Badge of Glory (1982) (25 page)

Blackwood tightened his grip around her as the sobs returned until it felt as if her body would break.

The vessel must have been the missing armed schooner
Kingsmill
which Slade had spoken of a million years ago. A young lieutenant and probably a couple of master’s mates. The crew would likely have been made up of recruited natives, a lot of local vessels used Kroo seamen, usually reliable, but no match for this kind of thing.

‘Now I’m going to ask you to stand.’ Blackwood got to his feet but kept a firm hold of her hand. She shook her head and tried to pull away but he insisted, ‘Please. For me. Will you try?’

Very slowly and carefully Blackwood helped her to rise and then steadied her until she was able to face him again.

She said in a voice so small he could barely hear, ‘The last time we met I was rude and hurtful to you.’ Then she began to weep uncontrollably and did not resist as he held her against his body as if to shield her from her suffering.

Sergeant Quintin re-entered the hut and said, ‘Ready, sir.’

Blackwood looked at him across the girl’s head. Quintin was carrying a shovel.

‘Very well, we’re coming.’

Quintin glanced coldly at the two moaning figures. ‘Shall I do for ’em, sir?’ He might have been discussing chickens for the pot.

Blackwood felt the girl go rigid against him as some part of her listened to what was happening.

‘No. Leave them. A doctor could have helped. They can think about that.’

He guided the girl out into the sunlight where the handful of marines waited and watched in silence. Blackwood noticed a mound of sand and rocks by some trees, a crude cross with Bell’s shako on the top of it. Another familiar face and voice wiped away.

One of the Rocke twins helped to break the tension. ‘Litter’s roight ’ere, Missy.’ Whichever twin it was, his round Somerset dialect seemed to help.

Smithett and Quintin lifted the girl on to the litter as if she was a piece of delicate porcelain, and as she tried to hold her torn dress together her eyes remained fixed on the pathetic mound they were leaving behind.

Quintin said roughly, ‘I took care of yer dad meself, Miss. ’E’s safe enough now.’

Blackwood accepted a reloaded pistol from Smithett and sheathed his sword.

What a sight we must look
. Not a bit like the fierce-eyed veterans in his grandfather’s paintings at Hawks Hill. The lines of scarlet coats, the streaming flags, and not even a whisker out of place.

‘Ackland, take the point.’

In single file, with the litter in the middle of their little force, they trudged back into the cover of the bush. At the prescribed place, Harry, with Jones and Frazier, joined them, and together they continued towards the other river.

When they were well clear of the mission Harry dropped back to walk beside his half-brother. He had not asked about the doctor who had been left for the crocodiles, nor even
about Private Bell. The faces of the others and the presence of the exhausted girl on the litter spoke more than words.

He said, ‘You were being watched, sir, did you know that?’

Blackwood looked at him. ‘
Watched?
’

‘A hundred or so warriors were on the next hill to ours. Armed to the teeth. But they did nothing. They just stood and waited.’

Blackwood removed his borrowed shako and returned it to Harry. ‘It seems you were right about the princess and I was wrong. She kept to the bargain, otherwise we’d all be dead.’

Harry glanced back at the litter. ‘I’m really glad about her.’ He looked at his half-brother’s strained profile. ‘For your sake too.’

Blackwood quickened his pace. ‘Don’t talk such damned rubbish, and get up front with Ackland.’

But in his heart he was pleased. It was hopeless, just as it was dangerous to fantasize at moments like these. They were to all intents and purposes fighting a war. Small, local and unheard of in Britain, but just as deadly as the grander fields of battle.

He turned to look at the girl as if to reassure himself it was not a dream and saw her watching him as the litter swayed between the two tall brothers.

Could she ever forget what had happened to her? Would she find some small part in her life which he might somehow share?

He heard Quintin rasp, ‘Watch where yer walkin’, Private Frazier! Yer a
marine
, remember?’

Blackwood sighed. That just about summed it up.

Major Rupert Fynmore sat on an upturned ration box and nodded impatiently.

‘What shape is Sir Geoffrey’s niece in? Must have been a terrible ordeal for her.’

Blackwood wiped his face with a filthy handkerchief. After the return march through the bush and the constant threat of being attacked, even Fynmore’s brusque manner seemed like a relief.

As his small, weary party had scrambled down to this same river-bank he had left just three days earlier he had seen their step smarten, the air of defiance and something akin to pride as they had carried the crude litter to the boats.

Nothing had changed as far as he could see. A few marines were scattered among the rocks and others sat or lay in the shelter of the bank while they waited for orders.

Some more seamen had joined the landing party, and he saw Lieutenant Ashley-Chute moving among them as they loaded their weapons under the watchful eyes of their petty officers.

Blackwood said, ‘Miss Seymour was wonderful. I can’t imagine what she’s been through!’

Fynmore’s sharp eyes watched him curiously. ‘Raped, d’you suppose?’

Blackwood looked away, his thoughts laid bare by Fynmore’s brutal reality.

‘No. I think Lessard had given his men certain instructions.’

Fynmore’s mind had already moved on. It was no longer his responsibility.

‘And you believe the schooner
Kingsmill
was responsible. That, more to the point, she’s up there round the bend in the river?’

‘Yes, sir. I think she must have entered the river just ahead of us.’

He watched his words sink in, but he was thinking of the moment when Lessard’s long-boat had rounded the bend and confronted Netten’s launch bows on. King Zwide’s territory had been Lessard’s haven. Now it could be a trap, provided Fynmore acted without any more delay.

Blackwood asked, ‘Is there any word from the admiral?’

Again he felt Fynmore’s cool scrutiny. It made him feel unclean and dishevelled. In contrast, the neat, sandy-haired major could have just come from a parade-ground.

‘He ordered me to wait your return, until tomorrow anyway.’ He gave his lopsided smile. ‘I sent word to
Audacious
as soon as our pickets reported your approach. We’ll just have to be patient.’ He flinched as a crack echoed across the hillside and a bullet kicked into hard ground. He said irritably, ‘We’ve had a few casualities because of those bloody sharpshooters!’

Blackwood looked at the ridge where Quartermain’s platoon had charged among the enemy, where one marine had told his friend to leave him before he had died. Fynmore had kept his word and had withdrawn all his men from the high ground. A good marksman like Frazier could mark down an army from there.

But now it did not seem to matter. He tried to put it down to exhaustion, to the relief of getting his men safely back here. But in his mind he could see the girl being carried swiftly to one of the boats with Slade’s agent, Mr Patterson, watching over her like a guard dog.

She was probably already aboard the flagship and would remember little of their flight through the bush. She had been barely conscious for most of the time and seemingly unaware of what was happening.

Fynmore remarked, ‘The gunboat is here, by the way.’ He regarded Blackwood calmly. ‘The admiral will send her up to us shortly.’ He compressed his lips into a tight smile. ‘Not much choice really. The wind has veered. Nothing else can stand inshore.’ It seemed to amuse him greatly.

Crack
. Another shot echoed among the rocks and a sailor shouted angrily at the invisible marksman.

Fynmore said, ‘And that black woman, the er, princess, you believe she called off the hounds?’

‘Yes. No doubt about it. We were tracked all the way. They could have swamped us any time had they wanted to.’

Fynmore looked up as one of the lieutenants hurried towards him.

‘Well, Mr Shephard?’

The lieutenant swallowed hard. ‘Mr Heighway’s pickets have sighted the gunboat, sir.’

But Fynmore glanced at him accusingly. ‘Do up that button, sir! You are supposed to set an example to the men!’ He calmed himself with an effort. ‘Send a runner to Mr Quartermain’s section. He knows what to do.’

Blackwood saw the neat major in another light. He was about to mount an attack, the method and the outcome of which were doubtful to say the least. And yet he could still find strength from petty detail, if only to cover his poor eyesight.

A finely-pitched whistle floated up the river and several birds rose flapping and screeching from among some reeds. The gunboat’s siren was no match for Tobin’s
Satyr.

Minutes dragged by and eventually the small, shallow-draft gunboat, gushing smoke from a stick-like funnel, nosed around the first bend where everything had first started to go wrong.

After
Satyr
’s impressive size and raked bow, the
Norseman
seemed little more than a platform suspended between two thrashing paddles. Blackwood watched her approach, thinking of her two mortars and solitary six-pounder, hardly a match for those well-sited cannon. Unless she could get into a suitable position before she was severely mauled.

Several of the marines raised an ironic cheer as the gunboat’s anchor cable rattled into the swirling water and she came to rest beneath a cloud of dense black smoke.

Fynmore snapped, ‘My compliments to
Norseman
’s commander, and would he join me with alacrity.’

As a runner scampered away he turned to Blackwood again.

‘This is the plan.
Norseman
will proceed up river followed by six boats to carry
Audacious
’s landing party. Mr Ashley-Chute will command the boats. As soon as action is joined I want you to lead a platoon ashore from the gunboat to harass the enemy’s rear. The enemy can do one of two things, fall back to avoid being cut off from Zwide’s stronghold or try to come this way, in which case the remaining marines will advance on them from here.’

He tugged down his impeccable coatee but was obviously awaiting Blackwood’s reaction.

Blackwood said slowly, ‘Unless we can get them to withdraw and take their cannon with them we shall be in for a hard fight.’

What was the point of reminding this infuriating man that had he left Quartermain’s men on the ridge they could have attacked the battery from both sides at once. If he did not realize the fact, he soon would.

Lieutenant Heighway came panting up the slope, his face wet from hurrying between the sections of hidden marines.

‘Sir!’ He halted, gasping for breath.

Shipboard life had taken a hard toll on one so young, Blackwood thought. Heighway was not much older than Harry.

Fynmore scowled, ‘Yes?’

‘The admiral is here, sir!’

‘
What?
’ Fynmore jerked to his feet and adjusted his chin strap carefully. ‘In a
steam
vessel?’

Round the side of the hill, accompanied by a sunburned officer who was obviously the gunboat’s commander, the familiar shape of Sir James Ashley-Chute marched towards
Fynmore’s command post, his hands behind him, his hat tilted at a rakish angle. Following at a discreet distance was Pelham, his flag-lieutenant.

‘God in heaven, Major, what is going on here, a damned blood-bath?’ He glanced briefly at Blackwood. ‘You are untidy, sir, a spectacle!’

Fynmore stammered, ‘’Pon on my word, Sir James, I didn’t expect you . . .’

‘I don’t want a guard of honour, or one of your damned ceremonials, Major, I want
action
! I’ll not have my squadron made a laughing-stock, tied down by a handful of bandits!’

Blackwood watched him as he worked himself into a white-hot rage. It was an act, and Blackwood had seen it many times, but it was always impressive. This tiny, deformed figure, long-armed and fierce-eyed, seemed to have the power of ten men. As his bright epaulettes bounced up and down in time with his words Fynmore seemed to wilt under the admiral’s wrath.

Ashley-Chute shouted, ‘Otherwise d’you imagine for a single second that I’d have set foot on that scruffy,
miserable object
?’

The
Norseman
’s commander said, ‘She’s a fine little ship, sir.’

‘Hold your impertinence, sir!’ The admiral was enjoying his anger. ‘Begin the attack at once!’

Fynmore looked uncomfortably at Blackwood. ‘Carry on, if you please. Signal when you are ready.’

Blackwood turned away and then heard Ashley-Chute shriek, ‘
What
did you say, Major? The
Kingsmill
’

Blackwood glanced at Colour-Sergeant M’Crystal who had appeared as if by magic. Like Fynmore, he seemed able to remain clean and smart no matter what was happening.

He grinned broadly, ‘We were all right glad to see you safely back with the poor lass, sir. Do you have orders for me?’

Blackwood shaded his eyes to look at the ridge. It would all depend on the gunboat, and the admiral knew it even if he would never admit such a thing.

He turned as the sunburned officer strode after him and said, ‘I’m told I am to take a platoon aboard.’ He could not restrain himself. ‘She’s a
fine
ship. I had to tell him, blast his eyes!’

His hurt pride made Blackwood smile. ‘I’m Blackwood.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m coming with you.’

The lieutenant grinned ruefully, ‘I’m Ridley, acting-commander.’

M’Crystal was back again, his red face calm and reassuring. ‘All taken care of, sir.’ He cast a quick glance as the marines tramped past towards the boats.

Blackwood said, ‘But the men who went to the mission with me are among them, Colour-Sergeant, they must still be tired from two forced marches.’

M’Crystal’s eyes did not even flicker. ‘Exactly what I told Sergeant Quintin. He said, begging your pardon, sir, that if you could do it, so too would they.’