The True Soldier: Jack Lark 6

by Paul Fraser Collard

  A steady stream of wounded followed the first group. All wore the shocked expressions of men whose dreams of glory had been shattered in the very opening exchanges of the battle.

  ‘Eyes front.’ Jack attempted to divert the troops’ attention from the sight, yet every head turned in unison as the company marched past the wounded soldiers, the sight a visceral reminder of what lay ahead.

  A group of officers rushed past, dust kicked high by the fast-moving hooves of their horses. Bridges stopped his own horse and looked back over the column. Jack could not help but smile. The regiment’s commander looked odd on horseback, his tall frame too big for the small mare. He reminded Jack of a gangly child he had seen being given a pony ride at the Independence Day fair.

  Bridges gave the order to march in double time, and the men forced their tired bodies into the faster pace. The air was filled with the sound of boots thumping into the sun-baked ground and the clatter of equipment as the regiment pushed on past the last of the wounded stragglers. A man to the left rear of the company collapsed from exhaustion, tripping half a dozen men in the files behind. He was left behind on the verge of the road without ceremony.

  They pressed on through a scattering of trees, the momentary shade a blessing that passed too quickly. A brigade courier waited for them on the far side, the officer, a captain, holding a piece of paper in his right hand whilst he pointed with his left.

  ‘Deploy right. Form line!’

  The men did as they were ordered, breaking off the road and pounding across a grassy slope. The men from A Company had furthest to go, as they would form the far right of the line. Bridges rode at their side. He called no encouragement to the sweaty, red-faced men in blue who stumbled and staggered their way into place, but his presence reassured them nonetheless.

  ‘Form here!’ he shouted down at Captain Rowell. ‘There are enemy skirmishers across the way. Do nothing until I give the order.’ Once he had given his instructions, he turned his horse around and trotted back along the regiment.

  ‘Form line.’ Rowell’s chest was heaving, but he managed to give the order loudly enough for the men to hear.

  The men of A Company turned towards the enemy. To their left, the 1st Rhode Island Regiment was doing the same, the two Union regiments forming a two-man-deep battle line across the face of what appeared to be a Confederate brigade.

  Fire came against them almost at once. The enemy skirmishers did not fire in a volley like a regiment formed in line. Instead they aimed shots as and when they were ready. The withering barrage snickered around the ears of the Union troops, the single shots snapping by with a strange fizzing sound. The range was long, but the enemy knew their trade.

  The first man yelled as he was hit. He stood in the files near the middle of the company. Every eye turned to him as he keeled over, falling to the ground without another sound.

  The day’s dying had begun.

  Elizabeth Kearney laughed. She did not mean to. She sat on a seat opposite her father and his companion, Senator Ashby. The buggy they shared had been filled with the serious business of the Senate, the two men using the journey to tackle the pressing matter of what should be done with the freed slaves who would surely soon be looking to the government for aid. It was already stifling in the buggy and the two of them had done their best to add still more hot air.

  But it was not affairs of state that amused Elizabeth. She was looking at the photograph that had been taken on Independence Day and she found it impossible not to laugh as she contemplated the expression on Jack’s face that Mr Brady had captured for all time. The Englishman looked as if he was trying to hold in an especially significant bout of flatulence, and as soon as Elizabeth had that thought, she could not contain herself.

  ‘Are you quite all right, my dear?’ Her father could not help smiling as he heard his daughter burst into spontaneous laughter.

  ‘I am, Father.’ Elizabeth hid the photograph under her glove. ‘It is a beautiful day, if a little hot, don’t you think?’

  ‘Let us hope it is hotter for the Confederates.’ Kearney did not press his daughter on what had made her laugh. Senator Ashby was clearly besotted with Elizabeth; the man could not keep his eyes off her. It was exactly as he had planned. Ashby was a man of great influence and Kearney wanted him as an ally. If his daughter’s beauty helped smooth the way, then Kearney would not hesitate to use it to his advantage.

  The buggy eased to a halt on the crest of a ridge of high ground that was already thick with spectators.

  ‘It looks like half of Washington has contrived to arrive before us.’ Kearney glanced around. ‘Henson, pull up over near those trees. I am sure those good people will not mind moving for the senator.’

  The buggy lurched back into motion. Elizabeth was thrown forward, but she managed to avoid sliding off her seat by grabbing hold of Ashby’s knee.

  ‘Excuse me, sir.’ She covered her mouth with a gloved hand as if horrified by the lack of propriety. ‘I do apologise.’

  ‘No apology needed, ma’am.’ Ashby shifted in his seat and reached out a hand to his knee, as if the fleeting touch somehow lingered.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Elizabeth dipped her head and glanced up at the senator through her eyelashes. She did not have to look at her father to see the approval on his face. She knew the role he expected her to play well enough. It was not the first time.

  ‘You must be worried about your fiancé.’ Ashby leaned forward. ‘I saw you looking at a daguerreotype just a moment ago. Was that your young man?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Elizabeth gave the lie easily. The buggy came to a halt and she heard Henson jump down and begin ordering those already situated there to move.

  ‘It will be a testing day for us all.’ Ashby spoke earnestly. ‘Your fiancé will be in my prayers. May the good Lord keep him safe.’

  Elizabeth repaid the comment with her most beaming smile. She did not think Ashby a handsome man. His face was thin, with a pair of beady eyes that darted quickly from side to side so that he looked like a continually alert weasel, a comparison not helped by the wispy salt-and-pepper beard and moustache that framed his small mouth. But despite his appearance, he did manage to exude a certain power, a sureness of his importance in the world and the notion that everyone else knew of it.

  ‘Why, sir, that is most gracious of you.’

  ‘It is my pleasure, ma’am. My absolute pleasure.’ Ashby preened as the full weight of Elizabeth’s smile was brought to bear on him.

  ‘Sir, we’re ready for you now.’ Henson, a black man who stood easily over six feet tall, had opened the door of the buggy. The ground Kearney had chosen was now clear.

  ‘Thank you, Henson.’ Kearney got stiffly to his feet and the driver took his arm to help him disembark.

  ‘Here, let me help you.’ Ashby was quick to hold out a hand to Elizabeth. It made it harder for her to get out of the buggy, but she accepted it nonetheless, even as she was forced to stretch her arm awkwardly.

  She did have to admit her father had chosen a splendid spot for them. They were on a hillside not far from Centreville. Flowers covered the ground, and with the scattering of trees the place had a pastoral, woodsy look that was quite enchanting. It did not match her imaginings of a battlefield.

  A second buggy pulled up behind theirs, followed by a third. Elizabeth did not look at them for long. One was filled with supplies for the day, whilst the other bore the servants they had brought with them. Instead, she turned and gazed away to the south and the rolling countryside that stretched for miles.

  There was little for her to see. A single column of Union infantry marched along a cart track. Other than a scattering of wagons in one pasture, there was nothing she could see that suggested an impending battle.

  ‘Ma’am. I think you’ll be needing this.’

  Elizabeth turned and saw Rose
holding out a parasol ready to be opened.

  ‘Thank you, Rose.’ She took it, immediately opening it and balancing it artily on her shoulder before she was forced to step back quickly as a group of young children ran past in a rush of noisy excitement.

  ‘Will there be anything else, ma’am?’ Rose stood ready for instructions.

  Elizabeth looked around her. The hillside was busy. Men strolled with their wives, or engaged each other in intense conversation. They were dressed as they would be for any outdoor social occasion, and the bright pastels of the ladies’ dresses offered a wonderful mix of colour. The men’s formal attire was utterly unsuitable for the heat, and most sported florid, sweaty faces. Moving amongst them all were liveried servants carrying trays filled with wine glasses containing the finest Bordeaux wines, or platters of Bologna sandwiches. Groups of young children intent on play ran about, and their laughter and shrieks added life to the murmur of conversation and the chink of crystal glasses.

  ‘Do you not think this looks just like Mrs Singleton’s last excursion to Salem?’ she asked Rose.

  Rose gave the scene a cursory glance. ‘They all look the same to me, ma’am.’

  ‘That was my point. You would not think we had come to see a war.’

  ‘I don’t think many people here know what a war is, ma’am.’

  Elizabeth looked at the maid sharply, hearing something in her tone. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  Rose nodded her head in the direction of the ground to the south. ‘Over thataways, men are dying.’ She gestured around her. ‘These people are laughing and drinking and eating like it’s just another Sunday trip to the park.’

  ‘What should they be doing?’ Elizabeth asked the question without any hint of annoyance in her tone. She was good at hiding her emotions.

  ‘Praying.’

  ‘Praying!’ Elizabeth exclaimed, then paused and gave the suggestion some thought. ‘I rather think God will be inundated with prayers today.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t add one more, ma’am.’

  Elizabeth heard the censure in Rose’s tone. ‘And who would you be praying for today, Rose? For a certain Englishman?’

  Rose lifted her chin. ‘Yes, ma’am, I’ll pray for him. And for your brother and all those poor souls who won’t see it through the day.’

  ‘Do you like him? Jack, I mean, not my brother.’ Elizabeth watched Rose closely.

  ‘He is different, ma’am. He doesn’t much care what people think of him. I like that.’

  ‘And he is handsome; a little battered, of course, but handsome nonetheless.’

  Rose said nothing. Whatever she felt about Jack’s looks would stay in her own head.

  The conversation, such as it had been, was brought to a close by a series of dull thumps from far in the distance. They were not overly loud, but they were enough to silence the hundred conversations on the hillside, and to start a hundred more.

  ‘There!’ Elizabeth turned, just as every other spectator did, towards the sound. She raised a gloved hand and pointed to the south, where a thin smear of smoke was drifting on the breeze several miles away from where the spectators watched with expectation. ‘They came from over there.’

  The dull booms sounded again. This time they were louder, and the crowd cooed as if being treated to a display of fireworks.

  A lady dressed in purple silk arrived at Elizabeth’s shoulder. She was staring southwards through a pair of gilded opera glasses.

  ‘This is splendid. We shall be in Richmond this time tomorrow.’ She lowered her glasses and smiled at Elizabeth. ‘What say you to that, my dear?’

  ‘It would be very fine, ma’am. Very fine indeed,’ Elizabeth replied carefully. Her facade was firmly in place.

  ‘You’re Kearney’s girl, are you not?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Elizabeth did not recognise the lady in purple, who had already turned to resume her scrutiny of the fields to the south.

  ‘I thought as much.’ The lady took one last look at the fields, then tutted loudly and removed her opera glasses from her face. ‘We shall see nothing from here.’ She smiled at Elizabeth. ‘I knew your mother.’

  ‘I hear she was a fine woman.’ Elizabeth batted back the comment without a flicker. There were no cracks in her carapace, at least none that could be exploited by a stranger.

  ‘Of course, you must have been very young when she died.’

  ‘I was two years old, ma’am.’

  The lady looked at Elizabeth as if tallying the years. Then she smiled again. It was the coldest smile Elizabeth thought she had ever seen.

  ‘You must visit me in Richmond. We shall not lord it over the poor Southrons, at least not so much.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am, that is a most generous offer.’

  ‘I shall have one of my footmen leave a card with your father’s household when we are all settled.’

  Elizabeth had to fight the urge to laugh. She was playing the role of a respectable young woman, just as she always did. She glanced around her. Rose was standing dutifully a yard or two behind her, her eyes averted, her poise just that expected of a maid waiting for her mistress’s instructions. The rest of the crowd were engaged in animated conversation as they contemplated the hint of powder smoke, which had nearly drifted away.

  She supposed she was not the only one playing her allotted role. Perhaps they were all just actors on some stage. Dutiful daughters acting with propriety. Respectful servants doing everything they were told, then complaining and mocking their masters behind their backs. Knowledgeable gentlemen claiming to understand the events that were about to unfold whilst being little more than know-nothings. Presumptuous old women plotting a social life in a city not yet forced from the secessionists’ hands. Even the soldiers were acting quite as they should, marching willingly onto the field of battle even though many would end the day with their lives either taken from them or shattered by the events of the next few hours.

  For a moment, the notion sickened her. She wanted to scream, the urge starting deep in her belly and rising with such speed and force that her mouth opened of its own accord ready to let the sound escape.

  Hundreds, no thousands, of men and women were playing the roles life had assigned them without questioning why they were doing so. They were all sleepwalking to destruction while their country was about to be torn apart.

  ‘The 1st will advance!’

  Jack could only just hear the command from his position behind the company on the far right of the 1st Boston’s line. The instruction was reinforced by the regiment’s drummers, who beat out the rhythm on their heavy instruments so that no man was in doubt about what was expected.

  There was nothing for him to do. Rowell was shouting instructions to the men from his place in the front rank on the extreme right of the line, and he needed no assistance. But at least Jack could see the enemy. They were lined across the brow of the hill to the regiment’s front. There were not so many of them, but they had brought forward two cannon that were being readied to fire. The enemy skirmishers had pulled back, leaving the way clear, the open grassland inviting the advance that Major Bridges had just ordered.

  The Union men would have to move ahead up the slope directly into the face of the enemy line, and Jack’s mouth went dry at the thought. They would be under fire the whole time. Men were about to die.

  ‘Skirmishers! Forward!’ Bridges gave the order every soldier in the two flank companies had been waiting for.

  ‘A Company!’ Rowell shouted for the men’s attention. ‘As skirmishers. On the left file, take intervals! Double quick! March!’

  The rapid series of orders threw the company into motion. Everyone knew the drill, and the two flank companies ran forward, moving into a widely dispersed two-man-deep line across the front of the regiment.

 
; Jack watched the men closely as they spread out. They worked in groups of four, with a spacing of twenty to forty paces between each of these comrades-in-battle, as the groups were known, and each man around five paces away from the next. The company was divided into four sections, each commanded by one of the four sergeants, with Jack and Robert taking responsibility for two platoons made up of two sections each. Rowell and the company’s new first sergeant stayed in the centre with a small reserve, to act as a rallying point and to deliver fresh cartridges and replacements as needed by the rest of the company. Rowell also had a bugler at his side, the young soldier’s job to relay his captain’s orders with a series of calls that the men could hear far better than any shouted orders.

  ‘Advance!’

  Behind the skirmish line, the rest of the regiment started its advance. Immediately, the rhythm of the drums changed. There was no thought to marching in time. The men shuffled forward, uncertain at first, even the most unimaginative amongst them knowing what they faced. Then the pace picked up, the men increasing speed so that they moved at a brisk rate.

  Ahead of the regiment, the skirmishers made their own advance, the men using any cover they could find and carrying their weapons in the way most suited to them. For the first time, Jack drew the sword he had been issued with his officer’s uniform. It was no maharajah’s talwar, but it felt good in his hand. Without breaking stride, he pulled his revolver from its holster. He would go into battle with the sword in his right hand and his revolver in his left. Deep inside, he detected the stirrings of an old madness, one that had been contained for so long it could barely move. The feel of the sword and the revolver had awakened it from its slumber.

  The enemy opened fire.

  The range was long, but Jack still heard the crack of Minié bullets as they zipped past. The sound made it clear that this time the 1st Boston faced an enemy armed with something of more modern manufacture than the out-of-date muskets they had encountered at Blackburn Ford.

  Immediately the men increased their pace, the snap of the bullets goading them on.