THE REBEL KILLER

by Paul Fraser Collard

  The blackness came. He felt a moment of relief.

  And then nothing else.

  ‘Wake up, you damn Yankee son of a bitch.’

  Jack obeyed. He did not want to. He wanted the oblivion of the darkness. Yet his eyes opened without his say-so.

  Noise attacked him; a storm of unintelligible words that bombarded his overwhelmed mind. Then there was light, blinding and painful.

  ‘Come on now. Ah, there you go. That’s a sight to warm a man’s heart.’

  The words came at Jack. They hurt him. They spoke of a life he did not want. Yet his body responded, unwilling to answer his plea to return to the nothingness.

  ‘See, that ain’t so bad, now is it.’

  He felt hands on him then. They lifted his head, their touch gentle. Something hard and metallic was forced against his lips, then came water. Despite himself, he opened his mouth, savouring the rush of sensations as he felt the liquid on his tongue and in his mouth. He swallowed it down, then pushed his lips forward for more, instinct demanding that he act. He took in another mouthful, gulping it down.

  ‘That’ll do you for now.’ The voice came again. ‘Can’t risk you puking up. Could be the death of you.’ A soft peal of laughter followed.

  The metallic object was pulled away. Jack whimpered then, the sound escaping him. He craved more, but the hand lowered his head, the man’s mastery over him complete and cruel.

  ‘You rest easy now. Save your strength whilst we work on you. We’ll have you fixed up in no time, Yankee son of a bitch or not.’

  Jack felt the hands leave him. He almost cried out, the loss of their touch more than he could bear. Instead he closed his eyes, screwing them shut. His only emotion was sadness. Sadness that he was not yet dead, that somehow his pain-racked body was clinging to a life he no longer wanted.

  More than one pair of strong hands worked on him. He could not figure out what they were doing, or even what part of his flesh they touched. He felt himself pummelled and then bound. He was surrounded by many voices that blended together into a single sound, one that was constantly underscored by the cries and shrieks of others. Somewhere there was laughter, the noise wholly foreign amidst a thousand screams.

  Then the pain came, a single bright lance of agony that pierced the very centre of his being. The darkness rushed back and wrapped around him like the arms of a forgotten lover. He let it take him, comfortable in its presence and grateful for its return.

  Jack opened his eyes. He knew it was not the first time he had done so, yet he could not say how many times he had come out of the darkness for a moment or two before retreating gratefully back into its embrace. This time, though, was different. This time his mind came back to him. He did not welcome its return.

  ‘Ah, there you are. I must say, it is nice to see you at long last!’

  It was a different voice to the one he remembered. He sensed he was somewhere new, somewhere quieter than before, a place that did not resound to the screams of the soon-to-be-dead. He turned his head no more than a fraction of an inch. The motion set off a pounding in his skull the like of which he had never known. Yet it allowed him to see the owner of the voice.

  A large black man sat on a straight-backed wooden chair not far from the end of the bed in which Jack was lying. He was powerfully built, with a wide chest, huge shoulders and a bald head shaped like a cannonball. He got to his feet as he saw Jack looking at him, and came closer.

  ‘I was beginning to believe you weren’t ever coming back to us. I prayed for you to live, I tell you that without pride. I prayed for the good Lord to give back your soul. Seems like he heard me.’ His voice was soft, the tone at odds with the formidable body. ‘Maybe the good Lord didn’t want you just yet.’ The man smiled at the notion. ‘You must be thirsty.’

  He turned away, moving slowly. Jack followed his progress as he walked to an iron pail near his chair. He used a wooden ladle to scoop out some water, then returned to the bed.

  The ladle came close to Jack’s lips. The water tasted bitter, but he gulped it down. It was gone in a moment and he lapped at the ladle, desperate for more.

  ‘You can have more in a while. Why, I’ve seen a man in a state just like you drink and drink till he was fit to burst. That fellow was dead within the hour.’ The man widened his eyes as he delivered the story, as if it still astonished him. ‘So we’ll take it easy with you.’

  Jack said nothing. The water was sliding down his throat, scouring away the crud that he could feel choking him. He laid his head back, exhausted by the simple effort of drinking.

  ‘That’s it. You rest now. There’s plenty of time. Ain’t no use rushing, no sir, no sense at all. I ain’t going nowhere. I’ll be here. Sitting with you fine gentlemen and praying for you all.’

  Jack let the words pass him by. He lay back, breathing slowly, taking the pain that wormed its way through every part of him. He focused on it, letting it fill his mind and using it to drive away the thoughts that he could feel simmering just beneath the surface. He dared not think. Not yet. Not until the barriers were built and the memories were locked away tight in the darkness.

  He kept his eyes closed and willed the blackness to take him back.

  The room was filled with sunlight. Jack had been awake many times now. Each waking had brought the man who watched over him. Each of these visits had been accompanied by another ladleful of the brackish water.

  ‘There you are. Praise the Lord,’ the now-familiar voice called out.

  Jack did not move. He kept his gaze focused on the ceiling, his eyes drinking in the sight. It was unremarkable, little more than wooden joists and the floorboards of a room above, yet he picked out the details with relish. The knots and twists in the wood, the grain and patina of the planks themselves, the bent nail driven deep and the one hanging by its tip, its head rusted.

  ‘You take it nice and easy now.’

  Jack heard the soft scuff of footsteps. Then the ladle came, just as he had known it would. This time he drank slowly, letting the sips linger in his mouth before he swallowed them. He let each one slide down his gullet, feeling it all the way, the sensation sending a delicious shiver through his veins.

  ‘Look at you, as quiet as a mouse now. Why I tell you, you’re the noisiest one I’ve known. Every night the same, regular as clockwork.’ The large man shuffled closer, then peered down at Jack.

  Jack felt a stab of annoyance. The man was blocking his view of the ceiling.

  ‘Hollering at the moon, you’ve been. Night after night. Not a sound during the day, no sir, not even a whisper. But at night . . .’ the man paused and shook his head at the memory, ‘why, mister, you make more noise than a newborn babe.’

  ‘He kept us awake, didn’t he, Samuel?’ a new voice – louder, more strident – sang out. ‘Kept us awake half the goddam night.’

  ‘Yes sir, oh Lord, didn’t you cry out. They musta been real bad, those nightmares of yours, real bad. You had us both kinda worried. Mr Thorne there, why he said to me, Samuel, you’ve got to do something for him. But there weren’t nothing I could do for you, mister. There ain’t nothing anyone can do for a man fighting with the devil. So we agreed to let you be. Let you sort it out for yourself. And now here you are, wide awake and looking like you ain’t got a care in the world.’

  Jack heard the words, yet they barely registered. He cared nothing for these men in the room with him. He cared only for the pain, for the distraction it gave him. Yet he sensed it was fading. It no longer consumed him. There was space for something infinitely worse than agony.

  Rose.

  He no longer looked at solid pine and rusted scraps of iron. Instead he saw her face before him with utmost clarity. She was looking directly at him, her expression blank. There was no trace of emotion on her face, no light in her eyes. It was the face of the newly dead. A mask that showed what a person had been, not what they were.

  The image remained there, frozen in his mind’s eye. Tormenting him.

&nb
sp; Jack awoke to darkness. There was little light in the room save for the pale, watery glow from the moon filtering in through the single small window on the wall opposite his bed. The silence wrapped around him, perfect and calm.

  He did not know how long he lay there in the dark. Time passed, he knew that, but it no longer mattered. In the quiet, still hours, he let the memories out, allowing them to fill his mind. They took him swiftly and completely, these horrors that he had stored away in the darkest recesses of his mind. He heard cries, the sobs and whimpers of a man in torment. He knew they came from his own mouth, yet he could no more control them than a half-suffocated man could hold back his gasps for air. He did not care. He was consumed by the images filling his mind’s eye, the memories of all that he had lost filling his soul.

  One featured above all. Rose dominated his thoughts, her face always pushing through the memories, even the foulest horrors making way for her to step forward to torment him. Over and over he replayed the memory of their last moments together. He tried to piece together the interrupted images to make sense of the fleeting shadows of memory, searching them for anything he could cling to and so ease the torture. Not knowing her fate was more than he could bear. A part of him knew she must be dead, but somewhere deep in the shadows was the faintest flicker of hope that she was still alive.

  He felt the shame of allowing her to be captured. He had vowed to keep her safe and he had failed. That failure tortured him, the burden of guilt so heavy that he was sure it would never allow him to live again. Yet there was just a single thought that did not torment him; one that lit a fire strong enough to force away the blackest darkness and ignite a desire that would give him the strength to go on.

  He nurtured the need for revenge and cradled it close.

  ‘You’re awake.’ It was a statement, not a question.

  The memories fled, returning to their cages like beasts whipped by their master. He locked them away, binding them tight in the darkness.

  ‘How do you feel?’

  For the first time, he turned his head. A man was sitting up to his right in a bed parallel to his own. Jack ignored the question, allowing his eyes to rove around the room, his mind taking in the rush of details that had thus far been of no importance. There were two identical beds opposite him. Both were empty. There was a single slit window and a closed door. A chair waited by the window, a bucket nearby in the corner, and an empty fireplace stood guard on one wall.

  ‘I apologise, that was a foolish question.’

  Jack moved his head slowly so that he could inspect the room’s only other occupant. It was hard to see much in the meagre light, but he got the impression of a neatly bearded face, the man in the bed next to his well-groomed and handsome. He was sitting straight, his back resting against a pillow turned vertical, but both arms were covered with the sheet that he had pulled up high on his chest.

  ‘It’s good to see you awake. Well, to almost see you.’ The man spoke in an urbane tone, the words delivered smoothly and confidently. ‘Samuel and I had begun to believe you wouldn’t make it.’

  Jack eased his head back and let it rest. The pain was growing the longer he stayed awake. It came from all over his body. He did not know how badly he was hurt. He had done his best to reach out through his own flesh, checking that everything was in place. As far as he could tell, he was still whole.

  ‘I think you may just be the luckiest man I’ve ever met.’ The man continued to fill the silence. ‘I was here when they brought you in. I wasn’t at my best, I know that, not with this,’ he twitched his right shoulder, but kept it hidden under the sheet, ‘but I saw enough to know you were nearly dead.’

  He turned to look at Jack. ‘Yet here you are. Still with us after all this time.’ He shook his head. ‘It is an astonishing thing, is it not, the human form. I saw men die with barely a scratch on them, whilst others were ripped apart, their very limbs torn away from their bodies, and yet they lived on. I wonder what sustained them. What force could be taken from some so easily, whilst in others it keeps them alive when such a thing would seem impossible. I do wonder what that is . . .’ His voice trailed off, and he looked away.

  They sat in silence then, each alone with their thoughts, both waiting for another day.

  The door to the barren room was opened shortly after the first fingers of daylight began to probe through the gloom.

  ‘Well, bless the Lord. Look at you two. Sitting up there like a fine pair of princes.’ The man who had ladled water into Jack’s mouth bustled into the room. He carried an iron pail, the water inside sloshing back and forth noisily as he placed it next to the single wooden chair near the window.

  ‘Good morning, Samuel.’ Jack’s companion gave a friendly greeting. He was still sitting up, his arms hidden under his sheet. He had not moved since the one-sided conversation in the night.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Thorne, and what a joyous day this is.’ Samuel looked around the room as if making an inventory of its meagre contents, then turned to Jack. ‘And good morning to you, sir. I cannot tell you how long I have waited to say that to your face.’

  Jack said nothing.

  His silence did not deter Samuel. ‘We were not sure this day would ever come, were we, Mr Thorne? I said to myself, Samuel, maybe that man there ain’t ever waking hisself up. Not ever!’ He paused and moved slowly towards the bucket in the corner, his nose wrinkling ever so slightly as he contemplated its contents. ‘Why, we thought you might be like poor Mr Adams, God rest his soul.’ He bent down and picked up the bucket, then turned towards the door. ‘He was a sweet man, wasn’t he, Mr Thorne?’

  ‘He was indeed, Samuel.’ Thorne seemed content enough to listen to Samuel and give him the necessary encouragement to continue.

  ‘He never cried out, not once, not even at the end.’ Samuel smiled at the memory. He kept moving towards the door, but he was in no hurry to leave and take the contents of the bucket outside. ‘Course, he was hurt real bad, worse than even the both of you. You could hear the breath a-coming and a-going out that hole in his chest, couldn’t you just, Mr Thorne? It was a miracle the Lord let him live as long as he did.’

  ‘It was indeed, Samuel.’ Thorne turned to look at Jack. ‘Adams had been hit in the chest. I never saw it up close, but even I knew it was a mess. Yet he shared this room with us for over a week. Can you credit that? A whole week.’

  ‘He was a brave man.’ Samuel spoke sombrely. ‘At least he is with the Lord now. He’ll be at peace.’

  Thorne glanced at Jack, a wry look on his face, then nodded at Samuel. ‘Amen.’

  Samuel stopped moving, his eyes clenched tight, his free hand clasped across his breast.

  Jack cared nothing for the conversation that was going on around him. Instead he focused his energy on trying to shift up the bed a little. He succeeded in moving perhaps an inch before the pain got too much and he had to stop.

  ‘You rest easy there.’ Samuel had opened his eyes and spied Jack’s sly movement. ‘The orderly will be around soon enough to change your dressings. Might as well stay where you are till then.’

  Jack heard the sense in the words and lay still.

  ‘There, that’s better now, isn’t it just?’ Samuel smiled. ‘You’ve been in the wars and no mistaking. I don’t think I ever saw a man with as many scars as you have, and I tell you, I’ve seen some sights in my time.’ His eyes widened. ‘My first master, why he were a whipping man. I think that devil whipped us bloody just for the fun of it, but I still don’t think any of us had as many scars on us as you do. Now, I expect you fine gentlemen will be wanting something to drink. Let me get rid of this here waste and I’ll be back directly.’

  Neither man said a word as Samuel left the room. He was back almost immediately, shuffling across to deposit the now emptied bucket back in its place in the corner. Noisome task complete, he walked slowly to the iron pail he had brought in earlier, scooped up a ladleful of water and brought it to Jack.

  Jack drank grateful
ly, sucking down the cool liquid and swilling it around his mouth before swallowing. Samuel smiled widely as he saw his patient’s enjoyment, revealing a fine set of tombstone teeth.

  ‘You can drink your fill now,’ he said. ‘There’s plenty here and I can always get more.’

  Jack drank as much as he could bear. When done, he rested his head back as Samuel moved over to Thorne. He could feel the water seeping through his body, bringing it to life.

  ‘Where am I?’ His voice cracked as he asked the question; he cleared his throat as best he could and tried again. ‘Where am I?’

  Samuel and Thorne shared a smile as they heard him utter his first words.

  ‘You’re English,’ Samuel said. ‘I told you, Mr Thorne, didn’t I say he was English?’

  ‘You did indeed, Samuel.’

  Jack paid no attention to the by-play between the two, and waited in silence for his question to be answered.

  ‘You’re in Gainesville,’ Thorne said. ‘They brought you here a few days after the battle. I was here first, then came Adams, and then another fellow whose name I never knew. The poor man only lasted a single night. At first you were more dead than alive. You just lay there. The orderlies thought about leaving you to die, but Samuel there, he wouldn’t have it. We both owe him a great debt. We were put in this room to die, you and me. He refused to let us.’

  ‘Hush now, Mr Thorne.’ Samuel was clearly embarrassed by such fulsome praise. ‘I was just doing my Christian duty. It ain’t right that men are left to pass like that. It just ain’t right.’

  ‘No, it’s not. But I think it is how things are after a battle. Not everyone can be saved. Would you not agree, Mr . . .’ Thorne’s voice tailed off. He looked at Jack with a rueful smile on his face. ‘Why, we have gotten ahead of ourselves. We have lain next to one another all this time, yet I do not know your name.’ He leaned across towards Jack, still careful to keep the sheet pulled high up his chest. ‘My name is James Thorne. I have the pleasure of being a captain in the 8th New York State Militia.’