‘You should do it, Mud.’ Trussler spoke quietly in Jack’s ear, his voice hidden beneath the laughter. He could not be seen to be encouraging Jack openly; it would go against his carefully constructed character. He flashed a rare smile. ‘You would be good at it.’
Jack nodded his thanks. The idea was sitting well with him.
‘Speak to old Mander. You’ll be seeing him in that daft library of yours, won’t you now?’ Pike spoke through a mouthful of food, having finally softened his bread up enough to chew it.
‘It’s not daft.’ Jack’s defence was immediate. ‘I want to make sure I know enough to become a sergeant one day.’ He was proud of being allowed to use the barracks library. Only a handful of the redcoats had such permission, and Jack was keen to use the time to learn everything he would need to know if he were ever to be considered for a higher rank.
‘Only thing you need to know to become a sergeant is how to use your fucking fists.’ Thatcher spoke without his usual baying tone. He had been one of the first men to enjoy a one-to-one discussion with Slater, his quick mouth getting him into trouble in Slater’s early weeks with the company.
Jack shook his head. ‘You need to be able to read and write too.’
‘You know that already!’ Thatcher’s voice returned to its more usual tone.
‘I know some. My ma taught me. But I need to get better.’ Jack made the admission freely. He knew of only two others in the room who could read and write. A few other men in the company were literate, but there were not many of them.
‘How does an old bawd in a fucking gin palace know how to write?’ Thatcher was quick to mock Jack’s past.
‘She was smart, my ma.’ Jack rose to his mother’s defence. ‘It’s not easy running a ginny.’
‘She was smart enough to kick you out on your arse.’ Thatcher laughed at his own comment.
Jack was silenced by the rejoinder. They all knew his story, just as he knew theirs. There were few secrets between the messmates.
‘Jack is trying to better himself.’ Pike rose to his defence, just as he had a dozen times before. ‘There’s no shame in that.’
‘You got that right, Pikey.’ Thatcher nodded. Despite his quick mouth, he was a solid fellow. ‘You should do it, Mud. I reckon we would be proud to see you get the job.’
A murmur of agreement followed the remark. Jack reached for his tea and drank a huge mouthful to hide his embarrassment. For all the abuse and the larking around, it meant a great deal to have the support of his messmates, making him even more determined to get on. The role as Captain Sloames’s orderly would be a good first step, one that could lead to him becoming a corporal, and then perhaps, one day, a sergeant, the highest rank he could hope to reach.
A sergeant was a man to be respected. Jack nurtured a dream he had never shared with his messmates. Most nights, when the lights went out, he pictured himself making a return to the gin palace in Whitechapel where he had been brought up, dressed in the full finery of a sergeant in the British army. He wanted to show his mother and her brutal partner what had become of the boy they had kicked out. It was a fine dream, one that sustained him when the monotony of life in a garrison town got too much. He was determined it would come true. It was just a matter of time.
‘Attention!’
Jack straightened his spine instantly, his obedience to the command deeply ingrained. Every man of the company did the same, the ranks standing rigid, the files ordered and precise.
‘Stand still.’ Sergeant Attwood prowled along the front rank, his eyes darting over the men. The company was being formed up ready to march on to the square for morning parade. The redcoats were dressed in their full uniforms, and Attwood was making sure they were all well turned out before he let them join the rest of the regiment. The other nine companies were doing the same in their own forming-up areas just off the wide parade ground that sat at the centre of the barracks.
‘Private Baker, what the fuck is that on your shoulder?’ Attwood paused in front of a redcoat five files to the left of Jack. His hand reached out and plucked a tuft of down from the red coat. ‘You are a slovenly soldier, Baker. Take his name, Corporal.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Corporal Downs, trailing in Attwood’s wake, dutifully made a note in the pocket book held ready for just such an occasion. One or two of the men’s names would be taken every morning for some infraction or other. They would be given a minor punishment for their dereliction of duty unless Attwood was in a foul temper, in which case they risked being brought to Colour Sergeant Slater’s attention.
Attwood and Slater dominated the lives of the redcoats under their command. The company did have two other sergeants, but neither was able to stand against them. One was a mild-mannered Methodist called Sprat, who was quite happy to leave the running of the company to his two colleagues and turn a blind eye to their methods. It made him universally despised, but he seemed serenely untroubled by the feeling. The fourth sergeant, McDowell, was new to the rank, the recent promotion down to several years’ worth of toadying to Major Johnston, the battalion’s second in command. In the main, the recent ex-corporal did his best to hide away, his fear of Attwood and Slater all too obvious to the men he had waited so long to command.
The company also boasted four corporals, men who had made that first leap out of the ranks but who were still just as beholden to their sergeants as the privates were. They existed in an uneasy ground between the men and the sergeants, and it would be a brave corporal indeed who raised his voice against the more senior non-commissioned officers.
‘Private Lark.’ Sergeant Attwood paused in front of Jack. ‘Did you polish your buttons this morning?’
‘Yes, sir.’ The men were on parade and so Attwood was addressed as ‘sir’ rather than the less formal ‘Sergeant’.
‘Is that so?’ Attwood pressed his face closer to Jack’s front. ‘Then why can I see a dirty great fingerprint on your second button?’
Jack took a short breath. He had checked his buttons before they left the barracks. He had spotted nothing awry. ‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘You don’t know.’ Attwood lifted his face and glared at Jack. He was a big man, at least of equal height to Jack, who stood just shy of six foot tall. His thick moustache, the twin to the one Colour Sergeant Slater favoured, bristled as he sneered at Jack’s expression. ‘Well I do know. That’s because I am a sergeant and you are nothing but a piece of shite. Your button is filthy because you are a lazy sod, Lark. You couldn’t be bothered to get yourself ready properly and you thought I wouldn’t notice. Am I correct?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Jack was staring straight ahead, avoiding catching Attwood’s eye. He had been in the army long enough to know it was the best way of dealing with a sergeant.
‘Yes indeed.’ Attwood stepped away. ‘I reckon you think you are better than the rest of us, Lark. A cut above the likes of me.’ His eyes bored into Jack’s skull. ‘Well let me tell you this. You might want to reconsider that notion. Colour Sergeant Slater and I, we’ve seen your like before. We know how to deal with a stuck-up runt like you. I reckon you might need taking down a peg or two, and I know just how to do it. Take his name, Corporal Downs.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Downs caught Jack’s eye. He gave a slow shake of the head at the younger man’s foolishness before following Attwood as the sergeant turned his attention to the next man.
Jack let them leave, his face betraying nothing of the injustice coursing through his veins. He glanced down at his buttons. As he had suspected, they were immaculate.
It seemed it was his turn for some attention. He did not know what he had done to justify it, but that hardly mattered. There was nothing he could do about it except to endure whatever the sergeants threw at him. He had been a redcoat long enough to know there really was no other course of action.
‘What a bastard!’ Jack rammed hi
s musket forcefully into the rack on the wall at the far end of the barrack room, its gleaming seventeen-inch bayonet still attached. His frustration was getting the better of him.
‘Take it easy, Mud. It won’t help you if you bust your bundook.’ Pike followed close behind. He would have had to be blind not to see Jack’s anger.
‘Look! Look at it!’ Jack twisted around and pulled his coat out so that the offending button was thrust towards his friend. ‘It’s fucking perfect!’
Pike did not bother to look. ‘I know it is, Mud. Question is, what have you done for Attwood to single you out?’
‘I haven’t done bloody anything!’ Jack’s voice was loud. Away from the ears of the sergeants he gave free rein to his temper. ‘Attwood is just being a shit.’
‘He’s a sergeant, isn’t he?’ Pike pushed past and made his way to his bed. The men did not have long before they were to take their place on sentry duty. ‘They are all bastards, every last one of them.’
‘So why pick on me?’ Jack followed him. ‘What the hell have I done?’
‘Maybe some rotten cove peached on you. Told Attwood you want to leave the company.’
‘Who would do that?’ Jack could not see it. None of his messmates would drop him in the shit.
‘Maybe one of the bods from the light company heard something. You know what those sons of bitches are like.’ Pike turned and faced Jack.
‘Fucking bastards. You think that’s it?’ Jack’s face was creased into a scowl. ‘I’ll break the fucker’s head if I find out who it was.’ He didn’t bother to lower his voice, not caring who heard.
‘Attention!’
The word was shouted out hurriedly by one of the redcoats closer to the door. It snuffed out Jack’s rant in an instant and he snapped to attention, turning smartly on the spot so that he stood at the foot of the nearest bedstead, staring straight ahead.
‘Have you got a problem, Private Lark?’ The question was delivered in a soft tone, the voice asking it full of gentle reasonableness.
Jack’s stomach lurched to the floor. ‘No, Colour Sergeant.’ He heard the telltale tremble in his reply. His fear would be obvious to everyone, but not one soul would castigate him for it. The same dread beat in the breast of every man in the room at the sudden arrival of the company’s senior non-commissioned officer.
‘Then why are you hollering loud enough to wake the dead?’ Colour Sergeant Slater moved calmly through the barrack room. He was a bear of a man, a head taller than any other present. He dominated the space, his great chest stretching his scarlet coat tight. He rarely bawled out his charges, yet Jack found his soft and even tone all the more menacing for its lack of passion. Slater was cold to his very core; his soul, if indeed he had one, was carved from ice.
‘I apologise, Colour Sergeant.’ Jack’s fear of Slater was mixing with the anger Attwood’s unjust accusation of sloth had fired. It was hard to resist the urge to speak his mind.
‘There is no need to apologise, Lark. If you have a grievance, then it is my duty to hear you out. You can speak freely to me.’
Slater came to stand in front of Jack. He towered over him, looming large in his vision. Jack found he could not look past him, and his eyes were drawn to meet the other man’s gaze.
‘It was nothing, Colour Sergeant.’ He was trying to keep his words to the bare minimum. Slater’s friendly invitation meant nothing.
‘It did not sound like nothing.’ The sergeant’s face was like granite. ‘Tell me.’
Jack swallowed his fear. He met Slater’s glare, summoning his courage. ‘Sergeant Attwood took my name at morning parade for a dirty button, Colour Sergeant. I think he did so mistakenly.’
‘Is that so?’ Slater’s tone did not change, but Jack spotted what he could only take to be a flare of anger in the man’s eyes. ‘I find it hard to believe that Sergeant Attwood could make a mistake. Are you sure, Lark?’
‘Yes, Colour Sergeant.’ Jack’s courage was faltering.
‘I see.’
Slater’s eyes bored into Jack’s. It was like staring at the devil. Jack did not know what to say. The silence stretched thin between them.
‘Are you feeling quite well, Lark?’ Slater finally spoke.
Jack had never felt so uncomfortable. ‘Yes, Colour Sergeant.’
‘Is that so? Why, you have quite the high colour.’ Slater moved his head slowly from side to side as he inspected Jack’s face. ‘I was thinking you might be sick. It is the only reason I can come up with for your making such an odd assertion.’
Jack gritted his teeth and said nothing. It was far too late to curse himself for his stupidity in trying to speak to Slater. As much as he might wish he had kept his mouth firmly shut, all he could do now was endure whatever the sergeant chose to inflict upon him.
‘I am quite certain a man of Sergeant Attwood’s standing would not make a mistake, Lark. I am also quite certain that if he took your name then he had a fair and valid reason to do so. If you disagree with that judgement, perhaps it is something you would like to discuss with us both later this afternoon?’
Jack understood the thinly veiled threat. His heart chilled as he contemplated confronting the pair of sergeants alone and away from witnesses.
‘I am a fair man, Lark. You know that. We have known each other long enough, after all. So I will give you a moment to collect yourself.’ Slater’s face betrayed nothing. He paused, then continued in the same even tone. ‘Do you think Sergeant Attwood make a mistake this morning by having your name taken?’
‘No, Colour Sergeant.’
Slater smiled. It did not reach his eyes. ‘Thank you for clearing that up for me, Lark.’ The smile faded quickly. He looked around the room, checking he had his audience’s undivided attention. ‘I’m going to give you a little bit of advice, Lark. I’ve had my eye on you for a while now. After all that business with the runner back at the depot company, well, I must say I reckoned the day would come when you and I would fall out. But much to my surprise, you proved me quite wrong. You did everything asked of you and not one of my sergeants ever had occasion to bring your name to my attention.’ He waited until Jack lifted his eyes and met his stare. ‘Until today.’
Jack remembered the incident Slater was referring to. It had happened in his first week in the army, when Slater had just been a sergeant at the depot company where the regiment’s new recruits were trained. Another newly attested soldier had deserted, and Jack had found him hiding on the moor behind the barracks. Before he could help him get away, Slater had arrived and had not hesitated to deal with the deserter. The sorry episode had taught Jack the absolute power of a sergeant’s authority, something he had kept at the forefront of his mind ever since. He felt a cold shiver run down his spine as he realised that Slater had not forgotten the events from all those years before either.
‘You have the makings of a fine soldier.’ Slater must have seen something of Jack’s thoughts, for he paused and watched him closely. ‘Just be careful. Make sure you keep your nose clean. It is easy to go wrong, to take a step out of line. I wouldn’t want to see that happen to you, Lark. Not after all we have been through together. I would hate to see you flogged, to have to stand by whilst you take fifty lashes. I suggest you think on that.’
Jack bit back his fear and forced himself to meet Slater’s eyes. But the sergeant was finished. He turned on his heel and left the barrack room.
The redcoats stayed standing rigidly at attention. Slater had addressed himself to Jack, but each one of them felt the power of the colour sergeant’s words, and his presence was heavy in the room even after he had departed.
Jack was the first to move. As he set about preparing for his sentry duty, he tried to ignore Slater’s warning, but it hung heavily in his mind. It was hard not to feel the cold hand of fate on the back of his neck. For a reason he could not
fathom, he had been singled out. He knew that he was now a marked man.
‘Mud, are you all right?’ Pike hovered close.
Jack nodded firmly, unwilling to give voice to his emotions until he had them mastered. He glanced at his friend. Pike’s look of concern did little to allay his fears. He had seen the expression before. It had been on every man’s face the day Trussler was flogged.
‘Let’s hope I’m out of here before Slater gets round to me.’ He swallowed down his fear and offered a thin-lipped smile.
‘I’ll drink to that.’ Pike reached out and clapped his arm. There was nothing he could say that would help.
Jack turned away and busied himself with his kit. He had wanted the role as Sloames’s orderly as a way of securing the first step to promotion. Now it appeared he might need it just to be able to survive.
‘Bloody hell! It’s hotter than Hades in here!’ Pike gasped as he walked into the barrack laundry, his arms full of dirty shirts.
As ever, the door to the laundry’s reception room was wide open, and Jack followed Pike inside, his own arms full of more shirts. The overheated air swallowed him the moment he stepped into the place where the girls who looked after the battalion’s washing received and dispatched the thousands of items that they cleaned in the great boiling coppers hidden away in the secret spaces behind the reception room.
A red-faced girl stuck her head around the door that led to the main washroom. ‘Wait there, lads. We won’t be a moment.’
Pike deposited his load on the counter with a grateful sigh. He turned and grinned at Jack. ‘She’ll be here in a minute. You ready?’
Jack was grateful for the heat, as it hid the flush he felt rise into his cheeks. ‘Shut up, you dolt.’
Pike cackled. ‘Come on, Mud, don’t be so bloody coy. You and I both know why you were so quick to volunteer to drop this lot off.’
‘You are a bag of piss and wind, Pikey.’ Jack kept hold of his own bundle. Somehow he felt better with it clasped firmly to his chest.
Jack Lark: Redcoat (A Jack Lark Short Story) Page 2