Warriors Of God E-Book

Malcolm Archibald

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

Beschreibung

Years after leaving the 113th Foot, Jack Windrush is sent to the Northwest Frontier of India to investigate reports of gun-running among the Pashtun tribes.

When he discovers that the reports are not only true, but run deeper than initially believed, he is assigned to stop the rogue group and prevent an uprising. Soon, old friends turn into mortal enemies and loyalty becomes a scarce commodity.

As the Islamic revolt against the British rises across the Frontier, can Jack and his unit stop the rebel uprising?

Leseprobe

Warriors of God

Jack Windrush Series – Book VI

Malcolm Archibald

Copyright (C) 2019 Malcolm Archibald

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Edited by Wicked Words Editing

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

First comes one Englishman, as a traveller or for shikar; then come two and make a map; then comes an army and takes the country. Therefore, it is better to kill the first Englishman.

Pashtun proverb

Prelude

Daffadar Habib Khan heard the tiny click through the sinister blanket of night. It could have been nothing, a stone dislodged by the wind, the noise made by a nocturnal animal, but Habib Khan was instantly alert. Born and bred to Pakhtunwali, the Pashtun way of life, he touched the shoulder of the sowar to his right, nodding in the direction of the sound. Immediately understanding, the sowar passed on the message until every man of the Guides patrol was alert.

A chill wind blew from the unseen heights of the Spin Ghar, the range of mountains otherwise known as the Safed Koh. Here, in Pakhtunkhwa, the unstable North-West Frontier between British India and the independent land of Afghanistan, every sound could mean danger.

When Habib Khan heard the slither of cloth on rock, he knew that a man was approaching. When he caught the slight whiff of gun oil, he knew that the man was armed. Every single sound or smell added to his knowledge so that within minutes Habib Khan had a complete picture of what was out there in the dark. He did not have to think; the instincts of generations of hillmen had been bred into him.

Twenty men, he told himself. Ghilzais; they are moving into an ambush position.

Lying prone, Habib Khan nestled his rifle behind a rock and got ready to fire. He did not have to load; any man who carried an empty firearm in Pakhtunkhwa was either a fool or dead. Habib Khan was not the former and had no desire to be the latter. There was no sound from his colleagues; they knew the danger as well as he did.

A horse whinnied behind them, the sound carrying far in the dark. It was a tiny incident but enough to preempt the Ghilzai tribesmen's attack. They rose as one, moving onto what they hoped would be a sleeping camp. Instead they walked into the fire of a dozen Guides' rifles.

The shots shattered the silence, echoing from the surrounding hills as each muzzle flash gave a tiny vignette of the scene. Habib Khan had a partial picture of a score of Ghilzais advancing through the night with Khyber Knives or pulwars naked in their hands and rifles slung across their backs. Then came sudden darkness as the firing stopped. The acrid reek of powder smoke drifted in the sharp air.

'What the devil…' Lieutenant Beattock, back with the main body of the Guides, shouted. 'What's happening up there, Daffadar?'

With no time to explain, Daffadar Habib Khan ordered his men to fix bayonets. The metallic snicks sounded sinister on the hushed hillside.

'Ready?' Habib Khan had no need to ask.

The Guides followed, feet silent in the dark as Habib Khan led them forward to meet the Ghilzais, men of their blood, men every bit as adept in hill-craft as themselves, men eager to meet their attack.

Bayonet to Khyber Knife, rifle butt to pulwar, the skirmish lasted only five minutes and ended with the Ghilzais melting back into the dark. Lieutenant Beattock scrambled up in time to see the final few seconds. 'Well done, Daffadar.' He looked around at the crumpled bodies of three Ghilzais while a single wounded Guide tried to hold his entrails in place. 'Take Khazi back down the hill and we'll get him attended to.'

'Yes, Beattock Sahib,' Habib Khan said.

'Halloa now.' Beattock turned over one of the Ghilzai dead. 'What have we here?' Removing the rifle from the man's back, Beattock held it up. 'Now here's mischief. Where did you get this from, my fine fellow?' Lifting the rifle to his shoulder, Beattock sighted along the barrel. 'You did very well, Daffadar, even better than you think.' He looked again at the dead Ghilzai, swore softly, and crouched down. 'We have trouble,' he said, pulling at the red cord the man sported on his right wrist. 'We could have major trouble.'

Chapter One

Gondabad, India, June 1863

'Have you seen this, Jack?' Mary tapped the relevant paragraph of the Times with her forefinger. 'It's about your brother.'

Captain Jack Windrush looked up from the fishing fly he was tying. 'I didn't know the papers had arrived. What's William doing now? Winning the Victoria Cross for bravely parading down Pall Mall?'

'He's making more babies,' Mary said. 'I'll read it out to you: “We are pleased to announce that Captain William Windrush of the Royal Malverns has been blessed with a child. The new arrival, William Crimea Windrush, came into this world on the 13th of January 1862. Mother and baby are both well. Captain William Windrush is already the proud father of a three-year-old girl, Helen Sevastopol Windrush.” '

'I'm glad they are both well,' Jack said.

'You are glad that William's Helen is well even though Helen transferred her affections from you to William?' Mary reminded sweetly.

'That was a long time ago.' Jack did not enjoy the memory.

'Well, I am glad she did,' Mary said. 'It left you open for me.'

Jack grunted as he missed the knot. He began to tie the fly again. 'That was fortunate.'

Mary put the newspaper down. 'What does William's male child mean for your position, Jack?'

Jack considered for a moment, sighed, and put the fly aside. He knew he would not get any peace until Mary had exhausted the subject. 'I grew up thinking I was the heir to Wychwood Manor, as you know. It was not until my father died that I learned that, although I was the oldest, I was also illegitimate, with William the oldest legitimate son and, therefore, the heir.'

'I know that,' Mary said patiently.

Jack leaned back in his chair, swatting at a circling mosquito. 'When my mother, or rather my step-mother, told me that I was illegitimate, I was devastated.'

'I can imagine.' Mary did not remind Jack she had heard the story before. 'Your mother must be a cruel woman. Was she cruel?'

'No.' Jack shook his head. 'I have had years to think about this. When my step-mother first told me that I was illegitimate and would lose what I thought was my inheritance, I did believe she was cruel.' He looked away, reliving those dark days. 'I thought it was unfair that I should not join the family regiment, the Royal Malverns. I thought it wrong that I was only commissioned into the 113th, the lowest regiment in the army, with what I considered a pittance to live by.'

Mary listened. 'Do you still think the same, twelve years later?'

'No.' Jack shook his head. 'The family is not anything like as rich as I once thought we were. The Windrushes are only country gentry with a handful of acres, not some great landowners with a vast estate. With two legitimate sons to support as well as me, our land was insufficient to grant me a large allowance. In fact, Mother was more than generous giving me what she did. She could legally have thrown me out without a penny.'

'Did you ever speak to a lawyer about your position, Jack?'

'Not right away,' Jack said. 'I was young, foolish and angry. I wanted to make my name and get rapid promotion to show the world how clever I was.' He shook his head. 'When I think now of the risks I took!' He looked away. 'I despair of some of the young griffins I meet now, but I was worse than any of them.'

'Did you speak to a lawyer eventually?' Mary kept the subject on topic.

'Eventually,' Jack said. 'I consulted a Mr Stark in Calcutta. He told me that an illegitimate child, which I was, was not entitled to inherit anything unless the parents married each other after the child was born. In that case, the child could legally inherit wealth – movable assets.'

'I don't understand,' Mary said. 'What are movable assets?'

'Movable assets are money or possessions. The land or the house would only come to me if my father had specifically mentioned me in his will.'

'Did he?'

'He did not leave a will. He died of disease. I presume that he expected to live longer and may have intended to write a will later. As it happens…' Jack shrugged. 'I got nothing, as you are well aware. My father did not marry my mother. My half-brother William got the estate, and the commission into the Royal Malverns, with my other half-brother Adam having the right to live here plus inheriting half the movable assets.'

Mary sighed. 'It would have been good to have a base in England, somewhere to go Home when you retire from the Army.'

Jack said nothing until Mary prompted him. 'Do you miss Wychwood Manor?'

'I miss it because I always thought of it as Home, despite not being there much,' Jack said. 'I was in India until I was about five, although my memories are a bit vague. Father sent me to England, but I was at boarding school most of the time.' He leaned back as the memories returned. 'It's strange. I used to think that Wychwood Manor was huge until I went to India. Now I see that it's only a small country house, unpretentious and rather ugly, really.'

Mary patted his arm. 'I'm sure it's a lovely house. Will you show me sometime?'

'I'd like to,' Jack said. 'I'm due leave; in fact, I'm overdue leave.' Lighting a cheroot, he blew a slow cloud of smoke toward the mosquito, which reacted with an angry whine. 'I need a change, Mary. When I took this job with Colonel Hook, I believed it would be interesting. All I've done for the past four years has been routine and, quite frankly, dull.'

'I know what you have been doing,' Mary said. 'You've helped reorganise the country after the Mutiny; you've learned Pushtu and Urdu and some Persian; you've improved your horse-riding immeasurably.' Leaning forward, Mary took the cheroot from him and drew on it, smiling. 'Most importantly, you've been married to me, and we've created a child together.'

'I certainly don't regret that part of it.' Jack thought of young Andrew, sleeping in his cot with the ayah looking after him whenever Mary allowed. He did not mention to Mary that it would soon be time to send the lad back Home to be properly educated. After surviving the horrors of childhood disease, such partings of mother and child were the most heart-wrenching in the world. Taking his Home leave would enable them all to travel together and ease some of the pain.

'It was a wonderful day.' Mary handed back the cheroot, still smiling. Jack knew she was reliving the day of their marriage.

Jack had intended the wedding to be low-key affair, knowing that Mary was not a woman who sought to be the centre of attention. With his half-Indian mother, Jack was on the very margin of British respectability, while Mary as a Eurasian was on the opposite side of that definite social divide. He had not expected many guests.

They had married in the garrison church at Gondabad, with newly promoted Captain Arthur Elliot as best man and one of the mission teachers as maid of honour. Few of the officers of the 113th attended, for Colonel Snodgrass had made his disapproval evident. Only Ensigns Peake and Wilden, men who had marched with Windrush in the latter part of the Mutiny campaign, accompanied Elliot.

'The church is nearly empty.' Mary had tried to hide her disappointment as she surveyed the echoing interior.

'Your presence fills it all for me.' Jack was insufficiently skilled with words for his attempt at gallantry to succeed.

'Thank you, Jack.' Mary had looked beautiful dressed in white, with her veil pushed back and the white gloves extending almost to her elbows. She forced a smile for him. They had both turned around as the church door crashed open, with Jack instinctively reaching for his sword.

Mary had taken hold of his wrist. 'It's all right, Jack.'

'Sorry,' Jack had said. 'Old habits.'

Mary had released him. 'The Mutiny is over now. We're all at peace.'

'Sorry we're late, sir!' Dressed in his Number One uniform, Sergeant O'Neil had stridden into the church with a squad of men at his back. Jack had known who they would be even before he looked at them. There were Thorpe and Coleman, the Burma veterans, Riley the gentleman thief, and Logan, the diminutive Glaswegian with his face split into an uncharacteristic smile. There was Williams, limping from his recent wound, and Mackinnon who possessed some instinct that enabled him to sense danger. At the back was Parker, the quietly kind-hearted Liverpudlian.

'Thank you for coming, lads.' Jack had felt his words were inadequate. He knew his men would understand. 'I hope you don't get into any trouble for coming here.'

'No, sir.' Riley had said.

Jack had said no more. He could trust Riley to have thought of some dodge to subvert authority.

Mary had patted Jack's arm. She did not have to say anything. Her smile wrapped around the grinning men.

'Sir.' Sergeant O'Neill had thrown a thunderous salute as his boots crashed onto the paving stones that floored the church. 'We don't have much time, sir, but we all want to wish you and Mary … the future Mrs Windrush the best of all possible happiness, sir.'

'Thank you, Sergeant.' Jack had looked over his men. He could not quite believe that he was leaving the 113th. After sharing years of trials and bloody war, he would probably never see them again. I'm getting foolishly emotional. Such partings are a soldier's lot.

'The Church is quite full now with all your men there.' Mary's bright words had chased away his momentary gloom.

The ceremony had been brief. Elliot played his part with his usual efficiency, producing the ring at the required moment, and organising everything and everybody to an inch of their lives. Jack and Mary exchanged their vows without hesitation, with Jack wondering at the speed he transferred from a single man to a husband with responsibilities.

'I do,' he had said, and that was that. He was married for evermore. Looking at Mary, he had no regrets. It felt right, and there was no more to be said.

When Jack and Mary had marched back down the aisle as man and wife, their footsteps sounded hollow in the nearly empty church. O'Neill and his men had already left. Mary bit back her renewed disappointment.

'They probably had their duty to attend,' Jack had whispered. 'They would be here for you if it was humanly possible.' All the same, I thought Elliot would have organised something.

Mary's hand had squeezed his arm, gently reassuring. 'I know.'

All the same, I'd prefer the lads to be here for Mary's sake. She'll only have one wedding in her life. I hope.

The second they had stepped outside the gloom of the church into the bright Indian sunlight, Jack knew that he should have trusted Elliot. His men waited in a double row with their bayoneted rifles forming a triumphal arch under which Jack and Mary had to walk.

'Oh!' Mary had put a hand to her mouth. 'Oh, Jack!'

'All Elliot's doing.' Jack had renounced all responsibility. He resolved to buy Elliot a bottle of something suitable at the first opportunity. No price could adequately compensate for Mary's pleasure.

As they had marched beneath the glittering steel arch, Jack tried not to think of the times he had seen these same bayonets dripping with blood. Instead, he concentrated on the delight on Mary's face, and the loyalty of these rogues and badmashes he had fought beside for so many years.

'It's not the same without you, sir.' O'Neill had spoken awkwardly, as if he had not seen Jack in every state of dress and undress for the past decade.

'You have Elliot as Company Commander,' Jack had said. 'He's a good man.'

'Yes, sir,' O'Neill had agreed. He glanced at Mary, who gave an encouraging smile. 'Well, sir, me and the boys had a bit of a collection to help your marriage, sir, you and Mrs Windrush of course.'

'There's no need,' Jack had begun until Mary forestalled him by stepping forward.

'How delightful!' Mary had said. 'You are good men, all of you. Forgive me, Jack.' Without another word she planted a kiss on O'Neill's craggy face, following that by doing the same to each of the men. Jack watched in amazement as his bitter-eyed veterans responded with smiles, and even blushes.

'I'll never forget this,' Mary had said. 'Thank you, gentlemen.'

Elliot had marched up, caught Jack's eye and winked. 'I could not find a spare carriage,' he said. 'I'm sorry, Mrs Windrush. I had to get a native form of transport.'

'Oh, that's all right,' Mary had said. 'A bullock dak is fine by me.'

'There were no bullocks available,' Elliot had said. 'Forgive me.' Putting both fingers in his mouth, he gave a loud whistle.

Jack had not seen from where the elephant thundered. He only knew it was large and grey, with an elaborately decorated howdah. 'Well done, Arthur!'

With the grinning mahout dressed in splendid gold and red and tassels of the same colour swinging from the howdah, the elephant had been an impressive sight as it came to a halt in front of them. Mary's smile could not have been broader as the beast knelt down, to the cheers of O'Neill and the men of the 113th.

Feeling slightly self-conscious with so many people watching, Jack had helped his new wife into the howdah.

'General Baird supplied the elephant,' Elliot had said. 'That's the Rajah of Gondabad's general, in case you have forgotten.'

'My grandfather,' Jack had murmured. 'I'm hardly likely to forget.'

Elliot had nodded. 'The elephant will take you on a tour of the camp and city. It's not quite a carriage ride, I'm afraid, Mrs Windrush.'

'It's wonderful.' Mary had been nearly in tears with pleasure. 'Thank you, Arthur.'

'Thank you, Arthur,' Jack had echoed.

It had been strange to see Gondabad from the back of an elephant. It was not strange to have his new wife sitting opposite. Jack smiled across to her; it seemed perfectly natural to have Mary there, as if they had always belonged together and always would. There was no feeling of awkwardness, no embarrassment, just a sense of completion as if he had always known that Mary would come along, with his previous romantic encounters merely preparing him for the real thing. It had taken the blood and slaughter of the Mutiny to bring them together, so one good thing came out of that nightmare. Jack's eyes darkened for a moment, then he realised Mary was watching him and smiled. Pushing away the memories of the horrors the recent Mutiny had unleashed on India, Jack tried to contemplate the future.

With Mary being half-Indian, many regiments would not accept her in their Mess. Colonel Snodgrass of the 113th had given him an ultimatum: Mary or the regiment. Jack knew that by choosing Mary, he might have made himself an outcast, with his prospects of promotion blocked. He could be a captain forever, fortunate for any post that kept him from surviving on half pay in some dreary English coastal town.

'Jack?' Mary had leaned forward. 'We're here.'

The elephant had brought them back to their home, outside the lines of the 113th yet still within the British cantonment. Standing within its own grounds, the bungalow had no bad memories. It was a fresh start for their new life together.

'Come on, Mary.' Lifting her in both arms, Jack had carried her past the bewildered servants and over the threshold to deposit her on one of the broad wickerwork chairs. 'Welcome to our home, lady of the house.'

Mary had looked up at him, her eyes concerned. 'I hope you don't regret marrying me.'

'Don't be silly.' Jack had said with a grin. 'Anyway, it's too late now. There's no going back.' He gestured to the room next door. 'The wedding presents are in there. I suppose you want to wait a day or two before you look at them?' He grinned as Mary scampered across the floor.

Mary had no need to open Elliot's wedding present. The huge bed stood in the centre of the room. 'Oh.' She put a hand over her mouth.

'Well, even Arthur knows that we have to sleep somewhere,' Jack had said.

'It's a bit suggestive.' Mary had touched the carved footboard. 'I wonder where he got it.'

'He had it made especially for us,' Jack had said. 'What else is there?'

Smiling, Mary had turned to the large ivory chess set with its elephants and rajahs. 'That's unexpected. I did not know you were keen on chess, Jack.'

'That was Jayanti's chess set.' As the memories had rushed back, Jack pushed the set to one side. 'That should not be here. It's too soon.'

'Too soon?' A small frown had puckered Mary's forehead.

'I'll tell you sometime. What else can you find?'

With the colonel's displeasure hanging over them, the officers of the 113th had not been generous with their gifts. Mary sifted through the small pile of simple offerings. 'It was very good of them to give anything,' she said. 'They know what Colonel Snodgrass thinks of us.'

Jack grunted. 'We won't spoil the day by thinking of such things.'

'What's this?' Mary had walked to a chest that sat in the corner of the room. 'Is this yours? I haven't seen it before.'

'It's not mine.' Jack had guessed who it was from.

Heavily carved with elephants and monkeys, the chest was of teak, bound with brass. Turning the key in the lock, Mary had opened it and gasped. 'Who sent this?'

The chest was packed with clothes in the finest silk and cotton. Jack had stepped back as Mary lifted them out, one by one, exclaiming in wonder with each item.

'That should keep you going for a while,' Jack had said.

At the very bottom of the chest, the document had been folded into an oblong of parchment, yellowed with age and heavily sealed. Red ribbon crossed and re-crossed the parchment, enclosing a square of white paper with a short note in shaky handwriting.

'What's that?' Mary had taken her attention from the clothes long enough to glance at the document.

'I do not know.' Jack had read the note and handed it over. 'See what you think.'

'Dear Mary and Jack,' Mary had read. 'You know that I would have loved to attend your wedding, but circumstances did not allow. I do thank you for the very thoughtful invitation. As you know, I head the army of the Raja of Gondabad, a position which has a surfeit of prestige, but little in the way of portable remuneration.'

Mary had sighed. 'That means the rajah does not pay your grandfather very well,' she explained. 'Probably in case he returns Home.'

'Yes, Mary.' Jack had understood the letter when he read it. 'Carry on.'

'On the credit side, I have a fine group of women who are friendly with me.' Mary had frowned. 'Does that mean your grandfather has a harem?'

'I would think so,' Jack had said.

Mary had shaken her head. 'I would have thought he was a little old for that sort of thing.'

'I'll remind you of that when we are his age,' Jack had said.

Mary had lifted her eyebrows. 'I might hold you to that, Mister.'

'Each of my women has a clothing allowance, so it was an easy matter to obtain the enclosed for the use of Mary.'

Mary had lifted the clothes again. 'So these are clothes from a harem.' Her voice was thick with disapproval.

'Quality clothes from my grandfather,' Jack had said.

'I'm at the final two paragraphs.' Even as she read, Mary had not relinquished hold of the clothing. 'You will see that I have sealed the attached document. I have put it in your case and ask you not to open it until the event of my death. My days on this earth have been full, and it cannot be long before they come to an end. I will meet my Maker in a much happier frame of mind knowing that my only grandson has had the sense to marry such a beautiful lady as you, Mary.

I close this missive with the assurance of all the love I am capable of giving, and my blessings for a long, happy and fruitful marriage.

Yours aye

Jack Baird, Major, Bengal Fusiliers,

General, the Rajah of Gondabad's army.'

Mary's hand had shaken as she read the letter a second time and then lifted the sealed document. 'Should we open it?'

'No.' Jack had shaken his head. He took the parchment away. 'It will be the general's will and testament. We will honour his desire.'

Mary had snapped shut the chest. 'As you wish, Jack. There is also this.' She lifted the packet that O'Neill had handed over in the church.

'This means a lot to me.' Jack had lifted the packet. 'These men only get paid one shilling and a penny a week, and they have so many stoppages it's amazing they have anything left, let alone a surplus to raise money for us.'

'They have good hearts,' Mary had said. 'Rough tongues but good hearts.'

'They can have.' Jack had thought of all the dangers he had faced with the 113th. At that moment he despised the class system and the innate snobbery of Colonel Snodgrass and his kind. He handed over the sealed packet to Mary. 'You open it, Mary. They meant it for you anyway.'

'I feel guilty taking the men's money.' Mary had broken the simple seal. 'The parable of the widow's mite comes to mind.' She emptied the contents onto the table.

Half a dozen silver coins had clattered out, with three golden sovereigns and a thumb-nail sized packet.

'That's a lot of money from the men.' Jack had read the writing on the final packet. 'This has your name on it.'

'I'll open it later.' Mary had tucked it away inside her pocketbook. 'We have other things to do.'

'What's that?' Jack had asked.

'It's our wedding night.' Mary had extended her hand. 'And we have Arthur's bed to test out. Come with me, husband.'

* * *

Jack jerked back to the present. Marriage had undoubtedly hindered his advancement. When the war in China had broken out, Jack had applied to go, for success in active service was the best step towards promotion. With the troops sent from India, Sir Colin Campbell, now elevated to the peerage as Lord Clyde, chose the staff officers.

Jack's hopes had risen when Lord Clyde had sent for him.

'I know you, Windrush,' Lord Clyde had said, glowering through his crinkled, kindly face. 'You are a fair officer. Why the devil did you get married?'

'Because I fell in love, sir.'

'Hmm.' Lord Clyde surveyed Jack from under his bushy eyebrows. 'Well, congratulations on your marriage, Windrush. Permission to join the Chinese expedition withheld.'

'Sir?'

'I said permission withheld, Windrush. I'm not going to deny Mrs Windrush the pleasure of your company so soon after your wedding. I'll give the poor woman some happiness; God knows there are enough departures and loneliness in the life of a soldier's wife.'

Aye, Jack thought, trust kind-hearted old Sir Colin to think of the women as well as the men. He is a one-off, is Sir Colin, but he has not done my career much good. I could have been a major by now if things had gone well in China. There is a lot of truth in the saying that marriage is ruinous to the prospects of a young officer. What was the mantra? A subaltern cannot marry, a lieutenant must not marry, a captain should not marry, a major may marry, and a colonel must marry. Well, I married as a captain, and my career has stalled as a result.

'Jack?' Mary noticed his preoccupation. 'Are you all right?'

'Never better,' he said truthfully. He looked at Mary. He did not regret his decision. Lighting another cheroot, Jack discarded the memories and handed the cheroot to his wife. 'I have spent sufficient time being a glorified clerk. I am not suited to pushing papers around.'

'What's in your mind, Jack?' Mary puffed on Jack's cheroot.

'One of two things.' Jack leaned forward in his chair. 'Either I take the leave I'm due, or I look for a vacancy in a regiment, either British or one of the native pultans. The latter surely won't object to me having a half-Indian wife.'

'Why not do both?' Mary said.

'I could,' Jack mused. 'How do you fancy a trip Home? I could show you Wychwood Manor, London, Bath, maybe travel up to Scotland to see all the places Sir Walter Scott wrote about. When we're over there, I can visit Horse Guards and see about transferring.'

'I'd love to see Home,' Mary said.

'Good.' Jack kissed her on the forehead. 'I'll speak to Colonel Hook tomorrow.' He leaned back. He felt as if this peaceful chapter of his life was about to end. He had enjoyed his time with Mary but knew that it was false; something was missing. He had been waiting for his career to begin again.

Chapter Two

Gondabad, India July 1863

'Ah, Windrush!' Lieutenant-Colonel Hook marched forward with his hand extended, his hair still unfashionably long but his face remarkably unlined. 'I was about to send for you. I need your services for something more interesting than administration.'

'Yes, sir.' Jack saw his hopes of home leave begin to fade. 'What's happened, sir?'

'Now.' Hook perched on the edge of the table, sipping at a glass of brandy. He continued as if Jack had never spoken. 'You'll be wondering what this is all about, Windrush.'

'I am, sir.' Jack glanced around. Hook had taken up his quarters in the great fort of Gondabad, where the Rajah had become a staunch ally of Britain since the failure of the Mutiny. The room was empty except for the desk, a small, glass-fronted drinks cabinet, two deep leather armchairs, and what looked like a couple of brass-bound arms chests. A large map of North West India covered one wall, with handwritten annotations in various places.

'You'll find out in a minute or two.' Hook looked no older than he had when Jack had first met him. 'Ah, here he comes now.'

A short, heavily bearded major entered behind Jack.

'Ah, Kerr, do you know Windrush?'

'No, sir.' The major nodded to Jack.

Hook made the introductions. 'Major Kerr of the Guides, meet Captain Windrush, late of the 113th, now working for me. For the past few years, Kerr, Windrush has been busy reorganising India under the Queen's, rather than the Company's, rule.'

Standing with his back to the door, Kerr looked anything but impressed. His eyes bored into Jack with the intensity of gimlets.

Hook put down his brandy. 'Now I have another task for you, Windrush. One perhaps more fitted to your peculiar talents.'

Glancing at Kerr, Jack took a deep breath. He had promised Mary he would mention home leave to Hook. 'I am due home leave, sir.'

'I am aware of that,' Hook said. 'I'm afraid you'll have to wait. Duty comes first. Mary will understand.'

Jack nodded. He knew that Mary would understand, but that did not mean he wished to disappoint her. He hoped that Colonel Hook's task, whatever it was, would not take too long.

Hook stood up. 'The job I have in mind may be more important than any military post you have ever held, however distinguished your service may have been.'

'What is this job, sir?' Jack was acutely aware that the silent Kerr was listening to every word.

'I'll come back to that in a minute, Windrush. You know the northern Indian plains as well as any officer of your rank. How well do you know the North West Frontier?'

'Not at all, sir.' Jack looked past Hook to the giant map that was spread across the wall. Most of the annotations were along the North West. He wondered what they signified.

'Have you ever read Clausewitz, Windrush?'

'Yes, sir.' As a young ensign, Jack had striven to learn all he could about military theory. The book On War by the Prussian Carl Von Clausewitz had introduced him to the moral and political aspects of warfare. A decade of the reality, peppered by three wars and five savage campaigns, had taught him that theory and reality did not often coincide.

Hook grunted. He was not used to young officers who had spent time reading books. 'You'll be familiar with Clausewitz's phrase: “War is an act of violence pursued to the utmost.” '

'Yes, sir.'

'Could you describe that, Windrush?'

Jack blinked. 'I am not sure what you mean, sir.'

'Could you describe an act of violence pursued to the utmost?' Hook sipped again at his brandy.

Jack considered for a minute. 'I presume Clausewitz was referring to a battle, sir.'

'What would you think of a people – and I choose that term carefully – what would you think of a people whose entire culture is based around violence? What would you think of a people who have resisted invasion for not hundreds but thousands of years, who have never been completely conquered, and who control the gateway to India?'

'They must be an impressive people, sir.' Jack felt Kerr stir behind him.

'They have been called many things, Windrush, usually by their enemies. They are a Semitic people, more devoutly Muslim than the Crusaders were Christian. They speak Pushtu, and we know them as Pathans, Paythans, Pakhtuns or Pashtuns.' Hook's smile should have acted as a warning to Jack. 'You are going to get to know them very well.'

Jack had already guessed that. 'Yes, sir.'

'Pour yourself a drink, sit back, and let me educate you,' Hook said. 'Major Kerr, please be seated and join in whenever you wish.'

'Whisky for me, sir, please.' Jack chose a Glenfiddich before he settled into one of the armchairs.

'Good choice,' Hook approved. 'Glenfiddich is her Majesty's tipple, I believe. Now, let me take you back in time a couple of hundred years or more to when the British first came to this land. We came as traders to Madras, Calcutta and Surat.'

Jack nodded. His family had been involved with India for generations.

'When the major local power, the Moghul Empire, gradually disintegrated, other Indian states rose in importance, some friendly to us, some friendly to our trade rivals, the French, some not caring about either, and everybody out for what they could get.' Hook paused, presumably to see how Jack was accepting his version of Indian history.

Jack nodded, wordless.

Hook continued. 'With so many rival states marching and counter-marching their armies across India, Britain, or rather the Honourable East India Company, needed to protect their trading posts. The Company recruited local forces, well, you know the pattern. What had begun as a simple trading operation ended up in one of the most successful companies in the world. Our often less-than-Honourable Company expanded to control much of the Indian sub-continent. The Company's final war of expansion was against the Sikhs, which brought Company rule to this point here.'

For the first time, Hook stepped to the map of India. Lifting a pointer, he stroked it down the northwest of the sub-continent. 'Now that the Company has gone and the Crown has taken over India, the British Army is responsible for this North West Frontier.'

Jack felt a shiver run through him. The name seemed redolent of an ending, as if the ancient civilisations of India stopped at that frontier, and something much wilder, something dangerously untamed, began.

Hook tapped the map with his pointer. 'Here we have hundreds of miles of mountains, from beyond the Khyber Pass in the north to Baluchistan and the Bolan Pass in the south.' Hook stopped, ostensibly to sip at his brandy, but Jack suspected more likely for dramatic effect.

Jack stepped forward to examine the map. Although he had been born in India and Indian blood flowed through his veins, he had never served west of the Indus. The North West Frontier was unknown to him. 'It looks like an interesting area, sir.'

'These mountains are bleak beyond your imaginings, Windrush, with some of the wildest, most independent-minded, intractable people in the world.' Hook leaned back in his chair. 'It is certainly the most dangerous frontier of the Empire; it is arguably the most dangerous in the world.'

'Yes, sir.'

'It is a land of savage, bare mountains interspaced with narrow passes, like sabre slashes between high peaks. It has some green, beautiful valleys but more often is stark and bare beyond description, tormented by dust storms, bitter cold with snow in winter, scorched by the sun in summer.' Lifting his pointer, Hook pushed Jack out of the way and indicated the map. 'There are avenues into this area. We have the Kabul River, the Khyber Pass, the Kurrum River, the Tochi River, the Gomal River, and the Bolan. As a student of military history, which you are, Windrush, you will be aware that a British Army came badly unstuck in these passes back in '41.'

'I have heard of General Elphinstone's misfortune, sir.'

'Bear it in mind. It was undoubtedly the worst defeat the British Army has ever suffered in the East.' Hook continued his lecture. 'There are fertile valleys where crops are grown, there are fast-running rivers, there are ancient forts, hill villages, and there are the Pashtuns.' He looked up then, catching Jack's gaze. 'I believe you have a little experience of these gentlemen.'

'Yes, sir. A Pathan, sorry, a Pashtun named Batoor helped me during our last campaign in the Mutiny. I was glad he was on our side and not against us.'

Hook gave an enigmatic smile. 'The Pashtuns are the most obliging fellows imaginable, as long as it suits them. I am not sure if the Pashtuns are ever on anybody's side except their own. It might have happened that his needs coincided with yours on that occasion.'

'I believe that was the case, sir,' Jack agreed.

'Let's talk about these people.' Hook spoke so casually that Jack knew he was hiding something. 'The Pashtuns occupy a large area between British India and the independent nation of Afghanistan, spilling into both territories. They are divided into tribes who are as often as not mutually hostile, rather like the Scottish Highland clans or even more like the old reiving families of the Scottish-English Border. If you have read your Walter Scott, you'll know what I mean.'

'I am working my way through Scott's novels, sir, when I have free time.'

Hook gave a bleak smile. 'I am sure that Mary will guide you there.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Back to the Pashtuns,' Hook said. 'From the north, we have the Yusufzai, then the Mamunds, the Mohmand, the Afridi, the Waziri, and the Mahsud and Baluchis, who are slightly different but associated.'

Jack listened, wishing he had thought to bring a notepad and pencil. He guessed that such information was going to be important.

'Each tribe is divided into sub-tribes, which for the sake of clarity I will call clans. For example, the Yusufzai have the Bunerwals, the Ado Khel, the Babuzai, the Hassanzai, and many others. Often the clans are further split into family units. Do you get the idea?'

Jack nodded. 'Yes, sir.' He heard Kerr shift behind him.

Hook sipped at his brandy before continuing. 'Throughout history, the Pashtuns have existed, never thrived, by being semi-nomads, trying to farm their thin soil, grazing livestock in summer and raiding the richer plains of India to the East. The men are brought up to robbery, fighting and feuding; I'll come to that later.'

Jack nodded. No British soldier serving in India could fail to hear about the tribes of the North West Frontier.

'If the Pashtun families fall out, they live by the blood feud, again like the Scottish clans or Border reiving families.' Hook refilled his glass, offered Jack more whisky, and nodded when Jack refused. 'Very wise. You'll need all your faculties where I am sending you.'

'I gather that I'm going to the Frontier, sir.'

'Don't jump the gun, Windrush.' Hook sipped at his brandy again. 'The Pashtuns are adept at using their jezzails, their long muskets, as our men will all testify to. They live by Pakhtunwali, the way of the Pashtuns, and are dedicated to Islam.'

'Yes, sir.' Jack was beginning to feel as if he sat in a lecture theatre.

'Have you heard of the Five Pillars of Islam, Windrush?' Hook asked.

'I have, sir,' Jack said.

'Good. What are they?'

Jack had expected the question. 'They are: shahada, which is faith, salah or prayer, zakat or charity, sawm or fasting, and hajj, where every follower of Islam should endeavour to make the pilgrimage to Mecca at least once in his life.'

'Good man.' Hook approved. 'Well, there is an unofficial sixth to which the Pashtun can become addicted. That is Jihad: Holy War. It is a concept that sits on their shoulder at all times.'

'They sound like a formidable if quarrelsome people, sir. Yet I rather liked Batoor, the Pashtun I worked with.'

'I respect them beyond all other peoples I have ever met, Windrush, except perhaps the Sikhs. They have no mercy to the loser, offer hospitality to any traveller, follow blood feuds to the death, and keep their code. If you have a Pashtun for a friend, you have a friend for life, or until he decides otherwise.' Hook finished his brandy, looked at the decanter, shook his head in sorrow, and pushed it away. 'Now, you will be wondering what all this has to do with you.'

'I am, sir.'

'Open that first case.' Hook indicated the brass-bound case that sat on the floor.

The padlock was already open. The case contained a dozen Enfield rifles.

'Enfields, sir.'

'Exactly what we don't wish the Pashtun to own. Our patrols have been picking them up the length and breadth of the frontier; the Ghilzais of the Kurrum Valley, the Afridis of the Khyber, the Mohmands, and even the Bunerwals, who are a fairly peaceful tribe, by Frontier standards. In fact, they think themselves superior to all others, being religious and surprisingly honest.'

'Do we know how the Pashtuns are getting these weapons, sir?'

'No, Windrush.' Hook shook his head. 'We all know that the tribesmen are amongst the greatest thieves in the world. They can take a rifle from a man's hands while he is asleep, but that would only account for a few weapons. We have found dozens of these Enfields.'

'It's a bit worrying, sir.' Jack knew that the British Army had dominance over the native armies they had met through three things: discipline, strong leadership, and more modern arms and tactics. The wars with the Sikhs had been amongst the hardest fought in India because the Sikh Khalsa had both discipline and modern weapons. If they'd had better leadership, the wars could have taken quite another turn. The Pashtun had a plethora of capable commanders; with modern weapons, they represented a significant threat to the security of North West India.

'It is worrying,' Hook agreed. 'I've put notice out to all our political agents, the men who live with the tribes, to look out for these rifles. I have also sent a few trusted men into Pakhtunkhwa, tribal territory, to see what they can find.'

'To let you understand,' Hook pressed his point, 'some of our sepoy battalions still carry the Brunswick Rifle, which has a range of 250 yards. The Pashtuns' normal firearm is the locally manufactured jezzail, with a range of up to 400 yards. Our Enfield is sighted to over a thousand yards.'

'There was a problem with the cartridges, sir,' Jack reminded him.

'There was a problem with the grease that coated the cartridges,' Hook corrected. 'The sepoys believed the paper cartridges were coated with pig and cow fat, which was abhorrent to their religion. Now the cartridges are coated with ghee, butter, so are quite acceptable. However, that is not your problem.'

'Yes, sir.' Jack waited to find out his fate.

'I have an important role for you, Windrush.' Hook offered Jack a cheroot.

'Thank you, sir.' Sugar to sweeten bitter medicine, Jack thought. I hope Mary is alright when she hears my leave is indefinitely postponed.

'How are your language lessons coming along?' Hook's smile appeared genuine.

'Not bad, sir. I've had plenty of practice in Hindi, and my Pushtu is passable. Not so great in Persian.'

'Good man. You'll need all three.' Hook drew on his cheroot. 'Concentrate on Pushtu just now, Windrush, because you're going to the Frontier.'

'Yes, sir.' All prospect of going Home disappeared.

'I want you to find out where these Enfields are coming from. Do we have a rogue supplier in Britain? Do we have a gun runner on the Frontier? Or is there a regiment somewhere with a quartermaster who is storing up his pennies for a comfortable retirement, based on the blood of British soldiers and Indian civilians?'

'I'll see what I can do, sir.'

'Up to this point, Windrush, you have worked nearly exclusively with British infantry. Well,' Hook said and smiled, blowing smoke into the air, 'Major Kerr will introduce you to the Guides. You'll no longer be plodding along at the pace of a snail; you will be with the cream of the Indian Army, and that means you will be working with the best soldiers in the world. Is that not so, Kerr?'

'We like to think so, sir,' Kerr said. His accent was pure Ulster. 'We have the best soldiers. We need the best officers to command them. Not all make the grade.'

Is that a warning? Or a challenge?

'All right. Windrush, report to Major Kerr in Peshawar as soon as you can.'

'Yes, sir.' Windrush glanced at Kerr, who responded with a cold nod.

'Oh, there is one more thing, Windrush.' When Hook spoke in that casual tone, Jack knew that he was about to introduce something particularly unpleasant. 'Some of the Pashtuns who have been active against our men were wearing these on their right arms.' Opening the top drawer of his desk, Hook lifted a twisted red cord, which he dropped into Windrush's extended hand. 'Do you know what it is?'

Jack's mind leapt back to the advance on Bareilly during the Mutiny, when hundreds of swordsmen in green cummerbunds had charged at them. The swordsmen had broken the redoubtable 4th Punjab rifles before the 42nd and 113th had mown them down. Each swordsman had worn such a red cord.

'It's the mark of a Ghazi, sir, a fanatical Muslim fighter.'

'The Warriors of God,' Hook said softly. 'Warriors with modern weapons.' Something in his voice sent shivers down Windrush's spine.

'I'll watch out for them,' Jack promised.

'Well, the best of luck to you, Windrush.' Hook held out his hand. 'You'll be glad to be doing something active after so much desk work.'

As Jack left the room, he thought of Mary, sitting in their bungalow full of hope for their leave back Home.

Chapter Three

Peshawar July 1863

Peshawar. The last city before the Frontier and the final outpost of British rule; East of Peshawar stretched the hot Indian plains; West of Peshawar spread some of the most dangerous territory on the face of the Earth. The very name meant Frontier Town.

Jack reined up Colwall, his brown gelding, to survey the city. Allowing the dust of his passage to settle, he watched as a long caravan of camels plodded majestically out of the city gate. The caravan headed into India, with the camel bells tinkling, and the merchants eyeing Windrush with bold curiosity. If this had been India proper, Jack would have expected a salaam or two, an obsequious greeting. Here, so close to the Frontier, such things did not happen. These men were not inclined to be servile to anybody, much less a lone British officer travelling without a single servant.