Jack paid no attention to Augustus’s meaningless wittering. His eyes were riveted on the face of one of the officers as they arranged a circle of armchairs on the far edge of the temporary rugby pitch. It was a face that had no right to be there. He had last seen it in a dank alleyway a few days after the British expeditionary force had beaten the army of the Shah of Persia at the battle of Khoosh-ab. Jack had just committed a murder, the killing of an enemy spy the last act he had carried out on the orders of the man who had unravelled his identity.
There were over two dozen officers in the coffee room, with at least the same number of servants, yet for some reason Jack saw the officer turn to look straight in his direction. He found himself staring into the calm and knowing gaze of Major John Ballard, one of the army’s finest intelligence officers, and one of the few people alive who knew who Jack Lark really was.
‘I say. Do you mind if we leave?’ Jack cut off Augustus’s windy ramblings. He rose to his feet hastily, his knees catching against the table in front of his chair, nearly knocking over the half-drunk glasses of wine.
‘Let’s hold here a moment, old man. There’s plenty of time for a little diversion later on. Let’s drink these first.’
‘Sorry, chum.’ Jack was regretting the evening’s consumption. The wine was making him slow. ‘I’ve got to get out of here.’
Augustus half rose. ‘I say, are you quite all right, old man? You look rather peaky.’
Jack paid him no heed. He had his eyes fixed on Ballard. The intelligence officer had not changed in the two years since Jack had last seen him. Thin as a rake, he still wore the dark blue uniform of the hussars and sported the same narrow moustache on an otherwise clean-shaven face. Jack was appalled to see him making his excuses to the rest of his group as he turned away from them.
‘Shit.’ He hesitated, unsure of what to do. For a moment he considered brazening it out and holding to his story. But this was Ballard. He had already seen through one of Jack’s charades, and that had been before they had spent months together on campaign.
‘I say, what’s that, old man?’ Augustus had heard the oath and his face had creased into a scowl. ‘I hardly think that is appropriate language. This is a respectable establishment and—’
‘Sit down and shut the fuck up.’ Jack snapped the order. He was already moving away, his eyes searching for a way out. He barely heard Augustus’s reaction to the pithy command. The game of rugby surged closer and he slipped back into the fray.
‘I’d take your jacket off if you are coming back out.’ A hand pushed at Jack as an officer rushed past, his face flushed with sweat.
Jack kept moving, ignoring the players even as he was buffeted by another officer, the game in full flow around him. He kept his eyes on Ballard, who now stood staring at the space next to Augustus that Jack had just vacated.
There was the sound of porcelain smashing, followed by a great cheer. Jack ducked behind the press of bodies that had piled up as the players charged into one enormous ruck. He kept low, taking care only to straighten up as the players began to stand around him. He stayed in the melee, enduring his own share of back-slapping as the game broke up, the sweaty officers around him barking with good humour.
Ballard was on the move. He approached the far side of the crowd, his small frame nearly completely hidden by the beefier bodies of the officers leaving the field of play to recover their uniforms. His head turned briskly this way and that as he searched the faces. To Jack’s mind he looked like a sparrow who had found his way into a parliament of rooks.
Jack was fast running out of crowd. The players were dispersing quickly, their chatter loud as they relived their part in the game. He darted away, keeping close to a pair of officers walking off together. To his dismay, they stopped when they reached their discarded jackets. He could only stop with them, hoping against hope that Ballard would not spot him for a second time. He made a play of dusting down his own coat, and even attempted a hearty slap on one of the officer’s backs before his sangfroid deserted him. He glanced back. Ballard was staring straight at him.
For the span of a single heartbeat he met the other man’s gaze. Then he ran.
The club was busy. Jack rushed along the landing, caring nothing for the disapproving glares and hoarsely whispered rebukes sent his way.
‘I say. Steady as she goes.’ An officer in the dark green uniform of the Rifle Brigade snapped at him as he blundered past, the contents of a half-filled glass of claret slopping dangerously close to his uniform.
Jack broke free, then galloped down a quieter landing, skidding around a corner, and headed for the stairs. He thought he heard someone running after him, but it was not the time to turn and look. He made it to the top of the stairs and charged down, taking them three at a time, his breath already rasping in his lungs, his boots loud on the stone steps.
Faces lifted towards him as those in the lower hall looked up at the commotion. Jack leaped the last half-dozen steps, but his boots slipped on the polished marbled and he fell awkwardly, hitting the floor with his hip then sprawling forward, arms outstretched to break his fall. He came to a halt in an ignominious heap at the feet of the servant who took the officers’ hats.
‘Fucking hell.’ He picked himself up painfully.
‘Are you quite all right, sir?’ The servant was trying to stifle a smile. ‘Would you like me to retrieve your shako?’
Jack was in no mood for mockery. He pushed the servant away, using the poor man as leverage as he made for the door. Now that he was about to escape, he risked a glance back, a flicker of excitement at the madcap dash through the club firing in his gut.
The officers in the hall were staring at him like pigeons in a coop who had suddenly spotted an eagle sitting calmly amongst them. But Jack had no interest in their scowls and disapproving glares. His eyes were drawn upwards, to the landing on the first floor.
Ballard was leaning against the banister, his chest heaving with the exertion of the chase. But his eyes were sharp as he stared directly at Jack.
Jack stood there catching his breath. He was relieved to see Ballard far enough away to pose no threat. He waved.
He did not wait to see how Ballard would react.
The streets were dark when Jack left the public house. He had been sitting in a quiet corner drinking steadily, drowning the shock of seeing Ballard, his mind dwelling on the time when he had worked for the intelligence officer.
Ballard was a tie to his past, one that he had tried hard to leave behind him. Seeing the intelligence officer in the Army and Navy Club had caused his new world to collide with the old. He had served Ballard well and they had parted on reasonable terms, but he would not allow himself to be drawn back into the man’s orbit. Only death and killing lay in that direction, and he had had his fill of both, just as he had had his fill of taking orders. He was his own man now. He would not go back to being the person he had once been.
He staggered out on to the street, gasping as the cold air hit him. He was half-cut, but alert enough to pause and peer into the darkness, wary of the shadows even in his befuddled state. He saw nothing ominous, so he resolved to walk. He was no more than quarter of a mile from the gin palace, and he felt sober enough to make it back more or less in one piece.
He pulled his uniform coat tight around him as he felt the first chill. The effects of the beer he had sunk made themselves felt as the heat of the public house was replaced by the cold night-time air, and he paused, taking firm hold on the wall of the nearest house to steady himself.
He caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure sliding past on the far side of the street. It was a warning, and he forced himself to stand straighter. He took a few tentative steps, assessing his state of drunkenness. To his satisfaction, he felt half-decent. The beer’s presence was noticeable, but he was not about to topple over.
He stifled a belch and walked on. His officer’s coatee flapped open, but he did not have the inclination to work the buttons back into their pl
ace. It was easy enough to amble along the centre of the street, which was pretty much empty this late. But he was not completely alone. Even in the gloom he could see a huddle of blankets in the doorway of a dressmaker’s shop. It was not an uncommon sight on the streets near the gin palace. There were plenty of folk unable to find any better accommodation.
‘Oi, mate, got a penny?’ The voice came from deep within the mound.
Jack slowed, but did not stop. He was on the outskirts of the rookery, and even slightly the worse for wear he knew better than to make himself an easy target.
He was about to pass the vagrant by when he saw a familiar sight balanced on the macadam near what he presumed was the sleeping figure’s head. It was an upturned army-issue Albert shako, the type that the red-coated soldiers had worn when they had invaded the Crimean peninsula in what would prove to be a long and wearing campaign to capture the Russian naval port of Sevastopol.
‘Got a penny, mate?’ the vagrant called out for a second time. The voice was thick with phlegm. Jack heard the man’s throat gurgle as he noisily sucked down the contents of his nose.
‘What regiment?’
The blankets stirred. A corner was pulled back and Jack caught the glimmer of a single eye glaring up at him. ‘Give me a shilling, mate, and I’ll give you my whole fucking life story.’
Jack was finding it hard to stand still. He contemplated the eye, then fumbled in his coat. He did not carry much money with him – he was not that foolish – and the night’s drinking had cleared out most of his pocket book, but he still had a handful of coins, which he pulled out and deposited in the man’s shako.
‘I’ve paid my dues.’ He fixed his gaze on the single eye. ‘Answer my question. What regiment?’ He delivered the command with some of the snap of an officer.
‘The 7th.’ The reply was given grudgingly. A little more of the blanket was pulled back to reveal a heavily bearded face. It was hard to see much in the gloom, but Jack got the impression that the man was looking at him with something other than annoyance.
‘I know the 7th. I was with the King’s Royal Fusiliers at the Alma.’
Either the face betrayed nothing, or else Jack missed it.
‘I was at the Alma.’ The man spoke the words as if saying them for the first time in a long while. ‘We saved your sorry arses.’
Jack was sobering fast as he remembered leading a company of redcoats in the assault on the Russian redoubt on the far side of the Alma river. The King’s Royal Fusiliers had led the way, whilst the other regiments in its division, including the 7th Fusiliers, had been drawn into vicious fights with enormous Russian columns sent to throw the British division back over the river.
It had been his first taste of battle. He had done little save go forward with his stolen company and take his place in the line when it finally stormed the redoubt. They had lost many men in the long assault, with dozens struck down by the Russian artillerymen. He shivered as he remembered what it had been like to walk up that slope on that bloody day so many years before.
‘It was a hard fight.’ The man Jack had disturbed broke the silence.
Jack did not know how long he had stood there without speaking. He forced the memory back into its cage. ‘What happened to you?’
‘I got hit. Invalided out. I was one of the lucky ones.’
‘You came out of Scutari?’ The main British hospital had become a byword for the worst conditions of filth and squalor, thanks to the reports sent to the British press by the reporter William Russell. Jack had found himself there after the battle. Somehow he had recovered, his body healing well enough to let him find a way out.
‘Fucking shithole that was.’ The man pulled the blanket back over his face. There was the sound of footsteps on the street behind them, but Jack stayed where he was. He looked down at the heap of blankets for a long while. He did not know if the man knew he was still there, but it was clear that their conversation, if it could be called that, was over.
It was hard not to picture himself in the man’s place. It was the fate of so many soldiers, the army quick to cast out any who could no longer serve the colours. He did not know how he had survived for as long as he had. He had taken enough wounds along the way, but never one serious enough to leave him nothing more than a cripple dumped on the street and left to fend for himself.
He sighed, then resumed his weary walk back to the ginny. There was nothing more he could do for the ex-soldier. The few pennies would have to suffice.
The man hidden under the blankets waited for Jack to get a few dozen yards away before he rose slowly to his feet, casting away the filthy coverings with a sneer of distaste. It took but a second to ease the seventeen-inch bayonet from the sheath on his belt as he began to walk, his movements awkward after so long lying on the cold macadam.
He spat, then whistled once, the sound sharp in the quiet. He saw a figure step out of the shadows on the far side of the street. There were no gas lamps in this part of town, but there was sufficient moonlight for the man – who had not lied about his days in the 7th Fusiliers – to see the firm nod of the head as the identification was confirmed.
The old soldier started to move quicker, the sharpened bayonet held low in his right hand. A second and then a third man joined him, their footsteps sounding quick and sharp. The figure who had made the identification slid back into the shadows as the trio he had hired broke into a run, their paths converging on the back of the man dressed in the uniform of a British army captain.
Jack froze when he heard the silence broken by the staccato rhythm of boots hitting the ground in unison. The evening of drinking had dulled his senses, but the sudden flare of danger still registered in his fuddled mind. He was running before he had any idea of a plan. His officer’s coatee billowed around him as he pumped his legs, forcing the pace.
‘Get him!’
The sound of the boots picking up speed reached his ears as he pounded past a draper’s wagon left empty outside its owner’s shop. He darted behind it, then doubled back, reaching out to take a firm hold on the wagon’s side as he changed direction then hurtled up the narrow gap between the vehicle and the wall of the shop.
He saw them then. He was no longer running away but towards the men who were chasing him, and there was time enough to make out the three dark figures spread wide across the street. The one directly in his path skidded to a halt as his quarry suddenly turned and ran straight at him. Jack saw the man set himself, the glint of a weapon held low at his right side. There was no time to plan, or to give his other two pursuers a moment’s thought. He just rushed at the man in his path, his boots hammering hard on the macadam.
The man lunged as Jack came at him. It was a vicious blow, the bayonet held in his right hand staying low as he punched it towards Jack’s gut. But Jack saw it coming. He jumped, then lashed out with his boot, catching the underside of the bayonet and kicking it skyward. His attacker’s arm was thrown backwards with such force that the man was knocked on to his backside.
Off balance, but still moving fast, Jack collided with the man who had thought to spill his guts on to the quiet back street. He let his weight go and fell hard, making sure his body came crashing down on top of his attacker, his knees planted firmly on the other man’s chest, ruthlessly crushing his ribs and driving the breath from his body.
There was no time to stay and fight. Jack’s hands clawed at the ground, his palms slipping across the macadam, his feet lashing out as he used the man’s body for purchase. He felt his right boot catch the fallen body in the face, then he was up and running, his arms starting to pump hard, the other two pursuers already on his tail.
He felt a moment’s joy as he galloped away from his assailants. There was madness in the uneven fight, a delight in having already knocked down one of the men who had come for him. He did not stop to wonder who they worked for, or why he had been singled out. He had known that the moment he heard the footsteps chasing after him.
He hurtled around
a corner, taking the dangerous race into a narrower street. It led away from the palace, but he had no intention of heading back there until he was alone. He pounded on, ignoring the burn in his chest. The narrow street turned left, then right, and then left again before running behind a newly constructed warehouse not far from the sugar factory. It was near pitch black behind the tall brick building. He darted into an alleyway that led along the back of a row of houses and stopped, holding his breath, forcing his body to obey even though he wanted nothing more than to bend double and suck down huge draughts of air to ease the pain in his tortured lungs.
As the first pursuer stormed past, panting heavily, Jack stepped out of his hiding place and directly into the path of the second, slower man. There was just enough moonlight to let him see the shock on the man’s face before he thrust his elbow forward into his throat. The pursuer’s momentum drove him on even as his hobnailed boots skidded in a futile attempt to stop, and he went down hard, his legs taken from beneath him as the blow snapped his upper body backwards.
Jack skipped to one side to avoid the man’s flailing arms and legs. His pursuer lay on the cobbles, his hands lifted to cradle the ruin of his throat, which was making nasty choking, sobbing sounds as he tried to breathe.
Jack’s legs felt wobbly, but he forced them to pick up the pace as he sprinted back the way he had come. He heard the commotion as the last ambusher turned and ran back past the man with the broken throat, who was thrashing wildly and gargling for attention.
He was no more than ten yards from the end of the narrow street when a fourth figure moved into his path. Even in the darkness there was no mistaking the pork pie hat that was pulled low over a face contorted with anger. Nor was it hard for Jack to recognise the barrel of the Colt revolver held ready to fire and aimed at his head.
Mr Shaw had come to finish the job.
The Last Legionnaire Page 7