Jack Windrush Collection - Books 9-12

Excerpt from Jack Windrush Collection - Books 9-12

Eastern Mediterranean, June 1882

Jack stood at the rail of the transport ship Cullen Bay, watching the moon rise slowly above the Mediterranean Sea. “The second time I came here,” he mused, “I was a young, very raw subaltern sailing East and already feeling homesick.”

“Why were you homesick for a place that had rejected you?” Mary applied a Lucifer match to her cheroot, puffed contentedly, and pressed closer to her husband.

“I was only eighteen, and boys like familiarity,” Jack said. “Herefordshire was familiar, and I scarcely remembered my infant years in India.” He sighed. “We had to land at Alexandria, travel to Cairo, and take the train to Suez.”

“You said that was the second time?” Mary blew smoke into the still air. “What about the first time?”

Jack looked away. “I barely remember anything about it. I was too young, sent from India to England.” He borrowed Mary’s cheroot and drew deeply. “The world’s changed since the Suez Canal opened. No more travelling over the desert by train, and no more sailing by the Cape.”

Marie smiled. “Progress has brought India much closer to Great Britain.” She lifted a hand. “Listen! One of the men is singing.”

The lone private stood amidships, singing a sad song. Seen in profile, the soldier was of average height and build and leaned over the rail as he looked westward, the direction of travel. Moonlight made his uniform appear paler than khaki and highlighted the medal ribbons on the left breast.

“A gay fusilier was marching down through Rochester,

Bound for the war in the Low Country.

And he cried as he tramped through the dear streets of Rochester,

Who’ll be a soldier for Marlbro with me?

Who’ll be a sojer, who’ll be a sojer for Marlbro with me?

And he cried as he tramped through the dear streets of Rochester,

Who’ll be a sojer for Marlbro with me?”

Mary put her head on one side so her black hair, now sprinkled with grey, swept over her face. “That’s a sad little tune. I’ve never heard it before.”

“It’s the old marching song of the Royal Malverns,” Jack told her. “Although we were called Windrush’s Regiment of Foot when some musical genius wrote that song. The Windrush was my great-great, God knows how many greats, grandfather.” He drew on his cheroot. “We’ve sung that song for nearly two hundred years.”

“The song may be old,” Mary said and nodded towards the distant coast of Egypt, “but nothing like as old as the antiquities there. I had hoped that we might get some time ashore.”

“So did I, but the world is all hustle and bustle now,” Jack said. “You mentioned progress a moment ago. Well, the Suez Canal has cut the journey time between Britain and India to only a month. We’re all steam ahead for a coaling station in Malta and then home to merry old England.” He returned Mary’s cheroot. “Never mind, Mary, you’ll find plenty of history in Malta.”

“The song mentions Marlbro,” Mary drew on the cheroot. “Who was he?”

“Marlbro was the Duke of Marlborough,” Jack explained. “He was a famous general at the beginning of the eighteenth century.”

“If he was a general so long ago, why do your men sing about him now?”

“The army is conservative,” Jack said. “We tend to hold onto traditions longer than civilians do. That includes songs, although I must confess that it’s a long time since I’ve heard anybody sing that one.” He squinted forward to see the singer. “That’s Private Bullard, a good soldier, and I’ve got my eye on him as a possible corporal in a year or two.”

Mary was about to ask another question when they heard footsteps on the deck behind them.

“Colonel Windrush?” Jim Fairlie, the second mate of Cullen Bay, stood at what he intended to be attention. “Captain Charlton sends his compliments, sir, and could you kindly report to him on the bridge.”

Jack pushed himself away from the rail. “Thank you, Mr Fairlie. Could you tell me what it’s about?”

“I’m not sure, sir,” Fairlie said, “but it might be connected to the Navy. HMS Helicon signalled a few moments ago. You might have seen the limelight.”

“The Navy?” Jack frowned. “Oh, well, I’m sure I’ll find out in a few moments. Would you excuse me, my dear?”

Mary smiled in resignation. “Duty must come first, Jack.”

Jack touched his wife’s arm. “I’ll be as quick as I can. Lead on, MacDuff.”

Captain Charlton was from Northumberland, an old-fashioned seaman who had learned his trade in the hard days of sail and who resented having to command what he called a steam kettle. He eyed Jack sourly.

“Colonel Jack Windrush?” Charlton asked as if he had not seen Jack every day since the Royal Malverns boarded his troop transport at Calcutta.

“Yes, Captain Charlton.”

“All you damned soldiers look the same to me. The captain of HMS Helicon wants you and Mrs Windrush to board his ship.”

“Why, Captain Charlton?”

“How the devil should I know why?” Charlton growled. “He’s sending a gig to pick you up. It’ll be here inside the hour, so grab your dunnage and your wife.”

Jack noted Charlton’s order of importance. “As you say, Captain.” He left to rejoin Mary.

“They want us aboard at this time of night?” Mary asked, then accepted the order with the equanimity expected of a soldier’s wife. “We’ll just take our cabin luggage,” she decided immediately. “The rest will travel with the regiment and Major Baxter will take care of it.”

“I’ll inform Baxter that he’s in command in my absence,” Jack said.

***

The captain of HMS Helicon greeted Jack with an outstretched hand. “Ah, Colonel Windrush of the Royal Malverns. Your exploits in Afghanistan have even reached the Navy.” He treated Mary to a bow. “And Mrs Windrush. Your servant, ma’am. Please join me in my day cabin, Colonel and Mrs Windrush. You’ll both be wondering what this is all about.”

“We are, Captain,” Mary confirmed.

The captain’s day cabin was plainly but comfortably furnished, with a varnished desk and a cabinet of decanters that shone under the lantern light. Yet it was the lone guest who held Jack’s attention. General Hook stood with a brandy glass in one hand and a cheroot in the other.

“Welcome aboard Helicon, Colonel and Mrs Windrush. I do apologise for the hour, but there are fewer prying eyes at this time.”

Jack tried to hide his dismay behind a smile. General Hook was high in the recently modernised British military intelligence, and Jack had known him for over twenty years. Although Jack liked and respected the man, Hook had a habit of sending him on dangerous missions. “I didn’t expect to see you here, sir.”

“No, you wouldn’t, Windrush. Brandy?” Hook lifted the ship’s decanter from the captain’s cabinet.

“Will I need it, sir?”

Hook smiled. “Not this time, Jack. I’m not sending you on a harum-scarum expedition beyond the edge of civilisation. On the contrary, I am sending you and Mrs Windrush to one of the centres of world history and culture.” The smile broadened. “I would hardly have asked for Mrs Windrush if it was dangerous, would I?”

“I hope not, sir,” Jack noted the use of his Christian name and wondered if that was a good or a bad sign.

“Exactly so,” Hook watched a poker-faced flag lieutenant pour them all a brandy, with Mary accepting hers with a brief curtsey.

“You may leave, lieutenant,” the captain said and stood as a distinguished-looking admiral with a fine beard entered the cabin.