Jack Lark: Recruit (A Jack Lark Short Story) Read online

  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

  eISBN: 978 1 4722 2277 0

  Union Jack image © STILLFX/Shutterstock

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About Paul Fraser Collard

  About the Book

  Also By Paul Fraser Collard

  Praise

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Epilogue

  Keep Reading for an Extract from THE SCARLET THIEF

  About Paul Fraser Collard

  © Martin 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 stills works in the City, and lives with his wife and three children in Kent.

  About the Book

  Forced to leave London, young recruit Jack Lark is determined to make his way as a Redcoat. Despite the daily tirades of Sergeant Slater, a sadistic monster of a man who sees his new trainees as the scum of the earth, Jack holds on to his belief that the Army will give him a better life.

  His comrades are a rough and ready bunch, and Jack falls in with Charlie Evans, a cheerful young clerk who quickly comes to regret joining up. But once you’ve taken the Queen’s Shilling, there is no way out: deserters always pay the highest price.

  As Charlie schemes to escape, Jack, always a loyal friend, is forced into an impossible situation where the wrong move could leave him taking the long walk to the gallows …

  From the author of THE SCARLET THIEF, THE MAHARAJAH’S GENERAL and THE DEVIL’S ASSASSIN, this is the second e-novella featuring teenage Jack Lark.

  Also By Paul Fraser Collard

  By Paul Fraser Collard and available from Headline

  The Scarlet Thief

  The Maharajah’s General

  The Devil’s Assassin

  Exclusive Digital Short Stories

  Jack Lark: Rogue

  Jack Lark: Recruit

  Jack Lark: Redcoat (coming soon)

  Praise for Paul Fraser Collard:

  ‘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’ Good Reads

  ‘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.’ www.ourbookreviewsonline.blogspot.co.uk

  ‘This is the first book in years I have enjoyed that much that I had to go back and read it again immediately’ www.parmenionbooks.wordpress.com

  ‘Collard is to be congratulated for producing a confidant, rich and exciting novel that gave me all the ingredients I would want for a historical adventure of the highest order.’ www.forwinternights.wordpress.com

  Chapter 1

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Kelley.’

  ‘How do you spell that?’ The second question was barked with the same force as the first.

  ‘No fecking idea, Your Honour.’ The Irishman stood uncomfortably in front of the corporal seated behind the desk. The recruiting office was small, and the man from Dublin filled a great deal of the available space.

  The corporal sighed and scribbled on the form in front of him.

  Another recruit waited behind the large Irishman, content to take his turn. He paid little attention to the questions being asked of his fellow recruit. Instead he stared at a picture on the wall to his left that depicted a line of red-coated soldiers marching into battle. Most of the image consisted of great grey swirls of smoke interspersed with florid flashes of colour. Instead of lavishing attention on a wide expanse of scenery, the artist had concentrated on capturing the British redcoats in fabulous detail. The stern, implacable faces as they advanced into the smoke, the fine scarlet uniforms that were so bright against the drab greys, yellows and browns into which they marched. Here and there a man lay on the ground, but those in the line paid no heed to the sorry bundles left behind them, the line advancing with stoic indifference into the maelstrom of battle.

  The recruit was captivated by the image. His mind raced as he imagined what it would be like to stand in that line, to take a place on that field of battle.

  ‘Next.’

  The recruit didn’t hear. His mind echoed to the imagined sounds of battle: the roar of the guns firing, the shouts and screams of men going to war.

  ‘Next. That means you, fuckwit.’

  The recruit started. The hulking body of the Irishman pushed past and revealed the scowling face of the corporal at the desk. A steel pen jabbed in the recruit’s direction. He stepped forward quickly, a crimson flush colouring his cheeks.

  ‘Name?’ The question was snapped at him before he even had a chance to reach the desk.

  ‘Jack Lark.’

  ‘Where were you born?’

  ‘Whitechapel.’

  The corporal scribbled on the form in front of him, the pen scratching quickly across the paper. ‘How old are you?’

  Jack made a rough tally. ‘Nineteen.’

  The pen scratched again. The corporal looked up, observing Jack’s face as he wrote on the attestation form the details of the Queen’s latest recruit, sketched out in a barely legible scrawl.

  ‘Trade?’

  ‘Working in a ginny.’

  ‘Ever served before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Stand against that measure.’ The corporal’s tone did not change.

  Jack did as he was told, following the ritual observed by every man who had attested that day.

  The corporal glanced at the mark, not even bothering to get to his feet to read the height correctly. He returned his attention to the form, occasionally looking up at Jack. It did not take long before the form was turned to face the new recruit, the steel pen dipped into ink then held out towards him. ‘Make your mark at the bottom.’

  Jack took the pen and tried to read the tight sloping script. It wasn’t easy. He saw the blanks that had been filled in. His height, complexion, hair and eye colour duly noted down by the corporal below th
e details of his name, age and place of birth.

  ‘You reading it?’ The corporal made the comment sound like an insult.

  Jack nodded. His mother had taught him. He could read and write, but he was slow, and it was too much for the impatient corporal charged with completing the attestation forms before they went off to be signed by the local magistrate.

  ‘Just make your fucking mark, son. I ain’t got all day. The beak will be here any time now.’

  Jack gave up his attempt at reading the form and saw the space indicated by a cross where he should sign. He wrote his name, ignoring the soft tut of disapproval at the time it took.

  The corporal snatched the form away the moment Jack was finished. The pen caught the paper and left a thin trail of ink underneath his name.

  ‘You’re done. Go sit yourself back down.’

  Jack did as he was told, but he could not resist sneaking one more glance at the painting as he walked away. The Queen’s shilling was in his pocket. He had taken the first step to owning a red coat of his own.

  ‘Move yourselves. I ain’t got all fucking day.’

  The four recruits shuffled along the corridor like so many sheep chased by a snapping dog. A corporal called Taylor had been charged with their care, and now he harried them into line, his snarls as effective as any sheepdog’s teeth.

  ‘In you go, look lively now.’

  Jack was third in line. The formidable body of Michael Kelley, the large, brooding Irishman who said little but whose eyes never stopped roaming the space around him, blocked his view of the room.

  ‘Get in there and find a space. Then strip ready for the doctor’s inspection.’ Corporal Taylor barked the orders, his patience stretching thin as the four men dawdled in the doorway.

  Jack stared at the sight that was revealed as they entered. The room was empty of furniture but full of the stink of unwashed bodies. Ten men were already present, but they didn’t look up as the four newcomers joined them, their attention focused on the instruction to remove their clothing. Jack looked away quickly, the sudden pale gleam of pasty flesh out of place in the dusty, damp room.

  ‘Get on with it, boy.’ Taylor was in no mood to wait, and he thumped Jack hard on the back, propelling him forward.

  Jack stumbled, the blow unexpected and painful. He hit the back of a fellow recruit, the toe of his boot connecting with the side of the man’s ankle. To his dismay, the face that turned to glare at him belonged to the huge Irishman.

  ‘Kick me again and I’ll tan your fecking hide.’ Kelley snarled the words into Jack’s face before walking away, intent on finding a space, his shirt already lifting over his thick neck.

  Jack chose a vacant spot away from the Irishman, keen to avoid any further confrontation with the man whose back he now saw was heavily scarred, the skin puckered and covered with thick welts of raised flesh.

  ‘Kelley!’ Jack was not alone in spotting the Irishman’s back. ‘You damn cove. Why didn’t you tell me you had served?’ Corporal Taylor marched across the room to stand in front of Kelley, sticking his face into the Irishman’s even though he was a good six inches shorter.

  ‘You didn’t ask.’ Kelley’s expression was hard. He did not seem overly concerned by the corporal’s attention.

  ‘Are you a runner?’ Corporal Taylor showed no fear of the bigger man and he snarled the words into Kelley’s face.

  ‘Discharged.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Forty-six.’

  ‘How long did you serve?’

  ‘Ten year.’

  ‘What regiment?’

  ‘Eighty-eighth.’

  ‘You got your papers?’

  ‘Lost ’em.’

  ‘Show me your arms.’

  Kelley snorted but did as was told. Taylor inspected them, checking for the telltale letter D that would mark the Irishman as a deserter. Both were clean.

  Taylor said nothing more. He considered the Irishman’s face, as if trying to discern the truth from the man’s expression. The silence stretched thin and every man in the room watched the confrontation.

  ‘Don’t you dare piss me around. If you jump, so help me I’ll track you down and flog you myself.’

  The Irishman did not reply. He stared down at the corporal, holding the soldier’s gaze.

  Jack only looked away when the corporal stepped back. He had heard of jumpers, men who would take the Queen’s shilling and the first part of the bounty a new recruit was given for signing up before absconding, freeing themselves to repeat the trick as many times as they could before the army caught up with them. The Irishman bore the scars of a flogging, the marks identifying him as an old soldier. The corporal knew this made him the most likely to try the trick, the legacy of the army’s ferocious discipline marking him out as having already committed a serious offence. It was not a good start for the corporal charged with taking the new draft of recruits to the regiment’s depot company where their training would begin.

  ‘I said strip!’ Taylor turned and bellowed at the men who stood watching his altercation with the Irishman. ‘Now!’

  Jack hurried to obey, eager to avoid the corporal’s fury, which was rising as quickly as the flush of colour on the man’s face and neck. He pulled off his shirt, uncomfortable in the presence of others. He saw a similar discomfort on many of the faces around him, but the men still stripped quickly before standing mute, their emotions hidden behind masks of indifference. Jack could only follow suit. He dropped his trousers, then his drawers, his hands instinctively cupping over his private parts.

  He was no sooner stripped than the door opened and another man entered the room. The new arrival moved slowly, his back bent, his eyes barely bothering to look around him.

  ‘This way, Doctor.’ Corporal Taylor ushered the man come to inspect the Queen’s newest soldiers into the room. ‘Fourteen hardy souls for you. All sound of limb and hale of heart, I promise you.’ The corporal knew his business. He did not want any of the men rejected by the doctor, thus denying him his share of the money the army paid its recruiters for each man delivered safely into the arms of the regiment.

  He need not have worried. The stooped figure grunted at the remark then shuffled towards the closest man. He paused, then lifted a gnarled and knotted finger to poke the man half a dozen times, each touch marked by a soft growl from deep in the doctor’s throat.

  Jack watched his progress, his heart fluttering. He tried not to look at the other men, to compare their bodies to his own. He saw the doctor pause in front of Kelley, his head rising slowly as he considered the man’s hefty bulk. He chose not to poke and shuffled on, the sound of his shoes scuffing across the floorboards the only noise in the hushed room.

  At last he came to stand in front of Jack. The shoulders of the doctor’s ancient black coat were liberally dusted with fallen scurf, its lapels stained with that morning’s egg. He reached forward and knocked Jack’s hands to one side before a single finger lifted to prod him hard in the flesh above his hip.

  Jack gasped, but the doctor paid him no heed. Another poke and he moved on, the medical examination completed in the space of no more than a dozen heartbeats.

  The corporal paraded the doctor round the room before ushering him back to the door. ‘Thank you, Doctor. This way if you please. A nice nip of something is waiting for you back in the office.’ He turned and glared over his shoulder. ‘Get your kit back on, you lot. And no bloody talking.’ Then he was gone, leaving the room to dress in silence.

  ‘That was quick.’ The body to Jack’s left muttered the comment before he bent low and picked up his drawers.

  ‘Are we in now?’ Jack hissed the question. He did not want to risk the corporal’s wrath but he wanted to find out if their attestation was now complete. He had recognised the recruit who had addressed him. Jack had sought out Sergeant Tate, the recruiting sergeant who visited the gin palace his mother owned at least once a month as he trawled Whitechapel for any lad likely to be able to handle a musket. The
young man who had just spoken had been at Tate’s table when Jack had found him, the Queen’s shilling already taken and in his pocket.

  ‘I think so.’ The lad was dressing quickly, hiding his skinny frame away under clothes of a much better quality than the ones Jack wore.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Jack glanced at the door, anxious that the corporal would return. He dressed quickly, but not without checking that the handful of coins were still in his pocket. Sergeant Tate had given him six shillings, the first instalment of the bounty all new recruits were due for joining up. Jack had spent a fair portion that same night, a final binge as he waited the required twenty-four hours before he could attest. The remainder was in his pocket and he wanted to keep it safe. It was all the money he had in the world.

  ‘Charlie, Charlie Evans.’

  ‘My name’s Jack.’ Jack would have said more but he saw the door start to move so he buttoned his lip quicker than he was buttoning his shirt.

  ‘Right, let’s be having you. I am pleased to inform you that you have all been passed as fit and the magistrate is signing your attestation forms as we speak. You are soldiers now.’ The corporal paused to look round at his hushed audience. ‘May God have mercy on you, for I won’t, I promise you that. Now, before we go, Sergeant Tate wants a quick word.’

  The corporal stood back and nodded as the powerful figure of Sergeant Tate marched into the room. His smile was broad and he looked at each man in turn.

  ‘Hello, my lovely lads. I just wanted to say a quick fare-thee-well before you march off.’

  Jack glanced around the room and saw every man looking back at Tate. Their faces revealed many different emotions. Sergeant Tate was their final tie with the men they had been before, the last link to the lives they had endured before they had succumbed to his charms.

  Each one of them had taken the Queen’s shilling from this man’s large hand. Some had been desperate, the appeal of regular meals, a bed and shelter a powerful draw to men living a precarious existence on the streets of London. Many had been drunk, the lure of a red coat so much stronger when the gin or the ale was being poured. Only Kelley appeared to have served before. Old soldiers like the Irishman were common on the streets of London. Men who had been discharged and who had tried to eke out an existence away from the army but who, like so many before them, had failed, the harsh reality of life pushing them back to the ranks. Nearly half the draft was Irish, the famine in their homeland driving them into the hands of the unforgiving English. The rest were Londoners, hard-faced boys from the merciless streets where life was short and the promise of regular pay was rare.