Jack Lark: Rogue

by Paul Fraser Collard

  The last bandit threw his talwar across his body in a wild parry as the glorious sword whispered through the air, keening for his flesh. The rider twisted his wrist as he brought the weapon scything backwards, aiming the next blow even as the bandit attempted to recover from his first desperate parry, the fabulous sword moving quicker than the eye could follow.

  The attacks followed swiftly, one after the other. The rider sat his horse as though the two were one single, monstrous beast, his skill instinctive. His pace never once faltered, forcing the last thug to scramble clumsily up the side of the valley in a desperate attempt to keep the steel from beating aside his defence.

  The bandit screamed, his terror given voice as he slipped and fell, his notched and pitted talwar knocked from his hand by the relentless salvo of blows that came at him. The rider remained silent, even in the moment of victory. The thug scrabbled on the ground, trying to escape his fate. He had time to look once into the rider’s merciless eyes before the tip of the beautiful sword pierced his heart, the rider forced to lean far forward in the saddle as he drove the steel deep into his enemy’s flesh.

  The rider twisted his sword, releasing the blade from the body of his fallen foe, then carefully manoeuvred his horse backwards, leaning from the saddle as he scanned the valley, looking for any threat that he had missed. A lone vulture met his gaze. The wizened old bird flapped its wings lazily as it landed on one of the boulders that had been meant to kill the white-faced rider. For a moment, man and bird stared at one another, the last two living creatures in the narrow valley contemplating the sudden arrival of death in such a remote place.

  The rider slipped from the saddle. He wiped the sleeve of his coat across his face, smearing away the river of sweat that had run down to sting his eyes. The wool was heavy, the fabric poorly woven. The garment was not tailored to fit and it bunched uncomfortably over the rider’s shoulders. The red cloth showed the ravages of weeks in the saddle, but its pedigree was still recognisable. It was a uniform made famous the world over by the men who sheltered beneath its folds. It was the red coat of a British soldier.

  The rider retrieved his revolver, a wry grimace appearing on his lean face as he inspected the metal and saw the deep scratch that the impact with the stony soil had scored into its side. He paid no heed to the four corpses that littered the ground. He was long accustomed to death.

  He walked quickly back to his horse, anxious to be away. He murmured quietly to calm the beast, the first sounds he had uttered since the four wandering thugs had launched their sudden ambush; then, with a single bound, he hurled himself into the saddle and turned his tired mount to face the path that had been partially blocked by the fallen boulders.

  He let the horse pick its own way through the rubble, turning his back on the men who had sought his death, leaving them to the vulture and the other animals that would relish a feast of fresh flesh.

  Another band of dacoits was no more.

  He reached into the saddlebag that contained the ammunition for his revolver. He frowned as he saw how few cartridges were left. His days wandering the lonely paths were coming to an end. He would have to face a return to civilisation, to the people he had rejected for so long.

  He gathered his horse’s reins in one hand and urged it to pick up the pace. It would take him many days to reach his destination, but he was in no hurry. He had not set out to be alone for so long, but still he did not feel the need to find company. The days had dragged into weeks, the weeks into months, but he would not rush to find the future as once he had.

  He would let it find him.

  Chapter Two

  Bombay, October 1856

  The British officer was sprawled in the leather club armchair, a week old copy of the Times laid carelessly in his lap. Three bottles of Bass beer sat on the drum table beside him, their precious contents long gone. The officer slept fitfully, despite the effects of the food and drink he had consumed. He was not alone in the guests’ lounge. It was the time for rest, for slumbering through the hottest hours of the day, when all sensible fellows retired to the cool of the lounge or slunk away to their beds to await the fresher air of evening. The better echelons of Bombay society had only just returned to the city, and they slipped into a coma of indolence after tiffin, hibernating until evening arrived and the coaches came to collect them for a turn around the Esplanade or, for the more energetic, a drive to the splendour of the Malabar Hills or the harsh beauty of the black rocks at the Breach.

  ‘Excuse me, sahib?’

  The proprietor of the Hotel Splendid stood at a respectful distance, contemplating the British lieutenant as he fidgeted in his sleep, the starched collar of his shirt bent and distorted as his head twisted from side to side. Abdul El-Amir was painfully aware that he had paid for the starch in the officer’s collar, just as he had paid for the bottles of beer that had helped induce the afternoon’s siesta. The lieutenant’s bill had been unpaid for the last fortnight, a state of affairs that had inspired Abdul to rise from his own afternoon rest to disturb his guest’s peaceful nap.

  ‘Sahib!’ Abdul was a slight man. He rarely ate, preferring to obtain his sustenance from the hookah that was never far from his side. Yet it was a rash man who took his lack of bulk for weakness. He might be a Muslim in a Hindu world but his connections with the local gang of dacoits made him a formidable adversary, even for a sahib. Abdul El-Amir was not a man to be crossed.

  The British officer jerked at the abrupt summons, his breath snorting in his nose as he awoke.

  ‘I am so sorry to disturb you, sahib, please forgive me.’ Abdul bowed low at the waist, though his simpering smile did not reach his eyes.

  The lieutenant rallied quickly, wiping a shirt cuff across his mouth and running his fingers over the thin layer of dark hair that had been cut unfashionably short. He sported several days’ growth of stubble but was otherwise hair-free, something of an oddity amongst the fabulous beards, moustaches, whiskers and mutton chops favoured by most of the British officers who passed through Abdul’s hotel on their way in or out of Bombay.

  ‘What can I do for you, Abdul?’ The British officer addressed the proprietor in the calm tone of a man well used to being in control. He gathered up the remains of the Times, carefully folding it before placing it underneath one of the empty bottles on the table at his side.

  Abdul reached inside his cream robes. Like most locals he wore a long, flowing kurta devoid of all decoration. His sole concession to fashion was a fabulous scarlet waistcoat covered with the images of a thousand flowers, each picked out in exquisite detail, the fine thread and bright colours an indication of the garment’s value.

  ‘There is the small matter of your bill, sahib. I fear there has been some mistake as it does not appear to have been settled as I requested last week.’

  The officer reached behind him to pull his scarlet coat on to his shoulders, the single crown that denoted his rank catching the light. The cuffs of the red shell jacket were green and the sphinx on the collar revealed that the officer served in the 24th Regiment of Foot. The sphinx was the legacy of a battle fought in Egypt against Napoleon back in 1802. It was an honour worn with pride by all who joined the regiment, a symbol of the men who had died in its name. A symbol the man dressed in the uniform of one of its lieutenants had no right to wear.

  ‘How remiss of me. Here, leave it with me and I will see to it.’ The officer reached for the offending document.

  Abdul hesitated, pulling the sheet of paper away from the questing fingers.

  ‘In cash?’

  For the first time the lieutenant’s annoyance showed. His hard eyes fixed on the proprietor. ‘I will arrange for a transfer of funds. Cox and Cox will be only too pleased to assist with the transaction.’

  ‘I would prefer cash. In the circumstances.’ The smile was gone now. With a nonchalance born of long experience, Abdul turned and beckoned to one of his men.

  ‘So be it.’ The officer made no show of having noticed the heavy
set enforcer Abdul had summoned to join the conversation. The man must have stood close to seven feet tall and was built like a brick outhouse. The threat was clear.

  ‘And today, sahib, not tomorrow or the day after.’ Abdul offered the bill, bowing at the waist as he held it towards the seated officer.

  There was no trace of fear on the lieutenant’s face, even with the bulk of the enforcer looming large over his chair. Instead he sighed, as if disappointed by the display. ‘I understand.’

  The hotel’s owner sneered at the mild response, his thin moustache twitching. ‘Thank you, sahib.’

  He turned and waved his bodyguard away before leaving the British officer to his afternoon at leisure. He was not concerned that his unabashed approach risked losing him a guest. His hotel was always full, the lack of accommodation in Bombay forcing a steady stream of white-faced firangi to stay in his establishment before they went up country. Abdul made sure that the place appealed to a certain class of officer. His was one of the few guest houses in the city that could boast a bath for every half-dozen guests, and he kept the best British beer chilled and ready. For the more discerning guest there was even a ready supply of clean, beautiful women, available at any hour of the day or night. Abdul might be a violent thug at heart, but he knew what his particular type of customer valued most of all.

  Jack Lark sat in his darkened room. He savoured the solitude, enjoying the peace that only came when he was alone. It had been a struggle to become accustomed to being around so many people after so long spent with no one but his horse for company, and part of him craved a return to the airy quiet of the high ground. A life alone was so much easier than one where others encroached to prod and poke into his affairs.

  With a sigh he began gathering together his few belongings, packing them into his worn leather knapsack. He kept back his one good uniform. The dress of a lieutenant in the 24th Regiment of Foot ensured he was not often troubled on the turbulent streets of Bombay, except, of course, by the hundreds of hawkers and stallholders desperate to have him part with the coins they believed he carried. The other officers and civilian officials would leave him be, allowing him a freedom of movement he could never hope to enjoy if he wore the simple red coat of an ordinary soldier.

  He had spent two weeks in the dubious surroundings of the Hotel Splendid. He had chosen his accommodation with care, locating a place that asked few questions of its clientele. His first steps back into society were cautious ones, and the anonymity of a place like the Hotel Splendid suited him very well.

  He bundled the worn red coat of a private soldier into a ball, stuffing it to the very bottom of his knapsack, hiding it away until he next left the confines of polite society and ventured back to the wild lands. He laid his few shirts and a spare pair of breeches on top of a blue uniform coat that was creased and rumpled from being hidden for so long, and added four freshly purchased boxes of ammunition for his handgun, ensuring that he had easy access to this most important of all his possessions. He had learnt that the bullion of his epaulettes could only be trusted so far. Sometimes there was nothing better than a fully loaded five-shot Dean and Adams revolver to ensure his safety.

  Packed and ready to leave, he sat back heavily on the cast-iron bed, taking a few moments’ rest before he moved on. The room was hot and stuffy despite the large window that was kept open every hour of the day and night. A thin grass screen known as a tattie covered the opening. Every few hours, one of the hotel’s servants came to douse the tightly woven grasses in water. It cooled the room for a while, adding a delicate fragrance to the sweaty atmosphere before the heat outside baked it dry once again.

  Jack had wandered his way towards Bombay thinking to find some anonymity in the bustling hub of the British Empire’s presence in India. He had many pressing needs, the most important of which was money. Only with a full pocket book could he begin to rejoin the world he had walked away from. Until he could find a way to raise some rhino, he would have to live on his wits, finding the necessities of life where and when he could.

  Wherever he went, he brought his past with him, a burden much heavier than the single knapsack that carried all he possessed. Bitter memories lurked in the depths of his mind, festering in the darkness. He had learnt to control his thoughts, forcing them away from the recollection of the life he had lived. He had not always been alone; he had once been an ordinary redcoat, planning for a future with the woman he loved. When that had been snatched from him, he had been left alone without hope and without a future. So he had stolen a new life, taking the identity and the papers of his deceased commander. He became the officer he had always dreamt of being, securing the station in life denied him due to his low birth and the lack of the one commodity that society judged the most important when selecting those granted the power of an officer’s rank: money.

  As an officer, he had thrived, leading his stolen company into battle in the Crimea. In the terrifying encounter at the Alma river, he had discovered the ability to fight and to set the example that men needed if they were to function when their lives were on the line. Where some found an aptitude for working with wood or for shaping iron, the art of killing had become his trade.

  He had come to India in search of a new life, but so far he had found nothing but war, his skills on the battlefield needed once again as the British authorities strove to oust the Maharajah of Sawadh from his kingdom. When diplomacy had given way to violence, Jack was once again forced to fight for his country, his duty tethering him to the British army no matter what his heart desired.

  Now he was alone once again, bereft of ties to family or regiment. He had assumed the name of a dead lieutenant, a man he was reasonably certain no one would know in the eclectic society of Bombay, where he hoped to start again, far away from his past. For the spark of ambition still flared deep inside his battered and troubled soul. He was determined to prove, to a world that neither knew nor cared, that the product of London’s vilest rookeries could achieve so much more than polite society allowed. It was the one honest thing he had left, and he clung to it like a recently converted soul clung to their new faith.

  ‘Sahib! How may I help you?’ Abdul sat up abruptly. He had been dozing; the hookah pipe was dangling from the corner of his mouth. He put it to one side and straightened in his chair, making a mental note to berate his hapless clerk, who had forgotten the strict instruction that the hotel’s owner should not be disturbed.

  Jack smiled. ‘I have come to settle my account.’

  Abdul simpered, the thought of money assuaging his anger. ‘That is most gracious of you, sahib. I am so sorry for having brought the matter to your attention, but we all have bills to pay.’ He spread his arms in apology, conveniently forgetting the implied threat he had delivered alongside the bill. ‘You have the cash?’

  ‘Of course, but I thought you might like to take part in a little financial transaction in lieu of the debt.’

  Abdul’s eyes narrowed. ‘What sort of transaction do you have in mind?’

  ‘I have a certain object that I wish to sell. I had thought to ask for your assistance in the matter.’

  ‘What kind of object?’ Abdul’s accent became thicker. He could not hide the spark of avarice that the British officer’s request had kindled.

  Jack slipped a hand into a pocket. With his eyes fixed on the hotel owner, he flicked a single fat ruby on to the mahogany desk. He saw the swift lick of the lips as Abdul sized up the jewel, the flicker in the man’s soft brown eyes as he contemplated its value. Jack knew he would be cheated. He did not expect to get more than a fraction of the ruby’s true worth. But he was penniless and he needed some ready cash. He was not in a position to sell the gem openly; not even the uniform of a British officer was sufficient protection against the barrage of questions a legitimate dealer would ask. Jack was a charlatan and a fraud. He had to deal where and when he could. If that meant supping with the devil, then all he could do was pass the port.

  ‘It is a difficult thi
ng you ask.’ Abdul sat back in his chair as if trying to distance himself from the precious jewel that had appeared so miraculously. ‘I cannot sell such an object.’

  Jack recognised the tone. The first stage of the barter had begun. ‘I’m sure a man with your contacts can find a buyer. Even for a trifle such as this.’

  Abdul leant forward. His hand reached for the gem, but he hesitated before he could touch it, as if he had become suddenly nervous. ‘Where did you come by such an interesting item?’

  ‘It was a gift.’

  ‘A gift? You have some generous friends, sahib.’

  ‘And you have an enquiring mind. Be careful it does not get you into trouble.’

  Abdul sniffed at the threat. ‘Do you have more?’

  ‘No.’ Jack’s reply was firm.

  ‘I may be able to do something.’ Abdul smiled with all the warmth of a cobra. ‘It is, as you say, just a little thing.’

  ‘There’s a good fellow.’ Jack gave no impression of caring whether the sale of the stone would be easy or hard. His expression was neutral.

  Abdul reached out and smothered the gem with his hand, snatching it away and hiding it in the depths of his robe with the speed of a striking scorpion.

  Jack turned, and was about to walk away when he stopped, as if struck by a sudden thought.

  ‘You wouldn’t think of cheating me, would you, Abdul?’ He asked the question gently, as if making an innocent enquiry about something as inconsequential as the weather.

  Abdul scoffed at the idea with a short cackle of laughter. ‘Of course not, sahib. But it would be unfair for me not to take some sort of commission, no?’ It was hard for the hotel’s proprietor to keep the glee out of his voice.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Fifty per cent.’

  It was Jack’s turn to laugh. ‘That’s not a commission. That’s robbery.’

  All trace of laughter was gone. Abdul’s face was hard. ‘Nonnegotiable.’ He stumbled over the longer word, but there was no doubt he meant what he said.