The True Soldier: Jack Lark 6

by Paul Fraser Collard

  ‘We have no choice.’

  Ahead, the mob continued to advance, an almost constant barrage of missiles hurled at the soldiers. The range was closing quickly, and already stones and rocks were crashing into the front ranks. Soldiers cursed as they were hit. The impacts were painful but not dangerous. Yet that would surely change as the mob got closer.

  ‘Stand your ground.’ Jack looked only at his men. He was forced to shout to be heard over the roar of the mob. ‘You’re soldiers, not a damn rabble. Stand your ground and if one of those bastards comes close, hit the bugger hard. Knock them down so they won’t get up again.’

  He saw the men grip and regrip their firearms, the tension of waiting stretching every man’s nerves.

  ‘Use your rifles. Beat the fuckers with them if you have to. But you will not open fire. No matter what happens, do not fire on them.’ Jack shouted his instructions. It would be a desperate affair. The mob outnumbered the soldiers. Most of the rioters were armed with some sort of weapon: crowbars, shovels or just lumps of lumber. But the soldiers had their rifles and he reckoned they could use them well enough.

  And they had him.

  The mob slowed as it closed the distance, coming to a halt a few dozen yards in front of the soldiers. The noise was dreadful. The mob jeered the troops, insults and oaths thrown with as much heart as the missiles that still rained down without pause.

  ‘Stand firm!’ Jack saw the ranks moving. The men were fidgeting. Fear was taking hold.

  A soldier was hit on the head by a rock, gashing him above the eye. He fell, the strike of sufficient force to knock him from his feet.

  ‘They got Carter!’ The cry went up almost immediately. The sight of the bloodied man on the ground convinced those around him that he was dead, even though he was already trying to get back to his feet.

  The words rippled through the company like wildfire. Men who had been facing front now turned to look at their mates. Those who had been standing still twisted on the spot, their heads turning left and right as they sought a way out.

  Jack saw the fear take hold. Another flurry of missiles slammed into the ranks. One caught him a glancing blow on the upper arm, but he barely felt it.

  ‘Stand firm!’ he shouted at the men.

  The mob might have stopped surging forward, but it still came on a pace or two at a time, the men at the front trying to summon enough courage to lead the final rush towards the infantry. The shouts and jeers continued unabated, those further back urging those at the front to attack whilst they hurled anything they could find at the hated soldiers who refused to retreat.

  One rock hit Rowell.

  It was the size of a closed fist. It came from deep in the mob and it struck him on the right cheek with enough force to knock him backwards. The blood came fast, surging from the deep crevice gouged in his skin, spilling down his face and running into the collar of his shirt.

  ‘They got the captain!’ The agonised cry echoed through the company.

  Jack heard the panic in the shouts. Men shuffled backwards, a movement that could turn into a panicked rout in a heartbeat.

  Rowell turned to look at his men, his face covered in a mask of blood. He stared at them in horror, as if he were unable to believe what was happening.

  Jack saw the mob begin to move. It was as if the rioters had become one being, and they came forward together, the movement slow and hesitant at first, but gathering momentum with every passing second.

  ‘Kill the Yankees!’ The cry sounded clearly over the wild chants. ‘Kill them!’

  A musket fired. Jack had heard the noise too many times not to be able to pick it out, even over the roar of the mob. Another gunshot followed, then another.

  ‘Kill them!’ The feral roar was picked up by the mob, the words shouted in unison, repeated again and again, coming from a thousand mouths as they moved forward. ‘Kill them! Kill them! Kill them!’

  Another flurry of gunfire rang out.

  Jack was standing in front of Amos Thatcher when the musket ball hit the boy just below the left eye. It smashed through his face, showering those around him with blood and broken bone. Amos fell without making a sound.

  ‘They killed Amos!’ screamed the man behind the young soldier. ‘They killed Amos!’

  Every man present looked at Amos’s twin. James Thatcher was standing in the file next to his brother. Now he stared at Amos, his mouth hanging open in a silent scream that went on and on, his eyes wide with horror.

  ‘They killed Amos!’

  The cry reached Rowell. Jack saw the news register on the captain’s bloodied face. He glanced back at the men before turning to look at the mob. It was horribly close now, the pace of its advance increasing as those leading, goaded by their fellow rioters, found the courage to rush the infantrymen.

  ‘Prepare to fire!’ Rowell screamed the command, his voice rising in pitch so that he shrieked like a girl.

  ‘No!’ Jack knew what was about to happen. Rowell was about to make a dreadful mistake, one that would likely kill dozens of civilians. There was no knowing what would happen afterwards.

  The men in the front ranks hesitated. They looked at one another, their whey-coloured faces betraying their fear.

  ‘Prepare to fire!’ repeated Rowell.

  Half a dozen men lifted their rifles. The rest just stood and stared at one another, or at the mob that was surging towards them.

  ‘A Company!’ This time O’Connell bellowed the order. ‘Ready!’

  The troops obeyed their first sergeant. Any man who could see the mob pulled his rifle into his shoulder.

  ‘Don’t fire!’ Jack shouted the futile command.

  He was ignored.

  ‘Aim! . . . Fire!’

  O’Connell’s order was drowned out as rifles fired in unison. The volley unleashed a great thunderclap of sound, the roar echoing off the buildings. The viciously spinning bullets tore deep into the crowd. Dozens fell, the head of the mob ripped apart in a storm of blood.

  ‘Company! Double time!’ O’Connell’s voice was the first to be heard in the aftermath of the volley. The wild cries of the mob had been silenced by the slaughter.

  The company obeyed. They moved forward as one, the ranks easing into an awkward run. They brought the bodies of Lieutenant Clancy and Amos Thatcher with them.

  The mob had been thrown into confusion by the volley. Some were tending to the dead and the dying, but most lost heart and fled from the advancing soldiers, any threat of violence forgotten.

  The company ran through the dispersing mob, the men doing their best to pick their way past those they had shot down. A few cried out in horror as they saw the damage their Springfields were capable of inflicting. Limbs had been ripped from bodies, the heavy bullets tearing through flesh to leave what remained looking like little more than offal. The ground was swathed in gore, gobbets of flesh and scraps of bone strewn across the cobbles so that it was as if the company ran through a butcher’s yard. It stank like hell; the bitter stench of powder smoke mixed with the acrid smell of blood and opened bowels.

  ‘Sweet mother of God.’ Jack heard Robert mutter under his breath as they both stepped over the body of a rioter. A bullet had struck him in the centre of the face. What was left was barely recognisable as human, the man’s head all but destroyed. Robert gagged and stumbled, his legs turning to jelly as he choked on the dreadful sight.

  ‘Come on!’ Jack hauled his charge on, forcing him to keep moving. The lieutenant’s face was the colour of ash.

  The company pressed on. They moved more slowly now. Some were wounded, whilst others lugged the bodies of the two men who had been killed. Yet they kept moving towards the distant station that would offer them sanctuary.

  A sanctuary they would have to fight to reach.

  Jack heard the roar of
another mob before he saw them. A wave of sound battered into the company. The pace of the advance slowed immediately, a barely audible groan rippling through the ranks as the men realised they were still far from safety.

  ‘Oh no!’ Robert greeted the fresh crowd with a moan of horror. ‘We can’t get through.’

  ‘We can and we will.’ Jack’s lungs were hurting, but he still found the breath to refute Robert’s doomsaying.

  The roar of the mob intensified as the company came closer. The inevitable flurry of missiles smashed into the ranks, the violent storm no less powerful than the ones that had gone before.

  ‘Halt!’ O’Connell shouted. ‘Prepare to fire.’

  This time the men did not hesitate. Those still with loaded rifles pushed forward. The company had crossed the line.

  ‘Ready!’ O’Connell’s voice was calm. ‘Aim! . . . Fire!’

  The volley spat out death and vengeance. It tore into the mob blocking the road. The killing had begun again.

  ‘Load!’ O’Connell was commanding the company now. Rowell stood at his side, his fabulous revolver pointing at the ground, the officer taking no part in the slaughter.

  The men behind him reloaded with a will. Their faces were blackened with powder. Their eyes were hard.

  ‘Aim! . . . Fire!’

  A second volley crashed into the mob. Men died as the heavy bullets smashed their flesh into ruin.

  ‘Double time!’

  A Company knew the drill now. They advanced through the cloud of powder smoke their two volleys had thrown out, emerging into a scene straight from the bowels of hell.

  ‘Keep moving!’ Jack did not look at the grotesque sight of men lying in the awkward poses of death. He kept his eyes on his men, Robert trailing in his wake like a beaten puppy.

  The company doubled past the men they had killed. They were still abused, the mob still dogging their every step, stones and bricks still clattering into their tired, aching bodies. But the jeers and even the filthiest of abuse counted for little now against the sight of broken bodies and torn flesh.

  Jack continued to encourage his men. They were tired. Their faces ran with sweat, their breath came in laboured gasps and their chests heaved with exertion. They were hard yards now, cruel yards, the men pushing the limits of their endurance.

  ‘Barricade!’ The warning cry came from the men at the front. Those around Jack let out a moan. They had nothing left.

  ‘Come on!’ Jack forced authority into his voice. His own body protested and his lungs burned as he sucked down another laboured breath. But he would not give in.

  He angled his path so that he could see ahead. The barricade stretched across the road. But this time it was manned by men in uniform. He looked behind him. The rioters were pulling back, the sight of the armed policemen of Baltimore enough of a deterrent to keep them at bay.

  Behind the barricade was a building that could only be Camden station.

  A Company had crossed the city. The journey between the two stations had taken less than one hour.

  The men of A Company staggered into Camden station. Their faces were streaked with sweat and powder. Most bore wounds or had uniforms stained or scarred by the missiles that had pounded them from the moment they had abandoned their train car.

  Exhausted and drained, they laid the corpses of their two comrades on the concourse. Those with wounds flopped to the ground. Those left on their feet walked like men half dead. Most sucked on their canteens, gulping down the water they contained with as much relish as if it were the most valuable liquor.

  The troops of K Company were already there. No one shouted across in greeting. Their own passage through the city had been just as hard, and those that had survived were in no mood to compare stories with their comrades. The tired men from A Company made their way to an area free of the wounded, then slumped to the ground, their equipment dumped around them.

  Jack picked his way across the concourse. There was blood everywhere. The bodies of Lieutenant Clancy and Private Amos Thatcher were now being tended to by dour-faced railroad workers. K Company had lost one man of their own, with two others more seriously wounded than any of the men in A Company. The men from the 6th Massachusetts were far away on the other side of the concourse. From what he could see, they had fared little better; there were a number of bodies laid out in a line, their faces hidden beneath newly issued blankets.

  ‘O’Dowd, Malloy.’ Jack called out two names as he made his way amongst the company. ‘Take some of your mates and go see to our boys. We don’t want strangers looking after them.’

  O’Dowd looked up. He held Jack’s gaze for a moment, then simply nodded and pushed himself to his feet. Malloy did the same, as did four other men from the company.

  ‘Come on, boys.’ The Irishman gave the encouragement softly. ‘Let’s do what the sergeant says.’

  Jack noted the change in tone. Even O’Dowd had been affected by the bitter struggle to cross the city. It was not the way he had intended to win the men over, but he could sense that he had gone some way to gaining their approval.

  ‘Who’s going to tell his ma?’ O’Dowd asked Jack as he turned to help another man to his feet.

  ‘Oh my.’ It was Robert who spoke first. He had followed Jack and now he reached out to clasp a hand on O’Dowd’s shoulder. ‘The poor woman, she doted on those boys.’

  ‘She’s still got one.’ O’Dowd turned his head and nodded towards James. The surviving twin sat alone, staring into space, as if looking at an object only he could see. ‘He ain’t said a fecking thing.’ The Irishman shook his head as he contemplated the boy. ‘Not a single word.’

  Jack looked at the faces of the troops sitting around him. Their expressions told all. These were not redcoats like the soldiers he had once known. They were ordinary men fighting alongside friends and neighbours. Every man in the company had known Amos Thatcher and Francis Clancy. Some had grown up with them, attending the same church and walking the same streets. Their deaths had not been contemplated. Not one man had marched out of Boston carrying the notion that within just a few hours, citizens of a Northern city would have killed some of them. Their shock was complete.

  ‘I want you all to take a look.’ Jack walked amongst his men. ‘You go over there and take a good hard look at those two men we lost today.’ He spoke slowly and carefully. He wanted to be understood. ‘That’s what war looks like, and you had better get used to it. This is what you are preparing for, not some brawl in a fucking tavern.’

  Few of the men were able to meet his gaze. Most looked at the floor, or stared into the distance.

  ‘So you think on today. This isn’t some game. There are no winners or losers. You’re not going to whip Johnny Reb’s arse just by turning up.’ He used the soldiers’ favourite name for the rebels for the first time. It was enough to make some of the men look up at him. ‘He’s going to fight just as hard as you, maybe even harder. So you have to be ready. You have to stop fucking about and start listening. Because if you don’t, then it’s going to be you lying on your bloody back staring up at the stars.’

  More of the tired soldiers lifted their gaze. He had their full attention now.

  ‘But it doesn’t have to be that way. If you listen, and if you do your damned drill, then we can be the best bloody soldiers in this army. We can be so damn good that the rebels really will shit in their breeches when they see that it’s us coming for them. We can be good. We can be very good. We can beat Johnny Reb’s arse so hard the fucker will run screaming back to his ma begging for us to leave him be. But only if you stop all this horseshit about knowing better. Only if you learn how to fight, and I mean fight like soldiers, not drunken bullies in an alley. Learn to fight like soldiers and you stand a chance of being the best.’ He paused and looked around him, meeting the stares of the men looking up at him. ‘And you s
tand a chance of going home.’

  He stopped. He had said enough. The urge to find fresh air was suddenly overwhelming, so he left his men sitting in silent misery and went to find it.

  ‘You did well today.’

  Jack started. He had not heard anybody approach. He had walked to the main doors and found a quiet spot where he could look outside, watching the crowd that still milled around in the streets that led towards Camden station. The threat of violence no longer hung in the air. The devil had been fed, the souls of those killed that day enough to satiate the mob’s lust for blood.

  He turned to see First Sergeant O’Connell standing behind him.

  ‘I did precious little.’ He heard the bitterness in his own words. It was the truth. He had done his job, keeping the men moving, and he had helped clear the mob from their barricade. But it was not like being an officer. He had not led the men. He had been led. The notion bothered him.

  ‘You kept the men together. And you fought. I saw you take down that gombeen at the barricade. You did it easy, like it was nothing.’

  ‘It was nothing.’ Jack thought about the man he had struck down. He did not think he had killed him, but he could not be sure. Perhaps even now the man’s corpse was being dragged to his home, where his family would weep for their loss and damn the blue-coated Yankee who had taken one of their own.

  ‘Feck me, you don’t take praise easy.’ O’Connell chuckled. ‘Fecking Englishman.’

  Something in the first sergeant’s tone made Jack smile. The expression cracked the crust of sweat and dirt plastered to his skin. ‘I suppose I should say thank you.’

  ‘Yes, you fecking should.’ O’Connell shook his head at Jack’s foolishness. He moved forward, coming to stand at Jack’s shoulder. Together they watched the rioters still on the street.

  ‘What a fecking day.’ O’Connell muttered the words under his breath, as much to himself as to anyone else.

  ‘We didn’t have to fire.’ Jack kept his tone even as he offered the criticism. ‘We could’ve fixed bayonets. They wouldn’t have stood against us.’