Badge of Glory (1982) (7 page)

The sentry’s eyes gleamed in the lantern light as they moved across Blackwood’s shoulder-belt and epaulettes.
Something to tell the others later on.

‘Aye, sir.’

Blackwood nodded. ‘How old are you?’

‘Six . . .’ He swallowed hard. ‘I – I mean, seventeen, sir.’

Blackwood smiled gravely. He made him feel like an old man.

‘Why did you enlist, Oldcastle?’

‘My dad were a marine, sir. But ’e died last year, so I thought I’d take on like.’

Blackwood looked at him. ‘Good. Learn all you can and do your . . .’ he hesitated, remembering her eyes watching him along the table, ‘. . . er, duty.’ He touched his shako and walked towards the stern again.

Suddenly things did not seem so ordinary after all.

The nightmare rose to a whirling climax, the carved Maori club, jagged and bloody, swinging overhead, ready to smash down. Somehow the image on the club had become alive, with staring eyes and tongue extended, like the warrior who held it.

Here it came. With a gasp Blackwood rolled on his side, his legs kicking at his sheet as he tried to escape the death blow.

He opened his eyes and raised himself on his elbows. The cabin was barely visible from a shuttered lantern, and he saw the startled eyes of a midshipman peering at him over the side of the cot.

Blackwood licked his lips. His body was wet with sweat and yet his throat was like a kiln. Reluctantly his memory came back. The talk with Slade, the mistake of pausing with the purser to have a few drinks before turning in. It had been the purser’s birthday. It was always fatal to drink with a man who held the keys to a limitless supply of brandy.

‘What is it?’ It came out a croak.

The midshipman stammered, ‘Beg pardon, sir, but the captain sends his compliments, and would you join him aft –?’

Blackwood was out of his cot in a bound, his mind clearing as he peered at his watch on its stand. It was barely three in the morning.

‘What the hell is happening?’

The midshipman’s eyes followed Blackwood’s nakedness around the cabin, his earlier nervousness giving way to curiosity.

‘Don’t know, sir. Guard-boat came off with the gentleman who was here earlier.’

‘Slade?’

‘I – I think so, sir.’

Blackwood tugged on his trousers and groped for a shirt. Folded and neat where Smithett had placed it.

‘Rouse Mr Blackwood.’ He snatched up a brush and glared at his dim reflection in the mirror. ‘And don’t take no for an answer.’

It was surprisingly cold on deck after the heat of the day. There were plenty of stars, with a black triangular gap in their array to betray the Rock’s brooding presence.

The watch on deck shuffled their feet, and Blackwood heard the guard-boat squeaking alongside, the oarsmen murmuring together and clinking mugs of tea.

Ackworthy filled his stern cabin as he waited for Blackwood to sit down. Netten, the first lieutenant, was present, red-eyed and jaded, Pelham too, and in a chair by the stern windows Slade sat with one leg crossed negligently over the other, a cup and saucer balanced on his knee. He was still wearing the same white clothes, as if he had never left the ship.

Ackworthy said thickly, ‘Courier-brig anchored two hours ago.’ He did not seem to know how to continue.

There was a clink as Sir Geoffrey Slade handed his cup to the cabin servant.

‘Despatches for me. Serious news, I’m afraid. There’s been an uprising north of Freetown. Mdlaka, a local king I had hoped to meet, may have been butchered with many of his warriors. It could create a very dangerous situation to the trade missions, to the stability of the whole coast area –’

He paused as the door was flung open and Ashley-Chute, dressed in a full-length robe of plum-coloured silk, strode
into the cabin, both hands crammed with papers which he slammed down on to Ackworthy’s table.

‘I read your despatches, Geoffrey, while I was being shaved.’ He seemed to realize the presence of the others for the first time. ‘Full muster of brains, hmm?’

Slade gave a faint smile. ‘You agree it is serious?’

Ashley-Chute thrust his hands into his pockets. ‘Serious? Of course. I’ve always maintained that damn coastline, all of it from Freetown to the Slave Coast, is a tinder-box. Slavery is forbidden, the great nations
agreed
upon that!’ There was an edge to his tone as he added, ‘After Britain had used a little “persuasion” on the more avaricious nations. And yet the traffic in African slaves seems as strong as ever. I have no personal objections to a settler or plantation owner using such labour. I expect that most of the so-called slaves are better off under ordered circumstances. But the law says otherwise, and I intend to enforce that law.’ He calmed himself with an effort. ‘When my squadron is on its proper station I shall be very firm in whatever methods I use.’ He looked at Slade as if expecting him to argue.

Slade said quietly, ‘The courier-brig made a record passage to reach me. Even so it took far too long. The whole situation may have worsened by now, lives lost, Her Majesty’s subjects put in jeopardy.’ He pressed his neat fingertips together and watched Ashley-Chute across the cabin. ‘How
long
would it take you to reach the area?’

Ackworthy said bluntly, ‘Month at least, sir. Even with favourable winds, I don’t think –’

Ashley-Chute snapped, ‘I will speak with you later, Captain Ackworthy!’

Slade persisted, ‘This is very important. Her Majesty’s Government has ordered me to investigate certain matters on the Slave Coast, which is why I am going to Fernando Po. Eventually.’

Ashley-Chute plucked at his sideburns and prowled about the cabin as if he were trapped.

Slade persisted, ‘A month is too long.’ He spoke gently, as
if he shared Ashley-Chute’s inability to move his ships where they were most needed. At the same time he left no room for doubt as to his authority.

The deck moved very slightly as the ship swung to her cable. Hundreds of men slept throughout the squadron while a mere handful kept watch over them, all unaware of the tension here in this one cabin.

The first lieutenant broke the silence. ‘I understand that there is a permanent patrol in the area you mention, sir.’

‘Was.’ Slade’s eyes had not moved from the admiral. ‘She is reported missing, and the remainder of our patrols are much further south.’

Ashley-Chute stopped his pacing. ‘I don’t see what I can be expected to do.’

It must have been what Slade was waiting for.

‘There is a steam-frigate here at Gibraltar, Sir James.’

‘What?’ His eyes shone in the lantern light like stones. ‘Yes, of course, I know. The
Satyr.
She is eventually to be with, if not
of
, my squadron.’

‘I have spoken to the governor and will send word to London by the next packet. The
Satyr
, which I understand can reach the destination in fourteen days, perhaps less, is ready for sea. Every minute we wait here talking is a minute wasted.’

Blackwood watched, fascinated. There was nothing calm and gentle about Slade now. He was like steel, a rapier.

‘I see.’ Ashley-Chute walked to the windows and stooped down to peer at the sky. ‘All decided, hmm?’

Slade did not reply but looked at Blackwood. ‘
Satyr
carries twenty marines. It may not be sufficient if the worst has happened. And there will be nobody to ask for aid.’ He let his words sink in. ‘I am certain that Sir James will be willing to transfer you to the
Satyr
with a force of your own men, to take overall command.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Under
Satyr
’s captain, naturally.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Blackwood darted a quick glance at the admiral, waiting for the explosion.

Instead the little admiral appeared very calm and even. ‘Of course. If you
insist
on this method, Geoffrey, then of course I shall do my utmost to support you. And if any marines must be sent, those from
my
flagship are the obvious choice.’

Slade kept his face immobile. Honour was satisfied. Almost.

Ashley-Chute could not resist adding, ‘I have no doubt that
Satyr
will break down or run out of coal long before she reaches the Guinea Coast. I shall put to sea with the squadron tomorrow to provide the ultimate show of force.’

‘I am grateful.’ Slade stood up and straightened his coat. ‘I suggest we leave at once.’

Blackwood asked, ‘Are you sailing too, sir?’

‘Yes. Parliament is always weeping and wailing about the costs of maintaining a powerful fleet. Perhaps this time they will be satisfied that some of the money at least is well spent!’

Blackwood left the cabin and walked out into the shadows. It was an effort to keep his mind steady on the details of the task in hand. In spite of his training and experience he could not control the surge of excitement, something he might have expected in a first-year recruit.

Colour-Sergeant M’Crystal loomed from the shadows. He was fully turned-out in uniform and equipment, ready for anything. The old sweat.

‘I want thirty men, Colour-Sergeant. Full equipment and ammunition for work afloat or ashore.’ He forced a smile. ‘Not all the experienced men. Mix a few of the newcomers into the pudding.’

M’Crystal cleared his throat noisily. ‘Right away, sir.’ He bellowed, ‘Corporal Bly! First sections as ordered! Ten minutes, not a second more!’

As was often the case, Blackwood wanted to praise M’Crystal for his resourcefulness. A plan for everything. A man for each task. But he knew M’Crystal would be embarrassed, even hurt, to think his efficiency could not be taken for granted.

Harry Blackwood, yawning and rubbing his eyes, blundered against M’Crystal, who did not even quiver.

Blackwood said, ‘You will remain here in charge, with Sergeant Quintin.’

The lieutenant nodded vaguely. ‘Remain here? Sergeant Quintin? Why, what is happening?’

‘No time now.’

He saw Smithett carrying his personal pack and weapons, supervising the lowering of his captain’s kit into a boat alongside.

Smithett marched over to him and snapped, ‘All done, sir. Put a couple of bottles in the bag too, might be a long job.’

Blackwood felt his attendant clipping his belt around his waist and adjusting his sword so that it hung directly in line with his hip. If he ordered Smithett to take on the king of the Zulus single-handed, he had no doubt he would be smartly turned-out for it.

His half-brother was pounding after him as he strode over to watch the first section of marines clambering down into the boats.

‘Look, sir, can’t I come too?’ He was actually pleading.

‘No.’ Blackwood turned and looked at him. ‘You are
in charge
here. Sergeant Quintin has years of service behind him, but he expects an officer to give him his orders. So do it.’ He gripped his wrist impetuously. ‘You asked what it was like. This is all part of it. They expect you to lead them, though God knows most of them could manage well enough if all their officers fell dead.’ He shook him gently. ‘I shall ask Sergeant Quintin how you managed when we meet up again.’

The lieutenant nodded, his face lost in the darkness. ‘Take care, sir. Philip.’

‘Ready in the boat, sir!’

It was time to go.

Blackwood glanced up at the tapering masts, the creepers of shrouds and rigging which seemed to climb to the stars. He might never see
Audacious
again.

He added, ‘And keep out of the admiral’s way.’

Then he was scrambling into the boat, while others, loaded down with marines and equipment, shoved away from the chains and began to pull towards the inner anchorage.

Colour-Sergeant M’Crystal sat very upright in the stern-sheets, the oilskin cover of his flag standing between his knees like an umbrella.

He said hoarsely, ‘More like it, sir. Bit o’ soldiering for a change!’ He twisted round and sniffed the air. ‘What’s that, sir?’

Blackwood felt a shiver of excitement again. Coal and oil, smoke and damp iron.

‘
That
, Colour-Sergeant, is a steam-frigate.’

M’Crystal considered it. ‘Och, sir, the sooner we get there, the quicker we can stretch our legs.’

Blackwood watched the bowsprit of the anchored frigate rising like a lance above the boat. Like the warrior’s club in the nightmare. He blinked. That had been just two hours ago.

He saw sparks drifting above where the funnel must be, the unfamiliar swish and creak of machinery, voices calling and the clatter of a chain cable. It was another world. He felt a complete amateur, like a sailor trying to ride bareback.

The bowman hooked on, and faces peered and bobbed along the
Satyr
’s black bulwark. Smithett stood ready to steady him if he lost his step, and then he was up and over the rail on to the frigate’s deck. Strange shadows and shapes stood around him, and he had little sense of being in a ship at all.

A figure detached itself from the side-party and a voice said, ‘Lieutenant Lascelles, sir!’

Blackwood took his hand. Lascelles was supposed to be the Royal Marines officer aboard, but he was dressed in blue like a member of the RMA.

He sensed Blackwood’s curiosity and said apologetically, ‘Sorry about my rig, sir. But the red coat doesn’t take too kindly to the smut and sparks here!’

Blackwood smiled. ‘I’ll remember that.’

He heard Slade’s voice in the distance, probably speaking with
Satyr
’s captain. It was all so different, so new.

Lascelles saw M’Crystal. ‘My sergeant has arranged berths for your men in the barracks and on the orlop. Bit cramped, I’m afraid. But in this ship the engines come first.’ He jumped as a siren shrieked wildly overhead, the echoes banging around the bay like an insane chorus.

‘Captain Blackwood?’

A broad-shouldered, sturdy officer in a watch-coat came out of the darkness.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I’m Tobin. I command here.’ The handshake was firm and rough. ‘I hope you’ll be happy with us while you’re in
Satyr.
’ His voice was deep and resonant, and he made no attempt to conceal his pride for his command. As an afterthought he said, ‘I’ll probably see you at breakfast.’ Then he too was swallowed up in the drifting vapours of steam and funnel smoke.