The True Soldier: Jack Lark 6 Read online

  ‘You sure of that now?’ A trace of anger crept into O’Connell’s voice. Both men still stared ahead.

  Jack grunted. ‘No. But we should’ve tried. How many men did we kill? Half a dozen? A dozen?’ He shook his head as he contemplated the slaughter the well-armed soldiers had inflicted. ‘We didn’t have to open fire.’

  ‘No, maybe not.’ O’Connell gave the admission grudgingly. ‘But the captain ordered it and Colonel Scanlon made it clear we could return fire if the feckers fired first. Which they did.’

  Jack said nothing as he wrestled with the rights and wrongs of what they had done. No matter what orders they had been given, they had still fired on civilians.

  O’Connell glanced at him. ‘This ain’t the kind of war you’re used to. I didn’t get it myself. Not till today. It’s not about two armies finding a great big field and slugging it out until one fecks off. It’s brother against brother; countryman against countryman. It’s not going to be soldiers dressed up nice and neat for one grand old battle. It’s going to be hard and dirty. We aren’t fighting another country, or some foreign enemy. We’re fighting ourselves.’

  Jack understood. O’Connell was right. This was not war as he knew it. Even the bitter struggle during the mutiny in India had been different. The violence then had been terrible to behold as the native troops rebelled against their white masters. Both sides had committed all manner of atrocities as they waged an all-out war without any trace of compassion. But there had been two clear sides, two foes fighting each other for the right to run the country as they saw fit.

  This war was different. Here the two sides were not so neatly divided. Men would have to decide which cause they would fight for, and it would split the country in two, not just by lines on a map that demarcated the North and the South. It would split every town, every city and every family into those that wanted to preserve the Union and those that believed in a state’s right to govern itself.

  ‘It’s going to tear this country apart.’

  O’Connell nodded slowly. ‘I reckon it will. We’re still in the North, for feck’s sake, still in the United States. We’re marching to fight to preserve this fecking Union, yet people here wanted to kill us to stop us doing it.’ He shook his head, as if it were all beyond him. ‘But that’s not why I told the men to fire.’

  ‘Then why did you?’

  ‘To protect my boys. Those feckers had killed Clancy, and Amos too. I weren’t going to sit by and let any more of my lads die.’

  This Jack understood. He remembered serving alongside men he would have killed to protect. It was the creed of the soldier. They might have fought any enemy they were told to, obeying orders as if they were machines rather than men. But when the bullets started to fly, they did not fight for lofty strategic aims, or glory, or their generals, or even for their country. They fought for their mates; for the other poor bastards sent to do their country’s dirty work. O’Connell was voicing the same thought. He had killed civilians to protect his men.

  ‘I get it,’ Jack breathed. He looked O’Connell in the eye. ‘You did what had to be done.’

  For a moment the Irishman said nothing. Then he offered a tight-lipped smile. ‘Thank you.’

  Jack barked a short laugh. ‘You don’t need my damn approval.’ He paused. A single rioter was looking at them. As Jack watched, the man pointed in their direction. Whatever invective he threw their way was lost in the breeze that blew across the approach to the station. Jack had to admire the man’s stamina. Despite all that had happened, he had enough hatred to still be standing there hurling insults at men who no longer cared what they heard.

  ‘You know it’s going to take more than one battle.’ Jack nodded towards the rioter. ‘Hatred like that doesn’t just go away.’

  ‘I reckon you’re right.’ O’Connell was watching the same man. ‘You think I could shoot the fecker from here?’

  Jack made a play of considering the notion. ‘No. No chance.’

  ‘Then I had best go find the captain.’ O’Connell stretched his spine, then turned his head from side to side to make his neck crack. ‘Bridges has something for you.’

  Jack frowned. ‘What’s that then?’

  ‘I’ll let him give it to you. I didn’t want it, but I reckon you might. I reckon you’ll do better with it than I ever could.’ O’Connell finished his stretching then walked away, leaving Jack to ponder his cryptic remark.

  The single rioter shouted a barely audible series of insults. Then he turned and walked away. Jack watched him go. He wondered what inspired men with ordinary lives to take to the streets in an attempt to kill those being sent to do their own country’s bidding.

  He heard the sound of more footsteps. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that he would not have to wait long to discover what Major Bridges had for him. The major was coming to join him, his face creased into a frown as he picked his way through the discarded equipment that was scattered across the station concourse.

  ‘A bad business.’ Bridges spoke as he came to stand at Jack’s side.

  ‘It’s only going to get worse.’

  Bridges grunted as he acknowledged the gloomy rejoinder. ‘I know that now.’ He twitched his moustache before he continued. ‘I think you always knew it would be like this.’

  Jack shrugged. ‘Maybe, but I guess you had to understand it for yourselves. No one believes in an elephant until they see one.’

  ‘An elephant?’ Bridges contemplated the word. ‘I fancy we have all seen the damned elephant now.’ He looked down at his boots before continuing. ‘Perhaps we will listen better next time.’

  ‘Perhaps you will.’ Jack offered a thin-lipped smile. ‘But it’s not your fault. I’ve been in this situation more times than I care to remember. I should’ve done more to prepare the men.’

  ‘You were not here long enough. But we are glad you are here now. I think we need you.’

  Jack shook his head at the notion. ‘You don’t need me. You just need to get the men trained, one way or another. You need to stop them thinking they know how to fight, because they don’t. They don’t know shit. Even after today.’

  ‘You’re a harsh judge.’

  ‘Harsh? Maybe.’ Jack did not shirk the intensity in Bridges’ eyes. ‘When I went to the Crimea, I thought I’d be good at leading men in battle and I wanted to do it. Can you believe that? I wanted to go into battle. I wanted to prove myself.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘No. I simply went along with my men.’

  ‘And afterwards?’

  ‘I just kept going. Some people, they think it’s all about luck. If you’re lucky, you live. If you aren’t, you die.’

  Jack smiled as he remembered the man who had told him he was not good, just lucky. That man was worm food now, his body left lying on a battlefield the day his own ration of luck had run out. But Jack thought he had been wrong. Luck played a part; there was no denying that. But some men had a talent for battle. Just like some men could turn wood, or draw, or write, he could fight. And he could fight hard.

  ‘I think that means I’m a fool.’ He made the admission ruefully.

  ‘No,’ Bridges replied firmly. ‘You are most certainly not a fool, Jack Lark.’ He fished in a pocket, then held out his hand. ‘We want you to have these.’

  Jack could not see what he was being offered. He held out his own hand and let Bridges place the items he had retrieved into his open palm.

  They were a pair of plain, pale blue rank slides of a second lieutenant in the Union army.

  ‘We need you to replace poor Clancy.’

  ‘You want me to be a lieutenant?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Jack now understood O’Connell’s earlier enigmatic remark. ‘You already offered them to O’Connell.’

  ‘I did. He refused. Offeri
ng them to you was his idea.’ A hint of a smile played across Bridges’ lips.

  ‘What about the other sergeants?’

  ‘They don’t have experience. It appears you do.’

  Still Jack hesitated. He kept his palm open, not yet taking the rank insignia for his own. He thought on why he was there. He had been employed as a bodyguard. His place in the company had been created at Kearney’s request so that he could protect his only surviving son. Would that task be made easier if he were an officer? Or would it be harder? Then there was Rowell to consider. The company’s commander clearly needed all the help he could get, his performance that day all the proof Jack required that the company needed better officers than it had currently.

  He watched Bridges. The major was staring back at him, his eyes narrowing as he waited for his answer. Jack wondered if he could see his desire. For he wanted the rank. He wanted it almost as much as he wanted Rowell’s fabulous revolver. As a sergeant, he did not command the company, but just followed his officer’s lead. It was a vital role. Without the best non-commissioned officers the company was surely doomed, but he wanted more. Ever since the first moment he had taken another man’s uniform for his own, he had always been an officer. He had led men in battle. And he was damn good at it.

  He laughed at his own arrogance, then laughed some more as he saw Bridges’ expression change at hearing the man he wanted to be the company’s second lieutenant cackling like a madman.

  He did not care. He no longer knew quite what he was. Was he a mercenary? A bodyguard? A soldier? None of the titles seemed to fit. But he knew what he wanted.

  His hand closed over the rank slides. He would be what he was meant to be.

  Emmart’s Farm, Washington, Wednesday 3 July 1861

  Jack awoke to the fife and drum sounding the reveille. It may have been different to the call to wake used by the British army, but the meaning was clear.

  ‘Good morning to you, Mr Lark.’ Private O’Dowd pulled back the flaps of the tent that housed the company’s two lieutenants and bustled in carrying a large enamel jug full of steaming water. Like all orderlies, O’Dowd was up and ready to face the day long before the two officers he had elected to serve. As lieutenants, they were too junior to be officially allowed their own orderly, and neither Robert nor Jack had requested that O’Dowd serve them, but the Irishman had been insistent and had ignored all their attempts to put him off.

  Jack sat up on his camp bed and rubbed his face vigorously to bring it to life. ‘Good morning, O’Dowd.’

  ‘Major Bridges asks if you’ll take surgeon’s call this morning, sir.’

  ‘Very well.’ Jack agreed readily enough. He pushed himself to his feet, stretching to ease out the kinks in his spine. His back ached as normal, but he had no complaints about his living conditions. He shared a large wall-sided ridge tent with Robert. It was well furnished with a full groundsheet, a pair of camp beds, a couple of folding stools and a matching table. There were white bowls and jugs for washing and two chests for their belongings.

  ‘A Company, fall in for roll call.’ Jack heard First Sergeant O’Connell bellowing for the company to assemble ready for the first parade of the day. O’Connell would take the roll, making sure that none of the men had slipped away in the night, either to abscond or to enjoy a night in the city.

  ‘Does he have to be so goddam loud?’ Robert’s voice came from underneath his blanket. Jack’s fellow lieutenant had not yet bothered to move.

  ‘Yes,’ Jack replied with force.

  Robert had only been in his pit for a couple of hours. The young officer never failed to find entertainment, and his choice of nocturnal activity meant that he was not good in the mornings, something that Jack found highly amusing. His exploits did make him popular amongst the men, though, and the soldiers of A Company had taken it upon themselves to look out for their wastrel of an officer, especially when Colonel Scanlon was around. Robert’s drinking and almost perpetual good humour might have endeared him to his men, but Jack was worried that his charge would kill himself long before he had a chance to face the enemy.

  O’Dowd had busied himself getting Jack’s things ready for his morning ablutions. He had spread a sheet on the ground and filled a bowl with the warm water he had brought with him.

  ‘Shaving this morning, sir?’

  Jack frowned at the question. O’Dowd’s attentions felt awkward; overly intimate. He had had an orderly once. Tommy Smith had been an ally in Jack’s first attempt at impersonating an officer, but he had died on the ground by the Alma river. Since then, Jack had always fended for himself.

  Still, O’Dowd was trying his best, so Jack resisted the urge to growl and instead ran a hand across his face. His fingers brushed over stubble, but he did not much fancy shaving. He generally only did it once or perhaps twice a week, and his fingertips told him that he could last a day or too longer before submitting to the painful process that would inevitably leave his skin raw and sore.

  ‘No, not today.’

  ‘Very good.’ O’Dowd immediately turned and bundled up the roll of cloth that contained Jack’s shaving things. ‘Would either of you two fine gentlemen be wanting anything for your breakfast?’

  ‘Is there anything other than hardtack and coffee?’ Jack sighed and dropped his drawers. There was no being shy, not in an army encampment.

  ‘I doubt it, sir.’ O’Dowd did not so much as glance as a naked Jack took his place on the sheet in front of the bowl of now tepid water and began to wash. He did turn away to pull out fresh drawers and a clean shirt from Jack’s trunk, which he then laid out on the bed before gathering up Jack’s uniform trousers and jacket and laying them next to the first two items.

  ‘Then I think I’ll pass on breakfast.’ Jack continued to wash.

  ‘You’re probably wise, sir, so you are.’ O’Dowd stood back as Jack brushed away the worst of the water and began to dress. ‘I’ve seen cattle that’s fed better than us.’

  ‘That’s because cattle are valuable.’

  O’Dowd smiled at the reply. The men were comfortably housed in well-equipped tents, but they were not well fed, the army struggling to provide for the thousands of troops now encamped around Washington.

  Jack forced the last button through its buttonhole, then made to leave the tent. He did not bother to take any of his weapons with him. He had been issued with a regulation sword with the rest of his officer’s uniform when they had arrived at Emmart’s Farm, but he barely bothered to wear it. It was simply too hot to carry any unnecessary equipment.

  He stopped near the entrance, then turned to face Robert’s camp bed. The company’s other lieutenant had not moved. ‘You need to get up,’ he snapped.

  ‘And you need to remember that I am first lieutenant, whilst you are merely second.’ There was little rancour in the reply from underneath the grey blanket.

  Jack shook his head and left O’Dowd to try to get Robert out of his pit. He stepped outside, immediately blinking furiously as he walked into the bright morning sunshine. He felt the first beads of sweat break out across his forehead. It was already oppressively hot, the air close and sweaty. The men had been issued with havelocks, white cotton cap covers that were long enough to hang over the neck and protect it from the sun. They helped a little, but the sweltering heat was still a constant hardship that simply had to be endured.

  The encampment stretched away before him. It appeared to grow every day as more and more men and equipment arrived. When the first two companies of the 1st Boston had arrived, they had claimed just a tiny corner of the massive open area. Now there was a great sea of canvas, the rows of tents stretching away in every direction.

  The soldiers’ constant marching through the encampment had ground any grass there had once been into so much dust. Every uniform, every tent, every weapon was thick with the stuff. The men had quickly grown
sick of its constant abrasive presence, and more than one longed for the orders to march on the enemy simply to escape the dust bowl in which they now lived.

  Jack walked towards the open area the regiment had been allocated for their parades. The rest of the 1st Boston had arrived in mid-June. The route through Baltimore was still the only practical way of moving troops into Washington, and President Lincoln had taken the dramatic step of declaring martial law to ensure the free and unfettered transit of troops through the city. Such drastic action had allowed the rest of the regiment to travel without calamity. Their only moment of excitement had come when Lieutenant Colonel Murphy had slipped on some fallen bunting and twisted his ankle severely enough for him to have to return to Boston. He had not been replaced.

  Now reunited, the regiment was close to being at full strength, with just fewer than one thousand officers and other ranks living under canvas a few miles downstream from the centre of Washington. They had lost a few men to sickness or injury, and a handful had been sent home simply for being physically unsuitable for life as a soldier. The rest rubbed along pretty well, their days spent mainly at drill or on fatigue duty, their sergeants and corporals becoming adept at keeping the men busy.

  It did not take Jack long to round up that day’s sick and deliver them to the regimental surgeon. Duty done, he returned to his tent and was pleased to see the flaps tied open, a sign that Robert had managed to get up. He ducked and went inside, his nose twitching as he walked into the now-familiar stink of sweat and sun-warmed canvas.

  ‘I see you’re up. If not quite dressed.’ He smiled at the sight of Robert sitting at the camp table in nothing more than open shirt and drawers.

  ‘It’s too damn hot to wear uniform.’ Robert looked up from the heavy ledger he was working on, then tossed his steel pen to one side. ‘You must be baking.’

  ‘No.’ Jack denied the assertion as he slipped his uniform jacket from his shoulders. ‘I am broiled, perhaps, but not baked.’ He tossed the jacket onto his bed, then undid his cuffs. It felt like he had walked into an oven. But there was no sense in taking the table outside and working there. They had tried it before. The heat was almost as bad outside the tent as in, and once away from its protective walls, they would have to contend with the wind that whistled down the lines of tents, blowing dust into their faces with all the force of a cannon firing a case of canister.