‘No, sir.’
‘We had better find him, Lark, because otherwise I won’t have anyone to hang. You see, I have to set an example to all the other filth in this place. If they see someone run and get away with it, well, who knows what foolish thoughts will enter their heads. So I need to punish someone, to show them what happens to scum who run. To show them what happens to the man who helps them.’
Jack bit back the churn of bile that rose into his throat. He could barely breathe.
‘If we don’t find Charlie, then so help me you’ll pay the price in his stead. Do you understand that, Lark?’ Slater’s face was emotionless as he delivered the threat.
Jack could not find the words to reply. Slater pressed his face lower, his eyes boring into Jack’s. ‘So you had better hope that we do find him, or you will find yourself wishing you had never been born.’
Slater pulled away. He stared at Jack for what seemed an age, then turned away.
‘FORM UP OUTSIDE!’ He screamed the command. ‘NOW!’
The recruits nearly fell over themselves in their haste to escape. Even Taylor moved fast, the corporal clearly assuming the order applied equally to himself. Only Jack stayed still, his path blocked by the formidable figure of the sergeant.
Slater did not look at him again. Only when the room was empty did he move, stalking out without glancing in Jack’s direction.
Jack gingerly eased himself down on to his bed, the fear still running rampant through his body. He did not doubt Slater’s threat. His life now hung in the balance. He dared not think, so he forced himself back to his feet, leaving the room and the threat behind. He would join the search for Charlie Evans not knowing if he was saving his own neck or merely sealing his fate.
The recruits formed up on the parade ground. The entire training company was assembled, all of the drafts ordered to forgo their breakfast to join the search for the deserter.
The men were hushed. They knew why they were there. The rumour had rippled through the barracks. There was a runner. A recruit had chosen to desert, and now they would all be hauled across miles of countryside to look for him.
Jack stood in the rank of new recruits and felt his body tremble. He could sense the mood on the parade ground. He saw the hard expressions on the faces of the men nearest to him, the look of determination to get the unpalatable job done. There was no sign of pity or of sympathy. Many of those men would have thought of running, yet Jack could sense an animosity towards the one who had been brave enough not just to think but to do, the one who had dared to flout the authority that kept so many in the ranks when their hearts would have led them to flee.
The sergeants and corporals emerged from the guardhouse, their stony faces betraying nothing of the briefing they had been given. De Lancy followed them, his young face flushed with excitement.
The lieutenant walked quickly to the front of the formed ranks, his legs moving rapidly as he bustled after his sergeants.
‘Attention!’ One of the sergeants barked the command. The ranks of recruits stiffened instantly, the sound of boots stamping in unison echoing around the walls that surrounded the parade ground.
Jack did his best to stand straight. He could just about see de Lancy through a gap in the ranks to his front.
‘We have a deserter.’ Jack had to strain his hearing to make out the words, the lieutenant’s voice only just carrying to the furthest rank. There was no mistaking the thrill in the young officer’s voice as he began to order the hunt.
‘He must be found.’ De Lancy paused to let his order sink in. ‘You will be detailed into search parties. This man cannot have gone far. We will find him and we will bring him back to answer to the charge of desertion. He will be punished.’ Again de Lancy paused, his eyes running over the ranks, the sly smile on his face belying the seriousness of his words.
Charlie Evans was the fox. The hunt was on.
Jack tripped. He cursed, spitting out his frustration as he only just kept his footing. The going was treacherous. The heath was like a bog after the recent rain, the ground giving way repeatedly, the water hidden just beneath the surface oozing out with an obscene squelch with every step. The rain had turned it into a quagmire.
The heath was the biggest space Jack had ever seen. The horizon stretched for miles, the light of early morning revealing the vastness of the moorland behind the barracks. There were no trees, no high ground to break up the view. It was one great expanse of gorse and heather, and Jack had never felt so exposed or so small.
The rain had started the moment they had marched out of the barracks, adding to their misery. It came down in a fine mist, soaking their grey fatigues so that they stuck to their skin, the coarse fabric doubling in weight. The persistent cloud dogged their every step, their world reduced to a few dozen yards of dank gorse and muddy heather.
‘What a fucking waste of time.’ The man trudging along beside Jack made his opinion of the day clear. Nearly half the training company were on the heath. They had been split into pairs before being dispatched to search for the deserter. The orders had been simple. They were to maintain sight with the pairs to either side of them as the long line of searchers moved outwards from the back of the barracks. If they found the deserter, they would just have to shout and summon the nearest pairs to join them before capturing the man who had caused such a ruckus.
Jack had been paired with another of the recruits, a ferrety-faced Londoner called Brown, who was clearly not enjoying his morning walk on the heath.
‘What a bloody hole,’ he muttered as he tramped along at Jack’s side. ‘One great shit-coloured expanse of fuck-all.’
Jack did not reply. His eyes searched the ground to the front. He did not know if he wanted to find Charlie or not.
‘What a stupid wanker, running off like that.’ Brown scowled as Jack ignored him. ‘You deaf?’
‘No.’
‘Then at least fucking say something. Shit boring this is. Aw, fucking hell!’ Brown’s voice rose as he stumbled, his boots catching on a clump of longer grass.
‘Do you think we will find him?’ Jack made himself reply. Perhaps conversation would stave off the feeling of doom that had dogged him since the moment he had opened his eyes that morning.
‘Not if the dolt has any sense. If it were me, I’d be bloody miles away by now.’
‘Have you thought about running, then?’
‘Nah.’ The reply was quick. ‘Running to what exactly? Another couple of years doing the panny? Then what? A trip to Botany fucking Bay, I reckon, if the beak was kind. A quick trip downstairs if he weren’t.’
‘You were a burglar?’
‘Amongst other things.’ Brown flashed Jack a smile. ‘Not that I was any good at it. Last time I was out, the other lad I was with got nabbed. That taught me a lesson good and proper, told me it was time to move on. I saw that old cove Tate in the pub. He offered me a way out and I was glad to take it.’ He spat hard to one side, as if talking of the past had brought a sour taste to his mouth. ‘I reckon this’ll be all right. Once we leave that bastard Slater behind.’ He turned and glanced at Jack. ‘He scare you?’
Jack nodded. He didn’t need to speak.
‘By Christ, he frightens me. He beat that Irish lad just for fucking moving. Think what he’ll do to this fucking idiot if he catches him. I wouldn’t be in his bloody shoes, or in yours for that matter.’ Brown looked at Jack cagily. ‘Did you help him?’
‘What’s it to you if I did?’ Jack staggered as his boot slipped in a thick slick of mud. The legs of his fatigues were smeared with the stuff, every inch filthy.
‘Nothing to me, chum. It’ll be you dealing with Slater if we don’t find him. Way I see it, you’re up to your neck in shit.’
‘We both are.’ Jack’s reply was grim. He was looking ahead, the conversation forgotten as he spotted movement.
‘Oh no, chum. Don’t think I’ll be getting involved, thank you very much. I’m too fucking clever for that, I am. I’ll keep
my nose clean. I don’t want that bastard Slater so much as looking at me.’
Jack didn’t reply. He increased his pace as far as he could on the treacherous ground, keeping his eyes on a thin line of gorse fifty yards ahead. The grey fatigues Charlie Evans had been wearing did not stand out like a red coat, but Jack had seen them all the same.
He had found the deserter.
Chapter 8
Charlie was smothered in mud from head to toe. He was sitting behind a gorse bush, his arms wrapped tight around his chest, his whole body shaking with cold.
‘You stupid bastard.’ Jack stumbled to a halt. He kept his distance, standing a few feet away from the fugitive. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’
‘I fell over.’ The reply came out as little more than a pitiful wail. Charlie lifted his face towards Jack. His cheeks were smeared with mud and snot. His bloodshot eyes searched Jack’s face. ‘I twisted my ankle.’
‘What the fuck did you do that for?’ Jack felt the fingers of fate take a firm grip around his neck.
‘I couldn’t help it!’ Charlie snivelled. ‘I couldn’t see a damn thing. I kept falling over.’
Jack shook his head. Charlie was a pathetic sight. It was impossible not to feel pity. But Jack felt something else too. He felt relief.
‘Help me, Jack. Don’t dob me in.’ Charlie was staring at him, his eyes wide in terror.
‘I ain’t got a choice.’ Jack heard the cruelty in his own voice.
‘Yes you do. You can move on. Don’t tell them you found me.’
‘And leave you to freeze to death.’ Jack seized on the easy reply. He was thinking of Slater, of the fate awaiting him if Charlie wasn’t found.
‘I’ll be all right.’ Charlie’s teeth chattered. ‘I’ll warm up when the sun comes out. Then I’ll be on my way.’
‘With a fucked-up ankle?’
‘I’ll be all right.’ Charlie pleaded with him. ‘Just leave me be, Jack. Just leave me be.’
Jack heard his friend choke back the tears. It would be so easy to shout out, to call for others to come to his side. It was the simple decision, the one that would keep him safe from Slater.
Yet he hesitated. To call out would be to condemn Charlie. Jack wanted to be safe, to secure his own place in the Queen’s army. But the price of that security was high.
‘Have you found the stupid wanker?’ Brown was close now. He had not bothered to match Jack’s faster pace. ‘I’ve had my fill of walking in this fucking shit.’
‘Hide!’ Jack hissed the word. He looked over his shoulder. Brown was no more than half a dozen yards away. ‘Get yourself down.’
For a heartbeat Charlie just stared at him. Then he drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. ‘I’m cold, Jack. So very cold.’
‘Do it!’ Jack snapped the words, then turned towards the scowling face of his partner in the search. ‘It’s nothing. Just some bloody animal,’ he said loudly, before offering a thin chuckle at his own foolishness.
Brown stopped. He stared at Jack, holding his gaze. The Londoner’s chest heaved with the exertion of hauling himself through the muddy slurry underfoot. ‘Then who was you talking to?’
‘What’s that?’ Jack did not dare look at Charlie, who had not moved an inch.
‘Who was you talking to, Jack-o, my lad?’ Brown took a step forward, his boot giving out a sloppy squelch as he pulled it from the ground’s clutches. ‘Is he there?’
‘Step away. Don’t come any closer.’ Jack gave up his attempt at denial. He could do little else. Charlie began to move, but it was only to rock back and forth on his haunches.
‘Fuck off. Is he there?’ Brown took another pace, and then another.
Jack sucked down his fear and moved into the other man’s path. ‘No. I ain’t seen him, and neither have you.’
Brown stopped. He wiped a hand across his face, careless of the muddy streak it left on his cheek. ‘I ain’t risking my neck for that prick. If he’s there, then that’s it. We found him.’
‘He doesn’t stand a chance.’ Jack did not know why he was protecting a man no longer willing to stand up for himself, but he could not step aside. ‘You know what’ll happen if Slater gets his mitts on him.’
‘Like I give a shit, chum. So long as that bastard ain’t looking at me, I don’t care a fig.’
‘We can walk by and leave him here. He ain’t doing any harm. He just wants to go home.’
‘You stupid fucker.’ Brown shook his head at such a foolish notion. ‘You there, Evans?’ He raised his voice and lifted himself on to his toes so he could see behind the gorse bush. Charlie’s pitiful hidey-hole was doing little to conceal him.
‘Leave me alone.’ The demand was delivered with no force; the wail of a child to a bully.
It was all the confirmation Brown needed. He moved quickly, turning away and forcing his body into a lumbering motion.
‘Wait!’ Jack made one last desperate plea. But Brown was already too far away to catch. The Londoner started to wave his arms, calling for attention.
‘Over here! Over here! We got him! Over here!’
Jack stopped in his tracks. He saw the heads turning their way. Charlie’s fate was sealed, and Jack was saved.
‘Where is he?’
‘Here, Sergeant! Over here!’ Brown waved at the bulky sergeant, who was striding through the stinking morass of the heath.
Slater moved fast. His fine uniform was filthy, the mud splattering his dark blue trousers and flecking the scarlet of his coat. Yet he paid it no heed.
Jack stood and watched. He felt detached, as if no longer a part of the drama being played out in front of him. His boots had sunk nearly a full inch into the ground, yet he felt no compulsion to move, even as Slater ploughed directly for him.
‘We found him, sir.’ Brown was fairly hopping from foot to foot as Slater loomed close. ‘We got the bugger and no mistaking.’ He glanced back at Jack. ‘Jack-o spotted him first. Found the bugger’s hide, he did.’ He winked at Jack before turning his attention back to Slater. ‘It was good work, sir. Hard work.’
‘Shut your filthy mouth.’ Slater snarled the command. He did not look at Brown as he marched past, his boots sending a fine spray of muddy water left and right as he pounded them down into the sodden earth.
‘Where is he?’ The sergeant snapped the question as he came close to Jack.
Still Jack hesitated. He stared back at Slater, somehow summoning the courage to look into the man’s eyes.
‘Behind that gorse, sir.’ Brown trailed behind the sergeant, keeping his distance. His arm lifted, pointing to where Charlie waited for retribution. ‘Just there.’
Slater’s gaze did not falter. He glared back at Jack, matching his stare.
‘Fetch him.’
‘What?’ Jack did not understand.
‘Fetch him. Bring him to me.’ Slater’s voice betrayed nothing. Even his breathing was calm, despite the strength-sapping slog through the quagmire.
‘I’ll get him, sir.’ Brown, eager to please, made to step past. He was stopped with an outstretched hand.
‘Stay where you are.’ Slater’s eyes never left Jack’s face. ‘Lark will do it.’
Jack could no longer match Slater’s gaze. He looked away.
‘Fetch him to me.’ Slater repeated the instruction.
Jack lurched into motion before the decision to obey had fully formed in his mind. It was pointless to stand against Slater, to risk his own neck in a futile display of defiance.
Charlie had not moved, but sat where he had been found, rocking back and forth, his head slumped down against his knees. Jack approached his friend slowly and carefully.
‘Charlie. It’s time to get up, mate.’ He spoke in gentle tones, the voice of the young to the old and decrepit. ‘Let’s get you on your feet.’
Charlie looked up. His eyes were full of mute appeal. He said nothing, even when Jack took hold of his arm, easing the would-be deserter to his feet.
> ‘There you go, chum. Let’s get you back. Get you warm.’
Charlie swayed. Jack kept a firm hold of his arm and steered him slowly, step by step, towards Slater. If Charlie knew his fate, he revealed nothing. He went with Jack, plodding along like an ancient pauper being led one last time into the poorhouse. Slater watched them the whole time, his face impassive.
Jack brought Charlie to a halt in front of the sergeant, propping him up and keeping him on his feet.
Charlie could not face looking at Slater. He kept his head bowed, his eyes focused on his boots.
Slater did not care. He lashed out at Charlie’s downturned face, a single punch that rose from beside his hip. It connected with a wet slap, tearing Charlie from Jack’s grip and throwing him backwards on to the soaking ground.
‘Pick him up.’ Slater stood ramrod straight after the blow, as if nothing had happened.
Jack stepped back. He did not know what to do. Brown had looked away, refusing to watch the grim spectacle he had summoned. Jack was alone.
‘Pick him up!’ Slater spoke quietly, yet his voice trembled with barely concealed rage.
Jack could do nothing but obey. He bent low, his hands reaching for Charlie’s arms. ‘You’ve got to get up.’ The words came out as little more than a whisper.
Charlie could not have understood. He looked barely alive, any last sense of what was happening knocked out of him by the single blow. Yet he was still conscious.
Jack squatted in the mud. He felt its clammy tendrils gripping his arms as he got them under Charlie’s body. He gasped as he levered the slight figure up. It took all his strength, but somehow he manhandled his friend out of the mire and forced him back to his feet.
Charlie’s head lolled from side to side, a thick river of blood flowing fast from both nostrils. Jack swallowed the bitter bile that surged into his mouth as he held the other man upright, his muscles protesting at the effort.
‘Let him go.’ Slater’s voice was firm.
Jack had no choice. He stepped away.
Charlie staggered forward half a pace, barely able to stand unaided. Slater hit him full in the face for a second time, bludgeoning him to the ground again. This time he fell as if his bones had turned to pulp, all sense of the world gone.
Jack Lark: Recruit (A Jack Lark Short Story) Page 7
