Jack Lark: Redcoat (A Jack Lark Short Story)

by Paul Fraser Collard

  Jack had no option. He did as he was told and walked into their den.

  ‘Stand there.’ Attwood gestured towards the fireplace.

  The sergeants had created a cosy nest for themselves. Two club chairs faced the fire, both with footstools and side tables. Against the far wall stood a pair of bookcases, their shelves filled with papers and all manner of paraphernalia that the two men had accumulated during the course of their service. Under the tall window that overlooked the parade ground was a low chest; a few glasses and mugs perched on its top. A single gas lamp was balanced on the far end of the chest alongside Attwood’s shako, and a set of army-issue boots stood on the floor next to it on a sheet of old newspaper.

  Jack scanned the room quickly. Attwood was quite alone.

  ‘Colour Sergeant Slater will be along momentarily.’ Attwood noticed Jack’s eyes darting around the room and guffawed at the expression he saw on the redcoat’s face. ‘Don’t shit your breeches, boy. I ain’t going to hurt you.’ He shook his head at such obvious fear.

  Jack did his best to stand still. He sensed nothing in Attwood’s tone that pointed towards him being in trouble. A small part of his fear settled. It would not leave him completely. He was a fly standing patiently in a spider’s web.

  He tensed as he heard the sound of the door opening. He kept his eyes facing forward but he felt the chill at the back of his neck as he realised who had just arrived.

  ‘Ah, I see we have ourselves a visitor.’ Slater’s voice was mocking. ‘Young Mr Lark has graced us with his presence, Sergeant Attwood.’

  ‘For which I am sure we are both grateful.’ Attwood played along. He was busy in front of the window; Jack heard the sound of liquid being poured. ‘Here you are, Colour Sergeant, a little something to stave off the chill.’ He turned and handed Slater a crystal glass with three fingers of a clear liquid inside.

  ‘You are a good man, John.’ Slater took the glass and sat down heavily in one of the chairs. Jack was ignored.

  Attwood stayed where he was, slowly swirling the gin around in the bottom of his own glass.

  Jack stared straight ahead. He did not know what else to do. The waiting was stretching his already finely tuned nerves.

  ‘I expect you wonder what you are doing here, Lark.’

  Jack started. The minutes had ticked by. When Slater finally spoke, he could not help but flinch. He said nothing.

  ‘Cat got your tongue, Lark?’

  ‘No, Colour Sergeant.’ Jack managed to find a reply. His throat felt half closed and he had to force the words out.

  ‘The other day, you came here and made a request of me.’ Slater paused to sip at his drink. ‘I expect you can recall what that request was.’

  ‘Yes, Colour Sergeant.’ Jack had spotted a crack at just the right height on the frame of one of the bookcases. He used it as a mark, staring at it whilst he replied with the litany that was the only way for a redcoat to speak to a colour sergeant.

  ‘I have thought on your request. I am minded to grant it.’

  Jack looked down in astonishment. He had come expecting punishment and censure. Instead Slater was giving him the permission he had sought but which he no longer needed now that he had applied to Sloames directly.

  ‘Ah, I am glad I finally have your attention.’ Slater smiled as Jack looked at him. It was like watching a stray dog spot a scrap of meat. ‘Do I take it that you would still like to be considered for the role of orderly?’

  ‘Yes, Colour Sergeant.’ For a single heartbeat Jack thought of mentioning his contact with Sloames. Yet he was not completely off his guard and he stayed mum.

  ‘Good.’ Slater turned to look at Attwood. ‘You were quite correct, John. Young Lark is still keen on a new role.’

  Attwood knocked back the last of his drink and placed his glass on the chest. ‘I am pleased to hear it.’ He bent low and picked up the boots from the floor. He looked up at Jack. ‘Catch hold of these.’

  A confused Jack caught the boots as they came at him. He felt his finger slide into something soft on the sole of one of them. He smelt the stench of old shit.

  ‘Clean these first. Then you can start in here.’ Attwood barked a short laugh as he saw Jack’s expression. ‘A bit of dog shit ain’t going to hurt you, Lark. Make sure you get it all off, mind. I cannot go around stinking like a fucking navvy.’

  Jack stared at the muddy brown streak on his fingers. He understood then why he had been summoned.

  Slater drained the last of his own drink. ‘You want to be an orderly, don’t you, Lark? Well, Sergeant Attwood and I have decided to grant your request.’

  ‘Colour Sergeant?’ Jack knew what was happening. He tried to think of a way out. He saw only one.

  ‘You can start right now.’ Slater was enjoying Jack’s surprise. ‘There is no need to thank us, Lark. I would not like it to be said that we do not give a fellow a chance, not when he has been so keen as to ask for it.’

  ‘I’m not doing it.’ Jack took one last look at the shit-smeared boots before placing them carefully on the floor.

  ‘What’s that you say?’ Attwood reacted first. He paced towards Jack. ‘Did you say you ain’t doing it?’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant.’ Jack was looking at Slater. The colour sergeant’s expression had not changed.

  Attwood’s had. He thrust his face into Jack’s, the wash of his breath warm on Jack’s cheeks. ‘You jumped-up little prick. You too good for this, Lark? Is that it? You too high and fucking mighty to clean my boots?’

  Jack refused to back down. He wanted to be an officer’s orderly, not a lackey to a pair of bastard sergeants. He would not give in and let his shot at progression, and his chance with Molly, disappear. ‘Sergeants don’t get orderlies. Only officers do.’

  Attwood sneered, his face inches from Jack’s own. ‘Is that so? Well, we’re changing that rule right here and right fucking now.’

  ‘It’s in the regulations.’ Jack stood firm.

  ‘So is insubordination.’ Attwood’s face was contorting with anger. ‘Disobeying orders is an offence, Lark. One for which you will be flogged.’

  Jack did his best not to reveal his fear. ‘You cannot have me flogged for not being your servant.’

  ‘Can’t I? Are you quite sure about that?’ Attwood’s voice rose to a higher pitch. ‘Because I reckon I can have you flogged any fucking day I choose. I can have your back whipped bloody. I can make you wish you had never been born.’

  ‘John.’ Slater spoke. The single word cut through Attwood’s tirade even though it was delivered in nothing more than a conversational tone. The sergeant backed away like a bull mastiff summoned to its owner’s side.

  Slater leant forward and placed his empty glass on the table beside his chair. ‘Private Lark, am I hearing correctly? Did you really just disobey an order?’

  Jack had to swallow hard to clear the lump from his throat. ‘Yes, Colour Sergeant. I want to be orderly to Captain Sloames.’

  ‘And not to us?’

  ‘No, Colour Sergeant.’ Jack summoned every shred of courage he possessed. ‘I have spoken to Captain Sloames and made my application directly.’

  The room was silent. Jack stared straight ahead, his jaw clenched tight as he waited for what was to come.

  ‘Would you care to explain why you would do such a thing?’ Slater asked the question with sweet reasonableness. ‘You came to me for permission and I gave you my answer. Why would you then take it upon yourself to ignore my verdict and bother Mr Sloames? Did I fail to make myself clear?’

  Jack looked away from his mark and glanced at Slater. He saw something shift in the man’s eyes. The knot deep in his belly untied itself and fear flooded his body. ‘No, Colour Sergeant.’

  ‘So why, pray, did you not do as I told you?’

  ‘I want th
e role. I want to be an officer’s orderly.’

  ‘Do you now? Was a place in my company not good enough for you?’

  Jack sucked in a deep breath. ‘No, Colour Sergeant.’

  ‘WHY NOT?’ Slater came to his feet in a single bound, screaming the words at Jack, a rabid anger unleashed. ‘You by-blow of a doxy. You are not going anywhere without my say-so. Mr fucking Sloames can piss right off if he thinks he is messing with my company.’ He came for Jack, his great paw grabbing him by the front of his jacket, pulling him close. ‘It’s time you learnt who runs this fucking company.’ He turned to Attwood. ‘Take this piece of filth outside.’

  The mask was off. The real Colour Sergeant Slater was revealed in all his sordid glory.

  Jack did not even attempt to resist.

  Attwood took him by the arm and hauled him out of the parlour. He moved fast, dragging Jack along the corridor and towards the yard at the rear of the barracks where the soldiers carried out their morning ablutions.

  Jack felt the fingers digging into the soft flesh of his upper arm. They hurt, but he knew it was as nothing compared to what was to come. Attwood walked quickly, his face thrust forward as he frogmarched Jack along. Jack went with him, trying his best to summon the courage he would need.

  It did not come easily. He had never felt a fear like it. His body thrilled with the urge to run, to escape what was waiting for him in the empty yard. Yet he refused to let the fear master him. Nothing he could do would spare him from his fate. He could only choose how he would meet it. He vowed to take what was coming and repay as much as he could. He would not submit meekly.

  The air in the yard was cold. Tucked away at the back of the barracks, it rarely felt the warmth of the sun. The ground was still slick from that morning’s wash, the cobblestones layered with watery slurry.

  Attwood threw Jack away from him the moment they crossed the threshold and came outside, then turned away, his hands rising to strip the scarlet coat from his shoulders.

  Jack skidded round, his feet nearly slipping out from under him. He saw Slater arrive, his face twisted into a terrible snarl as he contemplated the figure facing him. The colour sergeant pulled his own uniform coatee from his wide shoulders, dropping it to the floor before turning to close the door to the yard.

  ‘Take off your tunic.’ Attwood gave the command. He was prowling round, bunching his sleeves up over heavily muscled forearms. ‘Do it now!’ he roared, his hands balling into fists.

  Jack did as he was told. He watched the two sergeants as he removed his own red coat. He had wanted one for so long. The ambition to become a redcoat had helped him endure the harsh life he had lived before his mother had thrown him out, the dream helping him to survive the beatings administered by her old man. It had sustained him during the trials of his early weeks in the army, and it had made the dreary life of a garrison soldier worthwhile. He felt the cloth under his fingers, the weave of the red jacket that he wore with such pride. The touch lent him courage, and he tossed the coat to one side and turned to face Slater.

  ‘Just me and you.’ He lifted a finger and pointed it straight at the hulking colour sergeant. ‘Just me and you, you fat bastard.’

  Slater cackled. ‘You want to fight me, boy? That ain’t exactly how this goes.’ The enormous sergeant flexed his muscles.

  Jack dared not dwell on Slater’s size. He thought only of how to fight. He had beaten bigger men, stronger ones too. A fight was not all about brawn. ‘It takes both of you to take me down, does it?’ He turned and spat out a thick wad of phlegm. ‘Two against one, then. So be it. I’ll take you both on if I have to.’

  The two sergeants bellowed with laughter. They took the first paces forward, spreading out so that they would come at him from different directions. There was practised ease in their actions, the unspoken alliance of two men who had done this so many times that no words were needed.

  Jack felt his pathetic courage falter. ‘I’ll fight you both.’ The words sounded desperate even to his own ears. Any conviction was getting lost in the fear that made his voice tremble.

  ‘Don’t you fucking cry, boy.’ Attwood relished Jack’s distress. ‘Plenty of time for that later.’

  ‘You brought this on yourself, Lark.’ Slater was carefully rolling up his shirtsleeves. ‘I am not having it said that a man ignored me.’

  Jack looked at his own hands as they balled into fists. He was trying to think, to find a way out. He looked up to see that Slater was ready. There was no escape.

  ‘Come on then!’ He shouted the words, fanning the dregs of his courage, digging deep into the recesses of his soul. ‘Come on!’

  He moved fast. Try as he might, he could think of nothing else. So he did the only thing left open to him.

  He attacked.

  Attwood was staring at him, the sudden movement taking him unawares. Jack’s right hand lashed out. He had fought more times than he could remember, but he had never thrown a punch like it. It hit Attwood square on the point of his chin. He felt the impact surge through his arm, the bones in his hand screaming out in a sudden flash of pain.

  Attwood fell like a sack of horseshit. He landed on his arse, then toppled backwards, the hulking sergeant knocked senseless by the single blow.

  Jack roared in triumph, twisting away, dancing over Attwood’s ankles, turning to face Slater.

  ‘You fucking want some!’ His head echoed to the wild cry. The feeling that surged through him was like nothing he had ever known. The madness held him in a remorseless grip. He thought only of fighting. The urge to batter his fists at Slater overpowered every other thought. He wanted to fight. He wanted to kill.

  Slater came at him without a sound, charging in like a bull, his great fists swinging. Jack ducked away. He had seen the blows coming before Slater launched them. He cackled with mad delight and punched with his left hand, slamming it against the side of Slater’s head.

  He was rewarded with nothing more than a grunt. Slater shook off the blow without pausing and came at Jack again. He punched hard, his fists moving faster than Jack could track. He tried to avoid them, but despite his size, Slater was quick, and one punch battered into Jack’s side, driving most of the breath from his body. Somehow he kept his balance and skittered away, his quick feet saving him.

  Slater tossed his head and came again without pause, his fists ready to launch the next assault.

  ‘Come on!’ Jack was hurting. His cry came out more as a whimper than a bellow. Still he threw himself forward, trying to keep moving fast. He slipped past the first blow aimed at his head, then punched hard, driving his fist full into Slater’s gut.

  It was like punching teak. Slater took the blow, then grabbed at Jack with his left hand, spinning him around, his army boots skidding on the slick mud on the cobbles.

  Jack fell, his balance thrown by the sudden push. He saw Slater’s right fist coming for him, but this time he could not twist away. The punch caught the side of his head and bludgeoned him to the ground. He hit hard, his teeth jarring together, but he still had enough sense to scrabble back to all fours and force himself to his feet. To his surprise, Slater backed away, giving him the time he needed to regain his footing.

  ‘That’s the way, Lark. Get yourself ready for some more.’ The colour sergeant cackled with delight. ‘Come on, you mewling turd. You wanted a fight. Well, here it is. Just me and you, like you wanted.’ He hefted his fists. It was clear that he was enjoying himself.

  Jack did his best to adopt a fighting stance. He felt like every ounce of strength had been beaten out of him, yet Slater was not done and still had to be faced. He sucked in a last breath, then moved as quickly as his abused body would allow.

  Slater lashed out, just as Jack had known he would. The right fist came first, the blow powerful enough to cut short Jack’s futile resistance. But he saw it coming and swayed ba
ck, letting it pass by in front of his nose. Slater’s left followed, the blow driving at Jack’s gut. He twisted away, trying to let it slide past, his body already preparing his counter-attack, his right hand pulling back ready to slam into Slater’s face.

  But he was too slow. Slater’s left fist glanced the side of his ribs. It was like being hit with a hammer. The blow knocked him sideways and his arm flailed at nothing but air, the punch missing Slater by at least half a dozen inches.

  Slater cackled and closed in for the kill. The punches came fast and Jack could do nothing to defend himself. Blow after blow pulverised his chest and arms, rocking him back on his heels. He staggered backwards, his arms flailing in a desperate attempt to ward off the salvo.

  The pain washed through him, a great wave of agony punctured only by a bright flash as another blow battered his flesh. He bent double as Slater drove a punch straight into his gut and the last of his breath was forced from his body. As his head came down, so Slater raised a knee, smashing it into his face.

  Jack could take no more. He fell, crumpling to the ground, the rush of blood hot and slick on his face. He tried to curl into a ball, but Slater’s boots came for him the moment he was down, the heavy kicks sending him sprawling across the floor of the yard. His face hit the cobbles, the wet stone suddenly cold on his cheek before another red-hot poker lanced through him as Slater kicked him hard in the ribs.

  Without warning, the assault stopped. Jack was barely able to see, his vision greying out as the pain took hold. Through the murk he saw Slater loom over him, the man’s great fists smeared with blood.

  ‘Who the fuck did you think you were?’ The words were laboured, Slater’s chest heaving as he breathed hard. ‘A fucking orderly indeed.’

  Jack saw the shadow of an army boot. It came for him faster than he could track, the vicious kick aimed at his head. He felt a moment’s agony before the world disappeared and everything went mercifully black.

  Jack sat up slowly. He kept his eyes closed, testing the pain, moving gingerly as he assessed each part of his body in turn. He had been beaten before and he knew the bruises would heal, his battered body capable of enduring the fresh waves of agony until they became nothing more than a dull ache. But that was far in the future, and he groaned as he moved, the beating too fresh to be easily ignored.