The True Soldier: Jack Lark 6

by Paul Fraser Collard

  ‘Steady!’ Jack shouted his first order. The line was becoming ragged, the men beginning to move at different speeds. ‘Watch your alignment.’

  The men checked, heads turning from side to side as each group of comrades-in-battle looked to stay level with the ones next to them.

  The enemy cannon opened fire for the first time.

  Jack heard the guns quite clearly, one firing just before the other. Then there was a roar like an express train speeding down the line. Two fountains of earth were thrown into the sky, the enemy shot gouging great furrows in the ground ahead of the Union advance. The violent contact with the ground did little to slow the pace of the fast-moving shot, and they skipped back into the air, clearing the heads of the Union troops in one great bound.

  ‘Cheer!’ Jack urged the men. The company was silent. He could feel their fear. It was wrapping around them, slowing them down. ‘Come on, you bastards! Cheer!’

  A few men responded. It was enough, and the rest followed. The men of A Company jeered the enemy then, throwing insults at the Confederate line. The pace returned, hesitation forgotten.

  ‘Forward!’ Jack roared the encouragement. He looked to his left. Robert was in his allotted place, following his platoon; his sword was drawn and the steel blade glinted in the morning sunlight. There was nothing Jack could do to protect him during the advance. Robert would have to trust to fate, as would every man.

  The enemy fired again. There was time for Jack to track a pencil-thin blur in the air before the two round shot slammed into the regiment.

  He heard the screams. The shot had slashed through the line, knocking down men in companies near the centre. He paid them no heed. A Company was unscathed. That was enough.

  They pressed on, the angle of the slope pulling at the muscles in their legs. The enemy was getting closer with every stride. From behind the regiment, the Union guns opened fire, their shells tearing through the air well over the heads of the advancing infantry. Jack watched them slam into the enemy line, each one gouging a great gap in the living wall of flesh. He heard the enemy screams.

  ‘Halt!’ To his credit, Rowell gave the order clearly. ‘Commence firing!’

  This was no organised volley. The men had crouched or lain down the moment Rowell called the halt. Now, working in pairs, they opened a harassing fire on the enemy skirmishers that protected the front of their battle line. The man in the front rank fired first. As soon as his shot was away, he began to reload whilst his partner in the rear rank aimed and fired. They would continue to work in tandem, firing and loading in sequence so that one of them was loaded at all times. They were also moving constantly. They had been trained not to remain in the same place as they reloaded, unless they were in cover, and so the loose chain of skirmishers looked to be in perpetual motion as they moved left and right as part of a tightly choreographed routine.

  Jack watched the sections in his platoon carefully, looking for men who stayed in place for too long, or for those who moved too far. Ahead, the enemy skirmishers were following an almost identical routine, an indication that both armies had used the same infantry manual in the training of their light troops.

  ‘Remember your drill!’ he shouted as he saw men fumble with their cartridges. A man in a section to his front dropped his ramrod, whilst another tried and failed to seat a fresh percussion cap on its nipple.

  The enemy fire came constantly, the Confederate skirmishers firing fast. Every few moments Jack would hear the high-pitched squeal as a bullet snapped past him. Then there would be several moments of relative peace before another angry shot buzzed close. Union soldiers were falling. He saw a man in Robert’s platoon crumple as a rebel bullet found its mark in his flesh. Another man reeled back out of his own section, his right arm nearly torn from his shoulder. He staggered backwards, his rifle dropping to the ground. Jack reached him quickly, grabbing his good arm then pushing him away towards the rear.

  ‘I’ll take him!’ His file partner was already lowering his rifle, his body half turned away from the fight.

  ‘Stay where you are.’ Jack stopped the man in his tracks.

  ‘Goddam it, Lieutenant. He needs help,’ the man pleaded.

  ‘And I need you to bloody fight,’ Jack snarled back. He could see the hope fade in the man’s eyes as he was denied the chance to slip away.

  ‘Sir—’

  ‘Load your goddam rifle!’ Jack reached out, his hand pushing the man back into his position. He glanced over his shoulder. The wounded man was lurching badly from side to side as he started to head for the rear. He made it no more than half a dozen steps before he fell.

  The battery of six Union guns was still pouring on the fire in support of the regiment’s advance. They pounded the rebel line, every shell smashing a hole in the enemy ranks.

  ‘Keep firing!’ Jack shouted at his men. The skirmishers were fighting their own private battle in the ground between the two main battle lines. It was getting harder to see the enemy troops, the smoke from the men’s rifles drifting across the skirmish line. It gave the fight an unearthly feel, the feeling of isolation only enhanced by the roar of round shot and shell flying past over their heads.

  The men in his platoon obeyed his order. He had no idea if they were hitting the enemy troops, but he kept them at their task. It was vital that they held their ground and kept the enemy skirmishers away from the main line.

  ‘That’s the way!’ He roared the encouragement even as one of his men fell, a Confederate bullet buried in his brain. His comrades did not pause, carrying on firing as their neighbour died just a few paces away from where they stood.

  The 1st Boston were learning what it was to fight.

  ‘Rally on the battalion!’

  Jack heard Rowell shout the order moments before the bugler sounded the retire. The skirmishers in the two flank companies had done their job. Now it was time to pull back and rejoin the rest of the regiment.

  The men knew what to do. As soon as the bugle call finished, they moved at double time, clearing out of the regiment’s path and running back to the right flank. They did so in as good order as possible, the men on the left of the company running hard as they had furthest to go. Once out of the regiment’s way, they re-formed into line, retaking their place on the right of the regiment as it moved forward at a steady pace.

  ‘Advance!’

  It was time to press forward. Drums near the centre of the regiment beat out the pace of the advance. The rhythm was hypnotic, mesmerising even. The noise filled the ears of the men, the pounding matching the thump of their hearts and drowning out the roar of the breath in their ears.

  The regiment’s colours led the way, the colour party advancing six paces ahead of the centre of the regiment so that all the men could see them. Sergeants chosen for the honour carried the flags, guarded by the biggest and strongest corporals in the regiment. The colours were bright in the morning sunlight, the vibrant hues standing in stark contrast to the greenery of the fields and the blue of the men’s uniforms.

  The main enemy line opened fire. They didn’t bother with ordered volleys. Instead they poured down the fire as fast as they could, a constant flurry of vicious missiles zipping down the slope and into the advancing troops. The Union soldiers hunched forward, walking into the teeth of the storm, the enemy fire snatching away a man here and there. They were ignored, their comrades callous and unfeeling even as men they had known their whole lives died. All that mattered was the advance, the need to carry on driving onwards.

  ‘Keep moving!’ Jack stalked behind A Company. It may have lacked the discipline of a British advance, but the Union troops were sticking to the task. Yet all along the line, men were falling. Many of the enemy bullets went harmlessly overhead, the inexperienced Confederate soldiers firing too high, but enough were finding their mark in the blue-coated ranks and every few paces saw anot
her man crumple to the ground.

  The pace of the advance slowed, the troops hesitating. Still the Confederates fired and fired. Men shrieked as they were hit, the cries coming constantly.

  ‘Return fire!’

  It was Rowell who gave the order. Jack did not know why he did it. It was a dreadful place to halt. The 1st Boston were halfway up the slope and the regiment was cruelly exposed.

  ‘Aim!’

  Jack wanted to scream in frustration. They had to keep going. If they stopped now, no one would be able to get them moving forward again. The rest of the regiment came to a halt as the order to return fire spread along the line.

  ‘Fire!’

  The Union soldiers did their best. They lifted their heavy rifles into their shoulders and returned the Confederate fire. Dozens of rebel soldiers were hit as the Minié bullets gored through their line.

  But it would never be enough. The rolling fire from the Confederates came without pause, rippling out and striking down man after man from the Union ranks.

  Jack saw a soldier on the left of the company take the first, hesitant step back.

  ‘Stand fast!’ he bellowed.

  More of the men shuffled backwards. They were reloading and still faced the enemy, but they were inching away from the Confederate line.

  ‘Load!’ Rowell ran from his place on the right and now took station behind the centre of the company. ‘Load, damn you! Load!’ His voice was rising in panic. ‘Stand fast! You hear me!’

  Jack joined him, and the two officers shouted themselves hoarse as they tried to hold the men in place.

  A man far on the right of the company turned first. He did not move far, no more than three or four paces, but it would be enough. The men in the files near him caught the movement in the corner of their eye, and they too turned and ran. It was like watching a dam break as the right flank melted away.

  ‘Stand! Stand!’ Jack spread his arms wide, holding his sword out to make himself the biggest obstacle possible. He was ignored.

  A Company broke. One minute most of the line stood fast, then they were moving backwards. The Confederates kept firing. More men were struck down even as they turned to run, their deaths adding impetus to the rout. The Confederates cheered then, jeering the Union troops as they turned tail and fled back down the slope, leaving dozens of their number in pathetic heaps on the ground.

  Jack stood for a moment longer. The men ran past him, not one looking at him as they scuttled away. Then he was alone; just one man left facing the enemy line.

  ‘Jack! Jack, we need to go!’

  Robert had come across the line as it broke. Now he shouted at Jack, urging him to get away.

  Jack ignored him. He stared at the enemy line. Their fire had died away. Instead of shooting at the routed Union troops, they were waving their hats and cheering as they celebrated their victory. The sight sickened him, and the failure of the attack stung his pride. The Union men, his men, had broken far short of the enemy line. They had not stayed to fight.

  He stalked forward, first one pace and then another. He knew that the enemy had spotted him. Some stopped cheering and raised their rifles, aiming at the lone Union officer. Then they fired.

  Jack felt the air around him stung by the enemy bullets. He did not flinch as they seared past. Instead he kept walking, closing the range, daring them to strike him down.

  ‘Jack! Jack, come back, you fool!’

  Jack heard Robert well enough. Other voices joined his cry. He glanced over his shoulder. The men from the company were turning around, their flight curtailed as they realised that one of their officers was still advancing.

  More bullets zipped around him. Most went high, the enemy still shooting poorly. But enough came close enough that he felt the snap in the air as they flew past.

  He felt no fear. He kept walking, each step slow and deliberate. He knew what he was doing. The men needed to see him. They needed to see that he did not fear the enemy. They needed an example to be set.

  There was a fleeting moment of joy as he stalked forward; a touch of the madness that he knew was not far away. He stared at the enemy line as he walked, daring them to shoot him down. A few tried, but no bullets came close. The cheering had stopped. Not one Confederate soldier now jeered.

  Finally satisfied, he turned and walked calmly back down the slope. He did not run, or duck away, even when a few more bullets were sent his way. One spat up a fountain of dirt as it hit the ground not more than an inch from his right boot; another whipped past his ear, so close that he thought for a moment it must have hit him.

  ‘Form line!’ he shouted. The tang of the spent powder caught in his throat, the stink lingering in his nostrils. He turned his head and spat out a wad of blackened phlegm, clearing the sour taste from his gullet. He could see A Company ahead. His lone advance had halted their retreat, the men turning to stare at the madness of his actions. Now they milled around at the foot of the slope, every man staring at the foolish Englishman who had gone on when they had turned tail and fled.

  It was Major Bridges who halted the rest of the regiment. He rode through the retreating troops, daring the men to ignore him, his shouts preventing the retreat from turning into a rout.

  Slowly order began to return to the ranks. They were not far from the ground where they had first formed up. The colours turned first, the sergeants carrying the regiment’s pride providing a solid centre for the new line. The men re-formed around them. It was a ragged line, some of the companies hopelessly intertwined, but the retreat had been stopped.

  A Company came in last. They had been the first to stop running, and they took their place on the right of the line with some vestige of order and an even smaller amount of regained pride.

  Jack followed them, walking in alone. He paid no attention to the looks he sensed directed his way. He did not care what the men thought of him. He just cared that they had seen one man who refused to be cowed by the enemy fire. He had not set the example to prove his own courage. He had done it to show the frightened infantrymen what was possible.

  ‘You’re a goddam fool!’ Robert left the re-forming ranks and strode towards him, grabbing him by the arms. ‘What the hell were you thinking?’

  ‘I was doing my job.’ Jack fought the urge to laugh. The foolishness of his actions surged through him. He saw the look on Robert’s face and gave up the struggle. He threw back his head and roared with laughter. When he looked at Robert again, the younger man had backed away.

  ‘It’s all right.’ Jack thrust his revolver back into his holster then took hold of Robert’s arm and steered him towards the line. ‘I’ve not lost my wits. I was showing the men what could be done if they stopped being so damned fearful.’

  Robert let himself be led. But it did not stop him shaking his head as he considered Jack’s folly. ‘But why? I mean, this isn’t your fight. You’re only here because my father is paying you to keep me alive. Yet here you are, trying to win the war by yourself.’

  The words stopped Jack in his tracks. Robert was right. It was not his war. He was not there to fight for the Union.

  He looked at the men watching him. James Thatcher was there, the surviving twin’s face creased with anger. O’Dowd stood on the right of the line, surrounded by his gang of Irish cronies, who refused to leave his side even in battle. Then there were the rest of the now familiar faces; faces that he had first seen all those weeks before in Boston. All were now streaked with powder, their eyes red and sore from the smoke. A few were bloodied, the red bright against their pale skin. He did not know all their stories or even why they were there. Yet he looked at the men in his company and knew why he was with them.

  He was there for them. He was there for the men.

  ‘Come on.’ He grabbed Robert’s arm again and pulled him after him. He felt a clarity of mind that he had
not experienced for as long as he could remember. He was a soldier on the field of battle. He would do what he had always done. He would fight for his men.

  ‘Here they come!’

  Jack was back in his place behind the line, but he saw the enemy almost immediately. They were streaming down the hillside, the counterattack coming hard on the heels of the Union retreat.

  ‘Would you look at those beauties now?’ Jack heard O’Dowd mutter the comment as he watched the enemy. It was easy to understand the Irishman’s reaction. The troops coming down the hill were wearing a fabulous uniform of blue and white striped trousers, bright red shirts and jaunty red fezzes. ‘What the feck do they think they look like?’ O’Dowd was scathing.

  ‘Well, at least you can’t miss the bastards.’ Jack clapped the Irishman on the shoulder.

  The enemy were a fine sight, the bright uniforms gaudy against the green of the grass. Their colours led them forward, the Stars and Bars half folded, the lack of wind leaving the flag listless against its pole. As they came on, the Confederate soldiers began to yell. It was a strange sound, feral and unearthly, the mix of yips and yells undulating as they pounded towards the Union line.

  ‘Aim!’

  Bridges’ voice came clearly. If he was disturbed by the eerie sound the rebel soldiers were making, there was no sign of it in his calm tone.

  Rifles were pulled into shoulders. The 1st Boston’s line was shorter now, but the regiment still numbered well over eight hundred men. They would greet the enemy rush with a single volley.

  ‘Aim low, boys!’ Jack drew his revolver from its holster as he called out to the men. ‘Don’t waste your powder.’

  Bridges held them there. He was watching the enemy.

  Rifles wavered, men struggling to hold them still. The enemy pounded down the slope, their line losing formation as they charged. The yell came without pause, the sound washing over the Union troops.

  Bridges stood tall in his stirrups. The moment arrived in a rush.