by Tony Roberts
During the meal he learned they were going by road to Lynchburg via Baltimore, Washington, Gordonsville and Charlottesville. Most of the places he’d heard of or been to before and it would be interesting to see how much they’d grown in the time he’d been away. He also learned that the horses and the wagon were property of a middle-aged man who worked in a farm to the west of Lynchburg by the name of William O’Driscoll. His family had known the McGuires in Ireland before he had come over to America ten years previously. Now it seemed a neighboring farm had fallen into disuse and the O’Driscolls had bought it and then written to the McGuires, and the offer of a farm in America to the recently widowed Mary was too much to resist. Old man O’Driscoll said very little during the meal. It seemed he was very wary of the newcomer.
“Very kind of Father Lynch to suggest that. He seems very keen on my welfare, don’t you think?”
Mary looked down at Case. “Well to be precise, he was worried this devil Whitby would come looking for ye, and us too. Whitby escaped together with his unholy brutes and Father Lynch heard they were going to return and complete the job on ye. They thought ye dead when they ran, but news travels fast in a community, does it not?”
“I suppose it does,” Case replied, thinking hard about Whitby. Why would he warn people what they were going to do? Forewarned is forearmed. It didn’t make sense.
“And the good Father thought as they’d burned down the poor house he didn’t want a repeat to his beautiful new church so he asked if we could take care of ye, seeing that my daughter had taken ye as her special patient, the soft headed girl! So off we went two days back out of Philadelphia and along the Baltimore road. Oh it’s no trouble having ye along, the good Lord teaches us to be hospitable, so he does. And that’s another thing, Mr. Lonnergan.”
Case stopped chewing and looked at Mary quizzically.
She continued. “Ye have a good Irish name and say ye’re from Ireland, but ye don’t speak like one from the Emerald Isle. Now what are ye?”
Case swallowed the cheese. “As I said before, Mrs. McGuire, I’m a soldier. Born in Ireland but so long ago I can’t remember. I’ve been in the army longer than I care to think and my accent has gone. Been around too many heathens.”
That brought a smile to her face for a moment. Case disliked lying but he couldn’t well tell her he had been born in the reign of Augustus Caesar in a northern Italian village somewhere in what was now known as Tuscany and had been many things in his long un-natural life. He’d probably be struck on the head by a very stout bible, which he didn’t exactly want to risk. “And now, Mr. Lonnergan? What of ye now?”
“I’m looking for a new life.” That was true. He was. “Away from the British and their Empire. Either France or America were the choices, and I don’t much fancy snails.”
“Oh, no! Devilish food! Ye chose right, Mr. Lonnergan. Plenty of good Irish folk coming over here for a new life. I’m told there’s plenty in Virginia where we’ll find a place to settle. How about it, a chance to settle down to a new life?”
Case grinned. “How could I refuse, after such wonderful care from a lovely family?”
“Oh now, Mr. Lonnergan!” Mary waved a deprecating hand; “I’ll be thinking ye’ve kissed the Blarney Stone, so I will!”
Case settled down into the journey and soon was able to get up and walk about, albeit stiffly at first. Ann tended him while they were on the move, and the other three children came to talk to him. When they stopped Case noticed Mary kept him firmly in her sights and Ann away doing the major chores. She obviously didn’t want them being together too much. She also had Ann up front with her at times and Bridget tending him. Once his bandages came off the tending stopped and Case began to do spells of sitting up front and even steering the two horses. Bridget was a lively girl with a shock of deep red hair, always enthusing about new things she saw on the journey. Patrick, on the other hand, was a deep thinker and said little except when he had something to say, and then it was usually worth listening to. Like Bridget, he had red hair, a legacy of their father. From what Case could tell, their father was a drunk who had got into bad company and had lost his life in a fight one night, leaving Mary to bring up the four children. With no money and little prospects, Mary had decided to sell up and buy their passage to Ireland.
Elizabeth was very shy and, like Ann and her mother, dark haired and blue eyed. She stuck to her mother most of the time unless Case was near, then she switched to the biggest of her siblings who was nowhere near Case. He didn’t mind, hopefully she’d relax a little during the journey to Virginia.
Case found to his surprise that Mary was an accomplished seamstress. She sold some of her wares when they arrived in Baltimore; the goods were in some of the boxes in the wagon. The money she got went to pay for more food and drink, for what they had when they had left Philadelphia soon was used up. Case stood by Mary to make sure nobody took advantage of her, and looked after the clothing while it was waiting to be sold.
William O’Driscoll said nothing. He concentrated on driving the wagon along the rutted roads, smoking his pipe and humming Irish folk songs.
During the leg of the journey in between Baltimore and Washington Case sat alongside Mary at the front. William sat on the other side of her and pretended he didn’t exist. They had been discussing the land as it rolled past, and what the girls and Patrick would enjoy when they eventually got a farm to run. Mary turned to Case. “And ye, Mr. Lonnergan, have ye ever been married?”
The question threw him for a moment, but he quickly recovered. “Well ma’am, not exactly.”
“And what d’ye mean by that?” She turned her bright eyes on him, challenging, demanding an answer.
“I’ve had a woman or two I’ve lived with, but I’ve never married.” He thought over the many women he’d loved in his time, and felt the pain of loss as he’d outlived them all.
“Oh, now that’s no way for a Christian man to live! Living with a woman without being married indeed! The shock of it all.” Mary looked outraged.
Case grinned, then stopped as he saw her expression. “Guess I’m what you’d call a sinner, ma’am.”
“One who seems to enjoy that fact, too! Ye ought to be ashamed of yeself. How will ye look the good Lord in the face at judgment day?”
Probably by telling Him that His Son is a vindictive sonofabitch Case mused. He shook his head. “Guess I don’t rightly know, ma’am. I’ll killed too many men to be forgiven. I’ve drunk, whored, killed, and been generally sinful in my time. I’m beyond saving.”
Mary looked at him in disapproval. “Ye’re not being flippant, I hope! If ye’re as bad as ye say, why then come to our rescue back in Philadelphia?”
“I’m a sinner, yes,” Case replied, concentrating on the road ahead which was rutted badly and climbed up over the undulating hills of the Maryland countryside. “But I don’t sin as badly as some; I don’t like those who prey on children or women, and there’s too many of those around for my liking.”
“Ye’re a strange one, Mr. Lonnergan” Mary said. “Have ye ever had children yeself?”
Case looked into the distance, his face suddenly etched in such sadness that Mary caught her breath. “Aye, ma’am, that I did.” Memories of Demos came to his mind, the happy intelligent boy whose life had been cruelly cut short in Constantinople all those centuries back. Although not his own child, he’d been there from the birth and regarded him as his. His death had hit him as hard as it would have any father. “He died.”
“Oh, Mr. Lonnergan, I am sorry.”
Case looked at Mary. “Aye, it’s not a story I’d like to repeat to you now or at any time. But thanks all the same.” He resumed his road vigil, but his mind went to the people he’d been trying to ignore in his head since his suspicions about Father Lynch had formed. The people who’d killed Demos; the people who’d persecuted him for eighteen centuries; the people who probably now knew he was in America and heading for Lynchburg and would be waiting for him there. Pe
ople who hated him enough to inflict the vilest injuries and suffering upon him.
The Brotherhood of the Lamb.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Brotherhood of the Lamb; Case felt his stomach churn merely thinking of them. Ever since he’d speared Jesus they’d been his mortal enemy. A secret religious fanatical sect, they’d survived all these centuries, infiltrating and corrupting, always seeking to create chaos and unrest wherever they went, for they believed only by creating chaos could the Second Coming come about. And they also knew that when that happened then Jesus would meet Casca Rufio Longinus once again.
So they made it their business to know where he was, whether he was called Casca, Case, Cass, Carlo or any number of aliases he’d assumed in his time. Of course, the world was a big place and he’d usually managed to lose them for a while, but sooner or later their paths would cross once more. And when that happened trouble was never far away.
It all began way back on Golgotha with a man called Izram. Unknown to nearly everyone this Izram had become the thirteenth disciple and secretly built up a small mercenary army. When Jesus was hanging on the cross Izram and his men planned to rescue him, but Casca’s action had fucked that up. For that they hated him and would always seek to cause him pain and suffering.
Izram had overheard everything on Golgotha and knew of Casca’s immortality. After the crucifixion Izram had taken Casca’s spear and it had become the sect’s most Holy of Holies; for it had been touched by the blood of Jesus and was therefore in their eyes blessed. It had become the focus of their faith and the leader, always called the Elder, had been given the responsibility of looking after it.
Case had been unaware of all this until the day he’d stumbled on their temple located in the vast uninhabited wastes of Central Asia while traveling to the lands of Chin, escorted by the boy Jugotai. Case had witnessed the bizarre re-enactment of the crucifixion where one of their number was actually executed, while the Elder, in this instance a fanatical maniac by the name of Dacort, had played the role of Casca.
Afterwards Case had tried to retake his spear but Dacort had stopped him and cut his hand off for daring to touch the Holy Spear. Jugotai had re-sewn it back on and his healing powers had seen to the rest, but he carried the scar even to this day circling his wrist.
When he’d returned from the East he’d run into them again; this time one of their number, the vizier to the Persian king, a ratty little bastard called Rasheed, had arranged to have him burned at the stake; what this would accomplish he didn’t know but he’d been saved from incineration by an elderly Egyptian he’d befriended during his time in Persia and had taken him in his care and nursed him back to health over many months.
“Mr. Lonnergan, are ye alright?” Mary’s voice cut into his thoughts.
“Yes, ma’am. Just thinking about the past.” His voice was harsh, blurred with a mixture of hate, bitterness, fear and sadness.
“Ah, ye need to get it out, it’s no good keeping it inside ye.”
Case snorted and hunched over. The God-fearing McGuire woman wouldn’t believe him for one minute, but he knew now that any closeness to this family could be fatal to them if the Brotherhood were waiting for him in Lynchburg. It had happened before.
He’d taken his son Demos and his mother Ireina, his woman, to Constantinople while he got employment in the mercenary company located there; but the Brotherhood were strong at that time there and had taken Ireina and Demos. The Elder at that time, the eunuch Gregory, a senior member of the Imperial Court, had tried to control Case through holding his woman captive. Demos had been slaughtered, as the Brotherhood feared another immortal ‘antichrist’, but of course Case couldn’t have children; the Curse saw to that. Gregory didn’t, and wasn’t taking chances.
When Case returned to free Ireina the Brotherhood killed her. So he’d gone on a rampage, eventually tracking down Gregory in Asia and crucifying him, Jesus-style. It was on the return journey he’d vowed to wipe the Brotherhood out and had tried, but found there were too many and in too many high positions.
Still, a combination of his revenge, factional in-fighting and the plague had decimated their ranks and they’d vanished from sight. The next time he’d bumped into them they took him prisoner and forced him to undertake a mission on their behalf; to recover the Spear! The Persians had taken it and the Brotherhood hadn’t the means at that time to do so. They thought it fitting the Beast, as they called him, should retrieve it.
He’d double-crossed them, but so had they him. Then Islam had burst out of Arabia and scattered the sect far and wide, but after a while he’d found the Brotherhood were infiltrating even that religion. They were like the Hydra; cut off one head and two grew in its place. It was during the First Crusade they’d encountered each other again with painful consequences.
Since then they mostly seemed to change their attitude; they’d observe and even on occasions help him. They’d even saved him from burning at a Scottish village stake, sending him on his way to England, much to his surprise. But at other times they tried to inflict pain and suffering on him as before. He’d been their prisoner in England during Henry’s reformation and dissolution of the monasteries, and it was only Henry’s soldiers who saved him from Christ-knows-what.
It was this inconsistency he hated; he had no idea if they would tie him up and whip the shit out of him or wave him on his way with three hearty cheers the next time he encountered them. He had one idea in his head; mount their goddamned heads on a stake to cook in the sun. One thing was certain however, whatever they did was for their benefit; they hated him for sure, but they knew he was the Path back to Jesus; keep him in sight and they’d find Jesus when He came again.
They might capture him and keep him for eternity in their clutches but that thought gave him the shivers. He’d been in a Seville dungeon at the hands of Torquemada and that was a picnic compared to what the Brotherhood could do. They would kill anyone who got close to him, that was certain. They saw him as the Beast; the antichrist. Anyone who loved him was therefore tainted and must be cleansed. That meant death.
So he must keep a distance from Ann or anyone else until he knew exactly what awaited him at Lynchburg. Father Lynch knew he was the Beast; he knew he’d heal from the gunshot wound, and faked the Holy Water treatment to explain his healing. There was no other explanation. Therefore ynch was a Brotherhood member and would send notice that he was in Virginia. He wouldn’t have sent him with the McGuires unless he knew there was an active cell in Virginia, no doubt which happened to be Lynchburg.
It would be an interesting arrival.
He needed a gun.
* * *
The patient screamed in agony. “Hold him down!” the doctor snapped, gripping the saw tightly. Two burly men pinned the writhing man to the table top, holding his left arm fast. The hand was a mess, shattered, the flesh a mass of red and black. The bones stuck out at all angles and it was clear it was beyond any saving.
Whitby’s hand had become infected. The doctor had decided it had to come off, and his only chance had been to get Whitby blind drunk and held fast on the table. So Hartley and another man now pinned their leader down. Whiskey fumes assailed them as they leaned with all their might. The doctor, a heavy-jowled individual, made sure the tourniquet around the wrist was tight, and that the brazier was handy; the iron cauterizer would be needed fast.
The doctor leaned forward, saw placed alongside the wrist, and he took a deep breath. Whitby screamed again.
“For chrissakes!” Hartley exclaimed, and sent a meaty fist into Whitby’s jaw. The patient shuddered, then went limp.
“Thank you,” the doctor breathed, and began sawing.
He worked for about ten minutes, sawing off the shattered and useless claw and cauterizing the bloody end of the patient’s arm. He liberally swabbed the limb with iodine and alcohol, and forced more of the latter down Whitby’s mouth when he appeared to be regaining consciousness. The two others helped by keeping him pinned to th
e table and watched in fascination as the doctor sewed the end together as best he could, although he would be the first to admit it wasn’t the prettiest sight he’d seen. But then Whitby wasn’t paying and the surroundings weren’t conducive to good health.
The doctor examined the surgery and declared he was satisfied he’d done what he could. The patient now needed rest and recuperation and the doctor left the small house hurriedly, grateful to be in the open air away from the filth and smell of a dwelling where its occupants had little idea of or inclination to clean the place.
He put his top hat on and was crossing the street when a tall dark figure stepped across his path, wearing a wide brimmed hat. His features were hidden by the shadows of the night cast by the brim, and he wore a long black cloak. The doctor looked round fearfully for a route round this apparition, but he was prevented in sidestepping him by a strong, wiry arm blocking his route.
“That man you just treated,” the figure began, in a deep, clear accent-less voice, “will he live?”
“Why do you want to know?” the doctor replied in a trembling voice.
“Don’t ask questions,” the voice was icy and menacing. “I wish to know if Whitby will live or die.”
“He’ll live… at least he will if no further infection occurs!” the doctor shrank away from this sinister man. His legs shook with fright.
“Hmm…..” the figure leaned away. “You may go. Thank you.”
The doctor nodded his thanks and scuttled off, thankful to be away from the nightmarish apparition. He wondered who the hell he was, but his mind wasn’t up to it and he gave up, fairly running down the street until he was in a better neighborhood, lit by gas lamps and providing some street patrols by the sheriff’s men.
The mysterious stranger turned and beckoned across the street to a small boy who had been standing un-noticed in the shadows. The boy came hesitantly across; torn between running away as fast as he could and the knowledge this man had a coin for him. “Here,” the man said, offering a small silver Spanish coin, which was still recognized as legal tender in America. “Another will be yours if you return after delivering this note to that house there,” he pointed to the door the doctor had left from a few moments ago, then passed a sealed letter to the boy. “You will deliver the letter, but say nothing about where you got this note from.”
