Jack did not alter his pace. He ran into the struggling pair without breaking stride, knocking them from their feet. They all fell together in a jumble of thrashing arms and legs, the Confederate at the bottom of the pile. Rose landed on his chest then rolled on, her lighter frame thrown forward by the impact with Jack’s heavier body.
Jack alone had been ready for the collision. Pain flared as his body thumped into the ground, and his revolver fell from his hand as his elbow connected with someone’s leg, then he was up on his knees and punching at the man who had grabbed at Rose. They were wild, uncontrolled blows, but the first half-dozen all landed true. The Confederate cried out and tried to punch back, but Jack was kneeling over him, and he knocked the flailing fists aside then lashed out, smashing his own fists into the man’s face.
‘Get up!’ he roared, urging Rose to her feet. He continued to punch down even as he shouted the order.
Rose obeyed, though she was clearly hurting. Her dress was torn, and blood snaked from one nostril, but from somewhere deep inside she found the strength to stand. As soon as she regained her balance, she clawed at Jack, pulling him upwards, dragging him off the body of the man who had grabbed her. Jack twisted, his eyes running over the ground until they found his revolver. He snatched it up and forced it into its holster.
They started to run again, stumbling on with stubborn defiance. Their breath came in great gasps and their chests heaved with exertion. They made it no more than twenty yards before they saw other men in grey waiting for them.
‘Hold there!’
The command was shouted and the pair staggered to a halt, obedient in the face of the levelled weapons that pointed their way.
The trees had thinned. They were no more than a hundred yards from open grassland that might have offered them some chance of salvation. Yet it might as well have been a thousand. Grey-clad figures now stood in their path, each armed with a carbine, a shorter version of the muskets that the infantrymen used. Every weapon was aimed at either Jack or Rose.
‘That’s right, you Yankee whoreson. Stay right where we can see you.’
Jack tried to pick out who was shouting the commands. He failed, the sweat running down into his eyes, blurring his vision. He sucked air into his lungs, ignoring the pain in his chest, swallowing down the fear at having been caught. It was not over. Not yet.
He felt the burn of frustration. He had dared to think of a different future, one where new skills would replace the ones he had learnt on the killing fields of battle. Yet he had just been pissing into the wind. Fate would not be denied. He was not destined to become a pioneer, a farmer, a father or even a husband. He was what he had always been: an impostor in a world that did not want him to succeed.
He wanted to howl as the anger built inside him. Ahead the men moved forward slowly, covering the pair with their weapons. He watched them come, his eyes taking it all in as he started to plan. He would not get the new future he had begun to crave. But that did not mean he would accept his fate meekly.
He would do the only thing he knew how to do; the only thing that he had ever found a talent for.
He would fight.
‘Don’t you move a goddam muscle.’ The command was shouted from somewhere to Jack’s left. The voice demanded obedience.
Jack finally picked out the man giving the orders. He was a tall fellow, heavily bearded, with a wild, unkempt shock of grey-white hair, and he wore a grey jacket with heavily braided sleeves. Jack knew who it was almost immediately. It was the same Confederate officer he had seen gun down the Union prisoner the previous day.
‘That’s right. I’m talking to you, whoreson.’
The man walked ahead of his men. His expression showed nothing but annoyance as he stalked forward until he stood half a dozen paces in front of Jack.
‘You led us a merry goddam dance there.’ He turned his head and spat, as if to admit as such soured his gullet.
Jack said nothing. He glanced across at Rose, who stood to his left. She pressed against him, the closeness the only indication of her fear.
‘But we got you all the same. Ain’t no way you could get away from me and my boys.’
Jack ignored the gloating. He kept his eyes moving, watching the Confederate soldiers. There were at least a dozen, perhaps more, and they had spread into a wide chain, the flanks of the line pressed forward so that Jack and Rose were close to being encircled. He saw no way through. No way out. No escape.
‘Ain’t no way you’re getting away.’ The Confederate officer followed the movement of Jack’s eyes and barked a short laugh laced with scorn. ‘Ain’t no escaping what we got planned for you.’ He laughed again, his head rocking back and forth.
Jack stopped his search for a way out and stared back at the man facing him. The white-haired Confederate officer was older than he had first thought, his face lined and weathered. He was tall and lean, but it was not his frame that interested Jack most. It was his eyes. They were of such a dark brown that there was no knowing were the pupil ended and the iris began. Despite their darkness, some force lit them from within so that they glinted as they stared balefully back at Jack.
‘You want to fuck me, whoreson? The last person who looked at me like that ended up on her back five minutes later screaming for all she was worth.’ The Confederate officer barked his short laugh once again.
Jack ignored the filth and turned his head so that he looked at Rose. It was deliberately done, his rejection of the man’s question absolute.
‘Just run.’ He whispered the words. They were for Rose alone.
For a moment she stared back at him, not understanding what it was he was saying. He held her gaze until he saw comprehension dawn in her eyes. Her throat moved as she swallowed down her fear. He could only wonder at her courage and admire her for it.
He summoned a thin smile of his own, then carefully eased Rose away from his side, giving himself room. Only then did he turn back to face the tall Confederate officer. He could taste the madness, feel it moving deep inside him. He welcomed it, even closing his eyes for a moment as he savoured the sensation. It would soon be time to let it have its head.
He opened his eyes. He was no fool. He knew what was surely about to happen. After all, he had witnessed the fate of the Union soldiers captured by these men. He knew them to be killers, quite without mercy. He understood that he would die here, in this forgotten wood far from his homeland. It would be a meaningless death. It would not happen in a grand battle, his life one of thousands spent to achieve some grand aim. It would arrive in a tawdry, insignificant fashion, his passing likely to be forgotten even by the men who would bring it about.
The fact did not bother him. He had always known death would come. He had stared at the great piles of bodies after Solferino and been convinced that one day it would be his twisted corpse that would be gazed on with horror by some unknown passer-by. There was no regret, no sadness that this was to be his fate. There was only the shame at not having led Rose to safety. He would go to his death thinking only of what more he could have done to save her life.
The Confederate officer had been watching him closely. There was no expression on his face; just the stony, deadpan look of a man waiting with growing impatience.
‘You done fucking around now?’ The question was delivered with a sneer.
Jack said nothing. He would not accept his fate meekly, not when there was still breath in his body. He summoned the fury that he would need if he were to try to fight a way free.
‘Are you dumb, is that it?’ The man stepped forward, coming closer. ‘You going to say something back to me, whoreson, or will that only come when I string up that bitch of yours?’
Jack bit back the words that sprang to his tongue. He concentrated on one thing and one thing alone.
‘You got yourself a fine piece there. Oh yes, I can see that. You want to watch as she kicks her heels one last time?’
Still Jack said nothing. He focused everything on his right hand,
which was creeping closer to the revolver on his hip. He moved it slowly, hiding the action as best he could.
‘How about you, missy? You going to speak to me seeing as that dumb fucker ain’t saying a goddam thing?’ The Confederate officer turned his gaze to Rose. ‘Where you from?’
Rose lifted her chin. ‘I’m from Boston, sir. I’m a free woman.’ She sensed that Jack needed her to distract the Confederate.
‘Free woman!’ The officer spat the words out. ‘I see the mark of the whip on you, so I reckon I know just what the hell you are, and you ain’t no free woman. Did this whoreson rescue you? Did he promise you your freedom if you tickled that little prick of his?’
‘I work for Mr Samuel Kearney of Beacon Hill, Boston.’ Rose ignored the Confederate officer’s vile invective, but her voice wavered.
‘Well, you’re a long way from fucking Boston now, missy,’ the Confederate’s face twisted as he leered at Rose, ‘and I don’t give a fuck who you say you are. You know what happens to dumb-ass bitches like you? Dumb-ass slave bitches who run?’ He gave Rose a look of complete disgust before he glanced at Jack. ‘I reckon we’re done talking here, don’t you?’
Jack said nothing. His hand was in place. He just had to wait for his moment.
The man who would decide their fate turned his back on them.
‘Hey!’ Jack spoke for the first time. It felt good to say something, to take control.
‘You finally found your tongue, whoreson?’ The Confederate turned back, a sly sneer creeping across his face.
‘What’s your name?’ Jack did not dwell on the number of guns pointing at him. He did not think of what would happen the moment he put his idiotic plan into motion. He just concentrated his attention on the man standing in front of him. The man he would kill.
‘You’re English.’ For the first time the sneer was replaced by another expression on the Confederate’s face.
‘And you’re a dead man walking.’
This time the laughter was louder. The Confederate officer’s head rocked back and forth as he guffawed at Jack’s belligerence. It stopped abruptly. ‘My name is Major Nathan Lyle. Mark it well. It’s the name you’ll take with you to your fucking grave.’
Lyle turned his back on his two captives. ‘Tie that fucker up, boys. Then string up the lying bitch. Whoreson here can watch her die before I put a bullet between his eyes.’
‘Lyle!’ Jack called the Confederate back.
The man stopped and turned, his hands resting on his hips.
‘Fuck you.’
Jack said the words quietly, as if remarking on something as ordinary as the weather.
Then he drew his revolver.
Jack fired an instant after having snatched the revolver from its holster. He was quick, the weapon drawn and shot in the blink of an eye. But Lyle was quicker.
Maybe he had spotted in Jack’s eyes something of what he planned. Perhaps he just saw the movement of the weapon as Jack brought it up. Whatever it was, he threw himself to one side the moment the revolver fired.
The bullet hit him as he dived, tearing into the flesh above his hip with enough force to spin him around. Blood flew, bright against the greenery of the foliage, then he hit the ground with all the grace of a sack of horseshit.
‘Run!’ Jack shouted at Rose, then fired again. He did not aim; he just fired and then fired once more, his only thought to create confusion with a storm of violence.
The men surrounding them reacted instantly. A few dived for cover, just as Jack had hoped. Yet enough stayed on their feet, their carbines aimed at the foolish Union officer who clearly wanted to die.
There was time for Jack to see Rose dart away, running at a gap in the line of men surrounding them, her instincts showing her the way to go. Then the first bullet hit him.
It caught him in the thigh, the impact like a mule kick. The pain came immediately, fierce and hot. Still he fired, emptying the final chambers of his revolver even as he started to fall.
He heard a man scream, at least one of his bullets striking home. A second bullet seared across his scalp, the fast-moving projectile parting his flesh like a surgeon’s cutting knife. He felt blood begin to run as other bullets zipped past him, the air punched repeatedly as Lyle’s men returned fire.
He tossed the empty revolver away and turned to look for Rose. He caught a glimpse of her as she darted away into the woods. Already he saw men chasing after her, but he had given her a chance. It was enough.
‘Shoot him down!’
Jack twisted back around as he heard Lyle shout the command. The Confederate officer was scrabbling on the ground, one hand clasped to the rent in his side. Blood flowed freely from the wound, covering his hand and running down the side of his leg. Yet it did not look to be fatal, and already Lyle was pulling himself to his feet, his hand moving for the heavy revolver on his hip.
His men obeyed. Those still with loaded carbines blasted away at the lone figure in the blue uniform of the Union. Jack had no idea how many times he was hit. The pain came in one great wave, every fibre of his being screaming out as it lanced through him. He hit the ground hard.
The shooting stopped the moment he went down.
His vision greyed as he lay there, yet he refused to give in. Even with the agony cutting through him, he moved, forcing his body to obey. Somehow he rolled onto his side. He pulled at his sword, but his hands were covered in blood and they slipped from its hilt. He tried again. This time he drew the blade, the steel rasping out of its scabbard.
He cried out then. He could not help it. The pain was beating him.
He forced himself to his knees, the effort taking everything he had. His head lifted. He saw Lyle standing over him. The Confederate officer’s face was twisted, lips pulled tight and teeth bared so that he looked more like an animal than a man.
Lyle lashed out with his boot. Jack saw it coming, but his reactions were buried beneath the mountain of agony and he could do nothing to prevent his sword from being kicked from his hand. The impact threw him down, his body unable to hold him up a moment longer.
Yet he would not lie in the dirt. Acting on little more than animal instinct, he crawled forward, his mind already failing as the agony won the battle for his soul. He heard Lyle’s laughter then, the scorn washing over him as he moved one inch at a time, leaving a snail-like trail behind him, the blood that poured from him marking his path.
He could hear the sounds of weapons being loaded, the familiar noise of ramrods grating on barrels as fresh cartridges were rammed home. He knew what was to come, yet he could think of nothing else to do, so he continued to crawl, head bowed and sobs coming from him without pause.
The Confederates hooted at him, laughing and goading him like a crowd at a dog fight urging a bleeding bitch to one last effort. He let it wash over him as a single thought crystallised in his mind. Rose was running. Rose was safe.
‘That’s enough.’ Lyle’s voice cut through the storm of noise. ‘Finish him.’
The laughter stopped. The men were nothing if not obedient.
Jack heard the sudden silence. He stopped, his strength failing him at last. His head hung, yet he did not fall, a final moment’s defiance keeping him from lying in the dirt.
He focused everything he had left on the thought that was repeating itself over and over in his mind. He had given Rose a chance. She was running. She was still free. Then everything stopped, and there was nothing more.
Jack came out of the darkness. He cried out like a baby torn from its mother’s embrace, willing the dark to take him back. Then the pain came.
It took him completely. It left no room for anything else.
He knew nothing.
He remembered nothing.
He existed only in the white-hot horror of the agony. There he stayed, his world reduced to this one torment, this living hell.
The pain faded. White became grey. Somehow he forced an eye to open. He saw nothing more than shadows. He blinked, forcing his bod
y to obey. His sight returned. Shapes formed out of the murk. Men moved around him, boots and ankles close to his head. He fought then, forcing away the torture that pierced his soul, desperate in the face of a single thought that clawed its way free from the searing pain: Rose.
Then he saw her.
Lyle dragged her past him. He heard her cry out in fear, a sound he had never heard before. He saw her fight. She kicked out, struggling with every ounce of her strength. Yet she was powerless, Lyle simply too strong.
Jack tried to turn his head to follow her progress, but his body refused to obey. As he lay there, a wave of sickening despair washed through him. He had failed, completely and utterly.
Shouts and hoots of triumph echoed around him as Lyle’s men brayed at their victory. He could make out their threats; the disgusting, vile promises of what would be done to the slave girl before she was killed. His fear and grief were echoed in the deep, guttural roars of men become beasts.
The noise subsided. He closed his eyes, shutting off his view of the world. He gave in and willed the blackness to take him. He had nothing left.
He saw faces then, his mind conjuring the images as a final torment. Rose came first, her teasing smile haunting him for a fleeting second. Then the others; the faces of the dead. Molly, the first woman he had loved, whose death had set him on his path. Tommy Smith, a redcoat who had helped him in his charade; Captain Sloames, the man whose name and life he had taken for his own. Then came Fenris and Fetherstone, two men he had come to know and despise before he had killed them. More followed. The dead crowded into his mind, jostling and pushing for the right to be seen. Knightly and Nicolson, Kearney and Rowell. Men he had come to like and admire. Men he had watched die. Finally came the faces of the others, the nameless ones. Men he had never known, but whom he had cut down in the heat of battle. They taunted him then, this army of the dead, beckoning for him to join them.
THE REBEL KILLER Page 5
