‘Load!’
The car was soon filled with the rattle of ramrods. It was awkward to load the long rifle whilst seated, but the men got on with it with little enough fuss. Jack took his time. He had not had the chance to practise with the Springfield, but the drill was familiar enough. Even the cartridge itself was similar to the Minié bullet he had used before.
The cartridge was cleverly designed. It was conical in shape and just narrower than the barrel of the rifle so as to make it easy to load. The genius in its design made itself known when the charge it rested on was fired. Then the hollow bottom section of the bullet would deform and expand so that it fully gripped the rifling inside the barrel, spinning the bullet to make it more accurate whilst also trapping the full power of the exploding charge. It made the bullet wickedly effective, and Jack had seen dreadful damage done to the enemy’s ranks.
A loud clatter brought his attention back to the present. Amos Thatcher had dropped his ramrod and then kicked it under the seat in front of him. Jack did not need to look at the boy’s pale face and wide eyes to know what was affecting him. He got to his feet and moved across the car, bending forward as he did so to retrieve the fallen ramrod.
‘Here.’ He handed the whey-faced lad his own Springfield, then took the half-loaded rifle from the boy’s hands. It did not take him long to finish loading it, using the ramrod to give the bullet two good taps to make sure it was well seated against the charge at the bottom of the barrel. ‘Here you go. Put on your percussion cap, but for God’s sake don’t cock it.’
Jack handed the loaded rifle over, then took his own back, noting the sweaty marks Amos’s damp hand had left on the barrel. He turned to the boy’s brother, making sure that he was loaded too. The other sergeants started to move through the car, checking their men’s weapons.
The locomotive jolted then slowed as it advanced further into the outskirts of Baltimore. It was almost noon. The men of the 1st Boston were ready for their first fight of the campaign; a fight that would likely take place on Northern soil.
The streets were eerily quiet as the locomotive approached the President Street depot. The men were doing their best to sit calmly, but every set of eyes was riveted on the scene outside the windows. The troops were as primed and ready for trouble as their rifles. Now they had arrived and it appeared that no one was there to so much as shout a single insult their way.
‘Where is everyone?’ Major Bridges had chosen to stand next to Jack’s seat. Now he voiced the remark that was on everyone’s lips.
Jack shrugged. ‘Maybe it’s a fuss about nothing.’
‘It doesn’t feel like nothing.’ Bridges replied without taking his eyes off the window.
‘So what’s next?’ Jack craned his neck to try to see along one of the passing streets. He spotted nothing more dangerous than a butcher’s wagon parked outside a shop.
‘We have to switch locomotives.’ Bridges glanced at Jack. ‘The line going south leaves from Camden station, about a mile and a half west of here. The city officials have forbidden locomotives from crossing the city, so the railroad will uncouple us from the locomotive here, then use horses to haul each carriage through the streets to the other depot, where we will be reattached to another locomotive.’ Bridges was forced to hold tight to Jack’s seat as the train shuddered and bumped to a halt. Outside, a large number of railroad workers were coming forward to start the task of uncoupling the cars.
‘How long will all that take?’
‘Not long.’
As if on cue, the car jolted backwards. The railroad workers were nothing if not efficient. As the men from A Company watched, the depot was filled with activity. Some of the workers were swarming around the carriages, whilst others brought forward teams of horses. It did not take long for them to have the first cars ready to leave. They looked cumbersome now they had been detached from the locomotive. As Jack watched, the first one trundled out of the depot on tracks that he presumed led all the way through the city to the station where the other locomotive waited for them. The car moved slowly and Jack could see dozens of faces pressed against its windows as the men from the 6th Massachusetts looked out anxiously. He followed their gaze and understood their unease immediately.
Outside the depot, the streets were no longer quiet. A growing number of bystanders had arrived to observe the first cars leave for their odd journey through the city.
‘Trust us to be last.’ Robert Kearney had come to stand next to Jack when Bridges had left to join Colonel Scanlon outside.
‘Someone has to be.’ Jack could think of nothing else to say. He could see the tension beginning to affect the men. Their hands gripped their rifles tightly enough for the whites of their knuckles to show. They were quiet, too. He could not recall a time when they had been so hushed, the relaxed discipline of their sergeants and officers usually allowing them to chatter in the ranks in a way that would have got a redcoat flogged. But this time, not one man was speaking.
Outside the depot, the crowd of bystanders was getting bigger and louder. There was a low growl coming from them. It was as if the few hundred people had somehow formed into a single beast that was watching the Union infantry with growing anger.
The second section of train cars pulled out from the depot, causing an immediate reaction from the crowd, its low growl replaced by angry shouts. Jack could not make out what insults were being hurled at the men inside the cars, but it was clear that they were not the same cries and cheers of adulation that had greeted them at every stage of their journey to date.
Despite the crowd’s ugly reaction, the cars pulled steadily forward. There was no sign that the men inside them would respond to the provocation, and it did not take long for them to be lost from sight. A large part of the crowd moved away after them, but enough stayed behind, and now they turned their attention to the other sections of the train still waiting to leave the security of the depot.
‘This is madness,’ Robert muttered. ‘We are waiting here like so many damn fools.’
‘We should all be going together.’ Jack agreed with his officer. ‘Why the hell are we waiting here to leave on our own?’
‘The streets are too narrow, or at least that’s what the railroad officials told Scanlon. If we all travelled together, it would take twice as long. This way we can move at full speed. It’ll be quicker.’
‘Not if those bastards get in the way.’ Jack was watching the crowd. Another section of the train pulled out of the depot, the last companies of the 6th Massachusetts beginning their uncomfortable journey across the city. Again, a large portion of the crowd peeled off to follow them, but hundreds stayed in place. The crowd was smaller, but it still outnumbered the men from the 1st Boston by dozens to their every one. More were arriving every minute, and already there were angry chants directed towards the Union soldiers still waiting in the depot.
‘Here we go.’ Robert had spotted movement around the car.
Major Bridges was still outside with Colonel Scanlon. The two officers held a final conference, then Bridges moved to the car containing A Company whilst Scanlon went to join K Company.
‘We’re off. I want everyone away from the windows. Sit on the floor if you have to.’ Bridges fired off the orders as he entered the car.
The men did as they were told. Only the sergeants and the officers stayed at the windows, the right to see out a privilege of their rank. Within a minute the car had jerked into motion, the team of horses now attached to its front hauling it forward.
The crowd saw the movement and instantly its jeers grew louder. Jack could see the rage on the faces of the men at the front of the mob as they bayed at the soldiers, their shouts and insults growing in intensity. The first missile came flying towards the car, hurtling through the air before slamming into a window near the front. It hit the glass above Amos Thatcher’s head with enough force to make him
flinch.
‘Don’t shit your pants, Amos.’ O’Connell saw the young soldier’s reaction. ‘It’s just a lump of horse dung. It won’t hurt you.’
The men laughed, just as they were meant to. Jack knew the laughter was louder than it needed to be for such a poor jest, the troops using it to calm their fears.
A thunderous roar came from somewhere further away in the city. It echoed through the streets, the sound immediately goading the crowd around the depot to increase their own abuse. Their cries intensified further, their anger building quickly, directed at the last two cars pulling out of the President Street depot.
As if at some hidden signal, a fresh flurry of missiles came flying out of the crowd. More shit rained against the windows, but a few of the projectiles hit with more force, the crack of rocks loud against the car’s sides.
‘Hell fire!’ A man to Jack’s right cursed as a choice morsel of horseshit splattered across the window by his head. ‘Why, those dirty sons of bitches.’
The men around the unfortunate soldier laughed at his choice of words. The sound died away quickly as another salvo of missiles clattered into the car, and the soldiers looked at one another, their faces betraying the same mix of shock and fear.
‘What have we done to deserve this?’ Robert fired the question at Jack.
Jack heard the younger man’s fear, but he was given no time to answer. Something cracked the glass a foot or so away from both their heads.
‘What the hell was that?’ Robert gasped. Around him the men were turning their heads this way and that, their alarm building quickly.
Another of the missiles hit the glass towards the rear, followed quickly by a further one that smacked into the other side of the car. Jack recognised the sound immediately.
‘Some bastard is shooting at us.’
‘They’re what?’ Robert was incredulous.
‘They’re firing at us!’ This time Jack shouted the answer.
Already the car was slowing. It was under constant fire now, all manner of bricks, stones and rocks beating against it. They all heard the scream of one of the horses as it was hit, the animal’s shriek of pain clearly audible above the roars of the mob.
‘Lie down!’ Jack shouted the order. Another bullet smashed a window at the rear of the car, showering the men nearby with a vicious storm of broken glass.
‘That ain’t manly!’ a soldier near Jack complained.
‘I don’t care!’ Jack ducked and peered out of the window. The mob was surrounding the car as it slowed, the shower of stones and rocks constant now. There were mercifully few shots being fired, most of the mob content to hurl insults and less deadly missiles at the Union soldiers incarcerated in the cars. But it was still only a matter of time before someone was hurt, and Jack was determined to minimise that risk.
The car crawled onwards. It was making slow progress, the animals charged with dragging it across the city struggling to force a passage through the crowd. Yet they were still moving, and as they passed under a bridge, the sound of missiles hitting the car’s sides suddenly cut off.
The respite was short. The moment they emerged from underneath the bridge, the storm intensified, the rioters hurling everything they could lay their hands on. This was followed by two great thumps as the rioters pushed something heavy off the bridge and onto the car’s roof. Every man glanced up in terror.
‘Shit.’ Jack grabbed at a seat back. It was clear that they were stuck where they were. The attack continued without pause, the stationary car an easy target.
Jack was not the only one to see it. Bridges was moving from window to window, stepping around the men lying on the floor. He turned to see Jack looking at him.
‘We have to disembark, cross the city on foot.’ The major looked grim as he made the decision.
Jack nodded. It was the only course of action.
‘We going out there, Sergeant?’ asked a quivering Irish voice.
‘Yes.’ Jack’s reply was curt.
‘It’s a goddam riot!’ Another man’s voice rose in protest. ‘We can’t do that.’
‘We’ll do whatever we’re damn well told.’ Jack’s reply was fierce. ‘Now shut your mouths and get ready to move.’
His command did little to quell the dozens of conversations going on throughout the company. The men still lay on the floor, but the hum of low conversation was constant, only broken by the crack and thump as the car was hit by a steady flow of missiles still coming from the crowd.
Jack was about to shout again when he noticed people leaving the crowd. Large numbers were peeling away from the rear of the mob. Some were running. He had no idea if they were escaping from the building threat of violence or rushing to join another ruckus somewhere else. Either way, the flurry of missiles lessened as the crowd thinned.
‘Sergeant! Can we get up—’
‘Shut your mouth!’ Jack snapped the command, stopping the question. He was watching the crowd. Over half had gone, with still more leaving every second.
‘Now’s the time.’ He turned to Robert, who was bent low near one of the car’s windows. ‘We need to get out now.’
Robert’s mouth opened as if to reply, but no sound came out. Jack shook his head and turned to look where Captain Rowell was standing with Major Bridges at the front of the car. He was not the only one to have seen what had to be done. First Sergeant O’Connell had already moved across to the two officers, and the three men were having an urgent conversation that came to an abrupt end as Jack reached them.
O’Connell turned to face the company. ‘We’re going to move out,’ he shouted, silencing the anxious murmurs that still rippled through the ranks.
‘Wait!’ Rowell countermanded the order almost immediately. He had spotted a man in uniform running through a side street. For a moment the man was lost from sight as he ducked through the crowd of rioters, then he emerged once again and came sprinting towards the car.
The crowd saw the runner. At least a dozen missiles were thrown. They struck the ground around him, the sound of their impact just about audible over the roar of anger.
‘Shit.’ O’Connell caught Jack’s eye as he gave his verdict.
The two sergeants watched the courier as he ran to the train car containing Colonel Scanlon and K Company. He was gone from sight for no more than a couple of minutes before he emerged again and dashed for the one holding A Company. Every man was silent as he vaulted into the car and looked at Major Bridges.
‘Sir, the tracks are blocked.’ The courier was gasping for air, and his face was flushed and streaked with sweat.
‘What the hell?’ O’Connell took it upon himself to answer for his officers. ‘What the feck are those langers in the 6th doing about it?’
Bridges chose to ignore O’Connell’s choice words. ‘What are the colonel’s orders?’
‘Both companies are to disembark and proceed on foot.’ The courier gulped down a mouthful of air before he continued. ‘You’re to be advised that there is fighting ahead. Major Watson of the 6th ordered his men to return fire.’
‘They fired on the crowd?’ Bridges sounded appalled.
‘Yes, sir.’
Bridges asked no further questions. He gnawed on his moustache for a moment before turning to Rowell. ‘Captain. Let’s get the men outside.’
Rowell looked appalled, but the order had been given. The men of the two companies from Boston would have to complete their journey across Baltimore on foot.
‘Kill the white niggers!’
The foul invective spewed from the mob as the men from the 1st Boston formed up by the side of the tracks. The jeers and insults vomited forth, the torrent of abuse unrelenting.
‘Face front!’ Jack had been one of the first out. Now he stalked around the men as they started to form into a column. The two companie
s of the 1st Boston would march one after the other, with A Company in the lead. Bridges and Scanlon would be in the middle of the compact formation, leaving Rowell to lead the way with First Sergeant O’Connell at his side.
It was hard for the men to hear orders over the howls of the mob. Now that the soldiers were out of the car, the crowd pressed closer. They were making noises more like wild beasts than human beings, baying for blood.
‘Forward, march!’ O’Connell bellowed the order as soon as the column was ready.
The tight streets left little room and the men were forced to march through a narrow corridor of hate lined with red-faced rioters intent on making every step a torment of misery and abuse.
‘Eyes front!’ Jack shouted. He knew he would be ignored, but he wanted the men to hear his voice. A little way behind him he could hear the other sergeants doing the same, while at the head of the column O’Connell was spending as much time looking back and hollering at his men as he was watching the path ahead.
Every so often the noise of another mob could be heard. Jack had no idea what was happening elsewhere in the city. From the distant roars and cheers, he could only suppose other rioters were tormenting the men from the 6th.
‘Amos! Keep your fucking spacings,’ Jack snarled at the nearer of the two twins. Amos had been looking left and right instead of concentrating on his marching. His dereliction caused him to catch the arm of the man at his side, making him and three other men stumble.
Jack glanced at Robert. The lieutenant’s face was as white as a sheet. He had said nothing since they had abandoned the train car. Less than three or four yards separated them both from the densely packed mob.
A sudden flurry of missiles thumped into the tight company column. Half a dozen soldiers were hit, their curses barely loud enough to be heard above the hoots and catcalls that followed hot on the heels of the barrage.
‘March!’ Jack shouted the order. Two of his men now had bloodied faces, whilst another was limping after a brick had hit his thigh. ‘Keep fucking going!’
The True Soldier: Jack Lark 6 Page 16