Jack Lark: Redcoat

by Paul Fraser Collard

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

Redcoat by Paul Fraser Collard recounts the early life of roguish hero Jack Lark - dubbed 'Sharpe meets the Talented Mr Ripley'- who will one day become The Scarlet Thief. This series is a must-read for fans of Bernard Cornwell and Simon Scarrow. 'An appealing and formidable hero' - Sunday Express Private Jack Lark wears his red coat with pride. Though life in Queen Victoria's service is tough, he relishes the camaraderie of Aldershot barracks, and four years' harsh discipline hasn't blunted his desire to be more than just a Redcoat. When he learns that Captain Sloames needs a new orderly, Jack is determined to prove his worth both to the officer and to Molly, the laundry girl who has caught his eye. But standing in his way is Colour Sergeant Slater, a cruel and vicious bull of a man who loathes Jack, and is longing for the chance to ruin his ambition...

Release date: October 8, 2015

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 100

Sample

The bugle call echoed across the parade ground. Even though it was still dark, the reveille summoned the soldiers to their duty, another day of garrison life starting in identical fashion to all those that had gone before. The order to rise could not be ignored, the punishment for still being in their pit when the barrack-room corporal arrived sure to be swift and uncompromising. There was no uncertainty in the life of a redcoat; their days were mapped and ordered, the call of the bugle or the beat of the drum marking out the duties at the prescribed time and making sure that not a single minute of a soldier’s day was left unaccounted for.

Private Jack Lark dragged himself to his feet, rubbing his face vigorously as he tried to force himself fully awake. He started to fold his blanket, his hands going through the practised motions of their own accord. He did not need to think. He was a redcoat, and thought was discouraged at all times, even in the calm of a mundane morning in Aldershot.

‘Morning, Mud.’ The soldier in the bed next to Jack’s mumbled a greeting to his messmate as he began to go through an identical routine. Jack had been known as Mud since his first day in the regiment, the nickname a reference to the mudlarks of London who made a precarious living picking rubbish out of the River Thames.

‘Pikey.’ Jack could not summon more of a greeting than the single word. He had drunk too many beers the previous evening, the soldiers’ canteen in the corner of the barracks more lively than usual, and he was feeling grim.

The sound of bedsteads being dragged across the floorboards made him wince. Ignoring the pounding in his head, he bent down and pulled his own bed frame the obligatory six inches away from the wall. Army regulations required the daily movement of the soldiers’ beds to ensure the free and unfettered circulation of air throughout the barrack room. Even this was enforced with rigid discipline by the sergeants and corporals who ran the regiment’s ten companies.

With his bed properly placed, Jack started to arrange his kit in the manner he had first been taught as a new recruit. He had been a redcoat for nearly four years. Despite the grinding monotony of garrison life, he still nurtured the same flame of ambition that he had felt on his first day in the regiment. He looked at the chevrons on the sleeves of the corporals and the sergeants, and imagined them on the sleeve of his own coat. The desire to progress and to make something of his life was still well alight.

With his blanket folded and placed squarely on the bedstead, he rolled up the palliasse he slept on, wrapping a strap around it to hold it securely in place. Next he turned his attention to the shelf above his bed. With practised ease he made sure that everything was in order, his shako and knapsack facing forward so that the regimental number could be seen and each of his accoutrements hung from the correct wooden peg. His scarlet shell jacket and forage cap were placed on top of his bedding and his boots were tucked neatly away underneath the bed’s frame. He was ready to start another day.

‘Did you see Trussler last night? Five sheets to the wind he was.’ Private Jonathan Pike chuckled at the memory. His bed and gear were arranged in identical fashion to Jack’s. Soon every bed in the barrack room would look the same. The daily routine for placing their equipment was laid down in the regiment’s standing orders, and the barrack-room corporal enforced the practice religiously.

‘Was it him I saw dancing a jig?’ Jack was still wearing the shirt he had slept in. The soldiers would soon trudge out to the yard behind the barracks, where a single water pump was available for their morning ablutions. Only when those were completed to the corporal’s satisfaction would they be allowed to dress.

‘Ha, that was a sight.’ Pike shook his head. He ambled over to one of the two pisspots that served all the occupants of the barrack room and began noisily to empty his bladder. The sound made Jack’s own bladder ache, and he went to join Pike at the end of the room.

‘Good times, eh, Mud?’

‘Good times,’ Jack agreed readily. He had enjoyed the evening. The hour at leisure at the end of the working day was the best part of a redcoat’s life. It was an opportunity to escape the clutches of their sergeants and corporals, and Jack relished being able to pass the time with his mates.

‘Did you hear about old Tom Mander?’ Pike was busy shaking out the last of the previous night’s ale.

‘No.’ Jack stretched his spine, his own stream still gushing forth without pause.

‘The lucky bugger is up for his pension.’ Pike stood and waited for Jack to finish. The two of them were detailed to take the pot full of piss out to the yard when the redcoats went to wash. Each man had a morning duty to perform. Be it sweeping the floor, cleaning the windows, wiping the walls or polishing the stove, together they would ensure that the room they shared was left in an immaculate condition before they went out for the parade that marked the official start of their day.

‘Blimey, is he that old?’ Jack shook his head at his friend’s claim.

‘I heard he’s done nigh on twenty-five years.’ Pike saw Jack finish and so bent to take hold of his side of the pot. ‘And if he’s off, then you know what that means, don’t you?’

‘Maybe.’ Jack could not help smiling.

‘You sly old cove.’ Pike reached across and slapped his friend’s arm. ‘You’ve been waiting for your chance. I reckon this might be it.’

‘You never know.’ Jack refused to be drawn. Yet he had spotted the opportunity the moment Pike had passed on the news.

‘Our good Captain Sloames will need a new orderly.’ Pike watched his friend closely as Jack picked up the other side of the pot. ‘Why, a keen young man with an eye for advancement would see that as an opportunity, I reckon.’

‘You reckon that, do you?’ The pair started to walk forward. They moved slowly, the pot dangerously full. Yet they had the motion off pat and they glided through the narrow gap between the beds that were lined up both sides of the long barrack room.

‘Come on, Mud, don’t play the innocent. This could be just the chance you’ve been waiting for. Look alive-o, Thatcher, you dozy sod, or I’ll dump this here pisspot on your bloody noggin.’ Pike shouted the warning at a redcoat loitering dangerously in their way.

The soldier needed no more encouragement and stepped quickly out of the path of the noxious cargo. Jack barely noticed the interruption. His mind was coming alive to the possibilities that Mander’s leaving would open. Each officer had a soldier-servant known as an orderly. The role was a step up for a regular redcoat. It was not as good as being given the twin stripes of a corporal, but after four years in the ranks, Jack was keen to make any sort of progress he could.

‘Don’t you want to go for it yourself?’ He asked the question tentatively.

‘Me? No fear.’ Pike shook his head at the notion. ‘I’ve been at this lark too damn long.’

‘You’d be good at it.’ Jack made the admission without enthusiasm. He wanted the role as Captain Sloames’s orderly but he would not try for it if his best mate was after it too. He owed Pike too much for that.

‘I don’t think I could stand it. I hate doing my own bull, let alone taking on some damn Rupert’s as well. No, you go for it, Mud. I reckon it would suit you nicely.’ Pike glanced at his young friend and smiled as he saw Jack look away, his mind clearly absorbed by the prospect.

Jack said nothing further as they manoeuvred the tub out of the room and into the corridor that led to the yard. He no longer smelt the sour, rank odour of a night-time’s wor. . .