Jack Windrush Collection - Books 1-4

Chapter 2-2

Ruth"s voice had a hard edge. "Look around you, Jack, and tell me what you see."

He did so. The room was full of weavers and small farmers, a shepherd or two, a group of hirsute Welsh drovers with silver belt buckles and a huddle of women and children. All the people in the inn huddled together in small groups, some eating, some drinking, but all wearing work-worn clothing and with faces bearing traces of hardship and hunger.

"And how many have a chance, even the smallest of chances, of doing what you do? None," she answered her own question. "They are born into poverty, live a few reckless years of youth and then grow old toward pauperism."

Jack nodded, unsure what point she was trying to make. These people were different from him; they were from the labouring classes while he was a gentleman; he could not compare his life to theirs. But Ruth obviously could and suddenly, frighteningly, so could he. The realisation was appalling in its simplicity. As a bastard, he was no longer a gentleman. As a maid servant"s son, only a combination of fortunate circumstances had allowed him a decent education and granted him a commission. These people, these dirty, uncouth, loud, poverty-ridden people, were closer to him in blood than his stepmother.

"Dear God." He leaned back in his seat, staring at her.

"Dear God? I don"t know about that, Jack, but I do know life"s given you a better chance than any of these people will ever have."

"Dear God," Jack repeated. He took a deep breath and looked around the inn. The hurt and shock were raw, tearing away everything he had so recently taken for granted. Maybe this was where he belonged, living with these basic, unlettered people, a man with no future and no prospect of anything save infirmity, poverty and death. Maybe he was more like his mother, the unknown, unnamed and unconsidered maidservant, used only for sensual pleasure, than his father, the honoured, feted and distinguished general.

Ruth was still watching him, her eyes curious in her broad, friendly face. "I think that commission thing gives you a chance of escape," she told him.

"By God, you"re right." The commission into the lowly 113th, which had seemed an insult only a few moments before, was now a golden key to a future far brighter than anything the denizens of this inn could ever know. He held it again, seeing not a descent into the abyss of a poor-quality regiment, but the first small step back to respectability, honour and a position to which he had always felt entitled. The thick paper seemed suddenly fragile as if it might crumble or blow away, taking his newly precious future with it.

He had to move. He had to find his new regiment and start his career; he had to clamber onto the slippery ladder of success and reach for the heights. With no money, he could not purchase promotion, but he could earn it and step into the shoes of officers killed in action. "Here"s to a b****y war." He drained his tankard and rose, contemplated touching Ruth"s arm but pulled away. "I must return to my lodgings. Tomorrow I catch my coach to London."

Ruth lifted her ale. "God speed, Jack." She winked at him over the rim of the glass.

Only when Jack tried to pay for his ale did he realise that Ruth had picked his waistcoat pocket. He shook his head; she had taken her opportunity when she could and had taught him a lesson far more valuable than the few coins she had removed. Luckily, he had the sense not to keep all his money in one place when entering a public inn; he was young but not that green, and besides, her advice had proven more valuable than a pocketful of coins.

Jack had been aware of the noise outside for some minutes, but now he looked up as it escalated. "What the devil is happening out there?"

Ruth had disappeared, but the other denizens of the pub looked equally interested as the racket increased. One woman hurried to the door and peered into the street outside. She withdrew her head hurriedly. "It"s a riot! The redcoats are attacking the blues!"

As the woman spoke, something heavy crashed against the window, cracking one of the small panes of glass. The woman at the door screamed; men rose from their seats to stare outside.

"What the devil?" Jack said again. He stalked forward, joined the woman at the door and ducked when a bottle smashed against the wall a yard away from his face. A sliver of glass nicked his forehead. He blinked away the thin trickle of blood and looked around. There was enough light left to see the group of men who clustered outside a row of half-timbered houses across the road. The men were gesticulating at three uniformed police who stood side by side, gripping long staffs.

"Get moving you bluebottle bastards," one shouted, "we don"t need your kind here!"

As Jack watched, the police began a slow walk across the road, each tapping his staff in the palm of his left hand.

"Get back to where you belong," one of the police advised. "Or you"ll spend the night in the lock-up."

The words acted as a catalyst. The men unfastened their belts and began to chant "down with the blues!" One wrapped the belt around his fist, so the brass buckle acted as a vicious weapon, the others swung the belts around their heads, with the buckle blurring and lethal. As they came into the wavering light of the street lamp, Jack realised that they were all wearing military scarlet. He fingered his commission and wondered if he should try to use his new rank to calm the situation.

Would they listen to me?

Would they listen to me?Would they listen to a Johnny-raw ensign? My presence would likely make things worse.

Would they listen to a Johnny-raw ensign? My presence would likely make things worse.There were a few seconds of frantic activity as the police defended themselves. Jack saw the staffs rise and fall, heard the ugly c***k of wood on heads and the whirr and snap of the belts, and then the soldiers surged around the thin blue line, boots thumping into police ribs, faces and legs.

"Down with the blues!" A soldier with a pock-marked face continued to chant.

"Stop that!" The voice was of a young woman. She hurried over from the other side of the street. "You brutes! Stop that at once, I say!"

Jack shifted uneasily from foot to foot. It was one thing to stand aside from a straightforward contest between the police and the army and another to allow a woman to take charge.

The woman stepped fearlessly toward the grunting mass of redcoats. "You have done enough to these poor fellows." She poked at the nearest soldier, a man of about thirty with a cropped head and a face seamed with scars. "Leave them alone."

When the crop-headed soldier looked up, his eyes were wild. He swore and pushed the woman away.

A gaunt-faced private grabbed her. "You"re a saucy little w***e, aren"t you?" He put a hand over her mouth, swore and pulled clear. "The b***h bit me!"

"She"s got a dash of temper then." Crop-head gave a high-pitched laugh. "Give her this way, and I"ll cure the poxy little flirt!"

The other soldiers stopped their relentless kicking of the prone policemen and looked up. "She"s a looker," a sandy-haired soldier said in a hard London voice. "What are you doing here, Mary-Jane?" He stepped on a prone policeman as he approached the woman. "Want a real man, do you?"

The woman didn"t back away. "There are ten of you attacking three policemen," she said, "that is an ill game." She looked from one soldier to the other, perhaps hoping for support or sympathy, but finding neither. Her voice rose. "I think you should all return to your barracks."

"Oh, that"s what you think is it?" The gaunt soldier pressed his face against hers as his companions gathered around, encouraging him with animal sounds and gestures.

"Go on, Pete, you show her."

Pete put a hand on the woman"s shoulder and pushed her back; she staggered, and her bonnet fell off. Large boots trampled it underfoot.

"Take your hands off me!" Her voice was high now as her confidence drained away.

"I"ll put my hands wherever I b****y well choose." Pete grabbed her shoulder and pulled her close. "Come on, boys, let"s have a little fun here."

Jack had been watching, hoping that the situation would resolve itself without the need for him to become involved, but now he left the shelter of the pub doorway and strode across the street. As he got closer to her, he realised that the woman was younger than he had first supposed. She was perhaps twenty, while her accent and bearing suggested she came from a refined background.

"Enough of that!" He tried to inject authority into his voice. "Leave that woman be."

Pete put one arm around the woman"s throat and the other around her waist. "What has it to do with you?" His eyes were flat, poisonous. "Who the hell are you?"

Jack tried to stare the man down. "I am Ensign Jack Windrush," he said grandly, "and I order you to leave that woman alone and return to barracks."

"A b****y boy soldier," the crop-headed redcoat said, "a babe fresh from the cradle. Piddle off home to your mama, Ensign Jack Windrush, and don"t interfere with men"s work."

"It"s no work for a man to bully a defenceless woman." As soon as Jack said the words, he knew he sounded like a school prefect rather than an officer who held the Queen"s Commission.

Pete laughed and planted a rough kiss on the woman"s lips, which brought a cheer from his companions. The woman tried to push him away, her eyes now desperate as she looked at Jack.

One of the police groaned and tried to sit up. "Leave that woman," he called.

"You shut your mouth, bluebottle bastard!" As the sandy-haired soldier began to kick the policeman into insensibility, Jack ran forward. He knew he wouldn"t have any chance against ten hard bitten redcoats, but he might manage to unsettle one.

"Quick!" Jack barged straight into Pete, unbalancing him by surprise more than force, and pulled the woman clear. "Run!"

"I will not!" The woman said. "Who are you to give me orders, sir? I am -"

Jack stepped between her and the crop-headed man. "This is no time to argue!"

The woman hesitated and gestured to the policemen on the ground. "We can"t leave them…"

Jack pushed her in front of him. "We have to," he said. There was nowhere to hide except the pub, and the soldiers would undoubtedly follow. Already Pete was beginning to recover, swearing foul vengeance as his companions urged him on.

"Get the bastard, Pete, rip his innards out!"

"Knock his head off, Pete and take the b****y woman!"

As they spread out and sidled toward them, Jack shouted, "Run!" and pushed the woman in front of him. Unsure which direction was safest, he headed for what he hoped was the centre of town. There might be more people there, and numbers could mean help and safety. The woman hesitated. "Run, damn it!" Jack repeated. He dodged a drunken punch and struck back, feeling the satisfaction of his knuckles crunching on bone. The sandy-haired soldier reeled backwards, cursing, and the woman moved at last. Hitching her long skirts above her ankles, she scuttled up the road.

"After her!" Pete roared, pushed Jack aside and followed, with his companions in his wake.

Hampered by her long skirt and with only a few yards of a start, the woman hardly crossed the street before George caught her. He grabbed at her sleeve and yanked her backwards. "Come here, my pretty."