January 1855
Jack looked up at his left leg. Swollen to twice its usual size, it was black and sat uselessly on top of the bed. He sighed and lay back, watching the canvas roof of the tent bulge under the weight of snow.
"Sorry to neglect you, Windrush." Maxwell nodded to him. "Now we can discuss that last operation."
"Yes, sir," Jack said. "It was not a success."
"It was a disaster." Maxwell said.
"How many men did we lose, sir?"
"You lost Spilsbury, Painter, Smith and Rourke. I lost six of mine. The Russians were waiting for us; they outmanoeuvred, outshot and out-fought us that time." Maxwell took a deep breath. "And Ruthven is missing. There has been neither sound nor sight of him since that patrol."
Jack grunted. "We can assume that the Cossacks got him then; he will be either
