by Tim Champlin
"I know."
"I went to a map and traced the route you said you chased him," the doctor said. "Many blocks, up and down and across rooftops of buildings, and a long sprint to the river."
"Yes."
"And you actually saw him covered with blood inside the Police Athletic Club."
"That's right."
"This man was somewhat smaller than average size. From the tear in the aorta, he could not have walked a half block, much less done what you said he did."
"Maybe the wound worsened with exertion."
Doctor Llewellyn shook his head. "There's not that much blood in the human body—ten pints in his case. No more. And he would have passed out long before that much drained out. What he did, physically, was humanly impossible."
Abberline stared at his friend. "Then, how do you account for it? I saw him do it."
The doctor sipped his Porter, ignoring the sandwich. For several seconds, the pub background noise filled the silence between them.
"I'm a man of science, but I've seen things in my career that defy logic—a man who was thought dead waking up in the morgue, a woman recovering almost overnight from what should have been a mortal disease—and other things of that nature that were beyond any medical explanation. Some would label them miracles."
"Hard to believe God would suspend the laws of nature on The Ripper's behalf."
"I'm not saying it was God."
"The Devil, then?"
"After what we saw in his room earlier, would that theory be too far-fetched?"
"So you think the Devil was responsible?"
"I think Jack the Ripper was actually possessed by the Devil. The Evil One had completely taken over his body and mind, and used supernatural force to perform those feats of endurance."
Abberline sat back in the booth and stared at his practical friend. "You don't mean it?"
"I do mean it. There have been many documented cases of demonic possession—and exorcism—over the centuries. You think, just because we live in the modern, enlightened world of nineteenth century medical science, that such a thing can't happen now?"
"It just seems unlikely."
"Unlikely it may be, but do you have any other explanation?"
"What reason would Satan have for possessing this man?"
The doctor shrugged. "Why does he possess anyone? I don't recall there was any reason given in the Bible for demonic possession of particular individuals. Satan apparently has his own reasons--and his own methods of gathering human souls for his infernal kingdom. Some of my colleagues, who don't believe in God or His fallen angels, or even in an afterlife, would deny this and accuse me of unscientific diagnosis or conclusions. But there is no other explanation for that massive blood loss not being quickly fatal. A supernatural being could have kept him going until he reached the river. There have been cases of levitation, of heads turning completely around without breaking the neck, and feats of superhuman strength, such as breaking metal bonds."
"My heavens!" Abberline breathed. "That explains a lot of why he was able to escape so quickly, so often."
"Do you recall the New Testament story of Christ driving the Devils out of a man possessed, and the Devils cried out to Jesus for permission to enter a herd of swine? With His consent, the Devils entered the swine, who immediately went crazy, stampeded down a hill, plunged off a cliff into the sea and drowned."
"I remember that story."
"This time the possessed man plunged into the Thames and drowned."
Abberline swallowed, his appetite suddenly gone. "Don't woo the Devil unless you're serious about winning him."
"That's about the size of it," the doctor said, finally taking a bite of his sandwich. "Doctor Brown and I discussed this, and he's of the same opinion. It had to be something beyond the laws of nature. Demonic possession, triggered by Devil worship and human sacrifice as evidenced by what we saw in his room. Although we can't prove that at an inquest, it's the most likely explanation."
"I wonder what will happen when this story gets out?" Abberline said.
"Why should it? You've done your job and stopped The Ripper. That's all anyone else needs to know."
Abberline pondered this for a moment. "But Her Majesty should be told."
"The Queen can be very discreet."
"You're right."
"When you retire and write your memoirs in the twentieth century, you can reveal our secret to the world," Doctor Llewellyn said. He took a long swallow of his stout as if that put an end to the matter.
CHAPTER 21
"Crowfoot, I don't think I can walk another step." To emphasize his statement, Matt Vickers sat down on the shiny rail, hanging his head between his knees.
"I’ll go on and leave you then," the young Sioux said, trudging ahead along the deserted railroad track.
The sun was high, but the season was late and the warmth of the cheerful orb had fled.
"You just wanta show off that you're an Indian with a lot more endurance."
Crowfoot stopped and turned around. "You can do it. You want to be left behind when the ship sails?"
"The ship has probably already left."
"No. Annie and Frank and Cody are still in London. The ship won't leave without them."
"But they'll catch a train to Southampton and get there before we can. Even if we could walk all the way to the coast, we'd never get there in time."
"Why do we have to walk?"
"You got enough money for two tickets? We got just about enough to buy food, and that's it."
"We can sell your knife. That will bring in plenty."
"Oh, no you don't. I found this knife and I ain't giving it up. No telling how many throats it's slashed."
"How can you prove it belongs to The Ripper?" Crowfoot asked.
"You saw where I found it. I don't know if Annie hit him, but he dropped it right after we heard her last shot. He was only a half block from her. Nobody uses a knife like this except a butcher or a doctor—or a killer," Matt said. "You should have gone after your own knife."
Crowfoot shook his head. "We were right not to get mixed up in all that. I threw my knife and hit Jack, but he ran off, anyway."
"A bad throw in the fog."
"I hit him."
"Well, it didn't kill him."
"Annie is the best shot in the world, and she didn't kill him—with five shots," the Indian retorted. "Can't pick up my knife because a constable is there, and he carried it off for evidence. He thinks it belongs to The Ripper."
"Yeah. Best we didn't go running up there to get it. We'd have been held for questioning, if nothing else," Matt conceded. He looked behind them, and then ahead. "We gonna camp out tonight?"
"No food, no water, no blankets. How do we camp?"
"We got matches. We can collect some brush for a fire."
"It’s cold sleeping on ground this time of year."
"Guess we shouldn't have sent our stuff on ahead with the show."
"Had to make it look like we were going, too."
"That's so. But these clothes are getting smelly."
"We washed underwear and bought new shirts," Crowfoot said.
"I reckon it was all worth it if we can get to Southampton before the ship leaves." Matt reached under his shirt and extracted a long knife that was wrapped in his old dirty shirt to keep the edge from his skin. "Just look at this," he said, in awe of the long, slender blade, sharp as a barber's razor. "Kinda gives ya the willies, just to look at it, don't it? Especially knowin' where it's been. Slashing open innards, and cuttin' out kidneys and wombs and things."
The gutta percha handle was ribbed for a better grip, there was no cross guard, as on a dagger and the blade itself was about twelve inches long, an inch wide, with a slightly rounded tip—an instrument meant for slicing, not for stabbing or puncturing.
"I've seen knives like this in a museum," Matt declared, holding it up for inspection. "In a surgeon's kit from the Civil War. It was in a wooden box lined with gre
en velvet. The kit had a saw for cutting off arms and legs. There was some other stuff in there, too, that I didn't know nothing about."
"You talk too much about blood and death," Crowfoot said.
"Blood and death might be what we can make money on," Matt said, "if we can sell our story to a magazine or newspaper back home. You saw those papers in London; readers love this kinda stuff."
"You write the story in good English, and tell about my Bowie knife," Crowfoot said. "Tell how I wounded The Ripper. Then you take a picture of that doctor's knife you have." He shook his head. "But nobody believes us and won’t pay for our story until they ask Cody and Annie. And they don't know. I think it’s best we keep quiet or we’ll get into big trouble." He turned and started walking again.
"You give up too easy, Crofe," Matt said, jumping up and hurrying after him. "We'll have to come out in public, for sure, but we can do that. We'll be famous. People will want our autograph, like they do Annie's."
"Then we must tell that Annie trapped the Ripper." The Indian stopped and turned to him. "You say you heard Annie and Frank talk. They don’t want anyone else to know Annie was bait for The Ripper. Cody will fire us if we do this."
"Yeah, I guess there's no way we could go public and keep Annie's privacy," Matt agreed.
They walked along the ties in silence.
"If the constable shows Annie that Bowie, she'll know it's yours," Matt finally said. "What then?"
"She’ll be mad as hell."
"Maybe she'll pay us to keep quiet."
"Whites call that blackmail."
"You're right."
"She might tell Cody to fire us if we talk," Crowfoot said.
"Damn! We got a great story here and we can't tell it," Matt said, waving the long, slender knife around over his head. He leapt to one side and slashed at the air like a duelist, the edge whistling through the air. The sun flashed off the polished steel. "Too bad there's no blood on this," he said, examining it more closely.
"If it had blood, it would be Annie's," the Indian said, "unless the Ripper didn’t wash it since last time."
"You got a point."
They continued walking.
"Wish it was summer. Then I wouldn't care how long it took us to get to the coast." He glanced around at the brown grass in the meadows flanking the right-of-way. "You think Annie, Frank and Cody will leave for Southampton right away?" Matt asked.
"Maybe today. Maybe tomorrow. It will cost Cody a lot of money every day the show waits."
"Hadn't thought of that. Cody's a generous man, but Nate Salsbury won't let him waste money like that. Well, that means we have to get there no later than they do, or we'll be left behind. They won't wait for us."
"If Annie has my Bowie, she knows we were there. Maybe they’ll send someone to look for us."
"And maybe they won't. We're old enough to take care of ourselves, and we could be anywhere in London."
Matt wrapped the long knife in his old shirt and stowed it inside his clothes, next to his skin. "Like I said before, I ain't walking all these miles to Southampton just to miss the ship and then have to try to get a job in England over the winter just to survive. I'm for getting to the port and getting on that ship before it pulls out."
"How will you do that?"
"We're walking on these train tracks, aren't we? See how shiny these rails are? We're on the main line. Next train that comes, we figure a way to get aboard. Anybody catches us, we tell 'em we're broke and you're from India and we gotta make Southampton to get a ship and work our way back home. Robber took all our money and can we please ride free in the baggage car."
Crowfoot snorted his contempt at the idea. "They won’t give us a free ride. This is England. Only tramps in big cities can beg and get things."
"Maybe a freight will come along instead of a highballing passenger express."
"How do we stop it? Too much speed."
"I got more experience than you when it comes to hopping freights." He looked around. "We're on a long stretch between towns so they'll be barreling along here. We gotta find a tight curve or a steep grade or a water tower where the locomotive will slow down or stop. But it can't be at a depot. Let's hustle up and find such a place, before another train comes along." He broke into a jog.
"I thought you were tired."
"Got my second wind."
"Crofe! Wake up."
The Indian stirred out of the nest he'd made in the dry grass along the cutbank, out of the wind. The sun had disappeared and dusk was settling in.
"Listen."
A long, mournful whistle sounded in the distance.
"Blowing for that crossing about a mile back," Matt said. "Let's hope they need water from this tower. Back in the states, locomotives stop at nearly every tank. Those steamers use lots of water."
Two minutes later, they heard a chuffing and a green locomotive rolled around a long curve and began to slow.
"She's stopping," Matt said. "Be ready. It's coming on to dark. Watch for the conductor or brakeman with a lantern, and keep clear of him. I ain't familiar with British trains, but they gotta be pretty much the same as ours."
The big engine with seven-foot, hooded drive wheels ground to a halt in a blast of steam several rods beyond them.
"Looks like a mix of three passenger coaches and three freight."
A single trainman was walking along beside the train, swinging a shuttered lantern.
"Follow me," Matt whispered. The Indian melted in behind him and the pair crept toward the end of the train. A clatter and the rush of water as the big spout was swung into place over the engine and the boiler took on water. Matt was counting on the noise and activity at the head of the train to divert attention from the darkened rear. He crept up to the side of the train. Both of them were wearing dark shirts and pants. He searched quickly along the side for an open door, but all the freight cars were closed and locked. He looked frantically. They had only a few minutes. Keeping an eye out for the brakeman, he rolled under the high cars and scanned the opposite side. Apparently all the freight cars were full and closed.
There was a clatter as the counterbalanced spout was swung back up into place against the water tower. Matt saw the flash of the brakeman's lantern, on the opposite side of the train as he signaled the engineer. It was now or never. He waited until the train jerked into motion, and saw the brakeman's legs as he stepped up on the end platform of the last car.
"Now!" He led the way and the two of them dashed for the steps and platform between two of the three locked freight cars. They grabbed the handrails and hopped aboard before the train had time to gather speed.
"We won't be seen here while we're moving," Matt said over the banging of the coupling beneath. "But we'll have to stay here for hours. We just have to be ready to dodge if we come into a lighted depot, or stop at another water tower."
"How far?" Crowfoot asked.
"Just an overnight run when we came up to London back in the spring. If we can hold down this rattler, we'll be in Southampton by daylight."
CHAPTER 22
March 21, 1889
Nutley, New Jersey
Annie Oakley struggled to escape. But she was held down. She kicked and fought, tried to scream, but a shadowy figure gripped her throat, choking off any sound.
With a mighty lunge, she finally broke through the surface of consciousness, and found herself entangled in the sheets. Heart pounding, and moist with perspiration, she sat up in bed. The nightmare receded, and her breathing began to slow.
Husband Frank still slept, so she slipped out of bed and padded softly out of the dark bedroom, closing the door behind her.
In the kitchen she reached above the stove for a match, struck it, lifted the glass chimney and lighted the coal oil lamp. By its reassuring glow, she saw things were still in their proper place. She carried the lamp into the living room, disdaining to put on a robe in the chilly house. The cool air felt good after the suffocating nightmare. She sat down in her fav
orite armchair, tucking her bare feet up under her.
The pendulum in the mantel clock counted the seconds with a steady ticking. The hands pointed at 5:40.
How long would she have to endure this recurring nightmare? Actually, two nightmares. In one, a dark figure was choking her, pinning her down so she couldn't move her arms or legs. Sometimes, her attacker was slashing at her abdomen. Then, a flash of light revealed his eyes—a sight so terrifying she thought she'd seen the Devil, himself.
In the other variation of the nightmare, she pulled the trigger of her Merwin Hulbert and the explosion blew the shadowy figure off her and he went staggering away in the fog, screaming that he was shot and dying. She held her pistol, while waves of guilt washed over her. She'd killed another human, and could do nothing to reverse her action.
Maybe she should seek professional help. But she instinctively knew that time would be the only remedy for this ailment of the mind. It had taken years for her to stop having bad dreams about being abused as a slave to "The Wolves". This episode with Jack the Ripper had lasted only a few minutes, from beginning to end. Surely, her memory of it would soon fade. After all, it had been only four months since it happened. In her conscious hours, she often replayed the sequence, from the time Abberline had come to request her help, to the time he'd returned to the Three Bells pub and told her The Ripper had leapt into the river. Logically, she knew she had done the right thing. She'd used her bravery and skill to rid the world of a maniac who was committing vicious murders. Surely, God would not harshly judge him because he was mad, not in possession of his own free will. She'd received a letter only a week before from Chief Inspector Frederick Abberline confiding to her that he and the doctors who'd performed the autopsy had come to the conclusion that Jack the Ripper, whose identity was still a mystery, was actually possessed by the Devil. And certainly a man who had no control over his own actions could not be held responsible for them. Her killing of him was like shooting a rabid mountain lion, she reasoned.
She got up and went to the chest in the corner where she kept her many shooting medals. Opening the lid, she picked out a circular gold medal somewhat larger than a silver dollar. It was suspended from a silk ribbon that bore the colors of the British Union Jack. With it was an envelope bearing the seal of the British Royal family. She removed the letter she'd read many times and looked at it again. In part, it read, "…because of various restrictions, procedures and to protect your privacy, we are unable to award you the Victoria Cross, our highest decoration for valor against the enemy. The VC, in any event, is intended to be a military award. Instead, we have ordered a one-of-a-kind medal struck and inscribed. I hope you will wear it with pride in future years…" The letter was signed by Queen Victoria. Beneath the printed letter and her official signature and titles, the queen had appended a personal postscript in her own hand, "It required a woman to save us." Annie smiled as she turned over the medal and saw the profile of the diminutive monarch. On the reverse, it was engraved, To Annie Oakley, in remembrance of her magnificent courage and skill in saving London from Jack the Ripper, the people of London and the British Empire award this emblem of their profoundest gratitude. The queen's signature was replicated in the soft gold, along with the date, November, 1888.
