Bitter Salvation: Heirs of Glory, #3

By Tim A. Mills

The Resurrection Men left readers hanging on the fate of Calvin Sheridan. Follow Sheridan, fencing-master Etienne Lefevre, and their ragtag crew of Le Pacte du Fer as they chase the hopeful Prime Minister Lord Prentis Primrose through the streets and alleyways of London and Germany.

Can they stop Primrose and his Great Effort to use the British Empire to create a unified socialist empire?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Winged Tiger Media
• Release date: Sep 11, 2017
• ISBN: 9781947039001

Book preview

1

The Great Escape

Aman in front of me whispered into my ear. Would you be willing to commit murder so you could live ?

I could not see him through the thick, black bag fastened securely by the noose around my neck. I sensed his presence in front of me. He did not waiver.

The voice continued, I do not know if your path is to Heaven or to Hell, but if you survive this it is most assuredly to Hell.

Was I not in Hell already? The heavy sack over my head accentuated the temperature, the exhaustion, and the fear. Was I willing to die for this? I had been asking myself that since they bound me, slipped the bag over my head, and gently put the noose around my neck.

The crowd was eager for a spectacle but their anxious din reduced to a murmur in my mind, almost like the waves of a lake lapping at the edge of a rowboat while I rested idle inside, not caring about the rest of the world.

But I did care.

Was I ready to die for others? Was I ready to give up this Earthly plane to provide some perverse sense of justice? I would be forgotten by everyone involved in the whole affair in short order. All of my family preceded me in death. Was I ready to join them?

More important, would I join them? Oh, I played around all my life with overtures to God, the occasional prayer when I feared trouble, and holiday homage. In the end, I did not know whether a god awaited me moments from now, or if I was just dropping closer to the ground I would rot in.

No, I did not want to see if God existed right now. I wanted to be old. I needed to survive this and be someone—maybe even to someone.

At this point, I said to the man before me, I would do almost anything to survive.

Capital! replied the man with incongruent joy. Then I suggest you do so.

Two gunshots fired somewhere in the courtyard. The quiet waves of murmur erupted into a gale of panic. Someone came up behind me. My wrists were cut free of their binding.

Hey you, there! yelled a guard. I could hear him pounding up the creaky, wooden planks to the platform. What do you think you’re doin’?

Moments later the boards of the wooden deck beneath me shook as something fell hard on it. The guard, I assumed.

The rope around my neck loosened and pulled free. Finally, someone ripped the bag off my head like a magician’s reveal.

The breeze ripped through my hair like a blast from Old Man Winter. I gasped and relished the great joy of breathing in the thickness of the dreary London air. I squinted from the great glare that was, fortunately, not the light of God on me. At least not yet.

The man in front of me grasped my shoulders and shook me out of my stupor. I focused on the dingy, grey day and the bleakness of soot-covered, menacing walls of Highgate Prison.

Richard Harrington, my old friend, stood before me. His hair was whiter than I had ever seen it. He looked more worn than usual. But that sly smile crossed his face, he winked, and the world seemed to pause.

I’d hold on to that, Harrington said and handed me the rope I was nearly hanged with. I hesitated in confusion. He nodded at me and grabbed the rope himself. I seized the noose above the knot with both hands without question. The person behind me had already disappeared, and moments later the trap door tripped. Harrington and I plummeted through it. It felt as though my arms were yanked from my body. But it sure was less painful than my neck.

We both released the rope and dropped a few feet to the ground. As I stood and flexed my fingers from the intense burn in my hands, Harrington gave me a long knife. Now’s a good time to keep your word, he said. It will not be pretty.

The first of the guards rushed under the scaffolding towards us. Act now or forever hold your peace, I thought. My blade met his abdomen just below the ribs. He froze there for a moment. I dug upwards with the knife just to be sure before I released him to the ground, screaming.

The warm, dark, liquid flowed over my hand. I hesitated for a moment thinking about what I had just done. This was not my first kill. After all, I had slain my fiancée in a duel. I had helped to fake another death. I had seen many more to this point. This was the first one where I killed the man simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He did nothing but his job. And I did mine.

Another guard seized my arms from behind. I struggled for a moment while I refocused and put the morality of my actions away to be dealt with later. I wrested my right arm free and backhanded him in the face.

I turned to see his now blood-smeared cheek. He started towards me, and I slashed again across his face, ripping it open and sending blood everywhere. I looked to Harrington a few feet away stabbing with a fury at anyone that stepped near. He gritted his teeth and plodded through the crowd like a barbarian sensing gold or women ahead. In his case, probably women.

Harrington was all business, dispatching guard after guard. He waved me forwards. Time to make a hasty exit before we were overwhelmed.

Harrington and I stepped out from under the gallows, a relief in itself, although if we were unsuccessful now my death would be even more painful than it would have been moments ago, or, at the very least, prolonged. We shoved everyone in front of us away. We stabbed them. Hopefully not fatally, but at this moment I wanted out more than I wanted them to survive.

I ached and struggled for breath as spectator and guard alike attacked us. We shoved back, stabbed back. Harrington’s attitude infected me, and I would yell like a savage in the face of those who approached. They had a choice: flee under my barbarian yelp and gnashing teeth or fall under my bloody blade.

A woman’s voice shouted out above us from atop the platform. Maybe these will help!

Harrington and I peered up at the woman. She wore a grey, twill divided skirt and matching jacket topped with a flat cap like she could not decide if she were a man or woman. She would blend in with this throng of pleasure seekers at my death except that her apparel was clean, her face smooth and free of defect. The woman was excessively thin, tall, ghostly pale, and possessing a mouth hardly wider than her nose and little more colour than the rest of her countenance. Her golden hair in the sky above me was the only thing that might be considered a sun on this day.

She held in each hand a cutlass though why on Earth anyone would possess a single cutlass let alone two was beyond me. She tossed the weapons to us. Harrington and I each caught one, turned, and split open a pair in front of us.

God forgive me, I muttered just in case it became important later. If I had been Catholic, I would have crossed myself, although the sword in my right hand would have made that interesting. I maintained the knife in my left hand to ward off anyone coming at me while engaged with the cutlass.

As the innocents opposing went down, we continued working our way through the crowd spinning the cutlasses in a series of menacing-looking moulinets.

Who is she? I asked.

Tell you later, said Harrington.

The crowd shrank away from us. Harrington was making a beeline for the gate.

I lost track of how many bodies I sliced open, how many times their hot blood splattered across my face, and how many women shrieked as we weaved our way through the terrified throng.

They came to see a hanging and to have some excitement. Well, now they had excitement, just not the kind sought. I sliced again. The blood spewed at me. As I swung at another, the blood from my victims flung off my blade into the crowd like a painter splattering the human canvas in deep red.

Wait! I said.

For what? asked Harrington. No time for sightseeing.

Lefevre, I replied.

I saw him, the fencing-master, fifty feet from me to my left. Still guarded. Lord Prentis Primrose, our foil, if one pardons the pun, stood steadfast while the crowd raged around him. I charged that direction. People were getting smarter and moving out of my way rather than dealing with my onslaught.

Harrington followed me. Moments later the blonde was in line.

Jesus fuck, Richard, said the woman. What the bloody hell are we doing?

But she quickly saw as we got to Primrose.

Lord Primrose smiled smugly as if he had no fear. I stepped up to him, took my bloody cutlass, and wiped it on the MP’s shoulder in an admittedly brash behaviour for me. I contemplated what the most efficient way to kill him would be, given that I would have to penetrate his thick, heavy hide.

I sneered at him with the confidence that barbarous acts awarded. Worried?

Not in the least, he said. This is the best possible outcome I could’ve hoped for. You may have chosen to hang for those two resurrection men—or more precisely your fencing-master—but now you have doomed yourself, your friends, and your esteemed Étienne Lefevre to death. He smiled broadly, genuinely happy at this turn of events. In a few minutes you have done all the work for me. All I have to do is dot the i’s and cross the t’s.

I stared Lord Primrose down. I inspected the scars from the burns he had received at the raid on Harrington Hall. So much trouble over this man, well, mostly over his wife, Jane, and the interest Lefevre showed in her. It seemed an eternity ago that Digger Gultch and Corporal Snaggert, the two grave diggers accused of murdering Lady Primrose, stood atop the scaffold waiting to be hanged, and, apparently, for me to get the brilliant idea of replacing them for a murder that never really happened to begin with! All on the account of a married woman.

Oh, is it funny to think that just under a year previous I had met fencing-master Lefevre and had my life turn in so many ways. I would never have thought it would end up with me faking the death of the wife of an MP and foolishly sacrificing myself for the whole cause of a woman I did not really like.

Calvin, time to go! Harrington seized Lefevre’s arm and dragged him through crowd while still brandishing the cutlass.

The crowd resisted less now, thankfully.

I hit Lord Primrose squarely in the jaw with the knuckle guard of my cutlass, sending him stumbling back. I pushed past and in line with Harrington, Lefevre, and the blonde. Primrose was not finished and yelled after us. I know that you like running. You do so much of it. You had best get to it. I am coming for you.

He was right, too. On running, that was. I followed those directions precisely. I turned and chased Harrington as he dragged Lefevre with him. The blonde woman was right behind him. I caught up to her.

I hope the fucking frog is worth all this, she yelled, without caring whether Lefevre heard her or not.

I looked back. Lefevre followed a few steps behind. He fully utilised his cane to take down pursuers more effectively than we were with swords. And with less blood. Whoever this woman was, she could at least see his worth as a fighter.

Finally, we escaped through the gate, which was suitably menacing and gloomy for a prison. It was like jumping out of the mouth of a demon into freedom.

Five more guards resolved to inhibit our exit. Harrington, the blonde, and I put them to the ground in seconds. One-hundred feet away, a coach waited. We sprinted.

Driving the coach, I recognised Harrington’s man, Mr Baker. The four of us climbed into the carriage. Baker sent the horses forwards before I completely boarded. A quick jolt threw me into the lap of the blonde woman—between that divided skirt.

The sweet smell of lavender overwhelmed my senses. She had perfumed her costume to make it more tolerable. I lingered, my head between her sweet smelling, filthy legs. My hands rested on her thighs, and I could feel the surging muscle inside of her. This was no ordinary woman, not that I had much experience for that proclamation.

Finally, she gently put both her hands on my cheek and lifted me upwards. She leant towards me. No, no honey. That’s spoken for.

Oh, leave the boy alone, said Harrington. He laughed loudly. He just survived a bloody hanging and you’re going to get on him for getting the little whiff?

She sneered at Harrington, grabbed the back of my head, and pulled me deep between her legs. I tried to pull away, but she held me fast. After a protracted moment, she released me. She raised her eyebrows at Harrington to see if he was satisfied.

I situated myself sitting next to her. Harrington sat diagonal from me and Lefevre across. Whether she liked it or not, I had no choice but to sit so close. Although as uncultured as she obviously was, it likely did not matter.

I apologise, I whispered, resisting the urge to fall into her as the fast moving carriage rocked violently. I looked back to those strong thighs in shame. Now, they were spotted with the blood from my face. I reached up and dragged my fingers across my cheek. I could feel the blood.

Harrington’s face was splattered with blood as well. Neither the blonde nor Lefevre appeared to have any on them, outside of what I deposited in the blonde woman’s lap, that is.

The woman reached beside her and procured two linen towels. She tossed one to Harrington and handed one to me. After I wiped the blood from my face, and scrubbed hard, I looked to the woman again.

Thanks, I said. Now, who are you?

Your saviour? she suggested.

No, I said. She’s in America.

Lefevre’s eyebrows shot up. I realised that I should not have said that. But it was true that several times I had been saved from certain death by Gabriella di Bonaventura. And she was no blonde hussy.

The hussy introduced herself. I am Felicity Wordsworth.

You are kidding me? I said.

I shit you not, she said. And, yes, before you ask, I am related to the poet which should be fucking obvious why the family doesn’t want anything to do with me even though it should be equally bloody obvious I inherited the fucking family’s dexterity with the tongue.

Harrington spoke up. They need not know anything about that, darling.

They both laughed like school children. I buried my head in my hands. My life had been saved by these people. But it was saved.

With the quiet that soon ensued, I stared absently out the window. By this point, no one pursued us, which was a new experience in the past year.

Harrington inspected me. There will be time enough later to talk. Rest. We have a couple hours’ ride.

2

The Blood Room

When the carriage jolted to a halt, I woke to find myself with my head on Felicity Wordsworth’s flat chest. Her head rested on mine. She jolted away and shoved me forwards until I fell on the floor .

How many fucking times are you to try to get a piece of me? she asked.

Harrington and Lefevre never fell asleep. Harrington waved his hand at her, and Felicity clenched her jaw shut. I restored myself to the seat and resumed staring out the window. We had returned to Harrington Hall.

You don’t think they will come here? I asked.

Not worth coming to, really, Harrington said. He had a long, silent moment to himself before concluding, Seems like as good a place as any to hide.

We exited the carriage. We had no baggage or anything else but the literally bloody clothes on our backs. Mr Baker drove the carriage away.

The double oak doors of Harrington Hall half-hung on their hinges. Charred black from the explosions that Lord Prentice Primrose had set off in pursuit of us the last time we were here. We walked through the house. Half-burnt tapestries lingered on the walls. Most of Harrington’s collection of artefacts, many of which he had hoped would someday be holy relics, were now junk. Expired torches lay casually on the floor punctuated randomly by firearms.

I’m sorry, I said.

Harrington waved his hand and shooed the thought away. It was time for a change of scenery. He stepped beside Felicity, wrapped his arm around her, and squeezed her tight. It might have been worth burning down my house just to meet this lovely lady.

The very thought put the fear of God into me. After all, it was Lefevre’s insistence on helping Jane that got us into this mess. A woman put us here. Wait, in fact, it was mostly women that had had to do with the whole thing, from Marie being brutally murdered, to my sister, Ann, plummeting to her death after her foul deeds. Add to that, my fiancée Bess that I had killed in a duel. Finally, to that woman that dances upon all our minds: Gabriella.

Gabriella di Bonaventura was in America still cleaning up Lefevre’s mess with Jane. I felt I may see her again someday, but not anytime soon. Regardless, the thought that Harrington now had such strong feelings for this foul-mouthed vixen vexed me.

Harrington saw it on my face. No worries, old chap, Harrington said. Did you not see her fight? She’s not your average woman!

No doubt, I thought. Felicity Wordsworth was also a far cry from Harrington’s estranged wife, who had left him for a man that somehow ended up dead at the base of one of the towers of Harrington Hall. Lady Harrington had been the picture of a virtuous woman of society, minus the leaving her husband part.

Harrington led us through the house. We finally made it to that dreaded room from my youth, the blood room, named such on account of everything being red from the carpets to the tapestries on the walls to the gutters for draining blood on the table in the middle of the room. It was the room for Harrington to explore death, to explore physiology, and anatomy.

Well, it’s not much, but it’s probably the best room in the house still, said Harrington. We will shove a sofa or two around for you to have somewhere to sleep. The bedrooms are, well, not safe. It’ll be fine.

It was fine. I was alive after all.

Since the time we rescued Lefevre—something that should be pointed out rather than what was usually the case—had said nothing. Harrington disappeared to obtain food and Felicity followed. I took the opportunity to take things up with the fencing-master.

You were willing to let me die, I said.

You chose to do that, Lefevre said. They were willing to kill Digger Gultch and Corporal Snaggert. An easy solution. Your morality put your life in danger.

Your morality put us in the situation to begin with! I countered.

Lefevre smirked at me. He knew it was true and could have chosen to just help Jane and get information on her husband’s plans from her with no need for the romance. He could have held her at bay to get the job done so that we could stop Primrose’s Great Effort to spread socialism throughout the world. Lefevre chose that unrighteous path. While I chose to save two innocent men from the gallows, he stood there and watched.

A lot has happened in a short amount of time, began Lefevre, but when you finally analyse the actions, I am certain you will see the truth of it. I may have acted in a way that you do not believe was appropriate, however, we do know that I was Jane’s target.

Oh, yes, Lefevre remembered distinctly that Jane had been set upon him to begin with. Naturally, under duress of interrogation, she volunteered that she did love him. I cringed to recall it.

Lefevre continued: I was the victim of that attack.

And, of course, I said, you always give in to what your opponent wants.

He sighed heavily. That’s why women are the most dangerous weapon known to man. We cannot always see the attack coming.

Except you stated on several occasions that you did not trust her. You knew the attack was there and yet engaged in ridiculous behaviour, I protested.

Such is the skill of a woman, he said.

I stared at him for a long time before continuing. You would have allowed them to hang me.

He stared at me blankly. Yes.

I shifted uneasily and clinched my jaw. After all we had been through together, surely my life meant something more to him. Was I such an easy sacrifice? In reality, how much did I truly understand about this man?

Lefevre read my intent and interrupted before my thoughts could complete. What should I have done with Primrose and his men guarding me?

Fight them? Like you bloody fight everybody that’s a problem! I insisted. How many times have we been the minority in a fight and come out of it?

I would’ve been arrested for attacking an MP. And jailed. Then, what good would I be to anyone? I certainly would not have been any good to you. I started to protest. He held up his hand to stop me. There is no Gabriella to free either of us.

I threw my air arms in the air and grunted, adding: What good were you to begin with? I rescued you! I jabbed my finger in the air at him as if I was attacking him multiple times with a fencing foil.

Lefevre let things settle down. Finally, when I shifted from boiling over to a low simmer he continued, Thank you.

He turned and walked away. It did not make me feel as good as I hoped it would.

Some time later the four of us sat on the sofas in the red room and ate a meagre dinner conjured up by Harrington.

I’ll get Mr Baker on improving our meals, Harrington said.

Just having the opportunity to eat is delicious, I said.

Indeed, he replied. Close call.

Speaking of close calls, I began, the last I knew, you were charging at a burning Lord Primrose with a sword.

He had been, too. Primrose and company had attacked Harrington Hall and set it aflame. We were cornered. Harrington heroically turned the tables by setting Primrose afire, ripped a rapier off the wall, and gone after him to effect our escape.

I had thought that escape was impossible. Certainly, Primrose had proven he could fight with a sword, albeit with crude and overbearing style, but he would have been as little challenge to the long-experienced Harrington as he was to Lefevre. However, Primrose was only one in a mad mob and raging fire.

Lord Primrose moves rather better than I expected, said Harrington. He rolled and put out the fire on himself and sprinted to the wall to get a sabre. We fought a few minutes. Long enough for you to do what you had to, and then I retreated.

I nodded. Where did you go?

Not so far. The wine cellar. He smiled. They never thought to search there. The fire never made it that far. It was just me and some fine wine for a few days until Mr Baker found me. Not a bad way to spend a couple of days while my empire burnt above me.

I inquired further into the status of his estate. Harrington relayed that his lands were still being worked although with the recent events and the questions still lingering with the public about Lady Harrington’s final disposition, many were leaving. By rights I should be fighting to restore it all for the sake of—well, I just don’t know that I want it.

We talked idly for some time, most of it with me recounting our own journey since we had left Harrington. Felicity would periodically want to open her filthy mouth in comment, but Harrington stopped her.

The entire time Lefevre read a surely outdated copy of The Times. When the room had silenced and he realised everyone watched him, he pulled the paper down and raised his eyebrows.

You are not looking for secret messages any more are you? I asked.

It is my duty to look.

We retired to our make-shift beds earlier than usual, exhausted from the entire affair. It took considerable time for me to fall asleep as I permitted the guilt to drip in as I contemplated the lives forever altered that day.

In the middle of the night, I woke to a scream. I was paralysed. It was best to figure out what was going on before jumping into another battle. I listened. I stared out the broken window. It looked peaceful outside. A full moon shone through the fractured glass into the blood room. Momentarily, the broken window reminded me of the mutilated corpse of Marie in her flat with the door that did not lock so they reached through the broken window to gain admittance. That was how they entered the flat and killed her.

No such fear here.

I stared out the window. My life was full now, too. I was an entirely different man than when this started. I wondered who I would be by the time we either stopped Primrose and his Great Effort or failed miserably at it.

A year ago, I would not have cared that this man planned to collapse the economies of Germany and others to start a war, a war that had the solution of socialism as its saviour. Everyone needs a saviour. Lefevre had been mine to my character. Gabriella had been every time I was in danger.

She was a puzzle, Gabriella. Saving me on the one hand and thwarting us on the other. Not on our side. Maybe not against us. An enigma. A riddle to solve later if I ever saw her again. For now, we had more serious things to worry about.

The scream again. I quietly sat up and peered over the top of the couch. The pasty, white, sweaty skin of Felicity Wordsworth gleamed as the moonlight shot across the room like some pagan spotlight illustrating a ritual no one should be a party to. She straddled Harrington on top of the dissection table. Her whole body shook as she undulated and clawed at Harrington’s wolf-like chest. He reached for her meagre breasts. In the final heave, she screamed and collapsed on top of him. She laughed like a lunatic and twisted her body around.

I quietly slipped back into my sleeping position, my eyes and ears trying to recover from the assault of this inappropriate woman.

Felicity spoke quietly. Calvin, you want some now?

Harrington and Felicity laughed. Finally, he spoke. Don’t mind her, Cal. She’s a tease.

3

Resolutions

Iwould not call it breakfast, but we were eating what remained of dinner the night before at the hour of breakfast. Fitful sleep put me on edge .

Permit me to clarify. The dream that all too frequently tormented me on those nights revisited me. I was cursed to remember my nocturnal hauntings. The dream never changed. Bess stared at me like she was frozen. Then a barely perceptible smile blossomed. It shifted to a face of terror and a scream. I looked down to see my epée du combat touch her skin, hesitated for the briefest moment, then punctured her breast like I had popped a balloon. I laughed as I pushed the weapon into her flesh to the guard. I pulled it back and forth like a saw. Each time I hit her harder with the guard and she stepped backwards. No blood. Just constant penetration while I laughed like a drunken idiot. She could only ask why.

As I looked to answer her, I was swept away to that stormy French cliff. Ann bled from the gunshot given her by Richard Freehold. Rain poured on us. Ann’s black hair was matted to her head. Contrary to reality, she was standing. She ripped her blouse open and the rain snaked down her bare chest like little fingers reminding me of her foul deed those many years ago. My sister latched onto me, wrapping her legs around me and licking my face. She stuck her finger in the bullet hole and drew blood across my face like she was writing something I could not make out. The wind of the storm and her undulating weight sent me off balance, and I saw the white crests of the turbulent sea crashing below us. In fear, I pushed Ann away from me, and she flew out over the edge and hung like a kite trying to determine which direction to go. Horror struck her face as she plummeted out of my sight, the sound of her dress ripping the air.

I dropped to my knees and buried my face in my hands, sobbing.

It’s all right, Calvin. It’s all right.

I opened my eyes to see Marie an inch from my face, her ruddy complexion and strawberry blonde hair glowing by the candlelight. She kissed me on the cheek and comforted me again. The flickering light raged brighter and hotter. I put my left hand to Marie’s cheek. It was so warm and comforting. Her smile turned to horror. I looked down and pulled the knife from her abdomen. But I did not just pull it out, I dug and cut as I went. Without a thought I kept digging it into her like I had no control. I ripped her corset open and used the tip to trace up her chest until I get to her neck. I dug my fingers deep into her hair and with a viciousness I have never known, sliced her neck while that brute Nikolai stood behind me, bellowing in laughter.

It should hardly be surprising that I jolted awake every time