The True Soldier: Jack Lark 6

by Paul Fraser Collard

  ‘Stand fast!’ Jack roared the order as he saw men starting to shuffle backwards. ‘Load.’

  Many looked at him as if he were mad. The enemy was already across the ford. They came on without pause, flooding the lower reaches of the slope with men, the strange yell now constant.

  ‘We pulling back?’ O’Connell reached Jack’s side.

  ‘Not until someone orders me to.’ Jack looked at the enemy, gauging distances. Then he looked at O’Connell. ‘Take post behind the line.’

  O’Connell nodded. He did not seek to change Jack’s mind.

  Jack strode along the front rank, keeping his eyes on the enemy. The rebel yell was unsettling the men. It hardly seemed human, its high pitch making the enemy sound like some beast from another realm. He had never heard anything like it, not even in the wildest reaches of India.

  ‘Aim!’ He shouted the order as he moved back to the centre of the front rank. For the first time that day, he drew his revolver. It felt heavy and clumsy, the contrast with Rowell’s beautifully crafted weapon stark. Yet it would do its job well enough.

  He raised the firearm. The range was far too long for him to have any hope of hitting the enemy ranks. But a weapon could still have an effect, even if it did not strike a target.

  ‘Fire!’

  He pulled the revolver’s trigger as he bellowed the order. The men obeyed, flinging another volley into the massive body of men coming towards them.

  ‘Load!’

  The enemy were closer now. The Union volley cut them down in droves, but the Confederates came on regardless, the discordant yell unaltered by the swathe of death cut into their ranks. Jack could only admire their bravery. They might have lacked the disciplined ranks of the Union army, but they were coming on in as fine a style as any troops he had ever seen.

  ‘Aim! . . . Fire!’ He fired his revolver again and then again, adding to the thunderous roar as yet another Union volley smashed into the Confederate ranks. At the shorter range, the heavy Minié bullets worked a wicked destruction on the bodies of the enemy, some passing through more than one man, the powerful Springfield rifles delivering a barrage that stopped the enemy advance in its tracks.

  ‘That’s the way. Load!’ Jack had the men in hand. It took courage to stand when the enemy came on. Courage that the men from Boston had found they possessed.

  The Confederate line had lost many men, the two Union volleys giving them a bloody nose. But they were not done fighting.

  ‘Stand fast.’ Jack straightened his spine as he saw the enemy raise their muskets. They were horribly close. ‘Keep reloading.’ He kept his voice calm.

  Musket balls smashed into the Union line. Men screamed as they were hit, their bodies torn by the enemy bullets that cut through the ranks.

  ‘Fire!’

  Jack felt nothing. He had not flinched as the enemy bullets killed men just yards from where he stood. He shouted the order knowing they had to keep fighting if the enemy was to be turned.

  The men obeyed. Even as their mates bled and died, those still standing pulled their triggers. Jack joined them, emptying the last barrels in his revolver, not caring that he was not likely to hit anything.

  Their close-range volley gouged great gaps in the enemy line, knocking dozens off their feet. This time it would prove to be enough. The enemy started to edge backwards when they should have been reloading. The movement began slowly, the men backing away hesitantly at first. Then the first handful turned and ran. The rest followed.

  As the enemy fled, the Union men cheered, their wild cries filled as much with relief as triumph. Jack did not join in, but he felt the same emotion deep in his gut. He had returned to where he belonged.

  ‘They got O’Connell!’

  The shout came from the right of the line. At first Jack could not fully hear it, the cheers drowning it out. Then it came again, the cry laced with horror.

  ‘They killed O’Connell.’

  Jack recognised the voice. It belonged to Robert. The young lieutenant pushed through the ranks, then grabbed Jack’s arm, pulling him out of the line.

  The cheers faltered. Men who had been shouting in the wild throes of victory stopped open-mouthed as the news rippled through the company.

  Jack ran. He was still carrying his revolver, a thin trail of powder smoke snaking from the barrel. He followed Robert along the front rank. Every man was turning around, every face betraying the same mix of horror and shock as they absorbed the news.

  He saw O’Connell’s body immediately. The tall first sergeant lay on his back, staring up at the sky. He had been hit in the eye. All that was left was a gory hole. The bullet had passed straight through the Irishman’s head, shattering his skull and killing him instantly.

  Jack looked away. He did not need to see more. All that had been O’Connell was gone.

  ‘Sir!’ A courier called for his attention.

  ‘What is it?’ He answered calmly. He was no stranger to death.

  ‘Compliments of Major Bridges. We’re pulling back. To the top of the hill.’

  ‘Very well,’ Jack replied briskly.

  ‘What?’ Robert, still at Jack’s side, reacted to the command angrily. ‘We beat them back and now we’re retreating?’

  ‘That’s the orders I was told to give you, sir.’ The courier had to swallow hard as the officer berated him.

  ‘That’s enough.’ Jack silenced Robert with a hand, then nodded to the runner. ‘We heard you. Thank you.’

  The courier did not wait to hear any more.

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ Robert wiped a hand across his face. ‘What the hell is going on?’

  Jack holstered his revolver. He did not care to listen to Robert. He was looking away to the right, where a lone officer was walking into the treeline. He carried an ivory-handled revolver.

  O’Connell was dead, and Rowell was back.

  Outside Centreville, Virginia, Friday 19 July 1861

  Reveille awoke the men at first light. They forced their tired bodies into motion, ignoring the protests from their aching joints. They had slept on the ground. There had been no tents and no shelter, no comfort other than what they carried on their backs.

  Scanlon had not returned. He was now permanently attached to the brigade staff. No one knew if it was reward for a job well done, or to add some experience to the men who had ordered the attack the previous day. Bridges had been given command of the regiment and he knew no more about the sudden appointment. If he was pleased, or daunted, by his promotion, he gave nothing away to his officers when he passed on the news.

  He had been more informed when it came to what was to happen next. Tyler’s division had pushed too hard the previous day. Tyler had exceeded his orders, but at least he had found out that the enemy held the river in force whilst also learning something of the ground McDowell had hoped to cross. The flanking attack that had been planned stood no chance of success. The Union army would have to find another way.

  ‘What the hell is this supposed to be? This ain’t food. It ain’t fit for a sickly sow, let alone a man!’

  Typically, O’Dowd’s was the first voice Jack heard as he got to his feet. The night sleeping on the ground had awoken the pain in the small of his back and it was sending spasms running up and down his spine.

  ‘What’s wrong, O’Dowd?’ Jack coughed as phlegm caught in his throat. He sorely needed tea, but he knew he would be lucky to even get some coffee.

  ‘Have you seen this now, sir?’ O’Dowd showed his mess plate so Jack could see the mush he was preparing to eat. ‘I’m not an animal and there is surely more bloody dirt and goddam sand in this here muck than anything that ever grew on this bloody earth. Desiccated vegetables, my arse. More like desecrated fecking shite.’

  ‘Is that all you have left?’ Jack was too tired, and in too m
uch pain, to deal with O’Dowd.

  ‘It’s this shite or hardtack.’

  ‘Well then, make your bloody choice.’

  O’Dowd took one look at Jack’s face and decided not to press. But he did toss the contents of his dinner into the nearest fire whilst muttering under his breath.

  ‘Heh, O’Dowd.’ Robert was still lying where he had slept, but now he lifted his head to pull his haversack closer. He dug inside and pulled out a glass jar, which he tossed over to the muttering Irishman. ‘You can have these.’

  O’Dowd caught the jar then held it aloft as he peered at the contents. ‘Mary mother of God, is that pickles you’re giving me there, sir?’

  ‘My sister sent them. She thinks they’re good for my bowels.’

  The men nearby laughed.

  ‘Well, sir, you tell your sweet sister that she is the finest creature this side of Kilkenny. I thank you for these.’

  Robert waved the thanks away and resumed his prostrate position, this time with his hands crossed comfortably behind his head.

  Jack walked across and stood over his fellow lieutenant. ‘You got any tea in there?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. I have some blackberries, if you’ve a fancy for something sweet.’

  ‘I need tea,’ Jack grunted. He looked around. The men were making what breakfast they could. None had much left in the way of rations. Their day would start with desiccated vegetables, hardtack and coffee. If no fresh supplies were brought up, it would be how it finished too. Only O’Dowd was happy. He sat with Robert’s jar of pickles between his legs, eating one after another with such relish it nearly made Jack smile.

  He bent down and fished out a lump of broken hardtack from his own haversack, then sat on the ground next to Robert. He snapped off a chunk and held it out to his companion. ‘You want to break your teeth on some of this?’

  Robert grimaced as he glanced at the hardtack, then waved it away. ‘I’m not hungry.’ He sighed and forced himself to a sitting position. ‘I don’t know how any of you can eat after yesterday.’ He spoke quietly so that only Jack could hear him.

  ‘You have to eat something.’

  ‘I cannot face it.’ Robert rubbed both hands vigorously through his hair, then wiped his palms across his face. He looked warily at Jack. ‘Have you spoken to the captain?’ Every man in the company was aware of the spat between the two officers. They were also very aware which of the pair had stood and fought at their side, and which had been absent for most of the fighting.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t you think you should?’

  It was Jack’s turn to sigh. ‘Probably.’ He gave a thin-lipped smile. ‘He pulled a gun on me.’

  ‘What?’ Robert looked aghast. ‘When?’

  ‘When we withdrew to the trees; just before you came and shouted at us.’

  ‘I didn’t see it.’ Robert frowned. ‘But I don’t disbelieve you,’ he added quickly when he saw the scowl on Jack’s face deepen. ‘Why would he do such a thing?’

  ‘He wanted to kill me.’

  ‘Kill you?’ Robert was aghast. ‘What the hell was he thinking?’

  ‘I expect he was thinking how much he wanted me dead.’

  ‘But why? I mean, I know he dislikes you; we all know that, but to want to kill you? Why, that would be murder.’

  Jack snorted. ‘Can you commit murder in a place where all men are trying to do is kill one another?’

  Robert’s lips twitched at the mention of killing. He looked down at the dust in front of him. He said nothing, but began to trace a pattern in the dirt.

  Jack sat back and took a careful bite from his hardtack. It was as hard as rock and tasted little better. But he knew he needed something in his belly, so he ground his teeth then swallowed the gritty substance down.

  ‘Do you think there will be another battle?’

  Jack looked at Robert, his brow furrowed. ‘That wasn’t a battle.’

  ‘It wasn’t?’

  ‘No. That was just a . . .’ He struggled to find the right word. The previous day’s fighting had been pointless. Men had died for nothing. ‘It was just a skirmish.’

  Robert lifted his gaze. His eyes were moist. ‘So there is worse to come?’

  ‘Yes.’ Jack saw the fear in the younger man. He had seen it before, but now Robert had glimpsed the truth of war. Sometimes knowledge was worse than ignorance.

  ‘How do you go back?’ Robert paused. ‘How do you go back to that?’ His face had paled to the colour of old ash.

  ‘You get used to it.’ Jack prepared to take another cautious bite of hardtack, but found that he could no longer stomach it. He tossed it over so that it landed on his haversack.

  ‘You get used to that?’ Robert voiced his disbelief.

  ‘You do.’

  Robert shook his head. ‘I truly do not believe I could ever get used to such a thing.’ He paused, resuming his tracing in the dust. ‘Does it go, then?’ he asked without looking at Jack.

  ‘Does what go?’

  ‘The fear.’ He whispered the words.

  Jack sighed before he summoned the will to answer. ‘No. It doesn’t go. But you learn to master it. To control it.’

  ‘But you could die.’

  ‘You could. But you could die tomorrow choking on a lump of this bloody hardtack. Or you could get a fever and be dead in a day. Or you could be a stupid young idiot and drink yourself to death. There are a lot of dumb ways to die.’

  Robert said nothing. He continued to trace a pattern in the dirt for a while, then crossly wiped it away with the heel of his palm. ‘I don’t want to die. When I think of what it means . . .’ The words tailed away.

  ‘So don’t die.’

  ‘How can I do that?’ Robert scoffed. ‘If they can kill O’Connell, they can sure as hell kill me.’

  Jack reached out and took a firm hold on Robert’s arm, forcing him to look up. ‘You do exactly what I tell you.’ He had to swallow hard to clear the knot that had formed in his throat. ‘I’ll do my best to keep you safe.’

  Robert frowned as he searched Jack’s face for something hidden. Then understanding dawned on him. ‘My father.’ He closed his eyes as if suddenly in acute pain. ‘My father put you here to look after me.’

  ‘He wants you to go back home in one piece.’

  ‘So he pays for me to have protection.’ Robert’s eyes snapped open. ‘You are nothing but a goddam mercenary.’

  He held Jack’s gaze, then the frown returned as he found a piece of the puzzle that he did not understand. ‘But you fought yesterday. You led us yesterday. You didn’t have to do that if you’re here just to protect me.’

  ‘That’s because I’m a fool.’

  ‘No.’ Robert’s voice was firmer. ‘You are no man’s fool, Jack Lark.’

  ‘I must be a fool if I like a daft bugger like you.’

  Robert found a wan smile. ‘I quite like the idea that you’re my bodyguard. Does that mean you’ll do as I ask? Will you obey me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No.’ Robert repeated Jack’s answer. ‘I think you have a problem doing what anybody tells you.’ He sighed. ‘I hope my father is paying you well.’

  ‘Enough.’

  ‘Enough? Is that all? He should be paying you a small fortune. I fancy I am worth that.’

  ‘Don’t get ideas above your station. I’ve been paid more for guarding a damn dog.’ Jack could not help smiling. Despite his fear, Robert still had enough spirit left for mockery.

  A rattle of drums came from near the centre of the regiment’s line. It would soon be beating out the instruction for the men to assemble, which meant the time for idle discourse had come to an end.

  Jack clambered to his feet, then stretched his spine, forcing away the wors
t of the stiffness. He looked down at Robert, who showed no sign of moving.

  ‘Come on, you slovenly soldier.’ He held out a hand, which Robert stared at for a moment, then accepted. With Jack’s help, he hauled himself to his feet.

  The two lieutenants were ready to face the day.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen.’ Major Bridges paused as he waited for the assembled officers to quieten down. He stood under the shade of a large tree. The morning sun had risen and its heat was already making the men sweat. The new commander of the 1st Boston cradled a mug of coffee in his hands, a thin trail of steam emerging from within.

  ‘The general’s plan has changed.’ Bridges spoke quietly, his delivery very different from Scanlon’s. There was no fire and brimstone in it. Instead he told the officers what they needed to know in a calm, matter-of-fact manner, like a school teacher reading out the instructions for a task he knew would stretch even his brightest pupils. ‘Yesterday’s action at Blackburn Ford made it clear that there is no way around to the east of the enemy position. So the general is now looking to the west.’

  Jack listened carefully. It was the first time he had heard the name of the ground they had fought over yesterday. He never normally gave much importance to such things. That could be left to those who would chronicle the actions; the men in warm, comfortable studies who would become armchair experts on the events others had endured.

  ‘We do know that the enemy is on the defensive and that it will be up to us to shift him. These men are defending their homes.’ Bridges paused and looked over his moustache at the officers. ‘They have the advantage of the ground, they are well supplied and they have had all the time they need to reconnoitre the terrain. If they have any sense they’ll sit tight and just let us come against them. That makes them hard to beat, and if any of you think otherwise then I am afraid you are deluded.’

  ‘What about Patterson and the enemy army he faces in the Shenandoah?’ asked Captain Joplin of B Company. ‘If that Reb army slips away and comes over here, then we will surely be outnumbered.’