He opened his eyes. The darkness was complete, the same with his eyes open as with them shut. He did not know how long he had been there or how long he would remain. But he knew where he was.
Every redcoat knew the black hole, the place of solitary confinement where an errant soldier would be incarcerated as punishment for a misdemeanour deemed more serious than those punished by extra duties or withdrawal of privileges. Jack had not been there before, his failures minor enough for him to have escaped a punishment that many of the redcoats thought of as only slightly better than a flogging.
The black hole was sited to the rear of the guardhouse. The cell had no windows, which left it completely shrouded in darkness. The single solid door was locked and barred, a small hatch in its centre the means for bread and water to be passed to the prisoner without it being opened. There was nothing in the way of comfort to be found inside. There was no bed to lie upon, just a single pot for the prisoner to piss in. Soldiers held in the miserable cell were left there to rot for up to two days, their senses denied any stimulation and their bodies denied any comfort.
Yet in the miserable darkness, Jack recovered. The pain of the brutal beating was not easy to ignore, but he had it mastered, his bitter childhood experience teaching him how to exist when his body howled and screamed in protest. His back was the worst. The base of his spine was a single fiery pit of agony, as if the devil himself was sitting on his shoulders and driving a fiery trident deep into his flesh. Yet he refused to yield, and he sat on the cold stone floor, his knees pulled tight into his chest, and waited for it to end.
When the door finally opened, it did so so suddenly that Jack first flinched, then groaned, the instinctive jerking motion reawakening his aches and pains. Light flooded into the cell and he screwed his eyes shut as it burnt into them. Slowly he opened them, blinking fast, his hand lifting to shield them from the glare.
‘Dear Lord.’ The man in the doorway whispered the words as he took in Jack’s appearance.
Jack could say nothing. He sat there mute, his mind finally coming alive to his fate.
‘Fetch this man some water immediately.’ The command was given with authority. It was a voice that was used to being obeyed.
Jack closed his eyes with shame. He had an idea how he looked. After all, he was no stranger to violence. His mother’s old man had been quick with his fists, and Jack had lost count of the bloodied and beaten bodies he had seen. Once or twice he himself had been the one responsible for the damage, his own fists the ones that had battered another into bloody submission. So he knew exactly what his rescuer saw, but it was not that which shamed him. It was what it meant. For Jack knew he had failed.
‘Here you are, lad. Drink this.’ A burly corporal shuffled awkwardly into the room, taking care to slide past the man who still stood in the doorway.
With the corporal’s help, Jack sipped at the water. It unglued his mouth and scoured away the blood and scraps of torn flesh. Yet he still could not speak.
He buried his head, hiding his face in his arms. He had tried so hard to make something of himself. That failure stung more than the pain of the beating. He had wanted the role of orderly, yet he knew that Sloames could never take a man who got into a fight with his superiors, an offence that would surely lead to a morning parade where Jack would be flogged as a warning to all those who might contemplate disobedience.
And he had wanted Molly. She too was lost to him now. She would not want a man with a scarred back and a shattered dream.
‘Open your eyes, Lark.’ The instruction was delivered softly. Jack heard the man in the doorway dismiss the corporal so that the two of them were left alone. ‘Private Lark, I want you to look at me.’
Jack lifted his head. He felt a spark of his old defiance. Somewhere deep in his being, a part of him rebelled against his fate. It was the last of his courage, the final scrap of the madness that had driven him to charge the two sergeants. He opened his eyes and stared into the face of Captain Sloames.
‘What do you want, sir?’ His voice was that of an old man, the croak of the irritable and the feeble.
‘What happened, Lark?’
‘Slater happened.’
‘He did this?’ Sloames did not sound shocked. The question was delivered flat, without emotion.
Jack nodded.
Sloames looked down at his boots. For the first time, Jack saw the officer’s youth. He realised that Sloames could not be that much older than he was himself. He found he was looking at the man, not at the rank or at the outer shell of an officer. It dawned on his battered mind that they were not so unlike, despite the gulf between their stations.
‘It was my fault, sir.’ He spoke slowly, swallowing the pain. ‘I brought it on myself.’
Sloames looked up and met his stare. ‘Then you are a fool.’
For a reason he did not understand, Jack felt a smile flicker on to his face. ‘Always.’
Sloames smiled in return. ‘I like fools. Life would be so damned dull without them.’
Jack felt something stir in his gut. It was hope.
‘I can never countenance insubordination.’ Sloames was watching him closely as he spoke. He would have had to be blind not to see the spark that had returned to Jack’s eyes. ‘But I do not think anyone could say that you have not been punished enough for such an offence.’
The officer glanced over his shoulder, then back at Jack, who had stayed silent as he recognised the signs of someone coming to a difficult decision.
‘I am a firm believer in second chances. A man’s life should not be sealed for a single lapse in judgement.’
Jack heard the confidence in the captain’s words. Whatever the decision might be, he was now certain that it had been made.
‘I am also a believer in courage. It is such a rare trait that it must be rewarded whenever it appears, no matter what the circumstances.’ Sloames lifted his chin and spoke more firmly. ‘I have need of a new orderly. Tom Mander told me you are the man for the job, and I have seen nothing to make me doubt his opinion.’ He took his first step into the cell. ‘I want you to be my orderly, Lark. What say you to that?’
Jack pushed himself to his feet, doing his best not to wince. ‘Thank you, sir.’ He tried to say more, but his voice betrayed him and the words would not come.
‘Then it is settled.’ Sloames saw everything. ‘No more fighting.’
‘No, sir.’ Jack cleared his throat and took a deep breath. ‘You won’t regret this, sir.’
‘I damn well hope not. Do not let me down.’
‘I won’t, sir.’
‘Good fellow.’ Sloames fixed Jack with a stare. ‘Courage is an admirable trait, but one must know when to fight. Only a fool fights when he knows he will lose.’
‘Sometimes there is no choice, sir.’ Jack did not shirk from the direct gaze. ‘Sometimes you have to fight regardless.’
Sloames held his eyes as he considered the notion. ‘I think perhaps you might be correct. I rather fancy you and I will get on.’ He stood back and swept his arm wide. ‘You can leave now, Lark. Go back and collect your things, then meet me at the guardhouse.’
‘What do I tell the colour sergeant if I happen across him?’ Jack could not bear to name Slater.
‘Have no fear. You will have no trouble. My sergeants are otherwise occupied this morning. I thought my company looked a little lacklustre at this morning’s parade, so I sent them on a march. They shall not return until late this afternoon. Lieutenant Hook will not thank me, as he went with them, but I thought it wise. As for when they return, well, I think I still outrank Colour Sergeant Slater. He and I will be having a little discussion about the duty of a non-commissioned officer. I doubt he will take it well, but it has to be done. He will remain in his post, I think, for the moment, but I will make sure he knows what I expect of him.’
Jack did his best not to betray any of his thoughts. He had a fair idea how much attention Slater would pay to the captain’s dressing-down. It would change nothing, but Jack did not doubt Sloames’s ability to choose his own orderly. In that regard, Slater was powerless.
‘Thank you, sir, for everything.’ He badly wanted to sit down, but he held himself fast against the pain. He knew it would pass, and the pleasure of escaping Slater was a balm to the worst of his wounds.
‘Think nothing of it. I am sure you will return the compliment one day.’ Sloames offered his hand. ‘Welcome on board.’
Jack did his best to hide the inevitable grimace of pain as he shook the captain’s hand. He had paid a high price, but he had done it. He was no longer just a humble redcoat. He was an officer’s orderly. He had taken the first step to making good his ambition. Only time would tell how far an urchin from the foulest rookery of London could go.
‘Lark!’
‘Sir!’ Jack had been dozing. He had been up since three that morning in an attempt to get all his chores done. It was now not much past nine and he had sat down for the first time in hours. He had been asleep in moments.
The first weeks of orderly duty had passed in a blur. Tom Mander had been there for his first week, the time far too short for the old soldier to pass on years’ worth of experience. Before Jack knew it, he had been left to get on with it by himself. He was just about getting by, but he knew he had so much more to learn; like the art of having a pot of fresh coffee ready for his officer when he first awoke.
He was on his feet in a second, his body jackknifing into motion. The door to Sloames’s bedroom was open and Jack burst in. ‘Sir?’
‘I am awake. Some coffee would be nice.’ Sloames combed his fingers through his tousled hair before running a hand up and down against his mutton-chop whiskers.
‘Very good, sir.’ Jack turned to go. Sloames had only retired in the small hours, an impromptu game of rugby in the officers’ mess delaying his rest. Jack had waited for him to arrive so as to be able to help him into bed. Once he would have said that an orderly’s life was easy. Now he knew different.
‘One thing before you go.’ Sloames called Jack back. ‘I heard a rather tasty morsel of tittle-tattle in the mess last night. Are you tupping a young girl in the laundry?’
Jack’s cheeks coloured. His face still bore a smattering of yellow and blue bruises, the legacy of his treatment at the hands of his former colour sergeant taking time to fade away. He was slow to form a reply, but the blush was all the answer his officer needed.
‘You sly rogue. Where on earth do you get the damned time?’
‘Here and there, sir.’ Jack could not help but match his officer’s smile.
‘I should clearly be working you harder.’ Sloames laughed at his own remark. ‘What is her name?’
‘Molly, sir.’ Jack felt the heat on his cheeks.
‘A very pretty name.’ Sloames lay back in his bed and pulled the sheet over himself. ‘Get me some coffee, there’s a good fellow. Then I think these sheets could do with a change. Could you be a good sort and strip the bed and get them cleaned.’ He smirked. ‘If you don’t mind, of course.’
‘No, sir.’ Jack smiled. ‘I reckon I can handle that.’
‘Good fellow.’ Sloames was trying not to laugh at Jack’s expression. ‘I shall take luncheon in the mess and I shall speak to the mess officer and see that you are excused serving duties today. You have worked hard since Mander left. I think you deserve some time off. Only an hour or two, mind.’ He winked. ‘Perhaps your comely companion can help you with your injuries, although judging by the look on your face, I rather fancy that she has been doing that already.’
Jack chucked at the mockery. Sloames was right. Molly has seen his bruises. All of them.
‘Go on, you damned scoundrel. Get me some bloody coffee before I change my mind.’ Sloames pulled the sheet up to his neck and settled back with a contented sigh.
Jack went to do as he’d been told. As he moved, he felt a sharp twinge of pain in his back. Years humping barrels of watered-down gin combined with the recent beating had left him with a near-constant backache. But Molly had strong fingers, and he reckoned he could find a way to convince her to knead away the worst of the dull ache.
He left Sloames to his rest and went to make his officer his precious coffee. The smile stayed fixed firmly in place. For one battered orderly, life was good.
Want to know where it all began for Jack Lark?
Keep reading for an extract from
1854: The banks of the Alma River, Crimean Peninsular. The men of the King’s Royal Fusiliers are in terrible trouble. Officer Jack Lark has to act immediately and decisively. His life and the success of the campaign depend on it. But does he has the mettle, the officer qualities that are the life blood of the British Army?
20 September 1854. The banks of the Alma River, Crimean Peninsula
The redcoats staggered to a bloody halt. The men of the King’s Royal Fusiliers crouched at the edge of the vineyard, ducking and twisting as the storm of shot, shell and bullet tore through their ranks. Dozens of fusiliers went down under the Russian barrage, the men falling silently, their passing unremarked. Those still living pressed close to their comrades, the desperate need to be near to another human being overwhelming the rational thought that to be grouped together was to present a larger target for the enemy to hit.
Beyond the shattered vineyard there was no cover for the frightened fusiliers; a dozen yards of open scrub separated the last of the vines from the shallow banks of the Alma River. The bloodied redcoats clung to what little shelter they could find, stubbornly refusing to advance, no one willing to dare the killing ground to their front.
On their right, the men of the 2nd Division were going to ground, the heavy fire driving its battered battalions to seek cover in the ruined walls and burning buildings that were all that remained of the village of Burliuk. All along the line, the redcoats milled in confusion and fear, still yards short of the river they had been ordered to cross. The Russians poured on the fire ruthlessly, striking redcoat after redcoat to the ground, their bodies forming a tide line, a high-water mark for the advance.
General Raglan’s army was paying in blood for the simplicity of his plan. His decision to fling two of his divisions against the strongest point on the Russians’ right flank was the cause of the suffering being endured by the men who had been ordered forward. It was a plan devoid of all subtlety. A plan that now looked destined to fail.
Jack Lark forced a path through his men. He saw the terror on the faces of the fusiliers, a fear that he knew well as it seared through his own veins. It threatened to drive him screaming to the ground. It begged him to do anything to get out of the merciless fire that swept along the stalled line, yet he made himself move, even though his body flinched at every bullet that whipped past.
‘Fusiliers!’ Jack’s voice was huge. ‘Advance, damn you! Move! Move!’
Still the fusiliers refused to advance. Jack shoved at the men closest to him, trying to force them forward. But they ignored him, their eyes flashing in anger as he tried to bully them. The fusiliers were not advancing for anyone.
The men started to edge backwards, the movement fluttering through the packed ranks. The battalion was moments away from turning to flee from the unrelenting Russian fire that was flaying their ranks.
They had reached breaking point.
Jack cringed as a bullet cracked into the ground at his feet. The fear was paralysing him, ravaging his guts like a caged beast. Every part of him shrank away from what he was about to do. His mind pleaded with him to let someone else carry the burden of responsibility. Yet he had chosen to become an officer and now he would have to repay the debt that came with the gold epaulets and the respect that came from being addressed as ‘Sir’.
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bsp; He shouldered his way through the snug pocket of men to his front, ignoring the oaths and the insults directed at him. He strode out of the vineyard and into the cauldron of fire.
‘King’s Royal Fusiliers!’
He turned to his men, his fury building, the anger driving out the last of his uncertainty. He might have stolen the right to command these men but now he would prove he could lead them. He goaded the enemy fire, prowling in front of his company, showing them he was bigger than the storm of fire that had bludgeoned the slow, steady advance to a standstill.
‘King’s Royal Fusiliers! Look at me!’ Jack demanded attention even as the Russian fire cracked and whipped through the air around him.
‘We will advance. You hear me? We will advance!’ His voice faltered, his throat half closed. Yet he forced the order out, screaming the words at his men who watched him as if they were staring at an inmate of Bedlam let loose on the field of battle.
Jack turned his back on his men and bounded across the few open yards between the vineyard and the river. It felt as if every Russian skirmisher was firing at him but by some miracle he made it to the shallow bank of the river without coming to harm. As he slipped and slithered down the bank, he turned to glare in accusation at his men.
The fusiliers were stationary, as if petrified.
Then, finally, they moved. Prompted by a secret signal the battalion surged forward. The open ground that had caused such fear was crossed in moments, the fusiliers streaming forward to slide down to join Jack in the shallow water of the Alma. The Russian fire doubled in its intensity the moment the fusiliers abandoned the shelter of the vineyard, striking dozens from their ranks. Yet the redcoats ignored the casualties, storming forward, their paralysing fear forgotten.
Jack Lark: Redcoat (A Jack Lark Short Story) Page 8
