The Last Legionnaire

by Paul Fraser Collard

  Jack’s feigned indifference had ended the moment Ballard started to speak. ‘So it begins.’

  Ballard sat forward, his childish game forgotten. ‘Indeed, although it appears Napoleon may already be too late. The Sardinian army stands alone until the French forces can get to the theatre of war. The Austrians outnumber them by at least two to their every one. If the Austrians go for the Sardinians’ throat, it could all be over before it has truly begun.’

  ‘How long until the French get there?’

  ‘It should be soon, but quite frankly, the French are in something of a mess. They knew this thing was coming, but they were still not ready. At least now that the order to mobilise has come they are getting on with it, and their first divisions are already on the move. There are trains from Paris that go directly to Toulon or Marseilles. From there it is but a short sea crossing to Genoa. There is also a second route by train from Paris to Saint-Jean-de-Maurienne, followed by a quick march through the Alps to Susa in Piedmont. Even as we speak, some four thousand labourers are working around the clock to keep the passes through the Alps clear.’ Ballard spoke briskly as he detailed the French movements. ‘The railways are making all the difference. Journeys that would take days on foot can now be done in a few hours. This is a modern war, Jack, using all the advances that have been made. Imagine what the first Napoleon could have done if he were alive today. Why, I fear we would all be speaking French within a year.’

  Jack hid a smile. It was rare to see Ballard so animated. ‘When are we off?’

  Ballard beamed with pleasure at Jack’s question. He fished in a pocket and pulled out a small pile of tickets, which he brandished at Jack. ‘We leave first thing in the morning for Marseilles. I got you, Palmer and the boy second-class tickets. Mary will join me in first. I would not feel happy leaving her with such company as inhabits a second-class carriage.’

  Jack did his best not to spit out his tea. Ballard clearly had no idea of Mary’s past. Jack had no intention of altering that. It was much more fun to see the major treat her as if she were a shy wallflower. He remembered Mary in her heyday, with her bright red stockings and the wild mane of hair that had intoxicated many a punter. If Ballard saw her as she had been then, Jack had no doubt that his rose-tinted image would change in an instant.

  The major sipped from his cup. ‘I say, this tea really is rather delicious. Mary certain knows how to handle a teapot.’

  ‘She’s a girl of many talents.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘She needs a husband.’ Jack smiled as he teased his commander.

  Ballard frowned at the notion. ‘I rather assumed she had one. At least, had once had one.’ He looked at Jack. ‘Her boy.’

  ‘Ah.’ Jack understood. ‘No, sir, he’s a bastard all right.’

  ‘I see.’ Ballard hid his expression behind another sip of tea. When the cup was lowered, a scowl was firmly in place. ‘That is hard on Billy. A boy needs a father, even if he cannot play as full a part in his child’s life as he might wish.’

  ‘What would you know?’ The mockery escaped Jack’s lips before he could hold it back. He heard something in the major’s tone that he had not noticed before.

  Ballard did not look at him. ‘I have a son.’ He made the admission quietly.

  ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘I cannot see him as much as I would like.’ Ballard’s eyes were still averted. ‘After his mother passed away, I sent him to reside with my cousin until he was of an age to attend school. We were in India at the time, and it seemed the wisest course of action.’ His eyes lifted to look at Jack. ‘You know what it is like in India. It is not a place for a child without a mother.’

  Jack tried not to squirm. Seeing Ballard uncomfortable was like seeing a mother stare at a much younger man with lust in her eyes. ‘No, perhaps not.’

  Ballard drank the last of his tea. ‘Life is not always what we would choose it to be.’ He fixed Jack with his firm stare. ‘But sometimes the choice of action is clear. When something needs to be done, one must simply do it. Is that not right, Jack?’

  Jack did not fully understand the question. ‘I suppose.’

  ‘A meek answer! I did not expect that of you.’ Ballard placed his empty cup forcefully into its saucer. ‘Come, we have much to do if we are to leave in the morning.’ He got to his feet, nodding to Jack before bustling away.

  Jack did not know what to make of Ballard’s revelations. But the major was correct. There was plenty to be done before the morning, so he drained his mug and bent forward to retrieve his boots.

  ‘I reckon I can walk faster than this.’ Mary’s son Billy offered the comment, his nose pressed hard against the glass of the second-class carriage’s smoke-streaked window.

  ‘Shut your damn muzzle,’ growled Palmer, his deerstalker pulled low over his face as he tried to sleep. He was sitting next to the youngster and so had to endure the worst of the boy’s constant fidgeting. ‘And for Christ’s sake sit still.’

  ‘Keep your voice down.’ Jack sat on the other side of Palmer. He found the boy’s constant moans just as wearing, but he could not resist taking the boy’s side, if only to goad the bigger man.

  Palmer looked at Jack out of the corner of his eye. The compartment was cramped. Palmer took up most of Billy’s space as well as his own, and his large knees pressed close to the French soldier sitting on the bench opposite.

  Jack caught Palmer’s glance, then nodded towards the three men on the opposite side of the compartment. ‘Keep it down. I doubt they want to hear you bawling the boy out.’

  ‘Like I give a shit.’ Palmer looked at the three men opposite. Two were trying to sleep, but the man in the middle seat was staring balefully at the three English travellers. All three were dressed in uniform, one Jack half recognised. There was something familiar about the dark blue jacket with long tails, the green epaulettes with red crescents, the baggy, lightweight white campaign trousers and the jaunty red kepi, but he could not place the regiment. The man starting at them had a tanned, lean face, and Jack guessed he was in his early twenties. His uniform bore the red stripe of a sergeant on the lower part of his sleeve near the cuff, as did those of his two companions.

  ‘Where you from?’ Jack asked the question as he caught the Frenchman’s eye, hoping the man would be able to speak English. In truth, he was as bored as Billy. The train had started with bustling purpose, and had flashed through the outskirts of Paris at a terrific rate. But after just over an hour, the locomotive’s speed had slowed to barely a crawl. They had been creaking and rolling along at a walking pace for the past two hours, and the slow progress was stretching everyone’s nerves.

  ‘Boston.’ The answer was given without enthusiasm. The soldier’s expression did not change.

  ‘You’re American?’ Jack blurted the inevitable question. He had not known what answer to expect, but the sergeant’s accent had still taken him by surprise.

  The Bostonian shrugged. It was all the answer he gave.

  ‘Leave the man alone.’ Palmer spoke out of the side of his mouth. ‘He doesn’t want to talk. Especially not to you.’

  Jack gave Palmer’s advice no heed. ‘What’s an American doing in the French army?’ He looked more closely at the sergeant. He wore his hair long and tucked behind his ears, and sported a small goatee that framed a mouth bearing a hint of smile.

  ‘Fighting, mainly.’ The man’s eyes moved between Jack and Palmer. His accent was strong.

  ‘What regiment are you from?’ Jack wanted to know.

  ‘Le Douzième Régiment Étranger.’

  Jack recognised the name. He had seen one of the French Foreign Legion’s regiments in the Crimea, and it had been the subject of many conversations between the British officers.

  There were many tales about the Legion, and even more about the men who served in it. Its ranks were filled with the flotsam and jetsam of Europe, the regiment content to recruit any man who came to them. Those who joined were given a choice. The
y could keep their identity and the past that came with it, or they could abandon everything about the person they had been and let the Legion give them a new name. Rumour had it that many chose the second option.

  ‘Were you in the Crimea?’ He watched the American carefully as he asked the question.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The Alma?’

  The man nodded. ‘And after. At Sevastopol.’ He was watching Jack just as closely. ‘You were there.’ It was a statement, not a question.

  ‘The Alma.’

  Again the silent nod as the man contemplated Jack, his eyes boring into his for an uncomfortably long period of time. Then he reached up to the knapsack on the shelf above his head, his fingers searching for something. He gave a short snort as he found what he was looking for, pulling out a dark green bottle.

  ‘Have you been to India?’

  ‘Yes.’ Jack watched as the man uncorked the bottle.

  ‘Then you’ll like this.’ The American lifted the bottle to his nose to inhale the aroma coming from the open top. He paused, lifting it towards Jack as if making a toast, then took a long swig, his eyes closing in silent ecstasy. When they opened again, he was smiling for the first time. ‘Here.’ He held it out to Jack. ‘Drink.’

  Jack took the bottle and gave it a circumspect sniff. He noticed young Billy watching him closely, and even Palmer had half opened a single eye. The smell coming from the bottle made his eyes water, but he recognised it well enough. ‘Arrack?’

  The American tilted his head to one side in acknowledgement of the guess. ‘Not quite, but it’s similar. Give it a try.’ The instruction sounded more like an order than an offer.

  Jack did as he was told. The liquid hit the back of his throat, the burn and the rush of fumes just as he remembered. He swallowed, the fire sliding down his gullet to burn in the depths of his stomach. It took a moment to control the heady rush before he could hand the bottle back. ‘It’s good.’ The words came out as a hoarse whisper.

  This time the American sergeant laughed. ‘No, it’s goddam awful, but I find it does the trick.’

  Jack laughed with him. ‘It does that.’ He made a play of wincing and shaking his head, making the sergeant laugh loud enough to wake up his two companions.

  ‘What are your names?’ Jack’s throat still burned, but he managed to sound more normal as he asked the question.

  ‘That is Marsaud.’ The American nudged the man on his left. ‘He’s Swiss. By rights he should be in the First Regiment, but the man is a fool and so got stuck with us in the Old Second.’ He shook his head, the name he had give his own regiment clearly not agreeing with him. ‘The fat oaf by the window is Baranowski, and my name is Kearney.’

  ‘Ah! You started without me!’ Marsaud saw the bottle in Kearney’s hand and immediately reached for it. He too spoke in English, but with a heavy accent.

  Kearney nodded towards Jack. ‘My new friend fought in the Crimea.’

  Marsaud swigged a good measure of the powerful liquor, then glanced at Jack over the bottle. ‘Then you earned a drink. It was hard fighting out there.’

  ‘It was.’ Jack held out a hand.

  Marsaud smirked, then handed him the bottle. ‘We found that English officer there. You remember him, Kearney?’ He used his elbow to prompt the man sitting to his right. ‘The one with a hole in his guts.’

  Kearney’s face changed as he searched his memory, then split into a smile as he found what his comrade was referring to. ‘Ah yes! The one who told us he was quite fine even though we could see his backbone through his stomach.’

  ‘Yes! That is the one.’ Marsaud gave Jack an encouraging smile as he took a second measure of the arrack. ‘You like it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No, me neither.’ Marsaud shrugged. ‘But it’s cheap and it does what it’s meant to do.’ He reached over and retrieved the bottle, then nudged the sergeant on the far side of Kearney with its base. The man took it but said nothing.

  Kearney saw Jack look across at the man by the window. ‘Don’t mind him. He’s a Pole. He doesn’t speak English.’ He nodded to his comrade as the bottle was passed back.

  ‘You cannot get the chance to speak English very often.’

  ‘We have Englishmen. They don’t find it so easy to learn French.’

  ‘How many Englishmen are there in your ranks?’

  Kearney moved his lips as he contemplated the question. ‘Not so many. We don’t ask about a man’s past in the Legion. Who he is now is all that matters to us. We concern ourselves with what he becomes, not what he was.’

  ‘Sounds like my kind of place.’ Jack saw Billy hanging on their every word, so he reached across and took the bottle from Kearney, then handed it to the boy. ‘Taste that, lad. It’ll put hairs on your chest.’

  The three sergeants from the Legion all beamed as Billy took hold of the bottle before raising it to his lips. He drank, the liquid sloshing loudly. His eyes widened, then he choked. Tears streamed down his face as he half threw the bottle back to Jack before clutching his hands to his throat.

  The men laughed at the display. Even Palmer managed a smile.

  As if on cue, the locomotive jolted heavily before lurching forward, finally picking up speed. The French countryside began to slide past the window at an ever-increasing rate as the troop train resumed its former clattering rhythm.

  Jack saw the Legion sergeants share a look. They were men going to war, and he felt a pang at being the outsider, at not sharing their feelings.

  He would have no place on the battlefield, but he sensed that he would not avoid becoming involved in the conflict that was drawing in men by the thousand. There would be war in Europe, and he knew with utter certainty that he would be a part of it.

  Genoa, May 1859

  ‘Nothing?’

  Jack grimaced as he squeezed through the crowd. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Damnation!’ Ballard’s frustration was getting the better of him.

  The quayside was bedlam. Ballard’s party was pressed together at the end of the quay, their luggage piled around their feet. Hundreds of troops were disembarking from the transport ship, the ranks of French infantry filling every inch of space as they filed past, their sergeants and corporals swearing and shouting at their charges to move quicker.

  Jack stumbled as he emerged from the scrimmage, ducking under a musket that was being carried balanced over a Frenchman’s shoulder. He had been sent to try to locate some porters to help get the party away from the dock. There was no one save for swarms of onlookers who had thronged to the port to see the French troops arrive. Palmer had gone with him, but had left Jack to report back to Ballard whilst he tried to find them some kind of conveyance to get them to a place where they could stay.

  ‘We’ll have to shift for ourselves.’ Jack wiped the sleeve of his jacket across his sweat-streaked face.

  ‘Do not tell me the damned obvious.’ Ballard was the only one of the group in uniform. He still wore the dark blue of the 15th Hussars, even though it was many years since he had served in the regiment’s ranks. Jack and Palmer were dressed in civilian clothes, their heavy jackets and thick trousers ill suited to the heat that had assailed them the moment they had disembarked.

  ‘Well get on with it then.’ Jack was in no mood for Ballard’s waspishness. He bent low to pull the largest trunk towards him. ‘Bloody hell, whose is this?’

  ‘That is mine.’ Ballard knocked Jack’s hands off the trunk. ‘I shall take it. Help the others.’

  ‘What have you got in there? That bloody thing weighs a ton.’

  ‘Necessities, nothing more. Now get out of my way.’ Ballard shouldered Jack to one side, then took hold of the trunk’s handles. With a grunt and a strain he just about managed to lift it. ‘Get on with it!’ he exhorted Jack before taking a first awkward step, the trunk banging painfully against his knees as he did so.

  Jack grabbed his own knapsack and slung it on to his shoulder before starting to collect the valises and
portmanteaus that contained the rest of their possessions.

  ‘Give us a bloody hand, boy,’ he growled at Billy, picking up a valise and tucking it under his arm.

  ‘Don’t take it out on him.’ Mary pulled her own bag from the ground. ‘Ain’t his fault.’

  Jack gritted his teeth. He was already carrying three bags and was trying to slide another up the side of his body so he could tuck it under his right arm. Somehow he managed the trick. Mary and Billy gathered the rest. With his back bent, he crabbed his way after Ballard. It was not a great start to their campaign.

  ‘Have you ever seen anything like it?’

  ‘No.’ Jack answered Palmer’s question honestly. The pair stood at the window in their room, looking out over the street. The room was large but completely empty save for their luggage. It was the only accommodation Palmer had been able to find, and all five of them would have to share the one space.

  The wide boulevard outside the window led directly down to the docks. It was the main thoroughfare through Genoa, and it was packed solid with the French army, as what looked to be an entire army division picked its way through the city. Everywhere Jack looked he saw infantrymen bowed low under the weight of their campaign equipment. Behind them came a dozen guns, the large cannon followed by limbers and wagons full of ammunition.

  The noise was constant. The sound of countless pairs of boots hitting the ground echoed along the street as the troops marched as best they could in the melee. All the while, shouts and orders were bellowed, the men charged with maintaining order fighting against the difficulties of moving so many soldiers in such a confined space.

  Jack turned to face the room. Mary was doing her best to organise the chaos of the luggage that had been dumped here, there and everywhere. Billy had disappeared the moment they had arrived, keen to explore his new surroundings. Ballard had left them too, eager to find someone in authority who could provide him with the papers he would need to requisition some transport so that they could accompany the army when it left Genoa.