‘You’d be surprised.’ Jack’s defiant reply lost its power when he was forced to stifle another bout of coughing. He thought about the guard he had throttled. Samuel was underestimating him.
‘This is your last chance, Jack. The horse is waiting for you, but I can take it back as easy as I brought it here. You can still turn from this path.’
‘No.’ Jack wheezed as he tried to speak. He would not submit so meekly. ‘I cannot go back.’ He paused and met Samuel’s steady gaze. ‘I killed one of them.’
Samuel greeted the news with a wide smile. ‘Which one?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘The weasel-looking one, or the one with the pox scars?’
‘The weasel.’ Jack made the identification as best he could.
‘Then you really are doing the Lord’s work, for he was an evil son of a bitch and we are well rid of his blackened soul.’ Samuel’s expression turned grave. ‘They’ll chase you for it, send men out in every direction until they find you. They won’t let you ride away. Not if you killed one of their own.’
‘So be it.’
‘You think you’ve got enough strength to outride them?’
‘Maybe.’
Samuel chuckled. ‘I reckon you might make it. So go. And don’t get caught. I don’t ever want to see you again, you hear me?’
Jack nodded. ‘Thank you, Samuel. I owe you.’
‘You owe me nothing.’ Samuel reached out and clasped Jack’s shoulder. ‘One day you’ll have to stop running, Jack Lark. One day you’ll have to stop all this and be something else. Something better. Something good.’
‘But not yet.’ Jack sucked down a breath and forced a grim smile onto his face. Then he lifted the heavy arm from his shoulder and began to follow the alleyway to its end.
‘Alarm! Alarm!’
Jack had no sooner hauled himself into the saddle than the cry went up. He had no notion of what had given him away and there was no time to ponder on it. He could only assume that the dead guard had been discovered, and now the chase was on.
He raked back his heels, kicking into motion the chestnut mare that Samuel had saddled and bridled. The animal tossed its head, fighting his unfamiliar control, and forcing him to pull hard on the reins until it did as he commanded. He gave no thought to direction and just rode, letting the animal build up speed as it powered past the clapboard houses lining the main street of the small town.
Shouts followed him. Angry voices bellowed orders as the Confederate soldiers awoke to the confusion of a prisoner making a break for freedom. Jack paid them no heed and bent low over the saddle, willing his stolen horse to gallop faster. The sound of its hooves drumming on the ground drowned out the orders to begin a pursuit, the noise settling into a regular, mesmerising rhythm.
Within the span of a few minutes they were on the outskirts of town. Jack had no real notion of where he was, so he rode west as Samuel had suggested. The mare picked up speed as it hit the smoother going of the turnpike, but Jack still kicked back his heels, forcing the animal to even greater effort. Every second counted now. The Confederates would not let him go so easily.
Forcing his body to stay in the saddle, he clattered through the first mile even as his head pounded, his skin burned and his tongue tasted metal. It took all his strength just to cling on as the horse pounded along. But it would be a long time until he could rest, and so the fever, the pain and the exhaustion would have to be ignored.
Thanks to Samuel, he had a head start. It was not much of one, but he would just have to hope that it would be enough.
Jack spotted his pursuers shortly after sunrise. He was on high ground when he saw them. The turnpike twisted this way and that as it climbed the hillside. As he rode one turn, he caught sight of the small group of riders pushing their horses hard as they chased after him.
He rode on, not once glancing behind him. He knew he could not outrun the chase, not in the condition he was in. He faced a simple decision. He could try to continue until his body failed and he fell from the saddle, or he could make a stand.
He delayed the inevitable and pushed on. Yet he knew that the fever would surely take him before the day was out. He could not afford to waste what little strength he had left in a futile attempt to flee. If he did, and his pursuers caught him, as they surely would, he would be spent. He would no longer be able to fight.
It made the decision to stop and make some sort of stand an easy one, even though he had no weapon save for the bowie knife Samuel had given him. But there was something else; a thought that had formed the moment he had seen the dust cloud on his trail. Even as he went through the thought process of what to do for the best, he knew what he would decide; had known it from the minute he left Gainesville.
He wanted to fight. He wanted the confrontation.
He needed the chance to kill.
He spurred his horse on. Samuel had picked well and Jack forced the pace, the anticipation of what was to come lending him strength. He galloped for what he guessed was two or three miles more before he found what he had been looking for.
The farmhouse was abandoned. He had seen a couple of others like it from the turnpike. He could only suppose that the men who had toiled in its fields had gone to join the war and that the lack of manpower in the local area meant that such farmsteads were left untended. Whatever the reason, he turned his horse’s head, curbing its speed and letting it pick its way off the raised turnpike and down the sloping ground that led to the farm.
It was a simple enough building. The lower level was wrapped in a veranda that was overlooked by the dormer windows of the upper storey. It had once been painted white, but now the weatherboarding was grey and dulled with age.
Jack approached it, his mind already planning what was to come. He made no effort to hide his trail, simply riding through the grassy field that surrounded the house before dismounting in the dusty bare earth near the front door.
His knees nearly buckled as he hit the ground. For a moment, all he could do was lean his head against the saddle, hoping his legs would hold him upright and that his head would stop swimming. The weakness passed and some vestige of strength returned to his limbs.
It did not take him long to remove his horse’s saddle and bridle, but it needed all of his strength to haul them to the veranda, where he dumped them unceremoniously in a heap before hitching his mount to the rail. The animal needed to be brushed down and then watered before being fed, but all of that would have to be done by whoever survived the fight that was to come.
The door was bolted shut. He did not have the strength to kick it down, so he followed the veranda, his boots loud on the wooden deck. He tested the windows as he moved. He had learned much on the streets of Whitechapel and was familiar with the art of burglary. He was no Jack Sheppard, but his knowledge of the pannie had secured him funds when he had needed them most.
He found what he was looking for on the side of the house furthest from the road. The window was loose in its frame and it took no time at all to jemmy it open with the bowie knife. He took his time clambering through.
There was little of note inside. The downstairs consisted of a single great room. A large wooden fireplace dominated one flank and a stove stood in a corner, a forgotten coffee pot still on its top. The place smelled of dust and old woodsmoke.
Jack crossed the room slowly. He moved gingerly, feeling the ache deep in his bones. He did not choose a path, but instead prowled around randomly, scuffing his boots so as to disturb the dirt on the floor. He kept at it, going back and forth until there was no discernible pattern to the marks he had made on the dusty floorboards. As he walked, he found another room tucked into one corner. It was not much, just a store for possessions or produce, but he made sure to open its door a few times, then left it ajar. He wanted to make sure that the men, when they came, would see it. He wanted them searching for the threat, their attention diverted by many possible hiding places.
The stairs creaked as he went up
them, the house protesting at the interloper who thumped his way upstairs. His tired, slow tread was loud in the silence of the empty building. He made sure to kick his boots around as he went up like a toddler, one step at a time. He needed to make sure that he left multiple sets of footprints in the layer of dust, obscuring his trail so that even the keenest eye would not know if he remained upstairs. His aim was to plant seeds of doubt in the minds of the men who would come seeking his death.
The landing, such as it was, ran for no more than five yards. There were three doors, all shut. He chose the middle one.
It groaned as he opened it. The room was empty save for a single iron bedstead. He dumped his knapsack and the satchel that Samuel had given him on the floor, then took up position behind the door, which he closed. It clicked shut and then there was silence.
There was nothing more to be done. There was not much to his plan. The men chasing him would see where he had stopped. They were certain to search the abandoned farmhouse.
His only advantage lay in surprise. He was sure that his pursuers would be careful and that their advance would be cautious. If he were armed, it would be dangerous for them. If he had a rifle, he might lay an ambush and shoot one or more of them down before they even reached the building. But he had nothing more dangerous than his bowie knife, so he would have to wait, biding his time and hoping that he would be lucky, and that they would split up to search the farmhouse. One man, or perhaps two, would be sent upstairs to check the upper rooms. He would take down the first man to enter the room he had chosen. His plan did not go further than that.
He waited. The house was utterly silent save for the rasp of his own breathing. The exhaustion held him tight and he leaned back against the wood of the wall, letting it support him. He could feel the heat of his skin beneath the sheen of sweat. His head felt ridiculously heavy and it was all he could do to hold it up. He leant it back, resting it against the wall.
His eyes closed and he stood in silence. He let his breathing slow, keeping it shallow so as not to stress his tortured lungs. And he waited.
Jack came around with a start. There were voices outside, loud enough to have woken him. He had not meant to sleep, but his strength was failing and his body had betrayed him. But now the wait was over and he forced his aching limbs to move as he braced himself for what was to come.
He drew the bowie knife from its sheath and listened. The men sent after him were still outside. They were noisy, their voices full of confidence. They did not care if he waited for them. They did not fear a single half-broken Yankee.
He could feel sweat on his palm as he clenched and unclenched his fingers. The bowie knife was ridiculously light, a pathetic weapon against men surely armed with muzzle-loading rifle carbines and revolvers. Yet it was all he had. It would have to suffice.
Thumps came from the lower level as heavy boots hammered against the solid timbers of the locked door. It opened with a crash and his pursuers rushed in. Jack could picture their movements, conjuring the scene from the noises that reached his hiding place. The men sent after him came in fast, with no subtlety in their approach. There was no need for it. They were in pursuit of a single sick man. That knowledge made them complacent.
He listened to them as they searched the ground floor. Their confident voices called to one another and he heard a peal of laughter. Boots thudded on the stairs. More than one man was coming to search the upper floor. He could not discern if there were more than two.
‘Check the front room.’
The voice came clearly. It was overly loud, the sound dominating the empty spaces. Jack tensed, holding himself ready.
He heard footsteps on the wooden floorboards of the small landing. A door creaked as a room was checked.
‘Nothing here.’
Then the door to the room where he waited opened a fraction of an inch.
‘He’s not here. We’re wasting our goddam time.’
The second voice was close enough to make him flinch. The door opened fully. There was a single step, a moment’s scrutiny, time for Jack to see a shadow cast into the room. Then he struck.
He whirled around the opened door, every ounce of strength driving the knife hard and fast. The man in the doorway held a carbine, but he could do nothing to defend himself. His eyes opened in shock, then the blade took him in the throat.
It was a wicked blow, cruel and precise. Jack drove the knife deep, ripping through gristle and bone with such force that the tip erupted from the back of the man’s neck. His left hand rose as soon as the blade was driven home, grabbing the front of the man’s jacket, tugging him forward then twisting him around so that when he fell he would land on his back.
The weight came as a shock. Jack’s left arm buckled as he tried to spin the man around. He could not hold his grip and the man fell away, tumbling to the floor face down. The knife was ripped from Jack’s hand, the blade trapped deep in his victim’s throat.
‘What the devil?’
The confused shout came from the small landing. Jack paid it no heed. He bent low, his hands moving frantically to free the carbine from beneath the dying man’s chest.
Boots pounded along the landing. Jack pulled the weapon free at the same moment as a second man filled the doorway.
‘Jesus Christ!’
As the new arrival took in the bloody scene, Jack aimed the carbine. His finger curled around the trigger, the action instinctive, and he fired as soon as the end of the barrel covered the face of the man now staring into the room in shock.
The bullet took the man in the mouth. At such close range it ripped through his flesh, a bright spray of blood marking its passage before it buried itself deep in the wall above the stairs.
The man tried to cry out, but his mouth filled with blood. He fell to his knees, hands scrabbling frantically at the ruin of his face. Gore smothered his fingers, shards of bone and tooth caught in the flood. He stared at Jack, eyes bright with terror.
Jack met his stare, then reversed the carbine and slammed the butt forward, smashing it into the centre of the man’s face and bludgeoning him to the ground.
‘What the hell is happening up there?’
The question was bellowed from the lower floor. Jack paid it no heed. He dropped the carbine, then pulled a matching weapon from the hands of his second victim. He cared nothing for the men he had attacked. The one shot in the mouth lay face down, his ruined features hidden from sight, the blow from the carbine’s butt either killing him outright or rendering him unconscious. The one with the knife buried in his throat was squeaking like a hungry piglet, the noise made obscene by the gurgle of blood.
Jack ignored the sickening sounds and squatted down, the unfamiliar carbine held ready to fire.
Two men had been sent upstairs to find him. Two men were now lying in pools of their own blood. That left whoever was downstairs.
Jack hid in the shadows and waited for their next move.
‘What the hell is going on up there?’ the voice from downstairs repeated.
‘They’re dead. Both of them,’ Jack barked back. He had not made a conscious decision to reply, but the words came anyway.
‘Shit.’ There was a pause. ‘Is that you, Lark?’
Jack tried to place the voice. It was familiar.
‘Who else would it be?’ He fired back the sarcastic reply, then inched forward, keeping low, until he was in a position to cover the stairwell. He forced his breathing to slow, saving his strength. His chest was tight and he could feel the phlegm rattling deep in his lungs.
‘Did you kill both my boys, Lark?’
Jack glanced at the two bodies, one silent, the other choking softly to death. ‘I don’t think they’re both dead yet. You want to come up and check?’
He coughed as soon as he finished speaking. It hurt, and he felt something shift in his chest. A thick wedge of phlegm gurgled in his throat, so he coughed again and then again, freeing it and spitting it to one side.
‘You’re a sick
man, Lark. I reckon we can just sit down here and wait you out.’
Jack had no breath for a reply. His world was shrinking around him. Sounds were harder to pick up, whilst the light was duller than before. Even remaining still was difficult. His body was shutting down. Soon he would be able to do nothing.
‘You still there, Lark?’ The voice came again. It was followed by the scuffle of movement.
Jack blinked away the mist that covered his eyes, fighting to stay alert. The carbine felt extraordinarily heavy and he let it rest on his knees. He could just about make out voices murmuring from the floor below. They would be plotting his death now, their plan sure to be put into action in the coming minutes.
‘You want to give up, Lark? Save us the bother of killing you?’
The voice was hectoring and loud enough to cut through the pounding in his head. Finally he realised who it was: Pinter, the officer who had been so pleased to discover that Jack had refused his parole. The identification sent a frisson of something akin to pleasure surging through Jack’s abused body. Pinter was one of Lyle’s men. One of the murderers he had vowed to kill. The knowledge lent strength to his failing flesh and he stood up, the carbine held ready.
‘What say you, Lark?’ Pinter called up again. ‘We can end this easy, or we can end it hard. You want to choose which one of those it is?’
Jack braced himself. He understood Pinter’s game. The questions were a distraction, nothing more. There would be no easy finish.
He raised the carbine, aiming it at the stairs. He was ready. Then Pinter opened fire and all hell was let loose.
The storm of bullets came without pause. They smashed violently into the walls of the landing, one after the other, humming and zipping through the air. Jack could not help flinching away as shot after shot ripped into the walls around him.
The sound of boots scuffing on wooden floors underscored the tempest, the impact of every footfall loud and heavy as another of Pinter’s men stormed up the stairs behind the covering fire. Jack moved, thinking to fire back, but a bullet ripped into the door frame near his head, showering him with splinters and forcing him back.
THE REBEL KILLER Page 9
