The True Soldier: Jack Lark 6

by Paul Fraser Collard

  They came off the sloping ground, crossed the turnpike where they had waited for so long to fight, then started to climb once again. As they left the road behind, the sounds of fighting slowly disappeared into the distance. Jack felt strangely peaceful, as the shouts, roars and screams of men fighting to the death receded into the depths of his mind.

  They crested the hill, the men plodding along, keeping moving as best they could. The bodies of the dead littered the ground, the scene of the morning’s fighting no less grotesque for being hours old. Jack saw one man who had crawled a fair distance despite having had both legs blown off, a grisly trail of blood marking his path. Another man who had been shot in the face sat bolt upright, his eyes staring into nothing above the ruin of his mouth and nose.

  ‘Keep moving.’ Jack paused and stepped to one side so that he could check the men over as they passed. He did not recognise many of the faces, the remains of the ten companies now mixed together. A few men wore the uniforms of a different regiment altogether, stragglers who had attached themselves gratefully to one of the few groups quitting the battlefield in some sort of order.

  The high ground gave Jack a chance to see the rest of the retreating Union army. Some were running in complete disorder, the hillside and beyond covered with retreating men. A handful were moving back in more formed groups, the remains of a regiment or a company still banded together.

  From his vantage point he could also see a carriage scrabbling across a distant field. Even from a distance he could make out the bright flash of a lady’s dress, colour that had no place amidst the drab greys, blues and browns of the soldiers’ uniforms. He cursed them then, those foolish civilians who had stupidly come to watch a battle as if it were a spectacle laid on for their enjoyment. Any notion of celebrating a victory had been lost as the Union army broke itself on the resolute wall of Confederate defenders. Now those fine ladies and gentlemen found themselves joining the broken army in a desperate bid for survival.

  ‘Isn’t that Mr Kearney’s coach?’ James Thatcher had followed Jack out of the ranks and now peered at the distant coach from under a hand that shielded his eyes from the glare of the afternoon sun.

  ‘What?’ Jack was not sure he had heard correctly.

  ‘I reckon that’s the Kearneys’ carriage. Amos and I helped my uncle work on it a year ago.’ Thatcher lowered his hand and looked at his lieutenant. ‘I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Shit.’ Jack felt a rush of fear. If the man was correct, then the flash of colour he had seen had to be Elizabeth Kearney. And if Elizabeth was there, he could only assume that Rose was too.

  ‘Here, take this.’ He pulled the Irish colour out of his jacket and bundled it into Thatcher’s arms. ‘Keep heading north. Tell Captain Sanders he has the regiment.’ He looked at the younger man’s face. ‘And tell him I made you first sergeant. A Company is yours now.’

  Thatcher looked at Jack as if he had gone mad. ‘Where the hell are you going?’

  Jack had a wild grin on his face. ‘Over there.’ He nodded at the carriage that was flogging its way through the field at no more than a snail’s pace.

  ‘You coming back?’

  Jack shook his head. ‘I reckon not.’

  Thatcher held his gaze, then nodded. He did not say a word before he turned and ran after the rear ranks of the regiment.

  Jack forced his worn-out, aching body to move. He had done all he could for the regiment. Now it was time to look out for someone he had not allowed himself to think about since they had parted the night before. It was time to take the first steps towards a future of his own choosing.

  Every breath burned as Jack hauled it into his tortured lungs. Every moment was a torment, every lurching step an agony to be endured. He had fallen once, his legs buckling as he tore down a slope. The landing had been painful, the jarring contact with the ground awaking the pain in his back so that he ran with spasms shooting up and down his spine. Yet he kept going, plotting a path that would intercept the carriage, refusing to listen to his body, refusing to quit.

  The vehicle was moving slowly by the time he got closer, its wheels churning great furrows in the soft ground near the river. No matter how hard the driver lashed the exhausted horses that pulled it, it could go no faster than an old man’s stagger.

  ‘Hold there!’ Jack called out as soon as he was close enough for them to hear him. He saw heads turn. He recognised Elizabeth at once. Robert was there too, the blue of his uniform marking him out well enough. There appeared to be more people in the carriage, but they were screened from his view.

  None of them appeared to recognise him.

  He saw Robert brace himself at the front of the carriage. At first, Jack’s brain was too exhausted to work out what the younger man was doing.

  Then Robert fired for the first time.

  ‘Shit!’ Jack was well past flinching, but he still tensed as the bullet cracked through the air over his head. ‘It’s me, you fucking fool!’ He tried to shout to Robert, but the breath wouldn’t come and the words emerged as little more than a gasp.

  Robert’s second bullet was lower. It spat into the ground a yard in front of Jack’s boots, burying itself harmlessly into the damp sod.

  ‘For fuck’s sake!’ Jack ploughed on, dragging the air into his abused lungs as best he could. He managed to wave an arm in a clumsy gesture that he hoped would persuade them to stop shooting for long enough to look at him and know who he was.

  He was getting close. He could see Robert preparing to fire again.

  ‘Don’t shoot, it’s Jack!’

  Jack was never more relieved to hear his own name. As he plunged on, he saw a third person’s face. Rose was busy with something on the floor of the carriage, but she had glanced up for long enough to save him from getting a bullet in the head.

  ‘Hell fire!’ Robert lowered his gun and peered at Jack. ‘I thought you were a damn secher! Stop here, Henson!’

  Jack had no breath for a reply. He just put his head down and ploughed on until he managed to catch up with the now stationary carriage. He hauled himself up, then reached out to snatch the smoking revolver from Robert’s hand.

  ‘My God.’ Elizabeth spoke for the first time. She was looking at Jack like he was something from a nightmare.

  Jack did not care to reply. Seeing no room in the carriage, he jumped back down and worked his way round, using the time to catch his breath, then clambered up next to Henson. Only then did he look at the faces that were turned his way.

  ‘Is he still alive?’ He fired the question at Rose, who was squatting on the floor of the carriage next to Rowell’s bloodied body.

  ‘Barely.’

  Jack nodded. He looked around at the people in the carriage. Elizabeth’s face and clothes were covered in grime and worse, a testament to her having done more than just spectate. Robert’s blue tunic was soaked in gore, a reminder of the bloody burden he had carried and which now lay on the floor of the carriage. Then there was Rose.

  ‘You all right, love?’ He could not hold back the question.

  ‘Better than you, by the looks of things.’ Rose glanced at him for no more than a second. There were grey circles around her eyes and her face was covered with a crust of dirt, but there was such life in her bloodshot eyes. The sight of her lent him strength. He would bring them through safely, no matter what it took.

  ‘Henson! Get us moving.’ Robert gave the order.

  The driver needed little urging, but despite his whipping, the horses struggled to make any progress in the heavy ground.

  Jack was half turned towards the rear of the carriage when he heard the dreadful roar of a salvo of shells. The first hit the ground twenty yards away, the field erupting in a great fountain, heavy clods of earth thrown high into the air. A heartbeat later and a second shell landed no more than ten yards away. The cascade of ear
th that rained down on the barely moving carriage was just as spectacular. It was still falling when a third shell hit the ground five yards from the rear left wheel.

  The carriage was thrown sideways as if it weighed no more than a child’s toy. Jack had no idea how it stayed upright as it lurched and twisted like a small boat caught in a rip tide. He saw Elizabeth’s mouth open, but her scream was lost in the roar of the explosion. The horses plunged and reared, their shrieks of terror loud in the aftermath of the blast, before there was the snap of breaking wood. The carriage gave a great shudder then came to a halt, the driver fighting the pair of horses to a standstill.

  ‘Anyone hurt?’ Jack turned and shouted the question. He had held on for all he was worth and had somehow maintained his seat. But those in the back had not been so lucky and had been thrown down. Robert had fallen half out of the carriage, whilst Rose had been flung forward so that she smothered Rowell’s body.

  ‘No!’ Robert forced himself up. ‘Elizabeth—’

  ‘I’m fine.’ She did not let him finish the question.

  ‘He’s dead.’ Rose’s voice cut through the others. She was pulling herself upright, but her eyes were riveted on Rowell’s face. Elizabeth’s future husband was staring at the sky through sightless eyes.

  Jack shared a look with Robert. ‘Come on, let’s move. Out of the carriage.’ It was the only option. The vehicle was going nowhere. The explosion had torn the rear left wheel nearly completely off its mount. All that remained was a twisted mess of broken spokes and shattered rim.

  He did not wait to see the others out. Instead he jumped down, his boots hitting the ground with a squelch. As soon as he had his balance, he looked around, trying to find the best route to safety. They were on low ground far from the turnpike. A heavily wooded slope looked down on them from the far side of the river. It promised sanctuary, if only they could reach it. Crossing the river on foot would not be easy.

  ‘Which way?’ Rose emerged from the far side of the carriage. She walked to Jack’s side, then reached out to grab his right hand, holding it tight, binding him to her.

  ‘We have to cross the river.’ Jack felt the urge to pull her to him. But then Robert came around the side of the broken carriage, followed by his sister.

  ‘You think we can?’ Robert did not so much glance at the intertwined hands.

  ‘We’ll have to.’ Jack turned on the spot and looked for Henson. ‘What do you think?’

  Henson shrugged, then turned to free the horses from their traces.

  ‘We could ride.’ Elizabeth offered the suggestion.

  Jack quashed the idea. ‘We have no saddles.’

  ‘And there are five of us.’ Robert reached out and laid his hand on his sister’s back. ‘You ever learn to swim, Lizzy?’

  ‘What about Ethan?’ Elizabeth turned to face her brother. ‘We cannot leave him behind.’

  ‘We can and we will.’ Jack was cruel. ‘He’s dead. Just like thousands of other poor bastards.’

  Elizabeth looked at him. ‘You would leave him here?’

  ‘You have a better idea?’

  She paused. She could not hold his gaze, her eyes flickering from his face to his hands. ‘No.’

  ‘We need to get moving.’ Jack took control. ‘We’ll head downriver. Find a place to cross.’ He turned and looked over his shoulder. The Confederates could not be far behind. If they had any sense, they would press on with everything they had. They had their boot on the Union army’s throat. All they had to do was keep it there and the war would be done in a single day.

  Henson led the way. Once he had cut the horses from the traces, the driver had produced a short-barrelled carbine from under his seat. Elizabeth went next, with Robert behind his sister, his reloaded revolver held ready and the bloodstained Stars and Stripes bundled under his left arm. Rose followed, with Jack bringing up the rear. He walked with two loaded revolvers, one held in each hand.

  From her place further ahead, Elizabeth turned to glare back at him. It was a look of such disdain that Jack felt it hit him like a physical thing. He glanced away, unmoved, hefting the unfamiliar weight of Rowell’s ivory-handled revolver in his left hand. He had reclaimed the weapon as they walked away from the broken carriage and the body of the man left inside. Elizabeth had protested at what she had called theft. Jack had ignored her, just as he ignored her glare. He’d be damned if he would leave the weapon behind for some bloody rebel soldier.

  They were making good time, moving more quickly than they had in the carriage. They had left the sodden ground near the river and were heading west into a thickly wooded area. Jack intended to put a good few miles between them and the battlefield before turning them north once again and trying to find a place to cross the river.

  It was cool under the trees, and almost peaceful. After hours in the sweaty, stinking heat, the fresher air came as a blessed relief. The only sounds were the scuffing of their boots through the undergrowth and the gentle sound of the wood’s canopy moving back and forth in the breeze.

  But they were not alone. Every few minutes they heard voices, or the noise created by a body thrashing through the wood at speed. They were not the only fugitives seeking refuge amongst the trees, and it made Jack anxious. Any encounter could be dangerous, whether it was with the enemy or their own side. He had seen soldiers after battle. Men pushed to breaking point were unlikely to think of anything but their own survival. They would let nothing stand in their way.

  Henson brought them to a halt, then hissed a question over his shoulder. ‘Which way?’

  They were in the gloom now, deep in the woods. Above their heads the canopy had thickened, blocking out the late-afternoon sun and leaving them in almost complete darkness.

  Four faces turned to look at Jack.

  He paused. Keeping a sense of direction was impossible. He was no woodsman; just a boy from the narrow streets of a metropolis.

  ‘I don’t bloody know. Just keep damn well moving.’ He waved his hand.

  They moved off again, Henson plunging ahead, his carbine held across his body. No one spoke. They just plodded along, exhausted and drained by the day’s events.

  They had walked for no more than ten minutes when Henson stopped them again. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ Jack growled. ‘What now?’ His temper was fraying.

  ‘You hear that?’

  He stopped moving and listened. He heard the sound that had stopped Henson immediately.

  ‘Shit.’ He knew what it meant. It came from their left and was the sound of an ordered group of men moving purposefully through the wood. He heard the tramp of boots and voices giving orders. He had no idea if he was listening to a body of Union soldiers or a formed unit of Confederates, but he had no intention of waiting to find out.

  ‘That way!’ He gestured to the right. ‘Move! Quickly now.’

  Not one person disobeyed. They turned and forced their tired bodies into a run, the notion of the column lost immediately, stumbling on as a group, keeping together as best they could.

  Jack heard cries from behind them. They had been heard.

  They increased their pace, kicking a way through the undergrowth. Jack angled his path, making sure he stayed behind Rose. He would not lose sight of her. The sound of men moving followed. He had not caught a single glimpse of any pursuer, but he had the feeling of being chased.

  The wood opened out, the dense undergrowth giving way to little more than moss and tree roots.

  ‘Come on!’ Jack urged them on. If they picked up the pace in the more open ground, they might get away before the men behind them could fight their way free of the denser woodland they had just left.

  Henson moved ahead, leading the way. The others followed, lungs heaving with the strain of moving so fast.

  ‘Lord of mercy!’ It wa
s Rose who spotted the man first. He was sitting against a tree directly in their path. He wore a dark grey uniform with the bright blue stripes of a corporal on his sleeve. His jacket was pulled open to reveal his guts, which hung out of his stomach and lay blue and glistening in his lap.

  Jack was sure the man was dead. He was wrong.

  The corporal’s head turned to look at the mismatched group running towards him. ‘Help me!’ he called out with surprising strength to his voice. ‘You there, in the name of the Lord, help me.’

  ‘Keep moving.’ Jack answered for them all. The sight of the man did not move him. He had seen the same wound a dozen times already that day.

  Rose alone disobeyed. He saw her change direction the moment the soldier cried out, then drop to her knees beside the man, her hands already tearing at the stained hem of her skirt.

  ‘Rose! Leave him!’

  ‘I will not leave a man to die like a dog.’ She turned her head, throwing the words back at him, then busied herself preparing a rudimentary dressing.

  ‘Jack?’ It was Robert. The others were slowing, their hopes of escape fading fast.

  ‘Shit.’ Jack stood over Rose. He could hear the men behind them. Every instinct told him that they were Confederates. It meant their only chance lay in moving as fast as they could without stopping, no matter what they saw.

  ‘Rose. You have to leave him.’ He tried to reason with her.

  ‘You go if you must.’ Rose did not so much as look at him. She had torn a thick strip of fabric from her skirt and was trying to slip it around the man’s waist.

  ‘Bless you, miss.’ The soldier turned his eyes to Jack. They were the pale blue of fresh ice, and were lucid and alive. ‘Why don’t you go to hell?’ He asked the question mildly.

  ‘Damn it.’ Jack ground his teeth in frustration. Precious seconds were ticking by, and they would need every one.

  ‘Jack?’ Robert had stopped now, his sister at his side. Even Henson had paused, licking his lips anxiously and staring back at the woodland from where the noise of pursuit was coming.