Sergeant Tate knew them all. He knew their stories, had heard them a thousand times before. Yet still he came to offer them a goodbye.
‘Now, who’s for a pennyworth of gin before you take the road?’ Tate strode into the room with a pair of bottles held in one meaty paw.
The fourteen recruits represented a profitable haul for the man charged with filling his regiment’s ranks. The army paid him a guinea for each man that made it to the depot. It was a good sum, but Tate had many other pockets to pay. The finders – the men and the whores who led some of the recruits to his table – would need their fee. Then there was the charge for the beer and the gin that he bought for all who would listen to his tales. Not every man who sat at Tate’s table would take the shilling, and the cost of plying all and sundry with drink was steep.
But it had still been a good few weeks’ work, and Tate wanted the recruits to leave with a fond memory of the man who had signed them up. He had learnt that such a gesture never hurt; the chance of a recommendation in a fellow’s ear or a kind word to a member of the family could net him more recruits, and so Tate had invested a few more shillings in enough drink to see the men well on their way.
The men came forward, their hands quick and their mouths dry. Jack hung back with Charlie, neither keen to slake their thirst. Jack had seen his fill of gin, the familiar smell sticking deep in his craw, a reminder of his former life, the one now denied him forever.
Tate saw them standing back and he wandered over, his arms spread wide. ‘Hello, hello, what have we here? Why, is it not my old chum Jack-o, and young Charlie too, if I am not mistaken.’
‘Afternoon, Sergeant Tate.’ Jack greeted the formidable sergeant with a grin. He had known Tate for years.
‘It is a fine thing you are doing, my lad. A fine thing. Your old ma would be proud.’
Jack snorted. ‘I doubt it.’
Tate threw back his head and bellowed with laughter. ‘Perhaps not, Jack-o, perhaps not indeed. You ain’t never going to be popular after what you did to her old man.’
‘He had it coming.’ Jack felt the prick of shame. He glanced out of the corner of his eye and saw Charlie looking at him with a mix of fear and revulsion. ‘He hit me first.’
‘I’m sure he did, Jack-o, I’m sure he did. Still, you was wise to leave when you did. And I should say that you are best out of it. This is the life for you, for both of you.’ Tate smiled with warmth. ‘A soldier’s life might not be all roses, and there’ll be times when you reckon you was bottle-head stupid to take the shilling. But lads, I promise you, you won’t regret this day.’
Jack felt Tate’s words resonate deep within him. He had come to the army when he had no other place to go, and it had taken him in when no one else would. He was determined to succeed, to repay the debt that he felt he now owed and to make a go of the new life he had been offered.
He had to. He had nothing else.
Chapter 2
Jack walked into hell.
The teeming clamour of the new Waterloo Bridge station assaulted his senses as he marched behind Corporal Taylor. The noise was like a physical being, rushing past, battering him half senseless. The bustle of the great crowd surged around him, the press of so many bodies in one place disconcerting. The station was full of smoke and steam so that it felt as if the very air was alive. He had never experienced anything like it, and he gawped at the spectacle.
The crowd parted as soon as they saw the motley collection of individuals marching in a knot behind the red-coated soldier, the scowls and the stares scant reward for the fourteen recruits committing their lives to serve their country. The citizens with business in the station wanted nothing to do with the men of whom they would be so very proud when they heard of a victory on some far-flung foreign field. John Bull loved his soldiers, but only when the guns were firing and they were winning battles in places far from home.
Jack kept his head down, avoiding the glares. The recruits followed the corporal through the chaos and out on to one of the wide platforms, the noise of hundreds of voices drowning out the tramp of their feet as they did their best to imitate a soldierly march. He tried not to flinch as the enormous locomotive beside them let off a ferocious blast of steam. The sound roared along the platform, a great rush of heated air and smoke surging past them in a violent, swirling storm.
‘In you get!’ The corporal bellowed the order and the recruits scrambled up into the open-topped third-class carriage that would take them out of the city. They bundled in, their bodies buffeted and knocked as they crammed into the small space allocated to them. Jack used his elbows to force a passage. The sides of the carriage were only a little over three feet high, and a spot next to them would offer a fine view of the city when they came to depart. He wanted to see what he could when the great leviathan they had boarded crawled its way out of the station. He just hoped he wouldn’t fall out.
He did not have long to wait to find out. They had barely settled into the carriage when, with a great bang and a lurch, it jerked into motion. The men were thrown about, the air full of their oaths and insults as they clattered into one another, only the fact that they were pressed so close together preventing some of their number being tossed to the floor.
The locomotive picked up speed and the recruits clung on to whatever they could. As they pulled out of the station, Jack could not keep his head still. He gawped this way and that as they rattled slowly past dull roofs, the familiar fug of a particular settling in to smother the streets and drown out the signs of the life that teemed in the narrow streets near the station.
They started to move more quickly, the regular rhythm of the wheels resonating through his very being. Steam billowed back down the train to scorch his face, the bright red flare of searing cinders making him start. Still he looked out, searching the procession of grey-shrouded buildings for a sign of anything familiar, a sight of something that would mark where he was.
They bumped on, still picking up speed, the half-hidden streets now flashing past, one after another, blurring together as they rushed by. His neck hurt from the constant motion and his arm ached from where he clung on for dear life against the wild buffeting of the ride. Yet Jack wanted to laugh, to shout his delight into the fug.
The locomotive was soon at full speed, and they charged on past great factories and still more streets. Jack was mesmerised by the fog-covered scenes that raced by, the sight like nothing he had ever experienced.
In no time at all the train broke out of the city, the last of its streets rushing past as the locomotive emerged from the particular and into a new world of wide green spaces, the brightness of the light standing in stark contrast to the dirty grey pallor they had left behind.
Jack could hardly breathe. Great open fields stretched away for miles, the vast spaces unimaginable for a boy brought up in the overcrowded rookeries of east London. They passed a village, the spire of its church standing proud against the skyline, the seemingly random accumulation of buildings clustered around its skirts so different from the row upon row of cramped, poorly built houses that he was used to.
‘I have never seen anything like it.’ Charlie Evans pressed close to Jack’s side, his eyes riveted on the countryside flashing past.
‘Me neither.’ Jack made the admission freely. It was hard to speak, to break the spell of such a sight.
‘Where you from?’ Charlie stayed close, his thin frame bumping against Jack’s sturdier arm.
‘Whitechapel. You?’
‘Holborn.’
‘Holborn! Why, you’re a bloody toff!’ To Jack’s mind, anywhere west of Whitechapel had to be posh.
‘Hardly that!’ Charlie snorted at the accusation. ‘I was nothing but a clerk, and a very junior one at that. I lived in a tiny garret room and worked in an even smaller office in a basement.’
‘But why would you give all that up?’ Jack did not understand. He himself had left nothing behind. A garret room and regular employment had been far from his reach
, yet his companion had given up such riches freely. In Jack’s opinion that made him a fool.
Charlie did not reply. He bit his lip and stared outwards as they roared past a wood, a great flock of starlings rising in a single monstrous cloud as the locomotive rattled by. The pair stood in silence, watching the countryside as they raced on, the speed as captivating as the view.
‘There was this girl. Her name was Elizabeth.’ Charlie blurted the words, his confession clearly causing him distress. He turned to look at Jack, his gaze finding the other man’s and holding it. ‘I asked for her hand. She turned me down. Apparently I did not have enough to offer her.’
Jack did his best to look stern when all he wanted to do was to laugh and mock the idiot at his side who had given up a decent life over a girl. He did not understand such a decision. He knew what it was to be turned down, but he had never considered running away until the day he had beaten his master and left him lying in a puddle of his own blood.
‘And that made you join up?’ he asked, doing his best not to sound mocking.
‘I wanted to make a grand gesture. To make her feel guilty, I suppose.’
‘And did she?’
‘I have no idea.’ Charlie shook his head at his own fecklessness. ‘I do not know if she even heard of my fate.’ He laughed, the sadness leaving his face. ‘God makes men fools, does he not?’
Jack matched the smile. Charlie was quick to laugh, even if only at himself, and Jack liked him for it. ‘We are all fools, chum, that’s why we’re here.’
Charlie nodded at Jack’s wise words. ‘You have that right. So what’s your story, Jack? Why did you take the shilling?’
Jack looked away. He did not want to tell the truth, to damn himself as a brute who would beat a man half to death, even if that man had been the first to draw a weapon. So he shrugged, hiding his true self away. ‘I wanted to make something of myself.’
‘And you believe this is it?’
‘Maybe.’ Jack felt the shackles on his tongue. He was uncomfortable revealing his thoughts. He had never shared them and was used to keeping them close. ‘Sergeant Tate said we can be sergeants like him in a couple of years. Officers even, if we do well.’
‘And you believe him?’
Jack scowled. He sensed the accusation of naivety behind the reply. ‘Why not? It must happen or he wouldn’t say it.’
‘Maybe it happens. But not to the likes of us.’ Charlie shook his head at such foolishness revealed.
‘Why not?’
‘Because you have to be born with a silver spoon in your mouth to become an officer. Do you know how much it costs to buy a commission?’
‘No.’ Jack’s scowl deepened. He wasn’t rightly sure what a commission was.
‘No. Of course you don’t. Well it’s a damn fortune, I can tell you that. So unless you have a secret stash of rhino, then you can forget becoming an officer. As to the rest, well, maybe it is possible. But not for years and years.’ Charlie offered a short laugh at Jack’s words. ‘You shouldn’t believe all that Tate told you.’
Jack looked away. He did not care for his dream to be mocked. The train slowed as they approached a gradient, the constant noise of their motion changing as the great engine began to haul them up the incline.
‘Right, young fellow-me-lads.’ The large Irishman, Kelley, had to shout to be heard over the roar of the locomotive. ‘This is my stop.’
Jack understood in a heartbeat. The corporal entrusted with their care had asked Kelley if he were a jumper. Now it appeared that fear was about to be realised. But Kelley had other plans first.
The huge man worked his way to the side of the truck furthest from where Jack and Charlie stood. ‘Now don’t feck with me, lads, I don’t want no fuss.’
Jack saw the flash of a knife.
Kelley laughed at the expressions on the faces of the men in front of him. ‘Don’t shit yourself, brother. Come on, lads, give us your money and look alive-o, why don’t you, for I ain’t kidding and this here poker is sharp enough, I promise you that.’
The Irishman jerked the knife, lifting it to face height. The laughter was gone, his face twisting instead into a vicious sneer. ‘Come on. Give us your fecking money.’ He moved quickly, flashing the knife towards the lad closest to him. ‘Now!’
The lad whimpered and dug frantically in his pockets. Others near the knife did the same, the threat of violence cowing them. But not every man was so quick to obey. Another Irishman, a thin-faced man with scruffy mutton chops, lifted his arms and pushed Kelley away as he lumbered close. ‘Feck you. You ain’t having mine.’
Kelley came at him. The knife darted at his fellow Irishman’s face. The man yelped, and as he twisted away, the blade caught his cheek. He fell back but the press of bodies held him up and he could not escape. Kelley punched hard with his free hand. The blow caught the Irishman full on the mouth. His lip burst, the flesh ripped open, a wash of blood rushing out of the wound to cover his lower face in a gruesome mask. Kelley hefted the knife, holding it at the man’s throat, his eyes boring into him.
‘You want some more?’ He spat out the words.
The bloodied Irishman shook his head, his hand lifting to try to staunch the flow of blood.
‘Wise fellow.’ Kelley kept the knife in place and dug in the man’s pockets for the handful of coins he had tried to protect. Only when he had them did he lower the weapon and turn to face the other recruits. ‘Give me your fecking money!’ He roared the command, snarling at men trying to back away from the bloodstained knife. Coins came out quickly, the other recruits digging out their precious tin, the threat of more violence quelling any thought of resistance. The bulky Irishman pushed through the press of bodies, his bloodied left hand snatching the money offered towards him, the knife always visible and the threat very close in the pressed confines of the third-class carriage.
Jack’s heart raced. Kelley worked his way nearer, his free hand forcing men back. Then he was in front of Jack, the vicious blade jabbing towards his throat.
‘Give us your money, boy. Quick now.’
The threat of the knife was very real. Any notion of fighting back disappeared as it pressed close under his chin. Jack was not frightened of a scrap, but he was not a fool, and only a fool would consider disobedience with a blade at his throat. He dug in his pockets, fishing out the handful of coins that he had preserved so carefully. Kelley snatched them away, careless of a penny that fell to the floor before it disappeared through a hole bored to let out the water that would flood the carriage should it rain.
‘You are not taking my money.’
Jack could not believe what he heard. He turned to stare in astonishment at Charlie, who stood tall and glared at Kelley.
‘What the feck?’ Kelley seemed equally stunned.
‘Leave us if you wish. But you will not take my shillings.’ Charlie lifted his chin in defiance.
Jack could not believe such stupidity. It was not brave to stand up to a knife. It was idiocy.
Kelley glowered. He reached out with his left hand and grabbed Charlie around the neck, lifting him so that his toes scratched at the floor of the truck. He pulled him round, forcing Jack away and pressing Charlie’s head back so that he leant dangerously far over the truck’s low side.
‘You little shite. Give it me now or I’ll stick you, so help me, God.’
Charlie’s hands took hold of Kelley’s forearm, trying to force it away. ‘Let go of me.’ His voice rose so that the demand came out as little more than a squeal.
The train lurched, the carriages and trucks clattering together as the locomotive crested the escarpment.
Kelley glanced over his shoulder. They were already starting to pick up speed, the familiar clatter of the wheels gathering momentum once more.
‘Go!’ Jack shouted the word. He plucked at Kelley’s sleeve. ‘You’ll miss your chance.’
Kelley saw his opportunity slipping away. He moved fast, shoving Charlie backwards then turning for the
truck’s side. He hauled himself up and over the top. He did not pause for a second before he was gone, disappearing from sight without a backward glance.
Jack reached out and helped to steady Charlie as the men behind him shoved him back to his feet.
‘You bloody dolt.’ Jack snapped the admonishment at his new friend, shaking his head at such a feckless display.
Charlie straightened his collar, then massaged his throat, which was red and raw from where Kelley’s fingers had dug into the soft flesh. ‘I think you will discover that that man did not succeed in taking my money.’ He grinned at Jack. ‘Therefore you will have to agree that I was successful in my endeavour.’
His smile was infectious, and Jack could not help but match it with one of his own. ‘It was a bloody stupid thing to do.’
‘It was brave!’ Charlie lifted his chin with mock pride before letting out a guffaw. ‘I rather think I have shocked you with my courage.’
Jack shook his head. The men around them were muttering to one another, their fleeced pockets causing them pain. ‘I ain’t never seen courage turn a poker from a man’s throat. It was bottle-head stupid, chum. Nothing more than that.’
Charlie was still grinning. He reached out and clapped Jack’s shoulder before he turned and took up his post at the carriage’s side so that he could once again watch the countryside flash by.
Jack did the same, the rush of fear at the threat of Kelley’s knife receding quickly. It wasn’t the first time he had been threatened and he doubted it would be the last. The loss of a handful of coins paled into insignificance against the future unravelling around him. He let go of his fear and his anger, and contented himself with the view of the countryside that began to rush past once more. He was free of the city that had been his home since the day he had been born. He did not know where he was going, but he did not care. He was going somewhere, and that was good enough for the moment.
Jack Lark: Recruit (A Jack Lark Short Story) Page 2