The True Soldier: Jack Lark 6

by Paul Fraser Collard

  Jack took one last look over his shoulder, half expecting to see Confederates bursting through the trees.

  There was only one solution.

  He raised his own revolver and aimed it squarely at the wounded soldier’s head. The man was going to die anyway, his grotesque wound worse even than the one that had killed Rowell. A swift death now would be a mercy.

  His finger curled around the trigger.

  ‘No!’

  Rose slammed her hand into his gun the very instant before he fired, knocking it to one side. ‘Go! Now!’ She glared at him then, eyes filled with anger. Then she turned back to her gory task.

  ‘For Christ’s sake.’ Jack spat out the words. A new decision was made. He waved at Robert. ‘You go, quickly now. We’ll follow.’

  Robert stared back at him for no more than the span of a single heartbeat. Then he was plucking at his sister’s sleeve and they were off, Henson leading the way, Robert and Elizabeth following. The wood swallowed them in moments.

  ‘I hope you know what the hell you are doing.’ Jack checked over his pair of revolvers, speaking to Rose without looking at her.

  ‘You can go.’ She replied even as she bound the soldier’s guts back into his belly.

  ‘And leave you?’ Jack tucked Rowell’s revolver under his arm and made sure his sabre was loose in its scabbard. He would need it soon enough. ‘Where would the fun be in that?’

  The first Confederates came into sight. There were half a dozen of them and they were spread in a skirmish line. Jack had no idea if these were all he faced, or if they were just the lead element of a much larger force. Whichever it was, it did not matter. There was only one thing he could do; one course of action he could take to keep them safe and free.

  He attacked.

  His breath roared in his ears as he started to move. It deadened all other sounds so that he barely heard Rose shout at him not to be a fool. The pain in his body fell away, the aches and the tiredness lost as the wild desire to fight thrilled through him.

  The first Confederate saw him coming. He was fat, with a great roll of blubber around his belly. He did not look like a soldier, his uniform little more than a wide-brimmed hat, brown homespun trousers and a shirt that might once have been beige, but which was now grey and stained with sweat. His face was covered with a thick growth of beard, but Jack still saw his mouth open in shock as a Yankee officer came charging towards him.

  Jack fired. He used his own revolver, the weapon so familiar that it felt like an extension of his own body. His first bullet took the fat Confederate in the throat.

  ‘Come on!’ He released the demons.

  He darted to one side, dodging past a tree, and fired fast, barely aiming, at a man in a brown plaid shirt who raised what looked to be an ancient smoothbore musket. The man died with two bullets in his chest before he could pull the trigger of his outdated weapon.

  The last three bullets were fired in quick succession, all aimed at a Confederate who stood and stared at Jack as if he were some creature from the depths of hell. The man died when the final shot pierced his brain, the Colt’s heavy bullet taking him in the eye.

  Jack roared then, shouting his war cry for all he was worth. Three men were dead, all killed by his hand. He was a god of war and he thrilled with the knowledge that he would not die here, not at the hand of farmers and labourers who knew nothing of how to fight, how to kill.

  The next man turned to face him. Jack saw the fear on his face as he aimed his musket. He heard the familiar cough of the older gun, then the snap in the air as a musket ball whipped past him. He laughed, the sound braying and harsh. Then he raised the ivory-handled Colt and fired it for the first time.

  He missed, the feel of the weapon in his left hand unfamiliar and strange. The bullet cracked into a tree behind the Confederate’s head, so he fired again. The second shot took the man in the heart.

  He whooped and moved on, not even looking as the man crumpled to the ground without a sound. He caught a glimpse of another Confederate and fired on instinct, cursing as he saw the bullet gouge a thick splinter from the edge of a tree trunk.

  The two men left had gone to ground. Jack kept moving, crashing through the undergrowth, daring them to show themselves. Neither did, but he fired anyway, smothering them with violence so that when he found them, their fear would slow them and make them an easier target for Rowell’s Colt or his own sword.

  ‘Come on!’ He shouted the challenge, then fired again and again, snapping off the last shots in the gun’s chambers.

  One man stepped out from behind a tree, his musket already held at his shoulder. Jack saw the movement and ducked away, twisting to one side then darting around a thicker tree trunk. He dropped his own revolver and drew his sword, the action instinctive, then burst from behind the tree no more than five yards in front of the man with the raised musket. He saw the weapon twitch in surprise, the barrel moving as the man tried to aim. Jack was on him before he could fire.

  It was easy then. His sword battered the musket upwards. The Confederate fired, the ball blasting harmlessly into the sky, then staggered backwards, the recoil knocking him away from Jack, who simply stepped forward and punched the guard of his sword into the man’s face.

  It was a cruel blow, driven by all his strength. The guard cut deep into the soft flesh above the man’s beard and pulped his nose. Defenceless and hurting, he could do nothing to defend himself. Jack pulled back his sword arm, then drove the point of the sabre into the man’s throat, twisting the steel the moment it went deep so that it would not be stuck in the suction of flesh.

  For one dreadful moment, the man gazed back at Jack, eyes wide with terror as death came to claim him. Jack held his stare, then ripped his sword free and turned away, barely registering the feel of blood hot on his hand. He did not look at the man, who slid to the ground, hands clasped around the ruin of his neck.

  Jack had seen six men. Five were now dead. He could hear others, more Confederates, deeper in the wood. But they were far enough away to ignore. He moved, ducking under a branch then crashing through the undergrowth, his eyes never still as he looked for the sixth man. The fight had taken him away from Rose, so now he doubled back, retracing his steps past the bodies of the men he had slain.

  He saw the man almost immediately. He was standing near the wounded soldier, his musket pulled tight into his shoulder. And he had Rose in his sights.

  Jack had no bullets left. He could do nothing but pound along, forcing the strength into his legs.

  ‘Heh!’ he shouted, forcing the words out. ‘Over here!’

  It was as if he was wading through treacle. He strained every fibre of his being, trying to find extra speed. Nothing he did made a difference, the ground passing with stubborn slowness under his boots.

  The rebel was shouting at Rose; he could hear that much over the roar of his breath in his ears, even though the words themselves were lost. The man’s anger built as Rose stayed on the ground, her hands never still as she bound the wounded soldier’s torn flesh.

  The rebel took a step back. The shouting stopped. He pressed his cheek against the stock, taking final aim.

  Jack saw the puff of smoke as he fired. The cough of the ancient musket echoed through the wood a moment later. The kick of the weapon jerked the rebel’s shoulder back, the man shuddering as he absorbed the recoil.

  The passage of time changed. The ground flew past in a rush, every second searing by in a blur. The rebel was lowering his weapon, his head thrust forward as he looked to see if his aim had been true.

  Jack charged. The rebel’s head turned in time for Jack to see the shock register on his face. Then he hit him.

  He cared nothing for finesse. He threw himself at the man, bludgeoning him to the ground. They came down together, bodies jumbled. Jack’s teeth snapped together as he hit the g
round with bone-jarring force, and his sword went flying. He lashed out regardless, catching the rebel on the side of the head with the ivory-handled Colt that he still clutched in his left hand.

  The blow glanced off the man’s skull, but it was enough to hold him on the ground for a moment longer. Jack pushed himself up, then lashed out, smashing his fist into the rebel’s face. The blow gave him a moment to find purchase, and he swung his leg over the man so he could straddle him and pin him down.

  There was a moment’s struggle, then he knocked the man’s arms away. It gave him the opportunity he needed and he punched down hard. The blows flowed from him then, one after another, a punch with his free right hand followed by his left smashing the Colt into the rebel’s unprotected face. Blood smothered his right hand and stained the ivory handle of the Colt crimson. Still he punched on, blow after blow; every emotion, every hurt fuelling an insatiable rage.

  He stopped suddenly. The rebel’s face was little more than a mash of gore and bone, unrecognisable as being human. He pushed down on the man’s chest, levering himself up, forcing himself to his feet.

  He did not turn his head. He could not bear to see her lying in the dirt.

  The rebel had fired at point-blank rage. At that distance, even the ancient musket was a deadly weapon, and he knew with utter certainty that Rose had been taken from him. Guilt and grief washed through him. He closed his eyes against the agony, the horror of the moment complete. Once again, he had lost everything.

  When he opened his eyes, Rose was sitting on her haunches staring directly at him. She was totally unharmed. Somehow the rebel had missed.

  ‘He’s dead.’ Her voice was calm, her tone even.

  Jack looked down at the man he had beaten to a merciless death. He could not comprehend what had happened. He did not know how she was still alive.

  ‘Not him.’ Rose stood up and carefully brushed the dirt from her knees. ‘Him.’ She pointed at the man she had been treating.

  Jack looked at the soldier sitting against the tree. Rose had closed his eyes so that his face looked peaceful.

  ‘We can go now.’ She spoke carefully, as if he were incapable of understanding.

  The last of the madness left him. What was left was cold, his soul emptied of all emotion. Save for one.

  ‘You’re alive.’ It came out as little more than a whisper, the feeling of relief strong enough to steal his voice.

  ‘Of course I’m alive.’

  ‘I thought . . .’

  ‘I know what you thought.’ She paused. She looked at him then as if seeing him for the first time. ‘I watched you kill them. I watched you kill them all.’

  Jack had no words. He looked down at the man he had beaten to a pulp. He felt nothing. No revulsion. No guilt. He looked back at Rose. ‘You should go.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere without you.’

  ‘You saw me. You know what I am now.’ He forced the bitter words out.

  ‘I see you, Jack Lark.’ She stepped towards him, holding out her right hand. ‘And I know what you are.’

  He was smothered in gore and had beaten a man to death in front of her eyes. Still she came to him, taking his free hand, pushing hers into it so that it nestled in his palm.

  ‘Come on.’ She paused and looked up into his face. ‘We’ll go together.’

  Somewhere in Virginia, Monday 22 July 1861

  The barn was quiet. Jack peered out of the opening in the centre of the gable end. The moon was up and it cast an eerie light across the fields. It showed a group of Confederate soldiers going about the business of setting up camp no more than five hundred yards away. Muskets had been stacked and the men had got a dozen fires going, the crackle of burning wood carrying through the quiet of the night to reach Jack as he counted heads and calculated odds.

  ‘They still there?’ The question was whispered.

  Jack shivered as he felt Rose’s breath wash against his cheek. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then we’ll stay here. Move in the morning.’ She was close enough for him to feel the touch of her lips against the soft flesh of his ear.

  He did not have the strength to argue. They had run until the last light of the day had faded. There had been no plan, no notion of direction. They had just steered a course between groups of Confederate troops, their only intention not to get caught.

  Twice they had seen Union soldiers. The first had been a group of four men working their way in the opposite direction. Neither of them had been tempted to call out, to try to join them. They wanted to be alone.

  The second time had been a group of twenty Union soldiers under guard. Dressed in the grey of the New York militia, they had been sitting in a rough circle surrounded by men with guns trained on them. It was a reminder of the fate that awaited Jack and Rose if they allowed themselves to be caught. Or at least the fate that waited for Jack. Rose would face a very different one. As an escaped slave, and one who had committed at least one murder, she would likely be tortured and executed. It was a fate worse than being a prisoner of war. Much worse.

  He turned from the opening. The Confederate soldiers had men standing picket. There was no chance of getting away without being seen.

  Gingerly he sat down, resting his back against the bales stored in the barn’s loft. The place smelled of hay and animals. It was warm and comfortable. It would be hard to leave here.

  ‘You hurting?’ Rose kneeled beside him and looked at him, her face lit by the moonlight shining into the barn.

  ‘I’m fine.’ Jack tried not to grimace. Every muscle hurt, his body only now awakening to the dozens of bruises it had taken in the day’s fighting. He craved the oblivion of sleep, but he dared not close his eyes, for to do that would be to stir the memories of the day. Then the faces of the dead would come back to haunt him, allowing him to relive the dreadful events with complete clarity.

  ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Jack let his head rest back against a bale, then released a long breath he did not know he had been holding.

  ‘You think they all made it?’

  ‘The Kearneys?’

  ‘Who else.’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ Jack was too tired to think. He hoped they had. Henson had seemed a capable fellow, and Robert knew what he was about. He wondered if he would ever go back to Boston, if he would ever find Kearney and claim his reward for saving his son.

  ‘I reckon they did.’ Rose seemed more certain. ‘You stopped those sechers. That gave them time to get away.’

  ‘Let’s hope.’

  ‘You don’t want to talk, do you?’

  ‘No.’ Jack blinked hard, fighting against the exhaustion.

  Rose sat where she was. He could feel her gaze on him.

  ‘You going to take off your boots?’ She reached out to lay her hand on his shin.

  ‘No.’ Jack caught a hint of something in her voice. He could not see enough to be sure, but he detected mockery.

  ‘That an English thing?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Doing it in your boots?’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Doing what, he says.’ Rose came closer. ‘Like you’re a damn innocent, Jack Lark.’

  At the very start of this project, I faced a difficult decision. I could, if I wished, use the history of one of the Union regiments that fought at Bull Run and take it as the basis for my story. Alternatively, I could create a fictional regiment, as I did when writing Jack’s first outing The Scarlet Thief. In this instance I was guided by a source much closer to the men who had fought on that steamy day back in July 1861.

  In his preface to The History of the Ninth Regiment Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry (E. B. Stillings, 1899), its author, Daniel George Macnamara, writes, ‘The writer is deeply impressed with the great responsibility which
he incurs in the undertaking. A history . . . should be truthful, unbiased and accurate.’ I was very aware that I was most certainly not writing a history, yet my story, if it was to succeed, must be welded to the events that I was covering. It was with this in mind that I chose to use a fictitious regiment, and so the 1st Boston Volunteer Militia came into being.

  Having made that decision, I must now mention any area where I strayed from the path of real events.

  I was much inspired by existing speeches from the period, in particular that given by Massachusetts Governor John Andrew. I felt these words expressed the sentiments of the time perfectly and offered a brilliant insight into the moment. To suit the narrative of this story, I had Andrew give his speech a few weeks early. Other greta speeches of the era inspired some other sections of dialogue elsewhere in the novel and I hope they are more authentic for it.

  The departure of the 1st Boston and 6th Massachusetts Volunteer Militia is based on the parade given to the 9th Massachusetts when they left the city later in June 1861. To fit the timeline of The True Soldier, I've had them depart early on 18th April rather than late on 17th.

  The Baltimore riot happened; however, the seven hundred men of the 6th Massachusetts Volunteer Militia fought through the city on their own. The brutality of this riot demonstrates quite how divided the country was at the start of the war. The division between North and South was not as clear-cut as I had naively imagined, and it was most certainly not marked simply by a line drawn on a map. It was Lieutenant Leander Lynde of the 6th who tore the mocking flag from the hands of a rioter, a cool and brave act considering the pressure the 6th were under at that time. The rest of the events happened much as I described, and it is a sobering thought that the riot claimed so many lives before the war had truly begun.

  At the fight at Blackburn’s Ford, Brigadier General Tyler did exceed his orders; however, of the Union side, just the 1st Massachusetts and the 12th New York were involved in the fight. The two regiments lost eighty-three men, with nineteen killed, thirty-eight wounded and twenty-six listed missing. The Southern regiments involved lost seventy men, with fifteen killed, fifty-three wounded and two missing.