The Last Legionnaire

by Paul Fraser Collard

  For a moment Jack thought they would take her there and then. The fight had left the girl, and she did not resist as the men started to drag her away, their intent obvious.

  A local man came out of the closest house. His shouts carried clearly to the British agents. He carried a long knife, the kind a peasant would use to carve bread or any haunches of meat that came his way.

  The Austrian holding the girl laughed away the interruption before barking an instruction at his comrade, who immediately slipped his carbine from his shoulder.

  The local cared nothing for the threat. He ran towards the pair of Austrian cavalrymen, bellowing in fury. Even from a distance, Jack heard the desperate anger in his voice, his horror at bearing witness to the girl’s torment obvious.

  He was still shouting when the closer of the two Austrians shot him.

  Jack lowered the field glasses. Ballard was staring directly at him. There was a warning in his eyes.

  Jack met the gaze evenly. He tried to deny the emotions that had been surging through his veins since the moment he had seen the girl attempt her desperate flight.

  ‘The cowardly curs.’ Ballard spoke softly, clearly appalled by what he was seeing. ‘They are soldiers!’

  Still Jack said nothing. He forced his breathing to slow, to counter the urge to act. He tried to convince himself that he had seen nothing more than the reflection of his nightmares. It was not his fight. The girl was not his concern, her honour and her soul not his to protect.

  The scream came again. It was louder than before. It rose higher, the pitch pushing to a crescendo that went on and on, the sound wavering but left to echo through the silent hamlet.

  ‘Jack!’ Ballard’s voice quivered with emotion. ‘It is a shameful thing. It is despicable that soldiers would act in this way.’ He paused to make sure he had Jack’s full attention, speaking slowly and clearly. ‘But we have a job to do. Do not put that in jeopardy.’

  Jack kept his gaze riveted on Ballard’s face, his eyes locked on to the coldness he saw reflected in the other man’s stare.

  He was up and running before the scream ended.

  Jack’s breath echoed in his ears. It was all he could hear as he ran. Everything was focused on what was to come, on what he would unleash on the men who brought war to the innocent.

  The ground flashed past under his boots, yards disappearing in seconds. He freed his weapons as he pounded on, the hilt of his stolen sabre snug in his right hand, the Colt revolver solid and sure in his left. The girl had been dragged from sight, so he concentrated his attention on the nearest house, his body thrilling with the promise of the violence to come. It was time to be who he was meant to be.

  He hit the first door hard and went in fast. It took no more than a single heartbeat for his eyes to adjust to the gloomy interior. An Austrian cavalryman came staggering out of a rear room, his arms filled with a heavy sack of flour. Jack saw surprise register on the man’s face before the sabre took his throat. The soldier hit the floor face down, his body thumping on to the sack, which burst on impact, filling the air with an explosion of white dust. He lay where he fell, his blood turning the spilled flour to red paste.

  Jack felt nothing. He was already turning away, gore dripping from the sabre. Outside, he paused, glancing from side to side for no longer than a second before he was moving again.

  He ran hard, bounding over a low wall as he made for the place he had seen the Austrians leave their horses. Two of their number came out of a house twenty yards to his front. They took one look at him before they dropped their haul of earthenware jugs and drew their swords.

  He ran straight at them. He did not think of the odds, or of the risk to his blackened soul. He paid no attention to the sound of breaking pottery as the jugs smashed, their precious liquid spilling to darken the dusty soil.

  The two Austrians were no raw recruits. They came at him with measured purpose, moving apart, clearing room for their sword arms as they prepared to cut down the blood-splattered madman charging towards them.

  Jack saw their intent and skidded to a halt, his boots scrabbling for purchase. He spotted the flicker of alarm on the two faces now no more than ten yards away. There was time for the hint of a smile before he covered the first face with the barrel of his revolver.

  The gun roared.

  The first Austrian crumpled as the bullet tore into his chest. He fell without a sound, his body seeming to roll over itself as it tumbled forward.

  The second man bellowed, raising the alarm, before the Colt’s second bullet took him in the centre of his face.

  Jack lurched back into motion, his eyes roving across the silent houses, searching for the one where the two Austrians had taken the girl.

  A door to his right opened. He saw the frightened face of a young Austrian cavalryman roused by his companion’s shout. It was not one of the men Jack was searching for, so he turned and vaulted over a low stone wall that ran alongside the lane.

  Voices chased after him. More cavalrymen emerged to shout in alarm as they spotted the man who had come amongst them. He ignored them and kept moving, instinct driving him onwards.

  Another door swung open. A man stepped outside, the sword in his hand incongruous against his naked legs. Jack recognised him in an instant.

  The Austrian saw him coming. Unlike his comrades, he did not seek a fight. Instead he twisted away, making a grab for the door handle.

  Jack knew what was intended. He forced his legs to work harder, straining for every last scrap of speed. Three paces on and he knew he would not make it. The door was already moving, the Austrian’s face twisted with sudden fear as he tried to slam it shut.

  Jack raised his revolver, his left arm braced. He fired as he ran. The first bullet chewed a thick splinter of wood an inch away from the Austrian’s hand. The second hit the ancient wood half an inch below the first. The third took the Austrian in the throat.

  Jack shouted then, the first sound he had made since he had left Ballard. He released the madness, the joy of rediscovering his bitter talent. He was aware that other men were chasing after him, but he paid them no heed. He thought only of the girl he raced to save. The man he had shot blocked the doorway, the door pressed hard against his bare legs. His shirt had rucked up as he fell, revealing his private parts. Jack barely noticed them as he leaped over the body and into the gloomy interior.

  A sword came at him out of the darkness. He did not know what saved him. Instincts buried deep unleashed a parry that blocked the blade an instant before it sliced into his neck. His eyes adjusted to the gloom and he located his assailant before the sword came at him again.

  This time the parry was easy. He swatted the blade aside, then countered with a strike of his own. He felt nothing as it was knocked away. It was simple to sway back, then let the inevitable counter flash past his chest. He held back his next stroke, instead twisting away from the door. He did not want the open entrance at his back, the men coming after him sure to be only too willing to slide a blade into his unprotected spine.

  It was as he moved that he saw the other bodies in the room. One was dead, a gaping chasm where a throat had been. He was an old man, his grey beard now blackened with blood.

  The second body was still very much alive. The girl he had watched being taken away was sliding backwards on the floor, the tattered remains of her dress clutched around her. He caught a glimpse of her naked chest, but her lower clothes appeared intact, and his heart sang as he realised he had arrived in time.

  ‘Come on then!’ He fanned the flames of his own fury. The sight of the abused girl spurred him on, and he attacked the enemy soldier, his stolen sabre moving fast. The sword blurred through the air, flowing through the blows, one coming after the other without thought. The Austrian whimpered as he fought, a cry escaping his lips every time he managed to block another attack.

  Jack began to laugh. He taunted the Austrian, his superiority revealed with every hammering blow he struck. He was still laughing as he
knocked the man’s sword wide, then stepped forward and punched his sabre into the man’s chest, pushing his weight behind it, driving the blade deep.

  He came close to the man he was killing, his face no more than an inch from the Austrian’s nose. He sneered as the would-be rapist died in front of him, the feel of his blood hot and sticky on his hands. He did not shirk from the horror he saw reflected in his opponent’s eyes, the final glimmer of terror unleashed. Then with a great roar he threw the man away, forcing the corpse from his blade and freeing it ready for the fight he knew was still to come.

  The door was yanked open. The rest of the cavalrymen had arrived.

  Jack lifted his left hand. He fired his last bullet, the shot catching the arm of the first man through the door. He let the gun fall from his hand, then attacked with his sabre, his first, desperate blow forcing the wounded man to a take a step backwards.

  He snarled as he fought now, his sabre battering away the wounded Austrian’s weak counter-stroke. The man did not try again. Instead he slipped to one side, making space for a second cavalryman to step forward.

  Jack cared nothing for the new arrival. He parried the Austrian’s first thrust, then drove his sword hard at the man’s gut. He felt the tip score into flesh before the Austrian brought his own sword back in a desperate parry. Jack recovered the blade, then slashed it at the man’s face, a triumphant bellow escaping his lips as he saw it slice through his cheek.

  He stepped backwards quickly, twisting to one side as the second sword came for him. He had no choice but to give ground and was forced back. A third then a fourth cavalryman pushed their way into the room, come to exact their revenge.

  Revenge they would never get.

  The crash of the revolver was loud enough to drown out the pants and bellows of the fighting men. The Austrian nearest the door fell, his hands clasped to his back. The three men left standing whirled around. They had time to see a figure fill the doorway before the revolver fired again. In such an enclosed space, it was as easy as knifing eels in a barrel, and not one bullet missed. The last three Austrians died within the span of few heartbeats, the revolver used with unerring accuracy.

  Jack watched as the men died in front of him. It was only when the gunfire stopped that he finally lowered his bloodied blade.

  ‘You’re a fucking fool.’ Palmer strode into the slaughterhouse, his nose twitching at the taint of blood and gun smoke that lingered in the air.

  ‘And you were damned slow in getting here.’ Jack bent down to retrieve his revolver from the floor, then sheathed his blood-smeared sabre. He did not look at the bodies. He turned instead to face the girl he had come to rescue. She huddled in the shadows, wrapping her torn clothes around her, looking back at Jack with eyes wide with terror.

  ‘It’s all right, love. We’re not like them.’ Jack tried to smile. The girl looked anything but reassured. ‘It’s okay.’ He held up a hand. It was covered with gore. He saw the girl cringe away from him like a child recoiling from the image of a monster in a fairy tale.

  ‘Shit.’ He spat out the word, then turned away. He felt tired. He looked at Palmer. ‘I’ll fetch Mary. She’ll know what to do.’

  Palmer grunted. He was checking the bodies, prodding each one with the toe of his boot to check they were truly dead. Satisfied, he glanced at the girl. ‘You did all this for her?’

  Jack made a play of checking over his revolver in lieu of answer.

  ‘Was that the reason?’ Palmer repeated his question.

  Jack looked up. ‘Yes.’

  Palmer held his gaze for a good while. Then he nodded. He did not say anything more.

  Dawn came quickly. The night had passed peacefully, the men and women of the small hamlet providing the best they could for the foreigners who had fought and killed on their behalf. Food had been produced, and a raw red wine had washed down the evening’s dinner that for once they had not had to cook for themselves.

  Jack walked out of the house where he had been given a bed. He had slept like the dead. He had been exhausted; the fight had drained him of every scrap of strength. He was out of condition, soft after so long sleeping in warm beds. He was not concerned. The toughness would come fast, the hard days and bitter nights of a campaign sure to harden his flesh until he could march all day and still fight at the end of it.

  The birds were singing, so he paused on the threshold of the house to listen to their song. The air was chill, but the sun was warm on his face, its heat dancing across his skin to leave it tingling. He closed his eyes to savour the sensation.

  Hearing the soft scuff of footsteps, he opened his eyes, blinking hard as the sun seared into them. He saw Mary walking towards him, a tin mug in her hands.

  ‘God save me, but tell me that is tea.’ Jack lifted a hand to shelter his eyes. He saw Mary smile at his greeting. The sight surprised him. He could not recall when he had last earned such a reward.

  ‘You’re in luck. But it’s the last of the leaves, so you’d better enjoy it whilst you can.’

  Jack drank in Mary’s appearance as she walked towards him. He had not looked at her properly for some time, and now he glimpsed the girl he had once doted on in the woman coming towards him. She was dressed in a simple cotton dress in a warm blue fabric, a gift from the locals, and her hair was pulled back and tied behind her head. She looked clean and fresh and he felt the stirring of an old desire.

  ‘Stop staring,’ Mary told him, but the rebuke was delivered with little force. She came close enough to hand over the tea.

  ‘Thank you.’ Jack cradled the mug, luxuriating in the warmth that seeped into his hands. ‘Is this really the last of it?’

  ‘It is. Don’t tell Mr Ballard that I let you have it.’

  ‘Then I must thank you.’

  ‘You did a good thing. You deserve a reward.’

  ‘Do I?’ Jack took a sip of the tea, closing his eyes as he savoured the taste. He would miss it. The French officers drank tart green coffee by the sackload. It was not a patch on a mug of good thick, tarry tea.

  ‘Of course.’ Mary came to stand at his side so that the sun was on her face. ‘You saved that poor girl.’ She looked up at him, her eyes screwed almost shut against the sun. ‘It was a brave thing to do.’

  ‘I doubt your precious Mr Ballard would agree.’

  ‘Those bastards had it coming. You gave it to them.’ Mary scowled. ‘They deserved to die for what they were doing.’

  Jack snorted at her fierce words. They reminded him that Mary was harder than he gave her credit for. ‘I’m glad I did something right for once.’

  ‘For once you did.’ She turned her scowl on him. ‘My Billy thinks you’re quite the hero.’

  ‘The lad might be right.’

  ‘No, he’s not.’ Mary was firm on the matter. She sighed. ‘He’s an impressionable young boy who’s never had anyone to look up to, not a man at least.’

  ‘And he looks up to me?’

  ‘He won’t for long. I’ll make sure of that.’

  ‘He might not listen to you.’

  ‘Oh, he will. You did right to save that girl, but it doesn’t make up for what happened in London.’ Her words were sharp.

  ‘I know that.’

  Mary shook her head. ‘I don’t reckon you can ever make up for that.’

  ‘So I’m damned for all eternity?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mary’s scowl softened, and she sighed. ‘But then we’re all damned, aren’t we?’

  Jack understood that was all the concession he was going to get. ‘Then at least I’ll have some company.’

  ‘You will that.’ Mary almost smiled. ‘We’ll all be down there right alongside you.’

  ‘Well, that’s all right then. At least I won’t be alone.’

  ‘You will always be alone, Jack Lark.’ Mary shook her head slowly as she looked up at him. ‘You won’t ever let anyone get close to you.’

  Jack heard the truth in her words. It shamed him into silence.

  They s
tood together in the sun, each alone with their thoughts. The silence was only broken when they heard the sound of someone else approaching, and the girl Jack had rescued came into view carrying two buckets of water. The hamlet was attempting to return to normal after the traumatic events of the previous day. Mary raised a hand to wave in greeting. She was rewarded with a fleeting smile.

  Jack watched as the girl walked past. He might have tried to hide it, but he could not deny the pride he felt at what he done. Had he not intervened, her life would have ended in blood, pain and fear. Instead she was up and about almost as if nothing had happened. She had not been spared completely, and he was certain she would be troubled by nightmares for a long time to come. But it was a small price to pay to have avoided the fate she had faced at the hands of the Austrian cavalrymen.

  ‘She’ll live.’

  Jack looked at Mary sharply. Her words were hard, yet he did not want to risk an argument, not after the progress they had made, so he said nothing and contented himself with watching the girl. She walked slowly, her heavy load slowing her pace. The morning sun was behind her, and he could make out the shape of her legs through her simple cotton shift. He supposed she was beautiful, in a winsome, girlish sort of way. She was the kind of girl a young lad could happily fall in love with.

  His reverie was brought to an abrupt halt when Mary rapped him on the arm. ‘Don’t stare so. She’s too young for you.’

  Jack laughed. ‘Am I old, then?’

  ‘Too old for a girl like that.’

  ‘She’s not to my taste. She’s too thin. I prefer my women with a bit of meat on their bones.’ He reached across and poked Mary in the side of her stomach. His hand was slapped away. But he saw the smile sneak unbidden on to her face.

  ‘Don’t even think about it.’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘Of course you were.’ Mary snorted. ‘You’ve been wanting to get into my drawers ever since you got hair on your balls.’