‘You like it that much?’
‘No, not all the time, but I have found I have a taste for this life. My old one was all mapped out for me. What schools I would attend, what career I would follow, even what woman I should marry. I wasn’t given a say in any of it.’ His deepening scowl was replaced by a smile. ‘So I buggered off to come here. The Legion took me in. They didn’t ask me whose son I was, or what school I had attended. I gave them a made-up name and they accepted me, no questions asked.’
Jack listened carefully. He knew only a little about the Legion; soldiers’ rumours and campfire gossip rather than anything factual. Fleming’s tale was intriguing, and Jack found himself feeling almost envious. It was a tempting option to become someone new. A man’s past could be lost and might possibly even be forgotten.
‘So your life was terrible?’ He wanted to know more, to try to understand what drove a man who had every advantage in life to give it all up for a place as a common soldier in the service of a foreign power.
‘I hated not having a choice.’ Fleming offered a thin smile at the admission. ‘I’m sure you don’t understand, but I could not bear to sit there and just plod my way along the path they had set out for me. It is my life. I will choose how I live it. I shall not be told. Not by my family, not by my father, and most certainly, Jack, not by you.’
Jack smiled at such determination. He came from a very different world, the rookeries of London bearing no comparison to the life of a rich man’s son. Yet much of what Fleming said could have come from his own mouth. Fate had chosen a path for him and he had rejected it, becoming an impostor to prove that he could be so much more than he was allowed. Such naïve ambition had been washed away in the blood of the battlefield, but he could well remember the burning desire to fight against his fate.
‘So I cannot convince you to come with me?’ His smile widened as he spoke.
‘No. You will have to kill me first.’ The bold challenge was made with a grin.
‘Is that all? You should’ve said.’ Jack laughed. ‘Then I could have shot your bollocks off the first time I saw you and we wouldn’t be having this dull conversation.’
Fleming guffawed. ‘I like you, Jack. You’re full of shit, but I like you. So when will you tell me your tale? Why are you here?’
‘I had nowhere else to go,’ Jack replied with honesty. ‘Besides, I am being rewarded for doing this.’
‘They’re paying you to take me back to my dear old pater’s side?’
‘Yes.’
‘And my sorry tale did not convince you to leave me alone?’
‘No.’ Jack placed a hand on Fleming’s shoulder. ‘No offence, but I still have to get you away from all this. People are depending on me. I cannot let them down. Not again.’ His voice tailed off. The memory of his mother’s death flickered into his mind. The flames of the campfire became those of the burning gin palace. An image of his mother’s face in the moment before she died formed in his mind’s eye. She was shouting at him, telling him to leave, to get away.
‘Jack?’
He started. The image fled as he forced the memory away.
‘They are awful buggers, aren’t they? The memories.’ Fleming was watching Jack’s face closely. ‘You’ve been around a bit. You have the same look in your eyes as some of the boys who have served for a long time, like you’re looking at something a thousand yards away.’
Jack shook off the chill that the memory of his mother’s face had sent rushing through his veins. The notes of a bugle call prevented him from answering. The sound came clearly in the quiet. It signalled the end of the day and summoned men to the first watch of the night.
He stood up and bashed the dust from his backside. ‘I think I’ll leave you in peace.’ He nodded towards the bubbling cauldron. ‘That smells like shit.’
Fleming laughed dutifully, but his eyes did not reflect any sign of humour. He got up too, and held out his hand. ‘I rather think we could have been friends, you and I.’
Jack shook the hand being offered to him. ‘Perhaps.’ He sighed. ‘I still have to come for you.’
‘You can try.’
Jack nodded. There was nothing more to be said. He had come to find out more about the man that Ballard had ordered him to take away, perhaps even to convince him to come without any more fuss. He had expected to find a fool, someone he would despise. He had not expected to find a man cut from the very same cloth as himself.
The mysterious object was almost motionless in the sky, swaying gently from side to side in the breeze. It looked like some monstrous bird flying into the wind, the unearthly calm unsettling.
‘What the hell do you think it is?’ Jack screwed his eyes tight against the eyepiece of his field glasses. They watered with the effort, but he could just about make out a large basket hanging from underneath the monstrous beast. He thought he could see two or three men inside it, but the distance was too great, and he gave up the struggle.
‘Witchcraft?’ Billy spoke in reverential tones, his voice betraying a mix of fear and excitement.
‘You daft bugger.’ Mary clipped her son’s head for such a foolish answer. ‘Jack?’
Jack laughed off the boy’s fear. ‘It’s not witchcraft, lad, but blow me if I know how that thing works.’
‘It is a balloon,’ Ballard answered. He was spending a rare morning with them, and now he held out a hand. ‘May I borrow your glasses, Jack?’
Jack handed them over. He had not seen a contraption like the one ahead before, and he was intrigued.
‘Ah, that is better. This really is a fine pair of glasses, Jack. The man you stole them from must curse you daily for their loss.’
‘I pinched ’em, not Jack,’ Billy piped up, puffing out his chest as he did so.
‘You really should not brag about such delinquent behaviour, William. It will lead to no end of trouble.’ Ballard spoke whilst still studying the balloon. His habit of addressing Mary’s son as William never failed to make the boy scowl and his mother smile. ‘That really is a marvel of modern engineering.’ He lowered the glasses then handed them back to Jack, his expression revealing his fascination with the machine that had so concerned Billy. ‘We are lucky to see—’
‘Lucky?’ Jack interrupted. He was trying hard to forget the close-quarter fighting in the town that he now knew was called Magenta. ‘I doubt the fellows who had their guts ripped out the other day would say they had been lucky.’
Ballard flicked a hand to brush off such a dark retort. ‘You know full well that I do not mean it like that. What I would have said, if you had just let me finish,’ he sounded peeved as he was forced into the longer explanation, ‘is that we are lucky to see a truly modern war, one where industry and engineering will play as much a part as the generals and their armies. The French seem to have grasped that fact rather faster than the bally Habsburgs. Their cannon are superior thanks to modern manufacturing methods, as are their rifles. Their ability to manoeuvre is better thanks to their use of the railways. Now the Austrians are using balloons as observation posts, and whilst that is to their credit, I do not fancy it will win them any battles.’
‘Will there be another battle?’ Billy asked the question eagerly.
‘I very much doubt it.’ Ballard smiled at the boy. ‘At least not for some time.’
Jack winced at the expression he saw on his master’s face. He was trying to win the boy over, but to Jack’s mind the sickly smile looked rather as though he was attempting to coerce him into an unwelcome proposition.
‘The Austrians are retreating.’ Ballard continued his explanation. ‘They show no intention of stopping this side of the Quadrilateral.’
‘The what?’ Jack could not help but ask the question he knew Ballard wanted to hear.
‘The Quadrilateral,’ Ballard repeated. ‘For many years now the Austrian generals have relied on the strength of their fortresses to dominate these lands. They have four major fortresses to the south of Lake Garda: Peschiera, Veron
a, Legnago and Mantua. Together they make for a vast entrenched battleground. It is the opinion of the French high command that the Austrian commanders are seeking a return to this strong defensive position. No, there will be no battle. At least not any time soon.’
‘There will be a battle.’ Jack enjoyed pricking his master’s bubble of confidence. ‘And soon.’
‘Why do you say that?’ Ballard’s scowl was immediate.
‘I have heard that the French patrols have been coming across many more enemy reconnaissance parties than before. Now there is that blasted thing.’ Jack gestured at the distant balloon. ‘The Austrians are taking more notice of where the French are and where they are going. I reckon that means they aim to stop them.’
Ballard harrumphed. ‘I fancy the French high command does not share your opinion. Perhaps they should ask for it. I am sure the view of a charlatan would be most welcome.’ He smiled, pleased with the jibe.
‘I’d be happy to tell them.’ Jack met the barb with deadpan seriousness.
‘I am sure you would, you scoundrel.’ Ballard was enjoying himself, and not even Jack’s contrary opinion could harm his high spirits.
‘You don’t believe me?’
‘On this occasion, I shall trust to the opinion of the maréchal.’
‘I’ll prove it to you if you like.’ Jack made the offer with a smile. He had spotted a small village that hugged the ridge around half a mile from the line of march. It was not a grand place, but he could see that it possessed a church with a tall spire. ‘We could go over there.’ He pointed across to the tower. ‘I reckon that will let us see what’s ahead. If I’m right, I think we will spot the Austrians. I would say your friend the maréchal would be rather impressed if you were the one to tell him what was what.’
Ballard’s eyes followed the direction of Jack’s pointing finger. A thoughtful expression crept over his face as he contemplated the suggestion. ‘I think it might be worth the effort.’ He turned and nodded to Jack. ‘How lovely it would be for a British observer to point out the facts of the matter before the maréchal’s own reconnaissance forces.’ He paused as he made up his mind. ‘I think we shall do it. Mary, I shall leave Palmer to watch over you and young William.’ He gave his orders quickly before rewarding Jack with one of his odd smiles. ‘I say, Jack, shall we go for a little stroll?’
The village was quiet. It was mid-morning, and most of the locals would be out working the fields, but there were still enough around to stare at the two men who walked along the main road that passed through the village’s centre. By the time Jack and Ballard had reached the small square to the front of the church, a priest was waiting for them.
‘Bonjour, messieurs.’ The priest opened his arms as he greeted them in French. He was not old, but his hair was thin, and he was thick enough around the waist to be well into middle age.
‘Good afternoon, Father,’ Ballard replied. ‘I’m afraid we are English, not French.’
‘Ah, then in that case perhaps I should say welcome, gentlemen.’ The priest’s English was good, his Italian accent barely noticeable.
‘Thank you.’ Ballard walked towards him. ‘I am Major Ballard of the British Army, currently serving Maréchal MacMahon of His Majesty’s French forces. This is my man Lark.’
‘A good morning to you both.’ The priest bobbed his head in greeting. ‘My name is Father Danese and I welcome you to our humble village.’
‘Thank you for such a warm greeting.’ Ballard was clearly enjoying the formalities. ‘Your English is very good indeed.’
Danese inclined his head at the compliment. ‘I was fortunate to spend some time in your beautiful country when I was a younger man. At Canterbury, a most beautiful city. Now,’ he clapped his hands together, ‘perhaps I can offer you a little food, or is it accommodation you are searching for?’
‘Thank you, Father, but all we require is the opportunity to climb your tower.’
‘Ah, a reconnaissance!’ The priest seemed relieved that his visitors could be pleased so easily. ‘Yes, of course, I shall show you myself. Please, if you will, follow me.’ He beckoned for Jack and Ballard to follow as he set off towards the church.
‘So I’m your man now?’ Jack spoke out of the side of his mouth as they trailed after the priest. ‘Who knew promotion could be so rapid?’
‘Do be quiet, Jack, there’s a good fellow.’ Ballard could not help a half-smile from creeping on to his face. ‘We were getting on so famously, it would be a shame to spoil it with your recalcitrance.’
The steps that led to the top of the tower smelled of damp and mould. The priest went first, his feet kicking up a fine cloud of dust. The climb was long enough to have their breath catching in their throats and their knees and thighs protesting, but the view when they emerged from the gloom of the stairwell was spectacular.
Danese led them to the edge of the narrow parapet that surrounded the pinnacle of the tower, his face creased into an indulgent smile as he saw their delight.
‘It is beautiful, is it not? A reminder of God’s hand at work, I think.’ He clasped his hands together and stood back so as not to interrupt his guests’ view of the landscape.
For once, Jack did not disagree with the invocation of God’s name. The tower was the perfect vantage point, and the priest was right to be proud of the vista. In the bright morning sunlight, the countryside looked pristine and tranquil, the patchwork of wheat fields, grassland and woods simply stunning.
He moved to the side facing east, the direction in which the French army was advancing, careful not to lean against the rough-hewn stone parapet that was all that stood between him and a fatal plunge to the square below. A steep ridge ran west to east, its slopes covered with vines, mulberry trees and great fields of wheat. A handful of small villages broke up the lush countryside, their red roofs bright against so much greenery. It was a picture of rural bliss, the scene likely to have been unchanged for centuries.
‘Permit me to tell you what you see.’ The priest had followed Jack and now held out an arm, his finger pointing towards the first of the villages nestled so perfectly into the countryside that it appeared it had formed there naturally.
‘Let us start on our left. The village you can see closest to us on the western side of the ridge is Castiglione. There to its right, nestled into the foot of the slope, is Grole. The larger one, up on the centre of the crest, is Solferino. You see the tall tower at its centre? That is called the Spia d’Italia, the Spy of Italy, you would say. I have to confess that the view from there is perhaps finer than the one you see before you, but please do not tell Father Bellini if you meet him that I admitted to that.’ Danese chuckled at his own humour before continuing his description. ‘To the south of Solferino and on the slope of the ridge itself is San Cassiano, with Mont Fontana just behind. Then at the end of the ridge, just before the last hilltop, that is Volta. The view across the Campo di Medole to the south is magnificent from there.’
Jack did his best to remember the names. On the slope that led up to the village that Father Danese had named as Solferino were a handful of small streams, their banks lined with thick bands of vegetation. A single minor road led directly along the ridge line from Castiglione to Solferino, and another, larger road ran along the base of the ridge before heading south-east. He turned his head, following the path the road took as it meandered away. It led him to look out to the south, where the great plain that Danese had called the Campo di Medole stretched for miles. There the ground was wide and open and covered with vast fields of maize, wheat, barley and rye that rippled in the breeze that washed across them.
‘It is a beautiful view.’ Ballard had come to stand at Jack’s side.
‘It is that.’ Jack had seen enough. The view from the church tower was indeed spectacular, and the ridge, with its charming villages, lush greenery and pretty meandering streams, was a classic example of the beauty of Lombardy.
He reached down to his hip to free his field glasses from their l
eather case and lifted them to his eyes. Within a few seconds he had spied the first Austrian troops, clustered around the villages of Solferino and San Cassiano. It did not take him much longer to pan along the ridge and see the preparations that were being made.
He lowered the glasses and handed them to Ballard. ‘Take a look at Solferino.’ He pointed out the village, then stood back slightly to give his commander a better view.
‘I see them.’ Ballard moved slightly as he studied the ridge. He lowered the field glasses, then gave Danese one of his odd little smiles. ‘Father, could we have a moment?’
‘Of course, you have military matters to discuss that even a man of the cloth should not overhear.’
‘I thank you for your understanding.’
Danese inclined his head to acknowledge Ballard’s politeness. ‘I will leave you now, but please take care on the way down. The steps can be treacherous, and I would not have it said that I was the cause of injuring a British officer, or his man.’ He gave Jack a half smile as he backed away and made for the stairs.
Ballard waited, his head cocked to one side as he listened to the sound of the priest’s footsteps on the stone stairs. Only when he was satisfied that they were truly alone did he fix his gaze on Jack. ‘So they have turned.’
‘It looks like it. It makes sense, too. Each one of those villages makes a perfect strongpoint to anchor their line.’ Jack was running his eyes over the ridge. He could see the places where the Austrian generals would deploy their men. There was little room for Napoleon to manoeuvre. The French could advance as far as Castiglione. From there they would be forced to move on to Solferino, which appeared to be a natural fortress. The road that led there narrowed on the approach, tottering along a knife-edged ridge, the last few hundred yards overlooked by a series of high walls and what appeared to be some sort of church or castle. The walls looked solid, even from a distance, and the Austrians would be sure to prepare a strong defensive position.
The ground to the south of Solferino looked more inviting. The great open plain of the Campo di Medole favoured cavalry and horse artillery. It would also give the French infantry space to manoeuvre. With the ridge too narrow to support a wide advance, Napoleon would be forced to commit troops to the plain. Any fighting there would be more in the classic style, with all three arms of both armies working in unison.
The Last Legionnaire Page 22