The True Soldier: Jack Lark 6

by Paul Fraser Collard

  ‘Fire!’

  The regiment fired as one.

  ‘Fix bayonets!’

  The order was loud in the moment that followed the single, immense volley. The men obeyed instantly, their training making the action instinctive. Hundreds of clicks filled the air as the men locked the eighteen-inch-long blades in place on the ends of their rifles. It was the moment Colonel Scanlon had trained them for.

  ‘1st Boston!’ Bridges’ voice was huge. ‘Prepare to charge!’

  The command was nearly lost in a great wave of sound that came surging over the Union men. Through the powder smoke they could see the Confederate troops advancing. They had lost a lot of men, the Union volley gutting the leading ranks. Still they came on, their wild, devilish cry increasing in intensity as they closed the gap on the soldiers standing in their way.

  Jack felt the wild urge to fight. He looked ahead and hefted his weapons in his hands. It was the moment he had half forgotten, the pause before men would fight like animals in a dreadful battle to kill or be killed.

  ‘Charge!’

  The Union line cheered then. They went forward in a rush, roaring their defiance, teeth bared in animal snarls.

  Jack cared nothing for holding a position. He left his post and ran behind the line so that he reached Robert in the moments before the two armies came together in a wild rush. He saw dozens fall from both sides, the impetus of the charge driving men onto bayonets thrust forward at the last moment. He pushed Robert behind him, then he was fighting. A man with a thick beard came at him, yelling as he thrust his bayonet at Jack’s belly. There was time for him to see the man’s yellow teeth before he twisted to one side and let the weapon slide past his hip. The bearded rebel’s yell turned to a gasp of fear as he missed his target. It ended in a scream of terror as Jack sliced his sabre’s leading edge through his eyes.

  ‘Come on!’ Jack encouraged the men around him. He held his rage at bay, needing to remain in control for a while longer.

  ‘Stay behind me!’ There was time to holler the command to Robert before another man dressed in one of the fabulous red shirts tried to slash his bayonet across Jack’s face. It was a wild blow, driven by fear. Jack laughed as he swayed back, letting the steel whisper past his face before ramming his own blade forward and thrusting the sabre’s point into the man’s heart. He twisted the blade as he drove it home, then pulled back hard, fighting against the suction of the man’s body that threatened to rip the weapon from his grip. He stepped forward and shouldered past the man, who had dropped his rifle and now clutched at the terrible hole rent in his breast, a soft sigh the last sound he would ever emit.

  The two lines were hopelessly mixed in a vicious, swirling melee. Men from both sides died without even knowing who had struck them down. Jack held his ground, his only thought to screen Robert from the fight and to kill any man that came close.

  The enemy’s gaudy uniforms made picking them out easy, and he used his sword to batter away a rifle thrust at a defenceless blue-coated soldier’s side. The man with the rifle turned in surprise, his eyes widening as Jack raised his revolver. He was still staring in shock when the first bullet took him right between the eyes.

  ‘To me!’ Jack called to the men in blue. ‘To me!’ He rallied them to his side, trying to bring order from chaos. He raised his left arm and gunned down another rebel, the bullet catching the man in the neck.

  Men fought towards him. They formed a knot, fighting side by side, their bayonets driven at any of the red-shirted men who came close. Jack checked that Robert was still behind him, then snapped off another shot, narrowly missing a man with a sword whom he presumed was a rebel officer. His next shot killed the man, the bullet striking him full on the temple, his head blown apart. He felt the madness start to take hold and fought against it. It was not time to let the wildness have its head.

  ‘They’re running!’ A breathless voice shouted in his ear. Jack saw the enemy start to break. He emptied the last barrels of his revolver, cutting down a man as he turned away, the heavy bullet catching him in the pit of his spine so that he fell forward, his body arching in sudden agony.

  ‘Thank God.’ Robert breathed the words in relief.

  Jack looked at the men huddled around him. James Thatcher’s chest heaved with exertion. The sleeves of his uniform were bloodied to the elbow so that he looked more like a slaughterman than a soldier.

  ‘Form line.’ Jack shoved his revolver back in its holster, then sucked down a deep draught of the heated air.

  The rebels were breaking, but the 1st Boston was in no condition to go back on the offensive. The Union’s flank attack had been stalled.

  Enemy reinforcements lined the top of the hill. Jack watched them file past the battered regiments that had held against the Union advance. He did not have to count the men in the bright shirts and striped trousers to know that they had suffered badly. The lower slopes were heaped with bodies, showing where the two sides had clashed. Some of the bodies still moved, the men wounded in the bitter melee struggling to find the strength to move away. Others just lay where they were and called for aid, for water, for their mother, or just for a bullet to end their misery. A great many lay completely still, twisted into the grotesque shapes of death.

  As Jack watched, the Union gunners fired on the fresh Confederate troops. There were two batteries close to where the 1st Boston had re-formed well out of range of the enemy line, and the artillerymen were laying down well-directed fire, exacting a dreadful toll on the enemy. The infantry might have been unable to shift the Confederates from the crest of the hill, but at least the gunners were playing their part.

  Jack gave up watching the enemy troops and turned to look at the men in A Company. Most sat on the ground. Those still with water drained their canteens. A few looked up at him, eyes white against powder-streaked faces. Their expressions were blank.

  Robert stood at his side, holding his sword. It was clean, the steel still bright. Jack’s own sword was in its scabbard, the blood and gore coating the blade hidden from view.

  He heard Bridges before he saw him. The major had dismounted and was picking his way through the tired men under his command, offering what encouragement he could.

  ‘Gentlemen.’ The major saw Jack and Robert standing together.

  ‘Sir.’ Jack spoke for the two of them.

  ‘The boys did well.’ Bridges raised his voice to make sure the men of A Company heard him.

  ‘They did,’ Jack agreed with conviction. He did not have to force the praise. The men from Boston had fought hard.

  ‘Hunter is down. Burnside has the division.’

  Jack nodded as Bridges gave the news. The command of the division was not his concern. The command of the 1st Boston was.

  ‘You did well too, sir.’ He spoke softly. He wanted Bridges alone to hear him.

  Bridges looked back at him, then pushed out his lips to bristle his moustache. ‘That is good of you to say so, Jack. I confess I did not know what I was doing.’ The words were said quietly.

  ‘No. You don’t at first.’ Jack reached out and held Bridges’ upper arm. ‘But you did well, truly. You led the men. That’s not an easy thing to do.’

  Bridges grunted. Jack did not know whether it was in denial or if the words had reached the place he had intended. Either way, he had meant them. Bridges had done all a commander could do.

  ‘You have a talent for this.’ Jack let go of the major’s arm.

  ‘I hope not, Jack.’ Bridges sighed. ‘Where is Captain Rowell?’

  Jack turned and looked over his shoulder. ‘Just there, sir.’ Rowell was sitting on the ground, sipping at his canteen.

  ‘I need him to take command of the right wing. Poor Captain Thompson took a bullet to the shoulder and has gone back to the surgeons.’

  ‘I’m sure he will be pleased.
’ Jack could not hold back the ungenerous remark.

  ‘I am sure he will.’ Bridges looked at Robert. ‘It means you have the company, Mr Kearney.’

  Robert turned at hearing his name. He had been staring at the enemy line. ‘What’s that you say, Temperance?’ He spoke in an off-hand fashion, his attention still elsewhere.

  ‘You are the senior lieutenant, so A Company is yours. Rowell has the right wing.’

  Robert stood and stared at Bridges. Then he laughed.

  ‘I’ll take that as acceptance.’ Bridges’ expression did not alter, but he did look at Jack before clapping Robert on the shoulder. ‘I must speak to Rowell. Good luck to you both.’

  The two lieutenants watched the major walk over to Captain Rowell. They were too far away to hear anything that was said between the two men.

  ‘Will you do it?’ Robert plucked at Jack’s sleeve as he asked the question.

  ‘No.’ Jack knew what Robert wanted. ‘But I’ll be here, don’t you worry.’

  ‘I cannot—’

  ‘Stop it,’ Jack interrupted. ‘You will command this company.’

  ‘But . . .’ Robert’s voice trailed off as he saw the look in Jack’s eyes. He glanced down at the ground, then sucked in a deep draught of air before he looked back at Jack. ‘You’ll help me?’

  ‘Of course.’ Jack watched Robert closely.

  ‘Oh Lord. I think I’m going to be sick.’

  ‘Well, if you must, do it out of sight of the boys. It won’t fill them with confidence if you puke in front of them.’ Jack patted Robert on the back, but his attention was on Bridges and Rowell. Their conversation had just ended and Rowell had got to his feet. As the two senior officers passed the lieutenants, Bridges nodded but Rowell did not so much as glance their way. He walked away from his company without looking back.

  ‘Come on.’ Jack had kept his hand against Robert’s back and now he used it to gently push him forward. ‘Let’s see to the men. Tell them to take off their bayonets, and I would suggest you have every man load. We won’t be left in peace for long.’

  Robert nodded, then shuffled forward. The new commander of A Company still looked ready to vomit, but he did what he was told.

  ‘Jack!’

  Jack had been sitting on the ground, loading his revolver as swiftly as he could. Now he rose as he heard Robert call his name.

  ‘They’re moving forward.’ The younger man was standing a few yards away, pointing at the enemy line.

  ‘On your feet!’ Jack shouted the order. ‘Form line. Look lively now, boys.’

  The men were slow to obey. They were tired. The long march followed by the advance up the hill and the fight with the gaudy Confederates had drained their strength. But it was still not yet noon. There was plenty of the day left and the 1st Boston would have to find the will to carry on.

  ‘What the hell are they doing?’ Robert was watching the Confederate line as it swept down the hill. ‘I thought we were attacking them?’

  ‘Perhaps no one thought to tell them that.’ Jack reached out and pulled the younger man around. ‘Centre rear, sir.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You need to take your place. The company commander stands behind the centre of the rear rank. Now come on.’ He dragged Robert to one side. Behind them, the two-man-deep line was now nearly fully formed.

  Away to the company’s left, the rest of the regiment was doing the same, as were the other battered Union regiments in the line. The men who had been committed to the attack on the Confederates’ left flank now found themselves on the defensive.

  ‘Hold your fire!’ Bridges had remounted. Now he rode along the rear of the regiment. ‘Hold your fire!’

  Jack got Robert into position, then ran to the right flank of the company. It was only when he reached the end of the line that he looked again at the enemy advance.

  Their whole line was sweeping down the hillside. There was little discipline to the ranks, yet they came on quickly, following their red, white and blue colours and giving their strange, unearthly yell.

  The Union artillery fired without pause, the gunners knocking huge gaps in the enemy ranks. Yet the gunners could no more stem the tide of the advance than a child could hold back the sea with a wall of sand. Only the massed firepower of the infantry regiments could do that.

  But it would have to be timed to perfection. Jack stood on the right of the line. He did not look at the enemy or pay attention to the rebel yell. He was measuring distances in his mind. The regiment’s first volley would have to be held back until the enemy were close. If Bridges gave the order too early, the power of the volley would be wasted. Too late, and the enemy would be on them in a heartbeat.

  For a moment, Jack contemplated leaving his post so that he could run over to Bridges. His body jerked into motion of its own accord before he managed to hold it in check. He could not leave Robert as the only officer in charge of the company. He would have to bite his tongue and trust Bridges to judge the right time to fire.

  The enemy came on quickly. Dozens fell as the Union gunners fired and fired, yet still the line swarmed forward.

  ‘Aim!’

  The Confederates were close enough for individual faces to be picked out of the crowd. Jack could see the hatred in their expressions, the anger in their eyes. He hoped to hell that Bridges’ instincts would be good. It was a huge responsibility, the weight of commanding a regiment in battle one of the heaviest burdens a man could carry. For an experienced officer, it was a trial. Major Bridges, like most officers that day, had no experience.

  ‘Fire!’

  Bridges gave the order early.

  The Union line erupted in an explosion of violence. The heavy bullets fired by the Springfields spat from hundreds of rifles at the same moment. They ripped into the Confederate line, tearing men apart and spreading death with wanton cruelty.

  ‘Load!’ Bridges shouted the next order, his voice loud enough to carry over the rebels’ yells and screams.

  The enemy had been bludgeoned to a halt. They were in disarray, the dead and dying blocking the way forward, the broken, twisted bodies tripping those still trying to move forward. Yet although the Confederate line had been mauled, it had not been shattered. Now those still standing raised their own rifles to their shoulders and fired.

  Jack could not help flinching as the storm of bullets stung the air around him. There was a moment of bowel-twisting fear that passed as quickly as the enemy bullets whistled by. Men in every company were hit. Some were killed outright, but most were left alive, great gouges ripped in their flesh or whole limbs ripped from their bodies.

  ‘Close up!’ he shouted. It was the same order he had heard on every battlefield he had fought on. The dead and the dying were ignored, their cries and pleas for aid falling on the callous ears of those left fighting.

  ‘Aim! . . . Fire!’

  The Union line blasted out a second volley, knocking more men down, bodies crumpling to the ground all along the Confederate line. But enough of the line still stood. Each man fired back as soon as he was loaded, the rolling fire picking at the Union line, snatching away a man here or sending another reeling back there.

  ‘Fire by companies!’ Bridges’ voice rang out once more.

  ‘Aim!’ Robert shouted the command, his first order on the field of battle.

  K Company fired first, the first company in the regiment line. As soon as he heard the crash of their volley, the young lieutenant sucked down a deep breath.

  ‘Fire!’

  A Company had lost at least a dozen men, but the rest stuck to their task and obeyed their new commander’s order. The volley crashed out crisply, the sound of the individual shots lost in the roar.

  The company next to K Company on the left of the line fired moments after A Company. The fire then
rippled down the regiment, each company firing in turn, whilst those that had already fired loaded as fast as they could. Each volley cut down men from the Confederate line.

  Yet even now the enemy would not break. With the bodies of the fallen kicking and thrashing at their feet, the Confederates stood and returned fire.

  ‘Load!’ Robert’s order was nearly lost in the now constant roar of rifle fire, but the men knew what was expected of them and they reloaded just as they had been trained.

  ‘Close the ranks!’ shouted Jack, then stepped to his left, watching the men closely. He had lost sight of the enemy, the regiment now completely covered in a thick cloud of powder smoke. All the men could do was load and fire as quickly as they were able.

  ‘Aim!’ Robert shouted, louder this time, warming to his task. ‘Fire!’

  Again the company fired. Men died even as they pulled their triggers, the barrage from the enemy line unceasing.

  The routine of battle carried on without pause. Soldiers screamed as they were hit. Some staggered away from the line, blood pumping from their wounds. Others just slumped to the ground, their hands plucking at the arms and legs of those still standing as they begged for aid.

  ‘Close up!’ Jack dragged a blue-coated body out of the way, ignoring the pitiful screams of a man shot in the groin, then stepped left. ‘Aim at the officers!’ he yelled. He watched his men as they poured on the fire. O’Dowd was in the thick of it. The Irishman cursed as he reloaded, his mouth spewing forth a foul tirade at the enemy soldiers who refused to break. James Thatcher screamed as he fought, his need to kill insatiable.

  The company was like a machine. Men fired and reloaded without pause. Few could see the enemy, a great cloud of foul powder smoke rolling across the line, but they could hear them, their screams and yells a constant undertone to the roar of rifle fire. And the Confederates fired back without pause, the air around the Union soldiers punched repeatedly as bullet after bullet seared through the smoke.

  ‘Keep going!’ Jack could only shout encouragement. It was a brutal fight quite unlike any he had ever known. The two sides were slugging it out in a vicious duel of rifle and musket fire. ‘Aim low and kill the bastards!’