THE REBEL KILLER

by Paul Fraser Collard

  The simple question was delivered without emotion and in an accent that came straight from Jack’s home town. Jack suddenly understood Chester’s interest in the introduction. It was likely the first time he had seen two Englishmen in the same place.

  ‘I’ll take a glass of ale.’ He did his best to hide his surprise. He was in some forgotten town in the wilds of God alone knew where, but he had found a fellow Englishman.

  The man swept a tankard from under the counter, then turned to snap open the tap on the beer barrel behind him. If he was startled by Jack’s accent, then not a trace showed on his face.

  As he poured, Jack noticed movement elsewhere in the tavern. A thin woman wearing a tight-fitting dress of dark reds and black had summoned the man waiting patiently by the side door. Jack had been in enough drinking dens to spot a whore at a dozen paces.

  ‘You’ll have to wait if you want to take a turn with the girls, chum. There’s only two working tonight.’ The comment was made in the flat, dry tone of a man barely interested in the conversation.

  Jack turned back to see Lawrence watching him, his tankard of ale placed on the bar in front of him.

  ‘Captain Pinter is not that sort of man.’ Chester answered for his guest, then turned to look at Jack with an uneasy smile. ‘He has a companion back at my hotel.’

  Jack’s expression did not alter, even as he realised that Chester had made his own conclusion about the arrangement between Jack and his supposed orderly. He did not care what the fat little man thought.

  ‘Don’t see how that matters. A fellow can tup a whore if it suits him. Now then,’ Lawrence fixed Chester with a stare, ‘why don’t you walk your chalk like a good fellow.’

  ‘Walk your chalk indeed.’ Chester smirked at the phrase, his chins wobbling as he began to chortle. But he must have spotted something in Lawrence’s gaze that stopped the laughter and had him backing away. ‘Very well, I shall leave you two fine English gentlemen to your discourse. I am sure you have much to converse about, seeing as how you are citizens of the same shores and all.’ He took a few steps backwards before sweeping his ridiculous top hat back onto his head. ‘Jack, may I wish you a pleasant evening. Albert, I’ll see you on the morrow.’ Goodbyes made, he walked to the door with a swaggering gait that might have worked had he been a foot taller and a few stone lighter.

  ‘Nice man.’ Jack made the observation wryly, then took up his tankard. ‘How much for the ale?’

  ‘On the house, chum.’ Lawrence had reached for a cloth and he now wiped the bar clean. His tone had changed. ‘You can pay for it by telling me how the fuck you ended up in this godforsaken shithole.’

  Jack grinned at the turn of phrase. He had found a corner of London in the southern states of America. ‘I’m just passing through.’

  ‘But you’ve been on these shores for a while, I take it. What with that uniform you’re wearing.’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘I’ve got all night.’ Lawrence smiled as he replied. ‘Unless there’s somewhere else you’d rather be.’

  ‘I’ve got time.’ Jack sipped at his drink, relishing the taste. It had been a long time since he had drunk freshly poured cask ale.

  ‘You lonely, mister?’

  The question came from a dark-haired girl he had not noticed approach. She was pretty, her skin pale against the black of her hair. The bodice of her dress was half open; what she had, she was putting on display for all the world to see. But Jack had seen too many whores in his time to be even remotely interested. This one had the glazed, listless gaze of a girl who had worked too long. One glance at the bloodshot whites of her eyes and the dilated pupils told him she was on opium, or whatever the poor, unfortunate souls in this part of the world took to dull the pain of their miserable lives.

  ‘Leave him be, love,’ Lawrence said. ‘Go back to your room.’ He dismissed the girl in a kindly tone. ‘Poor cow.’ He spoke softly when she had wandered away.

  Jack watched the girl as she walked back to the side door. He felt something close to pity. He had a fair idea that her life would be wretched, a fate shared by whores the world over. Yet some escaped that bitter destiny. The sight of the girl had reminded him of Mary, who had once plied the same trade in his mother’s gin palace and whom he had worshipped. She had been one of the few girls to come across a way out of her situation, finding herself a rich man who was prepared to take her and her son and give them both a better life. He wondered where she was now. When their beauty faded, most girls would have to leave the place where they plied their trade and go to work on the streets, the price they could charge for their services getting steadily lower until they were either dead or destitute, whichever happened to come first.

  ‘I can call her back if you want her, chum. No skin off my nose either way.’ Lawrence had spotted Jack staring after the girl.

  ‘No, you’re all right.’ Jack drained a fair slug of his ale. ‘So how the hell did you end up here? Where are you from exactly?’

  ‘Southwark.’

  ‘Figures. You southern bastards never did have much sense.’ Jack grinned as he made the old joke.

  ‘Southern, is it?’ Lawrence matched Jack’s smile with one of his own. ‘Where you from then, chum?’

  ‘Whitechapel.’

  ‘Oh, there you go. Best I turf you out now then, otherwise you’ll probably pinch something soon as I turn my back.’

  Jack laughed. It was good to talk to someone who knew his London.

  ‘So why you wearing grey?’ Lawrence took up another tankard and poured himself a glass of ale. ‘This ain’t our fight last time I checked.’

  ‘No, it’s not. But like I said, it’s a long bloody story.’

  Lawrence shrugged. ‘Well, I ain’t one to pry and I won’t poke my beak in where it ain’t wanted.’

  Jack liked the answer. ‘There any soldiers around here?’

  ‘A few. Some lads are waiting for orders to join these new units they’re putting together. A fair few went west a few weeks ago. Near killed off my trade.’

  ‘Where were they headed?’ Jack sipped at his ale.

  ‘I’m not rightly sure I can remember. You looking for your mob?’

  Jack nodded. ‘I was wounded. Time I was right, they’d moved on.’ It was an easy enough lie. ‘I heard they were headed to Nashville.’

  ‘Well, that’s a fair way away. I’m sure some of the bods that came through here were going that way, but I don’t recall much of what they said, to be honest.’

  ‘Fair enough. What’s the best way to get there?’

  ‘There’s a railroad line south of here that’ll take you all the way to Chattanooga. From there you can make your way to Nashville easily enough, I reckon.’

  ‘Where do we need to go?’

  ‘I reckon your best bet is to head to Lynchburg. From there, the railroad works its way to a pass through the Blue Mountains, then down the Great Valley until you’re way down in the arse end of Tennessee. I expect there’s connecting lines up to Nashville and beyond down there, but I’ve never been that way myself.’

  ‘I’ll figure something out.’ Jack made a mental note of the names. After days wandering without much notion of where they were going, it felt good to have a destination to aim for. He would ask Chester for directions to Lynchburg before they left.

  His attention was taken by the sound of the side door opening. As he watched, the man he had seen enter a short while before staggered out, a contented smile plastered across his face and his hands busy tucking his shirt back into his trousers. But it was not the fact that his clothing was in disarray that interested Jack. It was his stature. The lad was a good six inches shorter than he was, and the grey uniform he wore revealed a wiry, lean physique.

  ‘Who’s that lad over there?’ he asked over the rim of his tankard as he took another draught.

  ‘That?’ Lawrence barely glanced at the young man, who was now walking slowly back to his spot at one of the tables, where he had lef
t a half-empty bottle of whiskey. ‘That’s Billy Brown’s boy.’

  ‘The same Billy Brown that owns a transport operation?’

  ‘That’s the one.’ Lawrence’s brow furrowed. ‘You know him?’

  ‘We’ve not been introduced, no.’ Jack hid his face behind his tankard. ‘Is he a friend of yours?’ An idea was forming in his mind. It was not a friendly one.

  ‘He drinks in here. He’s all right, I suppose. Wouldn’t trust him with a brass farthing of my own rhino, mind.’

  ‘And his lad?’

  ‘Now he’s a prize pillock.’ Lawrence looked over at the young lad. ‘Spends his pa’s money well enough, and a lot of that comes to me or the girls.’ He looked at Jack, a knowing expression on his face. ‘But he’ll be away soon enough. He joined up, so the army can worry about him now.’

  Jack watched Lawrence carefully. The owner of the tavern had probably worked out what he had planned. ‘What time would you reckon he’ll leave here?’

  ‘Late. He’ll finish that bottle before he’s done.’

  ‘And he walks from here?’

  ‘He lives on the far side of town. Fifteen-minute walk if you’re sober. It’ll take him thirty tonight, that’s if he makes it at all.’

  Jack watched Lawrence’s eyes, searching them for a hint of censure. There was nothing. ‘How long will it take him to finish that bottle?’

  ‘An hour, maybe longer if he goes back for another ride.’

  ‘Then I’d better have another ale,’ Jack pushed the tankard towards Lawrence, ‘and you can tell me how a lad from Southwark ended up here.’ He was a patient man when he had to be. He could wait.

  Jack drained the last of his ale, then paused, the tankard still close to his lips, as he listened for the sound of the tavern’s door closing. Only when he heard it did he lower the tankard for the last time.

  ‘You on your way now, Jack?’ Lawrence did not bother to hide the smirk that crept across his face.

  ‘Maybe I’ll take a little stroll.’ Jack grinned back. The ale had warmed his belly and he had enjoyed his time in the Beehive Tavern. Lawrence had been a good companion, and it had been an interesting distraction to swap tales of childhoods spent in London’s less salubrious neighbourhoods. But the time for talking was done.

  ‘You think you’ll pass back this way?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ Jack gave the honest answer.

  ‘Stop by if you do. I should still be here.’ Lawrence grinned, then reached over the bar and offered his hand. ‘Well met, Jack.’

  Jack shook the hand. ‘I reckon I’ll see you again.’

  ‘Not if I see you first.’ Lawrence guffawed at his own joke, then nodded at Jack. ‘Take care of yourself. And if you get into any mischief, well, just don’t kill the lad, all right.’

  ‘I won’t.’ Jack turned on his heel and headed for the door. The evening had been pleasant, and useful. Lawrence had given him a good steer on how to start the journey to Nashville. Now it was time to secure some of the other things he would need to get there.

  The chill of the air hit Jack as soon as he stepped outside. He had drunk enough ale to feel the ground give a lurch as the cold smacked him around the chops, and he was forced to reach out and hold onto a hitching post near the tavern’s entrance to steady himself.

  It was dark, but the moon was out and it cast enough light for him to be able to pick out the shape of a man staggering his way up the turnpike. Billy Brown’s son had not gone far.

  Jack sucked down a breath of the wintry air, then shivered as it rasped into his lungs. It was unpleasant, but it was sobering, and so he stood where he was, letting the chill take away the heat of the ale.

  Only when he was sure he was ready did he move. He walked briskly, his breath forming a cloud around his face.

  ‘Hey!’ he called. He pitched his voice so that his words would carry, but not so loud that he would wake anyone sleeping in any of the buildings nearby. ‘Hey, you there!’

  He quickened his pace. The wandering figure had come to a halt. The lad in the grey uniform turned around with difficulty and peered into the darkness as he tried to locate the voice calling after him.

  ‘You forgot something,’ Jack called again.

  ‘You talking to me?’ The words came out slurred.

  ‘Yes!’ Jack headed directly for the lad. ‘You left this in the tavern.’ He slipped his right hand into a pocket as if searching for the forgotten item and increased his pace so that he would arrive at something like double time.

  ‘I left what?’ The lad was struggling to stand still. He shuffled from foot to foot, then lurched to the right, as if the ground suddenly sloped beneath his feet.

  ‘This.’ Jack’s fist shot out of his pocket. The blow landed exactly as he had planned, cracking into the point of the lad’s chin. He held back some of his strength, but the punch still had enough force to knock the lad’s head back, his teeth snapping together with an audible click before he fell, hitting the ground flat on his back, his arms spread wide.

  Jack was on him in a heartbeat. But there was no need for a second blow. The lad was out cold.

  ‘Sorry, chum.’ Jack bent down to grab his jacket, then hauled him off the main road and into the shadow of one of the buildings just down from the tavern.

  Once safely out of sight, he rummaged through the lad’s pockets, finding what he was looking for almost immediately. Billy Brown clearly took care of his son, and even a night’s drinking and whoring had made little dent in the wedge of folded banknotes, some plain, some grey in colour, held in place with a fine silver money clip. Alongside the notes were a few gold and silver coins. It was no fortune by any means, but it would be enough to tide over two frugal travellers.

  ‘Right, chum. Let’s be having you.’ Jack stuffed the money deep into a pocket, then started to unbutton the lad’s overcoat. He had directions and now he had some ready cash. He just needed some clothes that would fit Martha’s skinny frame.

  Billy Brown’s son’s evening had not finished well. But Jack’s had worked out really rather nicely.

  Jack relished the feeling of being outside and in the saddle. He and Martha had spent days incarcerated in railroad cars, with the two horses travelling in trucks put by for animals. The long period of enforced inactivity had stretched all their nerves, and he could sense that the horses were enjoying the freedom as much as he was. The price for securing the right passes to allow them to use the Virginia and Tennessee Railroad had been steep, not least because they had no proper documentation. That lack had cost them a pretty penny, the prices coming with a substantial surcharge that paid the railroad officials to turn a blind eye.

  The first railroad had taken them from Lynchburg in Virginia as far as Chattanooga in Tennessee. More money had changed hands to secure them places on a locomotive heading north to Nashville. That journey had been shorter, but no less painful, and Jack had chafed at sitting on his backside doing nothing.

  Unwilling to spend any more of his stolen dollars on a hotel, he had led them out into the countryside the moment they had arrived in Nashville. The horses, as tired of travelling as Jack was, had needed the exercise, and it would give them all a well-deserved break before they embarked on the last leg of their journey, up the Cumberland river to the town of Dover and Fort Donelson, the location, they hoped, of both Martha’s husband and Lyle and his raiders.

  They had been in the saddle at dawn. Jack could not remember a time when he had enjoyed exercise so much. The morning had been beautifully clear as they rode through the gentle hills and open farmland that came right up to the fringes of the town of Nashville, which was set on a bluff near the Cumberland river.

  For once, the sky was clear of heavy grey rainclouds. Jack’s body still ached from the wounds he had taken, and he often wondered if he would ever be free of pain. But it was not enough to spoil the pleasure of the early-morning ride, and he let his mind empty as he kicked back his heels and urged his horse into a canter.

&
nbsp; A single pistol shot snapped him from his reverie.

  ‘What was that?’ Martha pulled her horse to a halt.

  ‘No idea.’ Jack kept riding. ‘But I know what it’s not.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Our concern.’

  He rode on. Despite his glib answer, he still listened carefully.

  ‘There!’ Martha called out.

  It was enough for Jack to bring his own horse to a halt. He turned in the saddle and saw Martha pointing behind them. It was immediately clear what had caught her attention.

  Two riders were riding hell for leather directly towards them. Even as he spotted them, they turned off the track and tore up a slope towards a wooded ridge.

  ‘What they doing?’

  ‘How the hell should I know?’ Jack gave the waspish reply, then turned his horse around and rode back until he was next to Martha.

  He squinted as he tried to make out what was happening. He could see a second group of cavalry thundering along the track as they gave chase. There were more riders in this second group, but he could not count their number. He wished he had a pair of field glasses so that he could see what was what as the group turned off the track and followed the two men up the slope.

  ‘Come on.’ He kicked his heels, then turned his horse around and rode back along the track, trying to keep the two groups in sight.

  ‘What you doing?’

  ‘I want to see what’s going on.’ He turned to flash Martha a smile. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll keep our distance. I meant what I said. This isn’t our concern.’

  He kept his eyes on the two groups. The men being chased had turned across the slope so that they now rode parallel to the track. He walked his horse slowly, knowing Martha would follow. It was a foolish thing to do, he knew that, but it would be a break from the tedium.

  One of the two riders being chased broke from a patch of woodland, closely followed by his companion. They were high on the sloping ground three or perhaps four hundred yards above the track. As Jack and Martha watched, the lead rider twisted in the saddle whilst still at full gallop. He held a black object in his hand. A moment later, the crack of a revolver firing reached their ears.