The True Soldier: Jack Lark 6

by Paul Fraser Collard

  A man to his left spun around. A bullet had taken him plumb in the centre of his forehead. For a moment he stood there blinking, then he dropped like a stone. Jack hauled his body from the line. There was nothing to be done save endure.

  ‘They’re running!’

  He did not know who had called out the words. He could no longer see the enemy, but it was immediately obvious that there were no more bullets directed against the Union line.

  Not one man cheered.

  Jack waited, listening for the order to pursue. None came.

  Many of the exhausted men slumped to the ground, their bodies unable to hold them up any longer. Those still with the strength started to tend to the wounded. The rest simply stood and stared into the distance.

  The men from Boston had held the line.

  Elizabeth Kearney sipped at a glass of Bordeaux. It was delicious, and she closed her eyes as she rolled the wine around her mouth and savoured the intense flavour before swallowing. She opened her eyes and gazed across the battlefield. There was more smoke now. The rolling clouds drifted peacefully across the grassy hills like individual patches of early-morning fog. She could smell the faintest taint of rotten egg caught on the breeze. The sound of cannons firing came without pause, but she felt it to be no more threatening than an orchestra’s drums as they played an overture to an operetta. So far her first viewing of a battle was proving to be rather dull.

  She turned away and strolled slowly back to the patch of shade her father had selected. It was hot even under her parasol, and she was beginning to feel rather dishevelled. She looked for Rose, thinking to ask for a damp cloth to wipe her face, but her maid was busy preparing an early luncheon and so the request would have to wait.

  She sighed as she spotted another officer standing with her father and Senator Ashby. There had been a steady procession of enthusiastic young men riding up to the spectators’ hillside, each keener than the one before to offer an update on the progress of the battle. She thought about turning to walk in the other direction, but her father had already spotted her and was waving her over to join them.

  ‘My dear, this is Captain Osborne of the 29th New York.’ He turned to the officer. ‘Captain, please tell my daughter what you just told us.’

  ‘Why, I’d be delighted, sir.’ Osborne looked at Elizabeth. His face was flushed and he spoke with gusto. ‘Ma’am, we’ve whipped them on all points. We’ve taken their batteries. They are retreating as fast as they can and we are after them!’

  ‘That is fine news, Captain.’ Elizabeth smiled. ‘Thank you for taking the trouble to come all this way to tell us.’

  ‘My pleasure, ma’am.’

  ‘We must not detain you any longer. I am sure you are keen to return to your regiment.’ She made sure to smile even more sweetly so that the officer would not hear the tartness in her words.

  ‘Thank you kindly, ma’am.’ Captain Osborne did a poor job of hiding his disappointment at being dismissed so quickly. But he did as he was told, nodding a farewell to Kearney then moving away towards his horse.

  ‘You are cruel, Elizabeth.’ Her father slipped to her side and offered the gentle criticism quietly so that Ashby would not hear it.

  ‘Do you believe what he said?’ Elizabeth ignored her father’s remark.

  ‘Do you not?’

  ‘It’s just the same nonsense as before.’ Her attention was taken by a disturbance a few hundred yards away. Spectators were moving quickly away from one side of the hillside. She stood on tiptoes and craned her neck to see if that would allow her to make out what was causing such a reaction. ‘What’s happening over there?’ she asked her father. ‘I cannot see.’ When he did not reply, she turned to look at him and saw that the colour had drained from his face. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It is the price we are paying for whipping the enemy.’ Her father muttered the comment under his breath before turning to face her, grasping her arms firmly. ‘I think it is time you left, Elizabeth. Henson can drive you back in the servants’ buggy.’

  Elizabeth shook off her father’s grip and took several steps towards the commotion. A family moved away from in front of her, and she finally got her first glimpse of what had caused her father’s face to turn the colour of ash.

  A straggling line of soldiers were making their way slowly up the hillside. They looked nothing like the men she had seen marching from Washington. Their uniforms were filthy, but it was not their poor turnout that grabbed her attention and caused many of her fellow spectators to turn tail and run.

  Every man was wounded. Some had limbs bound with bandages made from torn shirts, or else had stuffed neckerchiefs or torn havelocks into the tears in their flesh. A good many simply staunched the bleeding with their hands. They lurched and staggered towards the spectators, clearly exhausted, some tottering along alone, others supported by another man whose wounds were less severe.

  ‘We must help them.’ Elizabeth’s reaction was immediate. She turned to her father. ‘What can we do?’

  Kearney was watching the men closely. ‘The poor devils.’ He turned to Senator Ashby. ‘We must do what we can.’

  Ashby’s face was cast into a neutral expression. ‘Of course. I shall go to the general. There will be surgeons at his headquarters.’

  ‘These men need aid now.’ Kearney shot back the reply.

  ‘What can we do? We have no talent for doctoring. You stay and supervise things here if you will. I shall go for assistance.’ Ashby spoke firmly.

  Elizabeth tried not to let any emotion show on her face as she watched the exchange. Ashby’s tone might have been unaltered, but there was no doubting his keenness to be away.

  ‘Very well.’ Kearney did not waste breath arguing. ‘Tell them we need wagons for the wounded.’

  ‘I will not fail.’ Ashby delivered the line with gusto, as if he were a great hero being dispatched on a quest.

  Elizabeth turned away from him in disgust. The wounded men were closer now. She could see the strain on their faces, the pain and fear writ large in their expressions. She looked down at the glass she still held in her hand. The wine was the colour of blood.

  ‘Ma’am?’ Rose arrived unbidden at her side. She snatched the glass from Elizabeth’s hand then tossed it to the ground. ‘We must help these men.’

  Elizabeth lowered her parasol and threw it aside. ‘Do not presume to tell me what to do. Of course we will help them. Senator Ashby is going for assistance. You must give the men food and drink. Use our blankets too, tear them if you need to.’

  ‘You can help too, ma’am. Go to the buggy and get your cloak and shawl. We can tear those into strips and use them as dressings.’

  ‘Are you telling me what to do?’ Elizabeth could not help being startled by Rose’s tone.

  ‘Yes, ma’am, yes I am.’

  ‘Do not forget your place.’

  ‘Oh hush now, missy. We don’t have time for your airs and graces. And take off those fine gloves of yours. You won’t want them getting all messed up.’ Rose snapped out her instructions. ‘Go on!’ She pointed to the buggy.

  Elizabeth was moving away before she knew what she was doing. It was a shock to see the change in her maid. Rose had never been obsequious, but not once had she ever revealed anything of this fierce young woman, the one who had just told Elizabeth in no uncertain terms what was to be done.

  She had to move to one side as a mother ran past carrying a crying child, a grizzling toddler following in her wake. The sound of cannon fire was louder now, the guns surely closer than they had been before.

  The first buggy raced away. She glanced at its occupants and saw the grey-haired lady in the fine purple dress who had been so keen to plan for life in Richmond. Delight at the thought of lording it over the Southrons had been replaced by fear.

  ‘The men will prevail.’
Her father had come to walk at her side. ‘The fighting will be hard, but we shall be victorious.’

  Elizabeth looked back at the soldiers with the broken bodies. She had no words to express what she felt.

  Jack and Robert stood together watching a regiment march past their position. The men in the neat ranks looked wonderfully clean, their uniforms dusty but lacking the stains of powder and blood.

  ‘Who the hell is that?’ Robert found the energy to ask the question. ‘Heintzelman’s brigade?’

  ‘No idea,’ Jack answered honestly. He wanted to spit to scour the taste of powder from his mouth, but his canteen was long since drained dry and he could not summon enough moisture.

  ‘They look mighty fine.’

  ‘As did we a few hours ago.’ Jack turned away from the fresh troops and looked at the hill that he had been staring at for the past few hours. The slopes were no longer the pristine grassland they had been that morning. Artillery rounds had churned up great patches of mud so that it looked like an angry god had ripped and torn at the very fabric of the earth.

  Then there were the bodies. Most lay in heaps, the grotesque piles showing where a line had stood and fought. A few were in smaller groups, broken by a fast-moving round shot or well-aimed shell. A rare few lay alone, the lonely corpses pathetic against the great heaps of the dead. Amongst them was all manner of abandoned equipment, the fields strewn with the detritus of combat, from broken rifles and muskets to forgotten ramrods and dropped ammunition pouches, swirling around them all the torn paper from a thousand opened cartridges.

  The last of the reinforcements filed past the battered ranks of the 1st Boston. They went straight into the attack, their officers sending forward a skirmish line whilst the rest of the regiment advanced in formation behind them. Jack did not envy the Confederate troops who would have to stand against men fresh and ready for the fight.

  ‘We did our bit, didn’t we, Lieutenant?’ a familiar Irish voice called across to Jack.

  ‘We did that, O’Dowd. We did that.’ Jack gave up watching the attack and turned his attention to his men. They still stood in line, just about managing to find the strength to stay on their feet. He didn’t have to look at their hollow-eyed stares to know they were done in.

  ‘Johnny Reb fought hard, didn’t he just?’ O’Dowd shook his head as he remembered the fight. ‘But we licked ’em, we licked ’em good.’

  ‘We certainly did.’ Jack reached out and held O’Dowd’s upper arm. ‘You think you’ve got the strength to go find some water?’

  The Irishman returned his stare for a good few seconds before he replied. ‘I reckon I could.’

  ‘I’m sure we would all appreciate it. Take a couple of others with you.’

  O’Dowd nodded, then turned to organise a party. Jack had set them a hard task. Good water was as hard to find on a battlefield as mercy.

  ‘I should’ve thought of that.’ Robert sighed as he made the remark.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Jack looked at him closely. The young man had changed. Underneath the layer of dirt and sweat, he had grown up. ‘You did well. Back then.’

  ‘I did?’ Robert raised an eyebrow.

  ‘You did. The men fought at your command.’

  ‘I just shouted some words.’

  ‘You did your job. That’s all any of us can do.’ Jack caught Robert’s eye and held it. ‘It was bravely done.’

  Robert pressed his lips tight together until they showed white. He said nothing, but turned to watch the fresh Union regiment as they drove home their assault on the Confederate troops on the hill.

  The enemy forces did not stand. There was a brief flurry of rifle fire, then silence.

  ‘Well, that’s just fine.’ Robert found his voice. ‘We couldn’t shift them, but now those dunderheads from New York wander up and they skedaddle as soon as look at them.’

  ‘It was about time the stubborn bastards realised they were beat.’ Jack was quite happy to see the enemy retreat. He was even happier that others would finish the attack. The Confederates had fought much harder than anyone would have believed possible. The men from Boston had done their bit, and had paid a high price to drain the enemy’s will to stand and fight. But now, finally, the Union was winning the day. The South would lose, the Union would be preserved and they could all go home.

  It was still before noon, but the day was almost won.

  ‘Who the hell are they?’ O’Dowd took a deep draught from his canteen then handed it to Jack.

  ‘Sherman’s brigade, or at least that’s what the major said.’ Jack drank a good slug of water. It tasted more like horse piss, but he was too thirsty to care. There had been a brief officers’ meeting. Bridges had little information to share, but he had known that the men commanded by Colonel Sherman would be arriving to join the position the 1st Boston had held for the past hour.

  ‘You sure they ain’t the damn sechers?’ O’Dowd looked askance at the grey-uniformed men forming to the regiment’s right. He was one of the few in the company on his feet. The rest lounged or slumped on the ground, sharing what little water O’Dowd and his mates had been able to find.

  ‘They’re ours. And they’ve fought hard by the looks of them.’ Jack could not fail to notice the state of the new arrivals. The soldiers looked just as dishevelled as the men from Boston.

  ‘I fecking doubt that.’ O’Dowd spat, then looked away from the men in grey. He tapped Jack on the shoulder. ‘Major’s coming.’

  ‘Get the men on their feet.’ Bridges sounded as weary as Jack felt.

  ‘We moving?’ Jack could not resist the question.

  ‘In a while.’

  ‘But sir!’ It was O’Dowd. ‘Now that ain’t fair. We’ve done our bit. I reckon we earned the right to let someone else finish the fecking sechers.’

  Bridges clasped his hands behind his back. ‘We have done our bit, that much is true, O’Dowd. But the general has need of us and so we shall do as we are ordered.’ He answered calmly, treating O’Dowd’s complaint with the fullest respect.

  ‘But sir—’

  ‘That’s enough, O’Dowd,’ Jack interrupted. He could see Bridges was exhausted. He nodded once, then addressed the company. ‘You heard the major. On your feet, boys. Look alive-o.’ He turned back to Bridges. ‘We’ll be ready, sir.’

  Bridges bristled his moustache. ‘Thank you, Lieutenant.’ He sounded oddly formal. ‘We will form the right of the line. Sherman’s men will form on our left, then Porter’s brigade to the left of them.’

  ‘Very well.’ Jack looked for Robert. The company’s commander was still sitting on the ground, his head hanging between his legs.

  ‘Is he all right?’ Bridges saw the direction of Jack’s gaze.

  ‘Yes, sir. He’ll be fine.’

  ‘You’re still looking out for him, then?’ A trace of amusement crept into Bridges’ voice.

  Jack found a thin-lipped smile. ‘Of course.’

  ‘You are a good fellow, Jack. I am heartily glad you are on our side.’ Bridges paused to study the tired men of A Company. ‘One last push and the day will be ours.’

  Jack glanced at his men as they gritted their teeth and prepared to get on with it. He was saved from finding a reassuring reply by the sound of a group of horsemen riding hard. A posse of officers trotted into view, led by a man wearing more than his fair share of gold braid. He was a big man, with wide shoulders, a square jaw and a fine goatee and moustache.

  ‘That’s McDowell!’ One of Jack’s men identified the general. Jack was intrigued to see the man who commanded the army that day. Time would tell if he was looking at a hero or a villain. It would only be after the battle that some sense of the day would be made; only then would the watching country be able to judge if McDowell would go into the history books as one of America’s finest general
s, or one of its failures.

  ‘Victory! Victory! The day is ours!’ McDowell was shouting the words over and over. He did not linger, instead riding along the rear of the slowly forming line that was made up of the battered remains of three entire brigades.

  The men were near the point of exhaustion but they still cheered as their general rode past. They heard McDowell’s call of victory and it fed some vitality back into their tired limbs.

  There would be one more advance. One more push to victory.

  ‘Forward!’

  The line shuffled into motion. Jack marched behind them, where both lieutenants should be, and watched Robert as he advanced on the right of the line. He was starting to look like an officer; the change from wastrel to leader was nearly complete.

  He glanced across to where Rowell marched in the position of the lieutenant colonel. Bridges had chosen to stay in the major’s position on the left of the regiment. As second in command, there was little for Rowell to do. Bridges commanded the regiment, and the captains, or those now standing in their stead, commanded the companies. Rowell would not be called upon unless Bridges fell. If that should happen, he would assume command of the entire regiment. The thought made Jack shudder.

  The regiment pressed on, just one of many in the advance. No skirmishers had been ordered forward this time; all the companies were needed in the main battle. They marched up the hill they had fought over for so long, the ground still littered with the rebel dead and soon-to-be-dead. As they crested the summit, they were given a glorious view over the rest of the battlefield. Ahead, the ground sloped gently down towards a stream before rising again. Another, slightly higher hill blocked the way ahead. It was dotted with trees, but was mainly just open grassland, the slope not steep until it neared the summit.

  A turnpike wound its way along the bottom of the slope under the gaze of a cottage surrounded by split-rail fencing about one hundred yards above the road. A second, far grander, white-painted clapboard house stood near the summit of the hill. On another day it would have been a peaceful scene, a lovely example of rolling Virginia grassland. But not that day, for the grassland was swarming with troops.