The True Soldier: Jack Lark 6

by Paul Fraser Collard

  Rowell shuffled from boot to boot. ‘I thought I was losing her.’

  ‘Not to me.’ Jack could not help wincing at the awkwardness of the conversation.

  ‘I could not bear the shame of that.’ Rowell fixed his gaze on Jack. ‘My reputation would be ruined if I was spurned.’

  ‘That’s it?’ Jack laughed. He had nearly choked on the words of praise. He should not have bothered.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Rowell’s eyes narrowed. Conciliation was replaced by icy distrust.

  ‘That’s what concerns you? Damage to your precious reputation?’

  ‘Naturally.’ Rowell shrugged. ‘You know the Kearneys. You know the power of their influence; you’re their man, after all.’

  ‘I’m not their man.’ The words came out as a growl.

  ‘Please.’ Rowell looked pained at Jack’s denial. ‘Everyone knows you’re here to look after Kearney’s son. You’re a wet nurse with a gun, nothing more.’ He laughed at his own remark. ‘Why else would a man like you be allowed to serve with us?’

  ‘A man like me?’

  ‘A mercenary for hire.’ There was steel in Rowell’s words now. ‘Oh, we know what you are, Lieutenant Lark.’ He imbued the honorific with a healthy dose of scorn. ‘When Kearney’s precious boy goes safely home, he will discard you without a qualm, just as he would me if I lost Elizabeth’s affection. You and I are quite alike, Lark. We are both beholden to the charity of the Kearney family, although it would appear only one of us knows what manner of man we are. We are pawns, Lark, pawns in Kearney’s game. My place on the damn chessboard lasts as long as Elizabeth loves me. Yours as long as his worthless slug of a son serves in this army. So forgive me if I come across as rather heartless. Elizabeth is a means to an end, nothing more. Her beauty is a blessing, I admit, but if she were the ugliest sow in the brood, I would not pursue her with any less attention or diligence.’

  ‘Captain Rowell!’ A breathless courier shouted for the commander of A Company, ending the uncomfortable conversation. ‘Compliments of the major. You’re to prepare your men to advance as part of the main line.’ The young soldier gabbled out the orders in between gasping for breath. ‘The 12th New York Regiment will form on our right.’

  ‘Very good. Tell the major we are ready.’

  Jack noticed that Rowell was standing straighter. The captain’s experience of combat had shaken his confidence, but now some of his customary bravado was back.

  But Rowell was wrong about one thing. Jack did know what manner of man he was, and he knew that the time for talking was done. He did not know if General Tyler’s orders had changed. He did not care if they were about to turn the enemy’s right flank or if they were simply advancing in a futile bid to further one man’s ambition. He was a soldier on the field of battle. He had his orders. That was all he needed.

  The 1st Boston was going back down the hill.

  A Company reloaded their rifles then headed back down the slope. This time they marched on the right flank of the regiment. Ahead was the woodland they had walked through earlier, but for the moment they could see across the river to the enemy on the far bank. The Confederates had used the lull to bring forward more troops, but the sight did not deter the Union men, who advanced with a confident spring in their step.

  ‘They won’t stand, will they, Lieutenant?’ a powder-blackened face called out to Jack.

  ‘Shut your mouth,’ First Sergeant O’Connell spared Jack from answering, ‘and keep your eyes front.’ The two men followed behind the line. ‘Warm work,’ O’Connell observed to Jack.

  ‘It’ll get warmer.’ Jack glanced at the far slope. The enemy was forming up closer to the banks of the river. There were thousands of them.

  ‘There sure are enough of the buggers.’ O’Connell clearly saw what Jack was looking at. ‘We’d better hope they feck off like the last lot did, or else we’re going to be in a whole barrel-load of shite.’

  ‘Come on now, Sergeant, we’re going to whip them Southron sons of bitches and whip them good.’ The same man turned his head. He was grinning from ear to ear even as he dared to contradict his first sergeant.

  ‘If I have to tell you to shut your damn mouth again, then so help me I’ll sew your fecking lips together myself,’ O’Connell snarled, wiping the man’s smile away in an instant.

  O’Connell’s threat silenced the ranks, but there was no hiding the men’s confidence. They were fairly running down the slope now, and it did not take long to reach the wood. They moved into the shadow of the trees, the air immediately cooler, the sound of their boots deadened as they marched over the thick layer of soil, foliage and mulch that smothered the ground.

  ‘They think it’ll be easy,’ Jack commented to O’Connell. He lifted his kepi and wiped the sweat away. It was a relief to be in the shade of the trees.

  ‘Their dander is well and truly up, so it is,’ O’Connell agreed. ‘Let’s hope they’re right to be so fecking confident.’

  ‘Let’s hope.’ Jack could not help being dour. The men of A Company had fought once. The enemy had run without inflicting a single casualty. Now the Union men thought they were veterans. To a man, they believed the enemy would flee at their first volley.

  He could only hope they were right. He had seen the thick band of Confederate soldiers that waited patiently for the second Union advance. If they held their ground, the Union troops would have the devil’s own job to shift them.

  The 1st Boston emerged from the wood. Ahead, they could see the grass that had been crushed by their skirmishers’ boots just a short time before. Further down the slope was the place where the men had stood and fired, their discarded cartridge tops littering the ground. The smell of spent powder lingered in the air.

  ‘Mary mother of God, would you look at that now.’ O’Connell still marched at Jack’s side, and now he breathed the words as he saw what was waiting for them.

  Jack said nothing.

  The enemy had pushed a long way forward, the distance between the two bodies of men less than a hundred yards. They were close enough for him to see the whites of their eyes as they watched the Union troops emerging into the sunlight. Hundreds of them lined the far bank of the river and every single one of them had a raised musket aimed at the Union men.

  ‘Mary mother of God,’ O’Connell said again.

  Then the enemy fired.

  The volley roared out. Hundreds of musket balls seared across the river, tearing into the Union ranks. Dozens fell, their screams filling the air. The line shuddered as it absorbed the volley, then stumbled to a halt. Men who had been wounded shrieked and cried for aid. Those still whole shouted and called to one another. The dead lay silent.

  ‘Form line.’ Jack strode forward. The shock of the enemy volley seared through his veins. The fear was there. He could taste it, bitter and metallic on his tongue. He felt it too, deep in his belly, churning and twisting as it fought to be free. Yet it had to be ignored. He had work to do.

  ‘They killed Adam.’ A pale face turned to stare at Jack in anguish. The man in the file next to him now lay on the ground, his head turned to pulp.

  ‘Eyes front.’ Jack snapped the order. ‘Leave him alone!’ he snarled at the man fussing over the fallen soldier. ‘Prepare to fire, for fuck’s sake! It’s time to fight, you hear me. It’s time to fight!’

  The men heard him. Most obeyed, pulling rifles into shoulders, shaking fingers curling around triggers.

  Jack looked for his captain. Rowell was hunched over a fallen man, his hands fluttering across the gaping chasm torn in the man’s chest. He was useless.

  ‘1st Boston! Aim! Fire!’ Bridges gave the order from his place at the centre of the regiment.

  ‘Fire!’ Jack repeated the command. The men responded and the volley crashed out, flinging a storm of bullets at the thick band of enemy soldiers.
There were so many Confederate soldiers that the Union troops simply could not miss. All along the enemy line, grey-coated men fell to the ground, the heavy Minié bullets tearing limbs from bodies or gouging huge holes in flesh and bone.

  ‘Load!’ Jack strode to the right of the line, shouting loudly enough for every man to hear him.

  The enemy fired again. Jack could not help flinching as the air was torn apart by the heart-stopping whine of musket balls zipping past. Filled with sudden fear, he looked for Robert. To his relief, the younger man was standing in his allotted position, sword drawn and pistol in hand. Jack laughed at the sight. He had not bothered to draw his own weapons. The notion amused him. There was more than one way to fight in a battle. He was an officer, his weapons the hundred rifles that obeyed his command.

  ‘Aim!’ he bellowed. There was no trace of fear in his voice. ‘Fire!’

  The Union troops fired for a second time. The volley cut the enemy down by the dozen. Men screamed as they were hit, the dreadful, heart-rending shrieks coming hard on the heels of the sound of the rest of the 1st Boston firing. The Union soldiers were hitting their targets, but there were simply too many of them. They were outnumbered and outgunned. If they stayed, they would die.

  ‘Pull back!’ The order came from Jack’s left. He was not the only one to see the danger. Major Bridges had come towards the right flank, shouting as he moved, making sure all the officers heard him. ‘Pull back to the trees!’

  Jack waved in acknowledgement as Bridges moved away. The far left of the regiment was already on the move, the men needing little urging to retreat from the enemy.

  ‘That’s enough!’ Jack shouted his instructions. ‘Pick up the wounded and go back to the trees.’

  The men moved quickly, dragging the dead and the dying with them. The broken bodies left trails behind them in the grass, the smears of blood red and slick in the bright afternoon sunlight.

  ‘Rowell! You need to get back to the treeline.’ Jack pushed through the retreating soldiers and stalked to the company’s right flank. ‘Rowell!’

  Rowell was still crouched over the fallen man. His hands were covered in blood. He looked ready to vomit.

  ‘For God’s sake, get on your damn feet.’ Jack reached forward and pulled him up.

  ‘Get your hands off me.’ Rowell looked ready to lash out. ‘Who the hell do you think you are?’

  ‘The man saving your sorry hide.’

  ‘Damn you!’ Rowell’s face twisted, mouth ugly as he spat words back at Jack. ‘Why don’t you just leave me alone?’

  ‘Oh, shut the fuck up.’ Jack pushed him towards the trees. ‘Now get back.’

  ‘Damn you, Lark!’ Rowell’s hands moved quickly as he turned, drawing his beautiful ivory-handled revolver in one smooth movement.

  The enemy fired their third volley. It slashed through the Union troops, cutting down men all along the line even as they pulled back. Rowell flinched, the bullets zipping past his head.

  Jack did not so much as twitch. He snapped his arm forward, snatching the gun from Rowell’s grasp. It took him the span of a single heartbeat to turn the weapon around and aim it at the centre of Rowell’s sweat-streaked face. His finger curled on the trigger and he held it there, the revolver as still as death. It would be easy to kill the creature in front of him. He had killed so many men. The notion of adding one more to the tally meant nothing. Rowell meant nothing.

  ‘Pull back!’

  Jack turned his head. It was Robert. The young officer called across to them, his voice wavering. He had stayed behind even as the rest of the company broke for cover.

  ‘What the hell is going on? Come on!’ Robert ran towards them, his gait awkward as he tried to move quickly yet still remain crouched.

  Jack turned his gaze back on Rowell. The man had not moved. He stared at the gun held so steadily in Jack’s hand, his eyes fixed on the gaping maw of the muzzle aimed squarely at his face.

  ‘You want to kill me?’ Jack did not bother to hide his disdain. He could feel the revolver’s engraved ivory hilt under his hand. He wanted the weapon for his own. It was perfectly balanced, the weight snug in his hand. The temptation to keep it was strong.

  ‘For God’s sake.’ Robert had stopped a few yards away and now waved to them. ‘Pull back, you fools.’

  Jack kept his eyes on Rowell. He could feel the hatred emanating from the man.

  ‘Try that again, and so help me I’ll blow your brains to kingdom come.’ His words were like iron. He held Rowell’s gaze for a moment more, then tossed the precious revolver to one side.

  ‘Come on!’ he shouted as he ran past Robert, grabbing the lieutenant by the elbow and hauling him on. They ran together, scabbards banging from their hips. Neither looked back to see if Rowell was following.

  They staggered to a halt at the edge of the wood, and Jack let go of Robert’s elbow. ‘Form line! Quickly now,’ he shouted at the men. He paused, taking a moment to make sure they had started to obey before turning to his friend. ‘Back to your place behind the line.’

  Robert’s mouth opened, as if about to ask a question. Whatever it was was never uttered, and he nodded once then moved away to do as he was told.

  Jack watched him go, holding him in sight until he was hidden behind the line that A Company was forming at the edge of the wood. The rest of the regiment was on the company’s left, the other nine companies quick to re-form now that they were in the shelter of the trees.

  ‘That’s it. Now load!’ Jack snapped the instruction, then stalked to Rowell’s place at the rear of the line, not caring that he was usurping the man who rightly commanded the company. ‘Aim!’

  The men pulled rifles into shoulders. They had reloaded quickly.

  But not quickly enough.

  The enemy troops had advanced as the Union men retreated. Now they fired again. The musket balls struck the trees with a loud crack, showering the men with leaves and broken branches. A few found flesh, the sound like a butcher slamming a fresh carcass onto a chopping board.

  ‘Eyes front!’ Jack roared in the moment’s silence after the wicked storm had passed.

  The Union soldiers were wavering. Two men had fallen, crumpling to the ground in silence. Many of the rest had lowered their rifles or else pulled their heads away as they flinched from the Confederate fire.

  ‘Look at the enemy!’ Jack ordered. ‘Now aim!’

  Rifles were pulled back to fit snugly against shoulders, the men obedient even as they fought their fear.

  ‘Fire!’

  The volley roared out. It struck the enemy line, knocking men down all along its length.

  ‘That’s the way. Now load.’ Jack watched the men closely.

  Another enemy volley crashed into the wood, tearing bark from the trees and ripping away branches.

  ‘Aim! . . . Fire!’

  This time it was a crisper volley, the men pulling their triggers as one.

  ‘Better! Load!’ Jack turned his head and spat as the stink of spent powder caught in his throat.

  Another enemy volley tore into the treeline. A man on the left flank of the company cursed as a musket ball seared through the flesh of his arm. Another, closer to Jack, screamed in a moment’s horror as a ball ripped away two fingers of his left hand.

  Jack wiped a hand across his face, clearing the sweat from his eyes. ‘Aim at the officers.’ He pushed through the ranks until he stood in the centre of the front rank. ‘You hear me! Shoot at any of the bastards shouting orders.’ He bellowed the instruction, watching the men to make sure they understood.

  The thrill of commanding the company coursed through him. It was everything he remembered. He looked along the line, which was now wreathed in a cloud of smoke. The men’s faces were streaked with sweat and smeared with black powder stains. Their eyes were wide an
d showed white as they stared at the enemy. He could feel their determination. They were beginning to understand what it meant to stand and fight.

  Further to their left, the rest of the regiment stood at the edge of the woods. Each captain was controlling his own company, the distance too far and the wood too thick to allow the regiment to fight as one. It would be down to every officer to hold his men in place and keep them fighting.

  Jack glanced at the enemy. They had closed the distance as the Union troops retreated and now lined the far bank of the river. Dozens had fallen, the Union volleys working a dreadful destruction on their ranks. Jack was pleased to see the bodies of at least two of the men who had been shouting orders on the ground, the men heeding his command and firing with enough accuracy to take down the Confederate officers.

  As he watched them, so the enemy fired. The ordered volley fire was finished. Instead the Confederate troops were firing as soon as they were ready, each man fighting alone. It meant the Union men were subjected to a constant, withering barrage, but one that lacked the devastating power of the massed volley. The Confederates were firing uphill and most were firing high.

  ‘Come on!’ He turned back to the men and encouraged them. They were doing well. ‘Aim! . . . Fire!’

  Another volley spat out. The men were finding the rhythm now. Their fear was mastered and they were fighting. And they were hurting the enemy.

  ‘Jack!’ O’Connell shouted for his attention. ‘The 12th!’

  Jack twisted on the spot and saw immediately what had caught the first sergeant’s attention. The 12th New York Regiment were pulling back, their ranks disordered, leaving their dead behind. When he glanced across the river, he understood why.

  The Confederates had the bit between their teeth. They were attacking.

  The enemy came on fast. They splashed noisily across the ford, their boots flinging water high into the air. A strange ululating yell emanated from their ranks. It was an unearthly sound, the Confederates yipping and whooping as they advanced, the sound goading them on even as they advanced in the face of the Union fire.