The Last Nightingale Read Free Page B

well over the horizon by the time the big sergeant and his young patrol officers marched away with their twenty-five conscripts.
    By now massive smoke columns were rising up in every direction, joining together high over the city in a ruinous pall that blocked out most of the daylight. The three officers marched their charges into what was becoming artificial twilight, armed only with a rifle and a double set of sidearms for each man. Blackburn had instructed them to make it a point to look like they were itching to use their guns, and for a while at least, the simple theatrics worked. The trembling "volunteers" felt less fear of marching deeper into the burning city than of the bullet in the back they were convinced any man would receive if he attempted to escape.
    At 8:14 A.M., another powerful aftershock set everything to rattling, and this time it was too much for dozens of the city's brick and stone buildings; they finally shattered and crumbled into the streets. Block after city block began to take on the appearance of a rubble-strewn artillery field.
    A score of major fires now burned unchecked in every direction. Full daylight barely penetrated the shroud of smoke swelling over the ruined city. Blackburn lost large chunks of time in guiding his men around the worst of the damage and the emerging fires. The streets were so choked with obstacles that a hike which should have taken less than half an hour consumed nearly three. They only sustained that modest speed because they were marching under a firm order not to stop for any rescue work, no matter how vital it might appear to be. His confidential order from Chief Dinan was simple:
    Nothing gets priority over saving the city from a rampaging outbreak of the Black Death.
    The desperate focus of that order became plain when the same sea breezes that were feeding the fires began to lift the smokeclouds. Blackburn hated what his eyes told him. As far as he could see in all directions, the city's large buildings were in various states of collapse. The few that were still standing amid the billowing smoke swayed with every new aftershock.
    Some of the city's able-bodied survivors had recovered enough of their humanity to begin working to rescue trapped survivors, but there were others who made no attempt to disguise their looting. From time to time, Blackburn fired over their heads to scatter them, but it was clear that they would only move on and strike again.
    There were three different occasions when he actively interfered with events by ordering one of his armed men to chase and shoot at gangs of looters. But each time, he remained within his orders by keeping the group of inmates moving while his assigned officer made sure that the perpetrators either took a bullet or were frightened away.
    It never slowed the group down. When he marched his men past one half-buried victim who stood trapped below his waist among twisted iron beams, the young man begged to be shot before the advancing flames could reach him. The approaching fire proved that his fears were true. Blackburn didn't even have to issue the order—his corporal quickly stepped forward and shot the man through the back of the head. The convicts watched, astounded, and felt themselves reminded that the penalties today were swift and harsh. They fell into step with added determination.
    In the absence of recognizable landmarks, Blackburn's group lost direction several times. They were picking their way across the crumbled remains of the Emporium Building before he realized that they were at the corner of Market and Powell streets. He ordered the men to take the slight left turn onto Powell, and corrected their course whenever he spotted something familiar. Still, by the time they reached the intersection at Jackson Street, a stone's throw from Portsmouth Square, it was already a quarter past ten—and they were off course again.
    He glanced around at the beautiful neighborhood's simple houses. The modest family