Jack followed him. If anything, the smell inside was worse than the stench of the alleyway. As soon as he walked in, the pungent whiff of piss and sweat mixed with the heady aroma of fresh vomit and stale bodies to create a stink of debauchery so fetid that he nearly choked on it.
The crib itself appeared to consist of little more than a single wide room with a great slab of wood forming a bar at one end and a bench that extended around the walls. Jack saw three dishevelled barkeeps working the crowd that thronged the bar. Nearly every customer was competing to be served. Their demanding cries added to the general hubbub. Men shouted and bawled at one another, every conversation carried out at full volume. There were no tables and many of the patrons simply thronged together in closely packed clumps that left little space for anyone to move around.
‘You come here a lot?’ Jack was forced to shout the question directly into Robert’s ear.
‘It’s not my favourite, but it’s cheap and it offers an interesting form of entertainment. Just don’t talk to the whores. A finer set of jilt girls cannot be found between here and New York.’
‘Jilt girls?’ Jack asked as he scanned the room. He saw nothing to tempt him to stay there a moment longer than was necessary. Even the rookeries of his youth could not compare to the Fiddling Sailor.
‘They’ll lead you a merry dance and promise you an array of delights, but they’ll be off with your money before delivering on any of them.’
Jack grunted. He had known girls who played the same trick. Jilt girls, B-girls, teasers or just lazy whores, the game was the same.
The crowd in the crib was mixed. Coloured men and women mingled with the sailors, soldiers and longshoremen who made up the majority of the customers. Seated on the benches were a number of provocatively dressed women of all ages and colour, whilst at the side of the room a couple of Negro musicians played a jaunty quadrille on a fiddle and base viol.
‘Look over there.’ Robert threw out an arm and pointed to a far corner, nearly catching a heavily bearded fellow in the face as he did so.
Jack followed the pointing finger. Seated at the room’s only table was perhaps the fattest woman he had ever seen. She was wearing a scrap of a dress that left her half naked, and a throng of admirers were competing with one another for her attention. As Jack watched, one of them, a skinny old man with barely a scrap of hair left on his head, dived across the table and grabbed one of the woman’s enormous breasts with both hands. The crowd bayed with laughter at the attempt, their cries and yells doubling in volume as the woman slapped the old fool away with a hand as big as a dinner plate.
Jack had seen enough. ‘Let’s find our boys and get out of here.’
‘You don’t want to stay?’ Robert laughed at Jack’s expression.
‘No.’
‘You really should. Watching Fat Sally at play is great sport.’
‘I’m sure it is.’ Jack had seen his fair share of freaks in London. He had no desire to see any more.
‘They’re over there if you must speak with them. Although from what I can see, there is no sign of any damn trouble.’ Robert pointed to a group of half a dozen blue-coated soldiers huddled together a short distance from one end of the bar.
Jack recognised three of them immediately. It was the same Irish lads who had greeted him so violently on his first day in the city. The other three also belonged to A Company.
‘I’m going to get a drink.’ Robert made to go to the bar. Jack grabbed his arm, steering him instead towards the men from their company. The lieutenant was spotted almost immediately.
‘Why, hello, sir! I said you might be joining us again.’ The tall Irishman with the blackened lips greeted his officer warmly, raising a tankard of ale in his direction.
‘Good evening, O’Dowd.’ Robert slid past another group of men and joined the soldiers’ circle. ‘Good evening, all.’ He beamed at each of the men in turn. ‘We heard there was trouble.’
‘Trouble!’ O’Dowd feigned surprise. He was a poor actor. ‘Only trouble here is getting served!’
His cronies laughed on cue. The merriment was cut short as Jack finally pushed his way close enough to be seen.
‘What the feck are you doing here, maggot?’ O’Dowd greeted him with a sneer.
‘We were told there was a fight,’ Jack replied evenly.
‘Was that little Amos? Why, the poor wee fella, he must have been quite worried. We had a little discussion with some boys from the 6th that came by.’ O’Dowd clearly enjoyed being the centre of attention, and he preened as he saw everyone in the small group looking his way. ‘I think they know not to come here again.’ He made a show of looking at his knuckles. They were bruised and bloodied.
‘Well done.’ Jack could not hold back the sarcastic reply. ‘Now drink up and go back to your barracks.’
‘Now why would we be doing that?’ O’Dowd’s reply was sharp.
‘Because you are under orders to parade first thing in the morning.’ Jack would not be cowed, even with six hostile stares sent his way.
‘Aye, we know that. That’s why we’re having ourselves a little drink before we go to war.’
‘And now you’ve done that. Finish those and leave.’
‘Are you giving us orders now?’
‘Yes.’
‘And why would you think we would be needing those?’ O’Dowd lifted his tankard to his lips and drained the last of the dark liquid it contained, then handed it to one of the other men in the group. ‘It’s your round, McSweeney. Make sure you get the lieutenant a drink while you are about it. But don’t worry yourself about Sergeant Lark. I don’t reckon he’ll be staying.’
‘Stay where you are.’ Jack snapped the command at the man now being handed tankards by the rest of the group. ‘You have a lot to say for yourself, O’Dowd. How about you and I take our discussion someplace else?’
‘We can talk just fine here.’ O’Dowd was unconcerned by Jack’s suggestion.
‘You need to learn to do as you are bloody told.’ Jack was forced to bellow as a nearby group of sailors suddenly roared with laughter.
‘Are you going to teach me, maggot?’ Spittle flecked O’Dowd’s lips as he snarled at Jack.
‘I’ll teach you the hard way if you’re too stupid to learn by any other.’ Jack kept a weather eye on the group of sailors, who were starting to take a growing interest in the blue-clad Irishmen.
‘Too stupid, is it!’ O’Dowd cackled. ‘It’s not me making threats in a place like this. You want to get your throat slit, maggot, then you’re going the right way about it.’
‘I’ll take my chances. Now, since you’ve finished your drink, it’s time to leave.’ Jack saw two or three of the sailors whispering and nodding in the soldiers’ direction. He did not need to have visited this particular bar before to know what was brewing, the brawl the Union soldiers claimed to have already won making it clear what kind of entertainment much of the crowd had come for.
‘I’m not taking orders from you, maggot.’ O’Dowd was oblivious to the sailors’ attention. ‘None of us joined up for that.’ He spat out the words so quickly, they slurred together. ‘We had enough of that sort of thing back in Kilkenny. You just leave us here and we’ll be seeing you in the morning.’ He smirked at Jack, then looked around his friends for support. ‘Isn’t that right, fellas?’
Jack took a deep breath. It was fast becoming time to stop talking and take action. But still he hesitated. He did not want to fight men he would one day have to stand alongside in battle, especially not with a group of sailors looking at them with obvious distaste.
He opened his mouth to give the order one more time, but before he could speak, someone barged into his back, throwing him forward and into the arms of the soldier carrying the group’s empty tankards. With his hands full, the man could do nothing to steady
himself, and the two of them went down together, the tankards and their dregs of ale sent flying as they hit the floor.
‘Heh!’ O’Dowd reacted instantly. ‘What the feck do you think you’re doing?’ He shoved the man who had barged into Jack, throwing him back against his own group.
‘You lot need to keep your voices down. We’re trying to drink over here,’ said one of the sailors. Jack recognised his accent. The man hailed from Merseyside. He likely worked on the same line that had brought Jack to Boston. No matter where he came from, though, it was clear that he was spoiling for a fight.
‘Feck you and your friends.’ O’Dowd turned and balled his hands into fists.
Jack saw the reaction. He had landed on top of the unfortunate soldier he had collided with, but the contact with the ground had still sent a flash of pain coursing through him as the point of his elbow hit the floorboards, and he was slow to get up.
‘Shut your mouth!’ the sailor roared back.
Jack scrabbled back to his feet, but he was up too late to stop O’Dowd. The rangy Irishman had both hands free and he used them to unleash a series of punches at the sailor. His fellow Irishmen needed no further urging to join the fight, and they piled in, fists flying.
‘Shit.’ There was time for Jack to spit out the single word before he was caught up in the melee. A stout man with a dark beard grabbed one of O’Dowd’s cronies and swung him violently to one side. It left him open to attack, and Jack did not need a second invitation. His fist rose sharply, catching the sailor directly on the nose. The man reeled backwards, hands covering his face, blood already starting to flow freely through his grasping fingers.
‘Fecking come on, then.’ O’Dowd reeled past Jack, his hands clasped around a sailor’s chest in an odd embrace. He had clearly seen Jack land his first blow and he cackled with delight at witnessing the Englishman join the scrap.
Jack had no idea what O’Dowd planned, but the man he clutched was hammering his fists down on top of O’Dowd’s head to stop whatever it might be. The blows sent the Irishman spinning away, his feet doing a merry dance.
‘You fool.’ Jack snarled the words, then punched hard. O’Dowd’s opponent never saw the blows coming. Jack’s right fist caught him on the side of the head with enough force to snap it to one side. The left followed a heartbeat later. It landed true on the sailor’s temple and knocked him from his feet as if someone had pulled his legs from under him.
‘Get up, you dolt.’ Jack hauled O’Dowd upright.
‘Good on you, maggot.’ The words came out as little more than gasps, then O’Dowd danced away again, his fists bunched as he threw himself back into the fight that now swirled around them both.
Jack turned on his heel and tried to make some sense of the confusing brawl. He looked for Robert and spotted him almost immediately. The young officer was doing his best to stay behind one of O’Dowd’s stouter companions. Two of the Irishmen had succumbed to the sailors’ fists. One lay flat on his back, his nose pouring blood. The second was bent double and crabbing away from the fight, sobbing as he fought for breath.
‘For fuck’s sake.’ Jack tried to get across to Robert, but the wide back of a fat man wearing a brown overcoat blocked his way. He had no idea on which side the man was fighting, but he did not care. He simply reached forward and grabbed the man’s collar before hauling backwards with enough of a jolt to topple him over. He stepped into the gap he had created in time to see O’Dowd batter a sailor to the ground with a series of well-placed punches to the gut.
Jack moved into the open space, making it to Robert’s side just before a tall sailor with close-cropped blonde hair. There was time to grab Robert’s shoulder and push him out of harm’s way before the sailor slammed into Jack, sending him reeling. This time, Jack kept his footing and twisted to one side before coming back at the man. The sailor was a head taller than Jack, and his body was lean and well muscled. Jack took one look at his new opponent, then punched hard, catching the man in the very centre of his midriff.
‘Fucking hell.’ He could not help the oath escaping his lips. It was like hitting teak.
The sailor grunted as he took the blow, then punched back. His giant fist slammed into Jack’s shoulder, half spinning him around. A second followed hard on the heels of the first, but this time Jack was aware of it coming, and twisted past the blow that would have caught him high in the ribs.
‘Fuck you.’ He unleashed a quick series of strikes, stepping into the blows that he aimed at the man’s gut. Each landed true, but he was rewarded with nothing more than a series of loud grunts. With his punches having no effect, he swayed instinctively to one side, expecting the man to lash out in retaliation. But instead, the blonde sailor grabbed him around the waist and prepared to throw him to one side. Jack felt the man’s hard fingers digging into his flesh as he took a firm hold. They hurt like the devil, but he ignored the pain and did the only thing he could think of.
He slammed his head forward. His forehead connected with the very centre of his opponent’s face. Blood erupted from the man’s nose in a spectacular fountain, much of it splattering across Jack’s face. He felt its heat on his cheeks, and his head rang from the vicious contact. Neither stopped him from driving his head forward for a second time, smashing it into the very same spot, the remains of his opponent’s nose crushed to pulp. This time he kept his head in place and pumped his legs, driving his weight forward so that he pushed his bleeding foe backwards. The taller man was hurting badly and could do nothing as Jack drove him from his feet. He fell away, his arms windmilling before he hit the ground on his back.
Jack staggered after him, head swimming and vision greying. He was only saved from a second ignominious fall by a pair of hands that hauled on his upper arms and pulled him backwards. He turned on the spot, panting, his opponent’s blood hot and salty on his lips, and found himself staring directly into the pugnacious face of First Sergeant O’Connell.
He was given no time to think on the appearance of the company’s most senior non-commissioned officer. O’Connell pushed him to one side, then stepped into the melee, fists raised. Jack let him go. He bent double, sucking down a few lungfuls of air before smearing a hand across his face.
There were few men left for O’Connell to fight. Jack watched him knock one sailor to the floor before grabbing another in a vicious headlock. Two sharp raps to the fellow’s crown ended his fighting for the evening, and O’Connell dropped the half-senseless man face down onto the floorboards.
The Irishmen cheered then. All were bloodied and a couple were finding it hard to get to their feet. Yet still they shouted out in victory as the group of sailors picked up their fallen friends before slipping away. Jack finally managed to straighten up, just as O’Connell pushed his way through the huddle of battered Irishmen and came to stand directly in front of him.
‘What the hell do you think you were doing?’ O’Connell’s face was flushed from his brief participation in the fight.
Jack’s shoulder and his head were hurting badly, and his elbow was throbbing painfully, but he would not show weakness in front of the first sergeant. ‘I was looking after the men.’
‘Looking after them, is it? Is that what you call this?’
Jack tried to read O’Connell’s expression, but failed. Life in the Fiddling Sailor was quickly returning to normal and the noise was already at its former level. The men from the 1st Boston were standing around their sergeants. Each man was grinning widely, and although all bore some reminder of the fight, with bloodied noses or bruised bodies, none were injured badly enough to stop them joining in the celebration of their second victory of the evening.
Jack focused his attention on his superior. O’Connell was staring at him, his chin thrust out and his eyes narrowed. ‘It’s my fault, First Sergeant, I should’ve tried harder to stop them.’
‘Stop them!’ O’Connell wa
s incredulous. ‘These are Irish boys, Lark. Irish boys don’t duck from a scrap.’
‘They fight well,’ Jack agreed.
‘Of course they fight well!’ O’Connell reached out and clapped Jack on the shoulder. ‘Didn’t I tell you that?’
Jack shook his head gingerly, his skull pounding after the pair of head butts he had delivered. ‘This isn’t the same as a bloody battle.’
O’Connell had left his hand on Jack’s shoulder, and now he squeezed. ‘We’ll learn what we have to learn.’ He paused. ‘Then we’ll kick the living shite out of those Southron feckers.’
Jack realised that something had changed in the first sergeant’s stare. He no longer saw disdain and dislike. Instead he saw approval. ‘They’ve a lot to learn.’ He was forced to shout.
‘Maybe.’ O’Connell gave the ground grudgingly. ‘You fought for my men, Lark.’ His fingers squeezed tighter. ‘I appreciate that, so I do.’
Jack glanced at Robert and remembered how the lieutenant had corrected him earlier that night. ‘Our men, First Sergeant, I fought for our men.’
O’Connell barked out a short laugh, then nodded. ‘Aye. They’re our men now.’ His face split into something that might have been a smile. ‘You’re still an English fecker, but maybe you’ll do.’
He turned on his heel and snatched the tankard from O’Dowd’s hand.
‘Here’s to the First!’ he bellowed, loud enough to make heads turn in their direction. ‘The first and the best!’
Jack had no tankard to lift, but he joined in the cheer that followed. It might have cost him a half-broken elbow and a cracked skull, but the fight had cemented his place in the company, or at least had started the process. It was enough for now. There was plenty of time.
But tomorrow they would take the first steps on the journey that would end on the battlefield. He could not help looking at the faces of the men standing around him and wonder which of them would return to their homes in the city, and which would end their days on the field of battle, their bodies broken and torn.
The True Soldier: Jack Lark 6 Page 11