The True Soldier: Jack Lark 6

by Paul Fraser Collard

  ‘I had no choice.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I was a slave. We don’t get to choose.’

  ‘You were a slave?’ Her answer caught him unprepared.

  ‘I was born into it. My mother and father were both slaves, so that meant I became one.’

  ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘My mother died of sickness after I was born. My father is still down Charleston way, as far as I know.’

  ‘In the South?’

  Rose looked at him in disapproval, like a mother regarding a child who had repeatedly failed to spell his own name correctly.

  ‘How did you leave?’ Jack tried a different question.

  Again Rose did not answer. Her hand strayed to the series of scars on her face and she looked away, as if staring at an object on the far side of the room. His own hand twitched, moving just a fraction as he felt a burning desire to reach out and touch the scars for himself. He wondered what it would be like to feel them, to run his fingertips along their length.

  Rose focused back on his face and her hand dropped to her side. She saw where his gaze was directed and scowled. ‘I escaped. People, good people, helped me to come here to Boston. I went to the black school. They educated me and got me a place with Mr Kearney.’ She was glaring at him now. ‘You should think about what you’re doing here.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You need to think about what you’re fighting for.’ Her scowl deepened. ‘There ain’t no future in being a mercenary. You need more than that.’

  Jack opened his mouth to reply, but before he could speak, a voice called his name.

  ‘Jack! I’ve been looking all over for you.’

  He saw Kearney approaching and lifted a hand in greeting. When he looked back to say something to Rose, she was gone.

  ‘What do you think of the troops?’ Kearney asked as he made his way to stand with Jack. Many heads turned their way, the soldiers and their families all clearly aware of the man’s importance in the city.

  ‘We’re not ready. We’ve not had enough time to train them.’ Jack did not shirk from offering the criticism.

  ‘Well, that doesn’t matter, at least not for the moment.’ Kearney brushed off the remark. ‘Washington is exposed and needs protection. There will be time for more drill when you are there.’

  ‘It might not be enough,’ Jack answered quickly. He could not help looking away to search the room for Rose.

  ‘You are still better than those Southrons. The Confederates are never going to put up much of a fight. They might shout and yell, but they do not have the discipline to be soldiers. They are just a damn rabble.’ Kearney made sure to speak loudly enough so that all in the vicinity could hear his opinion.

  ‘Let’s hope so.’ Jack could see there was no point in gainsaying his sponsor.

  ‘Good fellow.’ Kearney clapped his hand on Jack’s shoulder, then bent forward so that he could speak more candidly, the words for Jack alone. ‘You will not forget why you are here, will you?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Jack matched the older man’s tone.

  ‘Protect my son. Whatever it takes.’ The words were fierce, as was the glare sent Jack’s way. ‘You must protect him.’ The instruction was hissed for a second time before Kearney pulled away. He beamed at Jack, the smile warm. None of it reached his eyes.

  ‘Ah! Here comes Elizabeth. I shall let you speak with her for a moment. I need to talk to Scanlon before the parade.’

  His message delivered, Kearney was clearly keen to move on, and was already easing his way through the crowd before Jack could say anything in way of reply.

  ‘So there you are, Jack. I was wondering where you had been hiding.’ Elizabeth closed in on him before he could gather his thoughts. ‘I thought you might be avoiding me.’

  ‘Why would I do that?’ Jack forgot all about Elizabeth’s father and his orders. He was pleased she had addressed him by his given name. He hoped it meant she had forgiven him for failing to fully answer her enquiries about her brother’s death.

  ‘I was afraid I had annoyed you with my questions. Besides, men do it all the time. Us womenfolk are not important.’

  Jack could not help a short bark of laughter. He could not imagine there was a man alive who would ignore Elizabeth.

  ‘Now you are laughing at me.’

  ‘I apologise.’ He searched Elizabeth’s eyes. They sparkled with life and were looking into his with what he read as amusement and pleasure. She gave every impression of liking him, yet there was something guarded in her gaze. He had the feeling that nothing was as it seemed with her. She was beautiful, that was obvious, but he was certain that the real person was very carefully hidden from view.

  She angled her body, hiding her hand then slipping it forward, taking his into a warm grip. Instinctively he tried to pull it away, but she held fast and he could not act more forcefully without drawing attention to them both. He saw her frown as she squeezed his fingers. One was crooked, a gift from a London villain, and he felt her hand slide over it.

  ‘I broke it.’ He spoke quietly, letting none of the emotions she stirred reveal themselves. ‘In London.’ He remembered how he had stood powerless, a seventeen-inch steel bayonet pressed hard against his kidneys.

  ‘It must have hurt.’

  ‘Like you wouldn’t believe.’

  ‘Rose told me you had been in the wars.’

  Jack laughed. ‘You’ve been talking about me?’

  ‘Of course. What are ladies to do if not talk about menfolk?’

  Again Jack saw something else in her stare. The notion of Rose and Elizabeth talking about him was at once both uncomfortable and flattering.

  ‘She told me about your scars.’ Elizabeth’s mouth moved in a smile. ‘She said you have a lot.’

  ‘Enough.’

  Elizabeth’s hand retreated. He wondered if it was due to the coldness in his response.

  ‘I do believe I have made you cross, and that is not fair, not on such a day as this. You must think badly of me.’

  ‘I don’t know what to think of you, Elizabeth.’

  For the first time he saw some of her smile appear in her gaze. ‘I think that is a good thing.’ She looked away and ran her eyes around the room. A group of soldiers on the far side chose that moment to erupt in a series of cheers. ‘At least you are all in high spirits.’

  ‘The men are.’

  ‘Do you think it really will be over soon?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘I hope so. And then we can go back to being normal, although I hope Ethan stays in uniform. I rather like it.’

  Jack smiled at the remark. The world loved a soldier when the enemy was close. He reckoned their attitude would change if the much-longed-for battle turned out to be just the first in a long, protracted war.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ Rowell himself spared him from finding a reply. The captain had clambered onto an ammunition crate and now addressed the room. He was forced to shout to be heard. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please.’

  Slowly the noise subsided and all eyes turned to the splendid young officer.

  ‘Thank you.’ He gazed around the room, his habitual smile plastered across his face. ‘I am afraid that it falls to me to put an end to these happy moments. There is a schedule that we must adhere to, and so I must ask you to step aside so that my men can move outside and form up. We cannot keep the Governor waiting!’

  The crowd laughed on cue. Jack did not join in. He was trying not to stare at the revolver Rowell now wore holstered at his hip. He wanted it more than he could ever remember wanting anything. It would mark its owner out, the finely crafted firearm a bewitching mix of beauty and power. It was the weapon of a warrior. In battle men would see it and know that they fought against a man
who was something special.

  Once Jack had owned a fabulous curved sabre called a talwar. It had been a beautiful thing, created by the finest swordsmith for an Indian maharajah. He had carried it into battle with pride, knowing that the men he fought would see it and wonder quite how and why a British officer carried it. He had lost the weapon in the desperate struggle to stay alive the day the mutineers rode into Delhi. At the time he had not given it much thought, the horror of that bitter day leaving no room for regret at losing a simple possession. Now he felt its absence keenly. Such a weapon would mark him out as a warrior, or at least as something other than a lowly mercenary. And he wanted that distinction; craved it even. He wanted the world to know what he was.

  Elizabeth rapped him on the forearm to regain his attention. ‘You do not have much conversation.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Jack forced his attention back to the woman in front of him.

  ‘You will have to improve by the next time I come to visit.’

  ‘The next time?’ Jack did not understand the comment.

  ‘We shall be moving to our house in Washington. Father wants to be closer to the main affairs.’ There was a moment’s pause as Elizabeth tried to read his expression. ‘You will not get rid of me so very easily.’

  ‘I would never want to be rid of you.’ Jack gave the gallant reply. It was easily said.

  Elizabeth laughed at something she saw in his expression. She would not be given time to say more. The men were streaming past them now, bustling and jostling as they went to obey Rowell’s instructions. It was time to end the goodbyes and prepare for the parade that would finish with the 1st Boston leaving the city and heading for war.

  ‘I shall see you soon, Jack Lark.’ Elizabeth’s hand reached out to brush against his arm before she turned and slipped into the crowd that was following the soldiers out of the door.

  Jack watched her for as long as he could. It was only when she was hidden from view that he caught a glimpse of Rose. She was looking directly at him, slowly shaking her head.

  The company marched through streets lined with people. Jack imagined that every single citizen of Boston had come out to see the celebration. The pavements, and much of the streets themselves, were packed with men, women and children. All cheered or clapped as the troops marched by, their enthusiasm infectious. Many of the women were wearing small Stars and Stripes on their bosoms, or rosettes of red, white and blue, whilst the younger girls sported small flower bouquets. Many waved flags, the miniature Stars and Stripes matching the bright bunting strung from one side of the street to the other. It was a gay display, a riot of noise and colour, and the men of A Company paraded through it all with their heads held high.

  Although the men marched smartly, to Jack’s eye they still looked ragged, the spaces between the ranks and files uneven and more than one man marching completely out of time with his fellows. His former colour sergeants would have had a fit, but by the standards he had seen already, the troops were rising to the occasion.

  K Company did not appear to have reached any higher standard of drill. The other men from the 1st Boston ordered to Washington had arrived outside Faneuil Hall behind Gilmore’s Band and Mooney’s Juvenile Drum Corps, the musicians charged with adding still more noise to the day’s cacophony. Shortly afterwards, the ten companies of the 6th Massachusetts Militia joined them, their long column filling most of Dock Square.

  The Drum Corps now led the way, with the twelve militia companies following in column, the men marching to the mesmeric beat, or at least trying their best to do so. It did not take long for the procession to reach the State House on Beacon Street. There its progress was stopped, the crowd so dense that the men could simply not march through it. The roars of the onlookers seemed to double in intensity as the men stood and waited for the city officials to clear the way. Men and boys ran forward to shake the soldiers’ hands, and in the span of no more than a couple of minutes nearly every one had been given a rosette or a miniature flag with which to adorn their uniform.

  So it was a much jollier-looking column that finally resumed the march. Not one man minded the delay, the time well spent in cheering or waving at pretty girls in the crowd. Even Jack smiled when one girl in a green and cream dress braved the catcalls and good-natured jeering, and darted forward to plant a kiss on James Thatcher’s cheek, much to the delight of Amos, who stood at his side and whooped with joy as his brother’s face turned bright scarlet.

  The column pressed on along Beacon Street, the full ranks of each company filling it from kerb to kerb. They wheeled at Charles Street then marched onto Boston Common. The crowds were no thinner here, but there was a good amount of open space kept clear in front of a small stage erected for the morning’s events. The men re-formed, and it did not take long for the column to turn into several long ranks that faced the stage.

  Jack stood in his allotted place and waited for the first of the day’s speeches. He was warm in his new uniform, the march long enough to start him sweating. He was out of condition, his body soft after so long away from campaigning. He wondered how long it would take for him to get fitter, and how painful a process it would be. He was most certainly no longer the lean young redcoat who had first impersonated an officer at the Battle of the Alma.

  The great crowd had used the pause in events to throng around the twelve companies. They now formed one great mass that encircled the blue-clad soldiers, the younger members of the crowd pushing and jostling their way to the front to be able to see. To a great cheer, a group of dignitaries took their place on the stage. Jack watched them arrive with interest. Two men were dressed in uniform, whilst the rest wore formal frock coats and hats. All were old and walked with the air of statesmen.

  ‘Who’s that leading the way?’ he whispered to Robert, whose place in the company required him to stand close to Jack behind the two lines of men.

  ‘Why, that’s the Governor, John Andrew, a fine fellow. He came to dinner with us last month. Ate like a trencherman.’

  ‘And that fellow in uniform?’

  ‘That’s General Butler. He commands all the Massachusetts militia.’

  The man who had ordered the 1st Boston to Washington was not much to look at. He was bald on the top of his head, but still had rich, flowing hair on both the back and sides, with a small, neat moustache on his top lip.

  Jack was not given time to ask any more questions. The first sergeants called their men to order, the loud barks of command enough to quell much of the crowd’s noise save for a low murmur of whispered conversation. The Governor moved forward to take his place at the front of the small stage. There he paused to look around his audience, giving them time to settle. Only when the last of the conversations had died away did he begin to speak.

  ‘I thank you all for coming this day. I must start by congratulating you on your splendid achievements to this date. In just a few days we have men ready and equipped for the campaign, and I think we can all rightly be proud of that effort.’

  As if reacting to a cue, the audience clapped the opening words, a few hearty cheers and hear-hears thrown in for good measure. The Governor was clearly comfortable in front of such a large audience. He spoke loudly and clearly, his voice carrying easily over the body of troops, although Jack was sure that much of the vast crowd would struggle to hear a single word.

  His first lines delivered, the Governor paused and focused his attention on the soldiers standing in front of him. He looked suitably sombre, but he clearly relished the attention he was getting. ‘Yesterday you were citizens; today you are heroes. Your country has called on you to join this great endeavour, and you have responded most courageously to that call. On behalf of the people of Massachusetts, and of this most wonderful city of Boston, I thank you.’

  More cheers came then. The large crowd knew their role in the proceedings well enough and they responded to their Gov
ernor’s words with gusto. Jack felt no urge to join in. The crowd’s passion was something new to him, and he could only wonder at such fervour in a nation state that was still so young. He wished he could return in a few months, or even years, to see if the good men and women of Boston could maintain their enthusiasm for the cause. The city had done wonderfully to have so many regiments ready for the start of the campaign. But how many more would be needed before the war was done? How many more times would the crowd assemble in this same place to send more of their young men off to the battlefield? Would they do so with the same passion? Or would the flags and bunting be replaced by black banners and posters protesting for the war’s end?

  ‘It would have been wrong of us not to mark your parting for the seat of war, and I thank you for giving us this opportunity to do so.’ The Governor spoke only when most of the cheers had died away. ‘This land of ours owes you a debt that will take a long time to discharge, and you will be remembered for generations to come as the brave men who stood up against those who would see this great nation of ours torn asunder. I understand that many of you derive your origin, either by birth or descent, from another country than this. For this is the great unifying design at the very heart of our nation.’

  He paused and pumped one fist into the palm of his other hand, his passion rising with every word. ‘The United States of America knows no distinction between its native-born citizens and those born in other countries. We do not discriminate against those who hold religious views different to our own and we shall not tolerate those who seek to divide us simply by the colour of the skin with which we are born. In all of us flows the blood of a common humanity, and into our hearts, by the inspiration of the Almighty, has been breathed a common understanding. We are one people. We are one nation under God.’

  There were huge cheers now, enough to make the Governor step back, as if he were astonished by the power of his own words. After several long moments, he lifted his hands for silence. He was roundly ignored and the cheers continued unabated, the crowd revelling in their role. It was enough to make the Governor laugh before he tried for a second time to quieten them down. Eventually he hushed them enough to continue.