Badge of Glory (1982) (19 page)

Fenwick, Slade and Mdlaka knew the rules. It was to be hoped that Ashley-Chute did too and did not merely see the operation as another North Island affray.

‘So, gentlemen, you may carry on to your duties. Perhaps when we anchor we will receive contrary orders.’ He did not sound as if he believed it.

As they left the cabin Netten said, ‘We’ll get a chance to do something useful after all.’ He glanced at Blackwood. ‘You all right?’

‘Thank you, sir, yes.’

Netten grinned uneasily. ‘Come along now. Not so much of the sir. We’re between decks, not at divisions!’

Blackwood saw Harry waiting by the poop ladder, his features carefully composed.

‘Tell me, sir, have you ever taken part in an operation like the one our admiral has in mind?’ He saw a momentary uncertainty and added, ‘It’s not like a Spithead regatta, with a keg of rum for the winner!’

Netten’s jaw tightened. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m just
about sick of having your name jammed down my throat! You did your job, nothing more, now I’ll do mine!’ He strode away and brushed past the marine lieutenant without seeing him.

Blackwood sighed. It was better out in the open no matter what consequences it might bring.

‘Storm-clouds, sir?’ His voice was innocent.

‘Shut up, Harry, and come down for a drink. I’ve got some thinking to do.’

In his cabin again Blackwood threw his tunic on the cot and massaged his leg while Harry poured two generous glasses of brandy. It was strange, but this was the first day he had not thought about his wound. Not until now.

Harry said, ‘I hear that Major Fynmore is taking charge of our little war?’

Blackwood grinned. It was refreshing to have Harry with him even though he had first reacted against it.

The youthful lieutenant held up his glass to the light. ‘Everyone’s talking about it.’ He shot him a direct glance. ‘You two don’t exactly hit it off, do you?’

Blackwood let the brandy run over his tongue. He could still feel the smoothness of her body, the animal heat as she had thrust herself at him.

‘No, Harry. We don’t. His father served with
our
father and they heartily disliked each other.’

He tossed back the brandy and gasped. What with Netten and Fynmore things would get very lively before long.

Harry did not look at him as he poured two more drinks. Even his hand shook as he said quietly, ‘
I can’t wait.
Thank
God
I was able to get this appointment before you weighed anchor.’

Blackwood said nothing. He was eight years older than Harry. It might have been a hundred. But he remembered when he had felt like him, had itched for the chance to serve and fight rather than inspect some barrack guard.

It made him feel both protective and uneasy, as he had
about Oldcastle when he had looked at him on that dreadful day when Ackland had sounded the Advance.

‘God? I thought it was your mother?’

Harry laughed. ‘Same thing!’

Suddenly the worst was over and it was so good to be alive.

It was no great distance from the waterfront to the low-roofed buildings of the British Consulate of Fernando Po, but by the time he had forced his way through an endless throng of people Blackwood had cause to remember Ackworthy’s warning. The heat was unbearable, so that his face felt as if it had been in a desert sandstorm. Noise, colour and a variety of smells and stenches made Blackwood wish more than once that he had remained in the flagship.

M’Crystal marched at his side, like a massive plough as he forced a passage for his captain. Without him Blackwood doubted if he would have been able to leave the waterfront.

The squadron had anchored in the early morning before the sun had gained its true power. Now, shimmering above their separate images, the four ships of the line, the frigates and their captured brigantine made an impressive array. Blackwood had often wondered why Britain had chosen a Spanish island like Fernando Po to set up this consulate which in fact controlled all the traders in the Bights of Benin and Biafra, which in turn affected the coastal shipping throughout the whole Gulf. But if the Spanish flag flew above the citadel, the impressive might of Ashley-Chute’s squadron left no doubt as to where the real power lay.

It would be impossible to keep Ashley-Chute’s intentions secret for long, he thought. The waterfront and anchorage were packed with vessels of every kind and nationality. Arab dhows and local coasters, Spanish scooners and American brigs. Ashore and afloat the place was a melting-pot ofhumanity.

M’Crystal said wearily, ‘Och, there’s the gate, sir.’ He pushed a jabbering street vendor aside and guided Blackwood through the consulate’s entrance and past the two sweating British sentries.

The wall acted like a shutter, so that as the street noises faded Blackwood felt a tinge of uncertainty. Harry had hinted that he was wasting his time when he had told him he intended to see Slade. Ashley-Chute would tear him limb from limb if he upset his old friend.

A robed servant appeared at a doorway and bowed smoothly. ‘This way, sir.’

M’Crystal grunted. ‘I’ll be waiting, sir. Just in case.’

Blackwood glanced at him. The colour-sergeant had obviously seen through him as well. That thought and the sweating discomfort of this place made him unreasonably angry, and without a word he followed the servant into the shady entrance, which compared with the street was almost cool.

The servant gestured politely for him to wait and disappeared into one of the many doors which opened off the entrance hall. It was a plain, spartan building, with little to show of its true purpose.

A few minutes later Barrow, Slade’s private secretary, came from one of the rooms and regarded him warily. When told of Blackwood’s wish to see his master, Barrow pursed his lips and said, ‘Sir Geoffrey is with the consul. However . . .’ He sighed. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

Blackwood tried to relax. Barrow had put him in his place with no trouble at all. He would leave it a few more minutes and then reappear to say that Slade was engaged, and anyway . . .

The door opened and Barrow said in his dry voice, ‘Sir Geoffrey will see you now.’

Blackwood licked his lips and followed the private secretary through the door. He noticed that poor Barrow was wearing a heavy frock-coat, no doubt very suitable for London but certainly not here. The realization made him start. It would be December in a few more days. Perhaps there might
even be snow over Hawks Hill, thoughts of Christmas in the cottages, decorations at the little church.

Through another door and there was Slade, standing behind a great marble-topped table as if he had been expecting him. There were papers and despatches all over the table, and two empty glasses. The consul must have made a discreet departure by another door.

Slade eyed him calmly. ‘Unexpected visit.’ He studied him for several seconds. ‘You look recovered. I’m pleased.’ Surprisingly, he smiled. ‘Well, Captain Blackwood, since you seem to have forgotten what you intended to say, may I suggest you be seated.’ He did not wait for a reply but rang a small bell and when a servant appeared said, ‘Some hock.’

Blackwood sat down. He was out of his depth. What had he really expected? He looked at the one picture on the wall behind Slade’s table. A portrait of the Queen. It must have been done soon after her wedding to Albert when she was twenty-one. A face which was both strong and sensitive. Now she was ten years older, and Blackwood wondered how she saw her expanding empire.

He blurted out, ‘I wanted to ask you about Mdlaka, sir.’

‘I thought you might. Naturally I was kept informed about what you did, the men you lost. But you must see that you and those like you are small though vital parts of the whole. I do my work as best I can, but even I cannot know the complete pattern. In war it is the same. There are always the lonely men who are never heard. The one on the prongs of a charge, or the first up the scaling ladders, men with little hope of survival.’ He shrugged as if remembering something or someone. ‘And others who out of necessity must be left behind to cover the retreat of their comrades. Peace too has such men.’ He waited for the servant to place the glasses on the table and added, ‘Mdlaka was a fool, but his weakness increased our influence over him. Mdlaka, alive and back with his own people, is unpredictable. But Mdlaka dead or in chains would leave a dangerous space which would soon be filled.’

Blackwood raised the glass to his lips. The hock was perfect, and he marvelled that it was so cold.

He said quietly, ‘I wanted to kill him and burn his village to the ground.’ He looked up, his eyes steady. ‘But for my injured
leg
 . . .’

Slade smiled gently and refilled his glass. ‘You might act because of different reasons, but for revenge? I think not.’ He seemed amused at Blackwood’s surprise. ‘I told you weeks ago. I take an interest in your affairs. Without officers like you, where would Her Majesty’s ministers turn for aid?’

‘You are laughing at me, sir.’ He made to rise but Slade waved him down.

Slade said gravely, ‘No. After what you have done, the courage you inspired in your men, only a fool would laugh, and that I am not.’

Barrow’s head poked round a door. ‘It is nearly time, Sir Geoffrey.’ He pointedly did not look at Blackwood.

Slade nodded. ‘Very well.’ Then he turned to Blackwood and said, ‘Sir James Ashley-Chute intends to mount an attack on an area which is known to be a main artery for the slavers. You know about it, of course, so I will not interfere. I guide the Navy and the military, I try not to impose my will.’ Again the briefest of smiles. ‘Not too obviously anyway.’ He became serious once more. ‘I must confess that I do not fully understand the ways of the Navy, but Sir James commands the forces in this theatre. He is a man of experience, of considerable determination.’

Blackwood waited, his earlier confusion forgotten. Slade seemed to be ticking off certain points in his mind, as if he expected each one to be challenged.

‘If he insists on his present strategy, I am not the one to disagree.’

He hesitated, and for a second Blackwood imagined he saw anxiety on his features.

Then he said, ‘You once asked about my niece.’

He turned, his eyes suddenly cold and fixed on Blackwood’s reaction.

‘Yes, sir. Is something wrong?’

‘I have found out where she is. It is a mission some ten miles inland from where you may have to land your men.’ He did not hide his concern now. ‘Ten miles? In Africa that can be like a hundred!’

‘Is she safe, sir?’

‘At present, I believe so. But if Sir James’s first approach fails, she and every other mission in the area will be in mortal peril. I must try not to think too much about it. I have to be above personal involvement. Results are the same as intentions where I am concerned. He walked round the table and grasped Blackwood’s hand. ‘But if you can,
bring her out.
’

Blackwood’s head was awhirl. An argument, an eventual reprimand and worse, these he might have expected. In a few words Slade had dropped his guard, had revealed the agony he was enduring because of his headstrong niece.

Blackwood returned his grasp. ‘You may rely on it, sir.’

Barrow entered the room, a warning frown on his urbane features.

Blackwood watched the change as Slade stepped easily into his other role.

‘Don’t fuss, Barrow. The wine was too good to hurry, eh, Blackwood?’

Alone with the Queen’s portrait, Blackwood considered his discovery. That Slade, the instrument of government and empire, was just a man after all.

Major Rupert Fynmore leaned his hands on the sill of Ackworthy’s cabin windows and peered at the shimmering jumble of passing craft.

Blackwood waited, wondering why he disliked the lean, sunburned major.

Fynmore straightened his back and turned towards him. He was forty years old but took every care not to show it. His coatee fitted his erect figure without a crease. His boots were
like black glass, and his neat sandy hair looked as if it had just been trimmed by the company barber.

‘Captain Ackworthy is ashore. He has allowed me the use of his day cabin while I prepare my orders.’ He had a way of smiling with one side of his mouth, as if the lips were being turned upwards from within. The smile never quite reached his eyes. ‘I was expecting to see you somewhat earlier.’

Blackwood said, ‘I’m sorry, sir. I was not told of your intended visit.’

Visit?’ The mouth lifted again. ‘Hardly that. I am taking charge of the landing operations, eventually.’

Blackwood said quietly, ‘Under Commander Netten, I believe, sir.’

‘True.’ Fynmore regarded him calmly. ‘Funny how things turn out, don’t you think? Meeting again like this, I mean?’

Blackwood remained silent. Fynmore was enjoying his new command. There was no sense in putting men’s lives at risk by creating a wider rift between them.

Fynmore was saying in a level, matter of fact tone, ‘My father served under yours at Lake Erie and at Navarino. Bit of a hard man in those days, I understand.’

Blackwood said, ‘He never discussed it, I’m afraid, sir.’ It was a lie but he saw the major’s eyes spark with anger.

Fynmore snapped, ‘No matter. I just want to get things straight before we go to work. I know about you, your ideas, your death or glory escapades. Well, I’ll have no blind heroics on this mission. The job will be done. My way. Understood?’

‘I think so, sir.’ He was surprised how calm he felt.
Death or glory
. His father would have approved of this Fynmore.

Fynmore said sharply, ‘You were at the consulate.’

‘Sir.’

‘By whose orders?’

‘It was a friendly visit, sir.’

The lip lifted slightly and hovered as if uncertain what to do.

‘Sir Geoffrey Slade?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Oh well, in that case . . .’

Fynmore walked to Ackworthy’s table and opened his despatch bag.

Blackwood had heard a great deal about Fynmore. He was old for his rank and would use anything which might boost him to lieutenant-colonel and higher. And why not? Why should he be so unlikeable, Blackwood wondered? His old commanding officer at North Island who had died leading his men had been wild to a point of madness if an occasion offered itself. He had been a Scot like M’Crystal, and had been known to play the bagpipes while marching on the table at the end of a mess dinner. But the men had worshipped him, and in the face of death had followed him without hesitation.