Jack Windrush Collection

Chapter 6

Grey clouds smeared the sky, bellying downwards and depressing the already sombre mood of the funeral procession that wound in the shadow of the hills. Black horses walked slowly, heads bowed and plumes nodding as they dragged the hearse along the bumpy, rutted road. A procession of mourners followed; some in black draped carriages, most on foot and only the occasional scarlet uniform added a splash of colour. In front, walking with head bared and shoulders hunched, a drummer tapped a beat slow to accompany the steady tramp of two hundred feet.

Nobody spoke. Nobody heeded the thin rain that descended, damp and insidiously miserable, to seep through woollen cloaks and turn the road into a ribbon of sticky mud under the surrounding wooded slopes. Nobody sobbed or wept as the long column eased between leaning lichen-stained gate posts and entered a graveyard where grey tombstones sheltered beneath weeping trees. Bare branches thrust to the sky as if clutching forgiveness from an uncompromising God.

With a creak that sounded like a cry of despair, the hearse stopped. The horses stood silently in their traces, and the mourners shuffled to a halt, standing unmoving under the steadily increasing rain. Only the drummer continued with his repetitive, unending tap.

A man emerged from the hearse, his face set into professional solemnity as rain dripped from his tall black hat. Stepping slowly to the rear of the carriage, he called for the pallbearers to step forward.

"That"s us," Jack whispered to his brothers, aware that every eye was on him. Taking his place, he slipped his shoulder under the coffin and took the strain. His brothers filed into place behind him, silent save for the swish of boots through muddy grass. There were six pallbearers; the three sons of General William Windrush and three officers of his regiment. They moved forward in unison as the drummer continued his slow, rhythmic tapping and the priest, erect and slim with his black cloak sweeping the ground, held his Bible as if his soul depended on it.

As they manoeuvred around a dismal yew tree, Jack looked at his surroundings, from the mist that dragged across the long ridge of the Malvern Hills to the ancient graveyard centred on a church whose walls were slowly crumbling back into the soil. Gravestones protruded from the ground like despairing hands, some decorated with skulls and bones, others surmounted by weeping angels, but most indecipherable as years and weather removed all traces of the names and pious statements that long-dead hands had carved there. In this parish, there were only a handful of names, but none of the stones bore the appellation Windrush. The masters of Wychwood Manor boasted a seperate crypt, and it was to this that the mourners made their slow way.

“Windrush” The name erupted from the marble slab that surmounted the pillars at the entrance. The letters were bold, uncompromising, and when the iron gates between the pillars opened, lamplight highlighted seven steps leading downward into chilling darkness. Unhesitating, Jack moved on, unheeding of the weight of the coffin that dug into his right shoulder.

Beyond the steps, the ground was stone-flagged, the air chill and damp. The light cast weird shadows, highlighting a host of names. Unconsciously he repeated them to himself:

Colonel William Windrush killed at Malplaquet. Major Adam Windrush died of wounds in Germany. General Adam Windrush died of fever in India. Colonel William Windrush lost at sea.

Colonel William Windrush killed at Malplaquet. Major Adam Windrush died of wounds in Germany. General Adam Windrush died of fever in India. Colonel William Windrush lost at sea.Nearly every Christian name was William or Adam. Jack wondered as he had often before, why he had been named differently, breaking centuries of tradition. Ever since the Glorious Revolution, the oldest son had always been William, with any succeeding male being Adam, and then George. His name was an anomaly, but his mother had ignored any questions he had asked.

The stone lid was open, the tomb waiting to enclose the latest Windrush to die for the Regiment and in the service of the country. The dark space was friendly somehow, welcoming a Windrush home rather than confining him to eternity. This crypt was where every male Windrush hoped to repose; this was where Jack would end in ten, twenty if he were lucky or maybe even thirty years. With hardly a pause, he helped ease the coffin down as the mourners filed inside, their numbers crowding the crypt, their breathing echoing from the stones, their feet shuffling in soft harmony.

At a signal from the priest, the drummer lifted his drumsticks and stood at attention. Silence crushed them like a thick blanket. Jack fidgeted, looking to his brothers; William ignored him as usual, but Adam gave a nervous half-grin and mouthed something until the priest began the service. The sonorous words growled around the crypt, penetrating each corner, rebounding from the hard stone, reaching every silent mourner with their reminder of inevitable mortality. Jack listened unmoved. He knew his destiny; he would follow his father into the Regiment and die in the service of his country. Every firstborn Windrush male joined the Regiment and very few retired back home; he would be no different. That was what Windrushes did; it was as fixed as the stars in the firmament, as unchanging as the tides. It was the destiny for which he had prepared since he was old enough to walk.

At last, the priest stopped speaking, and one by one, the Windrush males moved forward to give their final farewell.

"Well, father," Jack looked down at the lid of the coffin, already closed and screwed down. "I hardly met you, but now I must take your place. I would have liked to have served under you, but that was not to be. I"ll carry the family name and honour forward as you would have wished."

There was no more to say. Jack"s father had done his duty, and he would do his.

His brothers came next, murmuring their goodbyes to a man they had never known, and then the officers of the Regiment filtered forward. The brave scarlet uniforms contrasted with the grey stone and the black of mourning, as the officers spoke crisply, following their duty to a man of their regiment, their caste and their breed. There was no emotion.

"Well, young Windrush." Major Welland stood erect, balancing his sword against his hip as he held Jack"s eye. "Are you ready to join the regiment?"

"I am, sir." Only the solemnity of the occasion prevented Jack from smiling. "I"ve waited all my life to be a Royal."

"Good; it"s a fine career and the best regiment in the British Army." Welland nodded. "We"ll speak again later, once you have attended to the formalities." He paused and added as an afterthought , "Oh, I"m sorry about your father. He was a fine man."

"So I"ve been told, sir." Jack agreed. "He insisted I complete my education before I joined." He hesitated for a second, "there was mention of Sandhurst, sir."

"No need for that, young Windrush. The Regiment will teach you all you need to know." Welland nodded. "We"ll be seeing you in the Mess shortly, and you"d better not be long. The Royals are not the same without a Windrush." Tall and dark-haired, Welland"s face was weathered, with only the tracing of a white scar spoiling his regular features.

Jack gave a small bow. "I"ll try not to be, sir."

Welland lowered his voice slightly. "Is there a young lady in your life, Windrush?"

"Not yet, sir,." Jack wondered what was coming next.

"Good," Welland seemed satisfied with the reply. "Keep it that way if you are serious about your profession. Don"t even think about marriage, youngster, not until you are at least a major and you have to keep the family line alive. Women are for procreation, not recreation; they will only distract you."

Jack nodded. "Yes, sir."

There is little possibility of any woman distracting me, Major Welland.

With the General safe in his crypt, the mourners made their separate ways home, with only the private carriage of the Windrushes rolling to Wychwood Manor, the ancient ancestral home of the family. Snug beneath the Malvern peaks, it was a sprawling place, centred on a fourteenth-century manor house but with additions from half a score of builders and owners, marking the passage of architectural time. Lawns rolled green and smooth on either side of the entrance door, while centuries of English weather had all but obliterated the Windrush arms carved in the limestone arch above the main door.

As grooms ran to attend to the horses, Jack stood in the outer hall with its soaring Corinthian columns and oak panelling. He glanced at the array of portraits and pictures that virtually related the story of his family over the past hundred and fifty years. Grim-faced or solemn; his ancestors stared at him from above the scarlet uniform of the Royals. Some were alone, others painted against a backdrop of battle, but every man had polished the Windrush lustre.

"Uncle George"s still hidden." Adam pointed to the black curtain that concealed one of the portraits. "I"d have thought Mother would have released him by this time."

Despite the gravity of the day, Jack grinned. "Poor old Uncle George; always condemned to be the black sheep of the family." He glanced behind him to ensure his mother wasn"t present and carefully eased back a corner of the curtain. George Windrush stared out, resplendent in his regimentals and with a devil-damn-your-hide glint in his eyes that Jack had rather admired as a youth.

"Best not let Mother catch you," Adam advised. He tried to force the curtain shut again, but Jack pushed his hand away for a more extended look.

"Imagine joining John Company and marrying a native woman." William pushed in. He sounded aghast at the audacity of his uncle.

"Terrible." Jack shook his head in mock horror. "It"s just as well that he drowned at sea."

"He was a blight on the family." William snatched shut the curtain. "Better his portrait is burned rather than just covered up."

"Oh, indeed." Jack fought to keep the mockery from his voice.

"Here"s mother now." William stepped back from the portrait in case its very proximity should contaminate him.

"Well, thank God that ordeal is over." Mrs Windrush rolled off her black gloves and dropped them on the hallstand for a servant to put away. "Funerals are such tiresome affairs." Tall, slim and handsome despite her years, she stood erect and calm as she surveyed her sons. "All right boys," she said quietly. "We have family business to execute. Meet me in the library in five minutes, if you please."

The library was the holy of holies, a room in which mother undertook only the most critical decisions, and a room which Jack had visited only a score of times in his life. He felt his heart begin to pound as he mounted the stairs with the nearly invisible servants shrinking from him as he passed. The forthcoming business must be vital, and he guessed what it was. His mother was calling them into the library to hand him his commission papers; there could be no other reason. By this time tomorrow, he would be an ensign in the Royal Malverns; by this time tomorrow, he would be a man following his destiny.

The room was broad and chill, with two tall windows overlooking the Herefordshire Beacon that thrust its terraced slopes through the low-lying mist. Glass fronted bookcases lined two walls and crept into part of the third, while a large writing desk sat square in the centre of the room. Mrs Windrush lit the three candles that stood to attention in their brass candlesticks and waited until the light pooled increased. Saying nothing, she pulled back the leather chair and sat solidly behind the desk while her children stood in a row in front of her. Jack noted the determined thrust of her chin and the strange, nearly triumphant light in her eyes and knew she was about to announce something portentous. Save for the ticking of a longcase clock in the landing below, and the occasional distant bleat of a sheep that sounded through the cracked-open window, there was silence as Mrs Windrush opened the top drawer of the desk and pulled out a small pile of papers.

Jack felt his heart beating like the thunder of martial drums. He could see what looked like an official seal on the top document and guessed that it came from the Royals. That would be his ensign"s commission, which would open up his real life. Tomorrow he would catch the mail coach to London to purchase his uniform, and within a couple of weeks he would take ship for his new home; the only real home he would ever know – the Royals.

"Stand still boys," Mrs Windrush commanded and waited for only a second until they obeyed. "With the death of your father, some things need to be said, and some matters must be addressed." She allowed the last word to hang in the air for a few moments, sitting upright in the chair as she slowly pushed the top document to one side and opened the others, one by one. She placed them in a neat row in front of her.

"Now, boys; your father has left me instructions for each of you, but I fear that certain circumstances force me to modify them a little." When she looked directly at him, Jack felt his heartbeat increase further, the drums rattling the charge rather than a quick march. Modify them? What the deuce does that mean? He thought there was something nearly malicious in the glitter of her eyes, a hint of satisfaction that he had witnessed and dreaded on each occasion she had announced he was due for punishment. He jerked his attention back to his mother"s face. She was watching him, and he knew she understood every thought that crossed his mind.

"I will begin with your father"s intentions," Mrs Windrush said and lifted the sheet of paper closest to her. "You, Jack, were due for a commission in the army; in your father"s regiment. William, your father intended that you care for the family estate. You, Adam, were either to enter the army or to pursue a career in law. Neither your father nor I intended that any of you become a gentleman of leisure."

Jack permitted himself a small smile. He could not imagine his mother ever allowing one of her sons, or anybody else in her power, the luxury of leisure.

"However," Mrs Windrush continued, "I have had to make some alterations." Her voice hardened as she lifted the next sheet, looking directly at each of her sons in turn as she proclaimed their fate.

"Jack, you will still enter the army, but not in your famous Royals." She spoke the last word as if it was a curse. "Instead, you will be commissioned into a different regiment." There was triumph in her eyes.

"What? Why is that, Mother, pray?" Jack felt the shock strike like a hammer to his heart. There was only one family regiment; no other held any appeal.

"Kindly permit me to finish." Mrs Windrush chilled him to silence with a single look. He felt all his childhood fears return, although the threat of physical correction was long past. "William, you are now destined for the army. I have ordered the family lawyer to purchase a commission for you in the Royals."

William bowed slightly from the waist, while his eyes flicked sideways to meet Jack"s, before slowly sliding away. "Yes, mother." He accepted the alteration in his fortune so quickly that Jack guessed he had known about the decision in advance.

"Mother!" Jack stepped forward, so he was touching the desk. "How can this be?"

"Silence!" That single word cracked like a huntsman"s whip. "Adam; you will now take over William"s duties in the estate."

With a glance of mixed apology and sympathy to Jack, Adam bowed his acceptance. "Yes, mother."

"Now you may speak, Jack," Mrs Windrush allowed. She leaned back slightly in her chair, placed her elbows on the desk and pressed the fingers of both hands together. Her eyes were unyielding as ice-covered granite.

"Mother, I have to join the Royals. The eldest son has been commissioned into the Royals for two centuries; why should I be in a different regiment while the second son is in the Royals?" He glanced toward William, who stood with an expression of smug foreknowledge that Jack found extremely disturbing.

"You made one valid point there, Jack, and asked one question, but both are intimately connected." Save for the deep grooves around her eyes, Mrs Windrush appeared quite relaxed. "Your point was nearly correct when you said that the eldest son in this family had been commissioned into the Royals for two hundred years. You would have been more accurate to say that the eldest legitimate son has always been commissioned into the Royals."

For a moment, Jack could only stare at his mother. "Legitimate?"

Mrs Windrush"s smile contained only malice. "And in this family, the eldest, or more correctly, the elder, legitimate son is William, who we have indeed commissioned into the Royals."

"But, mother…" Jack was unsure what to say as his world collapsed around him.

"I am not your mother." The smile was tighter now, the gleam of triumph shattering the ice around the granite eyes. "And you are not my son. Your mother was a kitchen maid or some such, and you are merely the by-blow of your father"s youthful indiscretion." The smile broadened as if this woman was, at last, revealing something that she had concealed for many years. "You are an accidental child, Jack, born on the wrong side of the blanket. In short, you are an unwanted little bastard."

A bastard?

A bastard?Jack gasped at the disgrace. Five minutes previously, he had expected an honourable career with the finest line regiment in the British Army. He had thought of himself as the eldest son and the heir of one of England"s most ancient and honourable families, but now he was merely the bastard son of a kitchen maid, and his future lay in utter tatters.

"As a bastard, of course," his stepmother was talking again, relishing the roll of her voice around the dishonourable name, her words controlled but her tone full of justified satisfaction, "as a bastard, you cannot be commissioned into the Royals, or indeed into any decent regiment." She permitted herself a short snort of derision. "No gentleman would agree to serve with you." She paused for a meaningful glance at her elder son. "However, I did promise your father that I would see you commissioned, so I have purchased you a commission as an ensign into one of the few, one of the very few, regiments that would accept you."

Shocked at this downturn in his fortunes, Jack waited, saying nothing. Already he felt something alter within him, and he wanted to give no more satisfaction to this woman who no longer acted like his mother. He felt sick; his legs were shaking so much he grabbed hold of the desk to steady himself.

"Don"t you want to know which distinguished regiment agreed to have you?" That was deliberate cruelty as Mrs Windrush watched him suffer.

"Yes, mother; if you please."

"Don"t call me mother, Jack. With the death of my husband, your father, we have no remaining relationship. Madam would be better, but Mrs Windrush might be acceptable."

"But mother…" Jack saw the slight, sneering smile slide onto his step mother"s mouth and forced himself to stand upright. "My apologies, Madam." Determined to give this suddenly cold stranger as little satisfaction as possible, he gave a formal bow. "I would be obliged if you could inform me of which regiment my father"s money has purchased me a commission."

The smile vanished. Lifting the still-sealed document from the desk, Mrs Windrush threw it contemptuously across to him. "There is your commission, sir. My husband"s money has bought you the necessary uniforms, and my generosity had added a one-off sum of two hundred guineas. That is all. This family has cared for you for the past eighteen years, but this is the last, and very generous, act of kindness we will do for you. From this minute, you are on your own."

Lifting the commission, Jack deliberately didn"t open it. He had to strike back, for if he left like this, with his tail between his legs, he could no longer look in the mirror. "This will be a terrible scandal, of course, once it is known." He allowed the words to hang in the air. He knew there was nothing his step mother dreaded more than a slur on her family name. "People will talk, and your friends will close their doors once they learn how your husband cuckolded you."

He felt his stepmother"s anger as she half rose from her seat. "The scandal will rebound on you," she said softly.

"I have less to lose," Jack reminded. "I am only a dishonourable bastard. But if I had, say, a thousand guineas a year in perpetuity, I would certainly have no reason to speak."

"That"s blackmail." Mrs Windrush sat down again.

Jack lifted the commission. "You have deliberately twisted the promise of my deceased father, which is as dishonourable an act as I can conceive."

"Two hundred guineas a year and you promise never to return."

"Seven hundred and fifty guineas deposited on the first day of February every year and I will never return to Wychwood Manor in your lifetime." Jack faced her across the width of the desk, forcing himself to act with a strength he did not feel. "Do we have a contract?"

"The second you resign your commission or set foot on Windrush land again, your money stops."

"And the first time you fail to pay my money, I will be back."

Rising from her seat, Mrs Windrush pointed to him, her finger trembling in anger. "Show this bastard out of our house, William, if you please. We will not see him again."

"I"ll pack my things first." Jack kept his voice cool-as-you-please. "And take my money. When I have an address, you can send the rest of my belongings along." He gave a slight, mocking bow. "Good day to you, madam, and I hope you can keep your next husband more faithful than your last."

It was a telling parting shot that did nothing to assuage the sick despair that engulfed him.