Nearly every man was overwhelmed with gifts. Jack doubted much would be kept beyond the first day of marching. He knew from experience how soldiers quickly tired of carrying anything they did not truly need. The generosity of the crowd would be wasted, the carefully prepared jars of preserves and hand-stitched patchwork blankets destined to be dumped by the roadside by soldiers unwilling to carry them another yard.
‘Are you not taking part in the day’s festivities then, Lieutenant Lark?’
Jack started. He had chosen a vantage point near a wagon park from where he could observe the day’s events without being easily seen. He had not heard anyone approach, but he smiled when he saw it was Elizabeth Kearney who had managed to find him. ‘I don’t think it’s my place to join in. These are not my people.’
‘Not your people?’ Elizabeth came to stand beside him so that she too could study the great throng. ‘What an odd thing to say. Are you not fighting for these very people? If that does not make them yours, then I cannot see what would.’
‘I’m not from here.’ Jack could not help looking at Elizabeth and wondering which part of her character he was speaking to. He had seen two very different sides to her personality. He did not much like the one that fawned and played up to Captain Rowell. But the other one, the one that had spoken so intently about the war, fascinated him.
‘Tell me about your home.’ Elizabeth did not look at him, preferring instead to watch the soldiers as they moved through the crowd. She smiled as she saw one young soldier stagger away from a pair of middle-aged women completely smothered by a patchwork quilt that must have taken them weeks to create.
‘There’s not a lot to tell.’
‘Do try.’ There was a touch of pepper in the demand. ‘Tell me what it is called. That should not be so hard, and it would surely be a good place to start.’
‘It’s called Whitechapel.’
‘And that is in London?’
‘Yes. In the eastern part of the city.’
‘So you come from the city itself.’
‘Yes.’ Jack did not try to hide his discomfort. He did not like to think of the place he had come from.
‘My goodness, but this is as hard as having a tooth pulled.’ Elizabeth shook her head. ‘So you were born there?’
‘Yes.’ Jack sighed. He sensed he would not escape without telling her something of his former life. ‘I grew up in a gin palace. It was a good one, not like the dives near Spitalfields. It was my mother’s place. I worked there until I joined the army.’ He kept the details brief. He made no mention of John Lampkin, the man his mother had taken into her bed after Jack’s father had left and who had made much of Jack’s early years a relentless misery. Nor did he mention the fight that had seen Lampkin left half dead and Jack banished from his mother’s home.
‘How old were you then? When you joined the army?’
Jack had to make a rough tally in his head. ‘Nineteen, I suppose.’
‘So that makes you . . .’ Elizabeth still did not look at him. He heard something change in her tone. She was trying hard not to sound too interested, but he sensed she was waiting for the next answer.
‘I’m thirty-one. I’m an old man.’
‘Thirty-one is not so old.’ Elizabeth laughed.
‘I’m sure you’re just being kind. How old are you? Twenty?’
‘I’ll be twenty-two in the fall.’
‘My goodness, twenty-two! Why, aren’t you the old maid.’ Jack could not help scoffing. He had been a redcoat at her age. A few years later and he had led men into battle. It seemed a lifetime ago.
‘Do not mock me, Jack.’ For the first time, Elizabeth turned to look up at him.
‘I’m not mocking you.’ Jack adopted a more serious tone. ‘But you do not come across as being just twenty-two. You’re well informed about the world around you and you’re clearly intelligent. Neither of those are traits people would normally associate with a young woman.’
‘Am I only supposed to be interested in what petticoats I should be wearing this season then?’ It was Elizabeth’s turn to mock. ‘There is more to me than what you see.’
‘What do you think I see?’
‘You see what everyone sees.’ Elizabeth sighed. ‘Look at me, Jack. Tell me what you see.’
‘I see you.’ Jack was uncomfortable. He did not understand the rules of this new game.
‘But what did you see the first time you saw me?’
‘I saw that you were beautiful.’
‘Exactly. Men look at me like I am a creature from a dream. Can you understand how frustrating that is?’
‘I imagine there are plenty of women who would happily trade places with you.’
‘Perhaps.’ Elizabeth pouted. ‘Yet I cannot stand being treated like a china doll. When men meet me, they become gallant and noble, as if I am incapable of tolerating a normal conversation. When women meet me . . .’ She looked down, then sighed again. ‘When women meet me, they tend to be a little bit mean.’ She lifted her eyes back to Jack’s face. ‘No one takes me seriously. Even you.’
‘I take you very seriously.’
‘Only because you want to take me to your bed.’
Jack swallowed his desire with difficulty. ‘It is not just that.’ He tried to be glib.
‘Rubbish. I know what men want. I just don’t think anyone knows what I want.’
‘So tell me.’
Elizabeth laughed. It came from deep in her throat, the sound warm and genuine. ‘Will you find it for me then, Jack, like a knight from a fairy tale? If I tell you my heart’s desire, will you journey to the ends of the earth to steal it away just so that you can bring it back to me?’
‘The ends of the earth might be a little too far. If it’s in Baltimore, then maybe.’
Again she laughed. ‘You’re a rogue, Jack. I think that is why I like you so much.’
‘I’m pleased to hear you like me at all. I was wondering.’
‘I like you perhaps too much. You don’t moon at me, at least not quite as badly as most men, and certainly not like Ethan.’
‘You behave very differently around him.’
‘It’s how I have to behave. If I behaved any other way, he would not know what to do. I have tried. From his reaction, you would think I had asked him to run naked through the streets.’
‘So why do it? Why behave like that?’ Jack could not hide his disgruntled tone.
‘Father wants me to marry him. So I have to make him happy. Make him feel good about himself. And he is very handsome, even you must see that.’
‘Is that what you want? Somebody handsome?’ Jack did not even try to hide his jealousy.
‘Perhaps.’ Elizabeth was evasive. ‘Isn’t that what I am supposed to want? Somebody handsome. Somebody rich. Do I need to look for anything more? Must I also expect wit? Intelligence? An interest in the world around us?’
‘Ethan is a good man.’ Jack tried to sound sincere.
‘How valiant of you to be so magnanimous. Ethan is a good man . . .’ she paused, ‘but sometimes he reminds me of a tailor’s dummy. He looks so dashing, but underneath I fancy there is nothing but so much stuffing.’
‘I’m sure there’s more to him than that.’ Jack felt odd as he stood up for his rival for Elizabeth’s affection.
‘Perhaps. But I know he will do anything I say, no matter what it is, so long as I ask it in a certain way. I do not think you would be so malleable. If I ordered you to do something you did not want to do, you would just growl at me and give me one of your scowls.’
Jack snorted as Elizabeth made a face that he supposed was meant to represent his own. He could not hold back a peal of laughter as she then growled at him, the noise reverberating deep in her throat.
‘I sound like I have cold, then?�
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Elizabeth beamed as she saw her impression have the desired effect. ‘You have a mongrel spirit in you, Jack. Ha!’ She pointed as he scowled on cue. ‘There, the perfect example.’
‘Am I not allowed to scowl when you pick on me so pitilessly?’
‘I’m not mocking you.’ Elizabeth looked at him with a serious expression. ‘I think it is perhaps your finest trait. Do not be ashamed of who you are, Jack.’
Jack shivered as if a feather had traced down the back of his neck. ‘I am what I am.’ He wanted to sound light-hearted, but it came out with a hint of a growl.
It was enough to make Elizabeth smile. It was the expression that had captivated him since the very first moment he had seen her walk into Kearney’s study. She was right to say that few people could see the person behind the beautiful facade. For at that moment, Jack did not think there was a woman walking on the face of the earth that could hold a candle to her.
‘My goodness.’ Elizabeth was watching him closely. ‘If it were not you, Jack, I would swear you were mooning at me.’ She did not give him a chance to reply. ‘I noticed that Mr Brady has brought his photography studio into the field.’ She fixed him with eyes that sparkled with devilment. ‘I think we should get our photographs taken.’
‘Why would you want to do that?’ Jack saw the look on her face. He knew he would not escape easily.
‘It will be fun.’
‘Fun?’
‘It would please me,’ Elizabeth dipped her chin, ‘and it is just over there. It is not even as far as Baltimore.’
Jack could not help smiling. Elizabeth was as beautiful as an angel, but she had a mind as quick and as agile as any person he had ever met.
‘Very well.’ He gave the agreement with good grace. ‘Shall we?’
‘Thank you, Jack.’ Elizabeth was clearly pleased he had agreed. She slipped her arm into his as they began to walk through the wagon park, pressing her side against him. He could smell her now that she was so close. She smelled expensive.
‘Do you think they’ll suppose we are sweethearts?’ Elizabeth had to crane her neck back so that she could whisper into his ear as they walked.
‘I very much doubt it.’
‘I do not agree.’
She came closer, the warmth of her breath washing over the skin below his ear.
‘In one hundred years’ time, someone will look at this photograph and think we were lovers.’
The word slipped into his ear on a rush of air. His desire for her surged through him and he gasped.
Elizabeth heard it and stopped. For a moment she looked up at him, her eyes locked onto his. Then she lifted onto her tiptoes and kissed him.
Jack’s breath stuck in his throat. The kiss lasted for no more than the span of a single heartbeat, then they were walking on as if nothing had happened.
It was only then that he spotted Rose standing near a wagon no more than twenty yards away, a wicker hamper held in front of her, her eyes locked onto the couple walking along arm in arm as if they did not have a care in the world.
He did not have to be close to her to see the amused expression on her face.
Jack walked through the encampment having left the celebrations early. He had lost interest in the day when Rowell had intercepted Elizabeth shortly after they had had their photograph taken. If he were honest with himself, he felt relieved to have left her behind. As he walked along the long line of tents, he felt a little heady. Elizabeth’s company was intoxicating.
He did not understand why she had kissed him and he had even less of an idea what it meant. He did know that it was a complication to his life he could well do without. He had a fair idea how Rowell would react if he discovered that his beloved had kissed another man. The fact that Rose had seen them made a wider audience’s discovery possible. The thought made Jack sigh.
It had also been a relief to walk away from the clutches of the photographer and his assistants. Mr Brady had been delighted to see Elizabeth approach his makeshift studio and they had been ushered past the queue as the photographer’s assistant fussed around them as if they were royalty. Elizabeth had been seated in a high-backed chair, her head held in a metal frame, its bars slipped into her hair to hold her still. Jack had been posed awkwardly to one side, his hand clasped to the back of Elizabeth’s chair, where it had been secured by a cuff. A metal frame had been placed around his spine to hold his posture, the contraption digging into his flesh so that the first pain had arrived within a minute of his being in its iron embrace. Both of them had been told not to speak or move.
Brady’s assistant did all the work whilst Mr Brady himself stood to one side and peered at Elizabeth through thick spectacles. He was an odd little man and Jack had spent his time in the uncomfortable posture wondering how someone who appeared to be almost blind could become one of Washington’s pre-eminent photographers.
Despite the pain of the sitting, Elizabeth had enjoyed the whole experience. As Rowell had dragged her away, she had promised to send Jack one of the images. Jack had paid the promise little heed, his attention focused on his commanding officer, who had only just been able to keep a lid on his anger at finding his fiancée on the arm of another man.
A loud English voice interrupted his thoughts. It was the first English accent he had heard for a long time, so he paused as a short, heavily bearded man stomped his way along the line of tents, heading in the opposite direction to Jack, followed by a major and a pair of red-faced captains. The Englishman was berating his escort loudly as he walked, his hectoring tone making it clear he was not happy.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ he snapped as he saw Jack standing in his way. He clearly expected him to stand aside.
‘Where do you think you are, Pall Mall?’ Jack could not resist the retort.
It was enough to bring the Englishman up short. He stopped so abruptly that his escort nearly clattered into his back.
‘I say. Are you English?’
‘I am.’ Jack took in the odd-looking man who now peered up at him. He was dressed strangely in a pair of Indian boots, cord trousers and jacket and an old felt hat. A flask and a revolver hung from his belt.
‘William Russell of the Times.’ The introduction was curt and was followed by a hand.
Jack’s eyes widened. Russell was the most famous journalist in the world. He had been the man who had first brought to the attention of the British public the dreadful conditions the wounded soldiers were enduring at the hospital at Scutari. Jack had himself been wounded in the Crimea. He had survived the appalling filth and squalor of Scutari. Hundreds of other wounded soldiers had not been so fortunate.
‘Jack Lark.’ He just about managed to say his own name.
‘What is an Englishman doing here?’ Russell fired the question as he shook Jack’s hand.
Jack’s tongue felt twice its normal size. ‘I’m serving in the 1st Boston Volunteer Militia.’
‘I have never heard of them.’ Russell’s reply was abrupt. ‘But are you not ashamed, sir, to be part of such an army? I have never seen such lax discipline. This whole place is filthy dirty. The general has no staff, and those he does have are completely inadequate to an army on campaign. The army has no cavalry, only a few scarecrow men who will dissolve partnership with their steeds at the first serious combined movement!’
Jack had not expected the tirade. He was saved finding an answer as Russell paused to rummage in a pocket.
‘I like that, indeed I do.’ The journalist was clearly well pleased with his own description and he quickly scribbled it down in a notebook before looking back at Jack. ‘Are you an army man, sir?’
‘Yes, sir, I served in the Crimea and then in India and Persia.’
‘Then you will understand of what I speak. There is no carriage for reserve ammunition and the commissariat drivers are civili
ans, under little or no control. The officers are the most unsoldierly-looking men, whilst the troops themselves are dressed in all sorts of uniforms. From what I hear, I doubt if any of these regiments have ever performed a brigade evolution together, or if any of the officers know what it is to deploy a brigade from column into line. That is if they have any men to deploy, since most of them are about to go home now that their three months’ service is up!’
‘But they can fight.’ Jack felt his temper rising. Russell’s negative opinion grated. ‘My company is as fine a body of men as I have ever had the privilege of serving alongside. They may do things differently, but when it comes to a fight—’
‘Poof, fight!’ Russell did not hesitate to interrupt. ‘You think these men can fight? When I was in the Crimea—’
‘I too was in the Crimea, sir.’ Jack returned the compliment. ‘I fought my way up the slope below the Great Redoubt alongside the bravest and the best men I have ever seen, and—’
‘Then you should be ashamed to be in such company now!’ Russell stuck out his chin and snapped back at Jack. ‘They talk of these know-nothings; why, these generals are just the same! They’ve not got a decent map of Virginia between them. They have no idea of geography or knowledge of main roads or the surrounding countryside. How do you suppose McDowell can plan a campaign when he has no idea if the enemy are on the far side of a river or even halfway up a damn mountain?’
Jack could think of no defence. Brigadier General Irvin McDowell was the commander of the Army of Northeastern Virginia, of which the 1st Boston was a part. It would be McDowell who would take his army onto the field of battle when the war started in earnest. To hear that he had insufficient maps of the ground he was likely to fight on was indeed shameful.
‘I see that has got your attention,’ Russell piped up in triumph. ‘I fancy you have allowed yourself to be caught up in an affair of amateurs, sir, an affair that will only end badly. You mark my words. This army of yours is a half-trained rabble. I warrant the Southerners will not lose any sleep over the prospect of an attack.’
The True Soldier: Jack Lark 6 Page 22
