by Mike Miller
With short precise motions, Douglas began to saw away a large rectangle on the perimeter of the hospitalised man’s stomach. Only the sloshing sounds of slicing filled the silence between the two men.
After an interminable wait to the horrified young man, Douglas proudly presented the dripping wet map he had just created to MacDonald, who turned away in revulsion. “Fantastic.”
A loud thwack from the slamming of a door echoed in the distance, followed by the busy chatter of men. For the first time throughout the encounter, the cocky invader became startled and unsure.
The turn of events bolstered the boy’s own confidence. “You deserve what you’re going to get,” the scout sneered.
“Really?” Douglas said indifferently. “And what would that be, pray tell? Tremendous wealth?” He rolled the skin and stowed the wet scroll away inside his coat.
“Justice,” said MacDonald triumphantly.
Douglas scoffed. “It ain’t got me yet.”
“I’d say otherwise by the marks on your hideous face.”
The remark filled with Douglas with murderous rage.
When the pair of soldiers emerged into Captain Fitzsimmons room, they immediately realised that they had located their prey. Besides the dead body discovered outside in the snow, neither man had noticed any other damage from the trespasser until now. But upon entering this room, both men covered their mouths at the bloody massacre they found.
Captain Fitzsimmons appeared to be disembowelled, yet slowly squirmed in discomfort.
In the next bunk over, Private MacDonald’s eyes were wide with alarm. Both hands clasped to his own slashed throat as if he were trying to throttle himself, the youth gargled indistinctly while gore poured down over his chest and bedding. The dying young soldier could not talk as his mouth only sputtered bubbles of blood. He released one hand from his gashed neck to feebly point to behind the two soldiers.
By the time both men had turned about to look at whatever was so upsetting to Private MacDonald, Douglas was already leaping through the air towards them as he emerged from behind the entryway door. With a blade clutched in each of his hands, he simultaneously slammed both weapons down into the gullets of his two newest victims with deadly precision.
The duo fell back dead with Douglas crouched atop them both. The killer twisted the hilts to ensure their definite destruction.
“Don’t worry, boy. We’re going to be fine.” Douglas rushed towards Private MacDonald.
Chapter V
The Carriage Ride from the Station
Baxter tenderly cradled a small piece of worn paper in his hand as if he was handling a puny infant or a volatile explosive. The soft expression of peace on his face indicated the trinket to be a delicate object of the highest affection.
The carriage in which he rode rattled about the bumpy mountain path, occasionally cracking loudly as a wheel clambered over a tiny obstruction like a small dip or boulder. Yet throughout the disruptive journey, Baxter’s eyes and hand remained steady, refusing to be disturbed by any turbulence.
In the middle of his wide palm sat a small piece of paper, unfolded from four sections. In the middle of the tired and faded parchment was a miniature sketch of a woman’s portrait in black and white a scant few inches in diameter. The subject was a young African whose smooth, girlish features typical of a lady in her twenties. Her full lips were curved into a fetching smile while her dark eyes twinkled on the page despite the absence of any colour. With her hair tied up loosely into a ball on the back of her head, a few strands playfully arched downwards about her neck and brow like vines.
Dabbing his right index fingertip softly with his tongue, he delicately rubbed away at the woman’s neck as if he were actually caressing the real thing. The gentle motion created a soft sheen on her skin as the charcoal powder spread apart to reveal the coarse light-brown paper on which it was drawn. Baxter paused to further appreciate his redesigned picture when a bump in the road jostled him from his daydream.
Once his attention was roused back to reality, he looked about to find several of the almost dozen other soldiers gawking at him. As the only man of colour in the entire troupe without even an indigenous Indian or Asian amongst their rank, he was used to being a closely watched pariah. But to be so observed while in the midst of this private, intimate moment genuinely bothered him. So he sheepishly folded the paper back into fourths, then tucked it away in his coat’s innermost pocket.
When some of the onlookers continued staring, he retaliated with his own sharp glare to disperse their eyes back to the roadside scenery. As the group was packed tightly shoulder to shoulder, there was not much room to spare when trying to scurry farther away from Baxter, though quite a few men were all too eager to strain their best. Once he was ignored and alone again, Baxter too joined them in studying the nebulous red rocks of the mountainside outside the windows, each man silently musing to themselves with only the slow clatter of the wagon wheels to accompany their thoughts.
Unlike the silent stoicism that permeated Baxter’s compartment of privates, the officers of the expedition were boisterously conversing with each other in the other stagecoach. Compared to the arrangements of the infantry, this vehicle was the same overall size but afforded twice the room to half the passengers, with luxurious red upholstery cushioning every seat. A polished wood table sat in the centre, hosting small glasses of liquor and ashtrays of burning cigars.
Colonel Snider led the discussion flanked by his sidekick Lieutenant Patrick Finnegan, a burly redhead with a nose swollen from repeated battery.
“I’m not quite sure which would be darker,” Snider said. “Though these mountain ladies are far more likely to be the hairier of the two.”
The group guffawed riotously at the punch line, especially one delivered by the ranking officer.
“But is that so wrong?” Finnegan added in a thick Irish accent, which resulted in a new gale of laughter.
Despite the base subject of their talks, the group analysed the topic with the verve of a discussion amongst Oxford academics. But to Conrad the entire exchange was juvenile and simplistic, and he alone of the six officers opted out of the banter. He knew that ostracising himself from their discussion only further ingratiated himself, and he could not care less.
Soon the bumpiness of the ride combined with the voluminous smoke and idiocy were too much to bear for Conrad. A sudden bout of moronic shouting and hawing might as well have been the stink of spoiled meat.
He gargled on a bit of vomit, the eruption of foul gas halting the other men in their unruly joking. Next, Conrad doubled over and emitted a languid moan. Perhaps the residual effect of the prior evening’s hangover was another ingredient to his illness.
“Problems, Murray?” Snider asked more irritated than concerned.
Conrad groaned arduously, but shook his head no.
Finnegan scoffed at the response. “Already folding and we ain’t even seen snow yet.” The other men echoed the sentiment with their own laughter. “You’re the oldest man here, Connie. Ain’t you supposed to be made of iron and oak?”
Conrad groaned and shook his head no.
This caused the crowd to titter, but Snider rolled his eyes in disgust. “You best not sick all over the floor, soldier,” he demanded, to which Conrad made no response. “Blast it, can you not even talk?”
The men quieted at their commander’s mounting wrath. Conrad mewled loudly like a heifer giving birth.
“Halt the car!” Snider cried out the open window, to which the driver reciprocated a sharp yell. A crack of the whip, the whinny of horses, and the wagon ground to a stop.
Before the vehicle could even completely cease its progress, Conrad was already stumbling out the side door. With one hand covering his mouth and the other extended before him, he resembled a rugby player as he dashed out of the carriage, cradling his face as if carrying the ball. The men enjoyed his odd departure with a round of hearty laughter and applause.
They quieted quic
kly to await the inevitable sound of hysterical retching. But instead they heard the clatter of metal and wood while the carriage briefly quivered. Then the silence was broken with a quick crack as if a door were slammed shut, which made all the men look quizzically at one another.
Finnegan took the initiative and rose from his seat to investigate. As he reached the portal to exit, Conrad re-emerged suddenly in the doorway as if part of a well-rehearsed reveal from behind an offstage curtain. He quipped cheerfully, “Ah, I feel much better now, thank you very much.” Snider scowled at this odd behaviour. “In fact, I think a bit of fresh air might do us all some good.” Conrad inhaled deeply and thumped his chest vigorously. With another casual motion, he hoisted a pair of pistols and aimed them at the gentlemen in the interior of the cabin. “Won’t you join me?” he asked with a smile.
“What--?” Snider stammered.
“Yes, there’ll be plenty of time to sort it out later.” Conrad waggled the gun between the men and the exit, and Finnegan was the first to leave, albeit quite ruefully.
“Highway robbery?” Snider gasped in repugnance. “I knew you were low, Murray, but this is most--”
“‘Do shut up,’ says the man with the gun,” Conrad replied. He again flicked the barrels of each gun to the side like an usher escorting them to leave a theatre. With heads bowed in shame, the officers filed out of the wagon one by one to assemble on the dusty road, their backs lining the wide cliff.
“You too,” commanded Conrad to the elderly driver of their carriage.
The old man atop the ride did not speak any English, but the international signal of having a firearm pointed at one’s person was well understood. He yielded his reigns and carefully climbed down from his perch.
“Now all you boys too,” hollered Conrad. From the second car housing the infantry, the other soldiers gradually emerged, squinting at the midday sun with confused expressions as if they had just woken abruptly from one strange dream into another. They arrived to find Corporal Murray holding a pair of pistols: one pointing at them while the other was aimed at their irritated leaders already standing aside the road with hands held half aloft in surrender.
“What’s going on here?” asked Private Horace.
“A bloody mutiny,” grumbled Finnegan, while scornfully glaring at Conrad.
“I believe mutinies only technically occur at sea in Her Majesty’s Navy. This is technically a hijacking, I suppose.”
“Well, let’s get him then,” Horace rallied his followers. “He can’t stop all of us.” At this point all of the men from both vehicles were standing aside the road, numbering almost twenty total including both apathetic drivers. Even the bold Horace would not take the initiative, yet all prepared to be the second to attack.
“Sure, I can’t stop all of you,” Conrad said, “just four of you. And you’ll be first for that remark, Horace.” Horace resiliently retreaded backwards.
“Those relics only hold one shot apiece,” Snider snorted. “You could never reload quickly enough.”
“True,” Conrad acknowledged. “But I got two more loaded in my waist, so that’s four shots total. And with talk like that Randy, you’re number two. Just so everyone is clear about this, if you rush me, I’ll shoot Horace and Snider, and then another two of you, most likely the two closest to me.”
The men murmured amongst each other, deciding they did not mind those arrangements.
“But,” Conrad cautioned loudly, “if I shore my shots just right, maybe I could get two of you at a time with but one shot, like in and out through the first man to hit the next man behind him. You all know I am quite the marksman.” The men began to sweat at Conrad’s bluff. “Not all the shots could double up, that’d be rather ridiculous. But I’d say maybe half of them could, to be fair. So now we’re up to six total, minus Snider and Horace, so that is...” Conrad’s head bounced a bit with math. “Let’s say the first five of the rest of you beyond that would go down.”
“Four!” shouted a voice.
“No, I wager I can double up on three out of four shots.”
The hostages counted their rank to conclude they still had sufficient forces.
“So I figure if you’re the eighth man coming at me, you’ll be fine. I couldn’t shoot you.” This conclusion was reassuring, though none acted upon the information yet, instead opting to wait until Conrad had finished his calculations.
“Well, except I could maybe break your jaw, number eight. Come to think of it, I would definitely indeed break your jaw, at a minimum. I’d make it my dying act to kill the eighth man upon me with my bare hands. So you best be the ninth man in to be considered reasonably safe.”
“He’s bluffing, men,” Snider proclaimed boldly. “He hasn’t the guts to kill a fellow soldier.”
“We’ll see,” said Conrad confidently. “I may not be able to handle all of you, but I could half of you.”
“If you do what’s best, you’ll stand down,” a voice bellowed from the side of the group. All heads turned to find that Baxter too had pistols drawn and aimed at the stunned captives.
“Oh, that’s right,” laughed Conrad. “We do have you all covered.”
“You too, you savage?” snarled Snider in disbelief.
Baxter remained silent while sliding into position next to Conrad. “Everyone sit,” commanded Baxter, and they all did.
Conrad smiled at his companion, happy with success, but Baxter’s face remained grim with determination. The mountain wind was cool, but the sun was hot enough above for his brow to break a sweat.
Chapter VI
An Obstacle to Success
“Why are you doing it?” asked Private Gregory, perhaps the youngest lad of the bunch. He currently was face down in the dust, his hands dutifully crossed behind his back and awaiting to be bound.
“Too many reasons to say, Gregory,” acknowledged Conrad, standing guard with the weapons while Baxter bound each man’s limbs with knotted rope.
“I know why,” proffered Snider, whose arms were the first to be tied.
“Really?” said Conrad. “Pray tell.”
“They think they’re going through all this to run off with riches, but it’s actually because they’re cowards,” Snider explained. “All murderers, thieves and scoundrels are for taking the easy way out of life instead of honourably attaining their goals.”
Conrad laughed heartily. “You hear that, Baxter? Can you believe that?”
“I did and I can,” said Baxter dryly, still concentrating on business.
“What a sermon, O dear Reverend Snider. But in fact I’d venture that our motivation derives from the exact opposite of your proposed theory, just to show how absolutely incorrect you always are.” Conrad began to stare dreamily up at the sky as he continued. “A coward would sit back, shut up and do as he’s told until Her Majesty marches him to the grave, the path of least resistance. But we are intrepid men. We want more than servitude and death, which is why it takes bold adventurousness to undertake this quest. “
“Oh, you’ll be undertaken,” shouted Finnegan, which elicited laughter from the group.
“But Baxter and I are men who are too big for the rote ruts, ritual and rigor moral rigor mortis of the service. I understand that being a soldier is more than enough for the lot of you blokes, but for us, we’re quite ready for retirement.”
Conrad smiled contentedly at his audience, who could be seen to visible mull the philosophy of his diatribe.
Snider snickered again. “You’re so full of shit, Conrad, that you don’t even know it. You aren’t dashing heroes. You’re scum, a pair of vile savages. You’re traitors and thieves, and I’ll see to it you both hang in hell for this.”
“Don’t you worry your tiny little noggin about that, sir,” said Conrad, sneering the word “sir.”
Baxter stooped over to bind Private Gregory’s hands when the young soldier said, “I want in.”
The unexpected request gave Baxter pause, but then he resumed binding the bo
y’s wrists together.
“Shove off,” said Conrad with a dismissive scoff.
But Gregory was savvy enough to sense an opportunity and offered an explanation. “Please! Everything you said, I agree with completely. I can’t stand the service either. Please, I beg you, let me join you. I won’t fail you.”
Conrad studied the boy like purchasing livestock at a country auction.
“Don’t,” cautioned Baxter.
“Let’s hear him out,” said Conrad. The two men locked gazes with each other, tacitly testing each other’s will to proceed.
Private Gregory had yet to leave his teenage years, where his smooth, hairless face and awkwardly long gait were both childlike characteristics. But in the last battle, the boy had fought fiercely and adeptly alongside the two veterans, demonstrating a remarkably mature confidence to his soldiering. The fact that the young man had always respected the company’s two resident outcasts of the black man and the old man certainly worked in his favour too.
Conrad broke the silent stand-off with Baxter, saying “Speak up, Gregory.” Baxter remained atop Gregory, pinning him to the ground, but easing his weight up for the boy to breathe better without his torso compressed to the earth.
After a hearty exhale, Gregory explained, “You talk of opportunity, about taking charge of your life and doing something meaningful. Well, this is me doing that. I want to come along, on whatever you have planned.”
Conrad approached Gregory, kneeling down to better face the boy laying flat on his stomach. “Mind you, boy, that the road we’re to travel is danger. We guarantee nothing, not even your life. The only thing we can promise is that you would be rid of the military forever.”
The youth nodded in understanding. “And that’s all well by me, sir.”
Conrad laughed as he stood to his feet. Baxter also rose while continuing to pin Gregory to the ground beneath a boot heel.
Conrad locked his gaze upon Baxter’s, who instantly recognised a familiar twinkle in his friend’s mischievous expression: that familiar, impish urge to rebel against common sense. “We could use the men,” Conrad hissed quietly through his teeth. “And Greg’s a good kid.”