Commander

Book 0: Jack Lark

by Paul Fraser Collard

Genres: Historical Fiction; War & Military

Synopsis

'Like all the best vintages Jack Lark has aged to perfection. Scarred, battered and bloody, his story continues to enthral' ANTHONY RICHES

A true leader serves his men.

The Jack Lark series is historical military fiction at its finest, for fans of Bernard Cornwell's Sharpe series, Matthew Harffy and Patrick O'Brian. This is the tenth adventure featuring Jack Lark: soldier, leader, imposter.

Egypt, 1869. Jack Lark has reinvented himself once more. Working as an unofficial agent for the Consul-General, he moves among the most powerful men in Cairo. But when the opportunity arises to join legendary explorer Sir Samuel White Baker on his expedition into the Sudan, Jack can't resist a new adventure.

Jack assumes command of an elite cadre to protect the fleet of vessels. But, as they move down the Nile, Jack and his men soon find themselves in a land where the rule of law means nothing, and those who wield power will do anything to keep it. And when a new friend seeks Jack's help, Jack must decide where his loyalties truly lie . . .

Praise for the Jack Lark series:

'Brilliant' Bernard Cornwell

'Enthralling' The Times

'Bullets fly, emotions run high and treachery abounds... exceptionally entertaining historical action adventure' Matthew Harffy

'Expect ferocious, bloody action from the first page' Ben Kane

'You feel and experience all the emotions and the blood, sweat and tears that Jack does... I devoured it in one sitting' Parmenion Books

(P) 2021 Headline Publishing Group Ltd

Release date: October 28, 2021

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 416

Sample

The herd never stood a chance.

The hunters had scouted the area the day before, the guides they had employed tracking the herd’s spoor and bringing the men with the guns into position so that they could strike at first light.

They had done this before. Many times. They numbered over thirty – men from every corner of the globe. Syrians, Copts, Turks, Russians, Americans and Franks. Robbers and villains. Crooks, swindlers and murderers. Penniless adventurers and tuppenny cut-throats. All drawn to the lucrative trade that could make a man a year’s pay for just a few short months’ work. They flocked to Khartoum like flies to a dung heap, the town at the heart of the East African ivory trade a hive of activity once the hunting season started in late December. There they were recruited into the hunting parties that would head south, following the White Nile then turning inland.

They did not come alone. Other parties left Khartoum in the first months of the new year. These men were journeying further south and west than those hunting for ivory, their prey not the enormous beasts that roamed the hinterland near the Nile but the young men, women and children who could be sold into the slave trade that was thriving in East Africa now that the Atlantic traffic had been curtailed. Both were lucrative businesses, the dealings in ivory and the commerce in human flesh, drawing men from all over the globe, every one of them enticed by the easy lucre that could be garnered from ravaging the vast tracts of land far to the south of civilisation. These hinterlands were ruled not by the principles of law and government but by the old rules, set by any man strong enough to control the territory that would yield the commodities the world demanded. These were the places where the power of the gun outweighed the power of law; the domain of men who cared nothing for the destruction that they wrought on the people and animals that called the wilderness home.

Leading the hunters was the Frenchman. He was the man who had borrowed the money to put the hunting party together, a loan that was to be repaid in ivory at fifty per cent of its market value, the men with the means to finance such an expedition able to charge a premium as they had no shortage of willing borrowers. Even with such an exorbitant rate of interest, the Frenchman still expected to make a small fortune. Demand for ivory had never been stronger. Whether it be for the fashionable clubs of the major cities of Europe, where it was used to produce the billiard balls and the piano keys that would entertain the gentlemen able to afford entry into the most salubrious of establishments, or for the handles of the fans wafted so decorously by the women those same men left at home, ivory was worth its weight in gold. And worth the trouble, and the cost, of journeying far into the badlands, where only the strongest would thrive.

The Frenchman led the men onto the rising ground the local tribesmen he had employed as their guides had chosen, just as the first rays of the morning’s sunlight were pushing away the greys and browns of night, filling the forest glade with shadows and warming the sky with a beguiling cocktail of colour that belied the carnage to come.

There were ten elephants in the herd. All were females. Around their legs were half a dozen calves, the youngsters starting the day frolicking back and forth, trunks raised in challenge to their playmates, their small frames galloping past the slow-moving body of the herd’s matriarch, who was clearly not at all amused by their antics, her disdain shown in the warning she trumpeted at the boisterous youths. As the light of the sun warmed the shadow-drenched land, the herd started to feed, the great beasts moving with the languid pace of the newly awoken, their breakfast of ripe lalobes from the heglik tree a fine treat for the start of another day. The females in the herd cared nothing for the effort of sourcing the rich fruit, nor the pain of the headbutt they administered to the solid trunk to shake the date-sized lalobes from the branches at least thirty feet above their heads.

The Frenchman lay at the centre of the line of hunters as the herd began to feed, the sun warming his back, the skin on his face tingling as the breeze washed over it. They were perfectly positioned, the wind keeping their scent away from the elephants and the raised position giving them an easy shot at targets not much more than a hundred and fifty paces distant.

As he lay there, he heard a low rumbling sound, like distant thunder. He smiled, recognising the sound for what it was, the noise coming from the enormous bellies and bowels of the animals he would shortly slaughter. With the grumble of hunger came the thump of heavy feet as the adults in the herd started to move around the glade.

It was almost time.

The Frenchman assessed the tusks of the ten females destined to die before the sun had fully risen into the sky. All would add to his haul, a haul that would fetch him a fortune when he got it back to Khartoum at the end of the season. The tusks of the nine younger females could not weigh much more than fifty pounds apiece, but that was still more than enough to repay the effort of a few hours’ work. The matriarch was different. She had to be at least fifty years old, and her tusks were the warm colour of clay. The Frenchman watched the ancient female as she took stock of her surroundings, a sure sign she was preparing to move the herd along. Each of her tusks had to be around sixty to seventy pounds in weight, far less than those that could be hacked from a fully grown bull, but still enough to make him smile. Yet as fine as they were, they would be but a minor addition to the stock he had amassed already, some from herds just like this one that he and his men had hunted for themselves, others either traded or taken from the scattered tribes that still clung to life close to the Nile. Soon he would forget which animal they had belonged to, their history and her story lost amidst the tales of so many.

‘Make ready,’ he hissed to the others in the shooting party. The Frenchman himself was not carrying a weapon, but there were ten men armed with elephant guns made by the finest gun manufacturers of Europe – Holland, Dickson of Edinburgh, Rigby, Gibbs, Webley, Reilly and Purdey, some single-shot smoothbores, others double-shot. Most were muzzle loaders, just a few the more modern breech loaders. With each man were two gun bearers, the lowest-paid of the Frenchman’s gang, there to relay weapons and reload, then to help hack the ivory from the corpses those guns would create before carrying it to the Frenchman’s encampment. The rest of his men waited behind the ridge, some mounted ready to give chase after any wounded elephant that bolted, others controlling the hunting dogs that would be released in the aftermath of the shooting to corral and contain as many of the wounded beasts as they could.

Around him, the men lined up their first shot, taking their time, making sure.

Then the herd sensed their presence.

The Frenchman did not know how they had been spotted, but there was no time to dwell. The females started to circle, facing into the wind then away from it, trunks swinging as they tasted danger in the air.

‘Fire!’ The Frenchman shouted the command. The time for stealth was over.

It was an easy shot, one a child could make. Every man with a gun was an experienced hunter who had done this a hundred times.

Not one of them missed.

Heavy bullets seared through the early-morning air, the sound of each fierce retort punching into the ears of every man in the Frenchman’s gang.

All hell broke loose.

Trumpets of alarm. Shrieks of pain. Fear. Panic. Distress.

Some of the herd were hit in the head, heavy rounds driven by fine-grained black powder gouging deep before hitting the hard bone of the skull. Others struck the elephants in the shoulder, the fast-moving projectiles cutting into the softer flesh and tearing far into their bodies.

Yet not one elephant fell. The elephant guns fired heavy-gauge lead shot, but even such bullets moving at close to one and a half thousand feet a second were not powerful enough to kill the enormous creatures by themselves.

The gun bearers handed forward second guns kept ready for this moment, then reloaded the now emptied first guns as fast as they could, hands and fingers moving through the process with skill honed by hours upon hours of practice.

The herd started to run. With blood streaming from their wounds, they tried to flee from the deadly storm that had torn into them. Not one made it more than four or five yards before the hunters’ second shots punched into their flesh.

Four females fell, great bodies thumping hard onto the forest floor.

The rest ran on.

‘Go! Go! Go!’

At the Frenchman’s command, the men at the base of the ridge rushed forward. Horses snorting. Dogs barking. Men shouting. All added to the chaos of the moment, the sounds mixing with the terrified screams of the herd as they tried to escape the ambush.

The men with the guns rose from the ground, the need to hide away long gone now. More shots were fired as freshly reloaded guns were handed forward. More animals fell, bodies tumbling into the dirt. Blood flowing into the tangled greenery on the forest floor.

The matriarch had heard the sounds of gunfire before. She knew the threat it posed to her family. She raised her trunk high as she trumpeted into the sky to encourage those that could to follow, then ran hard, fast, thrashing through the undergrowth, three females and half a dozen calves doing their best to stick with her. Every adult beast was bleeding, grey skin slathered with red.

The dogs and the horses chased them down.

None of the herd would be allowed to escape.

The men on horseback started to fire; revolvers, shotguns and carbines shooting fast. Even the lighter bullets struck the wounded animals hard, slowing them, hurting them. With dogs and horses chasing them down and heading them off, the herd had no choice but to turn back.

It brought them back into the range of the hunters with the guns.

Shots came at them the moment they turned. More bullets struck them, gouging, tearing, cutting deep.

The last of the young females went down, her despairing trumpet of agony ending abruptly as she died a bloody, vicious death.

Only the matriarch still stood.

She came to a halt, blowing hard, blood flowing freely from the dozen rents in her flesh. She stared at the men, horses and dogs that surrounded her, shaking her great head as she tried to understand the end that Fate had decreed for her.

The Frenchman came closer, pace slowing as he closed on the last elephant standing.

He stopped then, looking at her in admiration. She was a magnificent creature that inspired awe even in the fast-beating heart of the man who would soon order her death.

‘Here.’ A breathless voice announced the arrival of one of his men at his side.

‘Are you loaded?’ The Frenchman’s voice rasped as he snapped the terse question.

‘Yes.’

‘Then get ready.’

The two men were no more than twenty yards from the huge beast they had hunted down.

The matriarch stood still, eyes moist, a single fat tear running down the side of her head where it mixed with the blood flowing from the deep crevices the hunters’ bullets had carved into her skin. She stared back at the two men. Beast facing her hunters.

‘Kill her.’ The command left the Frenchman’s lips in barely more than a whisper.

The man at his side pulled the trigger.

He could not miss. The heavy round punched into the matriarch’s forehead, blowing out her brain, and she dropped like a stone.

It was over.

‘Make sure they are all dead.’ The Frenchman spoke in English, directing his men to the line of bodies ahead. Few of the elephants had been killed outright. Most of them still moved, bodies heaving and twisting where they had fallen.

His men swarmed forward. All understood what had been said. It was the sole prerequisite for being included in the Frenchman’s party, the language the only one shared between the polyglot group. Otherwise, all a man needed was a pair of working arms and legs, and a conscience not troubled by killing.

The Frenchman followed his men until he stood over the body of the matriarch. She was quite dead, but that did not stop the flow of blood that poured into the warm soil from the dozen rents in her flesh. The Frenchman cared nothing for the sight of so much blood; he had seen enough in his life for it not to offend. He had eyes only for the animal’s tusks, and he tutted as he saw a fat crevice running the length of one of the pair. Its value had been halved in an instant. And that did offend.

Around him his men were doing as he had ordered. Any elephant left alive was killed where it lay. Shots came one after the other, the sickening thump of bullet striking flesh sounding clearly.

‘Herman.’ The Frenchman summoned one of his men, a German from Munich who was the best shot amongst them and who would do whatever he was told, no matter what.

‘Ja?’

‘Get the blacks. Make a start.’

The German did not so much as twitch at the curt command. ‘Ja, stimmt.’ He turned to do his master’s bidding.

‘And kill those noisy bastards.’ The Frenchman gestured to the calves, which were whimpering forlornly as they thumped their trunks against the corpses of their freshly slaughtered mothers, their distress both loud and pitiful.

‘Jawohl.’

The Frenchman nodded as the German went to do as he was told. It would take a good fifteen minutes for the main body of his party to be brought forward, the tribesmen with the hatchets and butchers’ knives who would hack the tusks from sockets of bone; these men had been left far from the ambush lest they warn the herd of the presence of the killing party.

He checked around one last time, making sure there was no danger that he had missed. The corpses were already attracting attention, the vultures and the marabou gathering ready to feast on the bones and flesh that would be left behind, drawn to the smell of blood that would taint the air for miles around. His men would have to work quickly. He wanted the job done long before night fell.

Herman directed some of them to kill the calves. Laughter followed as a couple of the calves tried to flee at the last, the men making a game of shooting them down. The Frenchman paid it no heed. His men had done well. They deserved a little fun. And it would not last long. They were good shots.

As he stood there, he carefully removed the single black glove from the wooden hand that had replaced the one he had lost in Mexico. As ever, the stump was hurting. He unbuckled the wooden prosthetic, then slid it from the leather cup that covered his arm from wrist to elbow. Tucking it under his arm, he used his right hand to massage his left forearm, his fingers kneading the aching flesh, not caring that some of his men looked his way. He never hid his disfigurement. It was a part of who he was now. He had nothing to hide. From anyone.

Only when his arm had stopped paining him did he push the carved wooden hand back onto the leather cup. It took but a moment to buckle the straps that held it in place, the fingers of his right hand well practised at the action. Then he slipped the glove back on, taking time to adjust the articulated fingers so they formed a fist.

Job done, he went to find some coffee. He would play no part in the butchery that was to follow. His men would make sure the tusks were removed and made ready for the journey back to their encampment. The rest of the animals would be left. He had no use for dead flesh. It could not be sold and so it would be abandoned. Eventually the carrion feeders would strip the flesh from the bones, the skeletons left as a lasting memorial to a herd that had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Life did not matter. Not here. And not when it belonged to animals like those that had died that morning. He was no more moved by their plight than he was by the fate of the cattle led each morning to the butcher’s yard. The only thing that mattered was their price, and that morning had yielded him a fine haul.

The sun had still not fully risen over the forest, yet it had already been a good day.



Ezbekiyeh Square bustled with life. It was a little after six in the evening, and locals swarmed across the plaza in enormous numbers, each one moving with purpose now that the sun was setting and the cooler air of evening was making itself felt across the great city. The noise was incredible. The call to Maghrib prayers echoed from tall minarets, whilst in the square itself, hundreds of voices clamoured for attention.

The wealthier merchants were standing by their carts, goods displayed proudly for all to see, whilst poorer street vendors spread their meagre wares on the ground. Both groups were working the crowd, their bold claims and vague promises shouted with the same confidence and swagger no matter the status of the seller. Water carriers were there in numbers, heavy clay amphorae clamped tight to their backs in tight wicker sheaths, the tin cups that hung down onto their chests clanging as they clashed together, their cries adding to the clamour. Boys led donkeys through the throng, high-pitched voices competing with one another as they tried to sell their beasts’ backs for a few piastres. With them came men carrying snakes, carpets, bags full of fish, baskets of bread or any other of the thousand commodities that were demanded by the denizens of the city.

The few Europeans in the crowd stood out, the sombre greys and blacks of their tailored clothing so very noticeable amidst the pale galabia of the locals. These ubiquitous long robes came in dozens of shades, from whites, creams and greys to the palest blue of a winter sky. Men wearing turbans added a splash of colour to the scene, those who favoured a brightly coloured yellow or red cloth in place of a simple brown cap or battered red fez bringing a gaudy warmth to the beguiling palette of colours.

The consul general’s agent wrapped his shawl tighter over his borrowed galabia as he paused at the corner of Boulevard Halim, close to the side entrance of Shepheard’s Hotel. He stood still, a living statue, eyes scanning the great horde ahead. He was early, and so he would have to wait. He leaned against the wall of the hotel, counting off the seconds whilst taking time to survey the crowd. He was searching for danger, for a sign that someone in the great crowd was aware of his presence. He had learned to be cautious. He might no longer be on the battlefield, but that did not mean he was safe. Even here, surrounded by a thousand people, he knew he could be in danger. He would not be being paid if he were not.

Enough time passed. He moved on, walking into the great square that was the beating heart of the vibrant city of Cairo. The whole area had been cleared over the course of the last few months, the canal that had been dug in a futile attempt to prevent it flooding during the annual inundation now filled in, the bruised earth still clearly visible beyond the macadamed surface of the main road that ran straight through the plaza’s centre. The houses of the Copt quarter, which had once butted up to its northern flank, had been torn down, to be replaced by empty building plots.

The Khedive of all Egypt, Ismail Pasha, was said to have grand plans for the centre of his greatest city, just as he had grand plans for the whole of his country. Like so much of Cairo, the square was to be redesigned and modernised, a beautiful French pleasure garden planned for its centre, whilst new cafés and a theatre would be built to entertain and please all those who were drawn to the city now that the Suez Canal was soon to be opened. The country was at the start of a new age of prosperity, one that had been secured by the great waterway that would connect the Mediterranean to the Red Sea.

The agent strode into the throng, taking his place as just one more local amidst many. He was following his instructions to the letter, just as he had promised he would. He had built his fledgling reputation on his ability to do exactly as he was instructed, completing whatever mission he was given no matter what it took. He had only been in Cairo for six short months, but already Colonel Stanton, the consul general, knew who to send for when something had to be done, especially when that something needed an unofficial, and completely deniable, solution.

A party of Egyptian soldiers ambled through the crowd. They wore bright white trousers and tightly cut hip-length jackets with a single row of brass buttons down the front. Like all Egyptian soldiers, they sported red fezzes with jaunty little tassels that flicked back and forth as they moved. Their smart uniforms marked them out, but it was their loud voices and laughter that eased their passage through the locals, the men, women and children who found themselves in the soldiers’ path moving out of their way with alacrity. The agent ran his eyes over the soldiers’ faces as he passed, checking for any hint of familiarity before averting his gaze and letting them go by. He had only seen his contact once before, a clandestine rendezvous in the street behind the British mission two days before. Yet it would be enough for him to recognise the man. It would have to be. For there could be no failure. The consul general’s message had to be delivered.

The agent slowed his pace as he made it to the heart of the square, but his eyes were never still as he searched every face coming towards him. It was time to be patient, and to wait for the moment when he located the man he had been sent to hunt down. He made sure to match his posture to those around him, mimicking their gait and the slow shuffle of their sandalled feet. He did not fear the presence of the soldiers. He had fought men like them too many times to count. The Beaumont–Adams five-shot revolver he carried underneath his galabia was loaded and ready for use. He could draw it in an instant, a slit cut into the right hip of his robes for just that purpose. He did not doubt that if he had to fight, he would win. For he would kill without a qualm. No matter the consequences. No matter the cost.

He pressed on behind a man carrying a basket filled with eish baladi, the bread that was served at nearly every meal, as much a utensil as it was a filling part of the repast. It was easy enough to follow the baker then angle his path so that he curved back around until the setting sun was in his face as he headed towards the western side of the square.

Time was passing slowly, yet the agent felt no sense of impatience. The moment for action would arrive only when Fate was ready, whether he wished it to come quicker or not. Nothing could change the future. Only Fate could do that. She had been his mistress for well over a decade. He had placed his life in her hands the moment he had stolen a British officer’s scarlet uniform and taken it for his own. She had led him from one continent to another, first to the battlefield at the Alma River in the Crimea, then to the east to fight in India and Persia.

He had once believed that he had discovered himself in those early years. He had learned what it was to lead men in war, and what it took to survive. He had thrived, learning his skills then applying them in the bloody maelstrom of battle. These had been the years when he had believed himself to be a warrior and a commander. There had been pride then, stubborn, hard-earned, bloody-minded pride. Pride that had led him back to Europe and the slaughter at Solferino. Much of that pride had been left behind amidst the silent mountains of corpses that had filled the tiny villages of northern Italy, but Fate had not let him find peace. She had taken him further afield, and he had voyaged to the United States of America, where he had thrown himself into the dreadful destruction of the civil war that had torn the young country apart, once again leading men into battle before striking out on a lonelier path on his own. It had been in America that he had discovered that much of what he believed he had learned about himself was wrong. He was no warrior. He was nothing more than a killer with a gun and a sword. His survival was in Fate’s hands, not his own.

Another group of soldiers came towards him. Once again the consul general’s agent surveyed each face in turn. None matched the image he carried in his head. He was about to move on when he saw an officer trailing after the soldiers. In place of the bright white uniform of the men, the officer wore a longer tail coat in dark blue, paired with dark blue trousers. On the jacket’s shoulders were heavy gold-fringed epaulettes, but it was not the gaudy demarcation of the man’s rank that caught the agent’s attention. It was the moustachioed face under the red fez. A face he had seen before. The face of the man he had come to find.

The agent’s steps did not falter as he located his target. He shuffled on, eyes cast downwards, giving nothing away even as his heart beat faster. He let the officer and the soldiers get away from him before he changed course, sliding past two men carrying a huge rolled carpet then heading back the way he had come, sun warm on the back of his head.

A dozen or more people now separated him from the officer in his fine blue uniform. Enough to screen his presence as he began to follow, but not so many that he would lose sight of his target.

As he watched, the officer broke away from the soldiers and turned right, heading towards the southern side of the square, where the impressive house and gardens of Ahmed Pasha Taher looked out over the open space. The agent followed, making sure to hang back. The officer paused just once, turning to glance hurriedly over his shoulder, as if he felt the presence of someone behind him. Yet the moment passed quickly, and he pressed on through the crowd that was already starting to thin now that the chill in the air was making itself felt as the sun sank lower into the far horizon.

There were many tight, narrow streets on the southern side of the square. The officer entered the nearest, pace unaltered as he left the open space behind. For the first time, the agent hesitated. The locals who had screened him from view had dispersed. Now there was no one between him and the officer. To follow was to risk discovery, but there was nothing else for it, not if the message was to be delivered, and so the agent lowered his chin and pressed on.

The houses on either side of the street huddled close, upper storeys projecting out over the narrow roadway, sealing off the light and casting everything below into shadow. It was noticeably cooler here. The agent felt it keenly, the skin on his face tingling. He glanced up. The tiny sliver of sky that he could see beyond the encroaching buildings was getting dark.

Ahead, the officer increased his pace, as if the cold was urging him to his destination. The agent followed, eyes fixed on his target’s back. He kept them there as they walked further from the square, following the street for no more than a dozen yards before the officer turned into an alley even narrower than the first. Locals flowed both ways, voices filling the narrow space with noise. The agent paid the babble no heed, mind focused on his target and nothing more.

The two men kept moving, as if locked together by an invisible tether. The agent lost his bearings within the first five minutes. The labyrinth of streets on this side of town was impossible to navigate for anyone who had not been born here. In many ways, it reminded him of the cramped alleys of Whitechapel, in London’s East End. Away from the main thoroughfares, a newcomer to the city would find themselves lost in moments. But that did not matter this night, and he did not spare a thought to finding a way out of the maze. That was for later. For when his mission was done.

Then the officer turned.

It was not for long. But it was just long enough for him to see the agent. For one long, drawn-out moment, the two men stared at one another, their eyes meeting for the span of a dozen heartbeats.

The officer began to run.

‘Shit.’ There was time for the agent to hiss the single word before he increased his own pace to match that of his quarry.

The chase was on.



The agent pushed his way through the crowd, elbows working hard to force a passage whilst trying to keep his eyes on the officer, who was fast disappearing from sight. It was hard going. Men shouted at him, faces creasing in sudden anger as he fought to shove past. He paid them no heed, ignoring hands that clawed at him or thumped against his shoulders as he bundled his way by.

The alley bent sharply to the right, then opened onto a small square. After the tight, claustroph. . .