The roar of a gunshot exploded from behind him. The bullet took the Confederate rider in the centre of his face. There was a spray of blood and brain, then the man fell backwards out of his saddle, the sword that had been reaching for Jack falling harmlessly to the ground.
For a moment, Jack could do nothing. He could see the Union riders charging towards him, but caring what would happen in the next few minutes was beyond him.
He leaned forward and picked up Lyle’s head by the hair, then turned it to one side so he could inspect the face. There was nothing much left to see, the bloodied, distorted remains barely recognisable. A single rock shaped like a finger pointed upwards. The ground around Lyle was smothered with blood and gobbets of flesh.
Satisfied, Jack let the head drop, then pushed down with both hands on Lyle’s back to lever himself to his feet. He stood there swaying, his legs almost lacking the strength to hold him upright. He refused to let them fail him. It was only as he stepped away from Lyle’s corpse that he saw Martha sitting on the ground behind him, the carbine she had fired still in her hands.
The first Union soldiers galloped past. They ignored the pair on the ground, their attention concentrated on the Confederate cavalry trying to flee. Jack felt the ground shake as the horses thundered past. A rider shouted something, but the words were lost in the noise of the hooves thumping into the ground. He paid them no heed. Instead he bent down to retrieve a single fallen object, then walked towards Martha, forcing his battered body to obey him.
Martha still did not move. She sat where she was, watching him, her eyes focused on his face. Only when he came close did she toss away the carbine and reach up to him.
Jack fell to his knees beside her. He had nothing left. She drew him towards her, her hands cradling his face, and held him close, clutching him to her, her strong arms pulling him down so that his head rested against her chest.
He closed his eyes. Nothing mattered to him now.
The battle was not over, but his part in it was done.
He had found his revenge.
And it had not been for Rose. It had not been to avenge her death.
It had been for him.
The Beehive Tavern, Virginia, May 1862
Jack sat near the open window, his eyes closing as he relished the fresh, cool air that rushed inside.
‘You want another one, Jacko?’
The question was asked in a London accent. Lawrence, the owner of the Beehive Tavern, hovered near Jack’s chair, a stack of empty glasses in his hands.
‘Whenever you’re ready. There’s no rush.’ Jack did not bother to open his eyes as he replied. He had been in the tavern for just under a week, paying for his stay with money Martha had retrieved from Lyle’s corpse. It was not the only thing they had taken. The Colt revolver with the ivory grips now sat in the holster Jack wore on his right hip. He had picked it up with the last of his strength, and now it was back where it belonged.
It had been a long and fraught journey to reach the tavern. The Confederate army had been thrown into chaotic retreat and the roads leading south had been hellish. Even now, far from the battle, Jack had only the scantest picture of what had happened. He had heard tales of thousands of Union reinforcements reaching the battlefield. These fresh soldiers had been thrown into the fight, and they had turned the tide in the Union’s direction.
He had also heard of the death of the Confederate commander Johnston. The general had been shot in the leg at some point in the afternoon of the first day and had been replaced by a general named Beauregard. If the stories Jack had heard were true, it had been Beauregard who had called off the Confederate attacks on the first day, and ordered the army to retreat when faced with a resurgent Union army on the second.
Yet Jack was sure that the true story of the battle would never fully come to light. In years to come, other men, who had likely never set foot on the field of battle itself, would try to piece together the events of the days of fighting, and attempt to stitch them together into a cohesive tale. It would likely be based as much on myth and hearsay as it would on fact. The notion did not bother Jack. He was in no better place to tell the tale of the battle, even having been there. He did know that the defeat had left the Confederates in dire trouble, and the entire western theatre of war was in turmoil as the invading Union army pressed steadily south.
But the state of the campaign was no longer his concern. He had been present at the battle for one reason only, and now he had taken his revenge. And that was what it had been. His revenge. It had never been about Rose, he understood that now. Avenging her had been a part of its genesis, for sure, but he understood now that it had been just as much about the shame of his own defeat, of being bested by Lyle. Now that man was lying in the cold earth, and Jack was free of the burden he had carried since he had awoken to find himself in a Confederate hospital.
He thought often of Captain Pinter, the man whose identity he had stolen, and who had told him that Lyle had killed Rose. He understood why Pinter had lied. He had seen Jack’s need for an answer, and so he had provided the cruellest one he could think of, one that was designed to inflict pain. It had done that, but it had also done something that Pinter would likely never have intended. For that one spiteful lie had given Jack a purpose when he had none. What would have happened to him without that need for revenge? Would he have forced himself to heal? Or would he have simply succumbed to his wounds? He would never know the answer, but he did know that he was glad he had been the one to kill Pinter. The Confederate officer had paid the price for telling that most malicious of lies.
He was glad too that Rose was free. He had thought long and hard about trying to find her. But he had had his fill of chasing shadows. The fact that she was alive was enough. He was not concerned for her safety: Rose was the most capable person he had ever met. She had escaped from slavery to get to the free North, and if Lyle’s account was true, now she had escaped again. She could be anywhere, and he was sure that she would be thriving wherever she was.
‘Jack? Are you done there?’ Martha called across to him. She was standing at the bottom of the stairs, her hands on her hips.
Jack placed the tankard carefully on the table.
Martha had changed. She was no longer the timid woman he had met all those months before. She was confident and sure, where once she had been hesitant and fearful. War had given her as much as it had taken away.
He got to his feet and walked towards her. The temptation to take her in his arms was strong. A part of him wanted her badly. She represented something he knew he desired. He could make a home with Martha. And he could be happy. But that was not to be his fate.
‘Are you sure about this?’ He posed the question he had already asked her a dozen times since she had told him of her plan.
‘Yes.’ Martha nodded.
‘You sure he’s worth it?’
‘He’s my husband.’ She did not shirk from Jack’s searching gaze. The sound of footsteps came from the stairs behind her. A man appeared and stood waiting patiently. ‘We were joined together by the Lord.’
Jack held Martha’s stare for a long time, then he sighed and looked at the man standing behind her, a man he had once beaten bloody. ‘If you ever hurt her again, I vow I will come back, and I will kill you.’
‘Jack.’ Martha admonished him immediately.
The man behind her lifted his gaze. ‘I understand. And I won’t. I swear to God.’ He paused, then offered a thin smile. ‘I know how lucky I am.’
Martha turned and reached out to her husband. She took his left hand in her own and pulled him to her side.
Jack glanced down to the fused stump of mangled flesh that was all that was left of John Joseph’s right arm. They had found him in an officers’ temporary field hospital a fortnight after the battle, the fact that he was still alive due at least in part to the care he had been given because of his supposed rank. He had been with them ever since. He bore little resemblance to the man Jack had met bef
ore the battle. His suffering and experience of war had changed him. Martha had seen it and she had taken him back without hesitation. Now the pair would return to her father’s cabin, where they would make a life for themselves.
‘Have you got everything you need?’
‘Yes.’ Martha smiled. ‘Thank you, Jack.’
Jack shook his head. ‘I should thank you. I’d be dead if you hadn’t saved me.’
‘Twice.’ She reached out with her free hand and tapped two fingers against his chest. ‘I saved you twice.’
‘That you did.’ Jack forced a smile onto his face. ‘You’d best be off.’
‘We had.’ Martha stepped forward to kiss him on the cheek. ‘Thank you for giving me my life,’ she whispered, then she led her husband across the tavern and out of the door.
Jack knew he would never see her again.
He turned and walked back to his table. Martha’s husband was not the only one much altered by the events of the last few weeks and months. Jack himself was not the man he had once thought he was. He now knew that he was no master of war. He was just a killer, a soldier who, no matter how skilled he was, would likely share the same bitter fate as so many of the men he had fought alongside. But that day would not be today. For today he was alive, and for the moment, that was enough.
And once again he was alone.
If you have read any of the previous Jack Lark novels, you will know that I have something of a fascination with impostors. It was the inspiration for the series, and is an idea that I cannot resist returning to. It should, therefore, hopefully not come as a great surprise to see Jack masquerading as a Confederate officer as he embarks on his self-enforced quest to find Lyle.
Jack’s presence in the South is not unusual. Thousands of Britons took part in the war on both sides, and of course the ranks of many regiments would have been filled with recent immigrants from across the British Isles. As to Martha’s role, the presence of women fighting on both sides is well documented. There are many examples to read about, including the fantastic tale of Loreta Janeta Velazquez, who, rather like Jack, impersonated an officer, becoming Lieutenant Harry Buford, a Confederate soldier and spy.
General Bedford Forrest and his cavalry regiment existed, but Lyle’s Raiders did not. Forrest’s Cavalry was one of the most famous Confederate units to fight in the war. There are a great many resources available to anyone wishing to read more about their exploits, and I was able to base some of the dialogue spoken at the time of Forrest’s departure from Fort Donelson on the account of the event by Private John S. Wilkes of the 3rd Tennessee Infantry. Anyone wishing to read more of Forrest’s exploits will find a wonderful resource in The Campaigns of General Nathan Bedford Forrest and of Forrest’s Cavalry by General Thomas Jordan and J. P. Pryor.
I also chose a fictitious regiment for Martha and her husband to serve in. As ever, I have tried to tread lightly over the history of the battles Jack experienced, and I never want to be accused of abusing the history of any real regiment that fought in these terrible conflicts, and so the 65th Virginia Infantry have found their place in the story.
The attack on Fort Donelson happened much as described. General Forrest did lead his men out of the fort the night before it surrendered. It was not the most glorious affair, and the battle for the fort is largely remembered for General Ulysses S. Grant’s first use of the term ‘unconditional surrender’. Numbers vary across accounts, but around 12,000 Confederate soldiers surrendered that day, a significant portion of the army the Confederates could put in the field in the western theatre of the war. There is no doubt their loss was to be felt keenly in the weeks and months to come.
There is much written about the battle of Shiloh, and I am very aware that I offer scant coverage of what would prove to be the largest loss of life on American soil to that point. There was a great deal more to the battle than Jack sees, and I would urge anyone interested to read more about this hard-fought contest. What is especially fascinating is the number of myths and legends that have built up around it. There are numerous articles and online journals that debate this subject. My particular favourite is an excellent article on the website of the Civil War Trust (www.civilwar.org) titled Battle of Shiloh: Shattering Myths, which is also where I first discovered the following wonderful quote from the commander of the victorious Union army, General Ulysses S. Grant. Grant wrote later that the battle of Shiloh ‘has been perhaps less understood, or, to state the case more accurately, more persistently misunderstood, than any other engagement . . . during the entire rebellion’.
The action at the farm track, part of an area of the battlefield that would become known as the Hornet’s Nest, is by far the most famous part of the battle, and I could not resist throwing Jack into the fray. It is worth noting that the sunken road that is so often talked of as being the basis for the strong defensive position was, perhaps, not as ‘sunken’ as myth would have us believe. The Civil War Trust article mentioned above elaborates on this argument, and tells us that the phrase did not appear until long after the battle. In addition, the photographs I have seen do not show a deeply sunken path, and so I have chosen to refer to it here simply as a track. I was also interested to read a document produced by the National Park Service about the Hornet’s Nest at Shiloh, which tells us that the fighting there was not as significant as popular retellings of the battle would have us believe. However, the narrative of The Rebel Killer needed the fighting to be fierce, and so the action at the not-so-sunken road remains faithful to the more traditional rendering.
I also decided not to make Jack aware of the death of General Johnston, which came mid-afternoon on the first day of the battle. At the time, his officers removed and covered his body, hiding it from view lest it have a negative effect on the army’s morale. It therefore seems reasonable to me that most of the men on the field would not have known of his death until well afterwards. I should note at this point that the letter Jack hears being read to the Confederate troops prior to the battle is the actual message General Johnston wrote and had read to his men before they went into action. I do confess to finding such things fascinating, most especially the language Johnston used to inspire his soldiers. A copy of this message is widely available online, but I first found it in the excellent Time Life book that covers Shiloh, which I shall acknowledge again later.
I was very interested in the notion that the Union army was taken by surprise by the Confederate attack. I confess I find it hard to believe that the Northerners were completely unprepared. There had been skirmishes between the two armies in the days leading up to the battle, and the initial phases were fought well in advance of the Union encampments. Therefore I have allowed Jack to doubt that the Confederates could achieve the complete surprise that some of its officers and men might have wished for.
As ever, there is a wealth of information available for those wishing to know more about this campaign or read original speeches and letters for themselves, and many of these resources are freely available online. I have already mentioned the website of the Civil War Trust, and this is a great resource that covers the entire war. I also made full use of the website of the National Park Service (www.nps.gov) which has an excellent series of articles about the battles, as well as a great range of maps and virtual tours of the battlefields. Once again, I turned to the Osprey series for research; they have some terrific books that cover the individual battles, as well as insights into the two armies that fought them. I have also found that the Time Life book series Voices of the Civil War give a fascinating glimpse into what it was like to be a soldier marching on the field of battle, and the book covering Shiloh is one of the very best. It is there that I found an anecdote from a certain Private Henry Morton Stanley, he and the man who would go on to find such fame as the explorer who found Dr Livingstone Stanley was serving in the 6th Arkansas Infantry, and it was a friend Henry Parker who put violets into their hats in the hope that it would somehow keep them safe in the tempest that was to come.
Jack has now survived another battle, and there can be no doubt that he has been much changed by the experience. Yet for once, he is almost at peace. But America is a troubled land, and he will need employment if he is to survive.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About Paul Fraser Collard
About the Book
Also by Paul Fraser Collard
Dedication
Praise
Acknowledgments
Glossary
Map – The Eastern United States 1862
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
THE REBEL KILLER Page 35