The Scarlet Thief

by Paul Fraser Collard

  With deft hands the corporal in charge of the escort stripped the young soldier to the waist, his scarlet coat and thin shirt quickly removed. Tom looked around piteously, his beseeching look ignored by the two sergeants who tied him fast to the triangle.

  Jack was transfixed. He could see every shaking rib in Tom’s thin frame. He could see the tears coursing down the young soldier’s cheeks.

  The adjutant spurred his horse forward. In a loud, braying voice, he read the charge that had been brought against the redcoat. The words passed Jack by, the adjutant’s voice droning on, the convoluted passages he read out barely making sense.

  His role completed, the adjutant pulled hard on his reins, moving away from centre stage with indecent haste. The sergeants cleared the area, leaving just the drum major and his two young drummer boys, who shuffled forward, reluctantly taking their places like actors pushed from the wings to face a difficult audience.

  ‘One.’

  The whip landed on the young soldier’s back with a wet slap. Thin trails of blood traced across Tom’s back, the first blow starting the sordid process of turning the boy’s back into minced meat.

  Jack closed his eyes.

  ‘Two. Three.’

  Jack kept his eyes closed. Like a drowning man reaching for the rope that would pull him to safety, Jack’s mind grasped for memories of better times, searching for an escape.

  ‘Come on now, boys. Lay it on properly. Four. Five.’

  The redcoats stood in silence and endured the grim spectacle. Forced to watch as a fellow soldier was scarred for life. Flogged bloody for nothing more than falling foul of his sergeant.

  ‘Fifty.’

  Jack opened his eyes. The long, slow count of the drum major had seemed to last for hours. Finally, it was over.

  The corporal of the guard moved forward, cutting down the unconscious soldier from where he hung on the triangle like a carcass of meat. His back had been reduced to a nightmare of flesh and blood, the bones of his spine gleaming as the sun finally dragged itself out from behind the thick, grey clouds to make a tardy appearance on the parade ground.

  The punishment was complete.

  The example had been set.

  Jack crept back from his dreams. Back to the horror of an unjust punishment robustly delivered. His back ached from standing stationary for so long, the dull pain in the pit of his spine throbbing and sending spasms down his legs. The misery of the moment was complete.

  Jack turned his head and looked at Slater.

  Slater was staring straight at him.

  Jack flinched as he met Slater’s stare. He would have turned away, his fear instinctive. Yet, instead, he felt his hatred come alive, coursing through his veins.

  Slater’s mouth twisted into a grin, the smug look of a job well done on his face. He lifted one hand and pointed his thick forefinger directly at Jack. There was no misunderstanding the words Slater mouthed at him.

  ‘You’re next.’

  Jack walked out of the barracks. It was a relief to leave the cloying atmosphere of the battalion behind and not for the first time he was grateful his officer had taken a suite of rooms in town rather than staying in the rooms allocated to the officers in the barracks. The liberty to leave the barracks was something to be savoured and Jack felt the freedom act as a balm to his raging emotions.

  The punishment had cleared his mind, the display scouring away the doubts that had dogged him since Sloames had announced his departure.

  He would not stay with the battalion, not with Slater looming over his future and with a posting to the Indies in the offing. It was time to leave the life of a garrison soldier behind and become the fighting redcoat he had always dreamed of being. He would go with Captain Sloames and face the challenge of a campaign.

  But he would not forsake Molly. He would ask Captain Sloames for permission to marry her. They would be apart but it would not be forever. The war would be short, perhaps even over before Christmas. Then they would be together.

  Jack whistled tunelessly as he carried the bundle of soiled shirts. Even the tart smell of spilt wine and sweat could not dampen his happy mood. He had left Sloames to lie in his stinking pit. His captain had staggered home just after the dawn and Jack had helped to strip him of his clothes before abandoning him to sleep off the wine-induced stupor that the night’s excess had brought on.

  He walked to the laundry doing his best not to break into a run. He might not have been dressed in the armour of a fairytale knight but he was determined to rescue Molly from the future she so dreaded.

  He could already picture her face when he asked her to marry him. He imagined her delight, the sparkle in her eyes when she said yes. He might only be an orderly but he would prove to her that he could succeed and make good the ambition that burned so brightly inside them both.

  He turned to the corner and walked towards his new future with a smile on his face.

  Then he heard a scream.

  The sound was so sudden, so unexpected, that Jack wondered if he had been mistaken. The barracks were quiet, most of the battalion’s redcoats out on a day’s march. A scream of such horror simply did not belong in an empty army barracks on an English spring morning.

  Then it came again.

  Jack shook his head to clear the fog of disbelief. He looked around, half expecting to see other redcoats come stumbling out of the barracks, summoned by the dreadful sound.

  No one appeared. The peaceful sounds of the spring morning returned as if they had never been interrupted.

  His body lurched into motion without conscious thought, his hard boots hammering into the ground as he raced towards the laundry. He never thought to discard the bundle of dirty washing he still carried in his arms. His only thought was to reach Molly, to make certain she was not the source of the nerve-jangling sounds.

  The outer door to the laundry was shut. The stifling heat of the huge boiling coppers meant the door was never closed, the fresh breeze offering some respite from the steamy, suffocating rooms. Jack knew then that something terrible was happening behind its ordinary everyday facade.

  He hit the door hard with his shoulder, his hands still gripping the bundle of washing. He half expected the door to be locked but it flew open and crashed heavily into the wall inside.

  Jack half fell into the laundry’s outer room. He lost his footing and would have hit the wooden floorboards hard were it not for the bundle of washing that cushioned his fall, protecting his ribs from the worst of the painful impact.

  ‘No!’ Molly’s voice screamed out in warning.

  Jack was still on the floor but he turned his head in time to see the black shadow of a hobnailed army boot aimed at his head. He rolled to one side and the boot whispered past his face, missing a violent connection by a hair’s breadth. His assailant hissed an oath and in a heartbeat Jack scrabbled to his feet, throwing himself at the huge figure that had attacked him. He still didn’t know who it was but it did not matter. He had heard Molly scream. It told him all he needed to know.

  Jack smashed into his assailant with his full weight and the two of them went crashing down in a twisting frenzy of limbs. They scuffled on the floor, arms and legs thrashing wildly. Fists bounced off arms and elbows, glancing blows, neither man gaining the advantage. Jack could feel the strength in the body that was wrapped round his own, could sense the power in the punches that came down with terrifying speed. One vicious blow connected with his skull and his ears rang and his vision faded. He tried to fight back but his attacker twisted powerfully, pushing him backwards, a huge meaty paw pressing hard against his chest, crushing him where he lay.

  Jack aimed a wild blow at the man’s head but there was no strength in the punch and his fist bounced off the thick line of his opponent’s jaw.

  As Jack lay beaten and defeated, the face of Colour
Sergeant Slater leered down at him.

  A thick line of saliva trembled at one corner of Slater’s mouth. Jack saw the red patches on the sergeant’s skin where some of his punches had found their mark and a thin stream of blood flowed from one nostril to congeal in the thick, bushy moustache.

  Slater spat a globule of bloody phlegm on to Jack’s chest.

  ‘Oh dear, Lark. You appear to have got yourself in a spot of bother. I warned you that you would be next but I hadn’t dreamt it would come so soon.’ Slater wiped a hand across his mouth, smearing the blood and saliva across his cheek.

  Jack noticed Slater had removed his red coat. His cotton undershirt was unbuttoned nearly to the navel, thick curls of dark hair peeking through the opening, and his breeches were loose, held together by a single button and threatening to fall. Slater would never allow himself to be seen in such disorder, especially in a public room such as the laundry. Jack’s heart stopped as he realised what it meant.

  His body tensed as the anger surged through him. It was all-consuming, a wave of such loathing that all his fear and pain left him. Nothing mattered except the need to fight. To pound into oblivion the man who had attacked the one person Jack held dear.

  ‘You bastard!’ Molly’s shriek of rage took both men by surprise.

  The dolly paddle in her hands was made from pine. It was thick, shaped like a short-handled oar, and it made a vicious weapon. Molly swung it round like a cudgel, smashing it with all her strength into the side of Slater’s skull.

  Slater was flung to one side and hit the wall with a thud.

  Jack staggered to his feet. If he noticed Molly’s torn clothes or the dark red mark that coloured her pale cheek then it did not give pause to his actions. Heedless of the pain in his battered body, he leant down and grabbed hold of Slater’s shirt collar, jerking his head off the ground.

  ‘You fucking bastard. How could you? How could you?’ Jack was barely coherent, his spittle flecking the stunned sergeant’s face.

  Slater’s head lolled backwards, the effect of Molly’s terrible blow leaving him almost senseless. Yet the sergeant was still conscious, his dark eyes full of hatred. Looking in their dark depths was like staring into the very pits of hell.

  Exhausted and sick to his soul, Jack let go of Slater’s collar and turned to face Molly. He reached out a hand, his fingers tracing the outline of the puffy red mark on her cheek.

  Molly didn’t make a sound. She swayed on her feet and Jack reached out instinctively to steady her. He saw the panic in her eyes as she felt his touch and she flinched away, pulling backwards, holding her torn blouse together and hiding her bruised flesh from view.

  Her eyes were blank. Jack had never seen such a haunted expression, the sparkle of life he found so appealing in her extinguished by the horror of what she had endured.

  Jack reached out with his free hand again, moving it slowly until it came to rest on her arm.

  ‘It’s alright, Molly. I’m here. You’re safe now.’

  She looked up. Her mouth moved but no sound came out. He could feel her body tremble under his touch.

  ‘My, oh my. What a touching scene.’ Slater rolled awkwardly on to his shoulder before getting to his feet.

  Jack saw Molly’s hands tighten their grip on her clothes, her terror bubbling to the surface as she heard the voice of her tormenter.

  ‘Now the fun can begin.’ Slater walked slowly to the laundry-room door and pushed it shut. His fingers searched the back of the door for the bolt, his eyes never leaving Jack. He found the bolt and shot it across, locking the door. This time there would be no interruptions.

  ‘You want to watch, Lark?’ Slater stood facing them. He lifted a finger to his ear, his face creasing in concern at the blood he found coming out of it. ‘You want to watch me as I take my pleasure? Because I don’t reckon you’re man enough to stop me. You tried and I beat you easy. It was only thanks to that bitch that I didn’t finish you off.’

  Jack’s anger burned but he felt fear clenching his heart.

  He turned and looked at Molly. Her face was ghostly white.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ Jack gently pushed Molly backwards, holding her elbows to manoeuvre her away.

  Slater threw back his head and laughed. ‘That’s it. You just keep out the way, miss, and get ready for me. It won’t take long for me to deal with young Lark here.’

  ‘You fucking bastard.’

  Slater greeted the insult in stony silence. His laughter was gone. ‘Shut your muzzle. It’s time to teach you a lesson. And this time I don’t expect it will be one you will forget in a hurry.’

  ‘No!’ Molly’s scream did nothing to stop the two men. Jack threw himself forward, moving with a speed that the larger, bulkier sergeant could not hope to match. Like a backstreet prizefighter, Jack came at his opponent, darting his right hand forward, aiming to strike before Slater could react.

  Still dazed from Molly’s wild blow with the dolly paddle, Slater was slow, his movements ponderous. Jack’s fist struck him on the cheek, snapping his head to one side. The left hand struck a heartbeat later, catching him on the point of his chin. Slater reeled, hurt by the twin blows. His counter-punches were slow and Jack easily avoided them, dancing to one side, letting Slater’s fists pass by his face before darting back in to land more punches on the sergeant’s massive torso.

  ‘Come on!’ Jack screamed his challenge as his fists struck twice more. He was aware of nothing save for the huge target that stumbled around in front of him. He had no notion if Molly had fled or if she still cowered in the corner of the room and at that moment he did not care. Nothing mattered except the need to fight, the need to pound Slater into the ground.

  Jack hit out, striking Slater from every angle, moving faster than the staggering sergeant could react. Slater’s arms waved out, trying to catch Jack, attempting to halt the relentless stream of punches he was raining down. Time after time, he aimed a punch at Jack’s face only to hit thin air.

  Jack was delivering punch after punch, he could sense Slater faltering. He would beat the invincible sergeant. The whole battalion would hear of the brute’s defeat and realise that David had faced Goliath and, just as in the bible story, David had won.

  Then Jack’s head exploded in agony and the world went black.

  Slater’s fist had come from low down near the ground where the huge sergeant had bent nearly double as he tried to weather the storm of punches. The massive fist was clenched hard and it connected with Jack’s jaw like a sledgehammer. The blow lifted him from his feet and the violent impact threw his body to one side.

  Goliath was not following the script.

  Jack’s body smacked hard into the floor. His vision greyed out, the blow knocking him nearly senseless. He rolled as he hit the ground, desperate to get back on his feet. He never saw the shadow of a heavy boot moving towards him. The kick slammed into his ribs, sliding him across the floor, the breath driven from his lungs. The pain flared white across his vision but he twisted on the ground, his fingers scraping at the floorboards as he battled to get back to his feet.

  Slater grunted as he kicked out again, his boot driving hard into Jack’s body.

  ‘No!’

  It was the sound of a young woman driven to madness. A shriek of rage that echoed around the small room as Molly threw herself at Slater.

  She came at him with all her strength. Her torn blouse billowed around her, the bruises on her body dark against her pale flesh. She leapt at Slater with hands like claws.

  Jack lifted his head, his blood warm on his face. He saw Molly rake her nails down Slater’s face like the talons on a bird of prey, inflicting wounds that were vicious and deep.

  Jack levered himself to his feet, ignoring the spasms of pain that tore through his body. It took all of his strength but he staggered upright.

 
Slater reeled from Molly’s sudden assault. He felt her nails rip through his flesh, the pain sudden and bright. He thrust his arm out, using his full strength to push her off. But her desperate strength resisted his efforts.

  The touch of her naked flesh stalled him. He brought his hand round, feeling the hard mound of her breast against his grasping fingers and he hesitated, raw desire making his hand linger on the firm young flesh.

  Molly screamed and pummelled his face. Slater kept his grip on her body, his hot, rough hands pawing her. In desperation, she thrust her fingers upwards, jamming them brutally into his eyes, her fingers like daggers as she tried to gouge out his sight.

  Slater roared. He let go of her breast and punched with all his might. His fist smashed into Molly’s face. The blow sent her sprawling backwards, the blood pulsing from the ruin of her nose.

  Molly fell hard. Her head crunched with sickening force into a hard metal soap tin.

  Jack staggered forward, and his heart stopped when he saw Molly’s body lying in a heap on the ground. Her hair had escaped from the pattern of clips and clasps that held her curls in check, fine strands whispered over her bloodstained mouth. But there was no breath to blow them away. Blood was splattered across her pale skin. The bright blue of the staring eyes was dull, the sparkle of life gone.

  Jack went to her side, unable to believe what he was seeing. He wanted to fall to his knees, to give in to the horror that gripped his heart, to bury his head in her hair just as he had done so many times before. His throat closed and he felt his breath constrict in his chest as his soul chilled, icing over with grief.

  He didn’t hear the sound of the bolt scraping back or the door to the laundry being thrown open, or feel the draught of fresh air on his skin. He could do nothing but look at Molly, the waxy pallor of death already stealing the vitality from her skin.