‘Hell fire! Over here!’ A man lying on the ground to his left shouted for aid. Jack rushed forward, pushing through the men as they picked themselves up from the ground, expecting to find the first casualty of the day.
‘Who’s hit?’ he snapped.
‘It’s O’Dowd!’
‘Shit.’ Jack elbowed his way through the disordered ranks. He knew where O’Dowd was positioned. Not that he was hard to pick out, the Irishman squawking loudly enough to wake the dead.
‘Where are you hit?’ Jack fired the question as he came close. It was only then that he realised the men were laughing.
‘O’Dowd pissed hisself!’ A buck-toothed lad from the file to O’Dowd’s left bayed the comment. Jack looked down at the Irishman’s front. Sure enough, his trousers were soaked.
‘I did not!’ O’Dowd shrieked in denial. ‘The damn maggots hit my water bottle, so they did. Look here, you dopes.’ He lifted his canteen, shaking it and spraying water into the faces turned towards him. His reaction just made the men around him laugh all the harder.
Jack turned away. He knew why the men were laughing so hard, the merriment a welcome balm to their fears. He looked ahead. The enemy skirmishers were already scrambling back up the slope on the far side of the river. He felt a flutter of anger at the sight. They had fired just one long-range volley, but it had lit the fire deep in his gut, and made him come alive in a way he had almost forgotten.
‘Keep moving!’ he roared, silencing the laughter. He needed to hide his emotions away, keep them under a tight rein. There would be a time to release them, to let the anger have its head. But that time had not yet arrived.
The advance picked up its former pace. The ranks were ragged, but no one ordered a halt or a change in formation. With the two companies from the 1st Massachusetts to their left, the men from the 1st Boston raced down the slope, their hearts pounding and mouths dry.
‘Where’ve they gone?’ Robert was out of position and was close enough to call to Jack. He stumbled as he glanced across, almost losing his footing as the regiment streaked downhill.
‘They were just skirmishers.’ Jack kept his eyes on the ground to his front. At least half a dozen men had tripped or fallen. He would not be one of them.
‘They didn’t look like much.’
Jack did not waste his breath on an answer. He glanced up at the far slope. The enemy skirmishers had fallen back to the main battle line, which was starting to move down the slope. The Confederates advanced slowly, taking their time.
‘Get back to your bloody position.’ Jack would need to know where his fellow lieutenant was at all times, and that would be a damn sight easier if Robert stayed where he was supposed to. He had not forgotten why Robert’s father had got him the place in the 1st Boston. At that moment, there was little danger to the young officer, but he knew that could change in a heartbeat. ‘Go back to your station. Now!’ He turned his head and snarled the instruction. He saw Robert blanch, but he did as he was told and jogged back behind the rear ranks on the left of the company.
The two companies from the 1st Boston were on the slope above what looked to be a ford. Jack could see that the river in front of them was shallow, with rocks and boulders standing proud of the flow. It would be easy for the men to splash across, the water likely to do little more than wet the bottoms of their trousers.
They would not get the chance to find out.
‘Fucking hell.’ Jack had stopped looking at the river. Instead he now stared at a unit of Confederate infantry that had marched calmly down the slope on the far side and now came to a halt facing the Union troops.
He was close enough to hear the enemy commanders shout their orders. He saw the hundreds of firearms rise as one. The Confederate soldiers aimed down the barrels of the guns, filling the sights with the image of the blue- and grey-coated infantry, who had stumbled to a halt well short of the river.
There was a moment of silence. Then all hell was let loose.
The Confederates fired as one, a great thunderclap of sound roaring out as hundreds of men pulled the trigger at the same moment.
Jack could not help flinching as the enemy volley crashed out. The storm of missiles ripped through the Union ranks. At least half a dozen men cried out as they were hit, the fast-moving bullets catching arms, legs and bodies as they zipped by. Many of the men threw themselves to the ground for a second time, any notion of discipline forgotten in the shock of coming under such heavy fire.
‘On your bloody feet!’ Jack screamed. ‘They’re only firing fucking muskets!’ He had recognised the noise made by the Confederate’s weapons, and he gave a moment’s thanks that they lacked modern rifles. It gave the Union men a great advantage, but one they could only exploit if he got the men to stand and fight.
The men climbed sheepishly to their feet. Consternation and fear rippled through the ranks, even the calmer men reacting to the cries around them. Many shuffled backwards in confusion and uncertainty.
‘Form line!’ Jack’s thunderous voice drowned out the chatter. ‘Prepare to fire!’ He scanned the company’s ranks, looking for casualties. Not one man had fallen.
O’Connell stepped forward and picked up Jack’s cry. To their front, the line was ragged as men who should have been preparing to fire simply stared into space or called out to their mates. Faces that should have been turned to the enemy glanced left and right, the frightened, shocked soldiers looking to their friends for support.
‘Eyes front! Prepare to return fire!’ Jack bawled, then glanced at Rowell. The captain was still standing in his allotted station on the right of the line. His mouth was open, but no sound was coming out. He was not alone. At least half the men hadn’t moved. They just stood gaping at the enemy or at one another, faces ashen and panic in their eyes.
‘Prepare to fucking fire!’ Jack prowled along the rear rank, thumping the men not doing as they were told. He did not have to look at the enemy to know they were already reloading.
He glanced to his left and saw O’Connell mirroring his actions on the left of the company. The first sergeant was swearing and cursing at the men, his own fists working hard to force some sort of order into the ranks. Robert had not moved. Jack’s fellow lieutenant stood like a man facing a gale, his arms pulled tight into his sides, shoulders raised as if he were trying to hide behind his collar.
‘Stand fast!’ A few men in the rear rank had taken steps backwards. Jack shoved them back into the line. ‘Prepare to fire!’ His voice was huge.
At last men were responding. The first few rifles were pulled into shoulders, barrels wavering but at least pointing at the enemy.
‘That’s it! Come on!’ Jack urged others to follow. More men did as he ordered, at least half the company ready to fire. ‘Aim!’
It would have to be enough. He had been counting the seconds in his head. The enemy would surely soon be ready to fire a second volley. He knew the men would not stand if he did not get them fighting.
‘Fire!’ He did not care that it was not his place to give the order. A quick glance at K Company confirmed that they too were struggling to return the enemy fire. The shock of the volley had been overwhelming.
The sound of A Company’s ragged volley was like the tearing of a sheet of calico. It lasted longer than it should, the men firing one after another so that the sound blurred across several seconds. To their left, K Company opened fire too, their volley just as untidy, but at least the men from Boston were fighting back.
‘That’s the way!’ Jack roared encouragement. ‘Now load! Look lively now.’ He turned his head and spat as the familiar rotten-egg stink of spent powder caught the back of his throat, then strode along the ranks until he reached the right flank. Those men who had fired were already reloading, the drill coming instinctively. It was what they had trained for all summer. Now the hours of repetition were sta
rting to pay off, the men going through the actions with little conscious thought.
Jack stepped around the right flank, shouting at the men the whole time. He was just behind Rowell when the enemy fired a second volley. Musket balls seared through the air, humming like bees in a beehive. A few men cried out as they were hit, but none fell.
Jack scanned the ground between the 1st Boston and the enemy. The distance had to be over a hundred yards, perhaps more. It was a fair way, even for the Union’s powerful rifles. If the Confederates had older weapons, they were doing well to even hit the blue-coated ranks. At such long range they could never hope to deliver an effective volley. It explained why so few of A Company were being hit, and why those that were were not suffering anything more than minor flesh wounds and bruises. The Confederates could blast away for hours without ever delivering a decisive blow. But the Union troops had modern Springfield rifles. And they could.
‘Rowell!’ Jack reached out and clapped a hand on the captain’s shoulder.
Rowell turned. His face was as grey as the uniforms of the regiment fighting on their flank. He blinked twice, as if unable to focus on Jack’s face.
‘You should be behind the company.’ Jack leaned forward, trying to speak just loudly enough to be heard by Rowell alone. When the company fired, its captain should have moved from the right flank to the centre rear, from where he would direct its fire. ‘Give the next order to fire from here, then move. You got that?’
Rowell managed to nod before turning back to face the enemy.
Jack looked to his left. Those men that had fired were reloaded. This time more of their comrades raised their rifles as they prepared for the company’s second volley. He reached forward and thumped Rowell on the shoulder. ‘Now.’
‘Fire!’ Rowell shrieked, his voice coming out tight and high-pitched. It did not matter. For the second time, A Company fired. The men on their left fired a moment later, so that the Union volley sounded like a child running a metal stick down a wooden fence.
Jack looked at the enemy ranks. Here and there a man had fallen, but the volley was having little effect, despite the power of the Springfields and their deforming bullets. The Union troops had better weaponry, yet they were wasting that advantage, their poor marksmanship letting them down.
‘Off you go.’ Jack pulled at Rowell’s shoulder, encouraging him to move. He himself stayed on the right flank, from where he could see O’Connell prowling behind the rear rank. Robert had still not moved and Jack had no intention of summoning him. He figured he was just as safe where he was as he would be anywhere else.
‘Aim lower!’ Jack turned his attention to the company. ‘Aim at their balls!’ The two sides were on roughly the same level on either side of the river. It should have been a straightforward enough shot, but the 1st Boston were shooting like children at the fair. That needed to change if they were to stand a chance of pushing the enemy back with rifle fire alone.
The enemy fired again. Even as the men around him flinched and cursed, Jack ran along the front of the company, letting the men see him.
‘Listen to me. You must aim low!’ He slowed his pace and glared at the men, forcing them to watch him. ‘Shoot the bastards in the balls! You hear me! Aim low!’ He felt no fear, even with his back turned to the enemy. He was back in his element. Some men became master craftsmen, their skills turned to making objects of beauty. Others became artists, their talent entertaining and bewitching those who saw their work. His own skills had no use in any other place than on the field of battle. But there he was master.
Message delivered, he moved back to the right flank. He saw Rowell in his proper place behind the line and waved. It was time to fire again.
‘Aim!’ This time the captain’s voice was louder and more certain. ‘Fire!’
The company fired as one. It was a glorious sound, every trigger pulled in unison. The volley roared out, crisp, sharp and deadly. K Company fired a single heartbeat later. The heavy Minié bullets tore into the enemy ranks. This time dozens fell, the Union bullets spreading death with cruel abandon.
‘Cheer!’ Jack could not contain himself. ‘Cheer!’
The men in blue uniforms roared. It was a feral sound, a deep-throated bellow that started way down in their boots. Jack threw back his head and bellowed with them, releasing the surge of emotion that powered through him.
‘Now load!’ He left the right flank and stalked along the rear of the company. ‘Load, you bastards. You’re beating them. You hear me? You’re tearing the fuckers to shreds.’
He stopped as he came close to O’Connell, who was patrolling behind the left half of the company. The two men grinned at one another, then both turned around and walked back the way they had come.
‘Aim!’ Rowell shouted the order. ‘Fire!’
‘That’s the way! Pour it on! Kill the buggers!’ Jack encouraged the men the moment the volley was away. He checked Robert had not moved, then resumed his fast pacing behind the rear rank. He did not have to look at the enemy to know they were hurting. The fact that they had not fired between the Union volleys told him all he needed to know.
The enemy volley, when it finally came, was ragged. Jack felt the air above his head punched by a dozen fast-moving musket balls, then it was over, the storm whistling past in the span of a single heartbeat.
A Union soldier staggered backwards, his face a mask of blood from where a Confederate bullet had scored across his temple.
‘Get back in the ranks!’ Jack pounced on the unfortunate soul.
‘But I’m hit!’
‘Get back in the fucking ranks,’ Jack snarled. ‘You can still stand so you can still fight.’ He grabbed the man firmly around the shoulders and steered him back into his place.
‘They’re running!’ The cry came from the front rank.
‘Come back, you cowardly rebel sons of bitches!’ A man at the rear stood up on his tiptoes and hurled the abuse at the enemy.
‘Shut your faces and shoot the bastards!’ Jack shouted at the men who had stopped reloading to jeer at the enemy.
A moment later, Rowell gave the orders, and another volley blasted out.
It would be their last.
‘Cease firing!’ Jack shouted as he reached the right flank. The closest enemy unit was rushing back up the slope. They were out of effective range and the men needed to save their powder for whatever came next. For the day was not yet done, and already he could see Confederate officers riding around the enemy’s broken ranks, rallying the fleeing soldiers. They would be back.
Jack stood in front of A Company and looked at the smoke-blackened faces of his men. Some were bloodied, the Confederate musket balls having left at least a dozen men with flesh wounds. The rest were pale under the black smudges of spent powder, the shock of having fought for the first time only sinking in now that it was done. A good many had puked their guts into the grass, the stink of vomit mixing with the lingering smell of powder.
The four flank companies had been pulled back to the main battle line. They could not hope to press home the attack by themselves. The Union commanders would have to commit more men if they were to force a passage across the Bull Run. For now, both sides were drawing breath, the troops on both sides of the river waiting to discover if they would have to fight again that day.
‘Lieutenant Lark.’
Jack looked up in surprise as he recognised who had come to speak with him.
‘What do you want?’ He had not meant to sound harsh, but he heard the bite in his own tone.
Rowell looked at the ground in front of his boots. ‘I would like a moment of your time.’
‘You have it.’ Jack did his best to hold his anger in check. His doubts about Rowell’s ability to lead had been proven correct, but there was no value in bawling the man out. The company needed them to be united. No matter
how galling it would prove to be, he had to find a way to build a bridge between them.
‘We are to hold our ground here and await further instructions.’
Jack was saved from replying immediately as a battery of guns deployed to the right of the men from Boston. The gunners filled the air with shouted orders as they detached the cannon from their gun teams and readied them for action.
‘Colonel Scanlon has been summoned to join General Tyler. Bridges has the regiment.’ Rowell spoke once the gunners had quietened down.
Jack did not reply. He sensed Rowell wanted to say more. He did not have to wait long.
‘Do you think Bridges is up to it?’
Jack snorted. ‘As much as Scanlon. Anyway, it doesn’t much matter. We just need to look after our men.’
‘Our men?’ Rowell shook his head as he repeated the phrase. ‘I thought they were yours more than they were mine.’ The words were bitter.
‘They did well.’ Jack sucked down a breath. When forced to chew on a turd, it made sense to bite hard and quick. ‘You did well.’ He managed to offer the praise without the words sticking in his craw.
‘I did?’ Rowell finally looked at him, and Jack saw the need in the captain’s eyes.
‘It is no small thing, commanding men in battle. I was shit at it the first time I tried.’ He thought back to a hillside far away in the Crimea, and to a desperate rally square surrounded by marauding Russian Cossacks. ‘You did just fine.’
‘If you had not been there . . .’ Rowell did not finish the thought.
‘If?’ Jack chuckled as he repeated the single word. ‘If ifs and buts were candied nuts then we’d all be fat bastards sitting on our arses back in Boston. Ifs don’t matter. The men stood and fought. You gave the right orders. That’s good enough for now.’
Rowell had to swallow hard before he was able to reply. ‘I think I have treated you badly.’
‘No worse than I have treated you.’ Jack sighed, then addressed the real issue. ‘Elizabeth is marrying you, not me. I’m not your rival for her affections.’ He grunted as he heard what he was saying. They were the words of a fool.
The True Soldier: Jack Lark 6 Page 27
