Jack Windrush Collection - Books 9-12

Chapter 1-1

“Jack! Jack!”

The shouted words barely penetrated the chaos. Jack saw only a confusing swirl of faces, British and Indian. He heard the crackle of flames and the snarl of fighting men, while a female voice screamed in the background. A man reared at him, teeth bared, eyes wide and a b****y tulwar in his hand. Jack scrabbled for his revolver, as the fear rose to choke him.

“You"ll not kill her, you bastard!” Jack felt he was moving in slow motion, as though the revolver was ten times its correct weight, while his attacker moved with the speed of a pouncing panther.

“Jack!” The voice was frantic now, and somebody was gripping his shoulder.

Jack lifted his revolver, aimed between the staring eyes, and pressed the trigger. Nothing happened. The revolver misfired. The eyes widened further; they were brown, with long lashes, Jack noted, and the tulwar, the deadly sword of the Indian sub-continent, swung down, hissing through the air in terrifyingly slow motion. Aware it was futile, Jack lifted his revolver to try and block the blood-slicked blade.

“Jack!”

Strong hands on his shoulder, a voice in his ear. Jack flinched from the oncoming tulwar, opened his eyes, to blink in the candlelight.

“What?” Jack blinked again, hearing his harsh breathing.

“It"s only a nightmare. You were having a nightmare.” Mary was beside him, her face concerned, yet reassuring. “It"s all right. You"re home.”

“Home?” Jack looked around at the familiar furnishings of their bedroom in Netherhills. The marble-topped table with the ewer and pitcher on top, the brass candelabra, the pendulum clock on the wall, and Mary"s clothes draped over the back of a chair; all was as it should be. “I was back in India.”

“I know,” Mary said. “I"ve been married to you for nearly twenty years. I know where you were.”

“In the Mutiny.”

“I know that, too,” Mary said. “You were shouting in Urdu and Pushto, with some Anglo-Saxon for good measure.” She shook her head, faintly smiling. “The language was shocking.”

Jack sat up, aware that his nightshirt was drenched with sweat. “Sorry about that.”

“So you should be. I"m a well-brought-up lady, and I"ve never heard such words before.” Mary stepped to the window and pulled back the curtains. “The sun"s up, Jack. It"s time you were too. Today"s going to be a busy day.” She watched as Jack rose, casually slapped his backside as he stripped off his nightshirt and shook her head. “You"re like an old fighting dog, Captain Jack. How many scars have you collected in your wars?”

“Less of the old, please, and too many.” Jack stepped into the bath a servant had prepared the previous evening. It was a habit he had picked up in India and maintained whenever he could. A cold bath woke him up for the day ahead.

Mary watched him lower himself, smiling at his grimaces. “You are a strange man, Jack, torturing yourself every morning.”

Jack nodded. “At the moment, I agree with you. Once I get out, I"ll feel better.”

Sliding onto her front, Mary rested her chin in both hands. “I"ll watch you.” She smiled as Jack rose from the bath, cascading water onto the floor and blowing hard. “Yes, Jack, I see that you feel better!” She laughed and rolled away as Jack retaliated by splashing her.

“Is it only twenty years since we married?” Jack asked. “It seems more like fifty!” He left the room quickly, only returning when he remembered he was still undressed and the house contained young female servants. “Pax?”

“Pax,” Mary said, smiling. “Come on, Jack. We have a busy day ahead of us.”

* * *

The Malvern Hills of western England were green and low, never exceeding fourteen hundred feet, but Jack still preferred them to any other range he had ever visited. He had grown up in their shadow and knew every nook and cranny, every hidden copse, every path and secluded well on the slopes.

“When I die,” Jack said, pulling the reins to halt Mathon, his horse. “I want you to bury me here.” He allowed his gaze to wander along the ridge.

“In the Windrush vault?” Mary stopped at his side, lifting her face to the wind.

“No. That is closed to me. As a bastard son with a Eurasian mother, I will never be allowed in there.” Jack shook his head. “Anyway, I prefer the open air. I want to rest here, with all of Herefordshire on one side, Worcestershire on the other, and the cool English winds brushing my grave.”

“You"re very morbid this morning,” Mary said.

Jack laughed. “Not really. Death comes to us all, and I can"t think of a better place to lie for eternity.”

Mary pulled a face. “There is plenty of time to think of death, Jack.” She spread her arms. “On a glorious day like this, we should think only of life, and the race. I do hope that David does well.” She smiled. “I wish he had kept his first name. I much prefer Andrew to David.”

Although Mary had christened their son as Andrew, he preferred to be known as David.

“He"s adamant he will be David, so we"ll call him that,” Jack said. “He will do well in the race; he"s one of the best rough-riders I have ever seen.”

“Your nephew, Crimea, is also good,” Mary warned. “And he"s two years older.”

“Aye, and at least two stones heavier.” Jack produced two cheroots from inside his tunic. Lighting both, he passed one to Mary, then put the second between his lips. “It"s strange. William and I were only adequate on horseback. Our sons are both much more skilled.”

Mary drew on her cheroot. “Why did your brother call his son Crimea?”

“William called him William Crimea, so all the world knows that William gained the Victoria Cross there. The lad"s known as Crimea to avoid confusion with his father.”

“Ah, I see,” Mary said.

The crowd began to gather, with officers and men of two regiments, the 113th Foot and the Royal Malverns, scattered among the local population. Most spectators came on foot, some on horseback, chattering and voicing their opinion of the coming point-to-point race. The officer"s clipped voices sounded above the more homely Herefordshire and Worcestershire accents, with the other ranks speaking in every tongue and dialect from Caithness to Cornwall.

“Good morning, sir, and good morning Mrs Windrush.” Young Lieutenant Trent gave a smart salute as he limped past. “It"s a glorious day.”

“It is that, Trent,” Jack replied, “but it"ll rain in an hour or so.” He indicated the gathering clouds to the west. “Are you not taking part in the race?”

“No, sir.” Trent indicated his left leg. “I twisted my ankle. I"d not show well, I"m afraid.”

“I see,” Jack said. He waited until Trent walked away before shaking his head.

“You don"t like him, do you?” Mary asked.

“No,” Jack said. “He"s a British officer, and he"s pulling out of a competitive event because of a sore ankle.”

“Perhaps he"s afraid of shaming the 113th by performing badly.” Mary tried to defend the lieutenant.

“There"s no shame in losing,” Jack said sourly. “There is shame in being afraid to try.” He drew on his cheroot. “Come on, we"ll get ourselves a decent viewpoint before the hills get busy.”

The military section of the crowd parted as Jack led Mary to a hillock that afforded the best view of the upcoming race. Some of the locals peered curiously at Mary"s darker complexion until Jack treated them to a glare, after which they looked hastily away.

“They"re still not used to having a Eurasian as a neighbour,” Mary said.

“If anybody says anything, let me know,” Jack said. “I"ll treat them to a good kick up the backside.”

“Eloquently put, husband, dear,” Mary said quietly. “I am so lucky I married a man of sophistication and loquacity.”

Jack frowned. He could not tell Mary how much others" treatment of her hurt him.

From their hillock, Jack and Mary had a view of the entire Malvern range, and when Jack lifted his binoculars, he could see the horsemen gathering at the summit of End Hill.

“There they are,” he pointed out to Mary, “and our boy is right in the middle, where he belongs.”

“Let me see.” Mary borrowed Jack"s binoculars and focussed on the riders. “I see him!” She waved her hand, momentarily forgetting that David did not have binoculars attached to his eyes.

When Trent joined them on the hillock, Jack pulled rank and requisitioned the lieutenant"s binoculars, knowing that prising his own from Mary"s hands would be impossible.

There were twenty-four riders grouped at the summit of End Hill, eight from the Royal Malverns, seven from the 113th, eight hopeful locals and David. All were young men, with the military riders being lieutenants or second lieutenants, the most junior rank of officers. The object was to ride the length of the main Malvern range, from End Hill to Summer Hill following a marked route that took in many summits. A sergeant of each regiment waited at each peak to mark their passage, with both the regimental colonels plus local dignitaries at the finishing point.

“David"s looking confident,” Mary said happily.

“Arrogant young pup!” Jack hid his pride behind a gruff front as he watched the riders. Crimea was to the left of Jack, with the two cousins seeming to ignore each other. Jack frowned; he did not wish his fraternal dispute to continue to the next generation. Life in the army, if David joined, was sufficiently fraught without any added burdens.

The riders came to the mark, a ribbon stretched across the grass, and a middle-aged man, the Master of the Malvern Hunt, held a pistol in the air. Tall, supple, and red-haired, David looked relaxed as he whispered in the left ear of Tweed, his brown gelding. Beside him, Crimea was taut, eagerly studying the length of the course. A young Herefordshire man, Adam Hanley, cracked a joke to which all the riders gave a nervous laugh.

The Master of the Hunt called them all to the line and raised a small pistol. Jack saw the puff of smoke a second before he heard the c***k of the shot, and the riders bounded down the hill.

“They"re off,” Mary told the world without moving Jack"s binoculars from her eyes.

Crimea immediately powered to the front of the pack, shouldering aside a very young second lieutenant of the Royals, and leaning far forward in his saddle. David hung back a little, allowing a front group of four riders, including Crimea and Adam Hanley, to make the running. Behind David, the main pack strung out as riders chose their favoured route down End Hill.

“He"s waiting for the leaders to make a mistake,” Mary explained why her son was not immediately in front.

Jack grunted, watching as Crimea pressed his spurs into the horse"s flank. Already he was a neck ahead of Adam Hanley, his closest rival, and gaining half-an-inch with every stride. “Come on, David,” he said. “Don"t let Crimea pull too far ahead.”