The Last Legionnaire

by Paul Fraser Collard

  Palmer grunted, but he did as the legionnaire sergeant said. He walked easily to Jack’s side, the rifle held casually in one hand. ‘Where’s our man?’

  Jack nodded towards Fleming, who had not yet moved. He still crouched next to his dying comrade, his hand on the man’s shoulder.

  ‘You two are persistent.’ Kearney stood between them. ‘Will you ever give up?’

  ‘No.’ Palmer said the single word, then turned to spit out a wad of phlegm. ‘Like it or not, that little shit is coming with us.’

  Kearney smiled at the bold claim. ‘You must want him badly.’

  ‘Not us. It’s my master that wants him back.’ Palmer wiped a hand across his face. ‘He wants to take the dolt back to his father.’

  ‘You will return him to his family?’ Kearney asked the question quietly.

  ‘That’s the plan,’ Palmer answered.

  Kearney nodded slowly. ‘I have your word?’

  Palmer scowled. ‘I said it, didn’t I?’

  ‘Then you can take him.’ Kearney looked at them both in turn. ‘After the battle, he can meet with this master of yours. But I need him until it’s over.’

  Jack considered the notion. ‘He might die.’

  Kearney shrugged. ‘So keep him safe. From what I saw, you both know what you’re doing. And you appear to be wearing our uniform. So stay. Fight with us. Keep him safe and then you can go. All three of you.’

  Jack looked at Palmer. The larger man’s expression was unreadable. ‘What if we say no? What if we take him now?’

  Kearney laughed at the notion. ‘Look around you.’

  Jack did as he suggested. A dozen or more faces were staring at him, each sharing the same calm look. Enough had understood the conversation. Those who had not were being given a rapid translation, the men of Kearney’s company all aware of the deal their sergeant was striking with the two impostors dressed as legionnaires.

  He had no doubt that these men would kill him at a single word from Kearney. His would be one more body amidst the hundreds, the thousands, that already littered the ground. The battlefield was the perfect place for a quiet murder. For who would notice one more on a day of ten thousand?

  Kearney smiled as he saw understanding appear in Jack’s expression. He stepped forward and clapped a hand on the Englishman’s shoulder. ‘I need more men. We have lost too many taking this damn hill. Stay and fight with us. If you live, you can take Fleming to your master. If you die . . .’ He left the last part of the sentence unsaid.

  Fleming stood up. His comrade on the ground was dead. He saw Jack and Palmer standing with Kearney. For a moment it looked like he would come to join then. Instead he hefted his rifle in his hand and went to rejoin his mates.

  ‘Decide, quickly now.’ Kearney had spotted movement amongst the legionnaires. Two young officers were striding along the ranks, bellowing fresh orders at the men who had won them the high ground.

  Kearney cocked an ear, then gestured to his men. ‘En place!’

  The legionnaires sitting on the ground responded immediately, lumbering to their feet and shuffling towards the line that was being formed across the crest of the ridge facing east.

  ‘What’s it to be?’ Kearney snapped the question at the two Englishmen.

  Jack looked at Palmer, then shrugged his shoulders. There was no choice. If they were to obey Ballard and keep Fleming safe, they had to stay close to his side. That meant going wherever he went.

  For better or worse, the Legion had two new recruits.

  Mary stood outside the aid post and fretted. She stared into the distance, trying to make sense of the noises that echoed towards her. The rattle of rifle fire underscored the constant boom of artillery. At times the din was relentless, the sounds blending together like a concerto in full flow. Then it would quieten down, the deep bass blasts of the cannons coming alone before the sound of rifle fire returned, sometimes in single shots, at other times in long bursts that sounded like a child running a wooden rod along a fence. She was mesmerised by it all.

  She wondered if Billy was hearing the same noises. Did they frighten him, or did the roar of battle excite him? For the umpteenth time she regretted letting him go with Ballard’s men. She cared nothing for their great quest. The fate of one man meant nothing against the safety of her only son.

  ‘He will be fine.’ Ballard had approached silently, and now he spoke softly, interrupting her thoughts.

  ‘How can you say that?’ Mary spat out the reply.

  Ballard’s eyes narrowed. ‘I trust Palmer. Jack too, I suppose. I am certain that they will not allow anything to happen to your boy.’

  ‘Then you are a fool.’ Mary crossed her arms. ‘No man can promise something like that. Listen. You hear that? You think those two clots can do anything against that?’

  ‘No.’ Ballard bowed his head as he made the admission softly. His fingers lifted to toy with his moustache. ‘I should not have ordered him to go.’

  ‘It’s too late for that.’ Mary sighed. ‘We just have to pray that he comes back.’

  ‘I understand.’ Ballard’s hand moved as if to touch her shoulder, but he hesitated so that it was held awkwardly in mid-air. ‘I know what it is to fear for a child.’

  Mary looked at him sharply. ‘You have a child?’

  Ballard nodded, his lips pressed together. ‘A boy. I let him down rather badly. I was not the father I should have been.’

  ‘Few men are.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ He offered a tight-lipped smile. ‘Perhaps I have time to rectify it. To make amends.’

  ‘Well, that would be nice.’ Mary’s reply was caustic.

  ‘You don’t believe me?’

  Mary considered the notion. ‘Maybe you will. Jack told me you always get what you want.’

  ‘Did he now?’ Ballard chuckled. ‘I confess I do not understand that man, but I do respect him. He is a good man to have on one’s side, especially in a place such as this.’

  ‘Jack is a fool. He believes he can make a difference.’ Mary shook her head. ‘He’s a good man, I suppose, but he is driven by his demons. He won’t ever be happy, won’t ever make a home. He’ll just keep wandering. Oh, he does what he thinks is best, I’ll give him that. But when things get hard, he walks away. Leaves others to deal with the mess he creates.’

  ‘Yet you rely on him for your future.’

  Mary scowled. ‘He took my future away from me. If he hadn’t come back, I’d still be working in the ginny and my son would not be on some godforsaken battlefield.’

  ‘So he owes you?’

  ‘Damn right he does.’

  ‘And you trust him to deliver.’

  Mary’s scowl deepened. ‘I don’t have much of a choice.’

  Ballard’s mouth formed to make a reply, but stopped. He looked at Mary, then at his boots. ‘You do have a choice. At least, I would like to think there is another option for you to consider.’

  ‘And what’s that?’ Mary had looked away. She was staring towards the front. The rate of cannon fire had increased. She could feel the ground shaking, the very earth beneath her feet trembling as it too heard the sound of battle and was afraid.

  ‘Me.’ Ballard spoke gently, the word barely audible over the din of distant fighting.

  ‘You?’ Mary could not hold back the exclamation.

  ‘I have come to admire you.’ Ballard winced as he spoke, as if the words were being dragged painfully from the very depths of his being. ‘I would like you to stay with me.’

  ‘You want me to work for you?’ Mary stalled for time. She had tried not to think of her future, but relying on Jack alone to fend for her and her son was not an attractive option. She knew he would not stay with them, at least not for long. He would claim that he would, that he would not shirk his duty towards her. But she knew him too well to believe him.

  Ballard cleared his throat. ‘No. I was thinking of an alternative situation.’

  ‘Well, what then?’

  ‘I
would like you at my side. I would like to ask you to marry me.’

  Mary was struck dumb.

  ‘Of course, you would not consider such a notion.’ Ballard quickly filled the silence. ‘It was a foolish idea. I should not have mentioned it.’

  ‘No.’ Mary reached out to hush him by laying her hand on his arm. She smiled as she saw the way his expression changed as she touched him. ‘It’s not foolish. It is generous and kind, and I am honoured you would think of me in that way.’ She laughed then, the idea that she could wed a respectable gentleman like Ballard striking her as the queerest thing she had ever heard. She was a back-street whore with a bastard child, not some princess in a fairy tale.

  Ballard misunderstood her laughter. His face coloured and he pulled away. ‘I am sorry that you find my suggestion ridiculous.’ He puffed up with precious dignity.

  ‘It’s not that.’ Mary swatted his arm, then composed herself. ‘It’s a lovely offer, really,’ she sighed, ‘but I cannot accept it. At least, not for now, not with this going on, not with my boy out there.’ She offered a smile. ‘Let’s get through the day, shall we? Then we can think on the future.’

  ‘Of course.’ Ballard was quick to seize on her suggestion of a delay. ‘It was thoughtless of me to bring the matter up at this juncture.’ He paused. ‘But you will consider it?’

  ‘I will,’ Mary replied seriously. ‘But for now I think we should get to work.’ She looked past Ballard’s shoulder. A commissary cart was pulling up beside the mast that flew the aid station’s black flag. The first wounded were being brought in. ‘We promised we would wait here, but that doesn’t mean we cannot lend a hand.’ She smoothed down her skirt. It would be good to help with the wounded. It would take her mind off worrying about Billy. ‘Come on, Mr Ballard. Let’s see what we can do here.’

  Billy hated thunderstorms. No one knew it. Not his mother, and most certainly not Abigail, the girl who used to come to the gin palace every night to ply her trade. It was probably the only thing about him that Abigail did not know. He smiled as he remembered the nights spent sitting with her as she waited for custom. He had told her everything, and in return she had held his hand and, on a few, very rare occasions, let him lay his head in her lap.

  Now he sat on the ground listening to the dreadful cacophony of battle, wondering how he could ever have been frightened of something as gentle as thunder. Each blast of cannon fire sent a shudder running through his body. It reverberated through him, every bone jangling with each concussion. The fear was like a creature that lived deep in his guts. It fought like it was cornered, tearing at his bravery so that it ran into his bowels, churning and twisting as it fought to escape.

  To ward off the fear, Billy tried to conjure an image of Abigail. He thought of how she smelled, how she giggled at his attempts to make her laugh. He needed her then, more than he could ever have imagined needing anyone. Yet she refused to come, his mind failing to picture the girl he dreamed of every night.

  The noise of battle grew louder. It was coming closer. For the first time he heard the screams, the dreadful banshee wails of men meeting death. His fear built. He wanted to run. To flee from the copse of trees where he had been left.

  He looked back at the three horses. They were as frightened as he was. They stood with ears alert and twitching. Every so often they tossed their heads, or pulled against their tethers, hooves pawing nervously at the soil. The animals shared his desire to run, their own instincts urging them to flee. Yet they were tethered firmly, Palmer’s knots holding them fast. Billy was tied to the spot just as securely. He would not give in. He would not run. He would not let Jack down.

  There had been few men in Billy’s life. He had no idea who his father might be. He was well aware of what his mother had done before he had come along, and he knew better than to ask about the man who had sired him. His life had been run by women, both his mother and Maggie Lampkin taking care of him as best they could. His friends had been whores like Abigail, the young girls who paid Maggie a shilling to work the gin palace’s meagre crowd. The only men he knew had been punters, the customers of either the palace or the girls. None had paid much attention to the skinny boy gathering dirty glasses, or snapping off a measure or two if his mother and Maggie were especially busy. Then Jack had come along.

  Billy did not think he had ever known someone like Jack. He had met strong men before; men with big arms and wide shoulders who would start a fight as quickly as they would order a pennyworth of gin. None had carried themselves as Jack did, his quiet confidence so different to the bawdy gobshites Billy was used to. He had seen the way other men looked at Jack, the sly, furtive appraisals as they compared themselves and were invariably found lacking. He had also spotted the way women stared at him, with hooded eyes, their lust as easy to read as a man’s fear.

  Billy wanted to be just like Jack.

  He stayed sitting on the ground, controlling the shakes and the shudders as best he could. He would not run. Not for anything.

  The Austrian columns came on haphazardly. Their ranks were ragged, their officers unwilling to waste time in forming them up properly. The Legion had formed a two-man-deep line across the slopes around San Cassiano. They were determined to hold on to the high ground they had fought so hard to capture. The Austrians had rallied quickly, their counter-attack coming before the French could get their artillery in place. It would be down to the battered foot soldiers to hold on to what they had won.

  ‘That was fair quick!’ Palmer made the observation as he elbowed his way into the French line. A swift glare silenced the legionnaire he had barged to one side, the man’s loud protest shut off before it was fully formed. Palmer took his place in the front rank directly beside Fleming, then nodded a friendly greeting.

  ‘How you faring, old son?’

  ‘I wish you would leave me alone.’

  ‘Now, now, less said, sooner mended.’ Palmer was checking his rifle, his hands moving over the weapon with practised ease. ‘Like it or not, when this shindig is over, you and I are going to take a little walk.’

  ‘I am not going anywhere.’

  ‘You’ll do as you are damn well told.’ Palmer had finished with his rifle and now checked that his bayonet was still securely locked in place. His hand came away bloody.

  Jack said nothing during the short exchange. He was watching the Austrian infantry as they started to swarm up the reverse side of the ridge. Their white uniforms looked splendid against the lush greenery. Even in half-broken ranks, there was something glorious in their advance. Their colours led them, the great eagles showing them the way. Men who had been running just a short time before found heart as they followed their regiment’s pride back up the slope.

  The first order was shouted from the middle of the French line. Hundreds of rifles were pulled in to shoulders, the men obeying instantly. Jack had not understood the command, but he knew an infantryman’s job as well as any. The rifle Palmer had given him fitted snugly into his shoulder. He squinted down the barrel, aiming above the head of an Austrian infantryman to allow for the drop of the shot as he was firing downhill.

  The second order came and Jack braced himself, curling his finger around his rifle’s trigger. He held his breath, every muscle tensed.

  ‘Feu!’

  The sound of hundreds of rifles firing in unison roared out. Jack barely felt the kick as his rifle thumped back into his shoulder. He let it fall to the ground the moment the trigger was released. Every man did the same, the routine of reloading deeply ingrained in each of them.

  He snatched a fresh cartridge out of the pouch on his belly and bit off the top, spitting it to one side as he poured the powder into the barrel. He followed the powder with the bullet. With deft fingers he slipped the ramrod from its loops and used it to force the bullet to the bottom of the barrel, giving it two slight taps to make sure it rested on the powder. The ramrod went back into its place beneath the barrel before he slipped a fresh cap from its pouch and pressed it
into place. It felt like just moments had passed since the first volley. The motions were instinctive, the rifle pulled to the shoulder for the shortest pause before the command to fire was bellowed out for a second time.

  ‘Feu!’

  He did not bother to select a target. He had the briefest impression of another white uniform falling away before his eyes were back on his rifle as he reloaded.

  The men from the Legion poured on the fire. A third volley seared out, hundreds of spinning rounds tearing into the attacking Austrians. Dozens fell, the men crumpling as the heavy Minié bullets found their marks.

  Jack repeated the routine again and again. His fingers hurt and the taste of gunpowder lingered on his lips, his thirst building with every cartridge he bit open. Volley followed volley, the Legion killing and maiming as the Austrians refused to turn away.

  There was no time to marvel at such a brave display. Jack’s world had reduced to his rifle and the men around him. His only thought was to reload as fast as he could, then send another bullet on its deadly path. He had no sense of the fight other than his minute role in it. He was just a single part of the machine that was inflicting such terrible damage on the men in white coats.

  A different order was shouted. Jack stiffened, knowing what was to come.

  ‘Chargez!’

  The Legion snarled into motion. Jack went with them, the battle madness coursing through him once again. It took him swiftly and completely, the need to kill overwhelming his senses so that he roared with fury as he pounded towards his newest enemy.

  The battered Austrian infantry had advanced to within fifty yards. They had taken heavy casualties, but somehow they had come on, the conscripted infantrymen not knowing when they were beaten. Now they tried to make a line of their own. It was a ragged affair, and many of the men stopped in mid-evolution to stare in horror as the legionnaires were unleashed against them.

  Jack saw enemy muskets lifted to shoulders. He knew what was to come, but he cared nothing for the danger. The madness had him, and he screamed as he charged.