The True Soldier: Jack Lark 6

by Paul Fraser Collard

  He looked at them and saw defeat. McDowell’s plans were done. Somehow the enemy had found more men to plug the gaps torn in their flank. They could only have come from the Shenandoah Valley. The troops facing Jack’s tired and battered regiment were not supposed to be there, but their presence meant only one thing.

  The Union had just lost its first battle.

  ‘Form line!’ Jack’s voice cracked as he shouted. His mouth was parched and his throat felt half closed. From somewhere he found enough moisture to repeat the order. ‘Form line!’

  His instruction was echoed almost immediately by the handful of officers still on their feet. He looked down the line. Bridges had been hit in the arm, the sleeve of his uniform coat ripped and torn just above the elbow. Standing with his left hand clasped to the wound, he repeated Jack’s order, his mouth working furiously to give it enough force to be heard by every man still standing.

  The men obeyed. They were exhausted, their strength long since spent, yet somehow they formed something that at least resembled a line and faced the enemy that outnumbered them by dozens to their every one.

  ‘Load!’ Bridges took his mauled regiment in hand, his voice just as calm as it had been all those hours before when he had ordered them to load for the first time.

  ‘Take cartridges and caps from the dead if you need them.’ Jack gave the advice as he stalked along the front of the company. He looked every man in the eye, holding their gaze as they started to reload their rifles one last time.

  He turned to Robert. ‘Take your place behind the line. When it breaks, run like fun.’ He hissed the words, speaking quickly and urgently in a tone that only Robert could hear.

  Robert stared back at him. For a moment, Jack thought he would argue. Then he took one glance at the bodies of the fallen that littered the ground all around the ragged Union line and nodded. He moved away immediately, doing as he was told without a word.

  ‘Aim!’ Bridges gave the order.

  Jack forced himself into the front rank, watching as the enemy line advanced steadily down the slope. Their ranks were ordered. Their faces and uniforms were clean. These were men who had spent the day being transported by railroad, and they were fresh to the battle. Their ranks had not been gutted by enemy fire and their weapons were not fouled by a dozen or more firings. He knew they would be looking at the filthy creatures standing to their front with disdain.

  ‘Fire!’ Bridges shouted the order.

  The men from Boston flung a defiant volley into the face of the enemy advance. They had learned to fire low and the storm of bullets cut into the Confederate line, killing men all along its length. Their introduction to battle was brutal.

  ‘Load!’ Bridges gave the order out of habit.

  The men let their rifle butts drop to the ground. Hands reached to pouches for fresh cartridges that not one man expected to fire.

  The enemy line had halted. They were no more than fifty or sixty yards away, close enough for the Union troops to hear the Confederate officers shout for their men to aim. Then they fired.

  Jack heard men scream as they were hit. For one dreadful, bowel-wrenching moment, the air was filled with the snap and crack of hundreds of bullets tearing past. Then there was nothing but the inhuman shrieks of the men with freshly broken bodies.

  He had turned his head away from the enemy volley. Every muscle in his body had tensed, the expectation of being hit so strong that his legs had nearly buckled as the bullets tore past. Then it was over. He raised his head and roared in defiance as he realised he was still whole. The Union line stood, but great gaps had been ripped along its length. Men died at the feet of those left standing, their anguished cries filling the ears of soldiers still trying to reload.

  ‘Load!’ Jack shouted the encouragement. ‘One more volley!’ He strode along what was left of the company’s line. ‘We stand and we fight.’

  He looked for Bridges. The major was still on his feet, but the regiment’s Irish colour had fallen, the corporal who had been holding it aloft, one of the last survivors of the colour guard, now lying dead at Bridges’ feet.

  It was the man Jack had half forgotten who picked it up. He had lost sight of Rowell when the line advanced up the hill. In the chaos of the fight, he had not spared the captain a thought. Yet now Rowell raised the flag high, showing it to the men who refused to break.

  It was a fine display, a moment’s courage that would almost certainly be rewarded with death. A dozen men had carried the flag that day. All had been shot down. Yet now Rowell, hateful, spiteful Rowell, moved it from side to side to stir the colour in the still air. The green silk rippled around its staff as he forced it to life. It reminded the men who they were, displaying their pride for all to see.

  ‘Aim!’ Bridges gave the order.

  Any man still able obeyed, lifting their rifles to their shoulders one last time. It was a futile gesture. What was left of the regiment stood no chance of stopping the enemy advance. Yet the men from Boston held their ground, refusing to break, flaunting their desperate courage so that the troops coming against them would remember this moment for all time.

  ‘Fire!’

  It was no crisp volley. It rippled out, each man firing when he could. It crashed into the enemy line, nearly every bullet striking a man down.

  ‘Stand your ground!’ Jack lifted his chin and glared at the enemy. They had been hit hard by the volley, but they held fast. Around him, some of his men started to reload, the action now so deeply ingrained that they did so despite not one officer shouting the order. Most, though, just stared at the Confederate line. Waiting.

  Jack heard a Confederate officer shout at his men to aim. The Southerners’ line seemed to make a quarter-turn to the right as the troops raised their rifles.

  ‘For the love of God.’ An Irishman to Jack’s left muttered the prayer.

  Then the enemy line fired once more.

  Jack shouted then. It was an incoherent roar, and it lasted as long as the enemy volley.

  The bullets whipped through the Union line. Men died in droves. Some still stood, but the cohesion of the line was gone. The praying Irishman to Jack’s left was dead, his head smashed by a well-aimed bullet. All the regiment’s colours were down, Rowell and the other men carrying the flags drawing the fire of dozens of Confederates.

  Jack looked for Robert. To his relief, the lieutenant was still standing, even though the men in the files to his front had all been downed. Bridges was still alive too, the major already moving forward to pick up the fallen national flag.

  There was time for one last glance at the Confederate line, then Jack was moving. There was nothing left to be done.

  It was time to run.

  ‘Pull back!’ Bridges gave his last order. ‘Pull back!’

  Jack moved through what was left of the front rank. The regiment had stood their ground when others would have broken, but now the time for defiance was past.

  ‘Pull back! Stay together.’ He repeated Bridges’ order. ‘Pull back.’

  The men did not turn tail and run. Instead they faced the enemy and walked backwards, retreating with some vestige of order. Jack watched them go, then moved fast, weaving through the men until he reached Robert.

  ‘Come on, time to go.’ He reached out and took the young lieutenant by the arm.

  ‘We can’t!’ Robert shook off Jack’s grip. ‘Rowell is hit.’

  Jack looked over his shoulder towards the remains of the colour party. A sergeant from B Company had retrieved the state flag. Bridges had ripped the Stars and Stripes from its pole and was bent down, the flag bundled awkwardly under his damaged arm as he tried to drag Rowell’s body down the slope.

  ‘Shit!’ Jack spat the word. ‘You want to help that bastard?’

  ‘We have to.’ Robert shoved his sword back in its scabbard, then gr
abbed Jack by both forearms. ‘He’s still my sister’s intended.’

  Jack saw the resolve in Robert’s expression. He was tempted to knock the younger man down just to spare them the ordeal. Robert must have seen the thought in his gaze and glared back at him, defiant and determined, even as the men pulled back leaving them exposed and alone.

  ‘For God’s sake.’ Jack put his own weapons away. ‘Come on then, you fool.’ He forced his body into motion, his flesh as reluctant as his mind. He did not wait to see if Robert followed.

  ‘Bridges!’ He hollered for attention as he ran towards the major. They were in front of the men now, the remains of the regiment moving slowly back down the slope. The enemy were walking forward, but the regiment’s defiant volleys had dented their enthusiasm and they advanced slowly, many stopping to help the wounded. ‘Bridges!’

  Finally the major looked up. ‘Go back, you fools!’ he shouted. He had managed to drag Rowell from underneath the fallen Irish colour, but he was struggling to move him more than a few inches with every tug.

  ‘Shut up!’ Jack skidded to a halt and looked down at Rowell. He had been hit in the gut. Blood smothered the lower half of his body, his blue tunic turned black. It was a horrible wound, a man killer. ‘Leave him.’ Jack straightened up, then took a pace backwards. He reached out to grab Bridges by the shoulder. ‘He’s going to die.’

  Bridges looked at him, his eyes narrowed. ‘You go.’ He bent down and pushed his hand under Rowell’s shoulder, moving him another half-foot.

  Jack couldn’t watch. He turned away and busied himself tearing the Irish colour from its pole. The green silk was smothered with Rowell’s blood, and a dozen tears and rents in the fabric told of the bullets that had cut through the flag that day. Yet it was no rag to be discarded and Jack stuffed it inside his jacket before turning back to see that Bridges had managed to progress no more than two or three yards.

  ‘For the love of God.’ Robert muttered under his breath as he looked in horror at Rowell’s wound. Yet the gruesome sight did not deter him, and he took Rowell under the other shoulder then nodded to Bridges. ‘Let’s go.’

  Together the two men started to drag Rowell back. Neither looked at the snail trail of blood left on the crushed grass. Jack did not move. He had seen enough wounds to know that Rowell would die. It was inevitable.

  Then Rowell screamed. The sound escaped his lips then died away quickly as he fought against the pain. He looked up at Jack. His eyes were bright in a face encrusted with the dirt of battle. Blood was smeared across one cheek.

  ‘Don’t you dare leave me here, you son of a bitch,’ he hissed, his face contorted as the pain took hold. ‘Don’t you dare leave me.’

  Jack saw the rabid fear in the captain’s eyes. It transported him to another battlefield, to another moment when he had watched a man facing the oblivion of death without hope of survival. That man had begged for mercy, his final words a desperate plea to be spared hours of agony. Jack had delivered it, killing Sergeant Thomas Kearney of Le Douzième Régiment Étranger with his own blade. Now a man he had come to despise faced the same fate, yet begged for his life. Jack would not do him the same kindness as he had done for his friend.

  ‘Get out of the fucking way,’ he growled, then shouldered Bridges aside, nearly knocking him from his feet. He bent low, scooping Rowell up like a father picking up a child. Pain flared white-hot as his back took the strain, then he was moving, lumbering clumsily down the slope with the captain held in his arms.

  Rowell was heavy. His right hand clutched at Jack’s shoulder, fingers digging in like claws. Jack could hear the breath rasping from the other man’s lungs, the gasps washing across his face. He focused on the pain. Every step was agony, his back on fire and his legs straining to hold him upright. He could feel Rowell’s blood hot against his hands and he could taste it in every mouthful of air that he dragged into his tortured lungs.

  Behind came the yips and yells of the rebel advance. The sound was louder now, the enemy moving across the plateau where they had bludgeoned the Union advance to a bloody halt.

  ‘Go left!’ It was Bridges. The major was staggering along at Jack’s side, his left hand reaching out every few steps to steady Jack as he tottered on. His right arm hung useless at his side, the regiment’s flag still clutched under his armpit. Robert trailed in their wake, the young officer watching the enemy troops behind them.

  Jack glanced to his right, where more enemy troops were advancing. Some were stopping to snap off a shot, but most just came on at a steady pace, their officers urging them forward so that they could take the Union men in the flank. A quick glance to the left showed still more enemy reinforcements swarming across the southern reaches of the plateau. The regiment was nearly surrounded, the enemy line advancing on every front and swallowing up any men in their way.

  ‘Shit.’ It was more a gasp than a word. Still he angled left, moving away from the closest threat. He heard the familiar whip-crack in the air as Confederate sharpshooters maintained a constant withering fire. He kept his legs moving, forcing strength into his aching muscles, keeping up the pace.

  Rowell was silent in his arms. Jack had no idea if he was still alive, but he had no intention of stopping to find out. His only thought was to keep moving and to keep Robert with him. He would not stop. Not for anything.

  He was moving steadily, and already the remains of the regiment were a good hundred yards away. The pace of their retreat was slowing, the men looking around for orders. None came, and so they hesitated, the knot of beaten, frightened men stumbling to a halt.

  ‘Go on!’ Bridges saw what Jack had seen. He gave Jack one last steadying push, then turned to head towards the regiment. ‘Get him away.’

  Jack glanced at Bridges as he walked away. The major’s face was dreadfully pale, his lips pressed together and eyes narrowed as the pain of the wound to his arm fought for control of his mind. Yet Jack also saw the determination in his expression.

  He was still looking at Bridges when the sharpshooter’s bullet hit the major in the temple, driving through skull and brain before exploding from the other side in a gory eruption of blood and bone. Bridges dropped like a stone. He was dead before he hit the ground.

  Jack staggered, his momentum carrying him on. Somehow he brought his body to a halt and twisted awkwardly on the spot. Bridges lay face down on the grass. Jack forced his legs to hold him in place, his awkward burden nearly toppling him over. He looked across to the remains of the regiment. The men had stopped moving altogether and were huddled together, leaderless as they faced thousands of fresh Confederate forces.

  Robert was staring at Bridges’ body. He had not moved since the major had fallen.

  ‘Grab the bloody colours and come on!’ Jack shouted, then staggered onwards. His spine shrieked in pain, but he mastered the agony and started to move back down the slope. It was time to get away. He was not there to lead the men. He was there to keep Robert safe.

  No one would blame him for carrying a wounded officer from the field of battle, and once Robert was safely delivered back to his father, Jack would get paid. With money in his pocket, he would be able to leave the war far behind and forget the bloodstained hillside where he had abandoned a group of beaten and bloodied soldiers to their fate.

  He stumbled and nearly lost his footing. It was enough to stir Rowell, and he cried out, his body shuddering in Jack’s arms.

  ‘Shit!’ For the second time, Jack lumbered to a halt. ‘You have to take him,’ he hissed at Robert.

  ‘What?’ Robert had been trailing after Jack, the Stars and Stripes carried like fouled laundry.

  ‘Take him!’ Jack lurched towards him, pushing Rowell’s body against the younger man’s chest.

  ‘I can’t!’ Robert backed away from the bloody bundle in Jack’s arms.

  ‘You fucking have to!’

 
‘I’m not strong enough.’

  ‘Then dump the bastard on the ground. I don’t care what the fuck you do as long as you get the hell away.’

  Robert recoiled from the venom in Jack’s voice. ‘The men need someone to lead them.’ He lifted his chin in defiance and spoke firmly. ‘You take him; you’re stronger than me. I’ll see to the men.’

  ‘They need me, not you.’ Jack stopped Robert in his tracks. ‘They need a fucking leader, not a boy who’ll piss in his fucking breeches.’ He took another step towards Robert. ‘Now take him and fuck off.’

  ‘The men—’

  ‘Shut your fucking mouth.’ Jack pushed Rowell’s unconscious body into Robert’s gut, not caring that he smeared blood across the other man’s tunic. ‘Take him, goddam your fucking eyes.’

  Robert nearly buckled under the weight, but Jack managed to get Rowell’s body into the younger man’s arms. He wrapped Rowell in the Stars and Stripes as best he could, then he stepped back and looked at Robert. ‘Now fuck off!’ He roared the instruction with such force that spittle was flung onto the young lieutenant’s cheeks.

  Robert staggered under Rowell’s weight. For a second he held Jack’s gaze, revulsion showing in his eyes. Then he moved, taking the first awkward steps down the hill and towards safety.

  Jack watched him go. Only when Robert was half a dozen paces away did the Englishman turn to look at the huddle of men that was all that was left of the regiment. He had made his choice. He had not enjoyed being cruel, but it had been necessary; Robert would not have gone any other way.

  Jack was free of the burden he had taken on for money. He was free to do what he did best.

  Rose tied off the bandage then rocked back on her haunches to inspect her handiwork. Her mistress’s cloak had once been a pretty dusky pink. Now it was stained with blood, but it was slowing the bleeding from the young soldier’s belly, and that was a much better use for the fabric.