Escaping Fate(Book 1)(The Rescue Series)

By Wayne Tripp

Escaping Fate is the story of two lovers, each seeking to escape and forget their past. Set beneath the blazing sun in the British India of the late 19th century, it follows the passionate romance and adventures of American Jack Wilde, serving in the British cavalry, and Kitty O'Keefe, a free-thinking newspaper woman as they seek to overcome countless obstacles and find lasting peace in each other's embrace.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wayne Tripp
• Release date: Jan 9, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311434630

Wayne Tripp

Author Wayne Tripp lives in New England and therein lies his passion for writing. "Allure of Siren's Song" is his first historical adventure novel. In addition to his writing and his long-time avocation as a skilled SCUBA diver, Wayne enjoys spending time with his beloved wife, other family members, and his adorable Siberian Husky. A strong believer in his childhood notion that love always triumphs, he manages to keep the darkness that threatens to crawl out of his creative closet at bay . . . most of the time. Once in a while, something wicked finds a method to claw its way out, and those are the stories that Wayne Tripp enjoys telling.

Book preview

Chapter One

Mouth of the Ganges River

Calcutta, India 1894

I’m going to die. Silent as a crocodile, Jack Wilde eased himself off the deck and pried the Webley out of his lieutenant’s cooling fingers. They’d been ambushed as they’d descended the drifting ship’s aft companionway. Fraser had been killed while he stood on the ladder’s bottom rung, surveying the shadowy, crammed maze surrounding him.

Jack tried not to stare at the neat round hole just starting to ooze blood from Fraser’s forehead as he shoved the officer’s revolver into the back of his waistband. Then he took the carbine the Sikh constable crouching behind him pushed toward him. One of the best shots in the regiment or not, this had to be handled perfectly, or he would die in this stinking abattoir.

Jack positioned himself in a comfortable sniper's stance, risking ruining his new khaki breeches and settled his Martini-Henry comfortably against his cheek and shoulder. He waited silently for the thug hiding behind the wallowing merchantman’s cargo to show himself. The cultist had already shown himself to be a marksman when he'd drilled Fraser in the center of his forehead with his first shot. Jack too was a deadly predator; hopefully, so was the Sikh policeman crouching behind him. But the key to every proficient shooter's success, to his very survival, was patience. The evidence of the murderer's skill lay stiffening at Jack's feet, the corpse of his superior and friend, Lt. Fraser. Jack knew the murderer was well aware of his presence, even as he was aware the cultist was not alone; there were he suspected a swarm of the fanatics aboard the Liverpool Lass. Jack would wait, and kill the bloody bastard who'd murdered his friend, Angus Fraser.

What an odd place for an American to die. Not that he was any stranger to dangerous situations, catacomb-dark ships, or rescuing damsels-in-distress.

Jack shifted his position ever so slightly, one of his legs cramping up, the half-healed wound in his thigh beginning to throb. What a strange place was India, and what bizarre circumstances had thrown him up on her exotic shores.

Sahib, there is movement up ahead, the Sikh policeman said, using the universal Indian title of respect for all Englishmen. The treacherous viper has just reared his most vile head for a look around. Perhaps now you might kill this disgusting serpent.

Jack had seen; his finger already tightening on the trigger, ready to hurl a .577 brass- jacketed slug into the thug's own forehead. But then he'd seen the flash of a spangled magenta sari and heard the cut-off squeal of an abused woman. The killer had a human shield.

Sahib, there is a woman. But you can still take the shot. She is but the memsahib's maid, not the major general's daughter herself.

Singh, Jack hissed, she is still a woman. I do not kill women. Anglo or Hindi, she's entitled to a decent chance at life, same as you or me. I will wait for a clear shot.

As you wish, Sahib Jack, Constable Singh replied, beaming approval as though thrilled to discover an Anglo of the ruling Raj who did not view Indian lives as worthless. Your words do you honor, Sahib. I am proud to know you, Englishman. My given name is Manjeet—call me Jeet please, as I believe we are both likely to perish this night and should die as friends.

I’m no damned Limey. I’m American. Born and raised in New England.

Not British Raj. I am seeing. Still, you’re a damned good man. Sahib, insisted the Sikh constable.

Jack looked away, embarrassed by his comrade’s praise. Undeserved. He nailed his attention to his weapon, forcing himself to wait patiently for the right moment to take his shot. You don’t know me, friend. You might not be so free with your praise if you really knew me, Manjeet. If only the cultist fanatic would foul up, or the Indian maid pass out so he could take the shot. End this and move on. Somewhere on this big monster of a coal-burner, the Major General’s daughter was in danger.

Sahib Jack—your leg—it is bleeding. When Sahib Fraser was killed, were you shot also?

No, not shot. Stitches must have let go, Jack whispered. I went for a little swim last week.

A swim, Sahib?

Jack didn’t answer the constable, he wasn’t eager to explain. There was movement in the shadows between three huge crates. Soon. He let himself relax a moment, closing his eyes and loosening his grip before firming up his shooter’s stance, ready for the thugee fanatic to make his mistake.

His swim had occurred in Bengal as he walked along an inland tributary of the Ganges. He’d stopped for a moment to watch the local women washing clothes; his artistic nature intrigued by the rich palette of colors created by their vibrant saris fluttering like exotic butterflies as they washed, and beat their laundry at the edge of the river. His shooter’s eye zeroed in on one young girl of about six splashing in the river’s shallows. Nearby, her jewelry-laden mother watched a maid servant washing the family’s clothes. In spite of wearing his only dress uniform, Jack was already in motion before the shrieking began; he’d seen the elongated shadow gliding toward the innocent child while her mother chatted with another richly-attired neighbor. He reached the frantic child just as she started screaming that something had touched her. In moments, mother and neighbor added their own wails of rising hysteria to the girl’s cries, yet neither moved to help her. Jack sloughed through the shallows, placing himself between girl and beast before hoisting the terrified child out of the water and starting for shore. As he carried his precious cargo toward the crowded ghat, he noticed most of the terrace’s curious onlookers had stopped to watch. Yet oddly, no one moved to offer assistance.

He hadn’t long to ponder. Cheated of its meal, the Ganges mugger, luckily a small three-footer, latched onto the back of his thigh with a vengeance, and had to be beaten off by two infantry sepoys who just happened to be walking along the river bank and jumped in to help.

Even though the croc’s bite hurt like hell, it was nothing compared to the dressing down he’d received from his troop commander. The woman and child had apparently been Brahmans and somehow in saving the daughter’s life, her mother believed he’d fouled her caste forever. The family had thrown the girl out and her entire neighborhood had turned its back on her. After all, had the Ganges crocodile succeeded in killing the child, well that was just her karma, wasn’t it? Although he’d meant well, Sergeant Wilde would’ve been far wiser to look the other way and keep walking. If he had, the little girl wouldn’t now be viewed as an untouchable outcast, wrenched from her family and banished forever.

Chapter Two

Saving women. He seemed to be always putting himself in danger to save someone of the fairer sex, whether it proved prudent or not. Just like now. But really, how could he behave differently?

From the shelter of the crates stacked around the base of the mainmast, Jack heard voices rise in a gibberish of angry Hindi. The squabble ended abruptly with a resounding slap and a raised male voice full of furious threats.

He was tired of waiting. His thigh throbbed and the back of his breeches lay against his injured flesh, soaked through with his chilled blood. Damn! God knew what manner of beasties squatting on this filthy deck might invade his wound.

Constable Singh—Jeet, can you say something . . . in Pashto or Hindi to the maid?

Hindi, Sahib.

Right. Whatever you call your native tongue. Anyway, I’m told Sita—that’s the maid’s name, is quite intelligent. I suspect she knows several languages. I’d like you to ask her if she understands English, and more importantly if that devil holding her hostage does.

"Oh, I see, Sahib Jack. I shall do as you ask."

Good, Jack said without looking at the constable, his sole attention now centered on his concealed target. "Make sure you keep your bleedin’ head down.

Yes, Sahib Jack.

Jack didn’t need to look at the Sikh to know his white teeth were gleaming in the forest of his glossy black beard. Handsome bugger’s enjoying this. Probably the most action he’s seen in a month of police patrols. I know I was bored outta my skull until now.

Reaching into his dead lieutenant’s belt pouch, Jack retrieved half dozen extra bullets for Fraser’s Webley as Constable Singh began speaking to the woman in Hindi.

After a very brief exchange, Manjeet turned to Sgt. Wilde with his answer.

She says the ugly mongrel does not know Hindi or English. In fact, she says this barbaric cur stumbles all over his tongue to speak his own native Burmese, Sahib.

Perfect. Thank you, Jeet. Get ready to move. This ends now. Without waiting for a reply, Jack turned toward the cargo crates and addressed the hostage with a few well-chosen commands.

In a few moments, Jack heard an argument brewing between the Indian maid and the thug. Her voice rising in shrill, outraged fury, the maid suddenly stood up, her abusive captor following her lead. As soon as Jack yelled now, Sita dropped, her tormentor following her a second later, the center of his sweaty forehead now wearing a scarlet tilak mark drilled by Jack’s bullet.

Jack didn’t hesitate, but handing the Sikh constable Lt. Fraser’s Webley, drew his own Navy Colt and headed toward the dead fanatic. No stranger to the cavernous belly of ships, Jack stalked forward, carefully navigating the winding path through the shadowy cargo, always on the lookout for a thugee ambush. They stalked down the main deck, scattering a cluster of ship’s rats as they went. When they reached the cowering Indian maid and dead cultist, Jack shoved another Boxer-Henry cartridge in his breech-loader as he exchanged a few words with the maid, and then turned over the sobbing Sita to one of the constables who’d come below to help Manjeet after the shooting stopped. The policeman helped the maid aft to where they ascended the hatch ladder to the relative safety of the drifting vessel’s weather deck. Kicking the thug’s discarded carbine aside, Jack turned to his one remaining companion. With a nod, silent predators both, they headed further toward the ship’s centralized engine room and hopefully, the memsahib’s rescue.

They moved steadily through the ship’s innards, dodging around coal bunkers, tribes of defiant vermin and the occasional stiff corpses of murdered crewmen. Sita had given Jack little hope of finding Henrietta Slocum alive. They’d been separated as soon as the cultists dragged them aboard the Liverpool Lass, and with a renewed squall of sobs, Sita confessed the thugs had been most disrespectful of memsahib’s station.

They searched the aft section of the main deck, until they reached the engine room. About to enter, they were interrupted by a small nervous policeman who chattered that they should come at once; they’d made a most important discovery topside. Jack and Jeet looked at each other, shrugged and followed the diminutive constable upward to the weather deck. Of Major-General Slocum’s daughter, Henrietta, they’d found nothing but a crumpled parasol. What began as voluntary assistance for a distraught father and senior officer in the 14th Bengal Rifles, and had promised a day of adventure for a hussar officer bored with marathon polo matches and his best N.C. O. seemed destined to spiral down into tragedy. Still, Jack was not ready to give up the search.

When the Calcutta police first decided to investigate the double stack steamer adrift in the Bay of Bengal and slowly inching into the mouth of the Ganges River, a second team of constables had searched the top, weather deck while Lt. Fraser, Jack and several other constables went below. Eventually, the team covering the weather deck dared to enter the captain’s cabin traversing the Liverpool Lass’s stern. Their gruesome discovery prompted the constable to urge Jack and Manjeet to have a look.

Their curiosity peaked; Jack and his Sikh comrade followed their guide into the late captain’s domain. At a glance Jack could see the cabin had been the scene of recent and excessive violence. The crimson plush settee was slashed and burned. A chipped marble-topped table showed the remains of a barely touched evening meal, though an elegant crystal liquor decanter lay on its side, smashed, its contents already soaking into the stained Persian rug below. In a far corner, lay an old-fashioned Adams revolver, a scatter of unused bullets showing the captain had been interrupted before he could load. The once elegantly-appointed cabin looked like it’d been subjected to a madman’s frenzy; there were smashed and broken personal treasures everywhere. Even a gilded birdcage had been crushed, the exotic scarlet and green finch inside lying drowned in its own blood. Sprawled across the deck, the heavy-set body of Captain Higgins lay next to a dented copper bathtub. Inside laid the partly-clothed body of his gray-haired wife, still clutching her husband’s hand in death. Although only Captain Higgins had been shot, both their throats showed severe damage from a rumal, the thugee strangler’s knot.

"Looks like we’ve discovered why the Lass was found adrift; her entire crew’s been slaughtered. Judging by some of the ritualistic strangling, it’s fairly obvious the thugees did the murdering. Only question seems to be where our Miss Slocum is.

Ignoring the Sikh’s statement of the obvious, Jack said, Well, Manjeet, you’ve been a damned good comrade as we prowled through the belly of this beast. Do you care to accompany me further and poke around in her bowels?

Of course, Sahib, answered the smiling Sikh.

Sharing the smile, Jack motioned him to follow and keep alert as they prepared to descend back to the steamer’s main deck, search the engine room, and then move on to the ship’s cargo holds.

The engine room held nothing but disappointment and death. The huge Scottish-built engine stood silent watch over more dead, this time a trio of coal-smeared bodies, most likely stokers, and the engine room chief—the ship’s black gang. Forward of the engine room and its huge machinery, there’d been nothing on the shadowy deck but endless squadrons of rats, scattered shards of coal and a trashed cargo of jute, tea and stolen statuary. That and a ragged line of silent prisoners; each man executed with the thugee strangler’s rumaal. As if to allay any doubt as to the vile perpetrators’ identity, Bhowanee, the local thugee’s name for Kali, was scrawled in the victims’ blood across the bulkhead. It might be near the end of the 19th century; years after the plague of thugee cultists had been officially stamped out, but like most infections, isolated pockets of fanatics still popped up.

Disgusted, they skirted the bodies, passing along the starboard side of the steamship, headed for the main cargo hold. Jack grunted when he opened another hatch covered with bloody handprints. The main deck had been reduced to a catwalk here, someone deciding to keep it narrow and maximize the size and