The True Soldier: Jack Lark 6

by Paul Fraser Collard

  ‘He did not suffer, miss. I stayed at his side the whole time. He did not die alone.’ He lifted his gaze and looked into her eyes before repeating the phrase that would give the comfort that was craved. ‘He did not suffer.’

  ‘Are you just telling us what we want to hear?’ Elizabeth’s tone was sharp.

  ‘I did not come all this way to lie.’ He forced down the guilt as he did exactly that. ‘I was with him. He died as easy as any man I ever saw.’ He spoke firmly. He had been an impostor for a long time. He was pretty damn good at lying.

  Elizabeth did not reply. He saw her hold in a breath, her lips paling as she pressed them tightly together.

  ‘What do you mean by easy, Mr Lark?’ When she finally spoke, her words were as hard as iron. ‘I cannot think that death comes easily to anyone, least of all a soldier on the field of battle.’

  Jack did not shirk the question. ‘He had been shot,’ he lifted a hand and placed it over his heart, ‘right here. There was enough time for him to ask me to deliver these letters before he passed.’

  Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. ‘That does not sound like a quick end.’

  ‘No.’ Jack stood firm. ‘Not quick. But he did not linger. It isn’t always like that, not for some. He was one of the lucky ones.’ Again he saw something shift in her gaze. Whatever it was, it was unfathomable to him.

  Elizabeth opened her mouth to speak again, but before she could do so, Kearney reached out to touch her arm. ‘That is enough for the moment. Mr Lark was set upon on the way here. It took the timely intervention of Major Bridges to save him.’

  ‘Temperance saved him?’ Elizabeth could not help the exclamation.

  ‘So it seems.’

  ‘My, oh my, whatever next. You would think that man would know better than to interfere with this family.’

  Jack caught the interplay. He was not given time to dwell.

  ‘Are you badly hurt, Mr Lark?’ Elizabeth asked.

  ‘No.’ He gave the denial immediately. The truth was that his head was pounding as if an entire corps of drummer boys was beating the pas de charge in the very centre of his skull. But he would not admit to it. Not to someone like Elizabeth. ‘I am fine, truly.’

  ‘You do not look so fine.’ Elizabeth turned to her father. ‘We should have one of the boys take Mr Lark home.’

  ‘Of course.’ Kearney accepted his daughter’s suggestion without murmur. ‘Where are you staying, Mr Lark?’

  ‘I have yet to find accommodation, sir.’

  ‘Then you must stay here.’ Elizabeth spoke before her father could reply.

  ‘I could not do that.’

  ‘Of course you can.’ She cut off his protest firmly. ‘And you would be doing my family a great favour. You are the only link we have to my brother. We cannot let you leave so quickly. I hope you can understand that.’

  Jack felt something akin to shackles being placed around his neck. ‘I would not like to put you to any trouble.’

  ‘It is no trouble. There is plenty of room. But I must warn you, I will pester you. I have a thousand questions. You may yet regret agreeing to this offer.’

  Jack found it hard to imagine he would ever tire of being in Elizabeth’s company. ‘I’d be happy to answer your questions if I can.’

  Elizabeth nodded at his answer. She did not smile. Instead she turned to her father. ‘I will make the arrangements. I expect Mr Lark would enjoy a bath and then the chance to rest. I will send one of the boys to collect him when it is ready.’

  Jack eased his shoulders beneath the water and let its heat envelop him. He felt the warmth soaking into his bones, the sensation sending delightful shudders through his entire body. He stayed there, eyes closed, luxuriating in the feeling, letting it force away the chill that had been buried deep inside him for so long.

  All at once he jerked awake. For a moment he was not sure where he was, the strangeness of his surroundings overwhelming senses that had been dulled by the warmth of the bath. Then he let himself relax as he once again understood what it was that his eyes were telling him.

  He did not know how long he had slept. He could hear the sound of movement in the house, the quiet murmur of voices in far-off rooms. It was a reminder that he was a stranger.

  He took a deep breath, then slid his buttocks forward and submerged his head. The water was cooler now, but still it felt good as it wrapped its warmth around him. Carefully he ran his fingers over the back of his skull. There was a bright flash of pain as he probed the raw centre of the spot where he had been hit. As far as he could tell, the wound was not severe, but still he saw dark blood in the water that swirled around him as he pushed his head free.

  With his doctoring complete, he rested the back of his head gingerly on the bath’s lip and closed his eyes once again. He knew it was time to get out, but he did not want the moment to end, and so he lingered, lazy and content in the water’s embrace.

  He was half asleep for a second time when the door to the room was snatched open. He jerked upright, the water sloshing noisily onto the sheets covering the floorboards around the bath. A servant was bustling around, her actions purposeful. She deposited a bundle of clothes on a wooden stool set near the window before turning and starting to gather the garments that he had discarded liberally around the room.

  She looked up as she felt Jack’s eyes upon her. There was no smile before she turned away to continue her task. Jack’s hands slipped into the water to cover himself. He cleared his throat as he prepared to ask to be left in peace.

  ‘There’s clean towels on the dresser, master.’ The girl glanced in his direction as she finished collecting up his things. Her wide brown eyes showed no hint of embarrassment at his nakedness. ‘And I have put some clean clothes on the stool for you. They were Master Thomas’s, but they should fit you well enough.’

  Jack squirmed as he saw her eyes drop and roam over him, comparing his physique to the clothes she had brought in. He saw the pause as her eyes settled on the thick scar on his shoulder, then again on the wider one on his side. There were a dozen other smaller ones, and he knew she saw them all.

  ‘Is there anything else?’ he asked drily.

  The girl stepped forward, unconcerned at the gruffness she heard in his voice. ‘Would you like me to help you up? Master Kearney said you were hurt.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘As you wish.’ She smiled sweetly, yet made no sign of moving away.

  Jack saw a mischievous glint in her expression as she looked down at him. The water was cooling fast and was starting to feel clammy against his skin. He could feel his body reacting to the cold and knew he now barely needed a single hand to cover his dignity.

  ‘I’ll manage.’ He spoke a little more firmly this time. He had no intention of getting out of the water in front of her and revealing the effect it had had on his body.

  ‘Very good.’ This time she did move away, but only to deposit his clothes in a basket in the corner of the room. ‘We will wash your things. In the meantime, you will find plenty of clean clothes in your room.’ She picked up the basket, then turned back to face him once more.

  For the first time, he caught a glimpse of a thin line of scars that ran along one side of her face, just under her jawline. To his eye, it looked like the type of scar left by a knife, but there were too many in the same spot for it to be that. He saw her eyes narrow as she worked out what it was he had seen.

  ‘Will that be all, master?’ Jack heard the hint of anger in the question.

  ‘Yes.’

  The girl turned on her heel, as if finally eager to leave the room.

  ‘Heh!’ Jack called out to stop her. ‘What’s your name?’

  She did not turn to look at him. She paused for a heartbeat, or perhaps two, then left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

&nb
sp; Jack sat on the bed in the room he had been shown to and savoured the solitude. He had only got out of the bath when he had been reasonably sure that the Kearneys’ maid would not return. In truth, he was rather disappointed to have been left alone. The girl’s refusal to tell him her name spoke of an interesting character, whilst her scars spoke of a past. He found he wanted to know both.

  He glanced around the room. It was homely enough. Though it was devoid of all personal effects, there was no doubting the quality of its furnishings. The bed itself was a fine example of craftsmanship. He could not name the beautiful honey-coloured wood it was made from, but he did recognise the skill and the countless hours that would have gone into its manufacture. The rest of the room was fitted out with matching furniture of the same exquisite standard. The ensemble looked new, and he doubted it had been shipped all the way from Europe. That meant it had been made locally. Clearly the folk of the New World knew what they were about, and it appeared that the Kearneys had the means to buy the best the local craftsmen could produce.

  From where he sat, he could see out over a pretty courtyard to the rear of the house. Much of the view was of other, similar buildings, but through one gap he could see all the way down to the great common at the heart of the city. It gave him some sense of his surroundings. Boston was not large, and he felt foolish for having got so completely lost.

  His hand rose to touch the back of his head. He had been here for barely half a day before he had been attacked and beaten. It was a chastening experience. Now he was living on the charity of the Kearney family. He did not think it would last. Once the impact of the letters had diminished, and the questions they inspired had been asked, he would be out on the street. In the past, that notion would not have bothered him. Back then he had been full of ambition and spirit, the kind that believed that someone with the balls to dare to really live their life could accomplish anything. Now he knew better, such naive ambition left behind on the battlefields of the Crimea and beyond.

  Even with ambition lost, he still nurtured a single truth. He might have stolen lives that were not his to own, but he had never once failed to live up to the identity he had assumed. He had fought and bled for his Queen and country, fighting the enemies of the Crown on the field of battle. And he believed he was damn good at it.

  In battle, men looked to him for leadership. When the die was cast, he had stood firm and fought for those around him. The price he had paid to stay loyal to his salt had been high. People he had cared for had been lost and he had been left alone solely down to the choices he had made; choices that had seen him do the right thing, no matter what it meant for his own future.

  He held his ability in battle close. It was the one honest thing left after his long career as a charlatan and an impostor. He had once been told that his talent meant nothing. He was not good; he was just lucky. It had not been his aptitude for the fight that had kept him alive; it had been chance. He was not special. He was not a hero. He was just a fool with a sword and a gun.

  He did not agree.

  He knew the fate of soldiers. After Solferino, he had seen the dead piled into great heaps; hundreds of bodies thrown together so that all sense of their humanity was lost. One day he knew that it could well be his body in such a grotesque place, his staring eyes that would disgust an onlooker. Such a fate did not daunt him or even frighten him. If he were not a soldier, then he would be nothing. He might have a talent for battle, or he might be the luckiest son of a bitch alive; it did not matter, at least not to him.

  His hand traced over the patchwork quilt that was folded neatly across the bottom of the bed. It sat at odds with the rest of the room and its expensive furnishings. It must once have been a beautiful creation, but now its colours were faded, with loose threads where some of the stitching had come apart. Some places showed the ravages of moths, the holes and gaps big enough to slide a finger through.

  He found himself wondering about its tale. It would surely have started its life as a possession to cherish and enjoy. A young girl might have made it in the years before her marriage, her excitement and anticipation finding their way into its long and careful construction. Then perhaps it had watched children come and go, a silent witness to the ageing of its creator. What secrets could it tell? What life had it seen before it had been consigned to a guest room, to languish half-forgotten and good enough only for the occasional guest to make use of it for a night or two before it was ignored once again?

  He smiled at his own sentimentality. It was certainly not like him to sit and ponder such frivolous things, but it was hard not to recognise something of himself in the quilt. Like him, it was useful only when someone had need of its shabby and faded services. No one cared what story it had to tell, or what past it had lived. The world had just one use for a battered and scarred soldier, just as the Kearney family had just one use for a moth-eaten quilt.

  With a sigh he got to his feet, stretching his spine straight as he did so. The nagging pain in the small of his back was there, just as it always was. A childhood spent hauling barrels in an East End gin palace had given him the ever-present ache. Years spent fighting had done little to improve it, and now it felt as if the lower reaches of his spinal column had been tied into one tight knot.

  He walked across the room, kneading his back, until he reached his carpet bag, which had been left beside a large dresser. The few clothes he had had with him had been taken away, and he now saw that his wash kit had been laid neatly on a side table. To his relief, there was a single bundle left inside the bag. He lifted it out carefully, grunting at the weight, then turned and laid it on the bed.

  The bundle was made up of a faded dark-blue uniform coat, with green epaulettes decorated by red crescents. It was crumpled and creased, and covered with dozens of rents and tears. Much of the cloth bore dark stains, and it gave off a ripe aroma of mildew and old sweat. He was not surprised to see it had been left behind when his other clothes had been removed. Even the most diligent servant would hesitate to try to repair something that was now little more than an oversized rag. Yet there was no sentimentality attached to the legionnaire’s uniform coatee. He did not linger to feel the battered fabric or to dwell on the memories that the sight of it stirred inside him. For hidden within its folds was his revolver.

  He had maintained it every day since he had purchased it back in London, oiling the chambers and keeping the mechanism greased. It was not new, its barrel pitted and scratched from long, hard use, but it was serviceable and he knew it would work when he needed it. With the revolver were its leather ammunition pouch and a second, smaller one containing its firing caps. He had two packets of fresh cartridges and one of brand-new caps, enough to see him through until he could find a decent gunsmith.

  Handling the gun led his thoughts back to his time in London. The intensity of the affair with Françoise had taken him by surprise. They had been together for over a year; a year that had been filled with every amusement and entertainment money could buy. What had started as flirtation and amusement had turned into something more serious. Her absent husband had made the affair possible, but its flames had been fanned by the fortune Jack had brought back with him from the East. The money had allowed him to live a life he would never have believed possible, and he had revelled in it. But even a stolen fortune had its limits. When the money had run out, he had discovered that Françoise’s ardour had a price, one that a penniless rogue from the East End could no longer afford.

  The return of the cuckolded husband had finished what was left of the relationship. Jack still replayed the night he had stood with the man in the sights of his revolver. The urge to kill him had been almost overpowering. Françoise had begged him to do it, telling him that the murder of her husband was the only way Jack could remain in her bed. It was a tempting prospect, but he had failed to do as he had been told. The cuckold was spared, and he himself had been turned onto the streets with not
hing but the clothes on his back and another bitter memory to add to his collection.

  He forced the reminiscences away and checked over the revolver with practised ease, then lifted it into a firing position. It was good to feel its weight again, and he held the pose, his finger curling around the trigger as if he were about to open fire. The familiar action served to remind him of what he was, something he had forgotten when living the high life with Françoise. He had only remembered in the moment when he was about to gun down a man whose only crime was to have married an unfaithful harpy. He was no back-street killer and he was certainly not a la-di-da toff with money to burn. He might have been an impostor and a thief, but he was also a soldier. There was nothing else he knew how to be.

  Footsteps sounded from just outside the room. He lowered the weapon, then busied himself burying it back in the folds of the scruffy legionnaire’s coatee. He had it hidden from sight before the first knock.

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Lark.’ It was a voice he recognised immediately. ‘I wonder if you have a moment?’

  He checked the revolver was hidden before he stepped forward to open the door. Elizabeth Kearney was standing outside, her hands held demurely in front of her. A liveried servant lingered in the background, standing against the wall like a living bronze statue.

  ‘I am sorry to disturb you so soon, Mr Lark.’

  ‘It’s fine.’ Jack stumbled over the simple reply. ‘Do you want to come in?’ The offer was made awkwardly.

  ‘Thank you.’ Elizabeth smiled at his obvious discomfort, then stepped past him into the room. She perched on the edge of the bed, clearly at ease with her surroundings.