Rowell stopped both talking and walking as they reached the gallery. The cots were more widely spaced here, and each man had much more room than those crammed into the main body of the hall.
‘This is where the sergeants have made camp.’ He spoke more quietly, as if somehow nervous of straying into the domain of his non-commissioned officers. ‘And here is First Sergeant O’Connell.’ He gestured towards a thickset man who was working on his kit with his back to the two men. ‘First Sergeant, a moment of your time, if you please?’ He made it a request, not an order.
O’Connell did not turn round immediately. Instead he carried on with what he was doing; only when satisfied did he react to his company commander’s summons.
Jack found himself looking at the man who truly ran Rowell’s company. From the glare on the man’s face it was clear he did not relish either being interrupted or the presence of a stranger.
‘Captain?’
‘This is Lark. Scanlon made him a sergeant.’
O’Connell gave Jack no more than a cursory glance. ‘We already have enough sergeants.’ He addressed himself to Rowell, cutting Jack dead.
Rowell’s discomfort was clear. ‘Colonel Scanlon appointed Sergeant Lark himself.’
‘And my answer ain’t changed.’
Jack studied O’Connell whilst the other man’s attention was focused on Rowell. He had noticed the Irish accent, something that Rowell’s comments had had him half-expecting. The company’s first sergeant was a tall man, with powerful shoulders and thick arms. His face was pugnacious, with a squat, crooked nose standing proud above a thick moustache. On the upper sleeves of his jacket were three thick light-blue chevron stripes surmounted by a diamond. Jack assumed these denoted his rank, and for the second time he regretted not knowing the insignia of the army he had joined.
‘Scanlon has given him the place. There isn’t a damned thing I can do about it now.’ Rowell hissed his reply.
‘Scanlon don’t know shite.’ O’Connell looked ready to spit. ‘You tell him we don’t need no gombeen we don’t know getting in our way.’
‘Sweet Lord of mercy.’ Rowell looked to the ceiling. ‘Can you not just do as you are told this once? You know Sergeant O’Rourke is moving to B Company after his troubles the other day. We have a vacancy. Give it to Lark.’
‘Now why would I do that?’ O’Connell did not give an inch. ‘You tell Scanlon that this is my company and that I ain’t taking some fecker who happens to have licked the right arse.’ He turned his back on his captain and went back to attending to his kit.
Rowell’s mouth opened to continue the argument, but no words came out of his mouth. Instead he looked at Jack as if asking for help.
For his part, Jack was surprised by the lack of deference O’Connell had shown his captain, especially in front of a stranger. He had known sergeants who had been allowed to get too big for their boots, but he had never seen any of them treat their commander with such obvious disdain. It did not speak well of Rowell’s leadership. To Jack’s mind, that was unforgivable. Soldiers deserved the best officers, not just those who hailed from the right background or who looked the part.
‘First Sergeant O’Connell.’ He called for the man’s attention in the clipped tones of an experienced officer. It was not a request.
This time O’Connell whipped around sharply. ‘You talking to me?’
‘Yes.’ Jack was not fazed by the belligerent reply. ‘You don’t want me here, that much is clear. But your officers have decided that I can help the regiment. I intend to do just that.’
‘Help, is it now? How can a dry piece of English shite help me?’
‘I’ve fought before.’
‘Where’s that exactly?’
‘The Crimea, India—’
‘India!’ O’Connell interrupted. ‘That weren’t fighting. That was just English bastards murdering any poor eejit that got in their way.’
‘I fought in Persia, and I was at Solferino.’ Jack continued calmly despite the interruption.
‘And it looks to me like you lost.’ O’Connell cackled at his own humour. ‘At least some beggar got close enough to wipe his sword right across your face.’
Jack lifted his chin as the Irishman mocked his scar. ‘I’ve got more. You want to see them?’
‘So you were in the wars.’
‘I know how to fight.’
‘So you’re a murdering piece of English shite. I still don’t want you.’
‘You don’t have a choice.’
‘Of course I have a choice.’ O’Connell took a step towards Jack. ‘This is my company, and if I don’t want you, then you ain’t stopping.’
‘That’s not how I see it. I think you’re stuck with me.’ Jack didn’t so much as bat an eyelid as O’Connell came closer. He could feel the dislike emanating from the man like a physical force.
‘Are you sure you have that right now?’ O’Connell leered into Jack’s face. ‘Are you sure you shouldn’t be down south fighting with your bastard friends from there? The last I heard, the fecking English are siding with the damn sechers.’
‘I’m in the right place. I think you need me here.’
‘Need you, is it? Let me tell you this, gombeen. I don’t fecking need you.’
‘How many of your men have fought?’
‘They’re Irishmen, most of them anyway. They were born knowing how to fight.’
‘But do they know how to form line? Do they know how to fire three shots a minute when the enemy are firing back at them?’ Jack snapped the words at O’Connell. ‘Do they know what to do when the other bastards stop shooting and charge?’
‘They know how to fight,’ O’Connell spat.
Jack felt spittle land on his cheek, but he did not flinch. ‘This won’t be some brawl in a damn tavern. This will be war.’
‘It’s still a fight.’ O’Connell shrugged off Jack’s assertion.
‘No. It’s not. If you think that, then you’re deluding yourself.’
O’Connell scowled. ‘We aren’t babes. We don’t need an Englishman wiping our fecking arses for us.’ This time the denial was delivered with less force. Jack’s words were having an effect.
‘But are they soldiers? Because they’re going to have to be, otherwise a lot of them are going to die.’ He saw O’Connell’s jaw clench, but the Irishman said nothing. Jack lowered his tone. ‘You want me to go someplace else? Fine. I’ll leave right here and now. But can you afford to let me go?’
There was silence. Jack wondered why he was arguing. If he was not wanted here, he had a feeling that one of the other fledgling regiments would welcome him. If Kearney was correct, the Union was mobilising quickly. There would be plenty willing to take on an experienced European soldier.
He opened his mouth to say as much to Rowell, but the words would not come. Something was tugging at his pride. For a reason he did not fully understand, he wanted to be part of this regiment. Perhaps it was the connection to his friend, or maybe Kearney had sold him a line by persuading him to agree to wet-nurse Robert. Maybe it was just his own belligerence. Whatever it was, he wanted to stay.
‘You knew Kearney’s son?’ Jack changed tack.
‘Thomas? Sure, I knew him. He was a fine boy. Not like his fecking brother.’
Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw Rowell wince, but this was not the moment to think about Robert Kearney’s deficiencies. ‘He was in the French Foreign Legion, you know that?’
‘I heard as much.’
‘We fought together against the Austrians. He was one of the best damn leaders of men that I ever saw. If he were here now, he’d be saying the same as me. Your boys need more than courage. They need to be drilled. They need to be trained. And they need men who know what battle is like to make sure they don’t get bloody slaughte
red.’
‘And you can make sure that don’t happen?’
‘No, but you’ll be better off for having me here.’
‘And why are you here?’ Some of O’Connell’s vitriol returned as he spoke. ‘Thomas died, God rest his soul, yet here you fecking are, telling me what’s what and making out you’re some sort of fecking Finn MacCool.’
‘I’m only here because of Thomas. I had something of his that I thought his family should possess. So I brought it to them. It was his father who suggested I would be useful to his son’s company. I happen to agree.’
O’Connell grunted. He looked at Rowell, who had kept well out of the matter. ‘You say Scanlon wants us to take him?’
‘He does.’ Rowell nodded firmly.
O’Connell’s face twisted as if someone was force-feeding him a turd. ‘Then who am I to stand against the good colonel’s wisdom?’ He glanced at Jack. ‘You give me any shite, and so help me I will feck you over. Is that clear?’
‘Abundantly.’ Jack heard the concession being given. For better or worse, O’Connell would back down.
Jack had his place in A Company.
‘Listen up, all of you. This is important.’
Despite his words, Rowell sounded unsure that what he had to say would interest the audience he had assembled. The commander of A Company had rounded up his two subalterns and all of his sergeants, and had sat them down in an anteroom for a briefing.
‘Is this going to take long?’ One of the sergeants, a grey-bearded fellow with a thick head of hair, asked the question.
‘No, it won’t take long, Sergeant Doherty. But you’ll want to hear what I have to say.’ Rowell paused. If he hoped for a more animated reaction, he was to be disappointed.
Jack sat on a chair at the periphery of the group. The leader of A Company did not impress him. In battle, Captain Rowell would be the man the company would have to look to for orders. There would be no questioning him then. When the enemy was close, Rowell would make the decisions that would see his men live or die, and his sergeants would have to back him to the hilt. If they didn’t, then the company was surely doomed.
‘Spit it out.’ O’Connell was the only one still standing. He was by the door, his arms crossed and his face set like thunder. ‘We don’t have time to sit around here with our thumbs up our fecking arses.’
Rowell’s face coloured. ‘We have our first movement orders.’ He blurted the words out. ‘We leave tomorrow.’
Robert Kearney had been sitting comfortably, his feet resting on an empty chair whilst he picked crud out of his ears with his little finger. Now he sat up sharply, his boots hitting the wooden floorboards with an audible thump.
‘We’re leaving?’ It came out as little more than a whine.
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Hell, we only just got here.’ Robert’s feelings were clear. ‘Where are they going to send us now? If it’s that island outside the harbour, then I won’t damn well go. How do they expect us to get into the city from there?’
‘It’s not Camp Wightman, Robert.’ Rowell paused and looked around the room. ‘It’s Washington.’
‘Well, I’ll be damned.’ It was O’Connell who spoke first. His arms uncrossed and he stepped forward before leaning his hand on the back of a chair. ‘Tomorrow, you say?’
‘Yes. Just ourselves and K Company for now. The rest of the regiment will follow. Colonel Scanlon and Major Bridges will be with us, whilst Lieutenant Colonel Murphy will have command here. We will travel with the 6th and—’
‘Now why are we going with that bunch of langers?’ O’Connell snorted with disdain at the idea. ‘The 6th are nothing but a pile of shite.’
Rowell had to swallow hard before he dared to continue. ‘Those are the orders. We parade first thing, with the 6th.’ He paused and glanced anxiously at O’Connell before carrying on. ‘There will be a ceremony. The Governor will give a speech. General Butler will be there too. We have the honour of being some of the very first regiments sent to secure the capital.’
Jack presumed the 6th were another regiment of volunteer militia. He was impressed. If he understood matters correctly, it had been just a few days since the militia had been called out, yet already they were ready to march to defend the capital against the Southern army.
‘Why just two companies?’ he asked. Every face turned to look at him.
‘We’re the best-trained companies in the regiment.’ Rowell’s chest puffed out as he made the bold claim. ‘The enemy is just the other side of the Potomac river and could attack Washington any day now. If they do, it will be down to us to save the capital.’
‘If we get there in time.’ Jack could not help the laconic reply.
Rowell smiled any hint of doubt away. ‘We’ll be there in time, Sergeant Lark. The Governor has arranged for us to board a train in the afternoon after a little celebration on the common.’
Clearly, the idea of a grand send-off sat well in Rowell’s mind. To Jack’s eye, the commander of his new company looked the part, but he appeared to be lacking any substance behind the fine facade. His two lieutenants seemed even less ready to play the parts they had been assigned. Robert Kearney was more interested in what he had picked out of his ear, and the company’s other lieutenant, a bespectacled young man who looked more like a clerk than a soldier, spent most of his time gazing wistfully out of the window. Only the sergeants had really given Rowell their fullest attention.
They too were a mixed bunch. First Sergeant O’Connell, the most senior non-commissioned officer in the company, had four other sergeants to assist him. Jack was now one of them. He had yet to be introduced to the other three, but judging by their expressions when they had turned to stare at him, not one of them was delighted to see him there.
‘We’ll travel to New York overnight.’ Rowell paid little attention to his two lieutenants and spent most of his time looking rather anxiously at First Sergeant O’Connell. ‘From there we’ll go to Philadelphia, then on to Baltimore and finally to Washington itself.’
Jack listened carefully. The place names meant little to him and he added a map to the list of important information he required. Already that list was growing. Yet he had no doubts. Despite the welcome he had received from O’Connell, it felt good to be back in an army, even if it was one that was foreign to him.
Rowell was still talking through the arrangements for the following day, but Jack found his attention drawn to Robert Kearney, who was now cleaning his nails. He worked methodically, moving from one to the next, but Jack could see his hands trembling. Only time would tell whether it was from excitement or barely concealed fear. Jack knew he would have to find out which. He had accepted the place in the company to comply with Kearney’s request to look after Robert. He would need to know a lot more about the young man if he was going to have a chance of keeping him safe.
‘Sergeant Lark?’
‘Sir.’ Jack had not seen Rowell’s attention shift to him, yet he gave no hint of surprise in his steady reply. It had been a long time since he had served in the ranks, but he still knew how to deal with an officer.
‘We cannot have you looking like that at the parade tomorrow. We’ve got plenty of uniforms in the store.’ Rowell smiled. ‘It’s about time you were one of us.’
Jack stood in the side room and smoothed out the creases in the waist-length uniform jacket that he had just put on. It had clearly been in storage for a while, and it would take him some time to make himself look as presentable as he knew a sergeant should.
It felt good to be wearing a uniform again. The 1st Boston’s was a smart dark blue, with a single row of brass buttons down the front of the jacket. Jack’s bore the three light-blue chevrons of a sergeant on each sleeve. The trousers were dark grey, with a single red stripe running down the seams. He had kept his own boots, declining the chance
to take a new pair, knowing full well that it would be impossible to break them in before they left. He had been an infantryman for long enough to know that of all his equipment, his boots were the most vital. He had no intention of starting his time in the Union army with feet rubbed raw.
The uniform was completed with a soft forage cap that reminded him of the kepi he had worn in the French Foreign Legion. There was no mirror in the small room where he had changed, so he did his best to check his appearance in the reflection he could make out in the window glass. It felt odd not to be dressed as an officer, but overall he was pleased with how he looked. The uniform might not be as smart, or as well tailored, as that of a British army officer, but at least he looked like a soldier once again.
‘Are you ready, Sergeant?’
Jack smiled at the use of his new rank. Robert Kearney had arrived to collect him from his changing room. The young officer had attended to his own appearance and was wearing a clean jacket, his hair slicked back against his skull. He no longer looked like an exhausted rake come home from a night of debauchery. Instead he was the fresh-faced subaltern Jack had expected. He also looked dreadfully young.
‘How old are you, Lieutenant?’ Jack asked as he shut the door to the anteroom behind him.
‘Nearly twenty.’
Jack smiled at the reply. At Robert’s age, he himself had been a redcoat for over a year. They had been good, simple days, when his life had been mapped out for him. He did not regret the chaotic world he had lived in since, but a part of him longed to be back in a time when past decisions did not dog his every step.
‘So tell me about the company.’ He shook off the musings and focused his attention on the business at hand. It was time to get to work.
‘Well, we have eighty-one privates.’ Robert led them into the main body of the hall. ‘We had eighty-two, but we lost one when his mother came to take him home.’
Jack nodded. He was slowly becoming accustomed to the nature of his new unit. It was a homespun affair and little like the company of redcoats he had first joined as a fresh recruit over a decade before.
The True Soldier: Jack Lark 6 Page 8