Windrush - Crimea E-Book

Malcolm Archibald

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Malta, 1854. Jack and his disreputable 113th Foot are stationed in Crimea. A lieutenant in British Army's worst regiment, Jack hankers for recognition to regain his true station in life.

At the Battle of the Alma, Jack is sent to General Campbell of the Highland Brigade to offer the assistance of the 113th. After burying the dead, he meets the beautiful Helen Maxwell, but soon after receives orders to leave the country.

Facing the formidable Russian army led by the savage Major Kutozov, Jack learns that life in the front line is tough, with only the wayward Helen to alleviate the horrors of war.

Leseprobe

Windrush: Crimea

Jack Windrush Series – Book II

Malcolm Archibald

Copyright (C) 2016 Malcolm Archibald

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

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

Edited by D.S. Williams

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

Prologue

Inkerman Ridge: November 5th, 1854

Captain Dearden was dead; his mouth open in a soundless scream to protest at the agony of the Russian bayonet which protruded obscenely from his belly. Corporal O'Hara lay across Dearden's body, writhing as he stared at the gaping holes in his chest and the blood that pumped from the ragged stump of his left arm. Beside him, Aitken crouched, choking on the blood that filled his mouth and ran in dark rivulets down his chin and chest. Half a score Russian infantrymen lay among them, shot or bayoneted, unheeded in death as the world had neglected them in life.

'Get the bodies,' Jack ordered. 'Pile them up into the breastwork.'

The men stared at him. Their eyes were dazed, their mouths slack with shock, but they did as he ordered, adding the corpses of friends and enemies to the low barricade of sandbags which was their only protection against the dropping musket balls and murderous round shot.

'Here they come again.' Coleman gripped the blood-sticky stock of his Minié rifle and staggered to his feet. The once-proud scarlet of his tunic was torn and shredded, his face powder stained, gaunt and unshaven. Blood congealed on the ragged hole in his trousers just above the left knee.

'Hot as hell and thick as thieves.' Thorpe spat blood on his hands and ran a grimy thumb over the length of his bayonet. 'Just listen to them.'

Jack peered through the shredded mist and rain. Across the ridge, the Russians were not yet visible, but they were vocal enough, chanting that same, deep-throated battle hymn with which they had advanced so often before. Was it three times or four? It might even be five; he couldn't be sure, but he knew that each time they recoiled they left the small detachment of British weaker and fewer in numbers.

'Ammunition? Has anybody got any spare ammunition?'

Jack already knew the answer. They had used up all their own in repelling the Russian attacks and had robbed their dead comrades of what they had. He checked the ammunition pouch he'd lifted from the dead body of Brodie. 'I have three balls left.'

Thorpe spat again. 'That's one more than any man needs.'

There was no response to the attempted humour. Coleman poked his head beyond the breastwork and shuddered. 'Jesus, there's still thousands of them.'

Jack joined him. Coleman was right. A chance slant of wind blew a gap in the mist, revealing the full strength of the Russians. They seemed to stretch right across the ridge, an unbroken wall of flapping grey coats and wickedly long bayonets advancing slowly and steadily through the stunted, tangled oak trees of the Inkerman Ridge.

'I thought somebody said the Russians could never face British bayonets.' Logan curled disproportionately large hands around the stock of his Minié.

'Aye, but nobody told them that.' Thorpe tilted the barrel of his rifle, looked down the fouled bore and dropped in his last bullet. Once that was fired, he had only his bayonet and as much courage as remained after the long, long day of horror and death.

'Are we so important?' Raeburn raised his voice. 'Are we so important that they must throw the entire Russian army at us?' He looked around; his eyes red-rimmed with fatigue and wide with fear. 'There's only a few of us left!' At that moment he looked all of his seventeen years, a boy in a man's world, a child near to the brink of tears.

'It's not us that's important,' Jack told him. 'It's the position. If they take this redoubt and the battery, they have the lynchpin of the whole British line. We must hold.'

'Listen to him!' Thorpe mocked. 'If they take this redoubt! There's not even a gun left in the bloody thing! And who do you think you are, anyway? Bloody Wellington? Not Lord Raglan anyway: you haven't the stupidity!'

'I'm your officer!' Jack reminded. But he knew that hardly mattered just now. They were about to die beneath a torrent of Russian bayonets. He was the only surviving officer within this company of malcontents, an interloper in a closed society of men who had been fighting merely to exist since the day the world had cursed them with birth. He no more belonged here than he belonged anywhere else, but now it seemed that he would die beside these hard-faced, bitter-eyed men whom he would have despised in another place, another world.

The singing increased, accompanied by the rhythmic drumbeat of boots on the ground and the sinister swishing of the long grey coats.

'Up we go men!'

There was a weary sigh, a long drawn out curse and the half-hidden sound of somebody praying, but the red-coated soldiers rose from the slight sanctuary of their corpse-and-sandbag barricade and looked outward toward the advancing enemy.

The Russians were close enough so that Jack could make out details of their flat, expressionless faces as they marched forward. They had advanced before, and the company had sent them reeling back – as the tangled bodies on the ground proved – but this time there were many more of them and correspondingly fewer of the regiment to fight. He looked around the thinned ranks. They had started with nearly five hundred men, but now there were less than thirty fit to fight. They had probably a hundred rounds in total, and there must be two thousand Russians closing on them.

'They're brave men.' The Bishop gave a calm opinion. He sighted along the barrel of his rifle. 'Thank God for the grace of the Minié though. These beauties can kill two or three men at once.'

When God granted us that, I would have liked him to grant us another thousand men as well. We're the 113th, the worst regiment in the British Army. A regimental disgrace, that's what we are.' Thorpe gave a twisted grin.

'So why fight for that?' Coleman jerked a stubby thumb toward the flag that drooped from its staff.

Jack looked over his shoulder. He'd nearly forgotten than Colonel Maxwell had thrust in the flagpole a few hours and a lifetime before, but now it was there, flapping above them with the multi-crossed flag of Union, the symbol of British pride and fortitude and hope in the canton with that alien number embroidered in black across the buff field.

'If we're such a bloody disgrace, why fight for that regimental flag?'

'Drag the bloody thing down!' Logan agreed. 'It's nothing to do with us anyway!'

'What?' Jack stared as his youthful ideas of honour and patriotism surfaced once more. 'It's got the British flag on it!'

'The British flag!' Riley mocked. 'Would that be the same Britain that rejected you and me?'

Fletcher leaned against the sandbags and said nothing. He had no education, but he was as sharp and perceptive as any university-trained solicitor. His deep eyes switched from Jack to Riley and back.

'Yes. Take the flag down boys!'

Jack reached for the flap of his holster, remembered his revolver was empty and raised his voice. 'We will not surrender; the Russians are coming!'

The bayonet was cold against his throat as he stared into the slum-bitter eyes of Logan and heard that harsh gutter voice grate in his ear.

'You keep your neb out of this, Lieutenant. That's not our flag, and we're not fighting for it.' Logan's grin was entirely without humour or mercy as the ragged privates lowered the flag. Jack heard the roar of triumph from the advancing Russians and despair chilled him. Major Snodgrass had been correct all along. The 113th did not have the stomach for a fight; when things got tough, they ran or surrendered. Now the Russians would take the centre of the British line and roll up both flanks. His weakness had lost the battle.

Chapter One

MaltaMarch 1854

They stood on the parade ground of Fort Saint Manoel with the darkness of pre-dawn slowly fading and an unnatural hush over the assembled men. Jack tried to ignore the sweat which already beaded on his eyebrows and hung irritatingly on the tip of his nose. He gripped the Gothic hilt of the 1845 pattern Wilkinson's sword that hung at his waist and blew away a fly that hovered over his face, wishing he were anywhere but within this star-shaped fort on Manoel Island. If Jack swivelled his eyes slightly to the left he could peer through the dark to the entrance to Marsamxett Harbour and the anchorage of Sliema Creek, busy with a score of vessels, their Mediterranean rigs now familiar and their hulls sleek on the placid blue water. If he looked right and ignored the harsh limestone of the walls, he could nearly see the towers and churches of Valetta, capital of this sun-tortured island.

It didn't matter in which direction he looked, just so long as he didn't face his front and see the terrible spectacle that was about to occur. All his life he had dreamed of joining the army and performing deeds of valour; he'd grown up with tales of bravery and heroism and had accepted that death and hardship were part of a soldier's life. He had seen something of the reality in the humid forests and broad rivers of Burma, and today he was about to see another military casualty. Rather than a splendid death leading a heroic charge against an enemy position, Private Scattergood of the 113th Foot was to be publicly executed, hanged by the neck until he was dead, for stabbing a sergeant in the back.

Fifteen yards to his right, Major General Sir John Reading sat erect on his brown horse, seemingly unaffected by the spectacle he had ordered. The tail of the horse twitched in a vain attempt to relieve the animal of the tormenting flies.

Jack tried to take his mind elsewhere; anywhere apart from standing here watching the execution of a private soldier. He drifted back to his home in England and relived again the terrible moment when he learned which regiment he was to join. He was Jack Windrush, once of Wychwood Manor in Herefordshire, now a lieutenant in the 113th – the Baby Butchers – the least considered regiment in the entire army. Even after three years, he found it hard to believe his fortunes had sunk so low. He had left his home with the ill-will of his step family following close behind and marched quickly to an inn. It was the work of a second to find a seat, break the simple seal and unfold the parchment.

At sixteen inches by ten inches, the document was much smaller than he'd expected, and when he read the contents, he felt the sick slide of despair. Skipping over the leading paragraph that stated that the Commander in Chief of the Army reposed special trust and confidence in his loyalty, he came to the 'do by these presents constitute and appoint you John Windrush to take rank and post as ensign in the 113th Regiment of Foot.'

He had stared at the fateful number and swore quietly to himself.

113th Foot. Oh, good God in heaven.

The 113th Foot was the regiment nobody wanted to join. There had been other regiments which bore the same number, but they had been excellent, honourable units; this latest incarnation was certainly not. Born in the civil disobedience after Waterloo, its infancy had been marred by disgrace when it quelled a riot by musket butt, boot and the bayonet, with women and children being among the victims. Since then, no commander had wanted the 113th under his command, and only the dregs of the recruits slouched into the ranks.

Sick to the core, yet with no other option, Jack clutched his commission and some of the gold sovereigns his stepmother had reluctantly deposited in his bank and sailed to join the regiment in the East.

Jack thought of his first and so far, only campaign. He'd been present with the Army at the conquest of Rangoon, where more men died through disease than from Burmese bullets, but after that, the real war had started. He remembered the heat and humidity of the jungle, the whine of the mosquitoes and the sun burning off the early morning mist of the river. He remembered the wiry, brave Burmese infantry and their ability to melt into the green foliage of the forest. Most of all he remembered the smiling face of Myat, the Burmese woman and the manner in which his small band of men had transformed from a disparate rabble to veteran soldiers.

Now he stood in the square, waiting for the execution of a private soldier driven half-crazy by heat and boredom. There were no birds in the bright bowl of the sky, nothing but the unrelenting sun and a host of mosquitoes attracted by the sweat of hundreds of scarlet-coated men. Every regiment that waited impatiently for embarkation orders for the East had been ordered to supply a quota of men to witness the execution of a murderer and the further degradation of the 113th Foot.

Somebody coughed behind him, the sound harsh in the hush, but a vicious whisper from a sergeant reprimanded the man into quiet. As the dawn rose, blood red and shockingly swift, the execution party of the 113th marched slowly forward, bearing Private Scattergood between them. There was no drumbeat, no music, nothing to announce the end of a young man's life, save the curious stares of his assembled comrades and the solitary scream of a circling gull. A priest followed, the expression on his face showing his disapproval.

Major General Reading gave a small, nearly imperceptible signal and the Provost Sergeant stepped slowly forward. Scattergood, stripped to shirt and trousers and with his hands pinioned behind his back was close behind him, face sweating, eyes darting from side to side as he sought hope or mercy. There was none.

As he came to terms with his imminent death, Scattergood raised his head and marched forward, staring at nothing as stony-faced guards led him up the steps to a recently-made platform. The scaffold stretched above them with the noose hanging down at neck level, its sun-borne shadow a straight bar intersecting at right angles to that of the upright, making a mocking image of the Christian cross of forgiveness. Scattergood's eyes were now haunted, bereft of hope as they scanned the watching men. With only a few more moments of life before he embraced the most ignominious of deaths, he knew he was friendless and alone. Nobody cared how he felt; they only wanted this damnable business over with so they could get out of the baking heat and carry on with their lives.

A nervous young lieutenant mounted the stairs to the platform, with the sound of his boots on the wooden steps echoing hollowly around the square. The priest followed next, with the Provost Sergeant keeping one hand firm on Scattergood's left arm. There was a moment's pause as they stood on the platform; Jack thought that a man with a blunt knife could slice the tension from the air, and then the priest murmured some phrases and Scattergood responded in halting Latin.

'I never knew Scatterhead was a bloody Papist,' Thorpe said.

'Silence in the ranks!' Jack ordered. It was enough to watch an execution that morning; he had no desire to witness a flogging as well.

Scattergood stepped onto the trap, closed his mouth firmly and glared at General Reading. As the Provost Sergeant slipped the hood over his head, Scattergood began to speak. 'You'll die slow, Reading,' he said, and then the hood muffled any further words.

'Step clear, gentlemen, if you please,' the Provost Sergeant said, his quiet words audible across the packed square. His nod was nearly imperceptible, yet it was enough to end Scattergood's life as an unseen hand threw the lever that opened the trap door beneath the private's feet. There was a collective gasp as Scattergood fell, with the noose tightening around his neck. He kicked and writhed for long minutes as the soldiers watched; some in horror, some in fascination. One young redcoat folded in a dead faint as Scattergood choked to an agonising death.

'Bastard,' an anonymous voice sounded. 'Murdering bloody bastards.'

'Take that man's name, sergeant,' Major Snodgrass ordered without moving from his place in front of Jack's company.

Major General Reading opened his watch, glanced at the time and snapped shut the cover. Turning his horse without a word, he ambled from the parade ground. It was five thirty in a beautiful morning, and Queen Victoria ruled over her empire in peace and tranquillity.

'Windrush.' Captain Haverdale was in his early forties with a drawn face discoloured by service in the tropics and eyes from which hope had long since departed. 'I'll take the men on a ten-mile route march and then return them to barracks. I want you to find me some wine.'

'Yes, sir.' Windrush nodded toward the slowly swinging body of Scattergood. 'I think we'll all need some after witnessing that.'

Haverdale's eyes darkened. 'That was justice, Windrush. If you can't watch a simple execution, I would suggest you find another career.'

Or another regiment. Haverdale's remark stayed with him as he left the fort and crossed into Valetta to search for a wine shop. The quickly rising sun contained sufficient heat to make any exertion difficult as he struggled through the straight narrow streets of the city with their exotic gallarijas and scores of tiny shops. It wasn't hard to find what he sought and with half a dozen bottles of Sicilian wine held in a basket, Jack began to make his way back to his regiment when he heard loud, braying laughter.

'Here's fun, Walter!'

On a ledge overlooking the harbour, two red-coated captains stood beside a small brazier. The taller held a pair of tongs into the glowing heat as his companion watched.

'That'll do, Walter. Throw it!'

Smiling, the taller captain withdrew the tongs, blew on a now-heated copper penny and tossed it over the wall, where a gaggle of raggedy urchins clustered. When the coin descended like manna from heaven, they ran toward it, with the most active leaping above his fellows. When the tiny, grubby hand closed on the coin the boy's scream rose high and shrill.

'You scoundrels!' Jack hadn't seen the suntanned man in the old-fashioned cloak and broad-brimmed hat until he approached the two officers. 'That was an unmanly act!'

'What the devil does it have to do with you?' The smaller officer stepped toward the suntanned man.

'You wear the uniform of British officers and gentlemen.' The man was about fifty, with the brightest blue eyes Jack had ever seen. He grabbed at the tongs in the tall officer's hand and threw them over the wall. 'You are a disgrace.'

'And you, sir, are an interfering fool.'

The smaller officer noticed Jack watching. 'And who are you? Some sneaking puppy of the 113th, I see?' His mouth twisted into a sneer. 'Did you enjoy the show this morning?'

With the bottles clinking in their basket, Jack faced the captain. 'Not any more than I enjoyed watching British officers sully their honour in this manner.'

'Good God!' The smaller man stepped backwards. 'You preach, sir. You, a creature of the blackguard 113th, preach to me!'

The frustration and disgust of the day chased any vestige of control from Jack's tongue. 'What do you mean sir, by insulting my regiment?'

'What do I mean, sir? I mean this, sir!' Without hesitation, the captain slapped Jack backhanded across the face.

'That's the way, Bradley! Show him!'

The shock sent Jack staggering backwards, but instinct made him bring up his fists and land a left jab on Bradley's chin before he recollected his duty. He had just witnessed the result of a man striking a superior, and now he had committed the same offence. Dropping his fists, he awaited the inevitable retribution.

'Go on Bradley!'

Shaking his head, Bradley advanced, landing two stinging lefts to Jack's face before ducking low and punching wickedly into his groin.

The sudden agony forced Jack double, but the sound of Bradley's loud laugh spurred him on. Fighting the pain, he rose again, blocked Bradley's next roundhouse right and threw a straight left that smacked hard against the captain's nose. Blood came in an immediate scarlet flow as Bradley yelped and stepped back.

'Oh, well done, sir!' The suntanned gentleman roared. 'Now go on and finish him off!'

'Nobody will go on. You will both return where you belong.' There was no mistaking the authority in the order, and Jack looked up. Major General Reading stared down at him. 'I witnessed you strike a superior officer. Either you send in your papers or resign, or I shall have you cashiered.'

'Excuse me, sir,' the civilian stepped forward, removed his hat and bowed. 'I observed everything that happened here.'

'And you are, sir?'

'My name is Joseph Bulloch. I saw these gentlemen throw heated coins to the local boys, and this officer,' Bulloch indicated Jack, 'remonstrated with them. That one, Bradley, I believe, insulted his regiment and struck him; he quite naturally retaliated and then dropped his hands, whereupon you happened along.'

General Reading grunted. 'Striking a superior officer is a grave offence, Mr. Bulloch, as this lieutenant well knows.' He turned an imperious eye on Jack. 'What is your name, sir?'

'I am Lieutenant Jack Windrush, sir; of the 113th Foot.'

'And you two?'

'Captain Bradley and Captain Walter, of the 118th Foot.'

Reading hauled at the reins of his horse. 'Windrush, I want you to report to my headquarters at noon tomorrow.' Kicking in his spurs, he pushed on, leaving Jack to the jeers of Bradley and the torment of his thoughts.

A host of tiny birds played around the tall trees that grew in the courtyard, and the scarlet uniformed men snapped to attention the instant Jack stepped through the door. The atmosphere of opulence and confidence only increased when he moved through the splendid palace, and the grandest of all was the room in which Sir John Reading greeted him.

'Ah, Windrush.' Behind a desk whose size and splendour would have graced any royal court, Reading looked up from a pile of paperwork. 'You could make it on time, I see.' He indicated the gold-faced clock on the wall. The hands were just touching twelve.

'Yes, sir.'

'You and your regiment have recently arrived on this island, Windrush, yet you have already brought yourself to my notice.' Reading was obviously a man who came straight to the heart of the matter. 'You were at the execution yesterday morning and saw fit to brawl and strike a superior officer the same day. That is hardly an auspicious start to your career.'

The clock had not finished striking twelve, and already Jack could feel that career sliding away.

'Indeed, Windrush, I am contemplating discharging you from your regiment. If you are a typical example of an officer of the 113th, then the British Army is better off without you, or the 113th.'

The clock sounded its final chord and whirred into near silence. 'The captain struck me first, Sir. I do not know if I am typical or not.'

Reading grunted. 'Your regiment is known as the Baby Butchers, as their only actions so far have been to shoot into a mob of near-starving mill workers and run away from a load of Indians.' Reading's eyes were sharp as any bayonet.

'We saw some action in Burma, sir,' Jack reminded. Best not to delve into the 113th behaviour in the Sikh War.

Reading snorted. 'A dozen of the 113th chased a handful of dacoits through the jungle while the rest sat around catching fever. The 113th are poor material with poor officers and I am ashamed to have them under my command.'

'They are British soldiers, sir, and they will act as such when the time comes.'

'Don't bandy words with me, Lieutenant!' Reading leaned back in his seat. After a minute's contemplation during which the soft ticking of the clock dominated the room, he spoke again. 'So, in your vast experience, Lieutenant, you think a taste of battle will cure all their ills?'

'I know they will do their best, sir.' Jack said. 'They came up to scratch in Burma when it mattered.'

Grunting, Reading tapped his fingers on the desk. 'You are Jack Windrush, late of Wychwood Manor. Your mother was a kitchen maid and your father was Major General William Windrush; you believed you were destined for the Royals, so being posted into the 113th must have been a shock…' He held up his hand when Jack began to speak. 'Don't interrupt me, boy. You are the son of an honourable man, but as a by-blow, you can never be a real gentleman.'

Jack kept silent, listening to the sound of birds in the courtyard and feeling the warmth of the sun through the tall windows. He couldn't object; Reading spoke only the truth. Being unable to join the Royals had been a sickening blow, but if Reading relieved him of his commission, Jack's life would be bleak indeed. He had no skills and no talents; his life was geared around his commission, and if that was withdrawn, his annual allowance would also end. He might have to re-enlist as a private soldier, and he knew he would never fit in with the hard men of the ranks.

The loner hand of the clock jerked into motion, marking the passage of another minute before Reading spoke again.

'However, Windrush, although you can never be a gentleman, there may still be a way in which you can retain your honourable position as an officer in His Majesty's forces.'

Hope glimmered at the edge of a corridor of utter despair, but Jack kept quiet. I will not beg.

'Indeed,' Reading said, 'I can't think of anybody better suited to the task I have in mind.' He rang a small brass bell that sat on his desk, and a very well-presented lieutenant entered the room as if he had been waiting outside the door.

'Fetch Mr. Bulloch.'

Jack looked up as Bulloch entered the room, doffing his hat. 'Good afternoon gentlemen. Is this the man you have chosen, General Reading?'

'This is he,' Reading confirmed. 'He is an officer of bad blood from a regiment of scoundrels.'

Bulloch raised both eyebrows but didn't say a word. 'Shall I tell him, General? Or do you wish to do the evil deed?'

'It is my duty, Bulloch.' Reading came straight to the point. 'Windrush; we have a Swedish diplomat presently in Valetta. His name is Stevensen, and we don't trust him.'

That was blunt. 'Yes, sir. How does that concern me?'

'I want you to find out all about him, in any way you can.' Reading leaned back in his chair as if the interview was at an end.

'Sir,' Jack stared at the general. 'I don't understand. How am I meant to do that?'

'You said yourself that you're a British Army officer, Windrush. If you wish to retain that station, I expect you to use your initiative.'

Jack's heartbeat increased at the blatant threat. 'I'm not sure what you mean, Sir.'

'I mean, Windrush, you are to take any possible method to find out about this man.'

'General Reading is giving you carte blanche,' Bulloch interposed. 'You may use any method including direct observation or personal intrusion into this fellow's home.'

Jack opened his mouth to protest that he was an officer and not a spy, until he saw Bulloch give a quick shake of his head.

'Thank you, General, for permitting me to use the services of this officer,' Bulloch said quickly. 'I don't know much about you, Windrush, but I do know that you are a man of principle, courage and spirit. I saw that yesterday. You have been on campaign already I believe?'

Jack nodded. 'Yes, sir. I was in Burma, at the capture of Rangoon and the siege of Pegu.'

'That will do for me.' Bulloch replaced his hat. 'May I take him away now sir, and inform him of the details?'

'What?' Reading nodded. 'Yes, yes, take him away, Bulloch and do what you will with him. Now I want results, Windrush. Find out about this man, and we can put this unpleasant situation behind us.'

'I am no spy!' Windrush said as soon as Bulloch closed the general's door.

'No?' Bulloch raised his eyebrows again. 'Is that such a bad thing to be?'

'It's dishonourable,' Jack said. 'It is not the sort of thing a gentleman would do.'

'Even if it may save thousands of lives?' Bulloch grin made him look like a schoolboy, except for the deep grooves which ran from the sides of his mouth to his nose. 'I am a spy,' he said, 'so according to your lights I cannot be a gentleman, yet my family has held lands in Hampshire since the Domesday Book and probably for a century or two before.' He laughed at the confusion on Jack's face. 'But enough on that subject I think, Windrush. We have important matters to discuss.'

Bulloch had a small room at the top of the building, with a window that overlooked Piazza Tesoreria, the city's main square with its busy traffic and raucous people. 'Have a seat, Windrush,' he invited cheerfully, 'and I'll tell you what you need to know.' He slid into a heavily carved chair behind the desk, poured two glasses of red wine and passed one across to Jack.

Unsure what to expect, Jack took the glass and sat opposite Bulloch. 'Thank you, sir. If I may make so bold, who exactly are you?'

'I am Joseph Bulloch, and I represent the British Government out here in Malta.' Bulloch grinned again. 'And that is all you need to know, Lieutenant Windrush.'

Jack nodded. 'All secret is it? Well enough Mr. Bulloch. So who is this Swedish fellow then, and why is he being investigated by the government?'

Bulloch shrugged. 'We don't know, Windrush and that's the truth of it. He appeared unannounced in Valetta and took up a very respectable residence, and then some people in whom we are very interested, visited with him.'

'I don't understand,' Jack said. 'What sort of people?'

'You may be just old enough to remember the Chartist troubles of '48, when there was near insurrection in Britain and half the kings of Europe lost their crowns?'

'Vaguely, sir,' Jack said. 'I was at school at the time, worrying about irregular Latin verbs.'

'Fascinating things, irregular Latin verbs; we'll have to talk about them sometime.' Bulloch sounded genuinely enthusiastic. 'Well, Malta was not immune from the political disturbances. Out here there was a movement to get rid of the British and gain independence. It came to nothing, as most of these things do, but we keep an eye on the old members of the group.'

'Is that so, sir?'

'It is so, sir, and two of these scoundrels have come to see this Mr. Stevensen,' Bulloch said. 'We have enough trouble with this Russian affair without Malta blowing up in our faces, Windrush, so I want to find out what Stevensen is all about.'

'Don't you have any agents of your own, sir?'

'Not that I can spare. The best I have is out East in Bulgaria; this Russian nonsense is soaking them all up. The Russians know what they are about and are trying to stir up trouble all over the Empire.'

Windrush sighed. 'Why me?'

'I believe General Reading already answered that. You were born on the wrong side of the blanket and are an officer in a blackguard regiment,' Bulloch said candidly. 'Therefore, you are desperate to be accepted and can be manipulated into performing unsavoury acts that a true gentleman would never accept.' Bulloch's wide grin did not remove the shrewdness from his eyes. 'In short, Windrush, you are buggered. You can either comply with our demands and retain your position as an officer or refuse and wave goodbye to that splendid scarlet uniform. Oh, and spend the rest of your life trying to explain why you lost your commission.'

'I see.' Jack took a deep breath, recognising the truth. 'So what am I expected to do?'

'It's quite simple,' Bulloch said happily. 'You are expected to break into Stevensen's house and see what incriminating evidence you can find. Oh, and don't get caught. If a British officer should be caught doing such a thing Horse Guards would cashier him for sure, and the local police would throw him into some medieval dungeon to rot forever.'

Jack's mouth gaped open. 'How the devil do you expect me to break into a house? I'm a gentleman, not a housebreaker.'

'You are an officer in the British army, Windrush.' Bulloch's smile never faltered. 'There is nothing to which you can't turn your hand. And when you succeed, I will put in a good word with General Reading to have you sent east, if you are certain that is what you wish.'

'Of course I'm certain,' Jack said.

Bulloch sighed. 'I'm sure I don't know why you young men are so eager to go and get killed.' Reaching down, he opened the middle drawer of his desk and produced a small leather case. 'This may come in handy,' he said. 'It's a lock-pickers wallet, made in Birmingham, like all the best cracksman's tools.'

'Thank you,' Jack held the case awkwardly, unsure what to do with it. Eventually, he opened it and glanced inside. There was a collection of thin metal objects, each one the length of a small pen and with an intricately-shaped head. 'What am I meant to do with these?'

'Use them,' Bulloch said. 'Now I don't even have a description of this Stevensen fellow, so I can't help you there, I'm afraid!'

'I see, sir,' Jack said.

'Thank you for your time, Windrush. I hope to hear about your success very shortly.'

It was a blatant dismissal. Jack nodded. 'Yes sir.' He lifted his hat and left the room.

The men slouched outside their quarters, red tunics undone and boot laces untied. Jack glanced around; according to the regimental records, there were thirty men based here at Ta Bubaqra, deep in the south of the island and far away from the rest of the army. Not one looked up when Jack walked up. Some sat in a circle exchanging banter and curses as they played with dog-eared cards; others sat and scratched at insect bites as they sought shade in the lee of the stone-walled houses. Two men just stared into space through dull, hopeless eyes while another pored intently over a small, leather-bound book. Jack spared him a few seconds – many ordinary soldiers could not read a word; a man who chose to spend time with a book was a rarity and could become a barrack-room lawyer – major trouble.

A corporal and a private soldier passed a water bottle back and forward, swaying as they sipped at the contents. Whatever it contained, Jack realised, was undoubtedly more interesting than water. He stopped beside the drinking men.

'How are things, O'Neill?'

The corporal started, looked up and stood to attention. 'Sorry sir, I didn't see you there.'

'Pass over the bottle,' Jack ordered, 'I'm as hot as you are.' He took a quick swig. 'Local wine is it? I had to buy imported swill from Sicily. Trust you to find the good stuff.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Sit down man.' Jack sunk to the ground at his side. 'We fought together in Burma, for God's sake.'

'I was there too sir,' the second man said.

'I remember, Thorpe.' Jack handed back the bottle. 'How could I ever forget you?' He acknowledged Thorpe's grin with a lift of his finger. 'Now listen, you two. We all know what sort of men we have in the 113th. I need a housebreaker.'

'Have they kicked you out, sir?' Thorpe asked. 'Are you looking for a new career?'

'Mind your tongue!' O'Neill belatedly remembered that he was a corporal and next in the chain of command.

'I did not hear that Thorpe,' Jack said quietly. 'You men know the regiment as well as anybody else. Do you know of anybody who could help?'

O'Neill screwed up his face. 'There's a lot of blackguards in the 113th, sir.' He hesitated. 'I don't know of any cracksmen though. That's a bit too skilled for this regiment.'

Jack looked around at the slum-haggard faces of the privates. Recruited from the dregs of the gutters and the sweepings of the countryside, they were drunkards and brawlers, petty thieves and poachers. He recognised a pickpocket who had changed his name to hide from the law; one was a gentleman ranker soaked in gin, another a bigamist on the run from both his wives and the surly fellow was a policeman kicked out for brutality – welcome to the 113th Foot.

A weary-looking private slouched over, flapping a hand irritably at the mosquitoes that clouded around his head. Taking the bottle from Thorpe, he took a deep draught. 'God that's foul. If it's a cracksman you want, Riley's your man, sir.'

'Shut up Coleman, you—' Thorpe nodded warningly at Jack.

'Riley; where is he?' Jack glanced around. He focussed on the man with the book. Cracksmen were reputed to be more intelligent than the average criminal. They may even be able to read and write.

'He's not here sir.' Coleman glanced at the furthest of the houses and gave a greasy grin that almost proved the lie.

'Thank you, Coleman. I'll find him myself.' It was apparent that Coleman was hiding something.

'You bloody fool, Coley!' O'Neill hissed as Jack strode toward the house Coleman had glanced toward, cracked open the door and stepped into a dark room.

'Riley!'

'What the hell do you want?' The voice came from the interior. 'Can't you see I'm busy?'

Jack pushed the door wider to allow in daylight. The speaker lay on a rough mattress in the corner of the room, with a blonde-haired woman at his side. 'Get rid of the woman, Riley; we have things to discuss.'

'I'm not to be got rid of on your say-so!' The woman slid sideways off the bed, holding a single blanket around her.

'It's best, Charlotte.' Riley sounded more educated than the majority of the 113th; that was hopeful.

The woman tossed her hair, still holding the blanket. She looked at Jack through suddenly narrow eyes. 'Who's this?'

'I am Lieutenant Jack Windrush,' Jack said softly.

'Sorry, sir.' Riley sprang to his feet, standing to attention with the tails of his shirt flapping around naked thighs. 'We're not used to officers coming here, sir.' He looked sideways at the woman and flicked his head very slightly toward the door.

'Wait,' Jack worked out what that simple motion meant. 'Mrs. Riley can stay if she wishes.'

'Thank you, sir,' the woman gave a sudden smile.

Jack saw the expression of dismay cross Riley's face.

'You know, sir?'

'I guessed,' Jack said.

There was a minute's silence as both men mentally reviewed the regimental standing orders that were pinned prominently in half a dozen places around the island:

Regimental standing orders 1848

Section XV: Marriage

No woman is to be allowed to reside in Barracks who objects to make herself useful in Cooking etc. it cannot be too often repeated to the men that they are on no account to marry without leave. A man marrying, without having obtained leave from the commanding officer of the regiment, will never be permitted to receive any of the indulgences bestowed on such as marry by consent. It is impossible to point out the inconveniences which arise and the evils which follow a regiment encumbered by women; poverty and misery are the inevitable consequences. Officers therefore cannot do too much to deter their men from marrying and there are few men, however hard they think it at the moment, that after a short period, will not be much obliged to thank them for having done so.

'You have had no permission to marry,' Jack said softly.

'No, sir,' Riley was equally quiet.

'You do realise that Colonel Murphy has ordered that even if the marriage is permitted, there are only two wives per company in this campaign?' Jack said. 'And your name was not on the list.' He took a deep breath, aware it was his duty as an officer to report this offence. 'You are now liable to serious charges that could have you flogged and would have Mrs. Riley removed from camp.'

'Officers are permitted to take their wives,' Charlotte sounded bitter. 'Anyway, how do you know I am his wife?'

'Blondes are rare in Malta,' Jack told her, 'and all your husband's colleagues were very protective of him.'

'What are you going to do, sir?' A bead of sweat trickled down Riley's face, lingered on the tip of his chin and dripped to the stone-flagged floor.

'That depends on you, Riley.' Jack knew that he was about to venture onto hazardous ground, an area that could ruin his career. He fought a sardonic smile. Career? He had none unless he succeeded in this dirty venture. 'You had better get dressed, Mrs. Riley and wait outside.'

Once again Charlotte looked to Riley, who gave a brief nod. Jack turned his back as she dressed, ignored her final desperate glance to Riley and waited until she left.

'All right Riley, you and I both know that you're already in trouble and if I ignore that, then I will be too.'

'Yes, sir.' Riley remained at attention. Jack let him stay like that; he wanted him unsettled.

'Colonel Murphy may only give you fifty,' Jack increased Riley's discomfort, 'or he may give fifty for each offence.' He allowed the prospect of the flogging triangle to press further down on Riley's already depressed face. Jack knew by his accent that he was from a different background to most of the men; to Riley, the cat would be even more degrading.

Jack's two steps took him to the far end of the cottage. He took a deep breath as if he was thinking deeply. 'There may be a way I could overlook that Mrs. Riley is with you.'

'Yes, sir.' Riley didn't allow any emotion to reach his face.

'You were a cracksman, I believe?' Jack kept his voice casual.

'Yes, sir,' Riley replied automatically, and then looked at Jack with a start.

'Good; then we have a job to do, you and me,' Jack said, 'unless you wish me to inform the colonel about your lady wife?'

Chapter Two

MaltaApril 1854

The house known as Dar-il-Sliem – 'House of Tranquillity' – stood a bare hundred yards from the Grand Harbour. It overlooked the massed shipping of the Royal Navy and the associated merchant ships and transports, whose reflected lights danced across the dark water. Red shutters covered a score of windows that punctuated the baroque façade, with squat columns flanking the round-headed door.

'Gerolamo Cassar was the architect,' Riley spoke quietly, 'the same man who designed the Grand Master's palace.'

'Oh?' Jack had no interest in the architect.

'He laid the ground plan for Valetta as well,' Riley said. 'Europe's first ever planned city. He was a genius of course.'

'Was he indeed?' Jack said. 'I am delighted to see you did not waste your time in the Knight's old archives.' He didn't try to keep the sarcasm from his voice. 'You were meant to be studying the house to learn how to break in, not researching its history.'

'Cassar built this place, but a hundred and fifty years later it was altered for Vincente de Borg, a name which will mean nothing to you.' Riley's voice was neutral. 'He commanded a small fleet of ships that fought the Ottomans, and everybody else in the Mediterranean.'

'I don't know the name,' Jack said.

'The name is not so important, sir.' Riley lifted a small telescope and scanned the building. 'It was his reputation that counted against him. He was so successful that he made enemies, so on two occasions, people attempted to assassinate him. They may have been jealous husbands, for he had a reputation that way as well, or maybe rival captains who lacked his ability to make money from the enemy, or even men hired by the Turks, but he decided he needed an escape route if things got dangerous.'

'A secret passage?' Jack said.

'Their Achilles heel.' Riley adjusted the focus of his telescope and glanced sideways at Jack. 'That means their weakness—'

'I am familiar with the expression,' Jack said.

'Sorry sir,' Riley said quickly. 'I'm used to talking to… I am not used to talking to officers, sir.'

'Carry on Riley.'

'The escape route was a passage from a house by the waterfront, down by the harbour and into Dar-il-Sliem, Borg's house.'

'That will be our way in, then.' Jack said.

'No, sir. That will not, begging your pardon, sir; if I have found out about this passage, then so will Stevensen. That is where he will concentrate his security.' Riley's smile was unexpected. 'If we can arrange something there to divert Stevensen's attention, we can get in and out of the building before he draws breath.'

Jack nodded. 'That might work. Good thinking, Riley. There is a corporal in you, I think.'

'No, thank you,' Riley shook his head at once. 'I'd prefer to remain as I am, sir.'

'As you wish.' There was obviously far more to Riley than met the eye and potential for a higher rank than a corporal. 'Now, it would be useful if we knew where Stevensen's office was,' Jack said.