The Last Legionnaire

by Paul Fraser Collard

  ‘My eye.’ Palmer spoke quietly, his gaze still riveted on the scene outside. ‘Those things look evil.’ He was looking at the artillery battery filing past below the window.

  ‘I bloody hate cannons.’

  Palmer caught Jack’s eye. ‘Don’t we all, chum.’

  ‘You served?’ He knew little of Palmer’s past, but he recognised the look in his gaze.

  Palmer nodded. ‘Before your time.’

  Jack was intrigued. He had no idea how old Palmer was, so he made a guess. ‘India?’

  ‘For a bit.’

  ‘Against the Sikhs?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Palmer refused to be drawn.

  Jack wanted to press, but he knew what it was to have demons. There had been hard fighting in India in the years before he had journeyed to its shores. He guessed Palmer was around ten to fifteen years older than he was. That meant he could easily have seen action against the Sikhs, or the Afghans; maybe both and others besides. ‘Makes you want a drink.’

  ‘Doesn’t it just.’

  Jack still wanted to know more. It was the closest thing to a proper conversation he had ever had with Palmer. It was worth celebrating, so he turned to call across to Mary. ‘We got anything to drink, love?’

  ‘I ain’t your love. And no, we haven’t.’

  Jack heard Palmer grunt in sympathy.

  ‘In my pack.’

  Jack turned sharply. The other man had spoken so softly that he had barely heard the words.

  ‘In my pack.’ The instruction was repeated as Palmer kept his vigil at the window.

  Jack needed no more of an invitation. He walked to Palmer’s knapsack, ignoring the disapproving glare on Mary’s face. It was heavy, so he squatted on his haunches, pulling open the straps. He saw the bottle of brandy immediately. It was three-quarters full. The sight made him smile. He had never seen Palmer drinking, but it was clear that Ballard’s man enjoyed a nip here and there.

  He pulled out the bottle and was about to stand when he saw something bright half hidden beneath a spare shirt. He glanced at Palmer, but the man was paying him no attention, his gaze still fixed on the column passing by in the street below. Jack slipped his fingers underneath the shirt and took hold of the object that had caught his attention. He checked that Palmer was still looking away, then took a glance at what he had found.

  It was an oval picture frame, no bigger than the palm of his hand. He looked down at the smiling image of a small girl about eight or nine years old. She was a pretty thing, with blonde hair and a pair of bright blue eyes. It was a simple picture, the kind that would cost a proud parent a few shillings. But the artist had still captured something of the child, a quirky half-smile on her face that was quite captivating.

  He looked up to see Mary staring at him. She shook her head but said nothing, her opinion of his prying obvious. He slipped the portrait back into its place underneath the clean shirt, then fastened the straps on the knapsack before straightening up and taking the brandy across to the window.

  ‘This what you wanted?’

  Palmer glanced down and nodded. ‘Aye. A man needs to be prepared.’ He reached for the bottle. ‘You saw her then?’ He asked the question without looking at Jack.

  For a moment Jack thought about lying. But he did not sense anything in Palmer’s tone that made him wary, so he answered truthfully. ‘Yes.’

  ‘My daughter.’ Still Palmer did not look at him. ‘Elisabeth.’

  ‘She’s a pretty child.’ From where he stood at the man’s side, Jack could see that Palmer was no longer looking at the French troops, but was instead staring straight into the sky.

  ‘She is.’ Palmer smiled as he spoke. ‘She’s as pretty as an angel.’

  Despite the warmth in the room, Jack shivered. The image of Palmer’s daughter reminded him of another child, another face that only appeared in his nightmares. That child had died in a back alley in Delhi, murdered in front of his eyes. For an instant he was there and he froze, the image searing into his mind with such force that it sent a shudder surging through him.

  ‘Here.’

  Jack looked up to see that Palmer was offering him the brandy.

  ‘Have a dram or two.’

  Jack reached gratefully for the bottle. He felt no shame that Palmer had surely spotted his reaction. He had seen the same look reflected in the big man’s eyes. They stood and drank, neither speaking as they watched the horde passing by, the long procession of men and wagons crawling along

  ‘I just do not understand it.’ Ballard swept into the room. His voice rose as he vented his frustration. ‘These damn people. Do they not care that I represent the British government?’ He walked briskly across to dump a thick wedge of paper on top of his travelling trunk before standing still, one hand on his hip, the other clasped theatrically to his head.

  ‘What’s the matter, sir?’ Jack asked the question dutifully.

  ‘The British government is being ignored!’ Ballard shook his head as if disbelieving his own words. ‘These damnable Frenchies are doing nothing, and I mean nothing, to assist me.’

  ‘Are no wagons available, sir?’ Palmer asked deadpan.

  ‘No, no, there are none. Nor are there any horses, or even a single damn mule!’ Ballard’s voice kept rising. ‘Everything is in a state of utter chaos. The French, damn their eyes, did not bother to think what they would need. Now they are here, and lo and behold there are not enough supplies to equip a single battalion, yet alone an entire army!’

  Jack was not surprised by Ballard’s discovery. The French army had swamped Genoa. Thousands of men had already passed through before they had arrived, and the French commissariat had stripped the town bare of anything even remotely useful. He was about to tweak Ballard’s tail and remind him of these salient facts when he spied Mary studying the British major. He had not seen that particular expression on her face for nearly a decade. It was a look of appraisal, the same look she had once given a man as she assessed his worth and calculated the price he would pay for her services.

  ‘What do you think we need?’ Jack was put out enough by Mary’s expression to forget the need to tease his commander.

  ‘There is transport, for starters.’ Ballard maintained his theatrical pose, but raised his eyes to the ceiling as if searching it for inspiration. ‘An agent of the Crown cannot be expected to march like a common soldier. Then we will need supplies; there is no knowing what we will be able to find once we are on the move.’ He lowered his gaze and scowled at Jack. ‘The list is endless. I have no idea how we will manage.’

  ‘Can you write it all down for me?’ Jack greeted his master’s despair with a calm smile.

  ‘Of course, but do give me some credit, Jack. I do not think they will listen to you when you ask. They will ignore you as surely as they ignored me.’

  Jack’s smile broadened. ‘I am sure you are right, sir.’ He glanced across at Mary, who was still staring at Ballard. ‘But then I don’t intend to be doing any asking.’

  Ballard’s eyes widened. ‘You mean to steal what we need?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Ballard gave one of his own rare, wolfish smiles. ‘What a capital notion.’

  The two men and one boy moved quickly. They had waited until night had fallen, the near full moon casting enough light for them not to have to worry about being able to see. They had left the lodging shortly after a late supper, a light meal of bread and cheese the best Mary had been able to provide given their straitened circumstances.

  Jack’s stomach growled, earning him a glare from Palmer. The three of them were in the alley to the side of the tall town house where they had rented a room. Ballard had not felt the need to offer to accompany them, but he had been forced to overrule Mary, who did not want her son to join the venture. The boy had been brought up in Whitechapel. He knew how to move quietly and how to make sure the right objects ended up in the correct pockets.

  ‘Looks quiet.’ Jack was leading the way. He craned his neck so th
at he could see around the corner of the building. The street was nearly empty. With so many foreign soldiers in the town, the local population was wisely staying indoors, their windows and doors bolted tight in case their allies felt the need to fill their pockets and knapsacks before they left. ‘No, wait.’ He held up a hand and the three of them shrank back into the shadows, faces lowered, as a group of French non-commissioned officers sauntered past, their voices loud in the night-time quiet.

  Jack let them go past. He had no idea what they would encounter on the streets now that night had fallen, but he wanted to be cautious. None of them spoke French. Any interaction with the French soldiery would be difficult, and should be avoided at all costs.

  ‘All right, let’s move.’ He led them out of the shadows, with Billy tucked behind him and Palmer bringing up the rear. They walked quickly, their boots loud on the cobbles as they crossed the street. Palmer had suggested they head back towards the docks, so Jack led them downhill. They were not the only ones abroad. A few groups of French soldiers went by, but none gave the three of them more than a cursory glance. Still Jack led them at a brisk pace until he spotted what they were looking for.

  He brought them to a halt, then turned to face Palmer. ‘Do you see those wagons?’ He had spotted a line of them parked in a small square just off the main thoroughfare.

  Palmer nodded. He pushed his thumbs through the straps of his knapsack. ‘Let’s get it done.’

  Jack nodded. ‘Wait here while I check them out.’

  There was nothing else to be said. He walked away, leaving the other two behind. As he passed the road that led towards the wagons, he spotted a single pair of sentries. They were standing together, their muskets on their shoulders as they talked. He knew they would not expect any real trouble, their presence alone enough to safeguard the supplies from their own side, or from any of the local population attempting to make off with anything.

  He took a moment to check no one was watching before turning and going back the way he had come. This time he saw what he wanted on the side of the square opposite the two sentries. He kept walking, his head turning from side to as he checked for any hidden scrutiny.

  ‘You look like a bloody felon.’ Palmer greeted his return with a hoarse rebuke.

  Jack ignored the criticism. ‘There’s an alley way on the far side of the square. We can use that to get close.’ He looked at Billy. ‘You up for this, lad?’

  The boy nodded. ‘Course I am, Jack.’

  Jack smiled at the bravado. He made one last check up and down the street to be certain that no one was watching the oddly matched trio. He saw nothing untoward.

  ‘Right.’ He grinned at the boy looking up at him. ‘Follow me.’

  ‘My eye! What’s that bloody stink?’ Billy hissed the words as they crept cautiously through the dark alley Jack had spotted.

  ‘It’s the bloody French.’ It was Palmer who replied. ‘Shit anywhere they will.’

  ‘The dirty bastards.’

  Jack bit back the urge to laugh. There was something in the way the boy uttered the insult that he found funny. But there was no time to enjoy it. They had reached the end of the alleyway. The wagons were just ahead.

  ‘You ready, lad?’ He took Billy’s shoulder before guiding him forward.

  Billy nodded, his lips pressed tightly together.

  Jack checked round swiftly, then took firm hold of the boy and hoisted him on to the back of the closest wagon. ‘Be quick,’ he whispered before shrinking back into the shadows.

  Billy did not need to be told twice. Bending low, he got to work.

  Jack cocked an ear. He heard the gentle creak of a crate being opened. It was far too loud not to be missed. He inched out of the alley to take up position behind the wagon. Palmer followed, the pair working together to cover both flanks. Both had the reassuring solidity of a Colt revolver pressed against their spine. They had no intention of drawing the handguns. They were amongst an allied army. If they were caught, they could hardly shoot their way free. Any scuffle would be fought the old-fashioned way, with fists and boots rather than bullets.

  ‘Here.’ Jack started as Billy hissed down at him. ‘Stop lollygagging and take these.’

  Jack snorted at the boy’s quick tongue, but still reached up for the bottles he was being passed. He recognised the feel at once.

  ‘Open your knapsack,’ he whispered to Palmer.

  ‘What has he found?’

  ‘Brandy.’

  ‘I told he’s a good lad.’ Palmer held out his knapsack and Jack slipped the bottles inside.

  ‘You want more?’ asked Billy, his voice too loud.

  ‘No. Shit, come on.’ Jack heard sounds of movement, the noise of boots coming towards them. ‘Get down.’

  Billy slid down almost immediately, landing surely on his feet next to Jack.

  ‘Let’s go.’ Jack would not push their luck.

  The three scuttled away, disappearing into the darkness of the alley moments before the first sentry stuck his head around the back of the wagon they had just ransacked.

  ‘You know what to get?’ Jack pushed his mouth close to the boy’s ear.

  Billy nodded. He looked up at Jack, his eyes eager.

  ‘Get it done.’ Jack half pushed the boy away and watched him slip through the back door of the tall town house before returning to where Palmer waited behind a wooden outhouse.

  ‘Is this worth it?’ Palmer greeted Jack with a scowl.

  ‘I want a sword. A good one, too.’ Jack offered the explanation as he took up position where he could watch the house. They had discovered that a number of French officers were billeted there and had tailed a clutch of young subalterns back to the building, surmising from their wandering gait and loud, bawdy conversations that the group had been out for an evening’s drinking. The trio had waited a full hour before letting Billy loose, until Jack was reasonably certain that enough time had passed for the half-cut officers to have fallen into a stupor.

  ‘Waste of bloody effort, if you ask me.’ Palmer made his feelings clear.

  ‘I didn’t.’

  Palmer snorted. ‘You still think you’re a Rupert?’ He shook his head at the folly of Jack’s desire. ‘You don’t want a poker. A bundook and a bayonet, that’s all a man needs in a fight.’

  Jack noted Palmer’s use of the slang for a rifle, a term used by redcoats who had served in India. It gave more clues to the man’s past, as did his preference for a bayonet. ‘You were a redcoat then?’

  ‘Once.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Watch the damn house.’

  Jack did as he was told. He knew Palmer would say nothing more.

  The minutes dragged by. Jack stayed in the shadows and began to worry. Billy had been gone too long.

  ‘You think we should go and get him?’ he hissed over his shoulder at Palmer, who had chosen to sit on the ground and leave the watching to Jack.

  ‘He’ll be back. If he ain’t, well, you were the dolt who wanted a bloody poker.’

  Jack bit his tongue. He turned back to resume his vigil and found himself staring into Billy’s glowing face.

  ‘Where the hell did you come from?’ He had not heard the boy approach.

  ‘Where d’you think?’ Billy came close, his arms full. ‘Here you go.’ He pressed a sword into Jack’s gut. ‘Good enough for you?’

  Jack grasped the sword in both hands. It had the curve of a sabre and it was reassuringly heavy. ‘You little bugger, that’s perfect.’

  The boy held something else out. ‘You might want these too.’

  Jack took the second object clumsily, the sword still in his hands. He recognised the feel of the leather carrying case instantly. ‘Blow me tight.’

  ‘Thought you’d like them.’ Billy beamed. ‘So what next?’

  Jack laughed quietly. Mary’s son had provided him with a new sword and a pair of field glasses. He glanced up at the sky. It was starting to get lighter. They had dealt with his priorities
, but they still had to get the things on Ballard’s list. He cocked an ear as he heard a sound that would do the job nicely.

  He turned to Palmer. ‘You hear that?’

  ‘Aye,’ the larger man replied, then slowly eased himself to his feet. ‘It came from just over yonder.’ He nodded towards the shadowy buildings at the rear of the yard behind the officers’ lodging.

  ‘Shall we take it?’ Billy asked the question, his eagerness obvious.

  ‘Oh yes.’ Palmer smiled at his companions. ‘That’ll suit the major very nicely indeed.’

  The mule was noisy, too noisy, and it clearly objected to the two strangers who bustled around it, piling on sacks and panniers from the wagon left outside the stable.

  ‘Look alive-o. We don’t have long,’ admonished Billy, who was on lookout whilst Jack and Palmer loaded up the mule.

  ‘Hush yourself,’ snapped Jack, then had to snatch his arm away from the mule, which had just tried to bite him. He moved away quickly to grab another sack, which smelled like it contained cheese. The pile they were quickly depleting must have comprised the officers’ private stash of provisions. Jack felt no compassion for them. The men under their command would enjoy no such treats. Now neither would the officers.

  ‘Qui vive?’

  Jack stopped in his tracks, a heavy sack that he guessed contained flour in his arms.

  ‘C’est vous, Maxime?’

  Again the voice came. Jack did not understand the words, but he knew they were in trouble.

  ‘Frenchies!’ Billy called out a belated warning.

  ‘Shit.’ Jack bundled the sack he was holding on to the back of the mule, balancing it precariously on one of the already bulging panniers.

  ‘Leave them to me.’ Palmer strode outside.

  Billy rushed to Jack’s side, his voice breathless with excitement. ‘Will Mr Palmer fight them?’

  ‘Shut your muzzle.’ Jack pushed the eager boy to one side, then reached for the mule’s tether. As he untied it, he heard loud voices outside, a flurry of fast French greeting Palmer’s appearance. ‘Come on, lad, hold this and come with me.’