The True Soldier: Jack Lark 6

by Paul Fraser Collard

  Jack looked at the enemy, who stood in a large mass around the cottage overlooking the turnpike. He divided the group into quarters, then made a rough tally of their numbers. He reckoned there were around six to seven hundred. It was a strong force, but one vastly outnumbered by the three Union brigades now advancing down the slope towards them.

  He looked beyond the enemy infantry. There were no more troops on the hillside or on the plateau at its top, and no sign of any artillery. It appeared that McDowell’s confidence was well founded. Once they had pushed aside the small rebel force near the turnpike, the enemy flank would finally be forced open.

  The enemy formed line, spreading themselves along the split-rail fencing around the cottage and facing the Union horde coming down the slope towards them. Jack could only admire their bravery. It was no small thing to stand when a vastly superior force was coming towards you. Some commanders would order a retreat, refusing to sacrifice their men in a futile fight where there was only one possible outcome. It was the pragmatic thing to do, but the Confederate force showed no sign of moving.

  To Jack’s mind, that meant two things: either their commander was a belligerent fool, with more fire in his belly than sense in his head, or else they were making a stand for a reason. And that reason could only be that they were buying time. He scanned the far hillside. He saw nothing but open grassland. If the enemy were hoping that reinforcements would arrive, there was no sign of them.

  The enemy line opened fire. The range was long and there were thousands of men bearing down on the single Confederate unit. Barely a single shot came towards the men of A Company, the air around them wonderfully still. The Union brigades pressed on. The enemy kept firing, taking a man here and a man there, but they were like children flinging pebbles at the advancing tide.

  ‘Halt!’ Jack heard Bridges shout the command, then Rowell echo it. He saw Robert turn and slip through the line, taking position behind it as they prepared to fire. There was time for him to flash Jack a flicker of a smile before he turned and sucked down a deep draught of air.

  ‘Ready!’ Bridges’ voice rang out. It was echoed all along the Union line by the other regimental commanders.

  The men stilled. Hands gripped tight around rifles that had been reloaded for this moment.

  ‘Aim!’

  The Springfields were pulled into the shoulder. Thousands of rifles were brought to bear on the Confederate line.

  ‘Fire!’

  The roar was like nothing Jack had ever heard. The entire Union line fired within moments of one another. When the explosion of sound had died away, there was a moment of almost complete silence.

  ‘Advance!’

  The Union line plunged through the cloud of powder smoke the single volley had created. Their heavy bullets had done dreadful damage, killing and maiming Confederate soldiers. Against such fearsome firepower, the enemy commander had no choice, and already his troops were pulling back, leaving behind the splintered and broken fence and the bodies of the men who had paid the price for delaying the Union advance.

  A couple of Jack’s men laughed as they charged forward. Their dander was up, confidence and success lending them strength.

  ‘They’re beat, sir! Johnny Reb won’t stop us much longer.’ Malloy turned to shout the comment at Robert as he retook his place on the right of the company.

  ‘We have them now, boys!’ Robert shouted encouragement. ‘We sure have them now.’

  The Union line pressed on. The enemy regiment they had mauled was streaming up the far slope, heading towards the larger house near the crest. The rest of the hill was still empty. There was no one there to prevent the Union brigades from taking the high ground.

  The enemy’s flank would be turned and McDowell would have his victory.

  The Union line halted on the turnpike. There was no sense of urgency. Instead, the order to pause was passed down the line by a relay of couriers. The men sank gratefully to the ground. There was no sign of any water, but at least they could rest.

  ‘What the hell are they playing at?’ Jack had stomped over to join Robert.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Robert was leaning against a fence post.

  ‘I mean, what are we waiting here for? We need to push on. Surely whoever is in charge can see that.’ Jack took off his kepi and wiped the sweat from his face. He stank, the aroma rising from his body pungent enough to be smelled even over the stink of the powder deeply ingrained in his uniform.

  ‘I wouldn’t trust those hoopleheads to know what is to be done,’ Robert replied. ‘And speaking of hoopleheads, here comes the good captain.’

  Jack turned and straightened his spine as he saw Rowell approaching. ‘What’s the hold-up, sir?’

  ‘The enemy is running, Lieutenant.’ Rowell came to stand in front of Jack then lifted his kepi so that he could slick down his sweat-dampened hair. ‘The general has ordered us to hold our ground until he knows what is left of the Confederate force.’

  ‘That is madness!’ Jack was tired, hot and irritable. ‘Has Bridges challenged the orders?’

  ‘He has just left for brigade.’

  ‘Thank God for that. At least someone has some bloody sense.’ Jack felt the frustration burn.

  ‘You know, the general might just know what he is about.’ Rowell took the chance to nettle Jack. ‘You look at everyone and see a fool.’

  ‘Then perhaps they should stop acting so bloody foolishly.’ Jack snapped at the lure, but before he could take it further, there was a loud blast of artillery fire. ‘Jesus Christ.’ He could not hold back the blasphemy.

  ‘Where the hell has that come from?’ Robert pushed himself upright and looked around anxiously.

  ‘Over there, on the left.’ Jack had spotted the telltale smudge of powder smoke. It came from the brow of the hill the men should have been marching up.

  ‘Ours or theirs?’ Robert raised a hand to shelter his eyes from the sun.

  ‘Theirs!’ Jack shook his head at the question. He turned to Rowell. ‘We need to get off our bloody arses.’

  ‘Our orders are to stay here.’

  ‘Damn the bloody orders.’ Jack pointed at the hill on the far side of the turnpike. ‘We should take the high ground at least; surely even you can see that.’

  ‘Don’t be so damn impertinent.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake. Take your head out of your arse for a bloody second. You’re in charge with Bridges away. You can give us the bloody order. We need to move.’

  ‘Do not tell me my job,’ Rowell snarled.

  ‘Then give the damn order.’

  ‘Our orders are to stay here.’

  ‘Look, this isn’t about you and me. This is about doing what has to be done.’ Jack took a step towards Rowell. ‘That hill is defended by the damn Confederates. We need to shift them off it before they get there in numbers.’

  ‘Our orders, Lieutenant, are to hold our ground.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ Jack grimaced at Rowell’s refusal to listen. ‘At least send someone after Bridges. Or let me take the company forward. Let me find out what’s up there.’

  ‘And how many men will be killed if you do that?’ Rowell hissed. ‘I will not allow my men to die to satisfy your damn ambition.’

  ‘Ambition! It’s not bloody ambition.’ Jack thrust his face closer to Rowell’s. ‘It’s about doing what has to be done.’

  ‘But men will die.’ Rowell spoke fiercely. ‘I would be ordering them to their deaths.’

  Jack heard the feeling behind the words. He could see the weight on Rowell’s shoulders as if it were a physical thing. ‘You’re in command. You have to give the order.’

  Rowell said nothing.

  ‘I’ll give the bloody order then.’ Jack could see that indecision was paralysing Rowell. ‘On my head be it.’

/>   ‘No.’ Rowell took a deep breath. The loathing returned to his eyes. ‘I will not allow you to steal my authority.’ He stepped back. ‘We will hold our ground.’

  The decision was made. The regiment was not going anywhere.

  ‘Lieutenant! Sir!’

  Jack was sitting on the verge of the turnpike when one of the men called out to him. The confrontation with Rowell had drained the last of his energy. He had had enough of fighting authority. He reminded himself of why he was there. He was doing it for money, nothing more.

  ‘What?’ He snapped the question at the soldier calling for his attention.

  ‘Artillery on the move, sir.’

  Jack sighed, then forced himself to his feet. His back was hurting like a bastard. ‘Where?’

  ‘There, sir!’ The soldier was pointing towards where Jack believed the enemy to be.

  He saw what had sparked the man’s interest. An entire battery of Union artillery was trundling forward. And they were doing so without any support.

  ‘What the hell are they doing?’ Jack stood and stared. ‘Robert!’

  The two men watched as the artillery battery carried on up the slope. It was quite alone. The Union infantry could do nothing. They stood on the turnpike and watched as the gunners whipped their horses hard, forcing them to drag the heavy guns up the hillside.

  Jack ground his teeth in frustration. Artillery had no business leading the advance. Their role on the battlefield was to support the infantry, not to try to win the affair all by themselves. He felt exhaustion seep into his bones. It was brutally hot and sweaty, and his thirst was terrible. Next to him, Robert was leaning on the split-rail fence, his head hanging down; sweat dripped from his forehead into the dusty soil at the edge of the turnpike.

  The artillery battery was coming under fire, great fountains of earth gouged from the ground all around it. Its commander was a brave man. Even with Confederate round shot chewing up the grassland, he still ordered his men to deploy. As the 1st Boston watched on, the battery unlimbered, the gunners working fast. It did not take long for the teams of horses to ride away, leaving the cannons and their crews by themselves, and now without the means to move.

  ‘Would you look at that?’ Robert breathed. Then the battery opened fire.

  The sound of the guns echoed down the hillside. They were firing at the house near the summit of the hill. The gunners knew their business, and the first volley riddled the building, smashing into the wooden timbers.

  ‘At last!’ Robert kept up his commentary. Jack turned to see that one of the infantry regiments waiting on the turnpike had been ordered to advance.

  He watched them go. He did not envy them their task. The men ran forward at the double, yet the slope slowed them and they ground forward with excruciating slowness. Jack chafed at standing idle, but at least someone somewhere had finally seen sense and ordered the foot soldiers to support the battery of guns.

  ‘That’s the 11th New York.’ Robert was pointing at the men labouring up the slope. ‘Look at them go!’

  Watching the men from New York, Jack thought he could well be on a European battlefield. They were dressed as Zouaves, the same elaborate uniform that was worn by many of the regiments on both sides. Not for the first time, he wondered at the sanity of the army’s generals. The lack of a common uniform was adding to the confusion on the battlefield, something that could only lead to disaster. But he had to admit that with their baggy trousers in a gaudy red, the men looked a fine sight as they advanced behind their colours. Yet they marched alone, the other men in the Union brigades staying where they were.

  ‘This is fucking stupid.’ Jack moved forward so that he stood next to Robert at the rail. His hands gripped the top spar, the wood coarse under his fingertips.

  Robert was leaning forward, turning his head back and forth. ‘Why is no one else moving?’

  ‘Because someone has fucked up.’ Jack did not mince his words.

  The New Yorkers reached the guns. They stopped, then poured a thunderous volley at a target Jack could not see.

  ‘What are they fucking shooting at? Angels?’ Jack spat out his frustration. The New Yorkers were firing uphill. He doubted their volley had done anything more than frighten any birds foolish enough to still be loitering around the battlefield.

  ‘Oh my.’

  Robert spoke so softly that for a moment his words didn’t register. When they finally did, Jack glanced up to see what had caused such a reaction. One moment the crest of the hill had been empty, the only troops on show the gunners and the regiment of gaudy New Yorkers. The next it was filled with thousands of Confederate troops.

  They stretched for hundreds of yards in both directions. There were so many that Jack did not bother to try to count them, but he could see three separate colour parties, which surely meant there were at least that many regiments.

  ‘Where the devil did they all come from?’ Robert was staring at the enemy.

  ‘Fuck alone knows.’ Jack bit back the anger. The 1st Boston had fought hard that day and lost many men. Like fools, they had thought their work was done, the hard fighting they had endured clearing the way for other troops to take the enemy in the flank. Now the truth was revealed. Somehow the Confederates had found enough men to block the Union advance, men who would now have to be shifted if McDowell was to have his victory.

  The enemy on the hill opened fire as one, each regiment pouring down a volley into the Zouaves. It ripped into their ranks, knocking men down like skittles at a fair. The New Yorkers held their ground. With stubborn bravery they returned fire, blasting out another volley at the men on the higher ground. It was a courageous display, but they were horribly outnumbered. Another Confederate volley seared into their ranks, and men fell all along the line.

  Jack lost sight of the enemy. Powder smoke billowed down the hillside, hiding much of the fighting from view. Yet there was no hiding the sound of gunfire that rippled out constantly, the men from both sides pouring on the fire.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Robert was watching the fight at Jack’s side.

  ‘We’re losing this battle. That’s what’s happening.’ Jack fought the urge to spit.

  The New Yorkers were streaming back down the slope. Jack did not have to wait long to see what had driven them from the field. Enemy cavalry burst out from the smoke, charging after the badly mauled regiment of Zouaves, the men on the big horses cutting down any stragglers.

  The sound of drums and fifes sounded far to Jack’s left. Another Union regiment stirred into motion, emerging from the turnpike and heading up the slope well to the left of the route taken by the Zouaves. Like the Zouaves they marched forward in line, their colours flying proudly at their centre. Like the Zouaves they advanced alone.

  ‘Where the hell is Bridges?’ Jack turned and searched the ground behind the turnpike. He saw nothing but empty grassland. There were no couriers come to order the 1st Boston to join the advance, nor was there any sign of Bridges returning from brigade headquarters.

  The fresh Union regiment made its way up the hillside. Mercifully the Confederate cavalry had withdrawn, yet the regiment still advanced against the entire enemy force, which had now realigned its ranks to face them.

  Once again volleys of muskets and rifles roared out. Jack did not have to watch to see which side got the better of the exchange.

  Another regiment moved forward. Men dressed in fine dark-blue uniforms started up the hill, following their colours into battle. Already the other regiment was pulling back, its ranks decimated by the Confederate volleys.

  Jack turned his head away, unwilling to watch the slaughter. The slope was littered with bodies now. Hundreds of men had fallen. Most lay in great clumps, the high-tide mark of each regiment’s advance denoted by a line of the fallen.

  ‘We’re feeding a monster.’ Robert’s
eyes were wide with horror.

  Jack had no words left. Smoke billowed across the battlefield, but it did only so much to screen the carnage. The Union regiments were being sent piecemeal to the slaughter, one juicy morsel after another. All the Confederates had to do was hold their ground and fight each one in turn.

  A swathe of smoke twisted past the Union guns that had started the advance. Jack saw another blue-coated regiment coming towards the valiant gunners, who were still firing at the enemy line despite so many of their number now being stretched out on the ground.

  ‘For God’s sake, shoot the bastards!’ he called out in a futile gesture as the regiment advanced from the southern flank of the hill.

  ‘They’re ours!’ Robert was appalled at Jack’s urgings.

  ‘They’re fucking not.’ Jack already knew what was about to happen. Amidst the smoke and carnage, the Union gunners had no idea who the blue-coated regiment were. But only one side would come from that direction. ‘They’re the damn enemy.’

  ‘No.’ Robert shook his head forcefully enough to fling droplets of sweat. ‘They can’t be. They must be ours.’

  Jack did not have to reply. The gunners had allowed the blue-coated regiment to get dreadfully close. Now they halted and raised their rifles.

  ‘Oh, sweet mother of God.’

  There was time for Robert to blaspheme, then the blue-coated regiment blasted out a single volley. It cut down the surviving gunners in droves. Their guns fell silent.

  The action stirred another Union regiment into motion. The regiment to the left of the 1st Boston moved forward, the drummers beating out the rhythm of the march. The men, grim-faced and pale, obeyed without question, advancing stoically into the maelstrom ahead.

  ‘They must know.’ Robert breathed the words just loudly enough for Jack to hear.

  ‘They must know what?’ Jack felt sick to the stomach. The Union generals were gifting the enemy a victory when they should have had no chance of one. The whole Union line should have marched as one and swamped the Confederate troops with bullets before driving them from the field. Instead, men were dying in their hundreds as regiments were sent forward alone.