Badge of Glory (1982) (14 page)

‘Get ready!’

His words were repeated and whispered along the line of concealed figures. Blackwood bit tightly on his chin strap as he tried to shut out the mounting din from around the hill.

He leaned forward, his sword blade slithering through the grass as he craned up to watch the first running figures as they charged into view. Not so many this time. Perhaps Fenwick had been right and some of the warriors had already deserted Mdlaka?

He glanced along his own men, or what he could see of them. They were still outnumbered by at least four to one. He closed his mind against it and called, ‘Ready, Ackland?’

The freckle-faced marine nodded and spat out a pebble before he moistened the bugle with his tongue.

Blackwood found that he was looking into the eyes of Private Oldcastle. Just a boy, who but for a twist of fate would be settling down to a routine life aboard the
Audacious.

‘Are you all right?’

The boy licked his lips, but his tongue seemed to stick to them.

‘Y-yes, sir.’

‘Good. Keep together, remember it.’

What was the point? The full mass of the charging mob was visible now, heading towards the gates in a human tide. There was no time to worry about anyone’s feelings.

He stood up and pointed towards the fort. Without looking he could feel his men rising up on either side of him.

Blackwood walked through the rank, his arm brushing against Oldcastle’s musket as he did so.

He looked at him again. Of
course
there was a point, and it
did
matter.

‘Stay near me.’ He saw him nod, then he strode forward and shouted, ‘
Sound the Advance
!’

The bugle echoed up the hillside and across the lower flat ground where they would confront their fate.

Lieutenant Lascelles lurched to his knees and pointed wildly. ‘Look at them! Just
look
at them!’

He felt Corporal Jones grip his arm and drag him down without bothering about dignity as he exclaimed, ‘Watch out, sir!’

Lascelles stared past him, his breathing wheezing like an old man’s as he watched the red line of figures march out of cover and on to the flat ground which faced the fort.

He saw the ripple of stabbing flames as the men on the parapet fired into the attackers, and two marines who had climbed up in full view as they reloaded to fire again. It was an awful madness, and yet the most inspiring thing Lascelles had ever seen or heard. The bugle’s strident call, the marines advancing as if they had all the time in the world.

Frazier ignored the lieutenant’s excitement and pressed his cheek against his musket with deliberate care. He too had seen the two madmen on the wall, he had also seen Jones wipe his knife on some grass as he had emerged from his hiding-place. One dead, another to go.

He held his breath as a shot echoed from the hillside, magnified by the fallen slabs of rock where the other marksman had been concealed. Frazier did not watch as one of the small figures pitched from the wall where it was immediately engulfed by a hacking, stabbing mob. Frazier concentrated on the drifting feather of smoke from the rocks, his eyes unblinking as he waited.

A head rose very slightly, and Frazier imagined he could see the man reloading. He was wasting his time, he thought, and squeezed the trigger, letting out his breath as the marksman leapt into the air and then rolled down the slope like a bundle of rags.

Jones said harshly, ‘That’s it, sir. We can join the others now.’

He watched as Lascelles half rose to his feet, his face empty as the air crackled with shots and another blare on the bugle.

Frazier fired again and saw one of the running figures fall spread-eagled even as he waved to some of his warriors to change direction towards the marines.

Lascelles licked his lips. ‘I – I’m not sure.’

Frazier stood up and snapped his bayonet on his musket. ‘I am.’ He started to lope down the slope without another glance.

Corporal Jones said, ‘Come along, sir. Captain Blackwood may expect it. You’ve done what he asked.’

He watched the officer’s emotions with angry resignation.
Me and Frazier did all the work.
He could still feel his arm around the marksman’s neck, his terrible gurgle as he had thrust the blade up and through his ribs.

But above all else Jones was a trained marine, and would no more leave his officer than fly. Frazier would probably be disciplined if any of them survived, but he was used to that.

He persisted, ‘Now, sir.’

Lascelles nodded and picked up his pistols. Then together they walked down the slope.

‘Halt! Prepare to fire!’

Blackwood did not turn his head as the odd numbers in the single line stepped forward and knelt on one knee while the others remained standing.

He hardly dared to draw breath, and was certain that every muscle and limb in his body was shaking beyond control.

But in spite of everything
they had remembered.
In the face of death, even the most junior recruit among them had recalled the drills aboard
Satyr.

Blackwood looked at the oncoming tide of painted shields and glittering spears. The first surprise was over and the bulk
of the attackers were now heading for the motionless marines. Blackwood had seen the man fall from the wall and guessed he had been shot by one of the marksmen. There had been no further shots from the rear as far as he could tell. He flinched as another crack made his hope a lie, but instead of a marine, one of the leading savages was flung to the ground by the force of a ball.

‘
Present!
’

Blackwood raised his sword, his eyes fixed on the leading runners. Thirty yards, twenty, now less . . . he felt a spear thud into the ground nearby.

‘
Fire!
’

The fusilade of shots ploughed through the advancing crowd like an invisible scythe.

There was not time to reload or for anything else. They were out in the open. No way back, and no help other than they could give each other.

‘
Again
, Ackland!’

How he could blow his bugle after all the din and frenzy which confronted him was a miracle.

The front rank rose together, and as the others moved up to re-form the line Blackwood shouted, ‘At ’em, lads!’

Keeping together they charged headlong towards the nearest shields. Every man was shouting and cursing, and the pace seemed to quicken as the attackers wavered, those behind colliding with their companions in a momentary tangle of limbs and weapons.

The marines hit the front ranks like a battering-ram, the bayonets knocking aside spears and clubs alike as their despair gave way to a desperate ferocity.

Blackwood vaguely heard a ragged volley of shots from the fort as Brogan did what he could to cause confusion from another direction. He saw a pair of bulging eyes above the rim of a shield and fired his pistol through the painted hide, seeing the man collapse even as he jumped over him and slashed another across the chest with his sword. He could hear Smithett at his side, saw his bloodied bayonet stabbing
forward like a tongue, his boot thrusting the corpse free as he guarded his face from a club.

From one corner of his eye Blackwood saw a red coat fall among the stamping feet and stabbing bayonets. Another marine pitched amongst his attackers, his screams cut short by a single blow from an axe.

Blackwood trampled on more sprawled bodies and realized, as if in a daze, that they were advancing, that the enemy was reeling back and causing panic in their rear.

‘
Halt!
’

Breathless and lurching, their eyes wild, the marines heard and obeyed.

Blackwood watched, his heart pounding like a hammer as he waited for the attack to begin again. But the gap was widening and there were no longer any battle cries to urge them on.

‘Reload!’

He saw a figure dart from the stamping, gesturing mob and run headlong for the marines. One of their leaders making a last challenge which could so easily end everything.

Blackwood heard a solitary shot and saw the running man fall. Frazier was back with his comrades.

‘Ready, sir!’

Blackwood looked down and saw blood on his leg. Yet he had felt nothing until now.

‘
Present!
’

The muskets lifted again. Not so steadily this time, some of the men were finding it hard to breathe after their short, crazy charge.

‘
Fire!
’

They did not even try to run. The volley hit the packed bodies and hurled several to the ground. But the others stayed where they were. More like beasts at the slaughter than the warriors they had been.

Surely it was enough? It had to be. Blackwood felt sick of the sights and the stench of death, but knew it was not yet finished.

Very deliberately he walked towards Mdlaka’s warriors, praying that his leg would not give way as the pain came up to his thigh like a hot iron.

At any second one of them might lunge forward. Not even Frazier could do anything to save him.

Just ten paces clear he sheathed his sword, feeling its resistance as the blood caught on its scabbard.

He could smell them, feel their strength, temporarily lost for the lack of a leader.

Then they parted to allow a small figure to approach. Tiny, wrinkled, he was more monkey than man. The thought almost unnerved Blackwood as he thought of Ashley-Chute safe in his flagship, in another world.
Monkey.

The old man must have taken his silence for dissatisfaction, for with surprising dignity he waved his arm towards his men and without hesitation they dropped their weapons and shields beside the corpses.

Blackwood looked at him, his mind cringing from all the senseless, brutal slaughter this place had seen.

Slade had spoken of meeting this man, who was obviously Mdlaka. Two of a kind perhaps. Dedicated to conquest.

Blackwood shook himself angrily. What the hell did it matter? Any of it?

He snapped, ‘You are under arrest.’ He saw emotion for the first time in the reddened eyes. Fear or contempt, he was not certain. He thought of what would be happening here if his tactics had failed and added coldly, ‘Tell your people to go home.
Now!
’ He motioned to the line of marines behind him. ‘
Present!
’

It was only a gesture, for he knew the marines had not even reloaded. Every eye had been fixed on him as he had strode to meet the enemy. But it was enough. Slowly at first, backing away as if suspecting some further trap, the crowd of warriors broke into a stampede.

Colour-Sergeant M’Crystal marched through the corpses and said thickly, ‘God in heaven, that was a wild thing to do, begging your pardon, sir.’ He glared at the king. ‘What’ll I do with
him
?’

Blackwood looked back at the men who had followed him without question to attempt the impossible. Three were obviously dead, several others crouched or hobbled among the motionless line of fixed bayonets.

Smithett joined him and exclaimed, ‘Gawd, yer leg’s done in, sir!’ It sounded like an accusation.

But Blackwood ignored him. He stared instead at one sprawled figure with out-thrust legs, a musket still gripped in his hands as he stared unseeingly at the sky.

A sixteen-year-old boy from Yorkshire who had signed on when his father had died.

He said quietly, ‘Put the prisoner in irons and see he is guarded.’

He tore his eyes from the dead marine, the boy who had been so frightened but who had trusted him.

‘I want Mdlaka to share the shame of what he has done.’ He could barely keep his voice under control. ‘And I want to see him hanged.’

He looked at M’Crystal. ‘Return to the fort. You know what to do.’

M’Crystal nodded, his face troubled. ‘Aye, sir. We’ll not leave any of our own out here.’ He followed Blackwood’s glance towards Oldcastle’s body. ‘Especially him.’

Blackwood turned on his heel and limped towards the gates. As if in a misty dream he saw they were open, that the handful of defenders were waving and cheering.

He knew he would collapse. The pain was worse, but it acted like a spur to drive him on and through those gates.

Sergeant Brogan ran to assist him, but from somewhere in the blur Smithett said fiercely, ‘I can deal with ’im, Sarnt!’

Brogan stood aside as M’Crystal and the first section of marines tramped wearily through the gates.

‘Close thing, Colour-Sergeant.’

M’Crystal watched Blackwood being lowered to a blanket by the wall, his face stiff against the pain.

To nobody in particular he murmured, ‘He’ll do me, and that’s a fact. One o’ the best.’

‘Starboard your helm,
steady
, steer east-nor’-east.’

Captain George Tobin watched narrowly as the frigate’s bows began to swing towards the headland and then settle in direct line with the swirling current.

‘Ring down dead slow.’

He would have smiled but for the anxiety in his mind. The engine-room responded to the order instantly, as if Hamilton, the Chief, had been sweating it out as he waited for the signal on his telegraph. They had steamed along the coast from Freetown with all the power the engine could offer, and Tobin had been forced to overrule Hamilton on a dozen occasions when he had pleaded with him to reduce speed.

Deacon touched his cap. ‘Cleared for action, sir.’

Tobin grunted and took a telescope from his signals midshipman. The same bleak coast, the rocks and shoals he remembered so vividly from his days on the anti-slavery patrols.

No sign of life anywhere. Just a pall of drifting smoke which they had sighted soon after dawn as the great paddles had driven
Satyr
towards the land like an avenging demon.

He looked along his command, the men at the guns, Spalding, the third lieutenant, up forward by the two ten-inchers, his arms folded and with one foot on a flaked rope as he watched the shore with the others.

Tobin swore beneath his breath. One of the most powerful, modern ships afloat, but what use were
Satyr
’s big rifled guns against spears and poisoned arrows?