Ripper (6 page)

*   *   *

The Jack the Ripper case would be closed the following day and the death of the Black Watch soldiers and their colonel would go unread in any newspaper.

Young inspector Washington survived his severe burns and led a productive life in the Metropolitan Police force. He would be killed in the Battle of the Somme twenty-seven years later during the Great War, and
would go to his grave never uttering a single thing about that night in the East End of London. And if the world knew the truth, he was all the happier for being as quiet as he had been for seventeen nightmare-filled years, and taking that night with him in death.

Frederick Abberline would eventually leave the London constabulary and head the office of the American-owned Pinkerton Detective Agency.
And for years after that night in 1889 he would check the newspapers from around the world only to see if Dr. Jekyll had released his Mr. Hyde and Jack the Ripper had once more reared his ugly head in another country, for his nightmares always told the chief inspector that Jack was still out there somewhere.

Frederick George Abberline died in 1929, age eighty-six, at his home without muttering
a single word about that long-ago night by the River Thames. He allowed speculation to flourish that Queen Victoria had been in on a cover-up of massive proportions to protect one of her relatives. Abberline didn’t have any sympathy for the monarchy—after all, it was on her orders that Jack the Ripper came to the shores of the British Empire. They deserved the dark rumor and innuendo that would
hound her to her own death in January 1901.

Chief Inspector Abberline received one last letter that had not been intercepted by the government. It was a coded letter from a Mr. Steve Hanson and he had written it from, of all places, India. Abberline knew it was the last he would ever hear from the man as the only words written inside the envelope were these: “Our mutual friend owns quite a lot
of property in South Texas and across the border in Mexico—if that should interest you.” It was signed Steve Hanson, but Abberline didn’t have to be much of an inspector to know it was from Stevenson. Robert Louis Stevenson. Abberline could only pray that if the Ripper was alive, he would be nothing more than a burnt-out hulk of a man. Robert Louis Stevenson died in September of 1894 at the age
of forty-four years. He went to his grave never telling anyone the truth about his fictional characters being copied from the most brutal mass murderer in British history—Jack the Ripper.

It would take over 114 years for the world to receive the answer that Frederick Abberline feared most of all in his long life after the case had been shunted aside—that indeed, Jack is back.

LAREDO, TEXAS
AUGUST 23, 1916

A thick and rolling sea of fog came off the Rio Grande and partially hid the ninety-six men of B Company of the 8th United States Cavalry regiment. Sound was confusing inside the white gauze of mist as horses and men awaited the order to cross into Mexico. Bird songs and insect noises became one cacophony of blended night elements that added to nervousness among the troopers.

On a small rise above the northern side of the Rio Grande River an armored car sat motionless as men and horses awaited the command to move across the river. The large detailed map was stretched out on the hood of the car and was held in place by an old oil lantern as a medium-sized man placed an index finger on a small rectangular mark south of the border.

“Your target area, Lieutenant, is this
compound.”

The taller and far-younger first lieutenant stood confused as he studied the map in the light of the small lamp. “General, have we received intelligence other than our earlier reports that say Villa is two hundred miles to the south and nowhere near this hacienda?”

General John Joseph “Black Jack” Pershing kept his eyes on the map and didn’t look up at the man standing to his left.
He nodded his head and then took a breath.

“Pancho Villa is not our task here this morning, Lieutenant.” Pershing finally looked up and into the cold eyes of the blonde-haired First Lieutenant George S. Patton. The aide held his ground as the general waited for the inevitable question.

“We’re using the president’s official mandate to cross into Mexico, and the capture of Pancho Villa is not
in the directive? May I ask the general what the objective is?”

Pershing finally reached out his hand, and one of his aides that had been standing off to the side filled it with a large manila envelope. The general held the envelope with both hands a moment and then as if he had drifted away in thought and body looked around him slowly as if he were looking at something deep inside the fog bank.

“Reminds me of the morning just before the fight at San Juan Hill in Cuba,” Pershing said as he glanced skyward.

Patton could see the general not only looking at the fog surrounding them but also looking back at his days as a young lieutenant in the 10th all-Negro cavalry, thus his moniker—Black Jack.

Pershing slowly looked down at Patton and then his eyes went to the sealed envelope he held.
He placed it on the map and slid it across. “Sorry for drifting. Your orders Lieutenant, precise and clear-cut. You are to cross the Rio Grande River and enter Mexico and destroy the hacienda indicated on the map at the aforementioned coordinates. You will treat all persons you come in contact with as hostile. After the property’s population is…,” the general looked away for the briefest of moments
before finishing. He touched his graying moustache and then caught himself once more … “eliminated, the hacienda and outbuildings are to be burned. No structure is to be left standing.”

Patton looked at the envelope. He knew he didn’t need to read the orders inside. The general’s demeanor told him what he needed to know. He had just been given orders for a murder raid across the border into a
sovereign nation.

“Your main target is an American citizen. He owns the property and is responsible for all that has happened there.” Pershing looked at Patton and his visage became stern. “The American’s name is Professor Lawrence Jackson Ambrose. You are to confirm the death of this professor personally, Patton. This order comes directly from the president of the United States. You are to eliminate
everyone in the compound and burn any papers, laboratory equipment, or specimens you may come across.”

“Villa being in this neck of the woods was only a ruse to send in the troops?” Patton finally asked.

“Yes, Lieutenant, a ruse, lie, use whatever word you want,” came a voice from out of the fog.

Patton turned to see a small man in dungarees and a blue denim work shirt. The man actually wore
a kerchief around his neck and a black cowboy hat cocked jauntily to the right side of his head.

“This is Lt. Colonel John Henry Thomas, a personal representative of President Wilson. He is present this morning to assure the president that the mission parameters have been fulfilled.”

Patton looked the man over. “What is your unit, sir?”

“Lieutenant!” Pershing said in anger at the presumption
of a first lieutenant questioning not only a lieutenant colonel but also a representative of the president of the United States.

“I am attached to the National Archives, Lieutenant. And while my answer creates more questions as to my affiliation, that will have to be enough, okay Lieutenant?”

“I have my men to watch out for, sir, that is my only concern.”

“You not only have them to watch out
for young lieutenant, you have me. And as you now know, I have at least one powerful friend in office. So don’t let me down, son.”

“Yes, sir, but these orders are ambiguous at best.”

“Exactly, because we don’t know what it is we will find across that river,” said the small man as he removed his hat and wiped the brim with another handkerchief he produced from a pocket.

“Just follow your orders,
Lieutenant.” Pershing once more looked up and into the thickening fog. He placed his hands behind his back, turned away, and slowly moved a distance from the armored car. “Good luck Lieutenant, Colonel Thomas … God’s speed.”

George Patton watched as Black Jack Pershing melted into the thick veil of fog. He looked at the envelope in his hand and then quickly unbuttoned his tunic and slid the orders
inside. Patton turned and made his way forward toward his waiting company.

Ten minutes later elements of the 8th United States Cavalry crossed the Rio Grande into Mexico.

*   *   *

The two Apache scouts from C Troop, only recently released from their imprisonment in St. Augustine, Florida, returned from the small valley that hid the hacienda. One of the men shook his head and removed his campaign
hat, allowing his long black hair to shake free of its confinement. Lieutenant Patton waited for the report as patiently as he could, knowing that the lt. colonel from the National Archives was listening intently.

“Nothing but women and children as far as we can see. They seem to be doing their chores and nothing else,” the larger of the two Apache scouts said as he replaced his hat. “The fog
has almost completely lifted near the hacienda, so we will have no cover in the charge.”

Patton looked down at his pocket watch, which was almost impossible to see in the night. He looked up and saw that every minute they delayed the attack allowed the fog to lift that much more.

“Five fifteen in the morning and women are already doing their daily tasks.” Patton looked at the two scouts and then over at the mysterious man sent here by the president. “Doesn’t seem too damn threatening
to me.” The young first lieutenant shook his head. “I sure hope Washington knows just what in the hell they are doing.” Patton looked away from Lt. Colonel Thomas, clicked the cover of his pocket watch closed, and then turned and mounted the large roan, which pawed the ground anxiously.

“The orders regarding the women and children, Lieutenant, do they still stand?”

Patton looked down at Second
Lieutenant Roland McAfee, a recent graduate of West Point on his very first field assignment, then again at the man from National Archives. Patton then scowled at the colonel and angrily shook his head. “No. If hostilities are evident, only then are the men to fire on anyone. If you can, I want the women and children scattered. Our main target is this Professor Ambrose and any other men of
fighting
age
in the compound. I am not firing on women and children. Now, report to your troop and let’s get this over with.” Patton looked once more at the colonel. “Report it if you want to Colonel. I will not kill women and children without more of an explanation from Washington as to the why of it.”

Thomas looked taken back. “Lieutenant, you are in operational command of this mission,” he started
and then smiled. “Hell, son, I would have refused that order myself.”

“Yes, sir,” McAfee said looking from Thomas and back at Patton, not understanding the back and forth between the two officers.

“Colonel Thomas, just who in the hell are you, really?” Patton asked, knowing this man wasn’t just an ordinary U.S. Army officer.

“Just a soldier on detached duty to the National Archives, young lieutenant,
that’s all. I’m no one really.”

With a dubious look at the now smiling Thomas, Patton spurred his mount forward and joined the long line of cavalry with Thomas turning toward the rear of the mounted line. Patton rode to the front of the skirmish line and absentmindedly reached for his saber, actually forgetting he had ordered the useless weapons to be left behind for noise reasons. Instead he
raised his gauntleted right hand and waved the line forward just as the last of the fog lifted and the first rays of sunshine eased over the rise to the east.

“Company, forward at the cantor,” he ordered in a not-too-loud voice.

The 8th United States Cavalry started forward at the trot. Ninety-eight men pulled their British-made Lee-Enfield rifles from their scabbards and Patton withdrew an
old Colt .45 Peacemaker from its holster. He then thought better of it and replaced the old six-shooter with a model 1900 Colt .45 automatic. The line moved steadily forward, and the hacienda was now seen in all its large glory. The men now knew the task at hand was a large one.

“Bugler, sound the charge!”

The early morning bugle call was heard throughout the small valley south of the Rio Grande
as men of the 8th charged the ten-acre hacienda known as Perdition’s Gate.

*   *   *

Professor Lawrence Jackson Ambrose stood in front of one of the subject cells buried far beneath the hacienda and watched test subject 197 as he squatted in the darkened corner of his cell. The young man was one of a slew of dregs from the barroom alleys of Laredo, just across the Rio Grande, as were another
four of the ten subjects he had under medical observation. The professor had not moved since administering the final dose in the series of injections that would complete the full script of medicinal delivery.

Ambrose was dressed in a filthy white lab coat and the tie he wore underneath was askew. His gray hair was tumbled and his beard still held food from the day’s evening meal. The deep scars
from that long-ago night on London’s East End held firmly to the left side of his face, creating a permanent scowl. His clothing covered the rest of the burns he had received, several of which still broke open and bled on occasion. Ambrose hardly noticed when he heard the footsteps descending the stairwell from the hacienda two floors above. The door opened and the professor spared a glance at
the object of the interruption.

His East Indian servant, RaJan Singh, a Sikh that stood six feet six inches in height and was well over three hundred pounds, was his ever resplendent self. His blue turban was covering hair that when loose would travel downward to his hips. His black beard had two luminescent streaks of white coursing down either side of his whiskers. His long white jacket covered
bright-blue pants that made the Sikh the complete opposite of Ambrose in size, demeanor, cleanliness, and dress.

“I gave orders not to be disturbed until the final doses of the drug had been administered. I have nine more injections to give to complete the series on these subjects.”