Copyright © 2019 Paul Fraser Collard
The right of Paul Fraser Collard to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2019
All characters – other than the obvious historical figures – in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
Ebook conversion by Avon DataSet Ltd, Bidford-on-Avon, Warwickshire
eISBN: 978 1 4722 3912 9
Cover design by www.mulcaheydesign.com
Illustration © www.collaborationJS.com
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About Paul Fraser Collard
About the Book
Also by Paul Fraser Collard
Praise
Acknowledgements
Dedication
Glossary
Map – The United States and Mexico 1863
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Chapter Fifty-seven
Epilogue
Historical Note
Discover more gripping Jack Lark adventures
Paul’s love of military history started at an early age. A childhood spent watching films like Waterloo and Zulu whilst reading Sharpe, Flashman and the occasional Commando comic gave him a desire to know more of the men who fought in the great wars of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. This fascination led to a motivation to write and his series of novels featuring the brutally courageous Victorian rogue and imposter Jack Lark burst into life in 2013. Since then Paul has continued to write, developing the Jack Lark series to great acclaim.
To find out more about Paul and his novels visit www.paulfrasercollard.com or find him on Twitter @pfcollard
Louisiana, 1863. Jack may have left the battlefield behind, but his gun is never far from reach, especially on the long and lonely road to nowhere. Soon, his skill lands him a job, and a new purpose.
Navy Colt in hand, Jack embarks on the dangerous task of escorting a valuable wagon train of cotton down through Texas to Mexico. Working for another man, let alone a man like the volatile Brannigan, isn’t going to be easy. With the cargo under constant attack, and the Deep South’s most infamous outlaws hot on their trail, Jack knows he is living on borrowed time.
And, as they cross the border, Jack soon discovers that the usual rules of war don’t apply. He will have to fight to survive, and this time the battle might prove one he could lose.
By Paul Fraser Collard
The Scarlet Thief
The Maharajah’s General
The Devil’s Assassin
The Lone Warrior
The Last Legionnaire
The True Soldier
The Rebel Killer
The Lost Outlaw
Digital Short Stories
Jack Lark: Rogue
Jack Lark: Recruit
Jack Lark: Redcoat
The Jack Lark Library
(short story omnibus including prequel story, Rascal)
Praise for Paul Fraser Collard and the Jack Lark series:
‘Collard . . . evokes the horror of that era with great brio. Enthralling’ The Times
‘Nobody writing today depicts the chaos, terror and brutality of war better’ Matthew Harffy
‘Brilliant’ Bernard Cornwell
‘An appealing and formidable hero’ Sunday Express magazine
‘I love a writer who wears his history lightly enough for the story he’s telling to blaze across the pages like this. Jack Lark is an unforgettable new hero’ Anthony Riches
‘Races along with the speed of a bullet fired from an Enfield rifle’ Historical Novel Society
‘This is the first book in years I have enjoyed that much that I had to go back and read it again immediately’ Parmenion Books
‘Collard is to be congratulated for producing a confidant, rich and exciting novel that gave me all the ingredients I would want for a historical adventure of the highest order’ For Winter Nights
‘This is a fresh take on what could become a hackneyed subject, but in Fraser Collard’s hands is anything but’ Good Book Guide
‘This is what good historical fiction should do – take the dry dusty facts from history books and tell the story of the men and women who lived through them – and Collard does this admirably’ Our Books Reviews
The Jack Lark novels are a delight to write. I still find the whole process of constructing a novel deeply satisfying and I will be forever grateful to those who have put me in this position. My biggest thanks, as ever, goes to my agent David Headley. He has a huge influence on my career as a writer and I am fortunate indeed to have such support. My editor at Headline, Frankie Edwards, is simply brilliant. Frankie is a superb editor and these books would not be what they are without her insight, suggestions and guidance. I must also thank Jane Selley, my copyeditor, for her input and for her patience.
I also want to take a moment to thank everyone who has ever taken the time to write a review of my books online or to contact me. Each and every one means a great deal. At times, it can feel like you are writing in a vacuum, and I will always be very grateful to those who reach into the void and offer a kind word or suggestion.
Finally, I must thank my family for putting up with me. They are simply the best.
In memory of Albert Sydney Collard
Private, 7th Battalion The Buffs (East Kent Regiment)
Died aged eighteen on 1 July 1916
arrack native liquor/spirit
broadside single-sheet advertisement
dak gharry post cart/small carriage pulled by horses
diligence long-distance coach
fandango a party that includes singing and dancing
flash boy young man known for villainy and gaudy attire
goober peas peanuts
greybacks Confederate States dollar
Gujar semi-nomadic caste from northern India
jefe boss/leader (Spanish)
johnnycake cornmeal flatbread
lobsterback slang for British redcoat
lollygag to idle or waste time
loophole hole or slit cut into a wall through which a weapon may be fired
lucifer a match
mofussil country station or district in India away from the chief stations of the region, ‘up country’
Pinkerton Allan Pinkerton, founder of Pinkerton National Detective Agency
rake hellraiser and womaniser
rhino money, cash
sawar native cavalry trooper serving in the East India Company’s army
secher Northern slang for someone from the South who supported secession
sepoy native soldier serving in the East India Company’s army
specie gold and silver coins
talwar curved native sword
Tejano Mexican born in Texas
We rely greatly on the sure operation of a complete blockade of the Atlantic and Gulf ports soon to commence. In connection with such a blockade we propose a powerful movement down the Mississippi to the ocean, with a cordon of posts at proper points, and the capture of Forts Jackson and Saint Philip; the object being to clear out and keep open this great line of communication in connection with the strict blockade of the seaboard, so as to envelop the insurgent States and bring them to terms with less bloodshed than by any other plan.
Letter from General-in-Chief Winfield Scott to Major General George B. McClellan,
dated 3 May 1861
Near Matamoros, Tamaulipas, Mexico, February 1863
The Confederate officer covered his nose with his bandana as he rode through the slaughter. The bright red and white chequered cloth was usually employed to keep the dust from his mouth, yet this day it served a different purpose: it saved him from the stench of putrid flesh. Bodies rotted fast in the heat of the Mexican sun. These corpses had been left long enough for the stomachs to swell to the point of bursting, and for the open wounds to become rancid, suppurating messes, a feast for the thousands of tiny insects that swarmed over the ruined flesh.
‘Capt’n?’
The officer turned his head as one of his troopers called out to him. ‘What is it?’
‘You seen that?’ The trooper was one of the column’s outriders, and had been the one who had discovered the butchered bodies. He had also been the first to find the foulest of all the depredations that had been visited on the men and women who had accompanied this particular wagon train. Now he pointed at a pair of corpses that had been dragged to one side of the trail. Both had been stripped naked, but it still took the officer a moment to identify the twisted and broken bodies as belonging to women. He had seen enough of the world to know the fate they had endured before their lives had been ended.
‘I see ’em. Now search them other bodies.’ The captain gave the order, then leaned far out of the saddle to spit into the dirt below. It did little to scour the foul taste from his mouth. ‘When you’re done, get all these folk buried. But don’t take too long about it.’
‘Capt’n?’ Another trooper rode up. This man bore the twin yellow stripes of a cavalry corporal on his sleeve above the elbow.
‘Corporal?’
‘We found tracks. Heading south.’
The captain nodded. It was what he had expected. It was not the first ambushed wagon train he had seen, and he knew it would not be the last. The fate of the people now lying in the dirt would be just another footnote in this long and bitter war fought on the frontier, another atrocity to list alongside the hundreds that both sides had inflicted on the other.
He knew that the bandoleros who had attacked this particular wagon train would not linger. They would head due south with their loot. It did not guarantee their safety. Just as they would strike deep into American territory, he would not hold back from chasing them far into Mexico. Indeed, he had permission to do so, thanks to the accord signed between his commanding officer, General Hamilton P. Bee, and the governor of Tamaulipas, Albino López. Yet he could not afford to linger for long. The bandoleros had a head start, and his small command would have to ride hard if they were to catch the perpetrators of this latest massacre.
He kicked back his heels, walking his horse through the bodies that littered the trail. All were naked, the greying flesh the colour of putrid meat. The men who had driven and guarded this particular wagon train had been stripped of everything of value. It left their wounds on display, and he ran his eyes over the corpses, assessing the manner of their deaths with the practised eye of a man who had been fighting since he had been old enough to ride. He could see whom a revolver had shot, and who had died from a blade. Most had had their throats slit, the dark, gaping chasms telling him they had likely been left alive by the wounds taken in the firefight, death only arriving when their necks had been carved open. At least two were headless, the decapitated bodies crowned with great crescents of darkened soil where their life blood would have pumped out.
He reached the last of the bodies, then brought his horse to a stand. He waited there as his men went about the task he had set them, sitting silent, staring at the open trail that stretched out in front of him. To the north, he could see little more than a great swathe of ebony trees smothered with vines, which formed a living, twisted barrier forty to fifty feet high so that he had no sight of the great river that was no more than half a mile away. To the south, there was less for his eyes to look at. A lone mesquite tree and a thicket of thorn bushes was all he could find to break up the expanse of nothingness, the grey-green foliage doing little to colour the wide expanse of dusty drab yellows and muted browns.
Far off on the horizon, he could just about make out a line of distant mountains, their peaks half hidden in the haze so that they were little more than shadows. Scarred into the earth and running east to west were a pair of deep furrows, which thousands of heavily laden wagons had ground into the dirt and which led away for hundreds of yards before he lost sight of them in the shimmering heat haze. It was those wagons that had brought him to this desolate, isolated spot. It was his job to safeguard those who transported the cotton from the Southern states to the Mexican ports, where European buyers queued up to buy it. This time he had failed.
It left him with just one course of action. He would bury the dead and then he would ride south. He would find the bandoleros who had carried out this attack and he would bring them to justice.
His justice.
And his justice was death.
The Confederate outriders spotted the bandoleros just as the sun was setting.
The captain had led his men south, following the trail of the stolen wagons. It had been a hard ride, but he held them to the task, refusing to lessen the pace or even let them contemplate a rest. Only when he judged they were close had he taken his men away from the trail and led them in a wide, sweeping arc that he reckoned would place them far in front of the wagons.
He had found the place for the ambush an hour before. The ground fell away, the trail following it down into a deep gully that ran for a good five hundred yards before the terrain opened out once again. He had dispersed the men, lining them along either flank of the gully, their horses led away and guarded by half a dozen troopers chosen for t
he task. He had let those that remained choose their own spots. He trusted them. All had done this sort of thing before. He himself opted for a vantage point near the end of the gully. He would be the first to open fire, and he would do so only when the lead bandoleros were a matter of yards away.
He sat with his back resting against a boulder, checking over his weapons. The heat of the day had fallen away so that it was almost pleasant to be sitting there. It felt peaceful, serene and calm. With the sun low in the sky, the few mesquite trees and prickly pear cactus that managed to survive in this barren land cast long shadows across the ground, and the quality of the light changed from searing white to the palest orange, so that the world took on an unearthly feel.
He heard the wagon train long before he saw it. The screech of poorly greased running gear carried far, as did the braying of the oxen dragging the weighty wagons, and the crack of the whips that held them to their Sisyphean task. Only when the train was close did he ease himself forward. He took a moment to check that his revolver was loose in its holster, then aimed down the barrel of his carbine, lining up the shot that would bring fresh slaughter to a day that had already seen so much bloodshed.
Two mounted men led the wagon train. Both were dressed as he had expected, in skin-tight flared trousers open at the sides, paired with jackets made from dark leather. Both wore a sombrero on their heads. There were twenty wagons in all. Each would be heavily laden with ten or more five-hundred-pound bales of cotton, a cargo that was worth a fortune if it could be brought to the cotton-hungry traders waiting at Mexico’s eastern ports. The rest of the bandoleros were spread alongside the train, with one group riding as a rearguard.
The captain made a rough tally as he waited. He counted two men at the front, twelve more scattered amongst the wagons and six at the rear. Along with the men driving the wagons, that made a total of forty. He had thirty-one men waiting along the top of the gully, but he felt not even a trace of anxiety at the uneven odds. He doubted he would take even a single casualty.
His justice would be delivered swiftly.
He sighed, then took a deep breath, settling himself into position. The lead pair were no more than twenty yards away. The gully was less than ten feet deep at the point where the captain waited. It was an easy shot, one he could make a hundred times out of a hundred.
The Lost Outlaw Page 1