The True Soldier: Jack Lark 6

by Paul Fraser Collard

  ‘We march in the morning. Make sure your men are ready.’ He nodded firmly before walking away.

  The officers began to disburse immediately, their conversations loud as they moved away to deliver the news to their own companies.

  Jack had just begun the walk back to A Company’s lines when Rowell barged past him. The captain had clearly aimed carefully and he hit Jack hard with his shoulder, causing him to stumble and almost lose his footing. When he caught his balance, he found himself standing face to face with his commanding officer.

  ‘Do be careful, Lieutenant.’ Rowell sneered as he saw Jack looking at him. ‘You should watch where you’re going. Why, you could get hurt if you don’t pay more attention to your surroundings.’ Before Jack could say anything by way of reply, the captain turned sharply on his heel and walked away.

  The warning was clear.

  The army was going to march. And Captain Rowell knew everything.

  ‘You should be ready!’ First Sergeant O’Connell howled in frustration as he stood over O’Dowd, who was feverishly stuffing food into the cotton sack that lined his haversack. ‘That stinks!’ O’Connell peered at the mess O’Dowd was making. The cotton sack contained a nauseating mix of hardtack, raw pork, salt, sugar, coffee, desiccated vegetables and rice. The men had been issued with three days of rations, and it looked like O’Dowd had simply dumped the whole lot into his haversack.

  ‘Well, he’s the one who has to eat it.’ Jack had walked over to see what the commotion was. The rest of the company was already formed up and ready to march. Only O’Dowd was missing from the ranks, and now the hapless private had the attention of both his first sergeant and the company’s second lieutenant.

  Jack had the same rations as the men in his own haversack. The food was just a fraction of their load. Each man also carried candles and candle holders, shaving equipment, spare shoes, chewing tobacco or cigars according to preference, a block of lucifers, a housewife, toiletries, toothbrush, handkerchiefs, underwear, a mess plate, a combined knife, fork and spoon implement, pen, ink and paper, a smooth-sided three-pint tin canteen covered with cloth and a tin cup. Most also carried a bible and any photographs they had of their loved ones.

  Added to this were their Springfield rifle, scabbard with bayonet, caped overcoat, blanket, forty rounds of .58 calibre cartridges in a leather cartridge box, tools for their rifle and a pouch for the percussion caps used to fire their weapon. Then there was the myriad collection of gifts that had been given to the men on Independence Day. Most men had added patchwork blankets, machetes and every other type of weapon and comforter they could imagine would be useful on campaign.

  O’Dowd finally straightened up, then nearly fell back down on his backside as he tottered under the weight of his equipment.

  ‘On your feet, you slovenly soldier.’ O’Connell reached out and grabbed hold of the private’s haversack.

  ‘Feck me, sir. Are we mules or soldiers?’ O’Dowd griped as he staggered.

  ‘Shut your mouth and get in the fecking ranks,’ O’Connell growled, shoving the hapless Irishman forward.

  Jack laughed as O’Dowd stumbled his way towards the column. He hefted his own haversack on his back, trying to find the most comfortable spot. He was carrying nothing but the bare essentials, which meant his load was a great deal lighter than that carried by most of the men.

  ‘Fecking eejits.’ O’Connell stood at Jack’s shoulder as the pair looked over the ranks. The first sergeant’s equipment was as pared down as Jack’s.

  ‘Don’t fret, First Sergeant. Half of that shit will be dumped by noon. The locals will have a field day with all the free booty.’ Jack chuckled. ‘Ah, Lieutenant Kearney has deigned to join us at last.’ He had spotted Robert’s slight figure wandering towards A Company’s position at the head of the column.

  ‘Good morning to you, sir,’ O’Connell called out in greeting as Robert weaved his way closer.

  ‘There’s nothing good about it.’ Robert staggered to a halt in front of the two men.

  ‘You look a little green about the gills, sir, so you do.’ O’Connell cracked a smile as he looked over his officer.

  ‘Thank you for sharing that observation, First Sergeant.’ Robert was finding standing still difficult. He shuffled from side to side as if being blown around by the morning’s gentle breeze.

  O’Connell glanced at Jack, then smiled. ‘Shall I get him some coffee? There may just be time.’

  ‘No.’ Jack’s reply was firm. ‘You’ll be all right, won’t you, Lieutenant?’

  ‘Oh God.’ Robert retched as he tried to reply. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ Jack skipped to one side, narrowly dodging the first spray of vomit that erupted from Robert’s mouth. The lieutenant bent double, nearly falling onto his face as he did so under the weight of his haversack. Jack looked away, doing his best to swallow as the stink of fresh sick caught the back of his throat. The men were watching their officer with glee, Robert’s misfortune greeted with good humour.

  ‘My God.’ Robert managed to pull himself upright. He noticed the men’s reaction for the first time and a rueful grin spread across his face as he wiped his mouth on the cuff of his jacket. ‘I think I feel better now.’

  ‘Well, that’s good to hear.’ Jack reached out and steered his fellow lieutenant towards his allotted place in the column, sharing a smile with O’Connell as he did so. ‘I’m sure a little stroll will do wonders to clear your head.’

  It was time to put an end to Robert’s nights of pleasure. It was time to march.

  Jack drank some water, holding it for a few seconds to sluice it around his mouth before swallowing. It was brackish and warm, but it tasted divine. Lowering the canteen, he shook it gently from side to side, listening to the contents sloshing back and forth to gauge how much was left. It was still more than half full, so he took another careful sip.

  ‘Oh God.’ Robert retched for the tenth time in as many minutes. The sound went on and on until the lieutenant spat twice then groaned.

  ‘You’re empty.’ Jack could not help smiling at Robert’s predicament. ‘So give it up.’

  ‘Oh God.’ Another bout of retching prevented Robert from answering. It went on for some time. When he finally straightened up, he looked at Jack with watery eyes. ‘I think I’m dying.’

  ‘Not yet you’re not.’ Jack sighed at the foolish remark. Robert was clearly suffering. His eyes were red and the constant attempts to vomit had burst dozens of tiny blood vessels in his face. ‘Have you any water left?’

  Robert shook his head.

  ‘Then you’re a bloody idiot.’ Jack could not help snapping at such foolishness. Robert was not alone. Jack reckoned half the company had emptied their canteens, and it was not yet noon. His fellow lieutenant would not be the only one suffering that day.

  ‘Here.’ He held out his own canteen. ‘Just a mouthful, mind.’

  Robert reached for it with eager hands. ‘God bless you, Jack.’

  Jack watched carefully. He was relieved to see Robert do as he had been told and take just a single mouthful. He took back the canteen, wiping the mouth carefully with his cuff.

  They had halted on a low rise about five miles from Emmart’s Farm, and the higher ground gave him the opportunity to look back over the great column of which the 1st Boston was just a part. It snaked back for at least a mile. Jack had seen his fair share of advancing armies. The Union force was not the largest he had witnessed – the French army at Solferino dwarfed it by comparison – but it made up for its lack of size by the sheer variety of the uniforms worn by its different regiments.

  ‘Would you look at that?’ he remarked to O’Connell, who had come to stand beside him.

  ‘It’s a fine sight,’ the first sergeant replied.

  Jack saw something very dif
ferent. ‘It’s a recipe for trouble.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ O’Connell smiled wryly. He was getting used to Jack’s gloomy opinions.

  ‘How many different uniforms can you see?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Jesus, I don’t know. Dozens.’ O’Connell didn’t even bother to hide his exasperation. ‘What’s your point exactly?’

  ‘You know who they all are?’

  ‘Some.’

  ‘So who is that mob right behind us?’ Jack pointed to a unit dressed as Highlanders, complete with kilts, sporrans and Glengarry caps.

  ‘39th New York.’ O’Connell answered quickly enough.

  ‘And what about those boys in grey behind them?’

  ‘7th New York maybe?’ O’Connell screwed up his eyes as he made the guess.

  ‘How about the ones behind them? The ones dressed as Italian Bersaglieri?’ Jack was familiar with the stylish uniform from his time with the French Foreign Legion. Something in the distinctive hats with plumes took him back to another advancing army. Then he had been in Lombardy and the army had been French. Now he was just outside Washington, but you would have been hard pressed to tell from the European style of dress worn by this particular regiment.

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ O’Connell had seen where Jack was going.

  ‘What about the boys in blue behind them, or those lads there? Hell, look over there. What are they, Zouaves?’ Jack shook his head as he spotted a regiment wearing the baggy trousers and red fez that was the uniform of the French troops originating from North Africa. ‘Do you have any idea how we will know who is who?’

  ‘No.’ O’Connell had no more to add.

  ‘What about the other lot? The goddam sechers, as you’re so fond of calling them. You reckon they’ll all have a nice uniform for us to aim at?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So it’s likely they’ll also be wearing every uniform under the goddam sun?’

  ‘Yep.’ O’Connell could only agree.

  ‘So everyone wants this bloody battle, but no one stopped to think how the hell we are going to tell each other apart.’ Jack fought the urge to spit as he considered such foolishness.

  O’Connell was spared finding an answer. The order to resume the march echoed along the column.

  ‘On your feet!’ He turned away and started to bark at the men who had used the halt to sit down.

  Jack took one last look at the kaleidoscope of colour that was the Union army, then went to help his first sergeant. He hoped he was wrong, that somehow in the chaos and confusion of a smoke-filled battlefield the two armies would be able to tell each other apart. Yet it was hard to shake off the feeling that they were marching to their doom.

  By mid-afternoon, the men were suffering badly. They had marched all day, only stopping for an hour’s rest around noon. The weather continued hot and sultry. Few had any water left in their canteens. Those that did thought of nothing but drinking the last few precious drops; those that didn’t just suffered.

  The company had lost three men to sunstroke, the exhausted soldiers simply falling from the ranks as the column trudged its way south. No one had the energy to stop and help, the unfortunate souls left to the tender mercies of the regiment’s bandsmen, who had stowed their instruments and now plied their secondary trade as stretcher bearers.

  As Jack had predicted, the line of march was littered with the unwanted belongings the men had begun to shed before they had even covered the first mile. He did not care what they dropped so long as they kept hold of their rifles, bayonets and ammunition. Anything else was left for the locals who shadowed the Union host advancing across their land.

  The column crawled along at a snail’s pace. Ahead, the leading elements were forced to clear a path through the miles of woodland they were marching through. The enemy had long suspected that the Union army would have to advance over this ground, and the Confederates had taken every opportunity to slow their progress. Trees had been felled across every path, forcing the troops at the front of the column to waste their strength hacking a way through for the men coming behind them.

  The route they followed was tortuous. The roads and paths, even when cleared of obstacles, were crooked and narrow. The column was halted every few hundred yards, the men constantly having to re-form so they could fit into the constricted spaces. All the while they sweated in their heavy uniforms, every step torture as the heat and humidity sapped their strength.

  ‘Where the hell are you going, O’Dowd?’ Jack snapped as his Irish orderly stepped off the path.

  ‘I need a piss, sir, so I do.’ O’Dowd’s reply was terse.

  ‘Tough shit. Wait until we stop.’ Jack was hot and tired, and his temper was fraying.

  ‘I need to go now, sir.’ O’Dowd kept moving.

  ‘I don’t care if you piss in your fucking breeches,’ Jack snarled back. He was in no mood to be argued with. He glanced across at the scrubby bushes they had just passed. He saw why O’Dowd was keen to leave the column. ‘You don’t want to piss, do you, O’Dowd? You want those damn blackberries.’

  The Irishman did not bother to deny the accusation. ‘Now, sir. I’ll share ’em with you, so I will. Just let me go get them before some other langer spots them.’

  ‘Stay where you are.’ Jack bit back an angrier reply. The column was barely moving, the pace of the advance little faster than a child’s crawl.

  ‘Come on now, sir.’ O’Dowd would not give up. ‘Look behind you. Half the boys are foraging about. Why should we miss out?’

  ‘Because I bloody said so.’ Jack was having none of it. He could do nothing about the rest of the regiment’s discipline. But he could enforce it over his company.

  ‘What’s the problem here?’

  Jack could not help sighing as Captain Rowell was drawn by the argument. A Company’s captain had kept himself to himself for most of the morning. Now he had chosen to get involved in the petty dispute.

  ‘O’Dowd was just getting back into the ranks, sir,’ Jack replied in the tone of a man trying to end a conversation before it had begun.

  ‘What’s the matter, O’Dowd?’ Rowell fired the question at the Irishman.

  ‘Well, sir.’ O’Dowd licked his lips nervously, glancing at Jack before he pressed on. ‘I was just asking the lieutenant here if I could relieve myself.’

  ‘Were you indeed?’ Rowell turned to Jack. ‘What’s wrong with that? It’s not like he’ll be left behind.’

  Jack glared at O’Dowd as he tried to keep hold of his fraying temper. He could see Rowell was spoiling for a fight. The captain’s face was sheeted in sweat and his cheeks and neck were flushed with heat. Like all the men he was hot, tired and irritable. Jack was sure nothing good could come from whatever he said.

  ‘I told Private O’Dowd to wait until the next halt.’

  ‘Did you? Well, there’s no place for a martinet in my company. If a man needs to relieve himself, we should damn well let him.’

  ‘The men should stay in the ranks, sir.’ Jack’s tone was icy. ‘Until given orders to fall out.’

  ‘Goddam it, Lieutenant!’ Rowell snapped. ‘This is my company. I give the orders.’

  ‘Then give the right ones.’ Jack did not hold back.

  Rowell’s face was puce. ‘Don’t you dare tell me what to do.’

  Jack was too tired to hold his tongue. ‘The men can’t just wander off whenever they bloody fancy.’

  ‘Goddam you, Lark. This is my company, not yours.’ Rowell’s handsome face was contorted with rage. ‘You seem to think that whatever I have is yours for the taking. I give you fair warning. Keep your damn distance, you hear me?’

  Jack’s heart was pumping now. He knew what Rowell was referring to, and it wasn’t anything to do with O’Dowd taking a piss. ‘The men need to be disciplined. If they walk off when
ever they please, then they won’t stay in line when the enemy starts shooting.’ He tried to keep the topic on military matters.

  ‘You know everything, don’t you, Lark?’ Rowell snarled back. ‘It’s all we hear from you. How we’re not ready. How we should do things differently. How you know better.’ He stepped forward so that his face was barely an inch from Jack’s own. ‘Well, I’m sick of your constant whining. You need to learn to hold your tongue.’

  ‘And you need to listen.’ Jack did not back away even as he felt Rowell’s breath washing across his face. ‘You need to learn.’

  ‘Keep your mouth shut, you hear me?’ Rowell paused and closed his eyes as if in sudden pain. When he opened them again, they blazed with fury. ‘Keep away from my Elizabeth.’ The words were spoken in a quieter tone, but his voice vibrated with passion. ‘You understand that, you goddam son of a bitch. You stay away from her.’

  Jack sensed every man listening avidly to the confrontation that most had seen coming. There were few secrets in a company.

  ‘You need to get back to your place,’ he fought to hold on to an even tone, ‘and keep your mind on your fucking job.’

  ‘Stop telling me what to do!’ This time Rowell bellowed, his anger released.

  Jack did not flinch. ‘Then stop acting like a fuckwit.’

  Rowell’s mouth twisted, but whatever words it was forming were lost as another voice spoke first.

  ‘Captain Rowell! Lieutenant Lark!’

  Both men turned to see Major Bridges stomping his way up the side of the stalled column. ‘What on earth is going on here?’

  Rowell turned to look at Jack with loathing. ‘Lark disobeyed my order.’

  ‘Oh grow up,’ Jack spat back. For a moment he thought Rowell would throw a punch, such was the hatred in his eyes.

  ‘Get your company moving!’ Bridges shouted before the captain could so much as twitch. ‘For goodness’ sake, Rowell, you’re holding up the whole damn army.’