jack's shoulder. “Soldier on, man.”

Chapter Two

Jack drew on his cheroot, as Mary brushed imaginary dust from David's shoulder, talking all the while. “I'd rather you wouldn't join the army, David, but if you must at least join the 113th, so your father can look after you.”

David smiled. “That's why I can't join the 113th, Mother. I must make my own way in the world.”

Mary shook her head. “You're your father's son, right enough. Stubborn as a battery mule.”

“More like his mother's son,” Jack said as David walked away. “Stubborn as the Brigade of Guards and knows everything better than anybody else.”

Mary shook her head, closed the door, and began to change. Jack liked to watch her dress, with twenty years of marriage, not diminishing his affection.

“Do women have to wear so many layers?” Jack asked, tracing her curves with his eyes. “You have three sets of petticoats beneath your dress.”

“Stop talking nonsense and tighten my laces, could you, Jack?” Mary stepped across to him. “I do hope that David is all right in Aldershot.”

“He's a level-headed, active young man,” Jack said, as he prepared for the ordeal of the brigade dinner that lay ahead. “I think he'll do well.”

“I worry about him.” Mary perched on the padded stool, leaned closer to the mirror and sighed. “I am looking old.”

“No, you're not,” Jack said and kissed the top of her head. “You are looking wonderful.”

“Oh, Jack!” Mary brushed him away and began working on her hair, speaking through a mouthful of hairpins. “If the army posts us abroad again, David will be alone here.”

“He's been preparing all his life to join the army,” Jack said. “He's more a soldier than many soldiers I know.”

“All the same,” Mary dabbed perfume behind her ears, smiled at Jack, and added a drop in her cleavage. “I don't know why I bother doing this,” she sighed. “The officers avoid me, and their wives snub me.”

“I like it,” Jack said, bending over to get the full benefit of her perfume.

“I know,” Mary agreed, had a last look at her hair, and stood up. “Ready, Jack?”

“Ready.” He kissed her again, knowing that she hated brigade dinners more than he did.

The dinner was a formal affair, with the officers in their dress uniforms, and the wives competing for attention. Jack glanced at the array of bustles, high-necked dresses, and mutton-chop sleeves, looked at Mary and knew she was the most beautiful woman there. Candlelight gleamed on the silverware and crystal of both regiments, although the Royal Malverns provided most. The regimental treasures were on display, from the candlesticks that an enterprising officer of the Royals had looted from a ruined church during Marlborough's Blenheim campaign to the silver-mounted Cossack Shashka from the siege of Sebastopol.

“It is very impressive,” Mary allowed, as she swept up her bustle and perched on her seat.

The officers of the regiments sat together, with the wives at their side. As always, Mary's Eurasian appearance attracted attention.

“If anybody says anything untoward,” Jack murmured, “tell me at once.”

“I'll deal with them myself,” Mary said.

“That's what I am afraid of,” Jack looked away. “I don't want an inter-regimental war starting.”

“Then they'd better behave themselves,” Mary disguised her inner turmoil behind a tight smile.

Colonel Elliot sat at one end of the table, with Colonel William Windrush of the Royals at the other. Sitting beside William, Dorothea, his wife, allowed her eyes to roam across the assembled faces.

“Good evening, Jack,” Dorothea called cheerfully. “Congratulations on David's victory today. It takes a good boy to defeat our Crimea in a horse race.”

“Thank you,” Jack was aware that William was watching every gesture and listening to every word.

“Good evening, Mary,” Dorothea called. As the colonel's wife, she could flout conventions where she wished.

“Good evening, Dorothea,” Mary replied.

Sliding from her seat, Dorothea walked past the officers to speak directly to Mary. Once she had made the breakthrough, no officer or lady there would dare snub Mary because of her colour. The colonel's wife made the rules.

Jack held Dorothea's gaze and nodded his thanks. Once he and Dorothea had been close; now they shared a wary friendship.

“It's good to see the local regiments forging such close bonds,” Dorothea said loudly. “Don't you agree, Mary?”

Jack noticed some of the Royal's officers looking uncomfortable. He silently blessed Dorothea, who always could surprise.

“I agree,” Mary said. “We are all one big happy family.” She gave her most charming smile to the frozen-faced ladies of the Royals before turning her charisma onto William.

“A toast,” Colonel Windrush announced suddenly. “Could everybody return to their seats, please? It is the tradition that the most junior officer present toasts the Queen. Mr Windrush, that means you!”

Crimea Windrush rose, glass in hand. He looked around the table for a moment before announcing “Gentlemen: the queen!”

The officers all stood, glasses raised, repeated “the queen, God bless her,” and downed the contents in a single swallow, as was the Royals' custom.

The meal was too stodgy for Jack's taste, and he saw Mary eating small portions and putting the remainder aside, as the servants, soldiers-all whisked away one plate to replace it with another.

“How are you holding up?” Jack whispered across to her.

“I wish there were a regimental dog,” Mary replied.

“Why is that?”

“Because then I could feed it with this muck,” Mary gestured to her plate. “It's awful.”

Jack grinned. “Now you know why I prefer to live at home.”

With the final plate cleared away, the serious drinking began. One by one, the toasts came, with the officers gradually drinking themselves into a state of merriment or stupidity, depending on their natures.

“It's strange to think that our David will be sitting here in a few years,” Mary returned to a familiar subject. “If he chooses to join the 113th.”

“I hope he does,” Jack had no illusions of the recklessness of junior officers as they tried to integrate with their regiment. If David were in the 113th, Jack would be able to restrain his natural impulsiveness until he matured a little.

“So do I,” Mary lifted one of Jack's cheroots, decided she should not shock the company and replaced it beside his plate.

Jack became aware that most of the Royals' wives and half the officers were watching, perhaps waiting for Mary to perform an Indian dance or a charm a snake. Instead, Mary favoured them with a smile and sipped at her wine.

“I'll never belong here, Jack. Whatever I do, or whatever rank you achieve, these people will never accept us. In their eyes, being of mixed blood taints us.”

“We've discussed this before,” Jack said. “A hundred times before.”

“I know,” Mary said. “But it still annoys me.” She met the gaze of a major's wife from the Royals and gave a brilliant smile. The woman looked away, to whisper to her husband.

“I'm as good as any of them,” Mary said.

“No,” Jack said. “You're better than any of them.”

Mary turned to him, her voice louder than she intended as the wine took hold. “I think our mixed blood is why you're still a major when lesser men have been promoted over your head.”

A lull in the conversation carried Mary's words around the room. Jack groaned inwardly.

“That's the army way,” Jack tried to sound nonchalant. “There are also many better men than me among the lower-ranked officers.” He saw Elliot half rise from his seat, preparing to defend Mary, and then young Lieutenant Harcourt cracked a terrible joke that broke the tension and the incident passed. Major Burridge laughed loudly, Captain Singer gave a weak smile as he avoided Mary's gaze, and only William continued to glower at Jack.

“Well, gentlemen,” Elliot said. “It has been a most successful evening, but I think we'd better call a halt now. It's past two in the morning and reveille will be sounding soon.”

The gathering broke up with growled farewells, handshakes and smiles from the ladies.

“Thank you, Arthur,” Jack said to Elliot.

“I thought you needed a hand,” Elliot said. “Get some sleep, Jack, we have a visitor tomorrow.”

“Who?”

“Get some sleep. You might need it.”

“That sounds ominous,” Jack said, but Elliot refused to say more.

Chapter Three

Next morning, Jack paused for a moment to listen to Sergeant Peebles encouraging a group of recruits as they assembled on the parade ground of Worcester barracks.

“You lot.” Peebles shook his head sadly as he slowly walked the length of the double line. The recruits were no different from any other intake, a mixture of scrawny youths from the city, blank-eyed countrymen and a few older men escaping from hopeless poverty or demanding wives. “You lot are beyond anything I have encountered before.” Peebles dropped his head as though in despair. “I have spent two weeks teaching you all I know, and you still know nothing. Nothing, and not much of that! You.” Peebles pointed to a nervous youth in the front rank. “What's your name?”

“Morriston, sir,” the boy replied, wide-eyed.

“Morriston,” Sergeant Peebles repeated. “What sort of name is that for a soldier? Have you ever heard of a General Morriston? Or a Morriston winning the Victoria Cross?”

“No, sir,”

“Sir? I am not a sir. I am Sergeant Peebles. You should know that by now.” The sergeant moved on, searching for his next victim.

“You!” Peebles pointed to a tall, swarthy man. “You're Lawrence!”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Lawrence admitted, startled to be addressed directly.

“Now that's a name suitable for a hero,” Peebles said. “I can see you with a chest full of medals when you fight the Russians, or the Maoris, or whoever is unfortunate enough to face you.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Lawrence said.

“Have you heard of Samuel Hill Lawrence, who won the Victoria Cross at Lucknow in 1857? Or of Henry Montgomery Lawrence or Sir George Lawrence?”

“No, Sergeant,” Lawrence said.

“Heroes all. Do you want to be a hero and bring glory to your regiment?” Peebles asked innocently.

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Then show us all, Lawrence! Show us how to be a hero!” Within a minute Peebles had Lawrence doubling around the parade ground holding his rifle above his head. “Double! You glory hunting bastard! You're not fit to stand in the shadow of heroes! Double! And the rest of you, follow the VC hunter! Double!”

“Sometimes I think we drive these men too hard,” Elliot said.

“I don't agree,” Jack said. “Better to get them fit and used to discipline when they're safe in England than have them unfit in some stinking Burmese swamp when the dacoits are waiting to slice them up, or questioning orders in an African forest where the Ashanti are lurking behind every tree.”

Elliot produced two cheroots and handed one to Jack. “Light that,” he said. “You might need it.”

“Why thank you, kind colonel, sir.” Jack took the cheroot. “That's the second time you've used that phrase. Why might I need sleep and a cheroot?”

“We have a visitor,” Elliot sounded worried.

“So you said. Who's that, Arthur?” Jack knew Elliot well enough to know he would not be concerned without a good reason.

“General Hook,” Elliot said. “Your old nemesis.”

Jack flinched. Although he liked Hook well enough, the general was in the intelligence service and had sent him on various unpleasant missions. Jack had no desire to act the spy again. “I hope he's not asked for me.”

“No,” Elliot said. “Or not yet anyway.”

“He'd better not,” Jack said. “I'm too old for the political service.”

Elliot smiled. “I'll tell him that you're toothless and decrepit,” he said. “Or even better, I'll threaten to send Mary to him if he even thinks of using you.”

Jack forced a smile. “That would work.”

“We're to assemble in the Officer's Mess in an hour,” Elliot said. “Nothing formal, the general said.”

Jack reached for a cheroot. “That sounds even more bloody ominous.”

Major General Hook looked over the assembled officers, nodding to those he knew. Jack examined him; save for the grey at the sides of his hair and in his neat whiskers, Hook did not look much different from the man he had known during the Mutiny, some two decades ago. He was as tall, lean, and active as he had always been.

What had happened to the time? Jack had been a young lieutenant in the Mutiny with only a few years' army service behind him. Now he was a senior major, a veteran of four wars and sundry other campaigns, with the wounds and memories to go with them.

“Settle down, gentlemen,” Hook said, and the officers of the 113th Foot quietened down. From Lieutenant Colonel Arthur Elliot to raw Second-lieutenant Gifford, every man knew that Hook would only address them if he thought it strictly necessary.

Jack tried to catch Elliot's gaze, but the colonel looked steadily ahead, leaning on the staff he had taken to carrying.

“The country may be in grave danger,” Hook spoke with level tones, as his eyes moved from officer to officer. “We may soon be at war with an old enemy. A few of you served in the Crimea and fought the Russians. Well, if events unfold the way they seem, the British Army may have the opportunity again.”

Jack took a deep breath as he remembered the horrors of that campaign when the British Army died in the mud and frost, and the 113th Foot found its soul at the bloody battle of Inkerman. The memories were not pleasant.

Hook frowned as the younger officers gave a loud cheer, and the older looked thoughtful. Elliot turned around to meet Jack's gaze, raised his eyebrows and returned to face his front. Elliot and Jack were the only two officers remaining from the Crimea days, and neither needed to say more.

“When we last fought the Russians,” Hook said, “our two empires were a thousand miles apart. We had recently taken over Punjab in India, and the Russians stood at the head of the Caspian and the Aral Seas. Between the Russian Empire and India was the plain of Turkestan, the Kara Kum waste, the semi-arid Kizil Kum and the independent khanates of Khiva, Bokhara and Kokand.” He paused for effect. “Even then, the Hindu Kush and the Pamirs formed another barrier.”

Jack nodded, tracing the map of Central Asia in his mind.

“That reassuring distance no longer exists,” Hook said. “While we have remained static with our main base in Peshawar and outposts along the North-West Frontier, the Russians have advanced in leaps and bounds. In 1867 they annexed Tashkent. The next year they took Samarkand. In 1873, when we were fooling about in West Africa, the Russians captured Khiva.”

The 113th officers stirred restlessly, although Jack doubted most of them had ever heard of any of the places Hook had mentioned.

“As you will realise,” Hook continued, “that brings the Russians to the northern borders of Afghanistan. It has been a recurring nightmare for the powers-that-be that we will see hordes of Cossacks debouching through the Khyber Pass to wreak havoc in India.”

Jack expected the response from the younger officers, who clenched their fists and mouthed martial promises of how they would repel the Russians. He frowned, anticipating Hook's next words.

“Naturally, the Russians would not come alone. They would prepare the way by fostering insurrection among the disaffected peoples of India, perhaps a jihad from the Islamic tribes or a rising from the princes who lost land and power after the Mutiny.”

Jack felt Hook's gaze rest on him but remained expressionless. He refused to allow the intelligence officer to draw him into his little games. Reaching into the top pocket of his tunic, Jack extracted a cheroot, lit it, leaned back, and allowed the aromatic smoke to coil around him. So far, he had no idea why Hook had called them all together.

“Those few of you who experienced the Mutiny,” Hook continued, “Are aware how that episode shook India to the core.” Again, he looked at Jack, who held his gaze without speaking.

“However,” Hook said, “Until recently, I did not think that the Russians had any genuine plans to invade India. As we all know, the Afghans do not welcome foreign armies. I doubt the Pashtun tribes would be any less hostile to the Russians than to us. However, I do think the Russians like to twist the British lion's tail by making threatening gestures and watching us react.”

Jack paid more attention. Hook's two words, “until recently” were significant. What did the intelligence officer know that the 113th did not?