Copyright © 2015 Paul Fraser Collard
The right of Paul Fraser Collard to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2015
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
Ebook conversion by Avon DataSet Ltd, Bidford-on-Avon, Warwickshire
eISBN: 978 1 4722 2278 7
Cover image © Serge Bertasius Photography/Shutterstock
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About Paul Fraser Collard
About the Book
Also by Paul Fraser Collard
Praise
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Epilogue
Read on for other books by Paul Fraser Collard
Paul’s love of military history started at an early age. A childhood spent watching films like Waterloo and Zulu whilst reading Sharpe, Flashman and the occasional Commando comic, gave him a desire to know more of the men who fought in the great wars of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. At school, Paul was determined to become an officer in the British Army and he succeeded in winning an Army Scholarship. However, Paul chose to give up his boyhood ambition and instead went into the finance industry. Paul still works in the City, and lives with his wife and three children in Kent.
Private Jack Lark wears his red coat with pride. Though life in Queen Victoria’s service is tough, he relishes the camaraderie of Aldershot barracks, and four years’ harsh discipline hasn’t blunted his desire to be more than just a Redcoat.
When he learns that Captain Sloames needs a new orderly, Jack is determined to prove his worth both to the officer and to Molly, the laundry girl who has caught his eye. But standing in his way is Colour Sergeant Slater, a cruel and vicious bull of a man who loathes Jack, and is longing for the chance to ruin his ambition . . .
By Paul Fraser Collard and available from Headline
The Scarlet Thief
The Maharajah’s General
The Devil’s Assassin
Digital Short Stories
Jack Lark: Rogue
Jack Lark: Recruit
Jack Lark: Redcoat
‘Brilliant . . . I look forward to reading more of Jack Lark’ Bernard Cornwell on THE SCARLET THIEF
‘Jack Lark is an unforgettable new hero’ Anthony Riches on THE SCARLET THIEF
‘Collard is no ordinary writer – I love the way that he brings this period of British military and imperial history to life, in all its colour, aggression, inequality, violence and vitality . . . A breathless, memorable read and I recommend it completely’ For Winter Nights on THE DEVIL’S ASSASSIN
‘Page-turning adventure, a hero with issues yet who’s likable, and antagonists you will love to hate . . . It was hard to put down and a real pleasure to read’ Historical Novels Review on THE MAHARAJAH’S GENERAL
‘Paul Collard is a major new talent, who writes with a clear fast-paced tight prose. His imagination and attention to historical detail clearly put him among the top in his field’ Parmenion Books on JACK LARK: ROGUE
‘This is a fresh take on what could become a hackneyed subject, but in Fraser Collard’s hands is anything but’ Good Book Guide
‘Savage, courageous, and clever’ Goodreads
‘This is what good historical fiction should do – take the dry dusty facts from history books and tell the story of the men and women who lived through them – and Collard does this admirably’ Our Book Reviews Online
The bugle call echoed across the parade ground. Even though it was still dark, the reveille summoned the soldiers to their duty, another day of garrison life starting in identical fashion to all those that had gone before. The order to rise could not be ignored, the punishment for still being in their pit when the barrack-room corporal arrived sure to be swift and uncompromising. There was no uncertainty in the life of a redcoat; their days were mapped and ordered, the call of the bugle or the beat of the drum marking out the duties at the prescribed time and making sure that not a single minute of a soldier’s day was left unaccounted for.
Private Jack Lark dragged himself to his feet, rubbing his face vigorously as he tried to force himself fully awake. He started to fold his blanket, his hands going through the practised motions of their own accord. He did not need to think. He was a redcoat, and thought was discouraged at all times, even in the calm of a mundane morning in Aldershot.
‘Morning, Mud.’ The soldier in the bed next to Jack’s mumbled a greeting to his messmate as he began to go through an identical routine. Jack had been known as Mud since his first day in the regiment, the nickname a reference to the mudlarks of London who made a precarious living picking rubbish out of the River Thames.
‘Pikey.’ Jack could not summon more of a greeting than the single word. He had drunk too many beers the previous evening, the soldiers’ canteen in the corner of the barracks more lively than usual, and he was feeling grim.
The sound of bedsteads being dragged across the floorboards made him wince. Ignoring the pounding in his head, he bent down and pulled his own bed frame the obligatory six inches away from the wall. Army regulations required the daily movement of the soldiers’ beds to ensure the free and unfettered circulation of air throughout the barrack room. Even this was enforced with rigid discipline by the sergeants and corporals who ran the regiment’s ten companies.
With his bed properly placed, Jack started to arrange his kit in the manner he had first been taught as a new recruit. He had been a redcoat for nearly four years. Despite the grinding monotony of garrison life, he still nurtured the same flame of ambition that he had felt on his first day in the regiment. He looked at the chevrons on the sleeves of the corporals and the sergeants, and imagined them on the sleeve of his own coat. The desire to progress and to make something of his life was still well alight.
With his blanket folded and placed squarely on the bedstead, he rolled up the palliasse he slept on, wrapping a strap around it to hold it securely in place. Next he turned his attention to the shelf above his bed. With practised ease he made sure that everything was in order, his shako and knapsack facing forward so that the regimental number could be seen and each of his accoutrements hung from the correct wooden peg. His scarlet shell jacket and forage cap were placed on top of his bedding and his boots were tucked neatly away underneath the bed’s frame. He was ready
to start another day.
‘Did you see Trussler last night? Five sheets to the wind he was.’ Private Jonathan Pike chuckled at the memory. His bed and gear were arranged in identical fashion to Jack’s. Soon every bed in the barrack room would look the same. The daily routine for placing their equipment was laid down in the regiment’s standing orders, and the barrack-room corporal enforced the practice religiously.
‘Was it him I saw dancing a jig?’ Jack was still wearing the shirt he had slept in. The soldiers would soon trudge out to the yard behind the barracks, where a single water pump was available for their morning ablutions. Only when those were completed to the corporal’s satisfaction would they be allowed to dress.
‘Ha, that was a sight.’ Pike shook his head. He ambled over to one of the two pisspots that served all the occupants of the barrack room and began noisily to empty his bladder. The sound made Jack’s own bladder ache, and he went to join Pike at the end of the room.
‘Good times, eh, Mud?’
‘Good times,’ Jack agreed readily. He had enjoyed the evening. The hour at leisure at the end of the working day was the best part of a redcoat’s life. It was an opportunity to escape the clutches of their sergeants and corporals, and Jack relished being able to pass the time with his mates.
‘Did you hear about old Tom Mander?’ Pike was busy shaking out the last of the previous night’s ale.
‘No.’ Jack stretched his spine, his own stream still gushing forth without pause.
‘The lucky bugger is up for his pension.’ Pike stood and waited for Jack to finish. The two of them were detailed to take the pot full of piss out to the yard when the redcoats went to wash. Each man had a morning duty to perform. Be it sweeping the floor, cleaning the windows, wiping the walls or polishing the stove, together they would ensure that the room they shared was left in an immaculate condition before they went out for the parade that marked the official start of their day.
‘Blimey, is he that old?’ Jack shook his head at his friend’s claim.
‘I heard he’s done nigh on twenty-five years.’ Pike saw Jack finish and so bent to take hold of his side of the pot. ‘And if he’s off, then you know what that means, don’t you?’
‘Maybe.’ Jack could not help smiling.
‘You sly old cove.’ Pike reached across and slapped his friend’s arm. ‘You’ve been waiting for your chance. I reckon this might be it.’
‘You never know.’ Jack refused to be drawn. Yet he had spotted the opportunity the moment Pike had passed on the news.
‘Our good Captain Sloames will need a new orderly.’ Pike watched his friend closely as Jack picked up the other side of the pot. ‘Why, a keen young man with an eye for advancement would see that as an opportunity, I reckon.’
‘You reckon that, do you?’ The pair started to walk forward. They moved slowly, the pot dangerously full. Yet they had the motion off pat and they glided through the narrow gap between the beds that were lined up both sides of the long barrack room.
‘Come on, Mud, don’t play the innocent. This could be just the chance you’ve been waiting for. Look alive-o, Thatcher, you dozy sod, or I’ll dump this here pisspot on your bloody noggin.’ Pike shouted the warning at a redcoat loitering dangerously in their way.
The soldier needed no more encouragement and stepped quickly out of the path of the noxious cargo. Jack barely noticed the interruption. His mind was coming alive to the possibilities that Mander’s leaving would open. Each officer had a soldier-servant known as an orderly. The role was a step up for a regular redcoat. It was not as good as being given the twin stripes of a corporal, but after four years in the ranks, Jack was keen to make any sort of progress he could.
‘Don’t you want to go for it yourself?’ He asked the question tentatively.
‘Me? No fear.’ Pike shook his head at the notion. ‘I’ve been at this lark too damn long.’
‘You’d be good at it.’ Jack made the admission without enthusiasm. He wanted the role as Captain Sloames’s orderly but he would not try for it if his best mate was after it too. He owed Pike too much for that.
‘I don’t think I could stand it. I hate doing my own bull, let alone taking on some damn Rupert’s as well. No, you go for it, Mud. I reckon it would suit you nicely.’ Pike glanced at his young friend and smiled as he saw Jack look away, his mind clearly absorbed by the prospect.
Jack said nothing further as they manoeuvred the tub out of the room and into the corridor that led to the yard. He no longer smelt the sour, rank odour of a night-time’s worth of soldiers’ piss. He thought instead about a new role, a new life as an officer’s orderly. He smelt an opportunity; one that he was determined to take for himself.
‘So how do I go about it?’ Jack sat at the trestle table a pair of his messmates had set up in the centre of the barrack room. The men were washed and dressed, and the soldiers charged with collecting the food from the barrack kitchen had just returned with that morning’s bread and the cauldron full of tea. The thirty-eight men who called the room home were sitting down together for breakfast, the short allocation of time given over to their sustenance one of the rare highlights in the redcoats’ day.
‘Go about what?’ Private Samuel Trussler was pressed close to Jack’s left side, just as he was every morning. Every man had a place at the mess table that he took without thought.
‘Old Mander is taking his pension.’ Pike, sitting opposite them, swallowed his first mouthful of tea. ‘Mud is thinking about trying to get the job as the captain’s orderly.’
‘Why is Mud going for it? I’ve been here longer. I reckon it should be me if it’s to be one of us.’ Trussler scowled.
‘You haven’t got a cat in hell’s chance, you daft sod. You’ve got a scarred back, or had you forgotten?’ Pike mocked Trussler’s hopeless ambition.
‘It were only ten lashes. They’ve probably forgotten about them by now.’ Trussler ripped his loaf apart violently. ‘And I only got them because of that bastard Slater.’
‘You got them because you are too bottle-head stupid to know when to shut up.’ Pike made it clear what he thought of the reason for Trussler’s punishment.
‘I still shouldn’t have been flogged for speaking my mind.’ Trussler was not happy to let the matter go. He spoke of the unfairness of his flogging nearly every morning, even though it had happened the best part of six months before.
‘No, you shouldn’t.’ Jack came down on Trussler’s side. ‘Slater is truly the devil.’
‘That he may be.’ Pike gesticulated at Jack with his bread. ‘But we all know what he is like. You have to be soft in the head if you stand against him. If he don’t fancy breaking your noggin by himself, then he’ll have you up on a charge and in front of the colonel before you can count to ten.’
‘Trussler can’t count to ten!’ Thatcher spotted an opportunity to dive in with the mockery.
‘Stow it, Thatcher, or I’ll shut your muzzle for you.’ Trussler’s retort was swift. The two had fought before and would certainly fight again.
‘Trussler is right. It’s not fair.’ It was Jack’s turn to scowl. He had good reason to know what Slater was like, and the last four years under his command had only reinforced his judgement. Jack had joined the regiment in the same draft as the brutal colour sergeant, who ran number four company with an iron rod. Ostensibly Captain Sloames was in charge, but every redcoat knew that it was Slater who truly held the power. He could break any one of them with a single crook of his finger. For no officer would ever doubt the word of a colour sergeant against that of a humble private, and Slater knew it. It gave him total power over the redcoats under his command, something that none of them could forget.
Yet it was rare for Slater to turn to the army’s list of official punishments when he wanted to enforce his will. He was more than capable of administering his own form of
corrective chastisement. More than a dozen men in the company had been taken to a quiet spot behind the barracks, where Slater would demonstrate his power through his fists. The beatings were brutal, and every man in the company rightly lived in fear of their colour sergeant.
‘Of course it’s not fair.’ Pike scoffed at such an idea. ‘This is the Queen’s army. You shouldn’t have joined up if you can’t bloody take it. Dealing with Slater is easy, if only you bone-headed rascals would see it. Do whatever he says, the moment he says it, and never, ever give him the chance to give you a bollocking.’
‘Is that what all your years in the army have taught you, Pikey?’ Jack’s bread stuck in his throat as he tried to swallow his friend’s line of blind obedience.
Pike arched his eyebrows at Jack’s tone. ‘Oh, I am very aware that you still think that you know better, Mud. But I tell you this. When you come across a bastard like Slater, there is no right or wrong. There is just his way, and the sooner you learn that, the better. Otherwise one day you will find yourself on the receiving end of those fists of his. You want that?’
‘No.’ Jack wrestled with the advice.
‘So swallow that damned pride of yours and learn to shut the fuck up.’ Pike dunked his bread into his tea in the hope of softening it up a little.
‘He won’t be able to touch me if I’m Sloames’s orderly.’ Jack saw another benefit to the opportunity opening up.
‘No, but Sloames will. Touch you every night, so he will.’ Thatcher added his crude comment with a short bray of laughter.
A few of the men nearby laughed along. Jack joined them. There was little rancour amongst the redcoats, aside from the ongoing conflict between Privates Trussler and Thatcher. The men lived together, drilled together, cleaned their kit together, messed together and washed together. They endured every regulation the army threw at them and suffered every inane task their sergeants demanded be done. The bond between them was unbreakable.
Jack Lark: Redcoat (A Jack Lark Short Story) Page 1