The Rebel Killer

Book 0: Jack Lark

by Paul Fraser Collard

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

Paul Fraser Collard's roguish hero Jack Lark—dubbed 'Sharpe meets the Talented Mr Ripley'—returns once more, switching sides to join the ranks of the Confederate Army. This latest adventure will see Jack journey through the Southern states as the American Civil War continues in earnest and is a must-listen for fans of Bernard Cornwell and Simon Scarrow.

Jack Lark, once the Scarlet Thief, has abandoned the rolling Virginian hills and is on the run with Rose, an escaped slave girl who is more than his match. Soon he will find his way into the uniform of the Confederate Army in an adventure that will culminate at the Battle of Shiloh—the bloodiest conflict in American history at its time.

Release date: July 26, 2018

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 387

Sample

Virginia, 22 July 1861

Silence lay over the battlefield like a shroud. The man dressed in the uniform of a Union army officer crept through the early-morning mist like a ghost. He picked his way through the detritus of the fight with care, fearing the noise he would make if he were clumsy enough to kick a fallen musket, or any of the other thousands of items of military equipment strewn across the Virginian grassland that bordered the Bull Run river.

He paused, every muscle tensed, as he heard the sounds of soldiers. It was a reminder that he was treading on ice, not just bloodstained and powder-scorched grass. He waited, concentrating on the noises. The soldiers were close, but not so close as to allow him to be seen.

The mist wrapped around him as he waited, something more than just its cool touch making him shiver. He did not move off immediately. Another sound had emerged from the hushed morning air, the soft groans barely audible above the rasp of his own breathing.

‘Help me.’

The words were spoken clearly, and the officer placed their source immediately, the owner of the voice no more than half a dozen yards to his left.

‘Please. Help me.’

They came again, more urgent now, the voice cracking as the plea was repeated.

The officer did not move. He was not there to offer mercy. His nose twitched. The smell of burnt powder lingered, the whiff of rotten eggs present ever since he had left his shelter. And now he caught the taint of something else in the damp air. It was a familiar smell, one as common to his trade as the odour of sawdust was to a carpenter. The officer had smelt enough old blood and torn flesh to know what lay hidden in the mist.

‘Please. Help me. I beg you.’ The voice had changed. Desperation and pain now underscored the words. And there was fear too, the terror only the soon-to-be-dead could know making itself heard in the earnest appeal.

The officer turned his back and moved away quietly, noting the position of the voice only so as to be able to steer a course around it. He felt nothing. There was no shame in leaving. The voice belonged to a stranger, not to a friend or comrade.

He moved more quickly now and his boots scuffed against a fallen ammunition pouch. He kept low, his left hand held out in front of him like a blind man feeling his way forward. His other hand hovered over the holster on his right hip, its flap unbuttoned, the weapon inside cleaned and loaded. He had prepared for this scouting mission as he would for a day of battle. For he was far from home, and far from the men whose side he had chosen. Only a fool faced such a situation without a loaded and primed weapon, and a mind that was ready to use it without thought of compassion.

The mist thinned as the ground under his boots inclined. He slowed, snuffling the air like a hound sniffing a distant fox. The fetid miasma of putrid flesh caught in the back of his throat. It was strong enough to make him want to spit.

Ahead he saw the source of such a foul odour. The corpses lay in a line, their limbs twisted into the obscene shapes only the dead could make. The line stretched on for a hundred yards before its furthest reaches were lost in a denser patch of mist.

The officer recognised the formation of the dead soldiers well enough. The men had been fighting in line of battle, the double-rank formation in which they faced the enemy. The bodies he now looked at were what remained when the survivors had moved away. They lay where the line had fought, their deaths marking the ground where men had fired volleys that could gut an enemy unit in minutes.

He did not try to tally the numbers of the dead, but there had to be at least fifty corpses on ground stained black by their blood. He ran his eyes over the bloated flesh, looking only for a threat. There was no horror at the sight, or widening of the eyes as they gazed upon mutilated flesh and ripped, limbless bodies. It was a sight he had seen on a dozen battlefields, and it looked the same on every continent. Death was death. War was war. He had seen too much of both to be horrified by the sight of the broken bodies.

‘Who’s there?’

The officer squatted low the moment the challenge came at him. He cursed under his breath, a moment’s annoyance at having been seen, then went totally still, his senses reaching out to locate the picket who had spied him.

‘Show yourself.’

There was little conviction in the sentry’s demand. The officer heard the weariness in the voice and understood it well enough. The previous day had witnessed a battle the likes of which had never been seen before on American soil. The army of the Union had attacked hard, their ambitious flanking manoeuvre eventually crushed by a Confederate army that had refused to recognise when it was nearly beaten. The officer understood the sentry’s exhaustion, for he felt it himself. He had fought for the North, for those seeking to preserve the Union. Like the rest of his chosen army, he had ended the day in flight, his companions killed or otherwise lost to him. Save for one.

‘Show yourself or I’ll shoot.’

The last demand came with more authority. It allowed the officer to place the sentry. Still crouched, he set off, moving briskly, his tired muscles tensed, ready for the threatened shot. It never came. He was not surprised. Even the most anxious picket would hesitate to fire on a single shadow.

The mist thinned as he retraced his steps. Yesterday had been stiflingly hot, and already today promised to be little different. He could feel the heat beginning to build, the sudorific air already starting to press down on the scarred earth that had been chosen by the generals as the field of battle. The mist that sheltered him would not last for long.

The barn that had been his refuge overnight loomed into view. When he had left it just under half an hour earlier, he could see little more than the doorway. Now the whole thing was visible, a reminder that it was time to leave.

‘Rose, are you there?’ The officer paused at the door and hissed the question. He might have been dressed in the uniform of the Union army, but his accent came straight from the streets of east London.

‘Yes.’ The reply was almost instant. Rose stepped into the doorway, a mocking smile on her face. ‘Did you think I would’ve left all by my lonesome?’

‘I wouldn’t put it past you,’ the officer answered, no hint of a smile on his lips. He saw her scowl as she spotted his tension. It was a rare expression. Rose would more often mock than berate; tease when others would complain. It was one of the things he liked about her. The fact that she was pretty merely added to her attraction. At that moment, there was a hint of pink on the tips of her cheekbones, the colour sitting well on her dark skin. Her hair was pulled back, its soft curls tied into a purposeful ponytail. She usually wore it loose, letting it wrap around her face so that it hid the scars that marred one side of her jaw. Now she faced him with her disfigurement on show. She no longer had reason to hide anything from him.

He glanced over his shoulder, wary now that the sun was burning away the mist, then pulled his companion back into the barn and out of sight.

‘What did you find?’ Rose asked the question quietly, sensitive to his mood.

‘They’re still all around us. We need to get moving.’

‘So be it.’ She nodded as she replied. There was no hesitation. She accepted his decision without a murmur. ‘We cannot stay here. Those sechers will want the fodder. Are you up to this?’

The officer scowled at the doubt in her tone. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Are you sure?’ Rose stepped closer to him. He towered over her, and she was forced to crane her neck back as she considered his face. She smiled, then lifted her right hand so that she could brush her fingers across his cheek. There they lingered, tracing the thick scar that ran across the left-hand side of his face. It had been left by a mutinous sawar’s sword outside the walls of Delhi four years earlier and was a reminder of failure, of the moment when a woman he had come to care for had been snatched away from him, never to return. It was one of the dark memories, one of the demons that he kept locked and chained in the recesses of his mind where he refused to venture.

‘Let’s get going.’ There was a harsh quality to his voice now.

‘I’m ready.’ Rose smiled as she heard censure in his tone. ‘What are we waiting for?’

The officer bit back a brusque reply. It would be easier if he were on his own, if he didn’t have Rose to consider. He was used to fending for himself. He was a wanderer, a man with neither home nor family, his connections in the world little more than fleeting gossamer-thin strands that could be broken at a moment’s notice. Yet now he was saddled with a woman. The choices he would make were no longer his alone, and such a complication would surely only serve to make his life harder.

‘You can go on without me if you like.’ Rose took a pace backwards as if she read his thoughts. ‘I can look after myself. I’ve done it before; I can do it again.’

The officer looked at her sharply. He saw no fear on her face as she suggested that he abandon her. It was a reminder of what had drawn him to this former slave turned housemaid. There was a spark deep in her eyes and devilment in her gaze. She was a challenge that he had been unable to ignore.

‘No.’ He spoke quietly and reached his hand out towards her. ‘We’ll walk our chalk together.’

‘We’ll do what exactly?’

He nearly smiled at her reaction. It was a common enough phrase on the streets of Whitechapel, where he had been brought up, but he was a long way from there, so he tried again. ‘We’ll go together.’

‘You’d better speak clear, else it’ll be a long, hard day.’ She took his hand as she delivered the rebuke.

‘Yes, ma’am.’ He squeezed her hand in reassurance. There was nothing else to say.

He led the way outside and into the last of the mist. His early-morning excursion had given him a fair idea where the closest Confederate troops were. He paused, taking one last moment to summon a plan. He thought about discarding the uniform he was wearing. It was the dark blue chosen by his regiment, the 1st Boston Volunteer Militia. Many of the Union regiments had decided upon a different uniform, the army fighting its first major engagement with many of its soldiers not able to tell friend from foe. This self-created confusion was just one of the many mistakes the inexperienced soldiers had made that day.

Yet there was little point undressing. If they escaped the immediate area then there was every chance they would come across Union soldiers, the broken army sure to have scattered to the winds as it fled the field of battle. His officer’s insignia might well save them, and so he decided he would keep wearing it, even though it was filthy, the dark blue cloth stained black with dried blood, and covered with muck and dust from the battlefield.

With Rose’s hand held firmly in his, he took them west. Neither spoke as they walked away from the barn that had sheltered them overnight. With the sun on their backs they made for a dense thicket of woodland. It was time to leave the battlefield behind.

They heard the sound of movement at the same moment. Both stilled, with little more than a glance exchanged. Someone was rushing through the wood at speed.

‘Just one.’ The officer hissed the words at Rose, who nodded by way of confirmation.

He let go of her hand, freeing his own. It moved to his holster. The Colt was cool to his touch as he drew it. It was a beautiful weapon, made to be so much more than just a simple instrument of death. The metal had been polished so that it shone like silver, and the grips on the handle were inlaid with ivory covered with intricate carvings. It was the weapon of a rich man, one the officer had coveted since the moment he had seen it given to another.

The action of drawing the revolver felt good. He switched it to his left hand, holding it just as he did in battle. Its weight reassured him and lent him power; the same power that propelled him into the fight certain of his own ability. He was a man who knew his trade in a way that only years of experience could bestow.

‘Stay behind me.’ He gave the instruction softly, then took a step forward. The fingers of his right hand flexed as he considered drawing the sabre he wore on his left hip. He would feel better facing any confrontation with weapons in both hands, but he did not yet know what awaited him, and he wanted to keep the hand free in case he had to grab Rose. So the sword stayed in its scabbard.

He felt Rose reach out, her hand resting on his shoulder in a moment’s reassurance. The gesture pleased him far more than he could have imagined.

The noise stopped for the span of a dozen heartbeats, then came again, now closer than before. There was time for the officer to take one last deep breath before the figure of a man emerged from the wood no more than six yards to his front.

For a moment, the two men stared at one another. The stranger wore a dark blue uniform similar to the one the officer wore. Yet it lacked the bright buttons and the sky-blue shoulder straps with their golden thread. Its sleeves were free of the markings of any other rank.

Neither man spoke. The officer stayed stock still, the revolver held low. The stranger stared back at him, his tongue flickering anxiously across his lips. Then he began to move, slowly at first, his body always turned towards the officer. Step by step, he passed across the clearing, his eyes always watching for any sign of reaction. He did not so much as breathe a single word.

He covered a couple of yards, each movement slow and deliberate, as if he were wary of startling the officer into action. Then he bolted away, crashing through the undergrowth like a deer finally awaking to a hunter’s approach.

The officer had not moved the whole time. Now he turned, a hint of a smile flickering across his face as he looked back at Rose. ‘He was in a hurry and no mistake. The rude bugger didn’t even say good morning.’ He spoke softly lest his voice carry too far into the trees.

Rose smiled at the jest. ‘Well, you don’t look none too friendly. I ain’t surprised he ran off.’

‘You saying I’m that ugly?’

Rose reached out, her hand holding the officer’s chin as she made a play of inspecting his face. ‘Well, you ain’t what I’d call wholesome. You’re a little battered around the edges and I reckon you’d scare the hell out of any babes coming your way, but I suppose you’re not all that bad.’ She chuckled at her own words, then released her grip.

The officer almost laughed. They were far from any notion of safety, yet still Rose could find something to tease him about. It spoke well of her spirit. His earlier mean thoughts had done her a disservice. She was no burden. He was not saddled with her; he was fortunate that she had chosen to give herself to him. He held the thought close, repeating it in his mind in the hope that it would settle, that it would become an inalienable truth.

‘And what are you smiling about? It weren’t that funny.’ Rose watched him carefully, with the same look on her face a sane person might wear when confronted with someone they suddenly realised was as mad as a hatter.

‘I’m happy.’ He answered honestly.

‘You’re happy now? Here? Like this?’ Rose shook her head at such a foolish notion.

‘I’m with you, love. How can I be anything but happy?’ The officer was not lying, but he would never be able to put the feeling properly into words. He was happy because he felt alive in a way that he had almost forgotten. For all its horror, the battle had let him be the person he knew he was meant to be.

‘Well, I reckon that makes you a crazy fool, Jack Lark, but I think that’s why I like you.’ Rose still regarded him warily, but there was a smile on her face now.

Jack looked back at her and wondered again at his own foolishness. Rose might be correct. He may well be a madman. But if he was, then he was a happy one. He might be lost in the woods and be surrounded by an entire enemy army, but at last he was free.



‘Do you see them?’ Jack whispered the question directly into Rose’s ear.

‘Uh huh.’ The reply was delivered just as softly.

They were crouched in a thicket, deep in a wide swathe of woodland around a mile from the barn where they had sheltered overnight. Jack had brought them to a stop, screening them from view the moment he heard the sounds of more than one man moving through the same trees. He held them there, his hand placed on Rose’s back. He could feel the beat of her heart, and her body trembled ever so slightly under his touch. He savoured the sensation, his fingers splaying out so that they could pick up every reverberation.

‘Wait here.’ He hoped the single command would hold her in place. With reluctance he removed his hand, then drew his revolver before easing himself to one side, both to improve his view and also to give him space to use his sabre should the need arise.

The two men he had spotted were dangerously close. There were no pickets, or at least none that he could see. At first he could not work out what they were up to. Neither wore much in the way of uniform. Both sported a grey jacket and they wore matching trousers made from an extravagant chequered cloth. Jack wondered if that meant they were family, perhaps even brothers, their mother or sister working on the same fabric in the production of their gaudy trousers. He was almost certain that they were Confederates. He had not seen a single Union regiment in anything less than the most splendid uniform. The same could be said of much of the Confederate army, but there had been plenty of Southern soldiers who had turned up to the battle in nothing grander than their ordinary homespun clothes.

The men may have lacked a fine uniform, but both were armed. From his vantage point, Jack could see they were carrying what looked to be smoothbore percussion-cap muskets, a weapon that had little place on a modern battlefield now that rifle muskets were being manufactured that made the older versions obsolete.

The previous day, the Union troops had had the advantage, with many of their regiments armed with modern Springfield rifle muskets. They had decimated the Confederate troops, the powerful rifles vastly more effective than muskets that were little changed from those carried by the soldiers who had fought in the Napoleonic campaign fifty or so years before. Yet not even the superior rifles had been able to secure the North a first, decisive victory, and Jack knew not to take the humble soldiers he was studying lightly.

Both of the Confederate men were armed with more than just muskets. They wore long bowie knives at their waists, and one also carried a revolver. They were well armed and confident, their loud voices and braying laughter a sure indication that they felt no sense of danger.

They were busy with something on the ground, yet Jack could not make out what was holding their attention, his viewpoint only allowing him to observe the men from the waist up. He shifted further to his left, his hand holding the revolver tightly as he moved as quietly as he could. Only then did he get a glimpse of the ground around the two men’s feet.

Four bodies were sprawled in the dirt. One of the Confederate soldiers was squatting down as he rifled through their clothing. There was no doubt in Jack’s mind that the men on the ground were long dead, but there was doubt whose side they had been on. They wore grey uniforms, their colour not dissimilar to the jackets worn by the pair of Confederate soldiers.

As he looked more closely, however, he could see that one of the dead was an officer, the twin gold bars on sky-blue shoulder straps identifying him as a captain of infantry. The rank markers made it certain that the men were from the Union army. A number of the Northern regiments had worn a dark grey uniform, and he was almost certain that the men he was now looking at came from one of the New York militia regiments that had fought close to the 1st Boston.

A series of loud whoops greeted the discovery of something interesting in the officer’s clothing. The man squatting over the corpse stood up, a fine gold pocket watch dangling from a chain held up for his friend to admire.

The second man stood and gawped at the find, a look of disgust on his face as he saw his comrade’s good fortune, before he bent down and started to go through the clothing of another of the dead men. After a moment’s searching, he grunted in disgust, then stood up holding nothing more valuable than a letter and what Jack supposed to be a photograph that he had pulled from the man’s pocket.

‘Why, look at this fine Yankee bitch!’ He leered at the photograph, making a show for the man still studying the pocket watch.

‘Let me see!’ His companion slipped the looted watch into a pocket, then snatched the photograph. He hooted with glee as he looked at the image. ‘Why, she is fine indeed!’

The man who had found the photograph scowled, then grabbed it back. ‘That’s mine. I think I’ll be keeping it for myself.’

‘We all know why that is!’ His companion raised his voice mockingly. ‘I reckon I know you well enough to figure out what you’ll be looking at when that little fist of yours gets busy under your bedroll tonight.’ He hooted as he finished speaking, his face creased into a smile.

His mockery was enough for the man with the photograph to crush it, then toss it onto the dead officer’s chest along with the letter. ‘I will not. I ain’t interested in no dirty Yankee bitch, so you shut your filthy mouth, Adam Hunt, before I shut it for you.’

The threat was enough to have the man with the looted pocket watch backing away. ‘Easy now, Seth, easy. I meant nothing by it.’ He bent down to pick up his musket from where he had left it on the ground. ‘You know I’ll share the money I get for the watch. Ma would tan my hide if I didn’t. Now we’d better get out of here and see if we can find ourselves any living Yankees to kill.’

He made to move off, then paused, his head cocked as he listened. He held the pose for no more than a handful of heartbeats before he turned and stared directly at the pair of fugitives hiding no more than a dozen yards from where he stood.

Jack reacted on instinct before any notion of a plan entered his head. He charged at the pair, his only thought to prevent them revealing his presence to any other Confederates in the area.

He drew his sabre as he thrashed through the undergrowth. The blade had been cleaned, but there were still the dark marks of old blood etched into the scars and notches it had taken the previous day. He felt the power in the bloodied and battered steel. It thrilled through him, wiping away the fatigue that only a day’s fighting could force into a man’s body.

There was barely time for the man who had plundered the gold pocket watch to cry out before Jack was on him.

His first blow was wild. The Confederate soldier threw his musket up in a desperate parry that blocked the cut and knocked the sabre away. Jack saw the flash of joy rush into the man’s eyes before he raised his left hand and smashed his revolver into the side of the man’s head. It was a cruel blow, the beautifully crafted handgun reduced to nothing more than an expensive cudgel. It knocked the Confederate to one side, the blood rushing from the crack in his skull.

Jack grunted as the blow landed. He felt nothing as he recovered the sword from the man’s parry, then slashed the steel into the side of the man’s neck. The man tried to scream as the steel drove deep. No sound came. Instead blood filled his mouth, his terrified cries drowned as Jack twisted the steel then ripped it free from the inevitable suction of the man’s flesh.

‘Adam!’

No more than a handful of seconds had passed since the Confederate with the pocket watch had spied Jack and Rose hiding. In that time, his companion had not moved so much as an inch. Now he stared as his brother fell to the ground, hands clawing at the ruin of his neck, his mouth emitting a dreadful series of gurgles and gulps as blood gushed from the horrible wound.

Jack could see the rabid fear in the man’s eyes. It would be easy to gun him down where he stood. The blood-splattered revolver he held in his left hand was loaded and primed for just such a fight as this. Yet he had killed one man in near silence, and he saw no need to open fire and draw the attention of any more enemy soldiers. He recovered the sabre, a grotesque spray of blood and gobbets of flesh flung from the blade as he swung it ready to launch the next blow.

The Confederate soldier named Seth saw the movement. His mouth opened, but no sound came out, any cry of fear or hatred lost as he realised Jack was coming for him. He did not run, but stood his ground, his musket presented forward as he readied to defend himself.

It was bravely done. It was no small thing to stand your ground when a man came at you with a blade dripping with gore. The Confederate braced himself, his knees flexing and his body tensing as Jack swung the sabre at his head. His musket punched up, the wooden stock taking the full force of Jack’s first attack. It was there again as Jack recovered the blade and swung it in a second blow, the sabre gouging a thick splinter from the musket’s stock.

But Jack was beginning to find his speed. He recovered from the second parry, then lashed out with his revolver. Seth’s musket lifted a heartbeat before the weapon would have connected with his skull. It was a good parry, the kind that could save a man in a fight. But not that day. Not against a man-killer like Jack.

Jack thrust his sabre forward the moment he saw the musket move to block the revolver. Even as his left arm rang from the brutal contact, he drove the blade home with his right. It took the Confederate in the chest, the bloodied steel tip ripping through the tawdry grey jacket and deep into flesh.

Seth tried to scream then, but Jack saw it coming and slammed his head forward, smashing it into the man’s face. The head butt came straight from the rookeries of London; it broke teeth and filled the Confederate’s mouth with blood.

Seth stood there, Jack’s sabre buried in his breast, blood dribbling down his chin like red wine from a drunk. Yet he tried to fight on, using his musket as a club and thumping it into Jack’s left arm. His wounds stole much of the strength from the blow, but it was still enough to knock Jack away and tear the sword from Seth’s flesh.

Jack ignored the flash of pain. He regained his balance and chopped his sabre down. It was a butcher’s blow and it took the brave Confederate at the junction of neck and shoulder. He followed it a moment later with another blow in the same spot, slamming the blade down with all the finesse of a slaughterman.

The twin blows drove the Confederate to his knees. He dropped his musket as he hit the ground, so was defenceless as he looked up at Jack one last time. It should have been a moment for pity, for the two men to stare at one another and wonder at the speed with which fate had brought them to this moment.

Jack looked deep into the other man’s eyes. He saw the fear there, yet he felt not even a shred of compassion. The moment the brothers had spotted the pair of fugitives, they had become a risk to Rose and to the future he might share with her. It was time to end it. He lashed out with the sabre, bludgeoning the steel into the side of Seth’s head and knocking him to the ground. The Confederate fell without a sound.

Jack turned away, searching the undergrowth for Rose. She had not moved during the short, bitter struggle. Now she rose to her feet and stalked forward.

‘Are they dead?’ She asked the question in a voice quite without emotion.

‘One is. One soon will be.’ He gave the cold answer, then began to wipe the worst of the gore from his sword on the jacket of the man he had slain. He could not return it to its scabbard until it was clean, lest it stick to the insides.

Rose came to his side. There was no hint of horror on her face; only sadness. She had seen Jack fight before. She knew what he was. She had accepted him.

She looked down at the second man, the one she had heard called Seth. He was still alive, yet it was clear that he would not last long. Already the flow of blood pulsing from his grotesque wounds was slowing, and his skin was the colour of week-old ash.

‘Give me your revolver.’ She made the demand of Jack in a voice wrapped in iron.

‘No.’ Jack saw what she intended. ‘Shoot him and you’ll draw more of them this way.’

‘You’d leave him to suffer?’

‘He’s as good as dead, love.’ Jack reached out and took a grip of Rose’s shoulder, turning her so that she faced him and no longer looked at the dying man.

‘He’s suffering.’ Rose shook off his hand. ‘His name is Seth and he is suffering.’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’ Jack let his exasperation show. He cared for nothing more than keeping Rose safe. Yet he knew her well enough to understand that she would not be swayed, so he stepped forward, hefting his blood-smeared sabre in his hand.

‘No.’ Rose commanded him with the single word. ‘I’ll do it. You’ve done enough.’

Jack stopped in his tracks. He had heard something in her tone. Was there a rebuke in her words? Or was she simply looking to play her part?