CAPTAIN OF HIS SOUL
by Marcher
gama39@austarmetro.com.au  


PG13


Chapter 4  ~  Honorable Retributions Is Never Straightforward, As One Would Believe


The arid outskirts of  Cairo were only five blocks from the hospital, but the decline in atmosphere could have signalled the beginnings of another world.  The graceful sandstone buildings gradually disintergrated into a shanty town of pawnbrokers and brothels scattered amid the heavily draped clotheslines which stretched between the walls of the alleys.  Beggars and barefoot children mingled on the streets with thugs and Legionnaire's escaping the tedious rigours of duty.

O'Connell surveyed his surroundings and accepted them as satisfactory.  Any disturbance here would not draw the curiosity of a crowd, unlike the one which gathered outside the Fort after Jonathan's accident.  Patience was all he needed to search out the face of the man he hunted.  That, and fortune's grace.

The sun was reaching it's peak and the thirst which irritated his throat could no longer be ignored.  He
pulled up a wicker stool at the next bar he came upon.  In truth, this was an extremely loose description of a bar.  It was a table and three stools outside the facade of a brothel which served rum on the street for it's clientele.  His order for strong drink was filled directly and delivered by two eager girls clad in veils who couldn't have been more than sixteen.  The first one sat on his lap, immediately enticing him inside while the second lolled over his shoulders.  Rick winked at the imp which had perched herself seductively on his knee then lifted her to her feet, shaking his head.  This induced a feigned sigh of disappointment from both girls and the one behind leaned further over his shoulders running her hands down his arms.  He leaned forward gently to extricate himself and turned to face her, "Just waiting on some friends."  he offered mildly and held up his shot glass for her to examine.  The young harlot smiled knowingly at him and giggled as she stepped back, taking her companion by the arm to lead her back inside.  They announced their expectations once his friends arrived which drew a patient smile from O'Connell.  Their tittering continued as they disappeared through the door and he leaned back against the wall and reclaimed his view of the street.

Time passed slowly and O'Connell was beginning to rethink his whole objective.  His surveillance was fruitless and proving nothing more than a waste of time.  He briefly considered barging into the camp, but being unarmed was too risky.  As well, it was becoming more difficult to ward off his two over eager female companions without having them scream abuse at him.  The last thing he needed was to draw attention.

He sculled his third rum, threw his money onto the rickety table and expressed himself with a disappointed sigh.  He raised his arms in a gesture of polite apology to the girls and walked back in the direction of the hospital.  At the very least he'd be able to take Jonathan back home without needing to invent a cover up for his wife's sake.  Besides, a touch of guilt ran through his blood at leaving Evelyn alone for so long without word of her brother. 

Two blocks into his journey he was rammed in the shoulder and knocked backwards by three Legionnaires barreling around a corner.  Instinctively he grabbed the offender by the shoulder and forced his attention.  On recognizing the accidental victim as his former Captain, the soldier nodded in apology and stepped back as O'Connell placed him from memory.  It was Neil Waters.  A Private in the Legion, a fellow patriot and generally well behaved,  although he was somewhat easily led by the more boisterous members of the Regiment.  Neither said a word, but it was apparent to Rick that the event of bumping into each other made the young Waters nervous.  He held Rick's gaze a little too long and his eyes held a distinct look of consternation on seeing him.  The former Captain stepped back and allowed the boy to pass, watching as he went and wondering.  It wasn't long before Waters and his companions hastened their step from a walk to a run.   Making their way across the street and into a pawnbrokers, which no doubt housed an illegal gaming room in the back,  the trio made a hurried glance in his direction then entered,  satisfied that their ex-commanding officer was gone.  O'Connell stood unseen in the shadows of an adjacent doorway and waited.

****

Jonathan growled impatiently at an Orderly who apparently knew no English or who was simply ignoring him.  The Englishman had stirred from his non compos state without any idea of where he was, or why.  His leg ached considerably worse than when he had been bowled over by that idiot drunkard and the absence of his cast made him visciously suspicious of maltreatment.  As well, his throat was drier than the Sahara itself.

"Somebody!"  He accompanied his irate shouting by slamming his hand ferociously on the drawers beside his bed. "Anybody!"

His anguish laden cries were eventually answered with the arrival of stout, middle-aged man who, in Jonathan's opinion, wore the most irritating of smiles. But it was evident the man held some degree of authority, simply by the manner in which he ushered the Orderly from the room.

"Who the bloody hell are you,  and what am I doing here?  And who's been fiddling with my leg?"

Jonathan's visitor set himself down on the edge of the bed with a happy sigh and introduced himself.  "Name's Campbell.  Have been known t'do some doctorin'.  Even saved a few lives here 'n' there.  Including yours."

Carnahan threw his head back into the pillow delivering an enormous groan at the ceiling. "God!  You're a bloody Yorkshireman!"

"Am at that!"  Campbell responded with good humour in spite of Jonathan's derisive tone.  "And lucky 't is that I befell into ya life, savin' ya from these halfwits, else ye be dead b'now."

Jonathan took a moment to decipher what had been said.  The lingo wasn't alien to him, but he had always hated the North of England with all it's stone fences, knee deep mud and icy winds.   Plus, he found the locals over keen to prove their worth against the more subtle graces of the South.  In short, he found Northeners to be unqualified crusaders who would be better suited sticking to their farms instead of showing off.   It irked him being placed in a position where he owed thanks to one of them.

"At least these halfwits had the sense to put my leg in a cast!"  Jonathan wiggled his finger at his injured limb.  "What possessed you to take it off?  It hurts like Bealzebub himself spat on it!"

Campbell lost his patience and squeezed Jonathan's ankle to prove a point, winning a sharp cry of pain from his ungrateful patient.  "Cos it weren't broken t'begin with, ya fool of a man!  You've only got a four inch gash t'ya shin, bruising and torn ligaments!  They put the bleedin' cast on cos it looked good, is all.  Pity they didn't pack the wound with plaster and given me somethin' to really have a gouge at!"

Jonathan stared blindly at his leg for a moment, then resigned himself to gratitude.   He waved his hand absently and mumbled, "Yes well, thanks and all that.  Fine job.  Very nice bandage.  When can I go home?"

"As soon as the Yank comes back t'get ya."

"O'Connell brought me in!?"  Jonathan sat up too quickly and yelped in pain,  "Where is he now?"

"On business of some sort.  Wouldn't say really."  Ross Campbell hoisted himself from the bed and made his way to leave, but not before delivering his parting shot at Carnahan. "Said somethin' along the lines o' leavin' ya in here the night."

Jonathan folded his arms across his chest in a show of  exasperation, "Well that sounds bloody right."  He noticed the door closing, once again confining him to solitary, and shouted to Campbell's back,  "Any chance of a meal?  Preferably one that won't kill me!"

****

It was only a matter of minutes before the Pawnbroker's door groaned open and a party of Legionnaire's emerged into the harsh sunlight.  There were at least seven of them which Rick could see, probably more still inside, but the face he was searching for appeared amongst them and O'Connell narrowed his eyes in satisfaction.  However, without a gun,  the odds seemed stacked against him, but passing up probably the only opportunity he would get was out of the question.  He considered his only option was to watch and wait, if need be follow until the soldier was alone, or at least until the prospect of a confrontation leaned more to his favour.

The Legionnaires were midly intoxicated and their voices carried clearly across to O'Connell.  His fury heightened as they stood about laughing at their close call with their old Captain.  His jaw clenched as it became obvious they all knew of this bastard's encounter with his wife and Rick's mind flashed with the horrors of what might have happened had Jonathan not been on his guard.

The laughter died down as one by one the group dispersed.  Each soldier casting a glance over the street before confidently deviating to their separate amusements.  Rick's target ambled with a companion in the direction of Cairo's main thoroughfare,  oblivious of his presence.  Once they were a block ahead, O'Connell pulled himself from the darkened doorway and quickened his pace in pursuit.

He caught up with them just a few hundred yards shy of the hospital and the American smiled grimly at the irony.  There couldn't be a better place for this son of a bitch to take a beating.  O'Connell stepped up behind the pair and laid a heavy, angry hand onto the Legionnaire's shoulder and spun him around to face him.  "Remember me?!" He snarled through clenched teeth.  Almost immediately, the other soldier lunged at O'Connell in defence of his friend only to be met by an angry shove to his chin sending him thudding to the ground, his head landing heavily of cobbled road.  To Rick's surprise, the man remained down.  Alcohol
mixed with a sharp blow to the back of his head had rendered the soldier unconscious, leaving Evelyn's attacker to face her husband alone.  Rick twisted his quarry around, pressing his face hard against a sandstone wall and wrenched his arm hard into the arch of his back.  "Who are you?" he spat.

The man grunted, unable to speak properly with his mouth grazing against the rough stone and he whined at the pain to the side of his face and his arm.    There was no mercy in O'Connell's actions as he twisted the man's arm and shoved him harder into thewall.  "Your name!"

"Umph...Furbor..."

Rick pushed harder and demanded again, "What!"

The victim scraped his cheek along the wall and succeeded in twisting his head just enough to hiss his name through his teeth, "Furborough."

The ex-Legionnaire turned the name over in his mind briefly before a recognition came.  "Furborough!  There's not very much to remember about you, is there?"

"Who are you?"  The private strained his head impossibly in an attempt to get a look at the man who held him.

"I was your C.O. in Lybia for about a month before you went AWOL."  Rick slightly released his grip on Furborough and pulled him about to face him, again shoving him into the sandstone.  "Look closely."  He held his face centimeters away and spoke through his teeth, "Any bells ringing yet?"  The Private's eyes flashed with an acknowledgement which produced a viscious grin from his former captain.  "Uh huh.  That's right!  I believe you've met my wife!"

"She wasn't your wife!"

In defence of Evelyn, O'Connell lied.  "She was!"  He shoved Furborough again, squeezing so hard on his throat as to choke him, "And she was pregnant!"

Furborough snickered knowingly into the American's face.  "She was a slut and you'd shot through!  What did you expect?"

Rick released his grip, stepped back and delivered a solid right fist into Furborough's jaw sending the man sprawling to the footpath.  He leaned down to drag him to his feet with the intention of repeating the act but was caught off guard by the Legionnaire kicking wildly at him before rolling out of the way.  O'Connell muffled a groan when a boot connected with his thigh and he reached out wildly grabbing Furborough by the back of the shirt, spun him around, again connecting his fist with the man's jaw.   The soldier was not as drunk as Rick first thought and was proving to be a fair match as he half rose lunging at Rick's waist,
causing him to slam onto his back and delivered a right hook of his own.

O'Connell spat the gravel from his mouth, his lip stinging from the blow.  Raising his knee, he winded Furborough and punched him back onto the ground, his knuckles smeared with his opponent's blood.  Pulling himself to his feet, the American reached down and dragged the man up only to knock him back down.  This time he hissed with his own pain when his fist split open with the force of the impact.  Furborough fumbled urgently with his pockets and Rick suspected he was reaching for a gun.
He kicked at the soldier's hands repeatedly until he rolled onto his stomach and attempted to get up.  Manhandling him to his feet, O'Connell threw Furborough face first into the wall and stepped back catching his breath.  He wiped the corner of his mouth to remove the trickle of blood, momentarily taking his eyes off the Legionnaire.  Furborough lurched himself away from the wall with an angry shout and fell at O'Connell.  The burning which seered in his thigh caused the ex-Legionnaire to yell in pain.  Furborough collapsed in a heap on the ground while O'Connell staggered sideways, finally bracing himself against the wall and
stared down at the Bowie knife jutting out from his leg.

His face contorted with the pain as he gasped for air.  Panting, he looked over at Furborough who lay face down on the street, unmoving.  Slowly, Rick guided himself down the wall to sit on the ground, all the while keeping both hands pressed firmly either side of the knife.  Sweat dripped into his eyes and mouth and his chest heaved heavily through lack of oxygen while his mind attempted to control the agony in his leg.  He looked around the street.  The brawl had drawn scant attention and he noticed a few onlookers offer indifference and retreat back into their homes or shops.  A trademark for this part of town and the very reason he had opted to come here.  Taking a deep, sustaining breath, Rick placed both hands onto the knife handle and pulled.  His teeth clenched while an agonizing groan rose from the base of his throat, gowing louder as he drew on the knife.  The groan turned into a full, painful cry when he managed to pull the knife from his leg.  Pressing both hands over the blood seeping wound, O'Connell rocked himself until the initial torture transformed itself into a burning ache.  He squeezed his eyes open and shut, willing himself to remain conscious.  He pressed the crown of his head into the wall and through slit eyes tried to judge the distance to the hospital.