The True Soldier: Jack Lark 6

by Paul Fraser Collard

  ‘They must know what’s going to happen.’ Robert turned to look at Jack, the horror writ large on his face. ‘They don’t stand a chance. They’ll be cut down just like the others.’

  Jack had no answer. The regiment moved forward at the double, heading towards the battery, determined to retake the Union guns. The enemy saw them coming and deployed into line, facing down the slope.

  The Union men came on in fine style. Their colours led them, the red, white and blue bright against the grey smoke into which they marched. They did not hesitate even as the enemy opened fire, the volley slashing through the advancing ranks. Ignoring the fallen, they plunged into the smoke, their brave display hidden from the horrified spectators still on the turnpike.

  The roar of a massed volley told of the Union regiment starting to fight. For Jack and the rest of the 1st Boston, there was little to see of the struggle going on just a few hundred yards away from where they stood in impotent silence. Rare glimpses through the powder smoke revealed the blue-coated Union regiment standing its ground, the men in its ranks loading and firing, their raw courage holding them in place.

  ‘They’re running!’ Robert spotted the enemy first. A great rabble of men emerged from the clouds of smoke, their ranks broken, and ran back up the slope, leaving their dead and dying behind.

  Not one man in the 1st Boston cheered the sight. Already another Confederate regiment was moving down the slope. They came at a run, charging towards the courageous Union soldiers who had fought so hard to retake the guns. Even from a distance, the men from Boston could hear the dreadful, unearthly yell coming from the charging Confederates as they tore down the slope and threw themselves into the rolling cloud of smoke around the guns, and into the Union regiment that had no choice but to stand and fight.

  ‘Sir! Major Bridges!’ One of Jack’s men sang out as he spotted the return of their commander.

  Jack was moving immediately, forcing his tired legs into a run. He was not alone; half the regiment’s officers were racing to greet Bridges, desperate to know what fate they all faced.

  Bridges dismounted, then strode towards the hastily assembled group. His expression was grim.

  ‘Captain Rowell.’ He addressed himself to the man who had taken command of the regiment in his absence. ‘What is happening here?’ The question was asked calmly enough, Bridges’ tone clipped and businesslike.

  ‘We have held our ground.’ Rowell stood straight as he gave his report. ‘As ordered.’

  ‘What is happening ahead?’ There was no trace of censure in Bridges’ reply.

  ‘It’s a struggle. The Confederates hold the high ground. They are giving the rest of the division a hard fight.’

  ‘Do they hold?’

  ‘They do.’

  ‘I see.’ Bridges gnawed on his moustache. ‘So it’s a hard fight, you say?’

  ‘It’s a fucking slaughter.’ Jack had had his fill of Rowell’s dry delivery. Bridges needed the truth. ‘The rest of the division is going up that bloody slope one regiment at a fucking time. The enemy can deal with them piecemeal and we are getting our bloody arses handed to us on a fucking plate.’ He fought the anger that seethed in his belly. The futility of what was happening sickened him to the core.

  Bridges looked at him for several seconds, betraying nothing. Finally he nodded, then turned to address the rest of his officers. ‘Get the boys on their feet.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ It was Rowell who asked the question.

  But Jack already knew the answer. He had known it the moment Bridges had returned. ‘We’re going up that hill, Captain Rowell.’ He spoke formally, hiding his emotions.

  Bridges grunted. ‘Lieutenant Lark is correct. We have orders to take the hill.’

  ‘By ourselves?’ Rowell sounded appalled.

  ‘Yes, Captain Rowell. Now fall the men in.’ Bridges’ tone remained mild, even as he gave the news that would condemn hundreds of his men to death.

  It was the turn of the 1st Boston to advance.

  ‘1st Boston!’

  Hundreds of men heard the command that prepared them for the next order. As one they stiffened their backs, hundreds of hearts thumping in hundreds of chests.

  ‘1st Boston, forward!’

  The drums rattled into life, echoing the order and leaving no doubt what the regiment was being ordered to do. The line took the first pace forward, the men finally leaving the turnpike where they had waited whilst others fought and died just a short distance away.

  It was now their turn.

  Jack wiped the sweat from his face. He walked behind the line, his tired legs protesting at being forced back into use. He marched into the first cloud of lingering powder smoke, the familiar stink of rotten egg sticking in his gullet. The sickness he had felt still twisted deep in his gut. Once he had gone into battle fighting against the madness that took him so completely that he would drive into the bitterest, darkest moments without fear. Now he marched to what could be his last fight trying not to void his guts.

  Like every man advancing up that bloodstained hillside, he knew what was to come. They had stood by and watched as every regiment the Union had sent forward was gutted, the stubborn Confederate soldiers refusing to yield their ground. Now the men from Boston had fixed their bayonets and were marching up the same ground, to the same beat of the drum and with the same glorious colours leading the way. Despite all they had seen, they plunged willingly into the drifting powder smoke and took the fight to the enemy.

  Jack looked at the men to his front. Around half the number that had started the day were left on their feet. Dozens had died, or else been struck by the enemy’s bullets and taken from the fight by their wounds. Yet still the men obeyed the order that would send many more of them to their deaths.

  O’Dowd was still there. The tall Irishman marched in the rightmost file, his uniform bearing at least half a dozen rents or tears from where bullets had cut through the cloth. Still he marched on, his rifle held across his front, his knuckles showing white from where they clutched the barrel with a vice-like grip. He advanced in silence, his quick mouth hushed by fear.

  The surviving Thatcher twin was in the centre of the front rank, his face twisted with barely contained hatred. He had not spoken a word of conversation that day, but every man had heard him cursing the enemy as he loaded and fired over and over again, his rage still bright no matter how many men he killed.

  Robert marched in the captain’s place on the front right of the company. He had drawn his sword, yet now balanced the weapon against his shoulder as if unable to bear its weight. To Jack’s eyes, the face under the thick crust of dirt had changed. He was no longer a callow youth. There was steeliness where once there had been little more than a sarcastic sneer. There was also a similarity to another man, one that had been so noticeably lacking before. Amidst the powder smoke, Jack caught a glimpse of Robert’s elder brother. A second member of the Kearney family had found his place on the battlefield.

  Together they advanced up that fateful hill. Jack thought they must all be fools, to march so willingly into the bowels of hell. He wondered why not one man turned and ran. It would be the sane thing to do and he knew he would not stop anyone who made one last dash for salvation. Yet they all stayed in their long ranks, placing one foot after another, advancing alongside their mates without hesitation.

  He forced the breath into his lungs and drew his weapons. It was almost time.

  The air was choked with smoke. The 1st Boston ploughed on, every step taking them closer to the enemy they knew was waiting for them. It lurked in the distance like a monster from a nightmare. Every man in a blue coat who marched up that slope felt its presence, the knowledge of what was to come a burden to be carried by the tired bodies as they advanced.

  ‘Forward!’ It was Robert who encouraged the men now. Even as they slipp
ed on spilt blood, or stumbled as they stepped over a corpse, he kept them moving, his voice carrying an authority that had been found amidst the violence and the horror.

  The enemy opened fire. Men fell all along the line. Most just crumpled, their deaths no more dramatic than a child lying down to sleep. A few staggered back, arms spread wide, their despairing cries the last sound they would ever utter. However they died, their bodies were left where they fell.

  ‘Close the ranks!’ Jack shouted the bitter phrase. It was the litany of battle and he would repeat it a dozen more times in the next few minutes as the enemy fire tore the Union line apart.

  The 1st Boston absorbed the casualties and advanced. Relentless. Silent. Marching into the meat grinder without pause.

  Jack felt the familiar beast stir in his gut. Fear was forgotten. It was nearly time to let the wildness have its head. To forget who he was and why he was there and just fight.

  ‘Come on!’ he shouted then. The words released something deep in his gut. ‘Come on!’

  The line pressed forward. They were moving faster now, something unspoken urging them to increase the pace. Another enemy volley seared through their ranks. Dozens fell, bodies shattered by the fast-moving bullets. Those still standing barely registered their passing.

  The regiment burst through a cloud of smoke. The enemy was to their front, no more than fifty yards away.

  ‘Halt!’

  As the line staggered to a stop, the orders came quickly. The men lifted heavy rifles into tired, bruised shoulders, then squinted down the barrels at the faces of the enemy that were close enough to see in the clearest detail.

  ‘Fire!’

  The volley blasted out. It gored the enemy line, striking men from their feet, the heavy bullets working a dreadful destruction at such close range.

  ‘Load!’ Bridges bellowed the order. His horse had been killed and now he stood with the colour party at the centre of the regiment.

  The enemy returned fire.

  Jack could no longer stand still. He prowled along the rear rank, his head always turned to face the enemy, stalking the ground like a caged animal. He cared nothing for the enemy bullets that buzzed past.

  ‘Close the ranks!’ he shouted, his voice harsh and without compromise. Men shuffled to their left even as they reloaded, stepping around the bodies of their friends. They worked fast, skinning knuckles on the bayonets fixed to the barrels of their rifles, sticking to their task even as friends and neighbours bled and died at their feet. They were fighting like veterans, standing and taking their casualties without flinching, their only thought to ram down another cartridge then fire at the enemy.

  Another volley tore into the regiment. Everything was noise and confusion. Men screamed as they died. Others roared insults at the enemy, or simply cursed as they reloaded as fast as they could. Some just wept as their own flesh was twisted and torn by enemy bullets.

  Jack saw one of the regiment’s colours fall, the sergeant carrying it shot in the gut. It was picked up almost immediately by one of the colour guard, the brave corporal dying almost instantly as a bullet took him right between the eyes.

  ‘Fire by companies!’

  Jack could barely hear Bridges shouting the command over the dreadful clamour of battle. Through the smoke he glimpsed the major standing calmly beside the Stars and Stripes, his hands clasped behind his back. He had yet to draw a weapon.

  ‘A Company!’ Robert had moved behind the line and now took up the task of ordering the company to fire. ‘Aim! . . . Fire!’

  The men could no longer see the enemy, the powder smoke locking them inside a dreadful cloud. Yet still they poured on the fire, refusing to yield the ground they had taken.

  ‘Load!’ Robert bellowed the next command in the sequence. But the men would be given no time to obey as a new sound pierced the chaotic din of battle. It was the same unearthly yell they had heard earlier. It meant only one thing.

  The enemy was charging.

  There was time for the men to look up, to pause in their frantic reloading. Then the enemy burst from the smoke, a thousand faces twisted with rage screaming the dreadful rebel yell at the battered, bleeding Union line.

  Jack saw them coming. He moved fast, covering the ground in great loping strides until he stood next to Robert.

  ‘Charge!’ he bellowed.

  Other officers shouted the same order and the Union line surged forward, the remains of the ten companies throwing themselves at the enemy.

  ‘Come on!’ Jack shouted to Robert, then ran after his men, releasing the demons that lived deep inside him.

  The two forces came together in a rush. Almost immediately the lines broke up, the men fighting and killing in a vicious swirling melee. Jack saw the soldiers in the files to his front charge into the enemy line. Two fell almost immediately, their bodies torn by rebel bayonets, creating a gap in what now passed for the Union line.

  A Confederate with a thick, bushy brown beard rushed through the gap. He lunged at Jack with his bayonet. The momentum of his charge made the action clumsy, and Jack skipped past the blade without breaking stride. A moment later and the man fell, his throat slashed open by the edge of Jack’s sabre.

  ‘Stay close!’ Jack checked that Robert had heard him, then raised his revolver. There was no time to pick a target, and he just pulled the trigger, firing into the mass of bodies rushing past.

  A bowie knife slashed at his face. He twisted away, the blade whispering past his chin by no more than an inch. He glimpsed the man who had tried to kill him and fired without pausing. The bullet hit the man in the right eye, shattering his skull and showering those behind him with gore.

  The fight swirled around him. The Confederates had charged, but the 1st Boston had stood their ground. The two lines were now hopelessly intermixed and the melee surged and twisted as men fought and killed.

  A boy with a thin covering of wispy hair on his cheeks tried to bayonet Jack in the side. Jack battered the rifle away with his sabre, then lifted his revolver and shot the boy down. He fired again a moment later, taking another man in the side of his head so that he dropped like a stone without ever knowing who had killed him. He led Robert through the gap his bullets had created, then chopped hard with his sabre, bludgeoning a rebel to the ground with the finesse of a butcher and ramming down with the point, spearing the man through the chest.

  He saw O’Dowd to his front. The Irishman was screaming like a maniac. As Jack watched, O’Dowd bayoneted a rebel soldier in the heart, his demented cries the last sound the Southerner would ever hear. A moment later and O’Dowd’s shrieks of anger turned to a terrified yell of agony as a Confederate soldier drove a machete into his throat.

  Jack whirled on the spot. A Confederate wearing a straw wide-awake hat came at him, his rifle lifted ready to fire. Jack snapped off his last shot, the bullet hitting the rebel in the gut moments before he would have gunned the Englishman down where he stood.

  ‘Hold them! Hold them!’ he roared at the men. He had no idea how many were left, or how many had died. He dared them to stand, to hold their ground a moment longer.

  A Confederate officer emerged from the press of bodies. Men were hanging back now, the initial rush replaced by a slow, bitter struggle. ‘Kill them Yankee sons of bitches!’ he roared at his men, then he lunged at Jack, his straight sword driving at Jack’s balls.

  Jack saw the blow coming. He battered it aside, his own sword moving quicker than the eye could track. There was time to see the flash of terror in the officer’s eyes before Jack backhanded his sword and smashed it into the man’s skull. The blade chopped deep then bounced off bone, ripping the skin so that blood rushed to smother the officer’s face in a grotesque mask.

  Somehow the man still stood. He brought his sword back, cutting it at Jack’s side. There was no force behind the blow and Jack s
watted it away with disdain. He laughed then, mocking and cruel in the face of the enemy officer’s death. Then he lunged with his notched and bloodstained blade, driving it through the man’s throat.

  ‘Come on!’ He dared the nearest Southerners to face him. He feared no man. ‘Fight, you mealy-mouthed bastards!’ He stepped forward, sneering his challenge. ‘Come on and fight! You hear me! Come on!’

  The men nearest him backed away, not one of them willing to face the scarred Union officer with gore splattered across his uniform. The first turned and ran. Within moments the rest had followed. The survivors from the 1st Boston stood and stared as they fled, their expressions displaying the horror of the fight and the shock at having survived.

  Jack watched the enemy go, then turned his back on their broken ranks. The rage that had sustained him fled in the span of a single heartbeat. It was time to return some sort of order to the regiment’s battered ranks. The men had fought far past the point of exhaustion. They were bloodied and their faces were set grim, yet somehow they had held. Now they had to re-form and someone had to decide what the hell they should do next.

  He looked back down the hillside, his gaze lingering on the dead and the dying, a dreadful reminder of the price that had been paid to get halfway up the benighted slope. Then he glanced to the rear. If he hoped to see fresh men coming to reinforce the decimated regiment, he was to be disappointed. He saw nothing save the corpses and the broken bodies of the wounded.

  ‘Jack! Jack!’ Robert was shouting his name. The lieutenant had tailed behind him through the fight, and now he plucked at Jack’s sleeve.

  From somewhere Jack summoned the strength to turn to see what was needed. Robert was pointing up the slope, his arm shaking. Jack looked at the brow of the hill. The broken regiment had cleared away. Instead of their ragged and terrified ranks, he found himself staring at a line of Confederate reinforcements. And there were thousands of them.