The Jack Lark Library

by Paul Fraser Collard

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

Available together for the first time, The Jack Lark Library by Paul Fraser Collard is complete Jack Lark backstory. **Includes brand-new, never-before-seen prequel: RASCAL** A must-read for fans of Bernard Cornwell and Simon Scarrow. 'An appealing and formidable hero' Sunday Express on The Last Legionnaire 'Enthralling' - The Times on The Lone Warrior 'Brilliant' - Bernard Cornwell on The Scarlet Thief From gin palace pot boy to a young Private who wears his red coat with pride, The Jack Lark Library reveals the early years of Jack Lark: Soldier, Leader, Imposter. RASCAL : Jack finds himself witness to the execution of Mistress Manning, murderess in the notorious 'Bermondsey Horror' case. ROGUE : When an unlikely ally draws Jack from the East End alleys into the bright lights of a masked ball, he gets a glimpse of another life... RECRUIT :Forced to leave London, Jack is now a young recruit, determined to make his way as a Redcoat. REDCOAT :Jack relishes the camaraderie of barracks life, but four years of harsh discipline hasn't blunted his desire to be more than just a Redcoat...

Release date: March 23, 2017

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 318

Sample

It was Saturday night and the Counting House was as busy as a whore aboard a recently docked man-of-war. For the men, women and children of Whitechapel, the gin palace was a refuge, the liquor it served by the pennyworth the tonic that granted a temporary respite from the grinding misery of their lives.

‘What’ll it be?’ The potboy snapped the question at a crone half hidden under a moth-eaten wool blanket. It was the same question he asked hundreds of times a day.

‘Pennyworth of the Bairn’s Favourite, if you please, Jack,’ the crone muttered, then fished beneath her filthy robes for the single coin, which she held out with great reluctance.

The potboy went about his task with little thought, the glass taken from beneath the bar and placed under the spirit tap bearing the name of one of the more fancifully titled gins. Practised fingers snapped off the perfect measure, the glass filled with not a drop spilt.

The penny was taken with the same proficiency from hands lined with ancient dirt. ‘Drink it and leave, you hear me?’ He gave the warning in the tired tone of someone who knew they would be ignored. He’d give the woman a half-hour before he turned her out, a pennyworth not sufficient to buy a longer stay in the light and warmth of the palace.

‘What’ll it be?’ The question was fired out at the next customer before the woman had time to move more than half a step away from the great slab of mahogany at one end of the palace’s single room.

‘Well hark at you, Mud Lark. Not got time for a civil word for your swellest chum?’

‘I’ve always got time for you, Tom-o.’ Jack glanced over the lad’s shoulder. Tom Stobbs worked for his father, a costermonger whose barrow was more often than not parked in the street outside the palace. The queue was thinning out and he had a few moments before his mother bawled at him to hurry up.

‘Then I’ll take a pennyworth of the good stuff, Mud, and thank you kindly.’

Jack’s mates had called him Mud for as long as he could remember, the similarity of his family name to the title given to those who searched the banks of the Thames for anything of value simply too good to pass up.

‘You know the good stuff ain’t a penny, Tom-o.’ Jack smiled at his friend’s bold demand. The good stuff came in bottles and was kept under the counter ready for the toffs who dared to venture into the streets of Whitechapel for entertainment. They were a common enough sight. The Counting House had been mentioned in a couple of cheaply published swells’ guides to London. The distinction had earned Jack’s mother a steady stream of well-to-do customers whom she could charge triple the going rate for the gin she did not water down.

‘Not even for a chum?’ Stobbs stuffed his thumbs under the lapels of the worsted jacket that was at least three times too big for his frame, and puffed out his chest.

Jack gave a short laugh. Stobbs possessed the physique of a sparrow, and it was not an impressive sight. ‘Not even for you, Tom-o.’

‘Then I’ll have a pennyworth of any of the others. I don’t care which one you choose, since we all know it’s the same watered-down shite.’

Jack laughed once more. The sound came easily, but he glanced nervously at the gin palace’s door again even as his hands reached for another glass.

‘Your guv’nor not in?’ Stobbs saw the look and was a good enough friend to know what it meant.’

‘He’s not my guv’nor.’ Jack’s laughter was cut short.

‘He’s with your ma.’

‘Don’t make him my guv’nor.’ Jack snapped the spirit tap shut and handed over the measure.

‘Don’t stop him beating the living shit out of you, though, does it?’ Stobbs took his measure, then flipped his penny onto the bar.

‘Fuck off, Tom.’ Jack snatched up the coin and tossed it into the jar under the counter.

Stobbs shook his head with mock disappointment at such a poor rejoinder. ‘I’ll be seeing you later then, Mud.’

‘Not if I see you first.’ Jack was already looking at the face of the next customer. ‘What’ll it be, Bill?’

‘I’ll take a quart, Jack-o my lad, free and gratis if you please.’ The old man was dressed smartly, with a red kerchief tied around his neck. He turned to look at the woman who had appeared next to Jack behind the bar. ‘Evening, Maggie.’

The woman turned her head to smile a quick greeting. Maggie Lampkin, owner of the Counting House, was short, not even five feet tall, but she made up for her lack of inches by piling her red hair into a mountain on top of her head. With her bright red lips and the thick gold chain around her neck, she was easily recognisable. Everyone knew Jack’s mother, her status in the grimy society of the rookery assured by her ownership of the palace.

‘Evening, Bill. You going to play for us?’ Maggie was pleased to see the man demanding the free quart of gin.

‘If you’ll have me.’ Bill Turner smiled, revealing the few brown stumps left in his mouth.

‘You know I like my music,’ Maggie replied, pouring a perfect measure of gin. ‘Give him a quart, Jack, and another when he wants it.’

‘Obliged to you, Maggie.’ The old man tipped his pork-pie hat in her direction, then looked expectantly at Jack.

‘You tuned that fiddle of yours?’ Jack asked as he reached for the larger drinking vessel.

‘Now why would I do that?’ The old man watched Jack hungrily as he began to pour. ‘It’d only spoil the sound.’

‘You mean for it to sound like a bloody cat getting strangled then?’ Jack smiled as he joked. The measure took longer to pour, so he had the time.

‘You a musician now, Jack-o?’

‘Nope.’ Jack snapped off the measure and handed it to Bill with a smile. ‘I ain’t got a musical bone in my body, but I have got ears.’

‘Then clean ’em out, son,’ Bill took the gin with a grin, ‘’cos they surely must be filled with shite if you think my fiddle sounds off.’

Jack laughed. Bill the Fiddle was a popular man around Whitechapel and he would play until the gin slowed his fingers and made him forget the tunes he had played for more years than Jack had been alive.

There were no more customers waiting in front of the counter, and those already served were busy clearing some space for the dancing that would surely start within a minute or two of Bill’s first jig. It gave Jack a moment to study the crowd. He was looking for trouble. With just his mother in the palace, it would be down to him to intervene if anyone kicked off. No one would dare fight if John Lampkin, his mother’s bedmate, were here. But Lampkin lived to his own schedule and would only turn up when it suited him, leaving Jack to deal with any ruckus that occurred in the meantime.

Bill the Fiddle’s appearance was being greeted with claps and coos of pleasure, especially from the bare-headed whores who paid his mother sixpence to work the crowd and use one of the rooms at the top of the short flight of stairs at the back of the palace. Maggie Lampkin looked after the girls like they were her own daughters, but only so long as they paid their dues and kept their fighting away from the place. She also limited their numbers so that each girl stood a decent chance of earning enough rhino to keep her off the streets.

‘Jack, stop bleeding loafing and get the empties.’

As ever, Maggie would not have her son stand idle. Bill the Fiddle’s appearance would slow the drinking for a while, giving Jack the chance to grab the empties and shove them back under the bar ready for the next round of punters.

He obeyed without question, moving through the crowd with ease.

‘You dancing tonight, Jack?’ An old man with rheumy eyes squinted at him as he hid his empty glass behind his cupped hands.

‘Maybe.’ Jack was wise to the trick and slipped the glass away from the man’s grasp. ‘I’ll give you ten minutes, Bert, so you can hear the first tune and lech at the girls when they prance about, but then you walk your chalk, you hear me?’

‘Yes, Jack.’ The old man lowered his gaze, the reply meek.

Jack had already moved on. A loud group of dockers were roaring with laughter in one corner of the palace. Two of the girls were with them, their red skirts bright amongst the drab, soiled clothes of the working men. The men with hooks in their belts had money in their pockets, and the girls knew where the trade would be liveliest. The sight made Jack wary, especially when he saw a familiar group of Irish labourers sitting near the fireplace. The Irishmen were already sending foul looks towards the brash dockers, and he knew it wouldn’t take much to kick off a brawl.

He looked for Bill the Fiddle, but the man was chatting to a couple of old gossips nursing their pennyworths so carefully that Jack knew he’d be sent to have a word with them before much longer. He hoped Bill would hurry up. The chance of a fight lessened when he started to play.

He pushed past a couple of children sharing a single glass of gin, their hands slapping at each other as they fought over the precious liquid. Their mother sat on a stall not far from the Irishmen, a baby feeding at her breast and her own drink in her free hand. He gathered up another pile of glasses, stacking them one on top of the other so that he built a tower that he balanced carefully in his right hand.

Bill the Fiddle had finally secured a seat in the corner of the palace and now dragged the bow across his instrument, sending the first discordant notes into the world. The palace hushed as he drew the sound out, holding it until the place was almost silent. There was a moment’s pause as he lifted the bow, the anticipation whispering around the room. Then he started to play.

The crowd cheered as Bill struck up with a jig, the jaunty tune filling the palace.

‘You going to dance with me, Jack?’

Jack nearly dropped the stack of glasses he had gathered. ‘Course I will, Mary.’ He had to swallow hard as he smiled at the girl who had interrupted him. He loved Mary. He knew it with all the certainty his eighteen years could give him. She was older than him and he knew full well how she earned her living. Neither fact lessened his adoration. For Mary was the most beautiful girl in Whitechapel, if not all of London, and he had loved her for as long as he could remember.

‘Then get rid of those bleeding glasses! Your ma won’t thank me if you drop the lot.’ Mary laughed as Jack stood in front of her, a beaming smile plastered across his face, the tottering pile of glasses held awkwardly against his chest.

Jack moved fast. It took him a moment to slip through the crowd and dump the glasses on the bar. The first dancers were on their feet by the time he turned with his arms now free. The jig was a fast one, the flurry of notes inspiring a wild, careering dance. Most of the crowd were already clapping and whooping, the music setting them free in a way the gin never could.

‘Come on, you.’ Mary was standing waiting for him, her hand outstretched.

Jack could not help the breath catching in his throat. Mary’s bodice was tight above her full red skirt. Her long, curly hair was clean and worn loose so that it fell around her bare shoulders. She was a rare beauty and men had to pay handsomely for the right to get between the sheets with her.

‘Stop bloody gawping!’ she shouted at Jack over the music, wagging a finger as he hesitated.

He needed no further encouragement. Moving quickly, he took his place in front of her and reached out to grab her wrist. Bill the Fiddle played fast, and Jack swung Mary into a turn, a moment’s thrill surging through him as his fingers touched her skin.

He danced without a care. He saw people grinning and cheering as he pulled Mary close for a moment before she twirled away. He knew a foolish smile was plastered across his face, but he did not care that he was revealing his feelings so openly. The music took him and he danced the only way he knew how, stomping and jerking like a recently landed fish, but with every fibre of his being committed to the rhythm.

He could smell Mary every time she came close. Her French perfume might be off a costermonger’s barrow, but it smelled better than rancid gin. Underneath the hint of pungent flowers, there was something else, something warm and earthy that intoxicated him in a way no cheap scent ever could.

He saw the way the other men stared at her as she danced. It was a look of hunger. He had seen the same look on the faces of drunks as they waited for him to pour a measure. One man, a docker, watched her more closely than most. Jack sensed she saw it too. Her gaze rested on the man every time she faced in his direction, the fleeting contact between the two sending a jolt of loathing through Jack’s veins. He could read every thought in the docker’s mind, thoughts that he knew would lead to a quick passing of coins and a short span of time passed in the room his mother put by for the whores.

The anger flooded through him. He hated the docker then, the force of his emotion strong enough to make him stumble, his feet taking him towards the man of his own accord, his hands balled into fists. The urge to fight took him completely.

He would not get the chance to act. One of the Irish labourers pushed past the docker. It was clumsily done, the premeditated move as subtle as a whore’s questions.

‘What the feck!’ The Irishman seemed to stagger, as if the docker had tripped him. The drink in his hand slopped onto the sawdust on the floor. ‘Did you just trip me, maggot?’ His affronted cry was loud enough to be heard even over the jig.

Bill the Fiddle stopped playing, the last note cut off abruptly.

‘Fuck off.’ The docker’s reaction was immediate.

The crowd moved as if to a secret signal, the atmosphere changing in an instant. The cheers and claps that had greeted the dancing were replaced by the scrape of chairs and the sound of boots on wood as those near the two men moved away.

‘That’s a drink you owe me, you fecking langer.’ The Irishman squared up in front of the docker. He was shorter by at least a foot.

‘Take it outside, boys.’ Maggie’s voice snapped the instruction, one that would be ignored.

Jack had pulled Mary close the moment the Irishman first raised his voice. His heart was pounding in his chest, with more than the prospect of the fight. His hand slipped around her waist.

‘I told you, fuck off.’ The docker knew what was coming and was clearly unconcerned. His hand rested comfortably on the handle of the hook tucked into his belt.

‘You giving me fecking orders now, is it?’ The Irishman took a half-pace backwards, then his fist shot forward. It was a good punch for a man who had drunk a dozen gins. It drove hard into the larger man’s stomach with enough force to double the docker over.

The docker’s mates saw the blow. With a roar they stepped forward, half pulling out the hooks that were both the tools and the emblems of their trade.

The evening’s second entertainment erupted in fine style.

Jack pulled Mary backwards. They were too close to the ruckus for comfort, and he would not see her caught by a stray blow.

The Irishmen and the dockers went for each other. Both sides were already two sheets to the wind, but that didn’t stop them punching and kicking with enough force to see the first blood being spilled as noses were pulped and lips were split.

‘Jack!’

Jack heard his mother shouting at him. He knew she would be more concerned about broken glasses and damage to the palace’s fixtures and fittings than she was for the faces of the brawling men.

‘Stay here.’ With reluctance, he slipped his hand from around Mary’s waist, leaving her in the crowd that was pressed to the far side of the palace. Not one person had thought to leave, the brawl as entertaining to the punters as anything Bill the Fiddle could conjure from his ancient instrument. Now at a safer distance, the crowd whooped and bayed encouragement, their roars and cries goading the fighters into the fray.

‘Have a care, Jack.’ Mary reached out and squeezed his arm, but did not try to hold him back.

Jack moved quickly. It was easy enough to dart forward and grab some glasses from a table near the fight. He dumped them on a table behind him, then slipped past a docker and an Irishman clutched in an awkward embrace.

An Irishman fell at his feet, the man beaten insensible by a docker’s heavy fists. Jack stepped over the man’s body then grabbed at a table and flung it out of the way before sliding a couple of stools across the floor before either side sought to use them as weapons.

A docker crashed into his side, the man rocked by a punch to the temple. The contact was heavy enough to knock Jack from his feet. He hit the floor hard, his teeth snapping together. A moment’s pain flashed through him as his elbow caught a floorboard, then he was scrambling to his feet and away from an Irishman intent on smashing his fists into a docker’s face.

As soon as he had his footing, he hauled another table away, then made a quick grab for a couple of glasses on the floor. He snatched them up a moment before his fingers would have been trampled beneath heavy boots.

The door to the palace opened, the sound of the bell attached to the frame barely audible over the noise of the ruckus. Jack hardly noticed the new arrival, intent as he was on dragging an unconscious Irishman out of the fray. It was only when he straightened up that he noticed that the crowd had fallen silent.

John Lampkin stood on the threshold of the palace. Little of his face could be seen under a derby hat pulled low.

He did not say a word.

Jack caught his master’s eye, then looked away sharply. The man who really owned the palace surveyed the scene, the flash of anger in his gaze enough to send an icy jolt running through Jack’s body.

The pace of the fight had slowed, its initial wild momentum failing as the combatants began to breathe hard and the hurts began to make themselves felt. But they still swung and punched, trading blows, the impacts and the grunts and snorts that followed them now clearly audible in the silence.

John Lampkin slipped the cudgel from his belt with practised ease. It was a favourite weapon in the rookery, and in Lampkin’s hands it was a killer. Then, with barely a pause, he stepped into the fray, bringing the club down hard on the crown of an Irishman’s head. The man fell instantly, all sense gone. Lampkin did not look at him again.

The palace’s master waded into the melee. He lashed out with the cudgel, battering another Irishman to the ground with a succession of quick blows. The crowd cooed at the display. No one cared that Lampkin ruthlessly targeted the Irish labourers.

‘Feck you.’ The Irishman who had started the fight lashed out. It was a weak blow, the effort already expended stealing the strength from the man’s arm. But it was well aimed and it caught Lampkin on the chin with enough force to rock his head back and knock the derby from his head.

Jack heard the crowd take a sharp intake of breath. They knew what would follow.

Lampkin took the blow without a sound. His cudgel moved faster than the eye could track, slamming into the Irishman’s throat. It was a cruel blow, vicious even. The Irishman staggered backwards, his hands clawing at his crushed windpipe, his sobs and chokes reaching the onlookers, who had fallen silent once again. He would be given no respite.

Lampkin’s face betrayed no emotion, the only change to his visage the red mark on his skin where the Irishman’s punch had landed. Now he went after the man he had already half killed. His first blow caught the Irishman on the side of the head. The sound of the solid oak shaft smashing into bone was sickening. The Irishman fell hard, his hands still clutched to the ruin of his throat and unable to break his fall.

Lampkin was on him the moment he hit the floor.

The fight broke up as the Irishmen still standing awoke to the danger. They pulled away, clearing a space around Lampkin and the fool who had dared hit him.

Lampkin straddled the Irishman on the floor, his free hand grabbing a handful of the man’s shirt and twisting him around so that he lay on his back, his face open and exposed. Then the palace’s master got to work, the blows coming without pause, a punch with his left hand followed an instant later by a blow from the cudgel gripped tight in his right, each one smashing into the Irishman’s unprotected face.

Not one person said a word as Lampkin beat the Irishman to a bloody pulp.

When he was done, he pushed hard on his victim’s chest and levered himself to his feet. He was blowing hard, his face dripping with sweat. His hands were smothered with blood, and still more spotted the front of his jacket and shirt. None was his.

He turned and pointed the cudgel at the tall docker, ignoring the droplets of blood that dripped from the shaft to splatter the sawdust on the floor.

‘You’ll pay for the damage.’ It was a statement, not a question.

The docker was a hard man, known to everyone in the palace as one who few would dare cross. Yet now he hung his head like a schoolboy and nodded as he felt John Lampkin’s gaze on his face.

‘You lot can stay the fuck here and buy so much gin that my lad will be dragging you out come closing. You owe me.’ Lampkin fired the instruction at the group of dockers before turning towards the few Irishmen still on their feet. ‘You potato-eating cocksuckers had better get these pieces of shit out of here while you still can.’ He used the cudgel to gesticulate to the Irishmen he had knocked down.

Orders given, he bent down to retrieve his fallen derby. Only then did he turn and nod towards Jack’s mother. ‘Good evening, love.’

‘Evening, John.’ Jack’s mother replied as if nothing untoward had happened. She did not so much as glance at the Irishman lying in a pool of his own blood, but she did glare at Jack as she saw him standing idle. ‘Get the bucket from the back, Jack. Clean up the mess, there’s a darling.’

Bill the Fiddle had not moved from his corner. Now he resumed playing, the notes of the jaunty jig filling the silence. It was loud enough to drown out the sound of the fallen Irishmen being dragged from the palace.

‘You going to dance with me now, Jack-o?’

Jack had finished cleaning the worst of the blood from the floor and was just about to toss down a few handfuls of fresh sawdust when the question interrupted him.

He glanced up and gave a half-smile. ‘I need to finish this.’ It was a young girl who had asked the question. Sophia was sixteen and as thin as a rake. Jack knew her well. She worked with her mother, a glove maker.

‘When you’re done, then.’

‘Maybe.’ Jack concentrated on the task, applying just enough sawdust to cover the bloodstain on the floorboards. His mother would only complain if he used too much.

‘Your ma likes me. She won’t mind you dancing.’

‘She doesn’t, and she will.’ Jack inspected his handiwork. The floorboards were barely visible. He bent down and picked up the bucket of dust.

‘Don’t be a curmudgeon.’

Jack shook his head at Sophia, then glanced around for Mary. He saw her talking to the docker who had been ogling her when she and Jack had danced. He had his hand on her hip and she was giggling at whatever foolishness he was whispering into her ear.

Jack sighed and walked back to the bar to dump the bucket. A few punters were dancing, and they swept into the space he had cleaned. Bill the Fiddle was well into his stride and the music came without pause. With the floor clean, it was as if the fight had never been. A man’s life had likely been ended, but not one person in the palace gave it a second thought.

‘Come on, Jack.’ As soon as the bucket was out of his hands, Sophia was tugging at them. ‘Dance with me. You know you want to.’

He could only smile at the girl’s persistence. Sophia was pretty enough. She had blue eyes and honey-blonde hair that she washed regularly enough for it not to stink like a rat’s nest. But she was bony and slender; she lacked curves. And she looked nothing like Mary.

‘Go on, Jack, dance with the poor wee thing.’ His mother had seen the exchange. She was beaming from ear to ear. ‘You can take a break. I’ll look after things for a bit.’

Still Jack hesitated. He looked around, his eyes roving over the crowd.

‘John’s walked his chalk.’ His mother saw the look on his face. She knew what it meant well enough. ‘He won’t be back till late.’

Jack felt the relief course through him. He could lower his guard, for a while at least. If his mother’s bedmate was still in the palace, he would not dare take a break, not unless he wanted another sort of break, the risk of a broken bone a very real one if Lampkin saw him idle. Jack had endured enough beatings not to want to incur another one. At least, not lightly, and most certainly not for a skinny girl with less meat on her than a rat’s leg.

Seeing the decision being made for him, Sophia pulled at Jack, dragging him away from the safety of the bar. As if on cue, the music slowed. Jack flashed a glance at. . .