Windrush - Blood Price E-Book

Malcolm Archibald

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

Beschreibung

Jack Windrush and the 113th Foot are commissioned to Sevastopol during the Crimean War.

As the great storm of November 1854 rages, Jack's unit is rescuing survivors from a wrecked ship and finds out that one of the survivors is Helen Maxwell, his former sweetheart.

Soon after, they find themselves opposed by the Plastun Cossacks, and the siege of Sevastopol starts to take its toll. With British casualties mounting, Jack and the 113th need to take drastic measures to survive.

Leseprobe

Windrush: Blood Price

Jack Windrush Series – Book III

Malcolm Archibald

Copyright (C) 2017 Malcolm Archibald

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Cover art by http://www.thecovercollection.com/

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

Prelude

Crimea: November 1854

Lieutenant Colonel Pendleton drew on his cigar and blew a perfect smoke ring. Coughing softly, he hugged the greatcoat closer around his shoulders as protection against the biting wind that sliced from the Russian steppes.

'Good evening, sir,' Captain Dowling huddled into his comforter and stamped his feet.

'Evening Dowling.' Pendleton spoke through a haze of smoke and the condensation from his breath.

'It's a cold one,' Dowling said.

'It's healthy,' Pendleton replied. 'Why man, when I was in India we sweltered by day and night. We would have given good money for a brisk morning such as this!'

'Brisk is an understatement, sir,' Dowling said. He glanced forward, where the white tents of the British camp stood in regular rows upon the uplands. A scant mile away, the walls of Sebastopol glowered at them, held by stubborn Russian infantry who for two months had withstood everything that the British, Turkish and French armies could throw at them. Dowling did not flinch as a Russian cannon barked out, too far away to be any threat to them. Grey powder smoke drifted from the walls.

'That's the Russians giving the French a morning wake-up call,' Dowling said casually.

'Come with me, Dowling,' Pendleton said. 'I'm going to inspect the men in the trenches, and I might need a runner.'

Dowling started. 'Yes, sir,' he said. 'I'll get my revolver.'

Pendleton nodded. 'You should never be without it on campaign. You never know when the enemy is going to attack. When we were in Afghanistan, the Afghans kept us on the hop with ambushes and attacks I can tell you!'

'Yes, sir,' Dowling buckled on his pistol belt. 'Shall I lead the way?'

'I know the way, damn it!' Pendleton pushed in front, still exuding blue smoke from his cigar. He slipped down into the communication trench that led to the first parallel, the rearmost of the series of allied trenches that faced the southern half of Sebastopol. The north of the city, as Dowling knew only too well, was still open for the Russians to bring in resources and reinforcements from their seemingly inexhaustible manpower.

With his feet sinking into liquid mud, Pendleton splashed forward, keeping his head below the level of the parapet as he negotiated the trenches and came towards the third parallel, the position closest to the Russians.

'Sir…'

'Keep your head down, Dowling!' Pendleton ordered. 'The Russians just love to pot a British officer.'

'Yes, sir,' Dowling said.

They squeezed against the side of the trench as two privates passed, supporting a wounded man between them. All three were haggard and worn, stained with mud and unshaven, yet all held their rifles and both unwounded men stopped to salute.

'Never mind that,' Pendleton acknowledged them with a raised finger. 'Get that man to a hospital tent at once. What happened?'

'Russian sharpshooter, sir.' The speaker was about thirty, with the stripes of a corporal on his sleeve.

Pendleton grunted. 'It's time we did something about them,' he said. 'Come on Dowling, and be careful.'

Soldiers crowded the third parallel, gaunt-faced privates in poverty-thin uniforms crouching behind the parapet or peering forward toward the Russian lines, harassed sergeants with rags over their feet in place of boots and young ensigns with the eyes of old men. They threw hasty salutes and drew aside to allow Pendleton and Dowling to pass.

'These men are having a rough time,' Pendleton muttered. 'When we get back to camp, Dowling, I want you to set up hot meals for them and see about finding warm clothing. They are dying of the cold out here.'

'Yes, sir.' Dowling thought it best not to mention that a few moments ago the colonel had considered the cold to be healthy.

Pendleton stopped behind a wall of sandbags and addressed a young officer. 'How are we holding out, Yarrow?'

'Sir,' the lieutenant was care-worn, with dark shadows around his eyes and dirt ingrained in the lines of his face. 'Sorry sir, if I had known you were coming…'

'I didn't know myself that I was coming, Yarrow,' Pendleton said cheerfully. 'How are things?'

Lieutenant Yarrow screwed up his face. 'We have one man wounded sir, and sent down to the hospital; all the rest are present and correct, yet there is a wounded man somewhere out there,' he nodded in the direction of the Russian lines, 'between them and us. We hear him moan from time to time yet we can't see him.'

'The devil, you say,' Pendleton frowned. 'We can't allow that. The poor fellow must come from another regiment. Maybe the Rifles or the 113th; they are always fooling around in front of the trenches.'

'That was how they shot Private Connor sir. He tried to rescue the wounded man and a sharpshooter got him.'

'Is that so? Well, we'll just have to try again, won't we?' Pendleton grinned. 'We never left anybody behind for the Afghans to cut up and I won't do it here.' He looked around, saw exhausted men led by very young officers and knew they needed something to lift their morale.

'I'll go myself,' Pendleton decided. 'An officer should never send a man to do something he is not prepared to do himself.' He winked at Dowling. 'That should cheer the men up, eh? They can see the colonel actually in the field rather than sitting in a warm tent back in camp.'

'Yes, sir,' Dowling said, 'but it won't cheer anybody up if you get killed…'

'Well then, I shall just have to make sure that I stay alive! Come along, Dowling!' Pemberton stopped as a moan came from the barren land in front of the trenches. 'Is that the wounded man now?'

'Help me,' the voice was small, from an obviously badly injured man. 'Water … help me … mother!' The voice rose an octave and then died away to an agonised sob.

'Be careful, sir,' Yarrow cautioned as Pendleton rolled over the breastwork and into the darkness beyond. Dowling followed, less skilled than his colonel, keeping his head as far down as possible as he tried to merge with the landscape.

The ground was cold and bare, with pools of chill water in the gouges where shells had exploded, and sullen patches of grass protruded like the pleading hands of dying men. Pendleton crawled slowly forward in the direction he judged the wounded man to lie. For a moment he was back in his youth, proving himself in front of the cynical veteran soldiers, but when he put his knee down hard on a sharp stone he cursed, and reality returned. He was a forty-eight-year-old man, a solid regimental officer but destined to rise no further in the army unless he performed some stupendous feat of suicidal gallantry that reached the attention of people in Britain.

'Help me please,' the voice was fainter as the man's wound made him weaker.

'Hold on,' Pendleton called softly. 'We're coming for you!'

A rocket soared up from behind Sebastopol's walls, flickering temporary light across the ground and highlighting the cheekbones of Dowling's thin face. Pendleton took the opportunity to glance around, searching for the injured man. A hundred yards beyond the tussocks of rough grass sat an oddly shaped rock, the shattered shell of a tree and what might have been the recumbent body of a man.

'I see him,' Pendleton whispered. 'Follow me, Dowling.' Keeping his line of sight on the injured man, he ignored the return of darkness and crawled on as fast as he dared.

He heard the rustle of somebody in the grass an instant too late. 'Who's that?'

The double-edged blade of the khanjali entered the side of his neck before he realised it, and thrust deep. Lieutenant Colonel Vernon Charles Pendleton died on the cold ground six hundred yards in front of the walls of Sebastopol. A dozen shadowy figures flitted toward him and the tall man who crouched beside his body.

The tall man ran experienced hands through the pockets, removing a handful of coins, a gold watch and a small bundle of letters. Cleaning his khanjali on Pendleton's jacket, he crawled back to the shelter of the shattered tree and stood up. For a single second moon-light passed over him, a tall, rangy man in the dark uniform of a Cossack, with an eye-patch disfiguring his face. Then he loped away into the dark as silently as he had appeared.

Chapter One

British Camp outside Sebastopol, Crimea

14th November 1854

It began around four in the morning, a roaring wind that wakened them and flapped the canvas around their ears. It developed in a steady sequence of gusts that increased in strength so that by five the tent was wrenching at the guy-ropes and the single central pole was bending with the strain of holding the rain-sodden canvas in place.

'The whole tent is going to collapse,' Lieutenant Elliot grabbed hold of the pole in alarm. 'Here, Windrush, give me a hand here!'

Jack watched for a second, threw on his jacket and greatcoat against the cold and joined Elliot. Immediately he grappled the pole; he felt the pressure of the wind threatening to rip the entire edifice down.

'It's stormy!' Jack had to shout above the increasing howl.

The wind cracking the canvas above his head drowned Elliot's reply. He looked up as if the Russians had made a sudden sortie. 'What the devil is happening here?'

'It will pass in a minute,' Jack said. 'Hold on tight, or we'll lose the tent.'

Wrapping their arms around the pole, they anchored their feet in the ground and held on desperately as the wind increased minute by minute, with the canvas bellying and staining above and around them.

'Did you hear about Captain MacDonald of the 95th?' Elliot had to shout above the roar of the wind, the flapping of the tent and the clatter of objects rolling around outside.

'No!' Jack shook his head. 'And at the minute I don't care much about a dozen Captain MacDonalds!'

'They found him on the ground after Inkerman with twenty bayonet wounds. He's in a dangerous condition in hospital.'

'Trust you to know what is going on,' Jack shouted. 'I always said that you have a pigeon in Raggles' tent listening to everything that our lords and masters say.'

'Raggles?' Elliot looked shocked, 'that is no way to speak of our esteemed commander, Windrush! You should treat him with respect and call him His Excellency Lord Raglan.'

'And you should call me sir, Elliot. After all, I am your superior officer.'

'Yes, sir, Captain Windrush, sir,' Elliot said. 'Forgive me for not bowing your highness, but if I release this pole the tent will take off, and your royal and distinguished person will be left sodden on this godforsaken lump of rock they call the Crimea.'

'I'll let you off this time,' Jack said, 'but don't make a habit of it!'

There was a yell from outside, followed by a string of oaths that would make even the most foul-mouthed of marines blush scarlet. 'I think somebody has lost their tent,' Jack said.

'That was Major Snodgrass's voice,' Elliot told him. 'Should we go and offer to help?'

Jack shook his head. 'No.' He felt a surge of satisfaction that Major Snodgrass should be suffering. 'If we let go, we will only join him in the cold, and that helps nobody. I wonder if Raggles did anything about the Russian soldiers bayonetting our wounded.'

'He did,' Elliot staggered as the pole nearly bent double. His feet slid on the trodden wet grass that comprised the floor. 'He complained to Prince Menschikoff about the ungentlemanly behaviour of the Russian infantry.'

'So we can expect an apology soon, then?' Jack heard the sarcasm in his voice.

'Indeed not. The good Prince said he “was sorry for it, but if men come and fight an ignorant people without provocation in their own country, they must expect it.” '

'I thought Crimea belonged to the Tatars before the Russians grabbed it,' Jack said.

'Don't split hairs, Your Majesty, sir,' Elliot said. 'Anyway, Menschikoff might get a surprise soon because Lord Raglan has asked for reinforcements. He wanted to storm Sebastopol right after Inkerman but that French fellow, Canrobert, said we weren't strong enough as long as Johnny Russ has a large field army waiting to attack us in the rear.'

'The Ruskis tried that at Inkerman and got well licked for their pains,' Jack said. 'Canrobert should damn well do as he is told.'

Both men relaxed in a sudden lull in the storm. 'It's us that has to do as we're told,' Elliot said. 'The British Army is down to 16,000 fit men. The French have many times more than we have. We are dancing to a Canrobert's jig, not he to ours.'

Jack grunted. 'Wellington will be turning in his grave, with our men doing what the Froggies want.'

'Aye, and there's worse,' Elliot said. 'General De Lacy Evans wants the entire army to leave the Crimea for the winter.'

'Run away?' Jack stared at him. 'A British general wants us to retreat before the Russians?' He shook his head. 'I can hardly believe what I am hearing!'

'He is not the only one,' Elliot said.

'How do you know these things?' Jack grabbed the tent-pole as the wind increased once more.

'Ah,' Elliot said, straining to hold the pole in place as the wind resumed. 'That would be telling.'

They both looked around as somebody unlaced the tent flap from outside, causing papers to fly around the interior.

'Shut that damned flap!' Jack roared until Colonel Maxwell poked his head in and shouted:

'Windrush!'

'Oh sorry sir, I didn't know it was you.'

'Get you down to Balaklava and make sure my wife and daughter are safe in this storm. I have this damned regiment to look after. Hurry, man!'

Jack nodded. 'Yes, sir.' In his concern about keeping the tent-pole in place, he had not thought how the storm might affect others. He mentally kicked himself for his neglect: what did a tent matter when Helen and her mother may be in danger down at Balaklava?

The instant that Jack released the tent-pole, the pressure of wind proved too much for only one man. Elliot yelled as the canvas cover whipped away, taking the pole with it and leaving them both exposed to the elements with all their possessions scattering around them. Staggering in the wind, Jack realised what damage the storm was doing to the British camp as tents were flattened or had vanished completely, men were lying in the open or struggling to stand and personal goods, and military equipment was rolling across the ground.

'This is terrible!' Jack shouted, ignoring Elliot's despairing grab at the last of the canvas.

'I'm worried about Mrs Maxwell and Helen!' Colonel Maxwell shouted. 'Their ship sails this morning! They are in Redgauntlet! Got the name? Redgauntlet!'

Jack flinched as the wind blasted a shako into his face. 'They are not sailing in this, surely?'

'I should say not!' Colonel Maxwell roared. 'I want you to go down and make sure they're all right. If they are not on the ship yet, make sure they stay on land. Got it?'

'Yes, sir,' Jack said. 'Your lady wife…'

'My lady wife is as stubborn a cuss as any you will find!' Maxwell shouted, 'but she is anything but stupid! If she thinks it's not safe for Helen, she will not go. Remember that: tell her it is not safe for Helen! That blasted woman would sail in this herself just for spite.'

'Yes, sir,' Jack did not relish the task of telling the colonel's wife what to do. Mrs Colonel Maxwell was a lady with a strong will and a tongue to match.

'Well get along with you, then!' Maxwell nearly pushed Jack in the direction of Balaklava. 'And hurry man! Hurry!'

Putting his head down, Jack staggered through the camp, hating the scenes of suffering where the gale had blasted the hospital marquee away, and scores of wounded and sick men now lay on the wet grass. Unable to help, he continued onward with the wind hammering at him from the south-west, knocking down ambulances, tossing blankets and shakos into the air and threatening to pluck him from the track and throw him onto the sodden ground.

Swearing, stumbling, wet to the skin, Jack gritted his teeth and thought of Helen. He must ensure she was safe.

The seven-mile journey to the main British supply base at Balaklava was possibly the worst Jack had ever undertaken in his life. After days of rain, the road itself was near liquid, so every step was an effort to free his feet from ankle-deep mud, while the wind increased in velocity by the minute. Swearing, crouching against the blast and in places forced to his hands and knees, he struggled onward.

'Think of Helen,' he told himself. 'She needs me. Think of Helen.' He slogged on, slipping, sliding, swearing but with every step taking him closer to the small harbour town of Balaklava that was the British army's main supply base.

'What a scene!'

Although in the shelter of Cape Georgia and Cape Balaklava, the harbour was a seething mass of breaking water and white foam, with waves exploding against the surrounding cliffs to blast spray hundreds of feet into the air before it descended on the town like savage hail. The ships in the harbour were either bucking against their anchors, their lines straining and chains grinding, or had broken free, their masts and spars swinging at terrible angles, sails ripped and hanging loose and pieces of wreckage bobbing and dancing in the water.

'Jesus!' Jack blasphemed as he saw two ships grinding against each other, one an auxiliary steamer with one of her masts broken and hanging over the port side and the other a brig, with her mizzen, carried away and her crew trying frantically to fend off the steamer.

'It's terrible!' Charlotte Riley, the wife of Private Riley, huddled in the shelter of a cottage, staring at the scene. A man in the blue jacket and white trousers of a sailor stood beside her, nursing a bandage on his left arm. 'These poor people,' Charlotte shook her head.

'Which one is Redgauntlet?' Momentarily forgetting to be polite, Jack grabbed her by the shoulder 'I said: which one is Redgauntlet?'

'Why?' Charlotte widened her eyes.

'Helen is on her.' Jack shouted.

'Oh God, is your girl out there?' Charlotte stared at him in sudden perception. 'Oh Captain Windrush, I am sorry to hear that. I hope to God…'

'Which ship is Redgauntlet?' Jack had no patience for speech.

'Over there, Captain!' The wounded seaman pointed to a group of three ships that crashed and rattled together mid-way across the harbour. 'The middle one. She's still afloat!'

'Thank God,' Jack said softly.'

'She might not be afloat for long,' the sailor took hold of his sleeve. 'Ships are going down all over the place!'

'Oh Jesus!' Jack stared out to Redgauntlet. She was an auxiliary steamer, with only one of her two masts still standing as she thrashed around, grinding against the larger vessels on either side and with her crew running themselves ragged as they tried to keep themselves afloat.

'We've already lost Prince and Resolute,' the sailor shouted, 'and Rip van Winkle won't last much longer!'

The harbour was strewn with wreckage, planks of timber, pieces of cordage, stray lengths of canvas, kegs and unidentified fragments of stricken ships, paper by the ream, articles of clothing and the odd body. Jack swallowed hard; he did not like to think of Helen or her mother out there, enduring the storm when they could be safe in their cottage in Balaklava.

For a moment Jack contemplated finding a small boat and rowing out to Redgauntlet, but one glance at the seething sea persuaded him not to be so foolish. He had not got the skill. A second thought came to him: perhaps Helen and her mother had not gone aboard?

'Excuse me,' he shouted. 'I have to check something…' Buffeted by the wind, he ran to the house that Mrs Colonel Maxwell had leased since they first arrived at Balaklava and hammered at the familiar door.

'Let me in! I'm looking for Mrs Maxwell and Miss Helen Maxwell … Colonel Maxwell sent me!'

Jack did not know the Tartar women who answered the door. 'Is Helen still here?' He peered inside, took a deep breath and tried again. 'Helen Maxwell; is she here?'

The woman shook her head. 'On the ship. Going to England.' She struggled to hold the door against the blast of wind. Leaving her to it, Jack returned to his vigil at the side of the harbour, watching Redgauntlet as she crashed against the vessels on either side.

A naval lieutenant had joined Charlotte and the wounded sailor, his telescope levelled at the harbour as he muttered softly to himself.

'Excuse me,' Jack snatched a telescope from the lieutenant's hands. 'My need is greater than thine.'

'I beg your pardon?' The lieutenant was around thirty, with hard eyes and the middle finger missing from his left hand. Jack wondered briefly if he had been injured during the siege or if he had lost his fingers in some shipboard accident, and then he forgot all about him and concentrated on Redgauntlet and the people on board her.

Seamen still lined the steamer's deck, trying to fend off the larger ships on either side, with an officer, presumably the master, dashing from stern to stem, gesticulating, giving orders, lending a hand where it was most needed.

'Good man,' Jack said quietly and added. 'Oh my God!'

'What's the matter, Captain?' The lieutenant noticed Jack's sudden agitation. 'Is she going down?'

'No, she's on deck helping save the blasted ship!' Jack said.

'What? Who?'

Ignoring him, Jack stared at the deck of Redgauntlet. It was Helen; it must be Helen. Only Helen would have left the comparative comfort and security of her cabin to go on deck in the midst of a hurricane to help the sailors try and save the ship. Rather than wear a long skirt, she had sensibly donned the clothes of a seaman, but it was unmistakably Helen, with her long hair whipping loose around her neck. Jack watched as she held a long pole and shoved as energetically as the men on either side of her to keep a looming three-decker at bay.

'You take care, Helen Maxwell,' Jack shook his head in admiration. He started when another woman appeared on deck, holding on to a lifeline for support as the steamer heeled sharply to starboard. 'Like mother, like daughter,' Jack said as Mrs Colonel Maxwell spoke to the captain. 'She's probably telling him what to do.'

'She's going!' the lieutenant grabbed back his telescope. 'Look at Progress!'

Jack ignored the lieutenant's demand and continued to stare at Redgauntlet. The fate of any other vessel was undoubtedly sad, but Jack had seen too much suffering in this campaign to worry too much about a few more deaths. He was not indifferent, merely aware that if he could not help, there was no point in worrying about it. He was much more concerned about Helen than any number of anonymous sailors.

'Oh God, she's down!' The lieutenant nearly threw the telescope to Jack. 'I must help them!'

'Wait!' Jack's yell was too late. The lieutenant ran to the water's edge. Briefly altering the direction of his gaze, Jack saw a ship on her beam ends with her masts snapped and her crew either clinging to the capsized hull or flailing in the heaving water.

'Oh dear God!' One by one, the survivors began to fail and disappear beneath the waves. Jack saw the lieutenant jump into the harbour and almost immediately vanish.

'Wait…' Throwing off his greatcoat, Jack prepared to follow until Charlotte took hold of his shoulder and shook his head.

'You'll just throw your life away,' she shouted. 'Like that poor fellow did.'

'See that ship?' Nearly panicking at the thought of Helen in extreme danger, Jack pointed to Redgauntlet. 'Will she…?' He shuddered as Redgauntlet began to settle in the water. 'Oh my God.'

'She's going down,' the wounded sailor said.

Forgetting the advice of only a few seconds ago, Jack struggled to remove his jacket. 'I must go to them!'

'Don't be a fool, man!' Charlotte patted Jack's shoulder. 'You'll drown as surely as that poor fellow did.'

'You don't understand,' Jack said. 'My girl's on that ship!'

'I know,' Charlotte said, 'and I do understand.' Her hand gripped softly.

The wounded sailor narrowed his eyes against flying spray. 'God help her. We'll take that boat: look!' he pointed to the water's edge, where the storm had thrown a small dinghy onto the quay. It lay there, hull down, with the waves exploding against the keel and its oars lying by its side, miraculously intact.

'You've only got one good arm!' Jack said.

'And I'll still be a better oarsman than you with two,' the grin took years off the sailor's age. 'Come on if you want to try and save your girl.' Having observed the naval brigade in the siege lines; Jack was not surprised at his dare-devil attitude.

With the sailor giving directions, they flipped the dinghy the right way up. 'She's intact,' the sailor said. 'I'm Ben by the way.' He was about thirty, with blue eyes that shone brightly from a weather-beaten face.

'Jack.' They shook hands briefly, pushed the dingy into the madly lashing waves and clambered on board.

'Can you row?' The seaman shouted and when Jack nodded, said. 'One oar each then: follow my lead.'

'Take care!' Charlotte clung on to the corner of a house for support as the wind whipped the shawl around her head.

Seen from the shore, the harbour was chaos; even a few yards out it was very much worse. The sea threw the dinghy around like a cork, tossing and spinning it this way and that, so Jack knew that if it had not been for the skill and directions of Ben, the waves would have capsised him in seconds.

'Where is Redgauntlet?' Jack tried to peer over his shoulder. From the quayside the route to the steamer had been clearly visible, down here with waves rising above the dinghy and with non-stop motion he could see nothing but a dizzying vista of moving ships, lunging seas and the white spume that the wind threw in his face with blinding force.

'I'll get you there!' One handed, the seaman worked his oar to avoid a jagged piece of planking that had been part of some unfortunate vessel. A keg crashed into their hull, jarring the teeth in Jack's head, and then spun away to be lost in the madness of wind and water. Papers and clothes appeared and disappeared on the waves. Jack saw the body of a seaman, arms and legs splayed wide and his eyes open but sightless; then it was gone, sucked down by some unseen current.

'Row!' Ben shouted. He lifted his oar momentarily, so the dinghy spun to port, and then dipped it back in the water and pulled; they surged ahead, still rising and falling, bucking and gyrating so that Jack was completely disorientated. It was all he could do to retain his seat, let alone make out any direction in this madness.

He looked around, hoping to see Redgauntlet amidst the confusion of waves, flying spume and occasional glimpse of unidentifiable ships.

'Back oars!' Ben yelled, and Jack responded at once, putting all his faith in the wounded sailor. 'She's gone! Look for survivors!'

The sea around Redgauntlet was a confusion of shattered planks, papers, scraps of rope and canvas, a vast spread of coal from the steamer's bunkers and a man's head, with his arm raised in despair. Waves leapt at them, subsided and lunged again.

Ben roared out 'ahoy!' with a volume of sound greater than Jack had thought possible from human lungs, and stretched out his oar. The survivor lunged toward it and grabbed at the blade of the oar just as a wave lifted the dinghy high in the air. The sudden alteration of weight nearly pulled the oar from Ben's single hand, so Jack had to ship his own oar and reach across to help.

'Hang on!' Ben shouted, 'we've got you!'

As the dinghy began to top to starboard, Ben pushed Jack away. 'Get back to your place, Jack; we'll capsize, else!'

Jack moved across the boat as Ben hauled in his oar and the survivor draped across the gunwale, gasping and retching. He was about eighteen and terrified.

'Have you seen the women?' Jack shouted, 'Helen Maxwell and Mrs Colonel Maxwell?'

The man stared at him in confusion.

'He doesn't know anything just now,' Ben said, 'but look over there!' He pointed with his chin. 'There!'

Jack shuddered as he made out the mass of survivors that packed the crazily tossing hatch cover. There must have been a dozen people on it, most lying prone, one or two crouching and Mrs Colonel Maxwell standing, holding a long pole.

'Is she one of your women?' Ben yelled.

'That's one,' Jack scanned the makeshift raft for Helen but did not see her. 'I can't see Helen.'

As he spoke, a full-rigged ship passed close to them, momentarily calming the sea and blocking the wind. Jack grabbed the opportunity to look around at the litter of wreckage, cordage and scraps of paper and clothing that polluted the sea. He could not see Helen.

'We can tow them!' Ben said. 'Pull for the raft!'

'I can't see Helen!' Jack stared desperately at the water, hoping for a glimpse of Helen's face, or a sight of her swimming toward him.

'She's gone! We can save the ones on the raft!' Ben said. 'Come on, man!'

Mrs Colonel Maxwell was gesturing to them and one of the younger men on the raft stood up. Jack started and nearly dropped a stroke; that was no man. The relief was overwhelming: he had forgotten that Helen wore the clothes of a sailor.

'Helen! I'm coming!' The wind took hold of his words and whipped them away.

'Look in the stern locker!' Ben shouted. 'Is there a line?'

There was; a length of rope that Ben tied around the stern post with impressive efficiency, despite his wound. 'Follow my lead!' He manoeuvred them close to the raft and tossed the rope across the leaping water. His first attempt fell short. Ben coiled the line again.

'We need something to weigh it down,' he said.

'Use this!' Jack handed over his revolver. He would miss the weapon later, but Helen's life was more important than any gun.

Ben tied the line around the revolver, balanced in the stern of the dinghy and threw it underhand. Helen and two of the survivors reached up, fumbled, dropped it, and a seaman grabbed it before it slid over the side of the raft.

'Make secure!' Ben roared, and one of the survivors tied the line to one of the planks of the makeshift raft.

For an instant, Jack met Helen's gaze. Even sodden and cold, with her hair plastered sleekly to her head and hanging in dripping, snake-like tendrils over her shoulders, even when clad in the shapeless canvas clothes of a seaman, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

'Row now, Jack,' Ben ordered urgently.

'I'll take your oar,' the man they rescued said. 'You've only got one arm.'

Ben nodded. 'I'll paddle.' He raised his voice. 'You men on the raft! Paddle with whatever you can!'

Mrs Maxwell raised a hand in acknowledgement, and within seconds the survivors were ranged along the sides of the hatch-cover, clinging tightly with one hand and paddling with the other, or with whatever pieces of splintered wood they managed to salvage. Helen lay prone with the rest, her face taut with concentration as she tried to push the unwieldy craft across the harbour.

The second they were past the three-master, the full force of the storm hit them again, sending the raft into crazy gyrations that jerked the dinghy backwards and nearly capsized them. One second they were in the trough between two waves, the next they had spiralled to the crest, with the hatch-cover at an acute angle behind them and the survivors more concerned with remaining on board than in paddling to safety.

'Maybe a ship will pick us up!' Jack yelled.

'They have a hard enough job trying to stay afloat without helping anybody else,' Ben replied. 'It's every man for himself out here, and the devil take the hindmost.'

Rowing outward toward Redgauntlet had been hard; rowing back while towing a raft full of people was nearly impossible. Every pull at the oar took tremendous effort, and with the dinghy erratically rising and falling, sometimes Jack's strokes ended in empty air and at other times he was deep in the sea. The tow line hauled them back as often as they pulled the raft forward, but they persisted.

'Pull!' Ben gave orders that Jack and the man they had rescued obeyed. 'Pull! Stop!'

They rested on their oars, panting, sweating, glazed of eye, with their muscles aching and acutely aware of the enormous waves that threatened to swamp them. Jack fought his fear; it did not matter. Nothing mattered except Helen, the sea, the boat and the makeshift raft that they were attempting to tow across the harbour. The siege of Sebastopol, his career and all other matters were forgotten.

'Pull!'

They pulled again, feeling the weight of the raft dragging them back. And again they hauled at the oars, and again, until life had coalesced into forcing screaming muscles into one more effort, into ignoring the constant fear of capsizing or of being rammed by one of the shattered pieces of wreckage that the sea hurled around. And then suddenly they were at the quayside, and there was a new and vital danger as pitiless waves threw the debris of shattered ships against the solid stone wall.

'We'll use the dinghy as a buffer,' Ben shouted. 'Keep her between the wall and the hatch-cover!'

Jack glanced over his shoulder; Helen was still clinging to the raft, sodden wet, with her hair a straggled mess across her face and her sailor's canvas shirt and white trousers running with seawater, but alive. Despite all the turbulence of the sea, Mrs Colonel Maxwell had managed to retain her stance at the back of the raft: it would take more than a Black Sea hurricane to upset that redoubtable woman.

'Up oars!' Ben shouted. The man they rescued responded at once; Jack was a fraction slower and shipped a bucketful of water from the blade of his oar into the dinghy.

'Haul the hatch cover in!' Ben yelled and again the rescued man was first to pull at the line. The raft was stubborn, dragging away in the back surge from the harbour wall, so only when Jack and Ben lent their weight did it shift closer to them.

'Use us a stepping stone!' Ben yelled to the castaways. 'Women and children first!'

Jack held out his hand. 'Helen!'

'Hello Jack!' Helen tried to smile as if she was on a Sunday afternoon pleasure jaunt. She wiped her hair away from her face. 'Whatever are you doing here?'

'Trying to get you ashore! Come on!'

'On my word!' Ben shouted, 'wait for my word!' Despite Ben's orders, one of the survivors, either fearful or deafened by the constant roar of the wind, immediately tried to jump. As he leapt, the dinghy fell, and the raft rose on a wave, so the man hovered between both for a long two seconds before splashing into the sea five yards away. The back surge swept him under before anybody could even put out a hand to help.

'He's gone,' Ben shouted. 'You – Helen is it? Wait for my mark!'

Jack cupped both hands to his mouth. 'Trust him, Helen,' he bellowed, 'he knows what he's doing!'

Helen's nod was intended to convey nonchalance, but for one instant Jack saw through the jaunty disguise to the natural fear beneath. For all her show of confidence and bravado, Helen was only a young girl, scarce out of her teens and in great peril of her life. He had never loved her more than when he saw her vulnerability.

'Now!' Ben shouted.

'Helen!' Jack balanced in the stern and held out both arms, but he need not have worried. Closing her eyes, Helen had obeyed immediately, jumping forward despite her raft being on the crest of a swell ten feet above the dinghy.

Ben had judged it correctly. The raft sunk exactly as the dinghy rose so Helen had only a fraction of a second between the two and then she was tumbling into Jack's arms, gasping for breath, wet and cold and thankfully safe. He felt her rapid heartbeat through the saturated canvas of her shirt.

'Get her onto the harbour wall; quickly now!' Ben noticed Jack's reluctance to release her. 'We have more to save.'

'Ben's right,' Helen murmured. 'I have to go.' Breaking free from Jack, she scrambled up the harbour wall. 'Don't mind me,' she yelled. 'Help the others.'

'Come on Mrs Maxwell,' Jack urged, but she stood defiantly erect.

'I am coming last,' she said and pushed one of the younger crew members to the edge of the raft. 'Take this boy next!'

Only when all her charges were safe did Mrs Colonel Maxwell calmly step on to the dinghy.

'I thought it would be you that came,' she handed over Jack's revolver. 'Wherever Helen is, you are not far away. Well, Captain Windrush, now that you are here you may as well make yourself useful; help us eject whoever has moved into our house. It will be some jumped up little nobody with a high opinion of himself no doubt, or a long-nosed honourable with a Horse Guards accent and scarcely enough brains to fill a pea-pod.'

Jack glanced at Ben, who nodded. 'Thank you for your help,' he said.

'It was needed, Captain Windrush.' Ben held his gaze with very steady eyes. 'Best do as the lady says, I think.'

Only when he turned away did Jack realise that Ben knew who he was yet had not once called him 'sir'. He did not care a damn.

Chapter Two

British Camp, Crimea, November 1854

'Twenty-one ships,' Elliot marvelled. 'We lost twenty-one ships in that storm, hundreds of men and thousands of tons of supplies. It's worse than a major naval defeat.'

'And now look at the weather,' Jack gestured to the world outside their re-erected tent. 'It's snowing.'

'Prince held all the winter clothing for the army: 25,000 fur caps, 8000 sealskin coats, 40,000 fur coats…' Elliot continued, counting off each item with his fingers. 'All gone to furnish Davy Jones' Locker.'

'How do you know all these things?' Jack asked. 'You know everything about everything!'

'Natural genius,' Elliot lay back on his camp bed and produced a small silver hip flask. 'We also lost twenty days' hay for the horses, and that will be crucial. The horses will be hungry.'

Jack nodded. 'There is not much fodder for them here.'

'They'll die,' Elliot said bluntly, 'and that means no cavalry to scout, or to chase the Russian Cossacks, and we know how scared Johnny Russ is of our cavalry since Balaklava. Also, with no horses how do we get what supplies we have left from Balaklava to the camp? It is a logistical nightmare.'

'The men will have to carry them,' Jack said, remembering the journey between the British trenches and the supply base. He had found it difficult enough without carrying anything. How much harder would it be for men laden with food and ammunition? 'Let's hope we capture Sebastopol soon or this siege will drag on into next year.'

'God forbid,' Elliot tucked away his flask and folded his arms behind his head. 'We're losing men every day to disease and the weather; think what it will be like when the real winter arrives.'

'Oh I'm sure old Raggles will have a plan to deal with that,' Jack said.

'I'm sure he will,' Elliot did not recognise the sarcasm in Jack's tone. 'We are holding nine miles of ground now, Windrush; I hope these reinforcements arrive soon. The men are getting perilously scarce on the ground.'

'Sir!' the corporal who entered the tent was thin and weary, with his uniform showing more brown mud than scarlet cloth. 'Sorry to disturb you, sirs,' he looked from Windrush to Elliot and back. 'Colonel Maxwell sends his compliments and could Captain Windrush please join him in his tent at his earliest convenience.'

'Thank you, corporal,' Jack said. 'Pray inform … no, hang it, I'll be along directly.'

'Best be quicker than that, old man,' Elliot said as the corporal withdrew. 'Old Max can get a bit testy when he's kept waiting.'

'There is no need to stand to attention, Windrush,' Colonel Maxwell sat behind his desk with a slight frown creasing his forehead and an open document in front of him. 'We know each other well enough by now.'

'Thank you, sir.' Jack glanced around the tent. About three times the size of the canvas hovel he shared with Elliot, it was far better equipped, with a desk that avaricious hands had probably liberated from Balaklava, a carved chair and even a small stove that emitted the luxury of warmth from glowing red embers. The cased Regimental and Queen's Colours of the 113th Foot stood in one corner. Jack allowed himself a small smile. After this campaign the regiment would have at least one battle honour to inscribe on the colours: Inkerman would sit proudly as the first name on the buff silk. Mind you, Jack mused, that would only occur if the authorities decided that sufficient men had been sacrificed to the battle gods to warrant an honour.

'I have bad news for you I'm afraid, Windrush.'

Jack stilled the sudden increase in his heart rate. 'Do you sir?'

'The War Office has rejected your promotion to Captain.' Maxwell did not attempt to blunt his words. 'They claim that you are too young and inexperienced yet.'

Jack felt as though somebody had kicked him in the stomach. He tried to keep the disappointment from his face. 'I see sir. Will I be able to appeal against their decision?'

'I have already done that on your behalf,' Maxwell said. He looked away for a moment. 'I know that this must be a grievous blow, Jack, and nobody deserves promotion more than you after your exploits at Inkerman Ridge, but I beg you not to do anything hasty.'

Jack took a deep breath. 'I have no intention of resigning my commission sir if that is what you mean.'

He had no choice in the matter. In addition to his pay, he had a miserly allowance from his step-mother that depended on him retaining his position as an officer in the army. If he sent in his papers, he would lose what status he had and all his funds. He would end up penniless and unemployable, to join the human detritus that infested the streets of industrial Britain or wandered the country lanes scrabbling for whatever work he could find. He had to remain a soldier of the Queen, whatever misfortunes the world threw at him.

'I am glad to hear it, Jack. The army needs men like you, especially with this siege threatening to drag on and so many senior men resigning their commissions. Experienced officers are in the minority now.'

'Yes, sir.' Jack bit off the hot words that threatened to escape from his mouth. He knew how much the men depended on their officers, while the politicians and War Office seemed to think nothing of soldiers, whatever their rank, allowing them to suffer and die as if they were mere wooden pawns and war just a game of chess without emotion or hardship.

'I am sure we can straighten things out,' Maxwell said. 'Hang on there, and don't give up hope. I have my eye on you, Jack, and I will press your case as much as I can.'

'Thank you, sir,' Jack wondered exactly how much influence the word of the lieutenant colonel of a lowly regiment had at the War Office. As far as he was aware, Maxwell had no lands or titles to back him up, and such things were deemed advantageous. The army still lived in the shadow of the Duke of Wellington who had believed that only the landed elite should command an army that in his opinion was composed of the scum of the earth.

'In the meantime, I am sure that you will continue to do your duty.'

Jack stiffened. 'Yes, sir.' He could have added 'of course sir' but knew that could be taken as insolence, even with such an understanding commander as Colonel Maxwell.

'You did well in the harbour,' Maxwell added, curtly. There was no need for him to say more. They both understood there would be no awards for that rescue and no need for further words. 'We lost twenty-one ships,' Maxwell mused, 'and hundreds of men.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Well, no good crying over spilt milk, eh?'

'No, sir,' Jack agreed. He tried to look like a stoical soldier while he felt sick and betrayed by some faceless, heartless little clerk in the War Office who had probably never lifted a rifle or seen an angry Russian in his life.

'Let's look on the bright side; we have defeated the Russian field army in three major encounters, we are besieging their main naval base in the Crimea, reinforcements are on the way, and our families are safe and well.' Maxwell narrowed his eyes and looked directly at Jack. 'I have never heard you talk about your family Jack. I heard a rumour that you are related to the late lamented General Windrush of the Royal Malverns.'

'Yes, sir.' Jack wondered if he should change his name. After all, Sir Colin Campbell had altered his name from MacLiver to Campbell, and he was now one of the best-regarded soldiers in the army. Perhaps he should do the same and discard the name Windrush?

Maxwell raised his eyebrows, apparently waiting for more information. Jack kept his mouth closed.

'Perhaps the Windrush family will be able to stir up the War Office on your behalf,' Maxwell probed.

'They won't, sir,' Jack forced out the words.

'Oh? And why is that?'

There it was; the direct question. 'Because I was born on the wrong side of the blanket, sir. General Windrush was my father, but his wife is not my mother.' Jack heard the bitterness in his voice. Even three years after he had discovered he was illegitimate, Jack still found the pain hard to bear and the knowledge he could never take his place among the great and the good, or publically acknowledge his mother and his birthright hurt more than he would ever admit.

'That is hardly your fault, Windrush!' Maxwell said at once. 'Damn it, man, if the history of half the noble families in Britain were traced I wager there would be more bastards and miscreants there than in any back slum of Whitechapel or St Giles!'

'Yes, sir.' Although the words were intended to help, they did nothing to assuage Jack's discomfort.