The True Soldier: Jack Lark 6

by Paul Fraser Collard

  ‘I cannot wait to leave this place.’ Robert spoke with genuine feeling.

  ‘I thought you were having a fine time. Where did you go last night?’

  ‘No place special.’ Robert was evasive. ‘And nowhere I am in a hurry to return to.’

  Jack raised an eyebrow at the remark. Robert had a habit of finding the lowest dives and the foulest dens of iniquity. Somehow, though, he always managed to come away intact, even the denizens of such loathsome places succumbing to his charm.

  With his clothing loosened as much as possible, Jack drew up another chair and placed it next to Robert’s. He sat down and took up a pen, then pulled the heavy ledger towards him. As much as he hated writing, he hated sitting around doing nothing even more.

  He dipped the pen into ink then started to fill out the day’s record. ‘Any more trouble from D Company?’ he asked as he worked.

  ‘Nothing. I think the boys have seen sense at last.’

  ‘It’s about time. But I don’t know what Scanlon expected would happen. I cannot imagine any company would take well to the officers they had chosen being replaced with Scanlon’s favourites.’

  Jack shook his head at the folly of the regiment’s decision to allow the men to elect their own officers, only to subsequently replace them with men of the colonel’s choosing. The men of D Company had not taken the change well, and had even refused to muster the first day under the new regime. It had taken much parleying and persuasion to get them back to work, but the problem had resolved itself when the men discovered that the replacement officers were in fact much better than the ones they had chosen for themselves.

  ‘Just so long as Scanlon doesn’t try the same trick again,’ he added.

  ‘You think he might?’

  ‘I wouldn’t put anything past the old man.’ Jack used the company’s nickname for their colonel. Scanlon had proved himself to be a fierce and uncompromising leader whom the troops viewed with a mixture of fear and respect. Jack had yet to form a firm opinion on the man who would take the regiment into battle. Scanlon was no martinet, but he did insist on high standards, something that Jack admired, even if he did not agree with some of the colonel’s ideas as to the areas in which the men should concentrate their efforts. However, Scanlon was also a firebrand who was keen to get his troops into battle so that they could whip the Confederates into line. In that respect, Jack had disagreed more vocally. The men had been training hard in the weeks they had been at Emmart’s Farm, but they were still a long way short of being the finished article.

  ‘You nearly done?’ Robert had rocked his chair back onto its rear legs and now tottered precariously at Jack’s side.

  Jack wrote his last words, then laid the pen down on the table next to the bottle of ink. ‘Yes.’

  ‘About time.’ Robert reached over to pull the ledger towards him. He peered at Jack’s script as if unable to read it before snapping the book shut and getting to his feet. ‘I’ll have James take it to the adjutant,’ he said as he walked to the tent’s open flaps.

  ‘Good idea.’ Jack agreed readily. James Thatcher had not said a word in all the weeks that had followed his twin brother’s death. The entire company fretted about the young lad. ‘We need to keep him busy.’

  ‘We need to send him home.’ Robert shook his head, then looked back at Jack. ‘What will happen to his mother if the same fate befalls James?’

  Jack got to his feet and walked to Robert’s side. The two officers looked out, both men picking out the figure of James Thatcher. The soldiers were engaged in their morning fatigue duties. The company lines had to be cleaned and swept, tents tidied and brushed down, wood found and split ready to be used to cook the day’s rations, and picket details attended to.

  ‘You want to tell the lad that he has to go home?’ Jack asked.

  Robert sighed. ‘No. No, I don’t. The poor fellow has more right to be here than any of us.’

  Jack grunted by way of acknowledgement. It was a sad business. The company had lost men before the campaign proper had even started, but at least it had galvanised the rest into taking their drill more seriously than they had back in Boston.

  There had been weeks of it: company drill, regimental drill and even a few days when they had marched to a large series of open fields further from the city and joined with other regiments to practise brigade drill. On another occasion the regiment’s two flank companies had been detached from the rest to learn their role as skirmishers. It had proved to be an interesting diversion from manoeuvring as part of a cumbersome formation, the looser skirmish order allowing the men a greater degree of freedom.

  The role of skirmishers was vital. A Company and K Company would be ordered to leave the main battle line and fight on their own in front of the regiment. Their primary task would be to screen the main line from any of the enemy’s own skirmishers. If they got the opportunity, they would fire on the opposing battle line, the men trained to shoot down the enemy officers and sergeants, eroding their ability to command and control their men whilst picking at their morale. They had taken to it well, the distinction of being skirmishers marking them out as being the best men in the regiment, but quite how adept they would prove in the role was anyone’s guess, their scant training certain to be tested once they engaged the Confederate forces.

  The regiment could now form line or column with some degree of proficiency, and they could form a square ready to repel cavalry. The formations, and the drill itself, were all so familiar to Jack, the training of the Union soldiers very close to the training he had been given a decade before. And it was horribly out of date.

  ‘Are you taking firing drill again?’ Robert seemed content to stand in the sun. He looked incongruous in his drawers and unbuttoned shirt, but even the smirks of the passing soldiers did not encourage him to dress properly.

  ‘No. The colonel is insisting on more bayonet drill.’ Jack spoke through gritted teeth.

  ‘You need to mind your tone. Hell, if Scanlon hears you complain again . . .’ Robert left the sentence unfinished.

  ‘I know.’ Jack could not help sighing. He had argued with the colonel on more than one occasion. In the world of modern weaponry, the drill the army’s generals insisted upon was a throwback to a bygone era. Moving men around in large, densely packed formations was tantamount to suicide given that rifle muskets like the 1st Boston’s own Springfields were so much more powerful than the smoothbore muskets that had been the mainstay of all armies for so many decades.

  Jack had seen at first hand how the new design of rifle and its deforming bullets could destroy a tightly packed column. There was a need for the men to learn about fighting in extended skirmish order; a more loosely formed line that would make them less of a target for the enemy’s rifles. Scanlon disagreed, insisting that the men follow the rulebook handed down from the general staff. Above all, he wanted them to practise with the bayonet.

  ‘So do the bayonet drill.’ Robert had read Jack’s expression well enough. ‘You won’t get your way.’

  ‘It’s not about getting my way.’ Jack could not resist the lure. ‘It’s about making sure the men stand a chance when we eventually leave this bloody place and face the enemy. They have to still be alive in order to bayonet anyone.’

  ‘You need to take a deep breath.’ Robert chuckled at Jack’s passion. ‘In this heat, getting yourself all worked up will be the death of you.’

  Jack scowled, but he did pause and take a breath. ‘I’m not getting worked up.’

  ‘Well, it sure looks that way to me.’

  Jack’s mood was not improved by the smile he saw on Robert’s face. ‘Perhaps you should try getting worked up yourself. You need to take this more seriously.’

  ‘Now where would be the fun in that?’ Robert laughed off the advice, then laughed twice as hard as he saw Jack’s scowl deepen. ‘Come on, J
ack, you need to lighten up.’

  ‘You need to stop pissing around and do some work.’

  ‘Why? You seem perfectly happy to do everything. I reckon I’d just get in your way. If things aren’t done as you like them, you only get angry, and I’ve no desire to be shouted at for half the goddam day.’

  Jack heard the truth in Robert’s words, but it did nothing to mollify him. His frustration was overwhelming. It felt like he alone knew what was coming. The men had had a taste, their bitter experience in Baltimore enough to make them work harder than they had before. But they still had no idea what battle would be like. They were lambs being led to the slaughterhouse, and not one of them could see what awaited them.

  ‘I’ll see you at dinner.’ Robert nudged Jack’s arm.

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  ‘I shall try to find us something more palatable to eat.’ Robert was trying to put a smile on Jack’s face. ‘I may even track down some of that bacon you like so much.’

  Jack understood what the younger man was trying to do. He did not remember when he had become so dour, and tried to smile in return. ‘Do you think you can find some more tea? I’ve run out again.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. You drink enough of the goddam stuff.’

  ‘I’ve had my fill of bloody coffee,’ Jack answered with feeling. He needed tea. Starting the day with coffee was just not the same. He was not alone in feeling unhappy with the rations the army fed them. When the regiment had been in Boston, they had lived well on the generosity of the locals, with businesses even competing to feed the troops as a display of their commitment to the cause. Now a part of the Army of Northeastern Virginia based in Washington, they lived on army rations alone and every man in the regiment deemed them insufficient. There was simply not enough food to feed them properly.

  Major Bridges had come up with a partial solution. The army-issue soup was made with more water, the meat carved smaller and the bread sliced thinner. Even the rice and beans were soaked in water to make them expand, and the coffee that Jack so despised was made weaker. Bridges had been unable to conjure more rations, but somehow they now felt larger, which went a little way towards mollifying the men’s complaints.

  Like many things, though, the solution merely papered over the cracks. To Jack’s mind, the same philosophy permeated the thinking of the whole army. He just hoped that the Confederates would not force those cracks wide open.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen.’

  Jack tried not to bristle as his company commander sauntered towards them. It was rare to see Captain Rowell so early in the morning, especially as the company’s day promised nothing more than the same dreary routine of parades, fatigues and drill.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ Robert replied cheerfully enough, saving Jack the effort.

  ‘Why, Lieutenant Kearney, could you not be bothered to put on your clothes this morning?’ Rowell’s handsome face creased into a frown as he took in the appearance of his first lieutenant.

  Robert looked down at his bare knees as if noticing his lack of uniform for the first time. ‘I suppose I should get dressed.’

  ‘Yes, Lieutenant, I think you should.’ Rowell’s reply was laced with scorn. ‘Otherwise the men will think they’re commanded by a goddam scarecrow rather than an officer.’ He turned his attention to Jack. ‘Lieutenant Lark.’ The greeting was spoken warily, Rowell treating Jack very differently to his familiar handling of Robert.

  ‘It’s nice to see you this morning, sir. You haven’t been around for a few days.’ Jack fired his first barb and smiled as he saw Rowell scowl, the captain understanding the tone well enough. He noticed the hint of a scar on Rowell’s cheek, the legacy of the rioter’s missile. It had almost faded, but Jack had to admit it added a rakish air to the captain’s features. He just wished the thick weal on his own face did the same to his.

  ‘I have been busy at general headquarters.’ Rowell brushed off Jack’s sarcasm. ‘Some of us must look to more than just one company’s drill.’

  ‘Ah, I see, sir.’ Jack deliberately kept his expression neutral. ‘Well, it’s nice to be busy and I expect it’s a little more comfortable at headquarters. Less dusty, for a start.’

  ‘I am not there for the comfort, Lieutenant,’ Rowell snapped. ‘I am bound to go where my duty calls me.’

  ‘Of course, sir, I never doubted that for a moment.’ Jack stared at Rowell but the captain would not meet his gaze. ‘I expect it’s nice to be near Elizabeth and her father. Their Washington house is rather fabulous, I hear. Lieutenant Kearney was telling me all about it. It’s so considerate of them to put you up there. Saves the army paying for your keep.’

  Rowell glared at Jack. ‘Do you disapprove, Lieutenant?’

  ‘It’s not my place to disapprove.’ Jack looked back at his officer calmly enough.

  ‘Then perhaps you should keep your comments to yourself.’

  ‘Perhaps you should spend more time with your men.’

  ‘Are you saying that I am shirking my duties?’ Rowell’s face was colouring with more than just the heat.

  ‘Your duties, sir? I was not aware you knew what those were.’

  ‘What the hell do you mean by that?’

  ‘Your place is here, with the company. You need to learn how to lead your troops just as much as they need to learn how to be led.’ Jack could not contain his frustration.

  ‘Are you suggesting I don’t know what to do?’

  ‘Do you know what to do?’

  ‘I have read the manual.’ Rowell bristled.

  Jack raised his eyes to the heavens. ‘It takes more than that.’

  ‘What does it take? What do you think I am lacking?’ Rowell took a step forward.

  ‘Where do I start?’ Jack’s reply was biting. ‘You need to lead the men. That means being here, sharing their lives and enduring the same hardships as they do. One day they’ll have to follow you into battle. They won’t do that just because you shout the right bloody orders. There’ll come a time when they won’t want to go forward. They’ll hunker down and refuse to move. That’s when you’ll have to stand up and lead them. It’ll be up to you to get them moving, to get them to follow you even though their every instinct will be to stay where they are. There will come a time when you will have to earn that lovely gold braid and the fancy damn buttons, and being called “sir”. When that day comes, you’ll have to know more than the bloody words in the bloody manual.’

  Jack paused and met Rowell’s gaze. ‘That’s what you have to learn, sir. That’s why you have to be here. Because as sure as eggs is eggs, that day is coming, and when it arrives, you had better bloody well be ready for it.’

  ‘I am ready.’ Rowell looked away, treating Jack’s words with disdain.

  ‘No.’ Jack reached forward and turned the captain back round so that he was forced to look at him. ‘You’re not bloody ready. And that means men will die. They’ll die because you couldn’t be bothered to get off your pampered bloody arse and get yourself into the field with your troops.’

  ‘You know an awful lot, Lieutenant,’ Rowell’s voice shook as he replied, ‘for a man who is only here because Mr Kearney felt he owed you. And for what, exactly? For bringing over some goddam letters and coming up with some horseshit fairy tale about Thomas dying in your arms?’ Rowell was speaking more quickly now. The two men were of an equal height and were standing eyeball to eyeball. ‘Why, for all we know, you could be nothing more than a fraud; just some goddam trickster who happened to find a dead man’s letters and sniffed out an opportunity to get something for nothing. We don’t know a thing about you, yet here you are, lording it over us poor damn colonists like you know better than all of us.’ Rowell was in full flow now. ‘Well, I tell you this, Lieutenant, we managed pretty well when we threw you British out of here, and we’ll manage pretty well right here a
nd now without your goddam interference. If you don’t like the way we do things, I suggest you pack up and leave us to it.’

  ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you just?’ Jack would not back down. The men deserved better than an officer who thought he was learning his trade by sitting reading a book in a fine drawing room miles from his command. ‘Because I make you uncomfortable. I’m a reminder that you don’t know shit about this great battle you’re so keen to have. I’ve been in battle. I know what’ll happen. I look at you and at the men, and I wonder which of you will die. I wonder which of you will be blown to smithereens; which of you will be lying on the ground with your guts spilling out into your own bloody hands.’

  ‘You still don’t get it, do you, Lieutenant?’ Rowell’s mouth twisted as if he were sucking on something sour. ‘You think you can frighten us with your tales. Well, you know what, I think you’re scared of fighting this battle because you’ll be revealed as the great fraud you really are. You’re so goddam certain that we’re marching to some great slaughter. But what if we’re right and you’re wrong? What if Johnny Reb skedaddles at the sight of us? Where will you be then? What’ll you do? We all have lives. We have futures. What do you have?’

  He paused, his expression mocking Jack’s silence. ‘That’s right. You cannot answer, because you have nothing. You need this war. You need it to go on and on, because without it no one will listen to you. No one will heed your wise goddam counsel or listen to your stories of how you have suffered.’

  ‘You two need to quieten down.’ Robert spoke for the first time. The half-dressed lieutenant was looking from one man to the other.