Jack Lark: Recruit (A Jack Lark Short Story)

by Paul Fraser Collard

‘My money is in my pocket.’ Charlie reached out and grabbed Taylor’s shoulder, turning him back around.

  The reaction was instantaneous. Taylor’s fist shot out. It moved quickly, and cracked against Charlie’s jaw, the sound of the impact loud in the cramped barrack room. Charlie fell like a sack of shit. He hit his bed hard, his body knocked flat by the punch.

  Taylor did not let him lie, coming for him the moment he was still. He hauled Charlie up by the lapels of his canvas jacket, lifting him so that his face was held no more than an inch from his own.

  ‘One more word out of your fucking muzzle today and I shall kick the living daylights out of you.’ Taylor bellowed the words into Charlie’s face. ‘You had better learn to shut the fuck up.’ He dropped the recruit, letting him fall back on the bed, then twisted round and glared at the rest of the men in the room. ‘You all learn from this fuckwit. Keep your muzzles shut and do what I fucking tell you. You are redcoats now. What you were is gone. The sooner you get that, the sooner you and me is going to get on.’

  The room was hushed. A few of the men met Taylor’s gaze, but most stared at the ground, cowed by the sudden violence.

  ‘Bundle up your shit. If anyone so much as farts, then so help me I’ll have you all flogged.’ Taylor straightened his coat. ‘Do it now!’ He bawled the command, demanding their obedience.

  Jack rushed to obey. He did not look at Charlie, who had yet to move. He dumped his old clothes into the large wicker basket just outside the room before trotting back to his place.

  Another tie to his old life had been severed.

  Chapter 5

  It was cold on the parade ground. The wind whistled across the great open space, chilling the recruits in their thin canvas fatigues. They had left their cross belts and shakos behind, obeying their corporal’s instructions to the letter. Even Charlie had done as he was told, his resistance ended by Taylor’s display of anger.

  The sun crept out from behind a puffy grey cloud. Jack felt it wander across the back of his newly shaved neck, its warmth on the bare skin a rare pleasure. The regimental barbers had arrived after the noon meal. Jack had watched his hair tumble to the floor as the barber shaved his head close. It had been as if the last of his old life was falling away, his past left lying on the barrack room floor. He ran his hand over his close-cropped hair, enjoying the feel of it against his fingers. He planned to keep it short, wearing it as a mark of being a soldier.

  ‘Stand still!’ Taylor spotted the movement and barked the command.

  Jack did as he was told, the habit of obedience beginning to become instinctive. The corporal seemed nervous now that the group was on the parade ground, and Jack was wary of drawing attention. It was time to hide, to blend in and do his best not to be noticed.

  He soon saw the reason for Taylor’s nervousness. Sergeant Slater was marching towards them.

  ‘Good afternoon, Sergeant.’ Taylor greeted his superior in clipped, businesslike tones.

  Slater paid Taylor no heed as he approached the recruits. He came to a halt and stood ramrod straight in front of the thirteen men who were at the very start of the process that would turn them from civilians into soldiers; the magical transformation that would remove the individual and replace it with the heart, soul and physique of a British redcoat.

  Jack looked over Slater’s shoulder. Another group of men marched smartly past. They were wearing the same canvas fatigues but with smart pipe-clayed cross belts and with their tall black shakos on their heads. They might have still been missing their red coats, but Jack thought them as smart a group of soldiers as he had ever seen. The notion that he too would soon look and march like that filled him with anticipation.

  Slater saw the recruits watching the marching men and he laughed. ‘Don’t you filthy beggars get any ideas above your station. It will be a long, long time before you look like that. Now, pay attention.’ The sergeant did not yell. He spoke in a reasonable tone, his voice no louder than was needed to carry. ‘Stand up straight and look smart. Eyes front.’ He glared at one of the men in the front rank. ‘That means straight ahead, you wall-eyed prick. Now, chin up, shoulders back, hands down the centre of your trousers – yes, that does mean you have to let go of your cock, you fucking dolt.’ Another soldier benefited from Slater singling him out. ‘Hollow your back and there you go; now you at least look like you are a bloody soldier.’

  Slater stalked down the ranks. He lifted a hand and pulled at a man here or pushed at another there. Jack stiffened every sinew as the hulking sergeant passed him by, stretching every muscle to adopt what he hoped was a suitably soldierly appearance. Slater walked past without comment. Jack thought he glimpsed the slightest hint of a nod of approval, and his spine straightened another inch with pride.

  ‘Now then, listen to me.’ Slater resumed his position in front of them. He did not order them to relax and Jack felt his muscles starting to protest at the unnatural posture he had adopted.

  ‘A good soldier must have discipline.’ Slater stood at attention as he spoke, mirroring the pose he had shown to his men. ‘Learn that well. I am going to teach you until you don’t have to think; we don’t want any thinking here. You are going to learn your drill so well that it becomes the right and proper thing to do no matter what the circumstances.’

  Jack’s body began to hurt in earnest. Yet he refused to move, to show even the slightest quiver. He could sense the men straining around him as they all struggled to maintain the rigid posture.

  ‘God help you if you betray me.’ Slater stood stock still, as if he had been carved from granite. ‘You must have pride in yourselves and pride in your regiment.’ He paused and looked at each man in turn. He would have had to be blind not to see the tension as they fought to stay still, yet his face gave nothing away. ‘And you must have fear. Fear of getting it wrong, fear of letting your mates or the regiment down. If that is not enough, I want you to fear punishment, to fear what we will do to you if you step out of line.’

  Slater’s voice had dropped. Each man had to strain to hear the softly spoken words. The silence stretched out. For a moment Jack thought the sergeant had finished, then he carried on, his voice even quieter than before.

  ‘Most important of all, I want you to live in fear of me. Do not think for one moment that I give a shit what happens to you. You are filth. You live and breathe at my command. Make sure you never forget it.’

  Jack shivered. Slater may have spoken quietly, yet his words hit home harder than if he had been yelling at full volume.

  The thin-faced Irishman who had fought Kelley on the way to the depot moved suddenly, shuffling on the spot, his aching muscles betraying him, his body no longer able to hold still.

  Slater’s head turned slowly. His baleful eyes came to rest on the unfortunate Irishman, who had forced himself back to attention in a vain attempt to avoid what he must have feared was about to come.

  ‘Did I tell you to move?’ The sergeant asked the question as if he were enquiring after the weather.

  ‘No. It’s just—’

  ‘Shut up.’ Slater cut him off.

  ‘Jesus, I couldn’t help it, so I couldn’t.’ The Irishman had paled, his face matching the grey of their fatigues.

  ‘Shut your filthy mouth!’ Slater shouted the command, the first time he had raised his voice. It was the loudest voice Jack had ever heard. The sergeant moved fast, his heavy boots thumping into the parade ground as he marched towards the Irishman.

  ‘I couldn’t help—’ The Irishman’s eyes widened as Slater charged towards him. His mouth began to form the words of his defence, but Slater did not wait to listen.

  The blow was delivered so fast that Jack never even saw it coming. It smacked the Irishman full in the face. He fell away, knocked backwards by the single punch. Slater was after him in a heartbeat, his left hand driving hard into the Irishman’s body.

  The unfortunate recruit fell, unable to withstand the brutal assault. Slater kicked out, his heavy boot connecting s
quarely with the Irishman’s ribs moments before he hit the ground. The man lay where he had fallen, his ashen face coloured by a stream of blood flowing from each nostril, a soft moan the only sound he dared utter.

  Jack looked away. He was no stranger to brutality. Slater had made his point clear. His authority over the recruits was absolute. Jack forced his spine straight, determined not to so much as blink. He would not risk such retribution, and he vowed there and then to do everything he was ordered, no matter how hard.

  Slater stood up and moved away, his breathing unchanged by the administering of the lesson. He said nothing, but straightened his jacket before digging in his pocket for a handkerchief that he used to wipe the blood from his hands. Satisfied that they were clean, he walked slowly back to his position in front of the recruits.

  Not one of them dared to breathe. The sudden explosion of violence was utterly shocking. The twelve men stared straight ahead, their bodies rigid, any thought of moving forgotten.

  Slater took up his original position, once again standing rigidly to attention. ‘Discipline is all. Do what you are told. Do not think. Do not question. Just do.’ The mild tone had returned. It was as if nothing had happened. The Irishman lay where he had fallen, his face already blackening. Not one man looked at him.

  Jack dared not meet Slater’s gaze. He stared instead at a fleck of blood that had landed on the sergeant’s cheek. It looked like an engorged freckle, a visceral reminder of the man’s brutality.

  ‘Learn your drill. Learn to obey. And never, ever let me down.’ Slater stared at each of them in turn, his eyes boring into every man’s soul. Then he turned smartly on his heel and nodded to the whey-faced corporal, who had done nothing as one of his men was beaten. ‘Carry on, Corporal.’

  The sergeant marched away. He had delivered his first lesson. It was one that none of the recruits would ever forget.

  Jack rubbed at his neck. It was sore, the coarse fabric of his new fatigues rubbing his shaved flesh raw. Yet he did not have the heart to moan. The image of the beaten Irishman was too fresh.

  He stood by his bed and drank the last of his tea. The evening meal was done, the new recruits served the same bread and tea as they had eaten for breakfast. Jack did not mind it. It was more palatable than the grease and gristle that they had been told was boiled beef and which had been issued for their noon dinner.

  The recruits had an hour at leisure before the bugle would sound lights out. Corporal Taylor had left them before the evening meal had been served. He had appeared to be as cowed by Slater’s display of violence as the recruits had been. He had helped them get the Irishman to his feet but had said nothing as they helped him back to the barracks, the man’s battering treated as nothing out of the ordinary.

  Most of the other recruits had sloped off as soon as Taylor had left them. The barracks ran a canteen that served beer, and Jack had seen the furtive looks on a few of his fellow recruits’ faces as they wandered off. Quite how they had managed to still have some rhino after Kelley had robbed them and their civilian clothes had been taken away, he did not know, but it made him feel foolish that he had not been able to do the same.

  ‘Did you see what he did to that Irish lad?’ Charlie Evans sat on the floor in front of his bedstead with its folded-up palliasse. They had been told in no uncertain terms that they were not permitted to sit or lounge on their bedstead. Charlie was staring up at the ceiling. He had not spoken before that moment.

  ‘I couldn’t very well miss it.’ Jack grimaced at the sour taste the words left in his mouth. But he had seen worse. His mother’s old man had beaten him since the very first day he had arrived to claim the gin palace. Yet something in Slater’s calmness as he had attacked the Irishman had frightened him. The sergeant might have spoken in mild and reasonable tones, yet he was the most menacing man Jack had ever come across.

  ‘How can he get away with it? Why isn’t he stopped?’

  ‘Perhaps they encourage it.’ Jack knew the value of fear as a weapon. In the rookeries, it was the best defence.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To make us do what they say.’ Jack tasted the memory of his fears. ‘I reckon it works, too.’

  ‘Well I’m not sticking around so he can do that to me.’ Charlie spoke firmly. ‘First chance I get, I’m out of here.’

  ‘That’s plain daft.’ Jack scoffed at the idea. ‘I don’t see any way out, do you? There are always guards at the gate. You can’t just wander off, they won’t let you.’

  ‘There is a way.’ Charlie sat up straighter and looked at Jack, his eyes gleaming. ‘I saw it this morning. There is a door at the back of the quartermaster’s stores. Must be for deliveries or something.’

  ‘And then what?’ Jack mocked Charlie’s simple plan. ‘You think anyone is going to help you? How far are you going to get dressed in your fatigues with no money?’

  ‘Who said I had no money?’ Charlie could not keep the look of smug satisfaction from his face.

  ‘You said it was in your clothes! And you got a clout off Corporal Taylor for your trouble!’ Jack shook his head. He was beginning to wonder if Charlie was a bit simple.

  Charlie threw back his head and laughed. When he looked back at Jack, his face betrayed his pleasure at his triumph. ‘I said my money was in there. I don’t recall anyone checking.’ He stared at Jack and then got to his feet before sliding a hand between the straw mattress and the simple wooden frame of his bed. He pulled out a small leather purse that he shook in Jack’s direction.

  ‘You crafty bastard.’ Jack could not fail to be impressed. It needed a cool head to take a slap just to deliver such a message.

  ‘I reckon I’m cleverer than you give me credit for.’ Charlie’s look of pleasure faded. ‘You all look at me and see what you want to see. Just because I don’t have your brawn and just because I was a clerk, you think I’m weak and useless.’ He glowered at Jack, then tapped his temple. ‘But I’ve got more up here. I can think for myself. When Slater told us that we should stop thinking, well, that’s when I knew I had to get away. I’m not made like that. I can no more stop thinking than I can stop breathing.’

  ‘You might bloody well stop breathing if you carry on with this nonsense.’ Jack did not back down, but Charlie was quite correct in what he had said. Jack had judged his friend for his lack of muscle, for his fine clothes and his better way of speaking. He had not seen the steel hidden beneath.

  ‘So are you going to help me or not?’ Charlie slipped his purse back into its hiding place.

  ‘Depends what you want me to do.’

  ‘I haven’t worked it all out yet. But I reckon I won’t be able to do it on my own. I’ll need help.’ With one quick motion Charlie reached across for Jack’s hands, taking them into his own.

  Jack started at the unwelcome contact. Charlie’s hands were warm, their touch uncomfortable.

  ‘You will help me, Jack, won’t you? I can’t stand this. I’m not made for this life.’

  Jack pulled his hands away. ‘You are a fool, Charlie Evans. You’ve got to think about what you are saying. If you run and they catch you, then all this will seemo like so much gravy.’

  ‘They won’t catch me. I’m too clever for them.’

  Jack shook his head, but he half believed his friend. ‘You think on it. Let me know what you want me to do and maybe I’ll help you. But I’m not making any damned promises.’

  Charlie’s face split into a wide smile. ‘I knew I could count on you, Jack. You are a fine friend indeed.’

  ‘I haven’t said I’ll do it yet.’

  ‘But you will. I know you now, Jack Lark.’ Charlie reached across and landed a playful punch on Jack’s shoulder. ‘You are a loyal soul. You’ll stick with a fellow.’

  The bugle call that sounded the end of the day rang out, the clear rising call louder in the quiet of darkness.

  Jack turned his back on Charlie and started to prepare his bed for the night. It did not take long to unroll the palliasse and lay ou
t his blanket. He said nothing as he slipped off his fatigues and bundled them into a makeshift pillow before getting into bed.

  He settled down under the thin army blanket. Charlie was right. Jack knew that he would help his friend, even though it would risk his own future. It was what friends did for one another. For better or worse, Jack would help Charlie escape.

  Chapter 6

  Jack dreamt of his mother. She was holding him just like she had when he had been a nipper. He nestled against her, safe and contented. He could smell the rose water she used, the delicate fragrance masking the taint of sour gin. He lay still, not wanting to break the rare contact, secure in her arms. His mother reached out. She stroked his cheek, her fingers brushing against his skin, the touch of a mother to a son.

  Jack woke to see the face of Charlie Evans no more than an inch from his own.

  ‘What the fu—’

  ‘Shh.’ Charlie raised a finger to his lips. His left hand fell away from Jack’s face. ‘I’m going.’ He breathed the words, barely any sound coming from his mouth.

  Jack sat up slowly. The room was in near-complete darkness. The only light came from a thin moon, just enough of its pale grey light shining through the windows to allow him to pick out the sleeping forms of their fellow recruits.

  ‘What the fuck are you up to?’ Jack whispered, his voice dry and hoarse. He felt the flush of anger on his cheeks. Charlie had stolen him from his dreams.

  ‘I cannot stand it a moment longer. I’m off.’ Charlie spoke so quietly that Jack could hardly hear him.

  ‘What? Now?’ Jack wiped a hand across his face as he tried to wake himself up. ‘You were going to think about it!’

  ‘I’ve done nothing else!’ Charlie grinned at him. ‘Where’s the point in waiting. Now are you going to help me or not?’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Help me get out of here. You’re sharp. You can get me to that door in the store and then come back here. No one will know you are gone.’

  Jack’s mind was racing. He considered the risk. If he were caught sneaking around at night, he would have to face Slater and his fists. The idea was not a pleasant one, and a tight knot of fear tied itself deep in his gut.