THE REBEL KILLER

by Paul Fraser Collard

  Jack urged his mare on, aiming for the snarling, bleeding huddle ahead of him. He spotted Lyle. The Confederate officer was still whole, and was flailing with his sword, his teeth bared in an animal snarl of anger.

  A Union soldier saw Jack coming. Pale eyes amidst dark streaks of powder looked up at him in horror. The man braced his feet then raised his musket, thrusting the bayonet out so that it would rip into the breast of Jack’s mare. Jack shot him down before he came close, firing on instinct, the bullet taking the soldier in the centre of the forehead. He crumpled without a sound.

  Jack powered on into the melee. A Union soldier rammed a bayonet at him, but he saw the strike coming and kicked out, catching the blade and deflecting it away. The man who had tried to kill him died a moment later, one of Lyle’s men chopping down with his sabre and cleaving the Union soldier’s head nearly in two.

  The struggle was breaking up. The two men carrying the colours broke away, their sergeant running with them. Lyle saw them go. Jack was close enough to hear his howl of frustration before Lyle kicked back his heels and forced his horse to race after the flags. Just one of his men followed, the rest too engaged with the Union infantrymen fighting for their lives.

  Jack kicked a Union soldier out of his way, then went after the two cavalrymen. Ahead, the men with the colours ran fast, covering a dozen yards of open ground before scrambling down a slope that led into a shallow ravine. Lyle went after them, but the poor going at the entrance to the ravine forced him to slow. His horse picked its way down the slope, gifting the fleeing colour party precious time.

  Jack raced on, his arm outstretched, revolver held steady. He had felt nothing as he gunned down the Union soldier. Now there was not even a flicker of emotion as he fired for a second time, aiming squarely at the spine of the rider who had followed Lyle out of the melee. The first bullet missed. Yet it came close enough for the Confederate to look back over his shoulder in shock.

  Jack saw the sudden fear on the rider’s face; confusion too that a man from his own side had fired at him. He fired again, and then again. Both bullets hit and the rider fell away, his body tumbling from the saddle. His horse ran on, the animal veering to one side so that it avoided the broken ground ahead.

  Jack slowed his mare. He thought nothing of the fact that he had now killed soldiers from both armies. Instead he ground his teeth in frustration as his horse scrambled cautiously down the uneven and treacherous snow-covered slope that led down into the ravine, his only emotion a jolt of fear that Lyle would get away.

  The ground levelled at the bottom of the slope. They were in a shallow gully, thick with snow and tangles of bush and thorn. Jack forced his horse on, kicking it again and again as it floundered on the soggy ground. The animal did its best. It wallowed through the worst of the drifts, then increased speed as its hooves found harder ground.

  Gunshots came from ahead. The gully twisted to the right, hiding the fight from Jack’s view. It took several long moments for his tiring horse to cover the ground. As he reached the bend, he saw Lyle shooting from the saddle, his horse stationary. He was using the revolver he had taken from Jack to blaze away at the men carrying the Union regiment’s colours.

  ‘Lyle!’ The cry sprang from Jack’s lips.

  Lyle heard him. His head whipped around, taking in Jack’s arrival, before he turned back to the three Union men straining every sinew to carry their colours to safety. His arm straightened, then the revolver fired, the bullet taking the Union sergeant in the neck. The man fell, his death scream cut off abruptly as he drowned in his own blood.

  The two corporals carrying the flags saw their sergeant go down. Lesser men would have given up, but still these two pressed on, their passage slowed by the long staffs of the colours. Neither man carried a weapon, their hands full with the heavy flags.

  Lyle paid Jack no heed. He holstered his now empty revolver, then drew a sabre before forcing his horse back into motion. He would catch the two corporals with the colours in a heartbeat, and the men knew it. They turned, bracing themselves for a final desperate fight. One that would likely see them left dead on the ground and their regiment’s precious colours taken as a prize.

  Jack saw what was to come. His horse lurched and stumbled as it covered the broken ground, but he opened fire regardless of the jolting, blasting the revolver’s bullets at the man he had travelled so far to kill. His horse’s stumbling gait made aiming impossible, yet he needed to draw his enemy to him, and so he fired the last bullet then rammed the Colt back into its holster.

  Lyle’s horse reared as one of Jack’s bullets snickered past its ear. The Confederate officer kept his seat, but it was enough to halt him in his tracks. He turned to face Jack, his face contorted with anger.

  ‘Run!’ bellowed Jack as he covered the last yards that separated him from Lyle. The two Union corporals were staring in confusion as another Confederate rode to their aid. ‘Run!’ There was time for him to shout the order for a second time before he drew his own sabre and lashed his heels back, forcing his horse to find one final burst of speed.

  The two corporals needed no further urging. They turned and scrambled up the side of the gully. Jack had bought them enough time to get away.

  Lyle saw him coming. With his horse barely under control, he rammed his own heels back and came towards Jack, the sabre that he had meant to use to hammer the Union soldiers into the ground now held out ready to fight the unknown rider who had arrived to steal away his chance of glory.

  Jack cried out as he charged at Lyle. It was little more than an incoherent snarl, a release of months’ worth of anger and frustration. The shout turned into a rebel yell of his own making as he gripped the sabre tight and braced himself for the fight he had sought for so long.

  He watched Lyle’s eyes in the moments before they came together. He saw the anger in them, an irrational hatred that simmered in the man’s gaze as he was forced to fight for a reason he could not understand. Then the moment for thinking passed.

  Lyle lunged the moment he came close. Jack saw the blow coming and hammered it to one side. He slashed back at Lyle’s face only for his target to sway back in the saddle so that the blade whispered past a bare inch from his skin, then pulled his blade back in time to make the parry against Lyle’s next strike.

  The clash of metal on metal was loud in the gully. Sparks flew as the two men hacked at one another. Blow followed blow, neither man able to find a way past the other’s defence. Both controlled their horses without thought. The animals stood shoulder to shoulder, each snapping and biting at the other at every opportunity.

  Jack whipped his sabre away from yet another parry, then darted the tip at Lyle’s eyes. The strike was deflected, yet Jack saw the opening and slammed his left hand forward, punching Lyle in the face. It was a good blow and it rocked Lyle backwards. His balance shifted and his horse stepped away, opening a gap between the two men for the first time.

  Lyle’s bloodied face snarled at Jack, then he kicked hard and cut at Jack’s side. Jack beat the attack away, then backhanded his sabre so that the rear edge cut at Lyle’s head. Again Lyle recovered in time to parry the blow.

  ‘Over there!’

  Jack barely heard the shouts at first. He slashed at Lyle, the blows flowing from him as he found his true speed. Lyle could do nothing but defend, his parries becoming more and more desperate as Jack attacked without pause.

  ‘Shoot him!’

  The order came from Lyle. Jack saw the men out of the corner of his eye. They were coming around the bend in the gully. There had to be a dozen or more of them. All wore Confederate grey.

  ‘Shoot him down!’ Lyle repeated the order, even as he parried yet another slashing blow. At once, more than one of the approaching riders straightened their arms, aiming their pistols at the man their officer fought.

  Jack felt the rage then. It was building inside him, an unstoppable ball of fire that would soon take his mind completely. Nothing mattered save the need to kill, to st
rike down the man who had killed Rose.

  ‘This is for Rose! You hear me, you bastard?’ He spat the words at Lyle, punctuating them with more hammer blows from his sabre. The madness was winning the battle for control of his soul. He would kill Lyle this day. He knew it; was certain of it. In moments, one blow would find a way past the other man’s sword and Rose’s death would be avenged.

  The first shot rang out, the bullet cracking off a rock a yard from Jack’s side. A second followed a moment later.

  Jack let the fury have its head. He struck at Lyle, bellowing in frustration as his opponent just about managed to fend off the blow. Bullets came at him almost constantly now. One hit him, the missile cutting through the soft flesh at the top of his arm. He barely felt it. The madness had him. He could feel it swamping his soul. Lyle had to die. He slashed again. This time the parry came late and he roared in triumph as he saw the opening he had fought for finally arrive. The moment had come.

  ‘For Rose!’ He screamed the words and pulled back his sword, gathering every ounce of strength for the blow that would kill the man he had come so far to find. He saw Lyle’s expression change. There was fear there as he too realised what was to come.

  Jack rammed the blade forward. The tip was aimed squarely at Lyle’s heart. The moment it was launched, he knew the strike was true and he yelled out in victory.

  Then a bullet hit his blade.

  The sword he had taken from the unknown Confederate officer was not cheap. Yet still it shattered as the bullet struck it an inch above the handle.

  ‘No!’ Jack nearly fell as his thrust of victory turned into an awkward lurch to stay in the saddle.

  Lyle reacted first. He hauled on his reins and pulled away from Jack. ‘Shoot him down!’ The order sprang from his lips the moment a gap opened between the two men.

  Jack’s fury was blinding and powerful. Lyle had to die, even if he had to kill him with his bare hands. Yet even with the madness simmering through every fibre of his being, one thought pierced the all-consuming rage. He could not fail. He could not let Rose down, not now, not after everything he had been through. And he would let her down if he died.

  The bitterness surged through him. This chance was gone. If he wanted another, then he had to stay alive.

  He threw the remains of the sword at Lyle, a wild despairing cry escaping his lips. Then he pulled his horse’s head round and rode for his life.

  He kicked his mare without remorse, forcing the animal to find its speed even on the rough going. Shots tore through the air around him. Yet the range was long for revolvers and his mount gamely picked up the pace, increasing the distance still further so that the final shots never came close.

  He shouted at the heavens as he rode away, frustration, anger and rage spewing out of him. Lyle had been there for the taking, yet fate had intervened to cheat Jack of his revenge.

  He had come so very close. Yet Lyle still lived.

  Jack walked amidst the ranks of a bloodied and mud-splattered Confederate regiment. It was almost dark, the day of futile struggle at an end. The men were silent, their dour faces reflecting their sombre mood. They had fought hard; had done what they had been ordered to do. They had pushed back the Union line’s right flank and opened the road to Nashville. Yet now they retraced their steps, abandoning the ground they had paid for in blood. And they did not know why.

  Jack led his exhausted horse, the animal utterly spent. He walked beside others as tired and as bitter as he was.

  As they reached the outskirts of Dover, an officer pushed through the ranks offering the men some form of explanation. The Union right had folded, but its left had pushed the Confederates to breaking point. The Union troops had taken the outermost line of defences, but somehow the Confederates left behind had held on. With nearly half his force facing annihilation, the Confederate general had seen no other course of action but to pull the rest of his command back. Or at least that was the tale the officer told his cold and tired men as they trudged a weary path back to the frozen lines where they had started the day.

  Jack broke away from the regiment as he came near his shelter. It still stood, the meagre collection of boxes and blankets that he had used to fabricate his rudimentary refuge just as he had left it. He hitched his stolen mare to the rail of the nearest house, then dumped his remaining weapons on the ground. All needed to be cleaned, yet at that moment he did not care for the task. He let the rest of his equipment fall, then slumped down beside it, too cold and miserable to do anything more.

  A long, dispirited line of Confederate infantry trudged past, the men quiet now, their shoulders drooping like men defeated.

  ‘You not even going to light yourself a fire?’

  He started as the question broke him out of his trance. He had not noticed anyone approach. He looked up at the scrawny soldier in a grey uniform who had come to disturb his rest. It took him several long moments before he realised who it was.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Paying you a visit.’ Martha stood looking down at him, her face hidden in the shadows. She was carrying a coffee pot, a small hessian sack and two mugs, which she deposited on the ground. Then she busied herself moving kindling and wood from the pile Jack had made, tossing them down in the place where he had burned wood before.

  ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’ She spoke casually as she made the fire. ‘I brought us coffee.’

  She looked at him over her shoulder just the once. It was enough for him to see the bruises on her face and the swelling around one eye. Her upper lip was swollen too, with a crust of blood in one corner.

  ‘I like what you did with the place.’ She did not look at him as she made the glib remark.

  ‘Did he do that to you?’ Jack ignored her poor attempt at levity and asked the question even though he already knew the answer.

  Martha said nothing as she arranged the wood. It took her a while before she held out a hand. She kept her face turned away. ‘Cartridge.’

  Jack fished out a cartridge from its pouch and handed it over. He watched her closely as she tore it open and sprinkled the damp wood with powder.

  She held out her hand a second time. ‘You got any lucifers left, or you expecting me to rub two sticks together here?’

  Jack grunted, then twisted to fish out his last wooden block of matches from his knapsack. ‘There’s not many left.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to find us some more. Looks like we’re staying here a whiles.’

  Jack noted her choice of words. ‘You’re not going back?’ He asked the probing question without changing his tone. He was past being gentle.

  ‘Not this time.’ Martha struck a match, held it for a second, then pushed it into the kindling. ‘I’m done with all that.’

  ‘You want me to sort him out?’

  ‘No.’ The answer was delivered quickly. ‘This one ain’t your fight, Jack.’ She turned to face him as the first flames caught. In their light he saw the defiance in her eyes, just as he saw the full extent of her battered face. Her husband had not held back.

  ‘Do you want to stay with me?’ He made the offer freely. Once he had wanted her to go, seeing her as little more than a burden. Now he was oddly happy that she had come back to him. He was too tired to wonder why that might be.

  Martha nodded. ‘I’ll help you find that man you want to kill.’

  Jack snorted. ‘I found him.’

  ‘And?’ Martha looked directly at him. She no longer bothered to hide her face.

  ‘We fought.’

  ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘No.’ Jack sighed. ‘There were others with him. I had him . . .’ he paused and shook his head slowly as he felt the regret, ‘but I couldn’t finish him.’

  ‘So you’ll just have to find him again.’ Martha made it sound simple. ‘Do it properly next time.’

  ‘That won’t be easy. He knows I’m after him now. He doesn’t know why, or at least I don’t think he does.’ Jack vaguely remembered shouting
Rose’s name as he fought Lyle, but he thought it unlikely that it would have meant anything to the man fighting for his life. ‘But he will know that someone in this army tried to kill him.’

  He was watching Martha. She had the fire going now, and came to pick up the coffee pot. She moved around him with familiarity. That pleased him.

  ‘Maybe he’ll think you’re one of them Yankees.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Jack doubted it. ‘Maybe not.’

  ‘So it won’t be easy. But then nothing worthwhile ever is.’ She offered the homespun advice as she pulled the stopper from the canteen of water that he had left on the ground with the rest of his kit. Then she paused. ‘You sure it’s worth it? Is finding this revenge of yours worth all the pain?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It ain’t bringing you anything but misery.’

  ‘I don’t care.’ Jack dragged a breath of icy air deep into his lungs, holding it there before releasing it. ‘I need this.’ He watched her carefully as he made the confession.

  ‘What’ll it give you?’

  ‘Peace.’

  ‘Killing gives you peace?’

  Jack did not answer immediately. He considered her question. He had fought for such a long time, first to prove himself, then to find himself, and then until he had finally become the soldier he had always wanted to be. He had killed more men than he could count to get to that point. He remembered many of their faces. They looked back at him in his mind, their eyes reflecting that moment of horror when they realised they were going to die. He was a killer of men and a true soldier. That thought brought him comfort. Killing one more man would make little difference to the tally on his soul, but he believed with every fibre of his being that it would be the one thing that would free him of the burden of guilt he had carried since he had awoken to find himself in a Confederate hospital with Rose nothing more than a fading memory.