Bridges’ moustache twitched, but he did as Jack asked. ‘McDowell plans to send two full divisions to the west. They will fall on the enemy’s flank with all their strength.’
‘Which divisions?’
‘The Second and Third. That’s nigh on thirteen thousand men.’
‘I see.’ Jack knew the 1st Boston were in McDowell’s First Division. ‘What about us?’
‘The First Division will make a feint here to the right of where we attacked the other day, where a stone bridge crosses the Bull Run. Richardson’s brigade will advance against Mitchell’s Ford. The Fifth Division will remain at Centreville in reserve.’
Jack considered the scheme for a moment. ‘It’s a sound plan.’
‘I am sure the general will be pleased you approve.’
Jack ignored the barbed comment. ‘It’s a sound plan provided the enemy are where we think they are and that there are no reinforcements coming across from the west to bolster their left flank.’
Bridges nodded. ‘That’s about the size of it. We have been reassigned to strengthen one of the flanking brigades. We are to be attached to the Second Division under Brigadier General Hunter. We shall be in Burnside’s brigade.’
Jack took the news in his stride. He reckoned the hardest fighting would be in the centre. The flanking march would likely be nothing more than a long, boring trudge through the Virginia countryside. He doubted McDowell had any idea where the enemy really was, let alone what ground he faced. If the reporter Russell was correct, the Union commander lacked even basic maps of the local area. Yet being reassigned to the flank march suited Jack well enough. Anything that kept Robert far from the fighting was a blessing.
‘When are we marching? Is there time for the men to have breakfast?’
‘We have a little longer than that. We march tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow!’ Jack did not bother to hide his scorn.
‘The general wants us to have a good rest.’
‘We’ll get all the damn rest we need when we’re dead! We should be marching now.’ Jack gritted his teeth and ground out his frustration.
‘Those are our orders. We have no choice but to obey.’
Jack looked at Bridges sharply. The major would not offer any criticism, but Jack sensed his commander shared his own frustration. And he was right. There was nothing so close to a god as a general on a campaign. There was nothing for it but to idle the day away and prepare for what was to come in the morning.
Jack recognised the odd-looking wagon from the celebrations on Independence Day. The photographer, Brady, had ventured far from the capital, the long delay giving him ample time to record the faces of the men waiting for the battle that would finally settle the discord between the states.
Brady was not alone in visiting the troops. It was a bright, sunny afternoon and the temporary encampment was swarming with people who had no reason to be there. The army should have been marching on the enemy. Instead it was sitting idle, being visited by the great and the good of Washington.
Jack had left the company lines an hour earlier. He had spent enough time sitting on his arse and a walk was preferable to languishing in the company lines with nothing to do.
The ground where the army had spent a second night was a hive of activity. McDowell might have been wasting time he did not have, but at least he had organised a delivery of fresh supplies. The train of wagons bringing up more salt pork, hardtack, desiccated vegetables and coffee stretched back for miles. Overworked supply officers were doing their best to distribute everything, but it was quickly descending into chaos.
Jack ducked past a blue-coated soldier shouldering a heavy crate of hardtack, then narrowly avoided an officer promenading with a young woman, nearly impaling himself on the spoke of the lady’s parasol as he did so. He was in the wrong place for a quiet stroll, so he walked briskly through a queue of soldiers waiting patiently to be used as pack mules, then changed direction and headed up a short slope leading to an area that was mercifully free of anyone else.
On the higher ground, he paused. The Union army stretched away for miles in every direction. There was not a scrap of open land as far as he could see. Every square foot was filled with men and the materiel of war. The size of the endeavour of which he found himself a part was staggering. If the numbers Bridges had been given were correct, the Union army numbered some thirty-five thousand men. Jack had been in bigger armies, but it was rare to be given the opportunity to see so many at once.
‘Jack? Jack, is that you?’
He heard his name being called and was tempted to ignore it. It would be easy enough to move away, to pretend not to have heard the voice. But he still needed Kearney’s dollars, and so he turned on the spot and nodded in greeting.
‘Good morning, sir, what a fine day it is.’ He managed to summon a smile, even as he spied that Kearney was accompanied by both his daughter and his future son-in-law.
‘A fine day indeed.’ Kearney greeted him warmly. ‘How go the preparations?’ He leaned comfortably on his walking stick.
‘We’re ready, sir,’ Jack answered pleasantly, whilst doing his best to ignore the two faces that glared at him from behind Kearney’s shoulder.
‘Good.’ Kearney’s expression turned grave. ‘I hear the company lost men a few days ago.’
‘Yes, sir. First Sergeant O’Connell was killed, as were three other men.’
‘A terrible thing. I shall write to their families personally.’
‘I’m sure they’d appreciate that, sir.’
Kearney’s eyes narrowed a fraction. ‘So Ethan tells me the battle will likely be tomorrow?’
‘He’s quite correct, sir. The enemy will not give up such strategic ground without a fight.’
Kearney nodded as if he had been seeking Jack’s confirmation. ‘Then we shall not miss out on the spectacle.’ He turned to Elizabeth. ‘You will get your wish, my dear. Jack agrees that tomorrow is the day. Your preparations will not be wasted.’
‘Preparations, sir?’ Jack asked warily.
‘We shall be here to watch the events as they unfold. Elizabeth has organised a picnic. It will be quite the jolly affair. Half of Washington society plans to be here. Even Senator Ashby has voiced the intention to come along with us.’
‘You can’t do that.’ Jack spoke without thinking.
Kearney frowned. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You cannot do such a thing.’ Jack thought of curbing his tongue, but he was committed now.
‘Explain yourself?’ Kearney was not taking kindly to the Englishman’s reaction.
‘I have never heard such a ridiculous bloody idea.’ Jack gave his master the whole barrel. ‘This isn’t some sort of entertainment laid on for your amusement.’
‘Now listen to me—’
‘No, you bloody well listen to me.’ Jack cut Kearney short. ‘Men will die tomorrow. They’ll die screaming and crying with half their damn bodies ripped apart. You want to watch that?’
‘I think you are getting ahead of yourself, Jack. Remember why you are here.’ Kearney hissed the warning.
Jack shook his head forcefully. ‘This has nothing to do with looking after your daft bugger of a son. It’s about doing the right thing for the poor bastards who’ll suffer when we finally stop pissing around and fight the damn enemy.’
‘Jack, please mind your language in front of my daughter.’
‘She’s likely heard worse.’ Jack’s temper was firing. He looked at Rowell. ‘You tell them. Tell them they are being bloody stupid.’
Rowell’s lips curled as he looked at Jack. ‘I shall do no such thing.’
‘Why the hell not?’
‘I’m sure Mr Kearney knows what is best.’
‘No, he bloody doesn’t. Stop being a damn lickspittle and tell th
em to keep the hell away.’
‘It’s not my place to—’
‘Oh for God’s sake.’ Jack stopped Rowell in mid-flow. He looked back at Kearney. ‘What if it all goes wrong?’
‘What do you mean?’ Kearney scowled.
‘What if we lose? What happens to you then?’
‘I do not think that is a possibility.’
‘No? You think the Confederates are going to just take one look at us and bugger off? They’ll fight to hold this ground. What if we cannot shift them off it? What if we lose?’
‘That is hardly likely.’
Jack shook his head at such blind folly. ‘Have you seen an army in retreat? Do you know what it’s like when men are fleeing from the battlefield with enemy cavalry chasing them down?’ For a moment he was back on the great plain to the south of Solferino, running for his life as rampaging Austrian cavalry cut down the French troops in droves.
He shook off the memory. Kearney was glaring at him. He swallowed with difficulty. His anger had been routed by the darkness.
‘I would urge you to reconsider, sir.’ He spoke in the flat tones of a man who knew he had lost.
‘And I thank you for your advice.’ Kearney’s tone was glacial. ‘But I hardly think we will be in any danger. We shall proceed as planned. I will not have it said that I cowered away in Washington whilst Senator Ashby was here. I shall not give the man such an advantage.’
Jack knew when he was beaten. He did not look at Rowell or Elizabeth. He could not bear to see the triumph in their eyes as his employer humbled him. ‘If you will excuse me, I must see to the men.’
‘Of course.’
He turned to leave. He would not do so in peace.
‘Lieutenant Lark.’
It was Elizabeth who held him back. He thought about just walking on, but with Kearney present, he had no choice but to turn at her command.
‘I’m told you have taken a fancy to my maid.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Jack feigned incomprehension.
‘My maid, Rose. You were seen together.’
Jack felt a stirring of anger. ‘I walked with her, yes.’
‘I do not recommend it.’
He saw the anger burning in Elizabeth’s eyes. It sat at odds with her beauty, like a turd placed centrally on a fine white porcelain plate.
‘I rather think I shall walk with whoever I choose, ma’am. Now if you’ll excuse me.’ He made to leave again.
‘It will not do, Jack.’ This time it was Kearney who detained him.
‘Why is that, sir?’ Jack held the reins of his temper tight.
‘She is a serving girl. You are a Union officer.’
‘Temporarily.’ Jack could not help snapping.
Kearney took a few steps forward. ‘Must I speak plainly?’ The words were fired in a hoarse whisper. ‘She is an escaped slave, Jack. God alone knows how her former masters treated her. They whipped her; that much is clear to everyone who lays eyes on her. Who knows what other depredations she was subjected to? If that is not enough to make you reconsider, then there is the small matter of her colour.’ He paused. ‘She is not a suitable companion for a Union officer, especially not one in my employ.’
‘I see.’ Jack managed to force the words out. They came out as dead as a stillborn child. ‘Is that all?’
‘Yes.’ Kearney stepped back. ‘The maid will be sent back to Boston. You will not see her again.’
Jack said nothing. He nodded once, then turned on his heel and left the three of them to stare at his back, as much to hide the expression he knew was plastered across his own face as to avoid seeing the satisfaction on Rowell and Elizabeth’s.
He was unconcerned by Kearney’s warning. He had no intention of being told what to do. Not by Elizabeth and not even by his employer. He knew his own mind. If anyone tried to get between him and Rose, he would tell them to take a running jump and to hell with the consequences.
Two armies were fighting for the right to live as they thought best. Jack would not do any less for himself.
The evening sky was perfectly clear. It was still humid and muggy, but much of the day’s heat had fled with the last of the light. The encampment was quiet now, calm after the day’s hiatus. The visitors had left, returning to their temporary accommodation in the local area or making the longer journey back to Washington. The men were left to find what peace they could.
Jack stared up at the sky. There were enough stars there to form an army. The silent battalions stared back at him, serene and untroubled. He liked the stars. They were one of the few constants in his life. Their patterns had changed, the ones he now looked at arranged differently to those he had seen in India or the Crimea, yet they were still his companions.
The moon was bright. Its light cast the nearby woodlands into shadow but filled the open ground with a wondrous pale light. Only the glow of distant campfires spoiled the serenity of the scene. The enemy was close by, their presence casting a pall over the Union encampment. They reminded every Union soldier of what was to come. Two armies had been summoned to a single place. Only one would be allowed to remain.
Jack thought back to his youth. It was Saturday night, a day on which his mother’s gin palace would have been busier than usual as the good men, women and children of Whitechapel celebrated the end of the working week and laid down a base of watered-down gin to help them endure another Sabbath. The queue would have stretched outside, the grey-faced customers standing in stoic silence as they waited for a pennyworth or two of liquor with a quart more taken home to see them through to Monday.
The street patterers would have been working the area outside the palace, the air full of ludicrous claims and devious blarney. They were as much entertainment as anything else, but still many in the crowd would part with a few pennies to buy whatever the industrious patterers had found to sell that day.
He wondered what was there now, what building, if any, had been erected on the burned-out husk of the palace. Did the locals miss the place and the mouthy bawd who had taken their pennies with a smile? Did they remember the soldier who had returned to bring such destruction?
A harmonica interrupted Jack’s thoughts. Memories were replaced with the sights and sounds of an army encampment the night before battle. The song was ‘Yankee Doodle’. It was played slowly and softly, the more usual rousing version replaced by the tone and rhythm of a mournful lament. The sound drifted through the campfires. This was the quiet time, when the stories had been told and the songs had been sung. It was the time for each man to wrestle with his demons and to wonder what the next day would bring.
Jack heard the soft scuffle of someone approaching. The noise annoyed him. He did not want to talk. He wanted to be left alone with his memories, the few that he would dare to release from their cages. There were not many he would allow out. Those he did, he wanted to be able to savour in peace.
He caught sight of a silhouette. It was shorter than most of the men.
‘What do you want?’ He stopped whoever it was in their tracks. It was the tired, ratty question of a man not wanting to be disturbed.
‘Well, that’s a fine welcome.’ The figure kept walking.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Jack’s annoyance fell away. He stepped forward quickly until Rose’s face emerged from the darkness.
‘I came to see you, although perhaps I should not have taken the trouble,’ Rose mocked. ‘I can go away if you prefer?’
‘No, stay.’ Jack felt absurdly pleased. Rose had taken a risk coming to see him.
‘How did you get here?’
‘I hitched a ride. There’s plenty of wagons coming this way.’
‘Wasn’t it dangerous?’
Rose laughed. ‘I made it all the way from Charleston to Massachusetts. I reckon I can get myself a couple
a miles down the road.’
Jack could not argue. It reminded him how little he knew about Rose. ‘You shouldn’t have come. What if they find out?’ He could not bring himself to name either of the Kearneys.
‘What can they do to me?’ Rose pulled a face at the idea. ‘They ain’t about to whip me. They don’t hold with that.’
‘Well, that’s something good about them.’ Jack stood awkwardly in front of her. He wanted to reach out, to pull her into his arms. But Rose was different to any girl he had met before. There was a reserve to her, and a toughness he had not known in any other. ‘I thought they were sending you back to Boston?’
‘They are. I go back next week. They need me till then.’
‘For what?’
‘For whatever they want. I don’t get to ask.’
‘So why did you come here?’
‘To give you something.’
Rose took a half-step forward. She was smiling, mocking him again. She saw his awkwardness and hesitation, and it clearly amused her.
Jack was wary. ‘What is it?’
‘Me.’ She whispered the single word and walked into his arms.
Jack lay on the ground and stared up at the stars. Rose was nestled against his side, her head resting on his chest. He let his hand wander to her hair, running the soft curls through his fingers. He wondered if he would look at the stars again the following night. Perhaps Rose was fate’s parting gift, a last glimpse of the joy life could hold before his was taken from him.
For tomorrow, all the waiting would be over. It would be time for the much-longed-for battle, the opportunity for force to decide where diplomacy and negotiation had failed.
Tomorrow the Union would fight for its survival, whilst the South would fight for the right to govern itself as it saw fit.
Tomorrow the fates of hundreds of thousands of souls would be changed for ever.
Tomorrow.
Outside Centreville, Virginia, Sunday 21 July 1861
Reveille sounded at two a.m. The men were roused in the darkness, the inky blackness of night wrapping around the encampment like a shroud. It was stiflingly hot and there was not a breath of wind.
The True Soldier: Jack Lark 6 Page 31