THE REBEL KILLER

by Paul Fraser Collard

  Martha’s scowl deepened. ‘I look stupid. No one will think I look like a man.’

  ‘Who said anything about a man?’ Jack could not resist teasing her. ‘But when we get you the right clothes, you’ll look like a scrawny little shite well enough.’ He laughed then, the sound coming easily.

  ‘What will my John say when we find him?’

  ‘I imagine he’ll be so pleased to see you that he’ll not even notice your damn hair.’ Jack bit his tongue and said nothing more. He had been about to say that Martha’s husband would likely be too busy getting her into bed to worry about the state of her. Martha was no great beauty, not like some women he had known. But she was attractive. He was not sure if it was her competent, ordered manner that was appealing, or if there was something in her lean, work-hardened body. But he would not remark on it, or make a coarse comment. He knew she would not approve if he did.

  ‘I still don’t see why I couldn’t just hide it.’

  ‘Because that would be a risk.’ Jack repeated the conversation they had had before. ‘This journey isn’t safe, especially not for you. There’ll be more men like those back at your cabin; hell, even those damn soldiers were lusting after you as soon as they clapped eyes on you.’

  ‘Lordy! Lusting!’ Martha gave a shocked laugh at the idea. ‘Ain’t been no one lusted after me ever.’

  Jack saw the flush of crimson on her cheeks as she used a word she had likely never said before. ‘There’s no accounting for taste.’ He chuckled as he saw the flush spread. She looked younger with the colour on her cheeks. ‘Some blokes like their bints skinny.’

  Martha laughed harder this time. ‘Jack Lark, you say the most terrible things.’ She stopped, and looked at him with a more serious expression on her face. ‘But I still don’t know why you think chopping my hair off and sticking me in a pair of long pants will make anyone believe I’m a man.’

  ‘It will work.’ Jack was pulling on his horse’s reins the moment its head dropped, the action instinctive. ‘I know how it’s done.’

  ‘You pretended to be a woman?’ Martha’s eyebrows lifted.

  ‘No, not yet anyways.’ Jack could not help grinning at the notion. ‘But I’ve pretended to be someone else half my damn life. It’s all about confidence. If you don’t doubt yourself, then no one else will. Believe you are what you are pretending to be and you’ll be fine. Besides, I’ve known men with less muscle on them than you. Folk will take one look at us and see an officer and his orderly. With you dressed as a woman it would be different. They’d likely see me as a threat and you . . . well, you’d be something they’d want.’

  ‘You have a low opinion of people.’ Martha was no longer smiling.

  ‘Maybe. But it’s what I’ve seen. Men like the ones back at your cabin, men who have been in battle, and especially those who’ve run, they’ve turned their backs on who they were. They’ve seen and done things that came straight from hell. That means they’re capable of anything.’ Jack looked away, unable to meet her gaze.

  ‘You need to be more careful, Jack.’ Martha called for his attention.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Sounds like you’re starting to care ’bout me.’

  ‘Shit.’ Jack looked at her and saw she was smiling. ‘Shit.’ He repeated the single word, then kicked his heels and forced his horse back into motion.

  For Martha was quite correct. His simple hunt for revenge was getting complicated. And in his experience, complications increased the risk of something going wrong. He had the dreadful feeling that one day he would be forced to choose between Martha and his mission. Before, that decision would have been an easy one and he would have dropped Martha no matter the circumstances. That was no longer the case. He had not meant for it to happen, yet somehow he had let her fate become intertwined with his. He could no longer cut and run. To his dismay, he realised that he was stuck with her.

  Jack did his best to put his misgivings aside as they rode into the small town that straddled the turnpike. Thus far they had avoided populated areas, buying supplies along the way from the farmsteads that dotted the countryside. Yet they needed more things than they could get from a farmer, and so they had to risk venturing into a town.

  A fine grey rain had begun at dawn and showed no sign of stopping. It did little to improve the look of the place, which appeared to huddle down in the mist and the murk. He had no idea what it was called. He did know that it was not much to look at. The turnpike ploughed a straight line through the centre. It was lined with split-rail fencing and a collection of no more than a dozen mismatched buildings. A few boasted porches, or signs that proclaimed their type of business, but most were anonymous, their purpose known only to the people who lived there. However, he was pleased to spot a livery for the horses, and there was also a small general store. He had a long list of items he wanted to purchase, and the horses needed some good-quality forage to prepare them for the journey ahead. It would mean spending more of the little money he and Martha had between them, but the idea did not trouble him. He would just have to find them some more.

  ‘I’ve got two spare rooms, sir, but those are the last two I have, and I ain’t got no choice but to ask you to pay a little over the full rate if you want them both.’

  Jack stared back at the man who ran the only hotel in the small town. He was short and almost perfectly round, with beady little eyes that were never still. There was not a hair on his head, but he still managed to maintain a thin, pointed goatee beard that he had dyed an incongruous shade of red. At least he was dressed well, in a long black frock coat with matching trousers and waistcoat, but any elegant effect was ruined by half a dozen obvious stains and a thick wedge of padding that played peek-a-boo through a tear in the seam at the jacket’s right shoulder.

  ‘We’ll take them.’ Jack did not look back at Martha for permission.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The hotelier turned quickly, then stood on tiptoe so that he could pull two keys from the uppermost level of a rack attached to the wall behind him. ‘You’ll find them at the top of the stairs on the right. We serve dinner in the dining hall from six till eight. Breakfast in the morning too. I got some fresh bacon in just last Tuesday.’ He handed over the pair of heavy iron keys with a sickly smile.

  Jack did his best not to snort at the hotel manager’s choice of the word ‘fresh’ for meat over a week old. He had seen the dining hall on the way in and had read the prices on the large chalkboard perched on top of the mantelpiece. They were steep, even for a place with few choices.

  The hotelier had finished speaking and now stood looking at Jack, wringing his hands. ‘Is there anything I can supply you with, sir?’ His eyes darted to Martha, who had hung back and kept out of the conversation. ‘Perhaps your,’ he paused and scowled as he tried to find a word to describe her, ‘companion . . . um, servant . . . perhaps one of you would like a bath?’

  Jack stared back at the manager, his expression unaltered. ‘Yes, we would.’

  ‘Very well, sir, I’ll have my man get to it right away. He’ll be with you toot-de-sweet as them Frenchies say.’ The fat little man nodded vigorously in response to Jack’s agreement, the motion setting his many chins in motion.

  Jack nodded but did not offer thanks. He found the hotelier’s ingratiating tone irksome.

  ‘Is there anything else—’

  ‘No.’ Jack cut the man off. ‘That’s all for now. Have the bath brought up. Make sure the water is hot.’

  ‘Yes, sir, my man will be on that directly.’ The hotelier bobbed up and down, as if offering one tiny bow after another.

  Jack turned and handed one of the keys to Martha, then picked up the jumbled heap of saddlebags he had dumped on the floor.

  ‘You can’t keep me in here.’

  ‘Yes, I can.’

  ‘You ain’t my husband, Jack. You don’t get to tell me what to do.’

  Jack sucked in a breath, holding onto his temper only with great difficulty. Not for the first time, h
e wished for the more subservient Martha who did as she was told. Her father’s death had changed her. Jack did not know if that had been for the better.

  The two of them were in her room. It was not much to look at. The walls were made of panelled wood and the floorboards were scuffed and stained from long use. The only furnishing was an iron bedstead with bedding that looked like it was from the previous century, and a battered pine trunk under the window.

  The bath had been duly delivered, although it had taken the best part of half an hour for the decrepit servant to fill it with hot water. Jack had let Martha have it first, spending his time kicking his heels in his own room until she had finished and come to fetch him. She had waited in his room whilst he bathed, though by the time he had got in, the water was barely tepid.

  Still, it felt good to be clean and in fresh clothes, though whatever pleasure he had felt was disappearing quickly as Martha refused to obey his instruction to stay in the room whilst he went out.

  ‘Jesus wept,’ he hissed through gritted teeth. ‘You think this place is safe? We don’t even know where we are, for God’s sake. It’s safer for you to stay here whilst I take a look around.’

  ‘Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain, and don’t you shout at me.’ Martha stood near the room’s single window, her hands on her hips. She was dressed in her husband’s trousers and a grey plaid shirt, clothes she had lent Jack but which he had given her back.

  ‘You think you can go out looking like that.’ Jack waved a hand in her direction. ‘You look ridiculous.’

  ‘And whose fault is that!’ Martha coloured at the jibe. She plucked at the shirt, which was massive on her thin frame. ‘This is your idea, or had you forgotten?’

  ‘You need to stay here. I’ll get you some smaller clothes. Then you’ll be able to come and go as you damn well please.’

  ‘And where are you going to get those clothes, Jack? I didn’t see no place selling outfits, did you? And we ain’t got a dime left even if there were.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about that.’

  ‘Don’t patronise me.’

  ‘Then don’t ask bloody stupid questions.’

  ‘Don’t take that tone with me, Jack Lark.’

  ‘Then don’t bleat on like a bloody sheep. Jesus Christ.’ Jack winced and ground his teeth in frustration as he waited for the inevitable rebuke.

  ‘Do not take the Lord’s name in vain.’

  ‘All right.’ Jack lifted his hands as if to ward her away, even though she had yet to take a single step in his direction. ‘I get it. You don’t want me to tell you what to do. Fine. I won’t. But for the love of God, think about it. We don’t know this place. We don’t know if we’re safe, or if even now some bastards are planning to steal everything we have. I’m just saying we should be cautious.’

  ‘So I stay here whilst you go out and drink our last few cents away. I know what you menfolk are like. One sip of whiskey and your brains fly out of your head. Then you’re as wild as a bobcat and woe betide any woman that dares stand in your way.’

  ‘I’m not like that. I’m not about to get corned. Stay here, stay safe, and I’ll sort out some clothes and try to find out just where the hell we are, and where we should be going. Is that all right with you?’

  Martha still glared back at him. But his words had made some sort of sense and finally she nodded. ‘All right. You go. But I tell you this. You come back drunk, and so help me you’ll wake up missing something you kind of like, you hear me?’

  Jack did not doubt she was more than capable of making good on the threat. ‘Yes, ma’am, I hear you.’

  He had won the battle of wits. Now it was time for him to find what they needed.

  ‘This way, sir, it’s not far now.’

  Jack did his best not to grimace. The hotel manager had insisted on escorting him to a tavern further down the turnpike. The little man, eager to please, fluttered around him like a hungry pigeon hoping for crumbs. He had also maintained a running commentary that had begun to grate after the first dozen paces.

  ‘I know the owner. It’ll be my pleasure to introduce you.’

  Jack strode on, the little man half running to keep up. When Jack had asked where he could get a drink, the manager had produced a battered black top hat, the offer of an escort made before he could refuse it. The hat was several sizes too large, and the man had to hold it in place lest it fall to smother his face.

  For his part, Jack had dressed in Pinter’s uniform. The jacked fitted passably well, and he had done his best to scrape away the marks of old blood and repair the rents in the fabric. He knew he still appeared rather unkempt, but at least the uniform made the revolver on his hip look less out of place than it would have done had he been in civilian attire.

  Jack moved around a deep pool of water that had formed in a rut in the turnpike, nearly knocking the hotel manager from his feet in the process.

  ‘I beg your pardon.’ The apology for the contact was instant, even though it had been Jack’s fault. ‘Now, here we are, sir.’ The hotelier plucked at Jack’s sleeve and turned him towards a single-storey building. ‘The Beehive Tavern. The finest establishment in the entire county.’

  Calling the place a tavern would have taken a leap of faith Jack did not have. The building did not boast a sign, and there was little indication of life behind the shuttered windows. For a moment he thought he was being played false, and that he was in the midst of a bait and hook, but then the door opened and he caught a glimpse of a bar running across the far side of the main room.

  ‘Evening, Chester.’ The man leaving the bar nodded a greeting, then belched softly. If he noticed Jack’s presence, he made no note of it and ambled on his way.

  ‘Evening, Bill.’ The hotelier, Chester, hopped from foot to foot at Jack’s side. ‘Why, that’s Billy Brown.’ He spoke quietly to Jack. ‘You know him?’

  ‘No.’ Jack did not bother to hide his frustration at the ridiculous question.

  ‘He’s a friend of mine.’ Chester puffed out his tiny chest. ‘Owns a transportation company. Comes to me for advice on matters of business.’ He spoke in a confiding tone and was careful to pitch his voice low so that the man could not hear him. ‘You have a good night now, Bill. I expect I’ll be seeing you tomorrow.’ His voice was suddenly overly loud as he called after the man.

  Jack could not help noticing that Billy Brown acknowledged the shout with nothing more than a shake of the head.

  ‘Now, sir, before we go in . . .’ Chester, emboldened, reached out and put an arm in front of Jack, as if frightened he would bolt indoors. ‘You signed in at my establishment as Captain Pinter. Is that the name you would like to be known by when I introduce you to my good friend Albert?’

  ‘Yes.’ Jack was losing patience.

  ‘So be it. Some fellas, why they’re right particular ’bout this type of thing. A man can’t be too careful. Now,’ he paused and fixed Jack with a sickly smile, ‘it would sound better if I knew your given name. Then I can make the introduction proper and just like it should be.’

  ‘Jack. My name is Jack.’

  ‘Well, thank you, Captain Jack Pinter it is. Do you mind if I call you Jack?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Chester’s odd smile widened. ‘And you can call me Chester.’ He paused as he only then understood Jack’s answer, and the smile faded.

  Jack shook his head and opened the door, tired of standing in the chill early-evening air. Chester recovered quickly and rushed past so that he still entered first.

  ‘Ah! Here we are then. And here is Albert.’ The hotelier waved towards the bar at the far end of the large room.

  Jack glanced around. There was little to look at inside the Beehive. Benches lined the walls, and there were two large, roughly hewn tables. The bar was made from more of the same wood; behind it were a stack of barrels and a number of deep shelves lined with whiskey bottles and glasses of various sizes. There were just three other customers. Two men sat at one table sharing
a bottle of whiskey, and a third, who wore a grey army uniform, waited patiently outside a door on one side of the room.

  Jack was thousands of miles from his former home, but there was something about the hint of debauchery in the air. The Beehive smelt of raw spirits, ale, sweat and woodsmoke. It was familiar enough to awaken memories he had tried hard to forget.

  ‘Albert!’ Chester strode across the room, his arms stretched wide. ‘How good it is to see you this fine evening. I have brought you a new customer. I have the pleasure of introducing Captain Jack Pinter, who is doing me the honour of residing at my humble hotel. I think you’ll be interested in making his acquaintance.’

  Jack paid the windy and theatrical introduction little attention. Instead he focused on the man he was being introduced to. The owner of the tavern was a heavyset fellow with slicked-down dark hair and a fine pair of mutton-chop whiskers. He was not tall, but he looked powerfully built, with heavily muscled arms that were on display below shirtsleeves that had been rolled almost to the shoulder. Jack would have guessed him to be in his early forties, but the lack of even a single grey strand in either his whiskers or his hair made it possible he was younger. He was dressed in black pinstripe trousers with a bright green and blue paisley waistcoat over a white shirt and a thick gold watch chain stretched across his belly. He looked thoroughly unimpressed with the jester at Jack’s side.

  ‘Jack.’ Chester gave an awkward half-bow as he ignored Jack’s refusal to allow the use of his given name. ‘May I present my good friend Albert Lawrence, the owner of the Beehive Tavern.’

  Jack nodded a greeting to the man behind the slab of wood.

  ‘What’ll it be?’