‘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?
Rose crouched down next to the dying man. ‘Quiet now, Seth.’ She reached out as she used the young man’s name, her fingers brushing lightly across his forehead and pushing away a lock of hair that covered his right eye.
Seth whimpered at her touch. His lips moved as he tried to form words, but no more sound came out.
‘Hush now,’ Rose soothed him, her voice that of a mother to a disturbed child in the dark of the night. Her left hand continued to smooth his hair whilst her right reached down to his hip, where she carefully and slowly eased the bowie knife he wore out of its sheath.
‘Sleep now.’ She spoke the last words Seth would ever hear, then pushed the knife into his chest.
She had to work the blade as she eased it between his rib bones and then through the thick band of muscle beneath. Seth’s eyes widened for the span of a single heartbeat as the tip of the knife pierced his heart, and then he sighed and died quietly.
Rose pushed herself to her feet. Blood covered her right hand, but she seemed not to notice it.
‘God rest their souls.’ She muttered the well-worn phrase under her breath.
‘Yes.’ Jack looked down at the two men. He tried to find a moment’s pity, or even a flare of guilt. He failed. He felt nothing. ‘God rest their souls.’
Jack stood over the body of the dead Union officer and the cold corpses that surrounded him. He could smell them now that he was closer, the rank odour of their bloated flesh overwhelming the sweeter smell of freshly spilt blood. Yet the stink was no great deterrent, and he scanned around him one last time before he holstered his revolver and laid his sword on the ground.
He looked at the dead officer for the first time. The man stared back at him. His eyes were open. The twin lifeless orbs stared up at the sky, blank and glassy like the eyes in a stuffed animal. His mouth had lolled open and Jack saw lines of white teeth that were still bright and clean. Their colour stood out against the ashy pallor of the man’s face.
Jack supposed him to be in his late twenties, perhaps thirty at most. His beard was neatly trimmed, the black hair devoid of even a single rogue grey strand. It made him not that much younger than Jack himself, who was feeling every one of his thirty-one years in the aches and pains that racked his body.
They were men of the same generation, yet now one lay on his back, his hopes and ambitions stolen away along with everything he had ever been and ever would be. Jack’s own aspirations had been washed away in the ocean of blood he had seen shed, and he had lost much of himself along the way. Yet he could still feel something of what it was to long for a future. To want something other than what he already had.
He glanced at Rose. She was rifling through the clothing of the two dead Confederates, but he noticed she was still watching him closely. He knew she was the cause of this new-found longing. He had drifted for a long time, letting fate choose his path and allowing it to decide which direction he took. Now he wanted to reclaim his life. He would no longer permit fate to guide him. It was why he had fought, why he had butchered the two Confederates. Fate had placed them between him and this glimpse of a new future. He could not have let them stand in his way.
The wind rustled through the trees. It stirred the letter that the Confederate had tossed away with such disdain. Jack scooped up the pages. He supposed they comprised a final message, written in the days, perhaps even the hours, before the battle. A tight copperplate script flowed across the paper, yet he did not read it. Instead he bent forward and picked up the photograph that had been found along with the letter.
He straightened its edges then smoothed it out on his thigh as best he could. It was a common enough object, especially amongst Union officers, the fashion for cartes des visites creating a boon for the handful of photographers able to produce the stiff, awkward images of men in uniform and their proud families.
A flicker of a smile traced across Jack’s face as he remembered the one time he himself had been photographed, just a few weeks before. It had been at the behest of a young woman called Elizabeth Kearney, the daughter of the man who had employed him and one of the most beautiful women he had ever met. He still carried a copy of the photograph taken that day in his pocket as a reminder of a life he might once have been able to find.
He glanced down at the photograph in his hand. The dead officer stared out from the image, his face not wholly different to the one now shrouded with death, his eyes just as lifeless as they were at that moment, the photographer unable to capture even a flicker of the vitality that must once have lit them from within.
At his side sat a young woman. Jack could not help a moment’s scrutiny of her. He supposed her to be pretty, in a wholesome way. She too stared out from the photograph, but with what could possibly be a flicker of a smile playing across her face. He wondered what her name was. A glance at the letter told him it was addressed to a Caroline, a woman he supposed would now be a widow, although she would surely not know of her loss for some time to come. Her husband would be listed as missing, a common enough fate for a soldier. Jack wondered how long her misery would last; how many weeks or months, or even years, she would jump at every unexpected knock at the door. How many thousands of short-lived flares of hope she would experience in the belief that somehow her husband had returned to her.
‘Are you done?’ Rose called across to him, interrupting his musing. She pitched her voice low so that the sound would not carry far.
‘Yes.’ He stood up, trying not to wince as his back protested. He still held the letter. For a moment he was tempted to toss the pages back onto the dead officer’s chest, just as the Confederate had done. Yet his hand would not move. He knew these people now, a thin tendril of shared connection linking him to them. He stuffed both the letter and the photograph into a pocket.
‘Are you going to deliver those too?’ Rose asked.
Jack understood the reference well enough. He had come to Boston to deliver a number of letters. It had been that particular delivery that had led to his short career in the Union army. ‘Maybe I will. If I can.’
‘What does that make you then? A delivery boy?’ Rose came closer. ‘I thought you were meant to be a soldier.’
‘I was. I am. But I think I can be something else. There’s more to me than just that.’ The words formed thoughts that were still building their foundations in his mind. It had taken him a long time to accept what he was: a soldier and a killer of men. The prospect of being something different did not sit comfortably with him. Saying it aloud helped to make the fledgling thought take flight.
‘Is that so?’ Rose glanced behind her at the bodies of the newly dead. Yet she said nothing about them. ‘So what are you going to be, Jack?’
‘I haven’t figured that out yet.’
Jack made an inspection of the woods around them. It was not just out of concern for their safety. These thoughts for the future were too fresh to sit comfortably now he had released them to the world. He had not yet worked it out, but he did know that he would decide what he would do, what he would be; he would leave nothing to the whims of fate. He was still a soldier. It was all he had been, all he had known, for more than a decade. But he was beginning to hope that he could be more than that. Much more.
‘Well, you’d better start thinking. We can’t just wander around for ever.’
‘I know.’ Jack felt his determination harden. ‘I’m done wandering.’
He reached out, taking her bloodstained hand in his own. He might not have everything figured out, but there were some things that just made sense. Rose was one of them. His immediate future had one certain fixture in it, and for the moment, that was enough.
They walked through the wood in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Jack led them, Rose’s hand cradled in his. The warmth of her flesh felt good against his skin.
He did not set a fast pace. They moved slowly but steadily. Every few steps he paused, straining his hearing and listening for sounds of more soldiers. Only when he was reassured that they were still alone did he continue. As he walked, he reached out with his senses, trying to feel his way through the wood that surrounded him. He listened for sounds other than the breeze rustling through the trees and tried to detect the smell of men against the damp, earthy scent of a wood in summer.
The gunshot came suddenly.
They both flinched, reacting instantly to the sudden explosion of sound. Neither spoke, but they both crouched down, their heads turning from side to side as they tried to find the source of the shot.
‘There.’ Jack spotted them first. He pointed through a gap in the trees to where he could see a group of men.
‘Shit.’ He could not help the oath escaping as a second gunshot cracked out. This time it was followed by a dull thump, like the sound a barrel of gin made when it was dumped onto the ground from the back of a brewer’s wagon.
‘Let’s double back.’ He twisted on the spot, looking for another way round. He had no desire to fight again. They had not yet been seen, and so he could still search for an alternative route.
‘No, stay low. Wait it out.’ Rose gave the command.
He saw the sense in her words. Moving was a risk. They were less likely to be seen or heard if they just stayed where they were and waited for whoever it was to move on.
‘How many left?’ A deep voice barked the order.
The words helped Jack to place the group. They were twenty or perhaps thirty yards away. From what he could make out, they were standing in a small clearing. He heard a voice reply to the question, but he missed the words themselves. He forced his breathing to slow and concentrated on what he could see and hear.
He caught glimpses of men dressed in grey uniforms, moving around busily. He was trying to count their numbers when he saw a flash of blue amongst the grey. At least one Union soldier was in the midst of what had to be a large number of Confederate troops.
‘Well, get it done.’ The same deep voice came again. There was no hiding the annoyance in the man’s tone. ‘These whoresons led us a merry dance and we’ve wasted enough time here. Scouring this wood for yellow-belly Yankee fugitives ain’t about to take care of itself.’
‘Yes, sir.’ A second voice gave a nervous reply. ‘Come on, you son of a bitch.’
Jack heard the sounds of a scuffle. He moved slowly and carefully, easing his way forward until he could see more clearly. He did not have to move far.
His first thought had been correct. A group of around twenty Confederate soldiers were gathered in a clearing. Some were standing at ease, leaning on what appeared to be carbines. Those who were in motion were dragging a young man dressed in the dark blue uniform of a Union regiment towards a lone tree that stood within the boundary of the clearing. The Union soldier was not going quietly. He might have been bound and gagged, but he still fought against his captors, his body jackknifing and kicking for all it was worth.
‘Come on, you goddam Yankee bastard. There ain’t no point in fighting. Why can’t you just go quiet like your friend?’ snapped the man who had answered the command to get on with it.
Jack looked at the foot of the tree they were headed towards. A body dressed in the same blue uniform lay sprawled on the ground. He did not have to be any closer to know the man was dead.
‘Come on now,’ the Confederate soldier in charge shouted at the Union man, who was still fighting for all he was worth. ‘Do as you are told and make it easy on yourself.’
The man did not quit his thrashing, and it took four soldiers several long moments to drag him to the tree. Only when they had bound him to it with ropes already tied around its stout trunk did they move away, their hands busy rearranging their clothing that had been pulled this way and that by their prisoner’s struggles.
The Confederates were quiet now. The only sound came from the Union soldier, who was crying and moaning through his gag for all he was worth. His eyes bulged as the piteous sounds poured out of him, pleading with the men around him to relent.
‘Goddammit, why don’t you hush now?’ The man with the deep voice spoke firmly. ‘This ain’t a manly way to go.’
Jack saw the owner of the voice for the first time. The commander of the group was a tall man. He wore a light grey jacket, its sleeves decorated in an intricate pattern of golden thread that covered most of the fabric from cuff to elbow. He was tall almost to the point of being gangly, with a long, thin face covered with an unkempt, ragged beard that matched a wild thatch of grey hair so pale it was almost white. In his hands he carried a heavy revolver.
The man stepped towards the prisoner. He walked slowly and calmly, as if he had not a care in the world. For his part, the prisoner quietened, his moans and muffled pleas lessening in volume. He lolled against the ropes holding him to the tree, as if all the strength had been sucked from his body. Only his head moved as he watched the man walking towards him with eyes wide with fear.
‘That’s better. No sense going to your God whining like a goddam babe.’ The man with the revolver stepped closer, then stopped. He stood there holding the gaze of the prisoner. Then he raised the revolver slowly until it pointed directly at the bound man’s forehead.
‘I’m right sorry to do this to you, but that’s the way of it. You killed three of my boys and I ain’t about to pardon that, not since you murdered them in cold blood and all.’ He paused, his head cocked to one side as he smiled at the man staring back at him. ‘Now you give the good Lord my regards, but tell the son of a bitch I don’t have no plans to come see him any time soon.’ He pulled the trigger.
The gunshot was overly loud in the quiet of the wood, the retort echoing from the trees. At such close range the man with the revolver could not miss, and the prisoner’s whimpers were cut off in an instant as the heavy bullet shattered his skull.
‘Now that, boys, is how we deal with these whoresons.’ The man addressed the troops around him. ‘You all take a good long look. Remember this day and remember those sorry Yankees, just as you remember our poor boys they killed.’ There was no trace of emotion in his voice, his tone unchanged even after committing cold-blooded murder.
He turned his back on the man he had shot and was about to walk away when he paused to look around him. Jack had a good enough view to see his eyebrows furrow as he glanced over his shoulder, as if becoming aware of a hidden scrutiny. The man held the pose. Jack thought he saw his nose twitch, as if he were snuffling the air like some woodland creature. Then he moved on, holstering the still smoking revolver as he did so.
‘Time to move out, boys. We’ve got a long day ahead of us and we don’t want to keep General Forrest waiting at the end of it.’ He gave the order calmly. He was clearly used to being obeyed.
The men moved immediately. Not one returned to the two bodies lying in the dirt.
Jack stayed where he was. He was no stranger to executions. He had seen murderers hanged and he had watched a man die in a bare-knuckle brawl. He also understood what it was to want to kill, to need to kill. In the sordid depths of the worst fighting, he had felt the insatiable urge to slaughter other men. And he knew what it was to kill in cold blood.
He turned to look at Rose. She stared straight ahead, still transfixed by the brutal scene they had just witnessed. He wondered what she had felt as she witnessed a man die in such callous fashion. He was learning that there were many sides to her character. She had killed before, he knew that much. She had confessed to it without a hi
nt of shame, the man she had murdered the same one who had put the marks on her face. She had escaped her life as a slave, her journey north accomplished with the aid of the underground railroad, the network of brave men and women who helped thousands of slaves escape from the antebellum South to the free North; a journey only the bravest and most determined could hope to complete. Yet he had also witnessed her compassion. She would not leave a man to suffer, even though she risked her own life in the process. It was hard to reconcile the two sides to her character, and he had a feeling he still had much to learn about her.
For his part, watching the Union soldier die had not moved him. Only the coldness of the man with the heavy revolver stuck with him. The man had killed without a qualm, the act seemingly meaningless to him. To see such a lack of emotion was enough to send a shudder running through Jack’s body. It was not because it shocked him; it was because he understood it. He had watched a cold-hearted killer plying his trade, yet he could just as well have been watching himself.
This was fate’s way of reminding him what he was. He was no different to the man with the revolver. His hopes for a new future mocked him. No matter what he might long for, no matter what he might try to forget, he would never escape his past.
Jack lay on his back and looked up at the stars. They stared down, serene and peaceful. He liked the stars. For years they had been his only constant companions. It did not matter that they changed; that the stars he looked at now were arranged in patterns so very different to the ones he had looked up at in India, or in Persia, or from the fields of northern Europe. They possessed the same quality of stillness, of being unperturbed by the tribulations of man. It was what he liked about them. They did not care about war or battle. They did not worry about the future or suffer the memories of the past. They just were.
‘You asleep?’
THE REBEL KILLER Page 3