Jack Windrush Collection - Books 1-4

Chapter 1-1

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.