Jack Windrush Collection - Books 1-4

Chapter 2-1

Gripping the commission in hands that seemed to have turned to claws, Jack squared his shoulders and stalked from the room. He ignored the stares of the servants and the scornful face of his stepbrother as he gathered such of his possessions as were readily accessible, swept a handful of gold and silver coins into his pocketbook and swept through the entrance hall with its portraits and pillars, its memories and solid grandeur.

Wychwood Manor had been the home of his ancestors for centuries, but now it was lost to him. He was as much a stranger here as any inhabitant of China or Hindustan or the South Sea Islands. The tears began to prickle at the back of his eyes, but he forced them away, for he had no desire to allow his mother or William the satisfaction of knowing how deeply he was hurt.

It was hard to step through the front door beneath the worn Windrush coat of arms, hard to walk down the sweeping entrance stairway for the last time, hard to put on a swagger when all he wanted to do was huddle into his despair. At the end of the driveway he turned for a last long look at the scythe-shorn lawns, the turrets and towers that told of his history, but William stood in the doorway, master of Wychwood Manor, sneering at him over an uncrossable bridge of birth and blood. The sun had eased through the clouds, reflecting on two score windows and highlighting the ancient stonework of his one-time home.

His father"s amorous adventures had closed that door, and he was no longer welcome. It would be no good to run screaming back, to beg forgiveness for a sin he had never committed, to plead and cry and grovel, for his stepmother was as bound by convention as she was by law. As a bastard, he was not the legitimate heir, and that was unalterable.

And then it was the sad walk out of the estate and on to the high road that led toward Hereford, with the Malvern Hills greenly familiar behind him and the countryside unfolding for mile after fertile mile. His landscape no longer – he had no place with the one-time tenants of his father"s small estate, he would no longer fish the Cradley Brook, no longer sit on the green heights and dream of glory, no longer gallop his horse across the hills or shoot pheasants or wildfowl in the pleasant woods. His past was gone, and his future written in the piece of simply-sealed paper he gripped far too tightly.

After half an hour, the commission was burning a hole in his hand; he had to discover which regiment he was destined to join; he had to know where his future lay. If the famous Royals did not want him, perhaps he was destined for the Buffs or the Rifles; maybe the 24th Foot, a regiment known for hard fighting. They would suit. He must find out, but not here. If he stopped near the Malverns then sure as death somebody would recognise him and ask what he was about; he couldn"t face the shame. He would wait until he reached Hereford, many miles away.

The inn was on Church Street, a few scores yards from Hereford Cathedral. Its creaking signboard proclaimed it to be The Gwynne Arms and the black and white exterior was as inviting as the pleasant sounds of men and women talking together. Jack hesitated for only a second; his mother would not approve of him entering such a place. By God, that is as good a reason as any to go in. He pushed open the door. The noise enveloped him like a loving arm, and he eased into a seat in a dusty corner and examined the seal of his commission. It was a simple red blob of wax without even an official crest when he had expected something much grander. Evidently, an ensign counted for less than he had thought, or perhaps some petty clerk could not be concerned to finish his work properly. Breaking the seal, he unfolded the parchment.

By God, that is as good a reason as any to go in.At sixteen inches by ten, it was also much smaller than he had expected, and when he read the contents, he felt once more the sick slide of despair. Skipping over the heading 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 Jack Baird Windrush to take rank and post as Ensign in the 113th Regiment of Foot."

The 113th Foot.

Jack stared at the fateful number and swore quietly to himself. "I"m going into the 113th Foot Oh good God in heaven; the Baby Butchers, the lowest of the low."

The 113th Foot was the regiment that nobody wanted to join. There had been other regiments that bore the same number; the 113th Highlanders who had lasted for two years before being disbanded in 1764, and a later infantry regiment that had been raised and disbanded in 1794. Both these regiments had been excellent, honourable units with no stigma attached; this latest incarnation was not. If his stepmother had wanted her revenge on his illegitimacy to be both hurtful and shameful, she had succeeded. Jack knew little about the 113th , but their nickname of the “Baby Butchers”, was enough to make his heart sink. Leaning back against the plaster wall of the inn, he once again fought the tears that threatened to unman him.

Gaining the seven hundred and fifty guineas a year had been a tiny victory in a day of catastrophic defeat. From being a landowner and officer in one of the finest regiments in the British Army and an income of ten thousand a year, he had descended to an unwanted bastard with a commission in the most inferior of all formations and barely enough money to scrape along as a junior officer, let alone a gentleman. His mother had barred him from his home and the only way of life he knew, and with such a meagre allowance, he would never be able to purchase his way into a decent regiment.

113th Foot!

113th Foot!He heard the song through his gloom, the words familiar from his youth.

"Squire Percy well mounted, away he did ride

"Squire Percy well mounted, away he did rideJames careless with hounds coupled close by his side

James careless with hounds coupled close by his sideThen off to St Margaret"s park did repair

Then off to St Margaret"s park did repairFor Reynard long time had been harbouring there."

For Reynard long time had been harbouring there.""And what"s the matter with you?"

"I beg your pardon?" Jack looked up. The speaker had been female, with a broad Herefordshire accent; it was the voice of a countrywoman. Jack shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"I asked what the matter was." She was dark-headed and perhaps seventeen, with an attractive plumpness that would probably turn to fat within a few years, but which suited her very well at present.

Jack first inclination was to ignore such a personal question from a girl so obviously below him socially, but her smile was friendly, and he needed to talk to somebody. "I have just lost my family, my status and my life," he told her. He edged further away when she perched herself on the wooden bench at his side. Her scent of grease and soap and cooking was not unpleasant.

Her sympathy was obvious. "Was it the fever that killed them?" He flinched as she placed a warm hand on his arm. Her blue eyes prepared to fill with tears on his behalf.

About to explain what had happened, Jack shook his head. He was duty-bound not to speak of his misadventures. "I"d prefer not to talk about it."

She patted his arm and snuggled even closer. "I understand; losing your family is too painful." Her eyes were soft with sympathy. "And you sound like a gentleman, too."

Jack said nothing to that; at that moment, he was unsure exactly what he was. The edge of the bench foiled his attempts to pull away.

"Not talking? Poor little man." She was smiling again, rubbing her hand along his arm in a very familiar manner. "They call me Ruth." Her smile was broader than ever.

"And I am Jack."

Her kiss took him by surprise; he recoiled and put a hand to his cheek.

"What was that for?"

"Because you needed it," Ruth told him seriously. "If somebody needs something, and it"s in our power to give it, we should do so. That"s in the Bible." She tried to kiss him again, but he moved aside.

Used to the reserved girls of his class, or shrinking and respectful servants, Jack was unsure how to react. He recoiled slightly until the innkeeper asked if he wanted anything.

"Two tankards of ale, please," he said, paid with the loose change in his waistcoat pocket and watched Ruth hold the tankard with all the aplomb of a man.

"So you have no family left." Ruth smiled over the rim of the pot.

"None left now," Jack agreed. He held up the commission. "And "And I"m in the 113th, not the Royals."

Ruth frowned. "You"re going to be a soldier?"

"An ensign in the 113th." Jack looked for sympathy but found none.

"You"re going to be an officer?" Ruth recoiled slightly as her eyes widened. "So you"ve no responsibilities for anybody, and you"re going to be an officer? What are you complaining about?" She pulled further away, her smile fading. "Once you get promoted to a general, you"ll have all the money in the world."

"It"s not as easy as that."

"Life is never easy," Ruth told him. Her frown made her look older than her years. "How is it not easy?"

"You have to buy your way up," Jack began to explain the system.

In common with every officer and potential officer, Jack knew exactly how the system worked. A British Army officer would purchase his commission as an ensign in the infantry or cornet in the cavalry, and then systematically buy his way rank-by-rank until he was in command of a regiment. It was a system that produced men such as Wellington, but one which favoured the wealthy, whether inefficient or not, while even the best of the poor were condemned to fill the most junior ranks unless by some freak of foolhardy bravery they caught the eye of an influential superior.

Jack realised that Ruth was listening intently to him.

"I have not got enough money. I might manage to purchase one step, from ensign to lieutenant in a fourth-rate regiment, but no more. I have to be known."

"So the toffs have it all their own way then." Ruth"s tone betrayed her opinion of the upper classes. "Ordinary officers can"t get on at all then."

"Only if they are fortunate and are seen being stupidly brave."

Those words led Jack to his next logical step. Courage was every bit as important as money to an officer, but here again the wealthy, the aristocracy, held all the advantages. They were brought up to danger in the hunt and hardship at public school; it was part of life. While a private soldier, a sergeant or an unknown officer may spend a lifetime of hardship and courageous acts, he was doomed to be unreported and unknown while every action of an aristocratic officer was gloried over and exalted. The son of General Windrush would be known; Jack"s illigitimacy condemned him to anonymity.

Jack heard his words trail away. He was saying far too much to this unknown girl.

It"s all the fault of my blasted stepmother!

It"s all the fault of my blasted stepmother!In some ways, Jack could not blame his stepmother for her attitude. She had, after all, kept her dislike of him nearly hidden for eighteen years when every time she saw him must have been a reminder of her husband"s infidelity, but still, he felt sick, discarded and bewildered. He closed his eyes against the shameful tears.