The Scarlet Thief (12 page)

Jack bridled at Peacock’s words. ‘The men are not scum. If you only took the time to get to know your bloody command you would know that. Of course that would mean taking your head out of your own damn arse first.’

‘Sloames!’ McCulloch cried out at Jack’s outburst. Even Brewer was shocked enough to push himself to his elbows to stare at the source of such a scandalous eruption of anger.

The reaction of the two captains was as nothing compared to Peacock’s outrage. Sloames had barely spoken in the weeks since joining the battalion. This sudden transformation was startling.

‘How dare you!’ Peacock shouted. ‘The colonel shall hear of this!’ He rose to his feet and so did Jack. It looked as if the two officers would charge at each other. McCulloch leapt up, physically interposing himself between the two officers who continued to shout at each other.

‘Jesus Christ! What are you going to tell the colonel? That I dared to speak the truth?’ Jack no longer tried to hold back the flood of emotion that surged through him. He felt the charade that shackled him fall away and was glad of it.

‘Why, you devil! I am your senior officer and you will speak to me with respect.’

‘Respect?’ Jack spat the word out with venom. ‘Respect has to be earned, remember. I have no more respect for you than I do for the fleas in a whore’s drawers.’

Peacock was dumbstruck, his mouth hung open as he tried to speak through his fury. He was not silent for long. ‘You swine! Never have I been spoken to like that. Never! You viper! There is no place for scum like you in the King’s Royal Fusiliers. I shall see to that.
Aut viam inveniam aut faciam!
When the colonel finds out about this, you will be damn lucky to keep your commission! If you were a private soldier, I’d have you flogged until I could see your spine and—’

‘Alarm! To arms! To arms!’

The call to arms resounded through the army. Something had stirred in the darkness of the Russian steppe, scaring the already nervous sentries and triggering mayhem. ‘To arms! To arms!’

Men scrambled from their bivouacs, redcoats rushed to find their weapons, officers came stumbling from their tents undressed and unprepared. Sergeants rapidly formed their men into some kind of rough order before their officers dragged them off to where the line of piquets had begun firing into the night.

Peacock stormed out of the tent as the alarm sounded. Jack would have charged after him, nothing now left to lose, his charade about to end in a blaze of scandal that would see his name go down in the folklore of the battalion. But the threat of an attack was very real and, despite everything, his duty to his men and to his regiment came first.

Jack bent to reassemble his revolver, ignoring the tension that filled the tent and refusing to acknowledge either of the astonished captains who had been struck dumb by his outburst.

Brewer was the first to recover his wits. He levered himself to his feet, exhaling loudly with the effort, and hurried out of the tent with a sharp look of reproach at Jack. Brewer might have treated Major Peacock with less reverence than his rank was due but that did not mean that he would ever condone the loutish behaviour and foul-mouthed abuse he had just witnessed.

McCulloch let out a long sigh, shaking his head at the distressing scene he had just witnessed.

‘What came over you, Sloames? What possessed you to speak to Peacock in such a . . .’ McCulloch struggled to find the right words, ‘such an appalling manner?’

Jack looked up as he snapped the last parts of the gun back together, his expression grim. ‘It is no more than he deserved and I damn well enjoyed it.’

‘Enjoyed it? You perverse lunatic! You cannot speak to your superior officer like that.’

‘You heard the pompous fool.’

‘If anyone is playing the fool then it’s you, not Peacock. He’ll drag you over the coals for this, you dolt. You’ll have to apologise.’

‘Apologise? I’d rather rub my arse with a brick!’

‘Please refrain from using your foul language with me. You’ll have to apologise or you’ll face ruin.’

Jack chuckled at the threat. ‘We’re about to fight the biggest bloody battle since Waterloo. What punishment can Peacock possibly inflict that is worse than what the Russians have in mind?’

‘Worse? Why, he could ruin you! Don’t you understand? He could blacken your reputation so that no other regiment would ever accept you. You would never live it down. Never! Your career would be finished.’

‘Reputation! Is that all you lot really care about? What a load of pompous claptrap!’ Jack felt his anger returning.

‘What on earth do you mean? You lot? As officers we are nothing without our reputation and without us, the men would never fight.’

‘Is that right? Oh, I forgot. The men are just scum and it takes a true gentleman to be an officer and lead them,’ Jack fired back, his face taut with anger.

‘Of course it does and well you know it.’

‘I know no such thing. You’re being as much of an arse as Peacock if you believe it.’

McCulloch stepped back as if Jack had physically hit him. Jack thought McCulloch might actually strike him but although he was shaking with anger, he managed to bring his rage under control.

‘You are a fool, Captain Sloames, a fool and a viper. Peacock was quite right. I only wonder how you kept your true character hidden for so long.’

McCulloch snatched up his weapons and strode out into the night.

Left alone, Jack stood still, savouring the momentary peace. It seemed to him that his imposture lay in tatters around him in the tent. Yet he felt no fear, only relief. Giving up the deception was perversely liberating.

He thrust his revolver into his waistband and snatched his sword and scabbard from the ground. He would face the Russians and do his duty. Peacock, McCulloch, Slater and the rest of the bloody officers could go to hell.

He whipped back the tent flap and strode out into the chaos of an army on the verge of panic.

Soldiers ran in every direction in complete disorder, some armed, some seeking weapons, everywhere a frenzy of movement and sound. The bellow of orders and counter-orders, shouts of confusion, the jangle of equipment and thud of booted feet resonated in the night. Through it all came the sound of gunfire. Sometimes it rippled out like a child running a stick along an iron fence. Then it would die down to single shots, before the noise built to another crescendo as more soldiers fired at shadowy targets in the darkness.

A vicious blow smashed into the side of Jack’s head and sent him reeling back into the tent, knocked half witless. The attack had come out of nowhere. He desperately tried to locate the source but his vision was blurred and his senses dazed.

The second blow came in low, punching into his stomach, driving his breath from his body. He doubled over, unable to recover, incapable of doing anything but absorb the blows that came out of the darkness. As his head went down, his attacker threw his knee forward, connecting with Jack’s unprotected face, snapping his neck backwards and throwing him on to his back.

Jack hit the ground, agony searing through his body. He could feel the blood running freely down his face from his battered nose, with more filling his mouth where his lips had been driven into his teeth. Before he could even begin to struggle, a huge body thumped down on top of him, pinning him to the tent floor. Barely able to breathe, Jack tried to raise his arms but his opponent merely punched down, sending another searing lance of agony into his already battered face. His arms were thrown backwards and pinned underneath his attacker’s knees. Pain seared through his arms and shoulders as his assailant leant his weight forward, bearing down on him.

He was helpless and barely conscious.

‘Wake up, damn you,’ Jack’s assailant hissed through gritted teeth, leaning over his face.

Though the pain was terrible, Jack forced his eyes open and looked up into the terrifying gaze of Sergeant Slater.

‘Good evening, Lark. Even dressed as a Rupert, I knew it was you.’ Spittle flew from Slater’s mouth, mixing with the blood that covered Jack’s face. ‘I thought I must’ve been dreaming. But there you were, bold as brass, and looking quite the part, I have to admit.’ Slater leant so close that Jack could smell his foetid breath. ‘You almost had me. You seemed so at ease, like you truly were an officer. So I didn’t say anything. I needed some time to think. But when this little shindig kicked off I thought it was too good an opportunity to pass up. So here I am, come to say hello to my old chum, Jack Lark.’

Jack could see every pore on Slater’s sweating, florid face.

‘Fuck you, Slater.’

Slater cackled, showing the blackened stumps that were all that was left of his teeth.

‘I’m going to kill you, Slater. You hear me? You are going to pay—’

Slater swatted one meaty hand across Jack’s face, cutting off his words. The blow sent droplets of blood splattering across the floor of the tent.

‘Enough.’ Slater looked down at Jack. He was as calm as could be. ‘I must hand it to you. I never knew you had it in you to be so daring. Oh, I admired you for standing up to me. That took real guts, that did. But when you and that fool, Sloames, scuttled away, I can’t say I was surprised.’ His face creased into a smile. ‘What did you do with Sloames? Did you kill him?’

‘He died.’

Slater nodded solemnly. ‘So, Sloames died. That was convenient, wasn’t it? Then you pinched his uniform. But coming out here was plain stupid. It’s going to be bloody dangerous in these parts soon enough.’

‘I had nothing left. You saw to that.’

‘You sad little fool.’ Slater seemed genuinely amused. Then his expression hardened. ‘I lost my colours and got shipped out to this rat hole because of you.’ His face twisted. ‘That fat fool Stimpson said I had brought the regiment’s name into disrepute and had me sent away. Just because that stupid doxy banged her bloody head.’ The huge man shook his head. ‘But now I reckon things will turn out all right. This is qute a nice little swindle you’ve got going here, I’m almost proud of you.’ Slater cackled at the notion. ‘From now on, you do what I tell you, or I’ll gab on you and let the army hang you for the fake you are. So you make life nice and easy and do what you’re told.’ He paused as he let the threat sink in. ‘Now then, I’m going to stand up and there’s no need for any fuss and nonsense. Just take it easy and think on what I said.’

Slater eased his weight cautiously backwards, releasing Jack’s arms, ready for any sign of resistance. He need not have bothered. Jack lay immobile, his pain-wracked body unable to move after the beating.

Slater eased himself on to his haunches, giving Jack a cruel smile as he did so. ‘I knew you’d see sense. Now, you lie there like a good chap while I walk my chalk. We’ll have another chat on the morrow. And remember, I’ll be watching you.’

Slater pushed himself to his feet, watching Jack warily the whole time.

Jack could do nothing. He could not even force his bruised arms to move. He closed his eyes against the pain, holding them closed for several long seconds.

When he finally opened them, Slater was gone.

Gingerly Jack tried to sit up, his body protesting loudly. His arms felt crushed, as if the muscles had been pulped, while his face was a single orb of pain. The months had not diminished Slater’s ability to deliver a slating.

Jack slowly forced his body upright, meeting every fresh lance of pain with a stream of expletives. He staggered across the tent to his kit, the act of bending down to open the knapsack releasing another flurry of oaths as sharp needles of pain surged through his back. Clutching the scrap of linen he had used to clean his revolver in one hand and his canteen of water in the other, he lurched painfully out of the tent, grateful for the darkness that would hide his battered features from casual scrutiny.

The first thing he noticed was that the rifle fire had died down. Then he realised that the fusiliers were streaming back into the battalion lines, their eyes bright with the excitement of blasting the night air with their Minié rifles. The British soldiers had been shooting at shadows. The Russian army was safely tucked up in their tents and in the cosy houses of Sevastopol. There was no attack. The alarm had been false. Like revellers returning home late from the local fair, the fusiliers were laughing and joking with each other, their exhilaration obvious even through Jack’s blurred and pain-filled vision.

Keeping his head down, Jack slowly made his way through the men, his only thought to seek out a refuge where he could tend to his wounds away from the prying eyes of his fellow officers. He skirted round the bigger groups of redcoats, walking as briskly as his injuries would allow, hoping that the men’s excitement would allow him to pass through them unremarked.

Jack spotted a gap between the last of the officer’s tents and a column of empty wagons. The small space offered a sanctuary away from inquisitive eyes.

He was so intent on reaching his goal that he did not notice a burly redcoat come hurrying out of the officers’ tent closest to the carts. The soldier barged into Jack and for the second time that night he was knocked to the ground.

‘Jesus Christ! Sorry, I didn’t see you there, mate.’ Tommy Smith reached out a hand to help him to his feet. As he did so, he realised that he had knocked over an officer. ‘Blow me! Sorry, sir. I didn’t see you, I swear. Oh, sweet Jesus.’ A fusilier could find himself flogged for knocking an officer off their feet, even accidentally, something that Smith was well aware of.

‘Oh, my God!’ he exclaimed when he saw the officer’s injuries. The man looked terrible, as if he had fought the Russian army on his own. Blood was encrusted around his nostrils and caked around his bruised and swollen lips, and the imprint of a hand was clearly visible on his right cheek. Smith kept a firm grip on the officer’s arms, as it was obvious that he could not support his own weight.

It was only as the officer wearily lifted his bloodshot gaze that Smith recognised the battered features. His eyes widened in shock.

‘I’ve got you, sir. I’ve got you. Let’s sit you down, sir. Before you fall down.’ Grimacing with the effort of supporting Jack’s sizeable frame, Smith gently lowered his officer back to the ground, sitting him down so that his back was leaning up against one of the wagons’ wheels. ‘There you go, sir. Now, let’s have a look at you.’

Jack hovered on the brink of unconsciousness. Through the fog of pain, Jack recognised the square-jawed face of his orderly.

‘Sorry, Tommy. I’m a bit of a mess.’ Jack’s swollen and bloody mouth made his words barely intelligible.

‘That you are, sir, that you are. Now, then.’ Smith’s thick fingers gently prised the cleaning cloth and canteen of water from Jack’s grip. ‘Let’s clean you up so we can see the damage. You just sit tight.’

Jack let his head fall back so that it was resting on a spoke of the cart’s wheel and submitted to his orderly’s administrations. For a farmhand Smith was surprisingly gentle, his deft movements efficiently removing the worst of the blood.

As Smith worked, Jack nurtured his hatred for Slater, using it as a balm for the wounds to his body. He had stolen Captain Sloames’s identity and gambled that he could make a new future for himself. Now his past had caught up with him and that bastard of a sergeant held all the cards.