Jack Lark: Recruit (A Jack Lark Short Story)

by Paul Fraser Collard

  Slater went for him. His boots kicked out, the heavy toecaps crunching with sickening force into Charlie’s limp body. The onslaught was merciless, the force of the blows throwing Charlie on to his side.

  ‘Stop it!’ Jack could not stand to watch any more. The veneer that had covered Slater’s brutality was gone. The mask was lifted, the man’s sheer barbarity revealed. Still Jack stepped forward, all rational thought driven from his mind by the vile display he was being forced to witness. ‘You’re killing him.’

  Slater turned. His great nostrils flared above a mouth twisted into a vicious sneer.

  Jack raised his hands and pushed, using them to drive the enormous sergeant away. ‘Leave him alone!’

  Slater staggered, his eyes widening in shock at Jack’s sudden intervention. But he was too large for Jack to force away for long, his strength too great. He would not be denied a target for his rage.

  Jack never saw the fist begin to move. It hit him hard, driving into his stomach. The pain surged through him and every scrap of breath was knocked from his lungs by the single blow. His upper body folded over his gut as it absorbed the heavy punch.

  Slater’s huge hand swamped Jack’s face, the fingers splayed wide as he took a firm hold and pushed, throwing Jack’s head back so that he fell away. He hit the ground on his backside, the contact sending a great shudder through his body, the cold embrace of the mud folding around him.

  Slater loomed over him. As Jack looked up, waiting for the boot that he was sure would follow, someone groaned.

  Jack saw Slater turn away as the sound came for a second time. He pushed himself up on to his elbows, ignoring the pain. Charlie Evans was still alive. Some sense had returned to his battered body and he was making a final bid to get away, crawling across the slick ground, his hands clawing into the bog as he tried to drag himself along.

  The huge sergeant walked to stand in front of the pathetic figure scrabbling through the mud in a futile attempt to escape his fate. He looked down, his face betraying nothing but disgust, then slowly and deliberately he stepped forward, crushing Charlie’s hand into the bog. A grim smile spread across Slater’s face as he heard the crunch of bones breaking.

  He kicked out, a huge swinging blow that caught Charlie’s head. It tossed his body over, throwing him on to his back. His sightless eyes stared at the sky, the rain falling to spread the mask of blood over his face so that not one inch of skin was left untouched.

  Jack scrabbled to his knees and puked his guts out into the mud. He stayed there letting the rain soak into his back, his body starting to shake with cold and horror.

  ‘Take this piece of shit back to the barracks.’ Slater issued the command, his voice devoid of emotion.

  Jack looked up. He caught Slater’s gaze. The wild rage was gone. It had been replaced by a blank stare; the expressionless mask was back in place.

  Slater turned and marched away, his business complete.

  Jack staggered to his feet, his boots grinding his own vomit into the sodden soil. He saw Brown lumbering towards the body that lay in the mire, his obedience unthinking.

  Jack spat once, clearing his mouth of the bitter taste of bile. Then he went to obey Slater’s command. There was nothing else to be done.

  Chapter 9

  The barrack room bustled with activity. The recruits knew the routine now. They no longer needed Corporal Taylor to holler and bawl at them. He stood in the doorway, his face impassive, revealing no pleasure at the sight of his charges obeying his instructions without a word of command.

  Jack forced the buttons on his fatigue jacket into their holes, his fingers clumsy. He refused to look at the empty bed next to his own, ignoring the burn of shame that had rushed to fill his mind the moment he awoke.

  Jacket buttoned, he stepped forward, taking firm hold of one side of the pisspot, barely registering the stink of the liquid that sloshed around inside. Brown took the other side, a single glance at Jack’s face the only acknowledgement of what had passed between them.

  There was no ill will. Jack did not blame Brown for revealing Charlie’s position. If there was any blame, it remained at Charlie’s own door, his pathetic attempt to desert setting a bitter example to any who contemplated doing the same.

  ‘Stand by your beds.’ Corporal Taylor had spotted someone approaching, and now he ordered his men to stand to attention.

  Jack obeyed without question. He stepped back, setting the tub full of piss on the wooden floorboards before standing rigidly at the foot of his bed, staring ahead. He did not turn as he heard the heavy tread of army boots. He forced his back straight, stretching every sinew even as the sound of the boots came closer. He did not have to look to know who had arrived.

  He was still staring ahead when Slater’s face arrived in front of him. He kept his own face impassive, refusing to betray the emotions that surged through him as the sergeant stared back at him.

  ‘Good morning, Lark.’ Slater broke the silence. He spoke softly, little more than a murmur.

  ‘Sir!’ Jack barked the single word.

  Slater said nothing. He was contemplating Jack’s face as if committing every detail to memory. Then he leant forward so that his mouth was no more than an inch from Jack’s ear. ‘I am watching you, Lark. Every minute, every hour, I will be watching you. If you step out of line, even by a single bloody inch, then I will nail you. Do you understand me?’

  Jack stayed silent. The touch of Slater’s breath was warm on his face and it repulsed him. Yet he revealed nothing.

  ‘Are you going to run, boy?’ Slater pulled away and spoke louder, so the entire room could hear him.

  ‘No, sir.’ Jack spat out the answer, his voice vibrating with barely controlled emotion.

  ‘Now that is a pity. I would have liked that.’ Slater smiled. It did not reach his eyes. ‘So are you going to stay and become a soldier?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Is that a fact? Do you think you can earn a red coat?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Slater cackled at Jack’s replies. ‘You are a lily-livered piece of filth. Do you really think you can be a redcoat? You think you can kill a man? You think you can take a bayonet and ram it into his guts and watch him die?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Jack forced out the words. He still wanted to be a soldier. Whatever it took.

  ‘Well I don’t. I don’t think you have it in you, boy. I think you are weak. I think that the first time you hear a gun fired in anger you’ll shit your pants and run.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘No, sir.’ Slater repeated the denial. His eyes bored into Jack’s as if he were reading his soul. ‘I don’t reckon things are finished between me and you, Lark. I reckon one day we will have a little discussion of our own.’ He smiled. ‘I fancy I’ll look forward to that day.’

  He let his gaze roam over the recruits. ‘One of you filth tried to run, tried to desert his regiment. You all saw the state of him when we brought him in. Mark it well. That is what waits for any of you who step even a single inch out of line. I suggest you think on that.’

  Message delivered, the sergeant turned and marched from the room. Yet his presence lingered long after he had left.

  The men of the training company paraded in the thin light of early morning. They were formed into three sides of a square, with the fourth side, facing the guardhouse, left open. The rain of the previous day had blown away and it promised to be fine, the sun already climbing fast into the pale grey-blue sky.

  Jack took his place in the ranks. He felt numb, his body chilled to its very core, his emotions banished. The men around him stood in silence, each one cowed by the story of the recruit who had tried to run.

  The guardroom door opened and the punishment detail marched out and formed up into a tight square. When it was ready, two more red-coated guards emerged from the barracks, dragging a bare-chested figure between them.

  A barely audible intake of breath rippled around the parade square. None of the men i
n the formed ranks had been in the Queen’s army very long. They were all still new to its ways and to the power wielded by the men with golden chevrons on their arms. Now they saw a visceral demonstration of that power, and there were few men on parade who were not shocked at what they were witnessing.

  To the words of command the punishment detail began to march towards the formed ranks of the training company. The men charged with dragging the prisoner did their best to march smartly, but the figure they hauled with them could barely walk, and they were forced to alter their pace to keep him upright.

  A single drummer marched at the head of the detail, beating out a rhythm with a single stick. The sound reverberated around the walls of the barracks like a heartbeat, the slow, monotonous thud the only noise marking the passage of the prisoner.

  Jack could not help but stare at the boy dragged out to face the charge of desertion. He could barely recognise him as being the same lad who had shared the excitement of the journey out of London, and who had laughed so freely when they had embarked on their wild escapade.

  The punishment detail arrived at the centre of the three-sided square. Charlie was held upright at its very heart, his thin, pale chest standing in such stark contrast to the bright red coats of the men who held him in their grip.

  De Lancy strode forward from his position in front of those recruits allowed to wear red. He did not look at the prisoner but pulled out a sheet of parchment, which he held in front of him.

  ‘The prisoner standing before you is charged with having deserted from his regiment and of not having returned until brought back a prisoner under guard.’ De Lancy was reading from his script. His voice carried well, the words heard by every man assembled to bear witness to the fate of a man who had dared run.

  ‘Under Article 46, any soldier who shall desert the service shall suffer DEATH’ – de Lancy raised his voice as he read the word – ‘or such other punishment as by a general court-martial shall be awarded.’ Again he paused. He looked around the ranks of impassive faces staring back at him.

  ‘Private Evans will be taken from this place to Aldershot, where he will face a trial by court-martial. I do not need to emphasise what his punishment is likely to entail.’ De Lancy smiled, relishing being the actor centre stage. ‘Yet there is one punishment that shall be carried out this very day.’ The smile faded, and de Lancy turned and looked to the huge sergeant who had led the punishment detail on to the parade ground.

  ‘Carry on, Sergeant Slater.’

  Slater snapped to attention, the very epitome of a model sergeant in the British Army. He saluted de Lancy, then turned and walked to a redcoat at the rear of the party who was carrying a small leather satchel.

  ‘Private Evans is a deserter.’ De Lancy faced his command once more. ‘He deserted his regiment. For that he will be punished. That punishment starts today.’

  Jack did not understand what was happening. The guard detail marched away, leaving Slater standing with the two men holding up the prisoner. Charlie lifted his head, the first sign that he was taking any notice of what was happening to him. His eyes darted over the assembled ranks like those of a cornered animal, searching the faces until he found Jack.

  ‘The Articles of War state that as a deserter, Private Evans must be marked so that no one can ever doubt his crime.’ De Lancy could barely keep the thrill from his voice. ‘Sergeant Slater! Carry on.’

  The men holding Charlie twisted him round, changing their grip so that his left arm was held out in front of him. Slater paced towards him, his spine as straight as a ramrod, a thin surgeon’s knife held in his right hand.

  Jack forced himself to meet Charlie’s gaze. As Slater approached, he saw the flare of panic in his friend’s eyes, the fear rabid.

  Slater moved with practised efficiency. He reached out, his left hand taking a firm grip around Charlie’s upper arm. Then he cut.

  Charlie screamed. The noise echoed around the barracks. It was a pitiful sound, the yelp of a badly beaten dog whipped one final time. Slater did not pause. The knife moved quickly, its sharpened tip marking the letter ‘D’ into the flesh of Charlie’s lower arm. He handed the knife to one of the guards, then pulled a pouch of gunpowder from his pocket. It took but a moment to pour a handful into the deserter’s skin and rub it roughly into the wound, ensuring that the mark was permanent, the shameful designation imprinted into Charlie’s arm for all time.

  ‘Private Evans is now marked as a deserter.’ De Lancy’s voice rose in triumph. ‘Let no one doubt his fate.’ He paused, making sure his words were sinking in. ‘It is only thanks to the efforts of one of our own sergeants that the deserter was apprehended. Even when his fate was sealed, the foul creature you see before you fought to escape. Fortunately the sergeant concerned was not so easily defeated. Sergeant Slater is to be made up to colour sergeant as a reward for his efforts, and I offer him my own thanks for his valuable work.’

  Jack choked down the lie. There was nothing to be achieved from gainsaying the brutal sergeant who had beaten the defenceless Evans to a bloody pulp. Despite all he had seen, Jack still wanted to be a soldier. Fighting Slater would only result in his own downfall, and so he lifted his chin high and refused to acknowledge the injustice that sparked a flame of anger deep in his belly.

  De Lancy glared at the ranks one last time before nodding once to Slater and marching away.

  The corporals and sergeants waited for their officer to get clear, then the shouting started. The parade broke up quickly. The message had been delivered. Not one man present would risk the same fate as the hapless Evans. The example had been set.

  Epilogue

  The red-coated ranks marched to the beat of the drum. Every man was in time, his boots slamming into the road in unison with his fellows’. The redcoats marched with a soldier’s pride, their impassive faces revealing nothing to the men, women and children who watched their progress towards the station on the far side of town.

  Jack took his place in the ranks with his fellow recruits. His musket was heavy on his shoulder but he felt nothing but pride. He was a redcoat, a soldier of the Queen. His training was complete and he was leaving the depot company behind and marching to take his place in one of the regiment’s line companies at their barracks in Aldershot.

  The events surrounding the desertion of Charlie Evans were half forgotten, the memory of the bleak, dark days that had marked his first week in the army stored away in the deepest recesses of his mind. He kept them there, locked securely behind bars, leaving them to rot and fester without his attention.

  The weeks had passed quickly. Day by day the army had turned the callow recruits into soldiers. Jack had thrived, enduring the hardships and revelling in the new life he had been given.

  A swallow darted over the tall black shakos worn by the redcoats, chasing the flies that swirled high above their heads. Not one head moved to watch its progress, the soldiers’ world reduced to the back of the man in front and the ground passing swiftly under their boots.

  A tall, broad-shouldered sergeant marched at their head. The sleeve of his uniform coat was decorated with golden chevrons surmounted by a Union Jack supported by crossed swords. The rank of colour sergeant suited Slater well, and now he led the latest draft of recruits to the regiment where he would take his place as the senior non-commissioned officer in one of its ten companies.

  Jack’s fear of the hulking sergeant had not faded with experience and daily exposure to his brutality. But he had accepted it, willing to pay the price of suffering the man’s authority. His training had shown him how right he had been to accept Tate’s shilling. As he marched along, he remembered Charlie Evans’s words on the night he had deserted. He had claimed that Jack was well suited to being a redcoat; that he would do well as a soldier. And he had been proved right. Jack had enjoyed his time in the training company, establishing a bond with his fellow recruits that had got them through the hardest, bleakest hours. He had found a home.

  Now he marched to a
new future, towards the next chapter in his life as a soldier of the Queen. His early weeks in the army had fired his desire for advancement, to make the most of the opportunity he had been given. He looked at Slater’s badges and rank and saw not just a daunting authority. Rather he saw the potential for his own advancement, the possibilities that were now his to take.

  The station came into view at the end of the road. Jack looked ahead and saw the path to his future.

  Keep reading for an extract from

  the first novel in the Jack Lark series by Paul Fraser Collard.

  1854: The banks of the Alma River, Crimean Peninsular. The men of the King’s Royal Fusiliers are in terrible trouble. Officer Jack Lark has to act immediately and decisively. His life and the success of the campaign depend on it. But does he have the mettle, the officer qualities that are the life blood of the British Army?

  You can also follow Jack Lark’s adventures as

  out now

  Jack Lark barely survived the Battle of the Alma. As the brutal fight raged, he discovered the true duty that came with the officer’s commission he’d taken. He grasps a chance to prove himself a leader once more. Jack will travel to a new regiment in India, under a new name …

  And catch up with Jack as

  out now

  Bombay, 1857. Jack Lark is living precariously as an officer when his heroic but fraudulent past is discovered by the Devil – Major Ballard, the army’s intelligence officer. Ballard is gathering a web of information to defend the British Empire, and he needs a man like Jack on his side. Ballard takes him to the battlefield to end a spy’s deceit. But who is the traitor?

  And discover how Jack first took the Queen’s Shilling in