The Last Legionnaire

by Paul Fraser Collard

  ‘It is a little out of date, I grant you. But his features are recognisable enough.’

  Jack snorted. It was not much to go on. ‘How old is he now?’

  ‘Twenty-two.’

  ‘And where did you get this?’

  ‘His father gave it to me. Now, you have your orders and you know what must be done.’ Ballard moved the conversation along briskly. ‘Your first task is to keep the boy safe, no matter what it takes. Then, when the opportunity occurs, you will bring him to me.’ He turned away, his orders given.

  Jack caught Palmer’s eye. The big man shrugged. Jack wanted to say something to Mary, but she was already fussing over Ballard and did not look his way. So he did what he was told and followed Palmer to war.

  Jack and Palmer stepped off the road to walk in the ditch at its side. The traffic coming the other way was heavy, with a large number of wounded troops making their way to the rear.

  They had left Ballard and the others behind, heading east across country in search of the men of MacMahon’s second division. Twice they had been forced to go to ground as large bodies of Austrian Uhlans and skirmishers probed the gap between the French general’s two divisions. Their nerves had been stretched thin as they hid away, but eventually they had found their way on to a road heading south that they hoped would lead them to the village of Marcallo.

  Jack looked over the men coming back the other way along the road. The French infantrymen had clearly been in a hard fight. Their dark blue uniforms were streaked with dust, and several had lost the light kepis from their heads. Many wore light blue neck scarves, a new addition to their uniform that most of the French army had picked up in Genoa, and a number of these had been pressed into action as temporary bandages.

  Most of the wounded walked past with their heads bowed and their eyes averted. But a few looked at the two men in civilian clothes going the wrong way. One, an officer sporting a blue sash around his waist and an open waistcoat that revealed a white shirt streaked with blood, paused long enough to call across to them.

  ‘Messieurs, vous allez dans le mauvais sens.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Jack had no idea what he was being told.

  ‘He says we are going the wrong way,’ Palmer replied. He ignored the French officer.

  ‘You understand Frog?’

  Palmer shrugged.

  ‘Vous devriez faire demi-tour,’ the officer called over his shoulder. ‘Si vous tenez à votre vie.’

  ‘What does he say?’ Jack asked as the last of the battalion passed them by.

  ‘He says it’s fine. Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  Palmer shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter what he says. We have our orders.’

  Jack did not bother to reply. He followed Palmer, heading towards the battle that they could hear raging ahead. They kept to the ditch, leaving the road to the wounded French soldiers.

  ‘Poor buggers,’ Jack observed.

  ‘They’re well out it.’ Palmer glanced down at the revolver on Jack’s hip. ‘You loaded?’

  Jack nodded. He had prepared the firearm while he was waiting for Palmer and Ballard to return. He let his hand fall to his holster and unbuckled the flap.

  He could see a village directly ahead. It was wreathed in powder smoke, and the only French troops in evidence were those coming towards them, away from the fighting.

  ‘You think that’s Marcallo?’ he asked.

  ‘Aye. We’d better get a move on. Looks to me like the Frenchies aren’t going to stand there for long.’

  ‘We could wait here. Ask after our man as they come back.’

  Palmer laughed off the notion. ‘Come on, Jack. You frightened?’

  ‘Of course.’ Jack’s right hand took hold of the hilt of his sabre. ‘But that’s because I am not bottle-head stupid. Not like some.’

  Palmer ignored the reply and moved off at a trot. Jack went with him. They moved quickly. The traffic on the road had reduced to a trickle, only a handful of Frenchmen now making their way away from the fighting. Both the road and the ditch were littered with discarded equipment, and Jack’s boots kicked a discarded kepi as he scrambled back up on to the road as it entered the outskirts of the village.

  The houses in front of them bore the scars of the fighting. Walls were cracked and pockmarked, the ground around them piled with rubble. The air was full of dust and powder smoke, the smell catching in Jack’s throat. The sound of rifle fire echoed down the street. Somewhere ahead a French unit was heavily engaged with the enemy.

  Jack saw two French officers run into a house just to their right. He guessed the building had been turned into a command post, and that made it a wise choice of destination.

  ‘Quick, in there.’ He led Palmer across the road and into the house.

  It was noisy inside. Raised voices shouted and bellowed as half a dozen officers tried to make sense of the fight. A scarred kitchen table had been dragged to the centre of the room and pressed into service. A single map was on its top, and the two officers Jack had followed inside were busy pointing at various spots as they made a report to an older officer standing on the far side of the table.

  Jack could understand nothing. The French officers were talking loudly and quickly. One of them turned to push past as he made his way back out. If he was surprised to see two civilians, he did not wait around long enough to show it.

  ‘Ask them where we can find the Legion.’ Jack shouted the instruction into Palmer’s ear.

  Palmer nodded in agreement, then pressed forward, using his elbows freely to force his passage. Jack had seen enough so made his way back outside.

  Palmer was not long in joining him.

  ‘They’re not here.’

  ‘Then where the hell are they?’ Jack was not impressed.

  ‘No one knows. These fellows are from the same division, but they’ve no idea where the Legion has got to.’

  ‘Shit.’ Jack spat out the single word.

  Before Palmer could say anything further, a great roar rose from just ahead and a wave of French infantrymen came running towards them, their ranks in disarray. Some stopped to turn and discharge their rifles, but most just kept going. More soldiers followed them, at least a hundred now, every man’s eyes bright white in his powder-streaked face.

  The French officers came rushing out of their command post. Orders were shouted as they ran towards their men. Already some were stopping, the retreat losing its impetus as the officers started to regain command of the frightened infantrymen.

  ‘Come on.’ Palmer grabbed Jack’s arm, pulling him away.

  ‘We should help.’ Jack shook off the grip.

  ‘And do what?’ Palmer snapped. ‘They will hold or they won’t. We won’t make a difference.’

  Jack ignored him and strode into the melee. The French officers were trying to form their men up into line. Most were slow to obey, their expressions revealing their fear. Jack snatched his revolver from its holster and forced himself into the press of bodies.

  ‘Form line!’ he shouted, not caring if he was understood or not. ‘Form line, damn your eyes.’ He hauled a man around, forcing him into place at his side. Around him the French officers were doing the same, and slowly a formed line began to emerge from out of the chaos. Other soldiers saw what was being done and joined in, filling out the line so that it stretched from one side of the road to the other.

  ‘Face front.’ Jack could not help bellowing the order. He stood in the centre of the front rank. The pants and gasps of the breathless French infantrymen around him were subsiding, their fear now held in check as their officers brought them back under control.

  ‘Ils arrivent!’

  Voices cried out in warning, the sound just about audible over the shouts of the officers.

  Jack saw the flood of white-uniformed soldiers come charging into view. There was no time to dwell on his first sight of the Austrian army, and he raised his revolver, filling the space over the end of the barrel wi
th the face of an enemy soldier.

  ‘Feu!’

  ‘Fire!’ Jack bellowed at the men around him as he pulled the trigger. Those French soldiers with a loaded weapon opened fire. This was no organised volley, yet it still cut down the leading ranks of Austrian troops.

  Jack fired again and then again, emptying the revolver’s chambers without pause. Around him, French infantrymen were reloading as fast as they could, their hands moving with desperate haste.

  The command to fire came for a second time. This time more men were ready and the volley had more effect. Dozens of bullets flayed the advancing Austrian ranks, knocking over those leading the charge.

  It would be enough. The Austrian infantry had pushed the French back from the far side of the village, but the impetus of their attack was spent. It was their turn to retreat, the loud shouts of the officers calling the battered ranks away.

  The French had held, and now their officers shouted orders of their own as they prepared to advance once again. Jack pushed his way out of the line and returned to find Palmer sitting calmly on a low wall to the front of the command post. He was paying the fighting no heed, and was using a lock pin to clean under his nails. From somewhere he had secured a French rifle, and he had slung an ammunition pouch over his shoulder and attached a cap box to his belt. A bayonet tipped the rifle, a thin smear of blood on the blade showing that it had already seen use that day.

  ‘Are you done now?’ The question was delivered with a fair dollop of sarcasm.

  ‘Shut your mouth.’ Jack did not appreciate Palmer’s tone. He strode past, not caring if the man followed him or not.

  ‘So where to next?’ Jack posed the question as they picked their way through the debris spread across the road. The sun was low in the sky to the west as the two Englishmen left the village behind.

  Palmer had slung his borrowed rifle over his shoulder, and now walked with his thumb poked comfortably under its sling. ‘You’re the one with those fancy field glasses. Why don’t you take a look-see?’

  ‘That’s it? That’s all you can suggest?’

  ‘What else do you want?’

  ‘It would be nice if you could be bothered to help.’

  ‘Like you did back there?’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ Jack was struggling to hold his temper in check. He had seen what was needed, and had done his best to make it happen.

  ‘It weren’t our fight.’ Palmer’s voice was unchanged.

  ‘We were there.’

  ‘So? We could have walked away. Got on with our mission. Instead you wanted to play the hero.’

  ‘I did not.’ Jack’s anger was simmering now. ‘I did what had to be done.’

  ‘Why? Did you think those Frenchies couldn’t manage without you being there to hold their hand?’

  ‘Those men were running. They had to be stopped.’

  ‘Aye, that’s right enough. But why by you?’

  ‘Because I was there.’

  Palmer shook his head at such folly. ‘You still love it.’

  ‘Love what?’ Jack spat out the reply.

  ‘Battle.’

  ‘You think that? You think I want to fight?’

  ‘No. I know you do.’

  ‘You’re mad.’ Jack felt his anger wane. He had denied Palmer’s accusation, but in truth he knew the older man was correct. He would not admit it aloud, for to do so would be to reveal the rotten core to his soul, and that he would not do, not to anyone. Instead he sat down at the road’s edge and began the laborious task of reloading his revolver.

  ‘I’ve seen men like you before.’ Palmer broke the silence. ‘They survive a battle or two, so they start to believe that they’re good at fighting, that they have a talent for it.’ He watched Jack pull out the small pot of grease that he used to seal each freshly loaded chamber on his revolver. ‘Truth is they were just lucky. One day that luck runs out, and they’re just as dead as the poor bastard who died in the first minutes of his first battle.’

  Jack stopped what he was doing and met Palmer’s flat stare. ‘And you’re different, I suppose?’

  Palmer shrugged. ‘I do what has to be done, nothing more, nothing less. I know that one day my luck will run out. I don’t see the point in trying to make that day come along any quicker than it needs to.’

  Jack’s anger had disappeared. He could not argue against the truth. He returned his attention to his revolver. Only when he had finished loading it did he look at Palmer again. ‘What about that lucky man? What if his luck holds? What if he goes on surviving?’

  ‘Then I pity the poor bastard.’

  The way he said the words made Jack laugh. ‘You know what I think?’

  ‘I don’t care what you think.’

  ‘I think,’ Jack continued anyway, ‘that we need to find this man Ballard wants.’

  ‘So take those field glasses of yours and see what you can see.’

  Jack nodded. ‘You’d better stay there. I don’t want you getting too tired. Your old bones can’t take it.’

  He got to his feet and thrust his handgun back into its holster before fishing out the glasses. He left Palmer behind and clambered on to a low rise on the western side of the road. Only when he reached the top did he put the glasses to his face.

  At first there was little to see. To the west was MacMahon’s reserve division and the black flag of the first aid post where he had left Ballard. He panned south. The ground there was covered by a great expanse of woodland that went on for what looked to be a good half-mile before it pressed against a ridge of higher ground. On top of the ridge was an area that was more built up, the houses larger and grander than in the other villages he had seen. A tall church tower stood proud from the other buildings, dominating the surroundings.

  Here at last he spotted movement. He could not help a sharp intake of breath as he made out the Austrian infantrymen occupying the buildings around the foot of the tower, their bright white uniforms making them stand out against the dull stone at their backs. They were plainly expecting a French advance. Prepared defences lined the outer reaches of the village, with wooden palisades blocking the main approach.

  Jack panned back towards the woods. This time he saw French soldiers. And they were fighting.

  As far as he could tell, what looked to be an entire French brigade was advancing along a road that cut straight through the dense woodland. They were heavily engaged with Austrian troops. Much of the fighting was happening in the woods to either side of the road, and he could see little more than rolling clouds of powder smoke, and occasional flashes of musket fire.

  He took a deep breath. He guessed the French were over a mile away. It was a fair distance, but he could just about make out their uniforms. He lowered the glasses. Palmer was looking at him, waiting patiently for news.

  ‘There are French troops about a mile to the south-west,’ Jack called across to his companion with a smile on his face. ‘I think I just found the Legion.’

  The French brigade had re-formed into two marching columns by the time Palmer and Jack reached them. There was no sign of the Austrians, other than the bodies strewn across the road and in the woodland to either side. The fight had been short and sharp, the French beating back the Austrian attack with rifle volleys and bayonets.

  The French officers appeared to be in no hurry to resume their advance. They fussed over the ranks as they prepared their men for the assault on the Austrian-held town on the high ground away to the far side of the woodland that Jack had seen through his field glasses.

  As the two British agents ran up, a French general and his staff were parading past. The infantry cheered as they spotted their commander, whilst Jack and Palmer were forced to one side by the gaggle of officers following dutifully behind their general.

  Jack took the opportunity to look at the men who would assault the heavily defended town. Those to his front wore the fabulous Turkish-style uniform of the Zouaves. He had seen men like these in the Crimea. They were immed
iately identifiable in their baggy off-white linen trousers and short dark blue jackets edged in red. On their heads they wore red chechias with a dark blue tassel. They were a splendid-looking regiment, but there was more to the Zouaves than a fancy uniform. The dour-faced men in the ranks had earned a reputation as hard fighters, the regiment’s long experience in North Africa giving them plenty of opportunities to learn their trade.

  Now they showed the scars of the recent fighting. A fair number bore wounds, bound up with neckerchiefs or temporary dressings made from undershirts. Their clothing was stained with blood, their faces streaked with powder marks, and they bore the determined stares of men who had fought hard but who knew the battle was not yet done.

  ‘So have you found the Legion?’ Palmer stood red-faced at Jack’s side. They had run for over a mile, and both were hot and sweaty.

  ‘No.’ Jack had no breath for more. The French general was heading to the front of the Zouaves, so Jack followed the twenty or so mounted staff officers who trailed in his wake. The two men were forced to run again to keep up, but they got close enough to hear the general shout out in triumph as he rounded the front of the regiment.

  ‘Voici la Légion! L’affaire est dans le sac!’

  Jack pushed through the horses so that he could see just what the French general had spotted. It was only as he stepped past the last officer that he saw the regiment at the front of the second column.

  He drew in a sharp intake of breath. The men were wearing long blue tunics with green epaulettes over baggy white trousers paired with white garters. The French general had seen them first, and it had been his words that had given Jack hope that their search had come to an end.

  They had found the Legion.

  The French marched with a great fanfare. They had re-formed from the column of march into two groups of four battalions arranged in mixed order. In each formation, two battalions formed into line, whilst the other two moved into battalion column, one on each flank. The two battalions in line provided enough firepower to overwhelm the enemy, whilst those on the flanks gave the column depth and strength.