‘We have two musicians. Then there are eight corporals and four of you sergeants.’
Jack was keeping tally. With O’Connell, the two lieutenants, and Rowell as commanding officer, the company numbered just under one hundred men. Kearney had told him that there were ten companies in total, so that meant that the 1st Boston comprised just about a thousand men.
They were back in the main hall now, and he looked around him. The temporary barracks smelled just as he remembered. The stale odour of sweat and too many bodies living in a confined space lingered, even with the men gone. Underscoring the aroma was the residual stink of boot blacking, damp clothing and gun oil.
‘The men are at drill,’ Robert explained.
‘Where do you do that?’
‘There’s enough space in Dock Square. We drill there every morning. We draw a fair crowd too.’
‘You must be good.’
‘We’re getting there.’ Robert looked at Jack warily. ‘You want to see?’
‘Absolutely.’ Jack smiled at the polite question. He was a sergeant talking to an officer, yet anyone listening to the conversation would be hard pressed to believe the slight young man was superior to the taller, leaner one with stripes on his sleeve.
It was cold outside. The morning air was damp and the heavy grey skies promised only more rain. Jack could smell the faraway aroma of baking bread, and from all around him came the sounds of a busy city at the start of another day.
He noticed the looks sent his way as he followed Robert out of Faneuil Hall. It was the way in which civilians regarded soldiers, a mix of admiration and distaste. It had been a while since he had felt such a gaze, and he could not help but straighten his spine and return the stares with the calm, knowing expression only a fighting man could possess.
It was a short walk, and he could hear the sounds of commands being shouted long before he caught sight of the men. He saw immediately that Robert’s claim that the company drew a fair number of spectators was false. No more than half a dozen young boys were standing watching. They formed a loud group as they mimicked the soldiers, and to Jack’s eyes were making a fair fist of showing up the company of blue-coated troops attempting to comply with the orders that were being shouted their way.
He could not recall seeing a body of men as poor at their drill. Not even raw redcoats made such a mess of the simple commands the company’s other lieutenant was reading from a manual. A few of the men had resorted to shoving a scrap of paper into one boot, an attempt, Jack guessed, to help them tell their left from their right.
It was not just the drill that failed to inspire. At least half a dozen of the men looked old enough to have fought in the war of 1812, if not the one fought for independence from Britain. Many of the others looked so young that they would not have stood out had they been playing with the group of boys aping the soldiers’ movements. A couple of the men were obviously struggling to move with anything approaching a military demeanour, and at least one looked to be on his last legs.
Jack stopped Robert by tugging on his arm. ‘You sure this lot are one of the two best-trained companies in the regiment?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Robert’s eyes narrowed as he acknowledged Jack’s scornful tone. ‘We may not look like much to a grand old soldier like you, but I bet Johnny Reb will turn tail once he sees what he is up against.’
Jack searched Robert’s face for some sign of irony. He saw nothing but the complacent gaze of a bullock waiting to be led to the army’s butchers. ‘You really believe that?’
‘Sure I do.’
Jack let it go. He knew he would only be wasting his breath. He turned his attention to his new company. The officer with the manual had just ordered them to form a column. Judging by the confused melee in front of him, it was not a manoeuvre A Company had perfected. Jack searched the ranks and saw that neither O’Connell nor Rowell was present, nor were any of his fellow sergeants. He wondered if that could be the reason why the men were performing so poorly.
He left Robert and strode closer to the men, who were barging each other out of the way as they fought to form up. The performance was accompanied by shouts and bellowed curses. It took nearly a minute for any sort of cohesion to emerge from the chaos.
‘Forward, march!’
The command was called out with little conviction. It was all Jack could do not to snort as the men started to shuffle forward in what he could only describe as a half-arsed amble.
He approached the lieutenant commanding the drill. The bespectacled officer glanced up from the page he was following.
‘Are you one of mine?’
Jack could only smile. It could not have been more than an hour since he had sat in the same briefing as the junior officer. ‘Yes. I’m the new man.’
‘Ah, yes, of course. Kearney’s Englishman.’
Jack frowned at the title. He was no one’s man, but this was not the time to pick an argument with one of his new commanders. ‘We weren’t introduced properly.’ He held out a hand. ‘Jack Lark.’
The lieutenant took a moment to balance his textbook in one hand, then shook Jack’s with a limp and unenthusiastic grip. ‘Francis Clancy.’
Jack did his best not to react to the man’s damp paw. Instead he turned his attention to the manual. ‘What book is that?’
The lieutenant turned it so that Jack could read the title: Rifle and Light Infantry Tactics, written by a brevet lieutenant colonel called Hardee. He had never heard of it. He could not imagine any of his former sergeants relying on a book. They had known every facet of the drill they taught, every detail imprinted deep in their souls. He wondered what they would make of A Company.
He looked back towards the men. They were strolling quite happily down the street that he reckoned led towards the docks. He turned back to look at Clancy, who he supposed would give the order for them to halt before they disappeared. The lieutenant, however, was deep in thought, his finger tracing the lines on the next page of the manual.
‘Lieutenant?’
‘Hmm.’ The officer did not look up.
‘Say something to the men, sir, even if it’s just goodbye.’
‘What’s that?’ Clancy finally looked up and spotted his men moving down the slope. ‘Oh, hell and damnation. Stop, you fools! You there, stop!’
The men came to a shuffling halt, those in the rear ranks turning to stare balefully at their officer, who was now gesticulating furiously at his fellow lieutenant. ‘For goodness’ sake, Robert, could you not have stopped them?’
Robert was leaning against a lamp post as he watched his company with an amused eye. ‘I thought you had them under control, Frannie.’
‘Why the devil would you think that?’ Clancy squawked.
‘About-face.’ Jack muttered the command quietly.
‘What’s that, Lark?’ Clancy matched Jack’s quiet tone.
‘Tell the men to about-face, Lieutenant.’ Jack tried not to smile.
The officer looked at him, his brow furrowed as he caught a whiff of Jack’s amusement. ‘We are learning, Sergeant Lark. We do not claim to know it all; that is why we are practising, why we are all practising.’ He looked away. ‘Company, about-face!’ he called, then smiled at Jack. ‘But I thank you for the advice. I rather like what you said just now. I think I shall make a note of it. It will work very well in my journal.’ He dug into a pocket and fished out a notebook and pencil, which he laid on his open drill manual before scribbling a quick note.
‘Heh, Lieutenant, are we done?’ The voice came from the rearmost rank.
Jack located the man who had called out. It was O’Dowd, the tall Irishman with blackened lips courtesy of Jack’s fist.
‘Give me a moment longer.’ The officer slipped his notebook away and resumed scanning the pages of his manual.
The men were clea
rly not of a mind to wait. O’Dowd and a couple of others fell out and started to walk back to their starting point.
‘You men there.’ Clancy spotted the movement. ‘Stay in the ranks.’
‘For the love of Christ, sir.’ O’Dowd ignored the command. ‘We’ve been marching back and forth for bleeding ages. Can we not have a rest now?’
Jack watched the exchange, fighting to hold his tongue. The instinct to snap at the soldier was almost irresistible. But these were not yet his men and so he kept quiet.
‘I have not dismissed you. The manual is very clear on that point.’ Clancy peered back at the text. ‘I must give you the command to break ranks.’
‘Well, sir,’ O’Dowd did not bother to look at his officer as he walked past, ‘you shout out the command when you’re good and ready, and you’ll find me and the boys have obeyed it already.’
The Irishman found himself a spot, then sat down, his equipment and musket dumped unceremoniously on the ground. The rest of the company took it upon themselves to follow suit.
‘Do you always just let the men do what they want?’ Jack asked the pair of young lieutenants.
‘Not always.’ Robert seemed blithely unconcerned by the men’s actions.
‘And you don’t feel the need to tell them not to sit down whenever it pleases them?’
‘Not as a rule.’ Robert smiled at something he saw in Jack’s expression. Jack was saved from saying anything more as First Sergeant O’Connell appeared, walking towards them with two large paper bags in his arms.
‘What have you got there, First Sergeant?’ One of the men had spotted O’Connell’s arrival.
The first sergeant walked past his two officers without acknowledging their presence and made for the men lounging on the ground, his face creased into a smile. ‘A little gift from O’Donahue’s bakery.’ He handed the two sacks to a couple of the men who had got to their feet as he approached. ‘Something for the boys.’
With his treat delivered, O’Connell finally turned his attention to the officers. ‘What’s the matter with you pair?’
‘The drill did not go well, First Sergeant.’ Clancy peered over the top of his spectacles as he answered, before pushing them higher up his nose with his forefinger. ‘Not well at all.’
‘Well, never mind. Let the boys have their buns, then try again.’
‘Would you care to stay and assist?’ Clancy could not hide a trace of nervousness at making the request.
‘I’m sure you’ll do just fine without me.’ O’Connell barely looked at his lieutenant. He clapped his hands. ‘I’ll let you get back to work.’
‘First Sergeant O’Connell.’ Jack spoke only after O’Connell had started to walk away.
‘Sergeant Lark.’ O’Connell gritted his teeth as he replied.
‘The men are in dire need of instruction.’
‘The men are doing just fine.’
‘How would you know if you are not here?’
O’Connell shook his head. ‘You still don’t get it, do you?’
‘Get what?’
‘What we are. What we are about.’
‘What are you about?’ Jack could not help the snap in his tone.
‘My boys are volunteers. They’re not forced to fight. They’re not here out of desperation. They’re here because they love this country. They’re here because they believe in this cause.’
‘That’s not enough. Belief won’t help you on a battlefield.’
‘Won’t it now?’ O’Connell raised an eyebrow as he questioned Jack’s statement. ‘It helped us beat you damn Limeys back in the day. We hadn’t had much training then either.’
‘Your men need to be trained if they are going to fight.’ Jack spoke with conviction. He did not agree with O’Connell’s argument.
‘Oh, they’ll fight. We’ll just blunt their edge if we train them too hard.’
‘Blunt their edge!’ Jack could not help his voice rising as he reacted to the first sergeant’s complacency. To his eyes, A Company had as much edge as a sloppy shit. ‘How are they going to fight if they don’t know what they’re doing? This won’t be some brawl on a street corner.’
‘They know what to do. They don’t need us telling them how to stand up to those Southron bastards.’ O’Connell took a few steps so that he stood nose to nose with Jack. ‘Let us get something straight, Sergeant Lark. This is my company. We’re not some child-murdering machine like the fecking English. We’re Americans and we’re damn proud of that. You might not like the way we do things, but—’
Jack stopped O’Connell in full flow. ‘It’s not about liking.’ He was shorter than his superior, but he did not flinch from the challenge and glared at the man, his words coming out as hard as iron. ‘When the enemy marches against you, and your men are shitting themselves in fear, it’s discipline that’ll hold them in the ranks and keep them doing their job. They need to know what to do without thinking, so that when half of them are stretched out on the ground, the rest of them will keep on fighting.’
‘Oh, my boys’ll stand. They won’t turn tail and run like your lot did back in the day.’ O’Connell glanced across at the troops. Every man in the company was watching the exchange, eyes riveted on the two sergeants, who looked just about ready to brawl. ‘So you keep your advice to yourself from now on. Do what you’re told and keep your fecking nose out of running my company. Is that clear, Sergeant Lark?’
Jack said nothing, even as O’Connell glared at him for several long moments before turning and marching away. He could almost hear the two lieutenants give a sigh of relief as their uncompromising non-commissioned officer left them. O’Connell was a man sure of his own mind and secure in his ability to dominate anyone who confronted him. It made him dangerous. For Jack knew him to be wrong. Courage and belief in a cause only went so far, and the men would need more than that when they fought. Much more.
Despite O’Connell’s words, Jack would not hide from what he saw had to be done. He would do his damnedest to get A Company ready, even if that meant going toe to toe with the first sergeant.
He turned and looked over the men sitting on the ground taking a barely earned rest. If they were amongst the Union’s best-trained troops, then God alone knew what Lincoln’s new army of seventy thousand volunteers would be like.
He could not help sighing as he turned to address the two lieutenants. ‘Mr Clancy. Mr Kearney. Shall we get the men back to their feet?’
It was time to start making his mark.
Jack sat in the quiet storeroom, savouring a moment’s peace. It was hard to believe he had been in Boston for less than two full days. Yet here he was, in the midst of a volunteer army about to go to war for reasons he still didn’t fully understand.
The rest of the morning, and much of the afternoon, had been spent drilling the men. They had not enjoyed it, and he was pretty sure he was already hated by at least half of them, but he had begun to see some improvement, the first sight of what they could be emerging from the lacklustre, lazy performance he had witnessed that morning. Despite their quickness to disobey their superiors, he was certain the men could be as good as those in any of the other companies in which he had served. They just needed to have some discipline instilled. When they had that, they would take some beating.
He was also beginning to understand O’Connell’s fierce affection for his men. They had a spirit he could not recall having seen before, elan that even the hard-bitten legionnaires he had fought alongside at Solferino would be hard pressed to match. O’Connell had defined it as belief, and Jack was starting to see just what he had meant. The men truly believed in what they would be fighting for. Not one of them was there out of desperation, one of the prime motivations that led many a new redcoat into the ranks of the British army. They were there because they wanted to protect the Union, a cause th
ey served with obvious devotion. If they could just learn how to fight, they would be one hell of a unit.
The men had eaten a good dinner at the end of the day; the company was well supplied by local tradesmen keen to be seen to be doing their bit to support their soldiers. They were now at leisure, but Jack had been dispatched to the warehouse in a side street not far from Faneuil Hall where much of A Company’s equipment was housed. He had been ordered to check through the latest deliveries and tally them back to the company’s books.
It was a task he remembered well from his time as a company captain, and one he had done all he could to avoid back then. He could read and write passably well, a legacy of his mother’s rudimentary instructions and the generosity of the colonel of his first regiment, but it was not something that came easily, and he knew he was lamentably slow, even all these years later. But he was pleased to be given the task. It would give him a chance to go through the muster records and begin to learn the names of the men in his new company, something that would be of paramount importance if he were ever to be effective in his new rank.
Now that he had arrived in the company store, it appeared that he had a Herculean task ahead of him. A bewildering array of equipment had been delivered and the storeroom was crammed full of crates, boxes, barrels and sacks. He was surrounded by new uniforms, percussion caps, bayonets, buttons, powder, tents, skillets, haversacks, canteens, tin mugs, blankets, boot polish, hemp line, webbing belts, brushes and the first deliveries of field rations, all of which needed sorting and checking. It was a huge task, but not one that he would be left to complete alone.
‘Ah, there you are.’ Robert Kearney opened the door and came inside.
‘Here I am.’ Jack was pleased to see his officer. He had been told to wait for Robert, but a part of him had been dubious that the lieutenant would turn up now that evening had arrived, and with it a good number of invitations to dine or attend functions organised by the good citizens of Boston to fete the men who now found themselves in uniform. ‘Did you not have somewhere else to be?’ He half remembered a comment about an event at some respectable house that evening.
The True Soldier: Jack Lark 6 Page 9