The True Soldier: Jack Lark 6 Read online

  Faneuil Hall, Boston, Thursday 18 April 1861

  Jack awoke to the beat of the drum. The rhythm matched the thumping in his head and left his skull ringing. It hurt. A lot.

  ‘On your feet, you pathetic worms!’ First Sergeant O’Connell was walking around the lower floor of Faneuil Hall. ‘Get yourself up, boys!’ His thunderous voice was easily louder than the single drum sounding reveille. Jack was glad not to be close to either.

  He swung his legs out of his cot in a corner of the upper landing and reached for his trousers. The hall was still dark, but the men had to be up early if they were to be ready for the grand parade that would mark their departure from Boston.

  Loud footsteps thumped on the stairs and O’Connell’s leering face loomed large in front of Jack. ‘How’s your noggin?’ A short cackle of amusement burst from the man’s mouth as he caught sight of Jack’s forehead. ‘That’s a rare bump you got yourself.’

  Jack’s fingers lifted to press against the swelling. He could feel the tender flesh and he knew he would be bruised for days.

  ‘Goddam webfoots. They think they own the fecking city.’ O’Connell glanced around him, making sure his company’s sergeants were getting themselves together. ‘They needed a good pasting, so they did. You did well to give it to them.’

  He addressed all four sergeants. ‘Now there’s a long day ahead, fellas. Make sure the boys look grand for the Governor and all. We wouldn’t want anything to spoil the celebrations.’

  ‘Celebrations?’ Jack could not help snorting as he repeated the word. It left a bitter taste on his tongue.

  ‘You don’t think we should be celebrating going to war?’ O’Connell watched him carefully.

  ‘No.’ Jack did not withhold the honest reply. ‘Do you?’

  ‘I don’t see the sense in it, no.’ O’Connell shook his head.

  ‘Have you fought before?’

  ‘Aye. Out west. It wasn’t pleasant.’

  ‘Mexico?’ Jack tried to remember what Scanlon had said of his men’s experience. He knew next to nothing of the country’s history.

  ‘No. Against those Navajo feckers.’

  Jack nodded as if the name meant something to him. He guessed it had to be one of the indigenous tribes, the fabled redskins who occasionally featured in a story in the London papers. ‘This’ll be different.’ He felt safe making the comment. He doubted the local tribesmen had fought in a traditional style. Men like O’Connell knew war, but they knew nothing of the battles where tens of thousands of men fought one another on a front miles wide.

  ‘Maybe.’ O’Connell shook his head. ‘Maybe not. It’ll still be man against man. I reckon they all fight just as hard to stay alive, no matter the colour of their skin.’

  ‘You think we’re ready?’

  ‘No.’ O’Connell plucked a tiny scrap of cotton from the front of his uniform jacket. ‘But don’t let that worry you none. Those boys down south won’t be ready either. I reckon we’ll both just have to make the best of it with what we got, and have this battle that everyone wants. Then we’ll see what happens next.’

  ‘You don’t think one battle will solve everything?’ Jack finished buttoning his jacket, then sat to pull on his boots.

  ‘I’ve never heard of one battle solving anything much at all. But the eejits in Washington are spoiling for a scrap, just like the gombeens down in Richmond. So I reckon we’ll give it to ’em. Then they’ll see that this ain’t going to be the three-month bullshit they’ve been talking about.’

  ‘Then what happens?’

  ‘Then we get ready for a proper war.’ O’Connell smiled wolfishly at the notion. ‘This ain’t nothing but the start of the damn show.’

  He nodded at Jack then turned his back on the sergeants and thumped noisily back down the stairs. Jack turned to finish getting ready. He was sure O’Connell was right. The 1st Boston were marching to war, but the battle they longed for was just the first act in a play that would go on for far longer than anyone contemplated.

  He forced the uncomfortable thought from his head and thought like a soldier. He would worry about what he could see ahead and leave the future to fate.

  A Company of the 1st Boston Volunteer Militia paraded outside Faneuil Hall just as the sky started to show the first sign of the approach of dawn.

  Jack stood to one side with his fellow sergeants whilst Lieutenant Clancy went through the roll. They should have taken their places in the ranks, but the company’s non-commissioned officers had their own way of doing things. For his part, Jack used the time to watch as the names were called. He wanted to be able to put a name to every face in the company.

  ‘Beckett,’ Clancy called out, then paused, waiting for a reply. No one answered. He was only a short way through the company’s names, yet already he was faced with a missing man. ‘Beckett!’ he repeated, louder this time.

  ‘He’s not here.’ A laconic voice from somewhere in the middle ranks answered the officer.

  ‘Not here?’ Clancy peered at the men through spectacles misted by the damp in the air. ‘Then where in the name of all that is holy is he?’

  ‘He went home last night. His sister started courting a lad from over Cambridge way. He had to go sort that out, but he said he’ll be back before we march.’

  ‘Well, that is good of him!’ Clancy made a note in his book, then peered down at the roll again. ‘Clooney?’

  ‘Here, sir.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that.’ The lieutenant greeted the reply with icy humour. ‘Your sister is quite well, I hope, Clooney?’

  ‘I ain’t got a sister.’

  ‘Praise be to God. Who knows how many men we would have lost if you all had sisters.’ Clancy seemed well pleased with the remark, but if he expected some reaction from his men, he was to be disappointed.

  ‘Good morning, Sergeant Lark.’

  Jack’s name-learning was interrupted by Major Bridges, who had come to stand beside A Company’s sergeants.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’ Jack was pleased to see the major. He would be joining them for the journey to Washington, and Jack had a hundred questions that he thought Bridges would be able to answer.

  ‘That does not appear to be a regulation revolver, Sergeant Lark.’ Bridges nodded towards the holstered handgun on Jack’s hip.

  ‘It’s not.’

  ‘Will you remove it if I ask you?’

  ‘No.’ He made the refusal with a smile. He would not march without his revolver. He had been an officer for too long. As a sergeant he would be expected to fight with a rifle in battle, but a revolver had saved him too many times for him to consider going without one. ‘Do you really want me to get rid of it?’

  Bridges chewed his moustache for a moment before replying. ‘No. I suppose that doesn’t seem like a wise thing to do. I expect it will prove useful.’

  ‘It will.’

  Bridges let the matter lie. He stood next to Jack in silence for a moment or two, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes watching over his men as Clancy carried on with roll call. ‘So you have experience of this sort of thing. Do you think the men are ready?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You are a man of few words this morning.’

  Jack grunted in acknowledgement of the observation. His head still pounded and his back was aching like a bugger. Still, he resolved to be more fulsome in his remarks. ‘What would you have me say? You’ve been playing at soldiers. Well, now you have to be them. I reckon you’ll find that a damn sight harder than swanning around the city feeling important.’

  ‘Is that what we have been doing?’ Bridges kept his eyes on the men. ‘Swanning around.’ He repeated the phrase carefully, as if it might bite him.

  ‘You haven’t been doing what you should’ve been doing. You should’ve been drilling, or pra
ctising loading your lovely bloody rifles, or out on a route march.’

  ‘You think we have been remiss in our preparations?’

  ‘I do. You need to decide if you’re making toy soldiers or real fighters.’

  Bridges gnawed on his moustache in silence. In front of them, Clancy progressed with the roll. Another two men were missing.

  ‘I think you are right.’ Bridges spoke thoughtfully. ‘We need more training.’

  Jack had used the pause in the conversation to study the major. Robert’s father had declared him to be dull, but Jack saw something else. Bridges was calm and steady, and he thought before he spoke. Men needed that steadying influence in battle. If he could maintain his thoughtfulness when thousands of men were trying to kill him, he could be a fine officer indeed.

  ‘What happened between you and Kearney?’ Jack decided the blunt question was as good as any. He had learned a little about Kearney from Robert, but he wanted to know more. Kearney had been enigmatic when it came to Major Bridges. There was clearly a past between the two men.

  Bridges scowled momentarily. ‘I thought Englishmen had a reputation for being circumspect.’

  ‘Not me. But then I don’t come from the best part of England. We tend to be a bit blunt where I’m from.’ He watched Bridges carefully, checking the major was not too vexed. ‘So what happened?’

  ‘I dared to speak my mind.’ Bridges’ chin lifted as he replied. ‘That is all I shall say. I am not one to gossip, Sergeant Lark.’

  ‘This isn’t gossip.’ Jack thought for a moment before he spoke again. ‘I find myself beholden to a man I barely know. That worries me. If there is something I should be aware of, I’d like to hear it.’

  This time Bridges sighed. ‘Perhaps it was not wise to attach yourself to a man you do not truly know.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Jack acknowledged the barbed comment. ‘But I didn’t have much choice.’

  ‘I understand you knew Thomas.’

  ‘Yes. He was my friend. He’s the reason I am here.’

  Bridges nodded. ‘Do you know why he left?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you will know it was not a happy circumstance.’ Bridges fixed his gaze on Jack. ‘I dared to interfere. For my sins, I tried to mediate between father and son.’ He sounded weary. ‘We attend the same church. I even taught Thomas in Sunday school when he was younger. He was a fine boy and an even better man. I could not stand by and say nothing.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I was told to hold my tongue. As you will know, the situation did not mend itself and it did not end well.’

  Jack knew Kearney just about well enough to know that he would likely not take well to interference in his private affairs. But it spoke well of Bridges’ character that he had tried.

  Lieutenant Clancy’s roll call had stalled as the men discussed whether one of the missing soldiers would indeed be returning. Many thought he would not, something that vexed Clancy no end.

  ‘What did you do before all this?’ Jack enquired with genuine interest. It was not a question often asked of a British soldier. Usually a man’s past was something to be forgotten. He was learning that this new army was different. These were not professional soldiers. They were a civilian force made up of men with real lives. Lives they had put to one side so that they could fight for a cause they believed in.

  ‘I am a senior clerk, up at State House. In the Governor’s office.’

  The answer made complete sense. Bridges didn’t look like a soldier. He was stout, and his habit of gnawing on his moustache could be taken as a sign of nervousness. Yet he possessed the quiet confidence of a man who was sure of who he was.

  ‘So will you tell me why you are all going to war?’ asked Jack. The roll call looked set to go on for a while longer.

  Bridges inevitably chewed on his moustache for several long moments before he replied. ‘What have you heard?’

  ‘That it’s about protecting the Union and putting an end to slavery.’

  ‘Those are good reasons, aren’t they?’

  ‘Good enough for war?’

  Bridges returned his gaze to the roll call, which had finally restarted. ‘Are there ever good enough reasons to start a civil war?’

  ‘I reckon the slaves would think so.’ Jack aimed the barb.

  Bridges grunted. ‘Freeing the slaves is a laudable ambition. We should have free men in this country. The South, well, they want to own slaves, that is for sure, and it should not be allowed to happen. We are all God’s creatures.’ He paused, then glanced at Jack again. ‘You know the North had slaves?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I thought all the slaves were in the South.’

  ‘They are now.’ Bridges pursed his lips, as if tasting something sour. ‘The practice died out in most of the Northern states. But no one forbade it here or passed laws making it illegal. It was simple economics, the forces of supply and demand. We have enough people here, immigrants mostly. They provide an ample and cheap source of labour. I am sure there are some here who would welcome the return of slavery. Not all in the North agree with this war.’

  ‘So why are you fighting about slaves?’

  ‘I don’t think we are, not really. It goes deeper than that. North and South want this country to be different things. We want tariff barriers against imports to protect industries that are just emerging, whilst they want free trade to export their cotton and tobacco to Europe. Even our societies are poles apart. Every ship coming across the Atlantic brings hundreds more immigrants from the Old World; young, ambitious people hoping to make their fortune. And they stay here, in the North, building up our industry and making lives for themselves and their families. That does not happen in the South. Theirs is a different world. There are great plantations, but all are family-owned. I suppose it is more like the world you knew, back in England. Their society is already becoming static and they are setting down all these conventions as to how that society should behave. They want to rebuild the nation as if we are still part of the Old World. And we are not that, not that at all. Perhaps, one day, everywhere will be like we are. Perhaps all countries will one day be made in our image. But it started here. We must preserve that, even when the going gets hard.’ He shook his head and looked ruefully at Jack. ‘I expect that is a longer answer than you may have wanted.’

  ‘No.’ Jack was fascinated by everything he had heard. He had never wondered at the reasons for the wars in which he had fought. He was a soldier. He went wherever he was told to go; killed whoever he was told to kill. This war was different. Men were choosing to fight for a cause they believed in, one they would die to protect. He did not doubt it was the same on both sides, the armies of both North and South filled with men prepared to kill, and be killed, to preserve their ideals. It was quite unnerving to be surrounded by such passion when he did not share in it. He was there for very different reasons. He was there for money and for a place in the world. What did he believe in? What would he be prepared to die for?

  ‘I see you are wrestling with this matter.’ Bridges had been watching Jack carefully, and he was an astute enough man to understand something of what was going on in his mind. ‘As you should. A man must understand what he is fighting for, what he may end up dying for.’

  Jack smiled at the observation. ‘Perhaps it’s best for you to go your separate ways.’ He tried to steer the conversation away from himself. ‘Isn’t that what the South has done by declaring their independence? Why not let them be who they want to be? Must you go to war to stop them doing so?’

  ‘Yes.’ Again Bridges gave a slow and measured reply. ‘We cannot allow them to seek to be independent of the Union. It is our destiny to make this land a great nation.’ He looked at Jack for a reaction. ‘It was the vision our founding fathers had, and I think it’s a good one. We are unique and we cannot gi
ve that up. We must not give that up. I agree with President Lincoln, on that at least. The preservation of the Union is everything.’

  This time Jack nodded. He had heard a similar argument from Kearney. The two men might have had their disagreements, but it was clear they shared a political ideal. ‘And that’s worth fighting for?’

  Again there was the now-familiar pause. ‘Yes. Yes, I think it is.’ Bridges gave the answer firmly.

  ‘You may think differently when you have been shot at.’ Jack wanted to test the strength of the major’s opinion. ‘Ideals, ambition, values; they all tend to disappear when the bullets are flying and another man is coming at you with a bayonet. Do you think you can hang on to those ideals then?’ He heard some bitterness in his own words. He had lost much of the man he had once been along the way. He had set out to better himself, to prove that a boy from the foulest rookeries of London could do just as well as anyone born with a silver spoon in their mouth. Such youthful ideals had been washed away in the sea of blood that he had seen spilled. The conversation with Bridges was making him wonder what was left. Was he just a soulless husk of a man? A man trained to kill?

  ‘I don’t know the answer to that, Jack.’

  ‘But these values of yours are worth dying for?’

  This time the pause was longer. To their front, Clancy had completed the roll and was running through the day’s orders to make sure the men knew what was ahead.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I think they are.’ Bridges inclined his body so that he faced Jack. ‘We have something here; a meritocracy I guess you would call it. We welcome everyone to join in with that ideal. We are not French or German,’ he smiled at Jack before he named his next country, ‘or English. We are Americans. We are equal; whites, blacks, all of us. I don’t want to die. I know that much for certain. But I will lay down my life for this Union, for this United States.’ He fixed his eyes on Jack. ‘So in answer to your question, yes, I would die for this cause of ours. If it requires it, I shall lay down my life to preserve the Union and the way of living that we have built here.’ He paused, his stare boring into Jack’s skull. ‘Would you?’