Jack did not answer. He was not interested in polite pleasantries. Such things were beyond him.
‘And what should we call you?’ Thorne pressed the matter.
Jack continued to ignore him. He was assessing his body, wondering what he could move. The worst of the pain came from his left arm and from the lower part of his ribs. As far as he could tell, the rest of him was whole.
‘I would offer to shake your hand.’ Thorne had not moved, but his expression had changed as Jack snubbed him. ‘But such things are beyond me now.’
The odd remark made Jack turn to look at him. Thorne had pulled back the covers with his left arm. There was little left of his right. The amputation had been done just below the shoulder. The stump was wrapped in bandages.
‘It hurts. Every minute of every day. I can still feel my fingers; do you not find that ever so peculiar? They’ve been gone all these weeks now and yet I still feel as if they are there.’ Thorne watched Jack closely as he revealed the hideous wound.
‘Lark. My name is Jack Lark.’ Jack did not shirk from the man’s gaze as he spoke. He felt no shame at seeing Thorne’s wound; he had witnessed more men with shattered limbs than he could ever hope to count. Yet he still felt compelled to give his name.
‘That’s better, is it not, Samuel? Well, it is a pleasure to meet you, Mr Lark, a pleasure indeed.’ But there was little sign of that pleasure on Thorne’s face.
Jack studied the man lying to his right. Thorne spoke politely enough, but there was a shadow in his expression. As much as he tried to project an urbane facade, there were cracks in his dignified exterior. Jack knew what it was to hide one’s true self away, and he was sure Thorne was doing the same. The notion did not interest him in the slightest. Thorne had his own concerns. Jack had just one.
He lay back, conserving his strength. It was time to force his body to heal so that it could stand up to the rigours of the challenge he would set it.
Jack stood at the small window and stared outside as he caught his breath. He was growing heartily sick of the view. The room looked out onto the wall of the neighbouring building, and he gazed at its white-painted cladding, picking out the patches of peeling paint that were now as familiar to him as the mould-streaked ceiling had once been in his childhood garret back in London. Sunlight played across his face, but there was no sense of savouring or enjoying its touch. Instead he turned around and began another painful, slow shuffle to the far side of the room.
‘You’re moving better today.’
He ignored the comment and hobbled on.
Thorne was perched on the corner of his bed. He had got dressed, a habit he had only taken to the previous week. Until then, he had spent most of his time in bed, at first fighting a fever and then just lying there, unable or unwilling to rise. Occasionally he had tried to engage Jack in conversation. The rest of the time he lay in sombre silence. Jack knew his roommate was mourning the loss of his arm, the grief etched into every pore of his face. Yet not once had he spoken of it again, his comments to Jack rooted firmly in the trivial.
Jack had dressed the first day he could stand. It still hurt to do so, his wounds paining him from the moment he awoke to the moment he finally fell asleep. Yet he refused to listen to them, and pushed himself to the bounds of his endurance, only quitting when his body failed him.
It was happening far too slowly for his liking, but he was healing. Lyle’s men had been armed with percussion carbines. Had they been carrying weapons that fired Minié balls, then he would likely be dead. He had taken at least a dozen wounds, but none of the musket balls had hit with fatal force, or worse, damaged a limb so badly that he had been forced to endure the horror of amputation.
Samuel and Thorne often spoke of his good fortune. Jack had heard the talk and it had taken all of his self-control not to kill them both for the crass remarks. He was not fortunate. He was cursed with life when death would have been a blessing. That life had quickly become intolerable, so he had set himself an impossible task. He would discover Rose’s fate and he would find the man who had condemned him to this living hell. He would find Major Nathan Lyle and kill him. That death would be slow and Jack would thrill with every second of it. The notion sustained him, the bitter ambition fuelling his push to return to health.
He turned and began to retrace his steps across the room.
‘I simply do not understand why you are refusing to give them your parole.’
‘It’s not for you to understand.’
‘But you’re being a fool.’
Jack turned sharply at the insult. Thorne was sitting on his bed doing up the buttons of his grey uniform jacket. The process was laborious, but he refused aid, insisting that he do it one-handed or not at all. He was dressing for a reason. Samuel had told them both that a Confederate officer from General Beauregard’s staff would be coming that day to speak to them about their parole. With over a thousand Union prisoners to deal with, the Confederate army was allowing the fifty or so captive officers to return home if they gave an oath that they would not bear arms until formally exchanged for an officer of equal rank. The wounded officers were to go first.
‘Be careful who you call fool,’ Jack snarled.
‘But why, Jack? Answer me at least. Why will you not give your parole?’ Thorne had his back to Jack. Perhaps that was why he continued; had he seen the expression on the Englishman’s face, he would surely have fallen silent. ‘Are you that desperate to fight on?’
‘That’s enough.’ Jack’s tone was glacial.
‘But we can go home. Does that mean nothing to you?’ Thorne paused. ‘Get in there, goddam you,’ he hissed at the button that stubbornly refused to slide into its hole. His voice wavered, his distress building as he failed at the simple task.
‘I have no home,’ Jack replied. He walked across the room until he stood in front of Thorne. He slapped the man’s hand away, then deftly buttoned his jacket. His expression did not change even as he reached for the uniform’s empty right sleeve, which he rolled up until it was neat and square against the stump of Thorne’s arm.
‘You have no one?’ Thorne looked at the floor rather than at Jack’s hands.
‘No.’
‘How about back in England?’
‘No.’
‘What about the lady in the photograph?’
Jack grunted by way of reply. He had suspected for a while that Samuel and Thorne had gone through his clothing. He refused to wear his uniform, instead dressing in what cast-off garments the attendant had been able to scrounge for him, and it hung from a peg near the door, the jacket cleaned and the rents in the fabric sewn up with wide, rough stitches. He did not care that they had found the image of him and Elizabeth Kearney, a woman who had once infatuated him like no other. It was a reminder of another time. Of another Jack Lark.
The moment Thorne’s jacket was buttoned, Jack turned away and returned to his own side of the room. He was walking more easily now, but every step still hurt like the very devil. His chest remained bandaged, the wrapping tight enough to make breathing almost impossible. Yet he did not allow it to stop him.
‘I wish I knew why you won’t tell us who she is.’ Thorne continued to quiz his roommate.
‘I wish you would stop asking.’
‘I won’t,’ Thorne answered with surprising force. ‘There are no secrets in this room.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
Thorne searched out Jack’s gaze. When he found it, he held it. ‘How can there be secrets between us? Every night I listen to your screams. I have heard you cry out in terror. I have listened as you have wept. Every day I see what it is costing you to carry on. You stomp back and forth like a caged animal. I see how much that hurts you.’ He did not flinch from the anger that shimmered in his companion’s gaze. ‘You can talk if you like. I’ll listen.’
Jack felt a moment’s pity then. Thorne was reaching out to him. There could be friendship there, the kind only shared suffering could create. Yet
he did not want it. He wanted nothing and no one.
‘Block your ears if I disturb you.’ His voice was cruel when he answered. ‘Just as I do when you weep for your fucking arm.’ He turned away, hiding his face. ‘And stop asking your damn fool questions.’
Thorne looked away and did not reply. Jack had said enough.
The Confederate officer came into the room carrying a thick leather-bound ledger. He was smartly dressed in a well-cut light grey tunic with two rows of buttons down the front, paired with pale blue trousers. He wore a yellow sash around his middle underneath a thick brown belt on which there hung a holstered revolver and a small pocket knife. Three gold stripes were on his collar and an elaborate gold braid Austrian knot decorated his sleeve. The jacket’s facings at cuff and collar were also yellow.
Samuel trailed dutifully in the officer’s wake like an enormous shadow. Two soldiers took up station in the doorway. Both looked thoroughly bored. The pair were charged with guarding the wounded Union officer prisoners in the building and spent most of their time in the room adjoining the prisoners’ meagre sitting room. Their faces had become as familiar as the view outside the bedroom window.
‘Good afternoon, gentlemen. My name is Captain Pinter. I think you know why I am here. I require some details so we can prepare your paroles.’ The officer spoke brusquely, as if already heartily sick of the process he had just begun. ‘I’ll start with you.’ He walked to stand in front of Thorne, who had risen to his feet the moment the party entered the room.
‘Very well.’ Thorne’s own reply was clipped. ‘Captain James Thorne, 8th New York State Militia.’
Pinter scratched down the name. ‘And you understand the terms of your parole?’
‘I do.’
Pinter nodded, satisfied with the answer. ‘Now you.’ He frowned as he looked at Jack, then turned to Samuel. ‘I take it he is an officer?’ he snapped.
‘Yes, sir.’ The big man bowed his head. He was a good foot taller than the Confederate officer, yet he was as subservient as a whipped dog.
‘So what is your name?’ Pinter turned to fire the question at Jack.
‘You don’t need my name.’ Jack straightened his spine as he answered.
Pinter looked back at him with obvious disdain. ‘You’re English.’ He chuckled as he recognised Jack’s accent. ‘You sure picked the wrong side, didn’t you? We got a few Englishmen with us, but I ain’t never seen one fighting as a Yankee.’ He shook his head at Jack’s foolishness. ‘So are you refusing to give your parole?’
‘Yes.’
Pinter smiled at the reply, the first sign of pleasure he had shown since he entered the room. ‘Well, that’s just fine with me. You’ll be taken from here to a detention camp. There you will be held until the war is over and you Yankees have been well and truly whipped and sent on your way.’
‘Very well.’ Jack stared straight back at the Confederate officer. ‘I refuse to give my parole.’
Pinter laid his pencil on the open ledger he still held. ‘Well, it’s your decision.’ He paused, looking at Jack quizzically. ‘I know you.’
‘You do?’ Jack studied the face looking back at him. ‘I don’t know you.’
‘You were running, isn’t that right?’ A wide smile spread across Pinter’s face. ‘You were with that black bitch. We caught you two days after the battle.’
Jack’s heart stopped. ‘You were there?’ The words came out wrapped in iron.
‘I was. Of course, you wouldn’t have seen me. Why, you and the major were chatting away like old friends. Until you shot him, that is. Now that was as dumb a goddam idea as there ever was.’ Pinter smirked at the memory. ‘We reckoned you were dead, there being so much blood and all. But one of the boys checked and there you were, still breathing away. We were going to finish you right there and then, but the major wouldn’t have it. I think he wanted you to die real slow. Looks like someone else must have found you and brought you here. The major will not be happy when I tell him. Not happy at all. Not after what that black bitch of yours did.’
‘What’s that you say?’ Jack took a step forward. The foul words Pinter had used to describe Rose seemed at odds with his educated manner.
Pinter’s face creased into a scowl. ‘You want to change your tone?’
‘Just tell me what fucking happened.’ Jack’s world had shrunk to encompass the man standing in front of him and nothing more. He took another step forward, his hands clenched into fists.
Pinter took a pace forward himself. The two men were no more than a foot apart. ‘Don’t speak back to me like that, you hear me?’
‘Tell me what happened to her.’ Jack’s voice vibrated with barely controlled emotion. The anger was there, the rage burning, but it was underscored by something else. He felt a tantalising tremble of hope. There was something in Pinter’s choice of words that hinted that Rose had not been killed outright as he had feared.
Pinter searched Jack’s face. He would have had to be made of stone not to see the need in Jack’s eyes, the desperate hunger for an answer to a question that had been asked a thousand times. He shook his head, disgusted at whatever he found there.
‘You want to know what that bitch did?’ He paused, a sly smile spreading across his face. ‘She died. That’s what she did. She died hollering and screaming. She shrieked so goddam much she pissed herself. Went right over the major too. I tell you, he was not best pleased about that, not pleased at all.’
‘You killed her?’ Jack could not hold the question back. The flickering light of hope deep inside him died, leaving nothing but blackness.
‘What the hell else would we do to a runaway like that?’ Pinter smiled. ‘The major had her strung up right there in the woods. He did a fine job of it too. It took her a while to die. A long while.’ He smirked as he delivered the news, relishing the distress he saw in Jack’s expression. ‘God alone knows what happened to her body after that. Could still be rotting there for all I know.’
Jack’s world had collapsed. For a moment, all he saw was darkness, and he closed his eyes, feeling the grief surge through him. Confirmation of Rose’s fate killed any hope he had dared to nurture. He was left with just a single emotion; one as cold and hard as stone.
He opened his eyes. ‘Where is he? Where’s Lyle?’ he demanded.
‘You might want to change your tone.’ Pinter slipped the ledger under his arm, leaving his hands free. He was clearly pleased with the effect his words had had.
‘Just fucking tell me,’ Jack snarled. His hands rose of their own accord, forming the shape they would take if they were to wrap around Pinter’s throat.
Pinter saw the movement. He reacted by shoving Jack hard in the chest. ‘Shut your filthy goddam mouth.’
Jack staggered backwards, his vision greying, and sat back heavily on his bed.
Pinter laughed. ‘You pathetic son of a bitch.’ He stepped forward. ‘You should learn to curb that tongue of yours. It’ll get you into a whole heap of trouble down at the detention camp. I hear they don’t take kindly to Yankee scum at the best of times. A mouthy one like you, well, I reckon you’ll be lucky to get out of there alive.’
Jack did not care that Pinter was mocking him. Despite the pain, he could not think of anything save the single thought that hammered away in his head. Rose was dead and he was alone.
He nurtured the desire for revenge, holding it tight as the pain took him away. It was all he had left.
Thorne stood by the window, his neck bent at an awkward angle as he tried to look past the building opposite.
‘Do you think that’s them?’ he asked without turning away.
Jack did not answer. He was sitting in Samuel’s chair, rubbing at thigh muscles that were hurting after his morning exercise. It was a week since Pinter had started the process of dealing with Thorne’s parole. The Confederate powers were surprisingly efficient, and the Union officer had been told the previous evening to be ready to move the following morning.
‘I
think it must be.’ Thorne tore himself away from the window and walked to his bed. His belongings, such as they were, had been wrapped in a sheet, and now he picked up the bundle and held it awkwardly under his left arm.
He looked across at Jack. ‘Will you say goodbye at least?’
Jack glanced at the man he had shared the room with for so many weeks. ‘Goodbye.’
Thorne smiled ruefully at the Englishman’s emotionless tone. ‘You’re a cold man, Jack. As cold as stone.’ He sighed. ‘I hope you find what you’re looking for.’
‘I will.’ Jack’s words were matter-of-fact. ‘Have you got it?’
‘Yes.’ The stump that was all that was left of Thorne’s right arm twitched, the missing limb moving out of habit as if to pat the jacket pocket that contained Jack’s letter. ‘I’ll see that it gets there.’
Jack nodded. He had written to Samuel Kearney, Elizabeth’s father and the man who had given him his place in the Union army. There was a sum of money owed, and Jack had asked for it to be placed in his name at the Massachusetts Bank. He did not know if Kearney would act on the letter, or when he would find a way to retrieve the funds. But the boy from the rookeries of east London knew the value of money, and he would not leave a debt uncollected.
He got to his feet before the thought to move had formed and faced Thorne. ‘Thank you.’
Thorne did not reply. He just looked at Jack. Then he nodded.
‘Mr Thorne?’
Neither of them had noticed Samuel arrive in the doorway. Despite his size, he moved quietly. ‘They’re here.’
The announcement brought a half-smile to Thorne’s face. ‘So this is it.’ He looked at the big man. ‘I owe you a great debt, Samuel.’
Samuel shuffled and gazed at his feet, his discomfort obvious. ‘I was just doing the Lord’s work, Mr Thorne. That’s all.’
‘No.’ Thorne spoke with authority. ‘You did much more than that. I shall not forget you. When this madness is spent and the Union is restored, I shall find you and repay this debt.’ He took a breath, then turned to Jack. ‘I wish you well, Jack.’
THE REBEL KILLER Page 7