He thought about trying to fight. But the voice behind him was calm and devoid of emotion. He did not think a man who possessed a voice like that in the midst of a battle would fail to make good on such a threat, so he let his Colt fall from his hand.
‘You bastard.’ The man he had knocked on to his arse snapped the insult as he saw the gun fall away. He smeared the back of his hand across his mouth, glancing down at the blood that smothered it before pushing himself to his feet.
Jack lifted his chin and braced himself for the blow that he saw in the man’s eyes.
‘Hold it right there!’ The man behind Jack snapped the command as he saw the same thing.
The blond legionnaire obeyed instantly. But still he leaned forward, pressing his bloodied face into Jack’s. ‘Who the hell do you think you are?’
‘The man saving your sorry skin.’
‘And who the hell says I need my skin saving?’
‘Enough!’ The man behind Jack put an end to the argument, then shoved Jack hard in the back, spinning him around.
Jack found himself staring into the face of Sergeant Kearney, the American he had shared a train compartment with on the way out of Paris.
‘Ah, I thought I knew you.’ Kearney had recognised Jack at the same moment. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘I’m not here to fight.’ He pointed a finger at the blond-haired man. ‘But I am going to take him with me.’
Kearney laughed. ‘No you’re not. He belongs to the Legion.’
Jack’s hand slipped to the handle of his sabre. ‘He’s English. His father sent me out here to take him back to England. That is what I intend to do.’
‘Are you sure?’ Kearney laughed again. He gestured around him. ‘You going to fight us all, then?’
Jack had kept his eyes fixed on the American sergeant. Now he took a moment to see what was going on around him. They were not alone. At least a dozen legionnaires were watching the confrontation. Each was armed, and now every rifle was pointed towards Jack.
Jack’s hand fell away from his sabre.
‘You’re a wise fellow.’ Kearney cocked an ear. The sound of fighting was louder than ever. ‘Now, we have a battle to fight.’ He looked past Jack. ‘Fleming, rejoin your group.’
The blond-haired legionnaire snapped to attention, then did as he was told, his obedience immediate.
Kearney nodded once to Jack. ‘Do not try to interfere.’ He waved to his men. ‘En place!’
The legionnaires formed up around their sergeant quickly and without a second word of command. Within moments they had moved off towards the fighting, the man Jack had knocked to the ground safely in their midst.
Jack followed them doggedly. He had come a long way to find the man that Kearney had addressed as Fleming. He would not let him go so easily.
The Frenchmen moved fast. The town was filled with the roar of battle, which grew steadily louder as they advanced. The fighting was brutal, with every street a battlefield, every building a strongpoint. The Austrians were making the French army pay in blood for every yard they captured.
Bodies littered the ground. The dead and the dying lay amidst the rubble, while those with lighter wounds needed no urging to head to the rear, a steady procession of wounded men working their way away from the fighting. Kearney’s legionnaires pressed on through it all. Jack stayed with them, keeping his eyes on Fleming, the glimpse of blond hair he could see underneath his kepi making it easy enough to keep him in sight.
‘Ici! Ici!’
The legionnaires turned a corner and were immediately summoned into the fight. A party of twenty to thirty Zouaves were trying to force their way past a pair of massive wooden gates that blocked the entrance to a courtyard. The air was filled with the noise of their rifles hammering against the wood.
The smallest of gaps opened in the massive timbers, and immediately musket fire spurted out through the opening. Two Zouaves were cut down, their bodies falling back into the men behind them. The French soldiers roared with anger. Those nearest to the doors thrust their own rifles into the gap, returning fire as best they could.
More French soldiers arrived from the opposite direction, their dark blue uniforms and green epaulettes identifying them as chasseurs. The fresh men joined the melee at the gate, adding their numbers to the press of bodies trying to fight their way inside.
The legionnaires swarmed forward. Jack went with them. His boots caught a body, and he looked down into the staring eyes of an Austrian corpse. The man had been shot in the breast, and his white tunic was smothered in blood. For an instant, an image of Jack’s own face replaced that of the stranger, his skin tainted with the same waxy grey sheen of death, his sightless, lifeless eyes staring at nothing.
The thought shocked him, and he shivered. It was a glimpse into the future that waited for him, perhaps in just a minute’s time. The notion sent a surge of ice surging into his gut. Fear followed, rabid, powerful and churning deep in his bowels.
Orders were being shouted over the chaos. The French general that Jack had seen earlier rode into the melee, the gold braid on his uniform making him stand out like a whore in a convent. He dismounted, ignoring the aides who were trying to grab his bridle and pull him away.
Jack shook away his fear once again, refusing to let it master him. He pushed his way towards the gate. He would not hide from his fate.
Galvanised by the presence of their general, the French pressed forward. The gap between the two massive doors was wider now. Jack could see dozens of Austrian musket barrels rammed through it. Flames shot from the barrels as the defenders opened fire. At such close range, none could miss. Half a dozen French soldiers went down amidst the boots of their comrades, their deaths callously ignored by the men still trying to force their way into the courtyard.
The French general charged forward, surrounded by Zouaves, legionnaires and chasseurs. Rifles opened fire at the gap between the gates. The defenders had no intention of yielding and fired back, their musket balls searing into the attackers, knocking them over like skittles at the fair.
A great groan echoed through the French soldiers. The general had been hit. He fell backwards, his chest doused in blood. Willing hands hauled him away from the fighting. The sight goaded the attackers. Fresh men rushed the gates, their ranks packed deep as they sought to force their way in. Many fell, the Austrian defenders firing without pause.
A tall French sapeur de génie arrived. He carried a huge axe, which he slammed into the edge of the left-hand gate. He worked fast, ignoring the musket balls that zipped past him, tearing away the wood at the edge of the half-open gate. Another sapeur joined him. Together they hammered at the wood, whilst the men around them fired their rifles through the gap.
The second sapeur was felled as a musket ball took him in the throat. A Zouave picked up the axe and took his place, attacking the gate with great wild swings. The men around him cheered, the noise building in intensity even as the Zouave went down, a bayonet thrust through the gap to take him in the chest.
The American legionnaire sergeant, Kearney, reached the gate. He grabbed a splintered plank of wood and ripped it away, screaming at his men to do the same. Dozens of pairs of hands followed suit, some men even dropping their rifles as they tore at the gates with their bare hands.
The Austrians were still trying to hold their ground. The French soldiers gunned them down where they stood, dozens of rifles opening fire every time the gap widened. The screams were terrible as the French poured on the fire, the crowd of soldiers around the gate finally able to exact revenge for the men who had died.
The surviving sapeur tore a whole plank away from its supports. It was ripped away by Kearney, who threw it at the defenders. Again and again the two men attacked the gate until an entire section splintered then gave way.
With a great roar, the French soldiers stormed into the opening.
Still the Austrians fought on. Some had managed to reload, and now the leading Frenchmen fell
as close-range musket fire tore into their packed ranks. But the defenders were horribly outnumbered, and the French cheered as the Austrian line disappeared under a frenzy of bayonet thrusts.
Jack went with the main rush. He stumbled over a dead Zouave and lost sight of Fleming. His head came up in time to see an Austrian counter-attack surging towards the gate. The French saw it too and rushed towards it, the courtyard on the far side of the gates now a battlefield.
The cobblestones were slick with spilt blood, and more than one man went down as his footing gave way. Jack could do nothing but press on as the mob of French soldiers surged forward. The man to his front died, an Austrian bayonet taking his throat, and Jack found himself in the front rank. He lunged, acting on instinct, his sabre darting forward to snatch away a man’s eyes.
Another Austrian came against him. The man screamed, his lips pulled back in an animal snarl as he tried to slide his bayonet into Jack’s gut. He was still snarling as Jack sidestepped the bayonet then drove his sabre through the man’s throat, the sharpened steel gouging through the gristle with ease.
‘Come on!’ Jack felt the battle madness grow. The fight was breaking up around him as the two sides became intermingled. A bayonet slid past his side, tearing through the hem of his jacket. He turned, his sabre slashing at the man who had nearly killed him. The blow missed, but the Austrian died as a legionnaire buried his bayonet in the man’s chest.
Jack spied an Austrian officer leading a fresh group of men into the fight. He stamped forward, his boots catching a dying man in the face, and parried the enemy officer’s first blow. The man glared at him, then his gaze turned to the legionnaire at Jack’s side. The Frenchman’s bayonet was still buried in the man he had struck down. The Austrian officer spotted the opportunity. He thrust his sword forward, towards the legionnaire’s unprotected heart.
Jack saw the blow coming. He was at the wrong angle to try to block it with his own sword, so he threw himself at the Austrian officer, hitting the man hard with his shoulder, driving the attack wide.
The two men went down in a jumble of arms and legs, both hitting the ground hard. Jack’s breath was driven from his body, but he punched his sword hilt down regardless. He felt the blow land, so he followed it with another, then another. The Austrian officer was writhing underneath him. Jack felt a fist slam into the side of his head. It hurt, but he punched down again, then battered his head forward, driving it into the centre of the Austrian’s face. He felt something break underneath his forehead, so he pulled his head back then slammed it forward again, all the while still punching with his sword.
The body underneath him went limp. Jack staggered upright. His head throbbed and his vision greyed, but he still held his sabre ready to attack.
There was no one left to fight.
The French soldiers cheered. Some lifted their kepis, or thrust their bloodied bayonets to the sky as they celebrated their bitter victory. The courtyard was like a butcher’s yard. Bodies carpeted the ground, the white uniforms of the Austrians bright amidst the dark blue of the French. Some still moved, whilst others lay motionless, their bodies twisted into the impossible poses of the dead, their blood blackening the cobbles beneath.
Jack stood straighter. He turned towards the man he had saved, and found himself looking at the blood-splattered face of the blond-haired legionnaire, Fleming.
‘It had to be you.’ Fleming spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Are you badly hurt?’
Jack shook his head, wincing as the action sent a spasm of pain cascading through his skull. He took a deep breath, then pointed his bloody sabre at the man Ballard wanted so badly.
‘Don’t go anywhere.’
The legionnaire grimaced at such belligerence. ‘Don’t worry.’ He looked around him. ‘I don’t think any of us are going anywhere for the moment.’
Jack followed his gaze. The surviving French soldiers were moving between the heaps of bodies as they began the bitter task of sorting the living from the dead. The sounds of fighting were dying away, the last of the Austrian defenders pulling out.
The French had captured the town.
Jack sucked gratefully on a canteen of water as he sat on the ground with his back against the wall of the courtyard. He let his head fall back so that it rested on the wall. The stone was cool against his scalp, and he closed his eyes as he savoured the momentary peace.
He sat amongst the legionnaires. Sergeant Kearney was still there, but only half of the men he had led into the bitter fight were left standing.
‘So who are you?’ Fleming sat at his side. It was his square canteen that Jack was drinking from, the pair sitting in wary silence as the survivors of the fight slumped on whatever ground they could find that was not occupied by a corpse or a dying man.
‘Jack Lark.’ Jack drank again, swilling the water around his mouth before he swallowed it. Try as he might, he could not lose the taste of spent powder.
‘Well met, Jack Lark.’ Fleming looked down at his hand, then, after a moment’s thought, offered it to Jack. ‘My name is James Fleming. Although most of these buggers insist on calling me Jacques.’
‘Is that your real name?’ Jack summoned the energy to shake Fleming’s hand.
‘Does it matter?’
‘No, I suppose not.’ Jack was bone weary, and the head butts he had thrown in the fight made it feel as if he had cracked his skull. He did not care what the man he had come for was called.
‘You’ve put us all to a great deal of trouble.’ He handed back the canteen.
‘I never asked for that. I never asked for you to come.’
‘But we came anyway. Your father is keen for you to return to England. He wants you to be safe.’
‘My father.’ Fleming scoffed. ‘My father wanted nothing to do with me for years. His precious career came first. Can you understand what that feels like? To know that your father is more concerned about his bloody job than he is about his only son.’
‘I don’t care.’ Jack rested his head against the wall again to lessen the odds of it falling from his shoulders. ‘You’re still coming with me.’
Fleming gave a short bark of a laugh. ‘You can stop that nonsense; it really is getting rather tiresome. I’m not leaving.’
‘I’ll make you, if I have to.’
Fleming laughed again, louder this time. ‘Look around you, Jack. One word from me, and any one of these bastards will slit your throat without so much as batting an eyelid. It wouldn’t be the first time, and I very much doubt that it would be the last.’
Jack opened his eyes and looked around. Sergeant Kearney was sitting with his legionnaires. All were keeping a careful eye on the man in civilian clothes who had fought like a devil and who now sat in their midst.
‘I will give you a message, though.’ Fleming caught Jack’s eye and offered a tight-lipped smile. ‘One you can pass on to that dear old father of mine.’ The smile disappeared. ‘Tell him to go to hell.’
Jack saw the passion in the younger man’s face. He did not doubt the sincerity behind the message that he would have to give to Ballard.
‘Jack!’ The voice came from the entrance to the courtyard.
For a moment Jack held Fleming’s gaze, only looking away when the voice called again.
‘I can see you sitting there on your great fat arse, Mr Jack fucking Lark!’
The easily recognisable form of Palmer was standing in the broken gateway. With a groan, Jack got to his feet. He waved a greeting at Palmer, then looked down at the legionnaire he had followed into battle. ‘This isn’t over.’
‘Yes it is.’ The reply was given through gritted teeth.
There was nothing else to be said. Jack forced his abused body into motion and went to give Ballard the news.
‘What the devil do you mean?’
Ballard shouted the words into Jack’s face with such force that flecks of spittle landed on his cheeks. It was dusk, and they stood alone on the roadway a dozen or so yards from the first aid stat
ion where Jack had left the rest of the party. Palmer had gone to round up Mary and Billy, leaving Jack to face Ballard alone.
‘I found him. He refused to come with me.’ Jack had no strength left for temper.
‘I didn’t expect you to damn well ask him.’
‘What did you think would happen?’ Jack’s voice kept its even tone. ‘You wanted me to fight a dozen legionnaires?’
‘If that is what it would have taken to bring the boy to me, then yes, that is exactly what I would have expected you to do.’
‘Well, more fool you.’
‘Be careful who you call fool.’ Ballard snapped at the lure.
‘I’m calling you a fool for sending me on a fool’s errand.’ Jack fired the words back with icy venom. ‘I found your man and I gave him the fucking message. If you want to go and get him, then be my bloody guest. See if you have any more luck convincing his mates to let him go than I did.’
‘You should not have given them the choice.’ Ballard did not back down.
Jack bit his tongue. ‘I saw no other way.’
‘No, you never do. For that would involve thinking.’ Ballard’s eyes narrowed as he glared at Jack. ‘I see that you are only capable of obeying an exact order.’ He pushed his face closer to Jack’s. ‘The next time, you will do exactly what I tell you to do. You will not deviate from those orders even if the Archangel Gabriel himself arrives and begs you to do otherwise. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good.’ Ballard said the word with difficulty. He composed himself with a visible effort. ‘This is not over.’
‘The lad doesn’t want to go home.’ Jack could not hold his tongue, even if it meant tweaking the tail of the Devil himself. ‘He told me to give his father a message.’
‘What was it?’ Ballard’s words were chilled.
‘To leave him alone.’ Jack did not shirk from the major’s gaze.
Ballard’s expression was unreadable. ‘It changes nothing. We must still take this boy to his father.’
‘He’s no boy. He’s a man, doing what he thinks is right.’
The Last Legionnaire Page 20