Badge of Glory (1982)

by Reeman, Douglas

  It might have been different if his mother was still alive, he thought. But she had died after a short fever, and Blackwood’s father had remarried the following year to a girl twenty years younger than himself.

  Perhaps his father had been too worried about his own news to care much for his son’s uncertainty over his future.

  He had eventually dropped his announcement with the forthrightness of a thirty-two-pound shot.

  ‘We’re selling Hawks Hill, Philip. Your mother, er, Claudia intends we should move to London. It’s her sort of world, y’see.’

  Blackwood frowned as he thought about it. He felt Smithett running a brush over his shoulders, patting his coatee into place. Routine and order.

  It was unthinkable to be leaving Hawks Hill and the estate in Hampshire. His father obviously hated the idea but, as usual, would do anything for his wife. The colonel’s lady, as they called her in the village. They had never really accepted her, but then she had done little to encourage the ‘local bumpkins’, as she called them.

  Blackwood said, ‘I am going to see the captain. Tomorrow we shall have to do something about getting another lieutenant sent to us.’

  It was always easy to say ‘we’ and ‘us’ to Smithett. Rather as you might to a faithful dog. He never answered back, but could make his displeasure known in other ways when he felt like it.

  He picked up his shako and left the cabin. For a moment longer he paused and glanced aft towards the great cabin and private quarters where the admiral would hold court. It would be even worse for the ship’s officers, he thought, unless they knew Ashley-Chute’s little ways.

  With a sigh Blackwood ran lightly up the companion ladder and turned towards the shadowy confines of the poop. In the short while he had been in his cabin it had grown dark. Around and beneath him the great ship of the line groaned and murmured, her massive timbers and towering masts and rigging keeping up their constant chorus as they had since the day she had first slid into salt water.

  The smells too were like part of himself. Paint and tar, cordage and damp canvas. The old navy. Blackwood stopped short within view of the scarlet-coated sentry outside the stern cabin. That too might be a reason. He did not want to stay with a navy which seemed content to remain old and unchanged. Young officers were volunteering to serve in the discomfort and dirt of the new steam vessels simply because they were new, and young like themselves.

  The marine sentry’s heels came together with a snap, and the level stare beneath the man’s shako fixed on a point above Blackwood’s left epaulette.

  Blackwood gave a grave smile. ‘Good evening, Rocke.’

  ‘Sar!’ Rocke shot a quick grin.

  Blackwood rapped on the screen door, wondering if he would ever discover a way of knowing which of the Rocke twins he was speaking to. Even standing together in the same squad they were completely alike. Sergeant Quintin knew they changed duties to suit themselves, but had never been able to prove it. The twins came from Somerset, and their father had been a marine too.

  It was so often like that. As one sergeant had said, ‘In the Corps we don’t recruit marines. We breeds ’em!’

  The door opened and the captain’s clerk ushered Blackwood inside.

  Blackwood walked aft and saw the glittering lights of the anchored ships through the great stern windows, distorted like fairy lanterns by the thick glass.

  He was back. Whatever it was he had tried to fight was far stronger than he had imagined.

  Captain John Ackworthy half rose from his chair and sank down again. He was a heavy man, with shaggy grey eyebrows and a face like tooled leather, criss-crossed with hundreds of tiny lines. Ackworthy was old for his rank, and had been at sea all his life from the age of twelve. Audacious would be his last command, and was certainly the biggest vessel he had ever served. With the previous admiral, who had been old like himself, he had felt content, and had accepted that he would never bridge the gulf to flag rank. When Audacious paid off, Captain Ackworthy would join all the other ancient mariners on the beach.

  The swift change of events and the appointment of a new flag-officer in command had unsettled him considerably. There were four ships of the line in the squadron, and Ackworthy would willingly have taken command of the oldest and smallest to avoid having a vice-admiral’s flag flying at the fore, especially one with a reputation like Ashley-Chute’s.

  He regarded the marine officer thoughtfully. Blackwood looked strained, and his jaw was set just a bit too tightly. Ackworthy had never really understood marines, but he had liked Blackwood from their first meeting. He had removed his shako and his brown hair was surprisingly tousled, so that he looked even younger. He had clean-cut features and level grey-blue eyes. A reliable English face, but one you might never know in a thousand years, Ackworthy decided.

  ‘Sit you down, Major. I want to talk about tomorrow.’ He glanced meaningly at the deckhead as if he could pierce it with a glance and already see the vice-admiral’s flag breaking at the foremast truck.

  Blackwood listened as Ackworthy rambled on about the admiral’s time of arrival at Portsmouth Point, the requirements for guard and band, the need for a perfect turn-out from captain to ship’s boy.

  Did Captain Ackworthy know about Ashley-Chute’s nickname, he wondered? Monkey. Very apt too. Perhaps he had changed after four years. It seemed unlikely.

  Blackwood had often wondered if there had been any official enquiry or action taken by the Admiralty over Ashley-Chute’s failure to recognize the danger to his landing parties at North Island on that terrible day. If so, it had been kept very quiet. But Ashley-Chute was still of the same rank, and for someone so ambitious it might be possible he had been quietly laid aside like Ackworthy. In which case he would be doubly determined to force his stamp on the squadron without delay.

  Ackworthy ruffled through some papers on his table. ‘Almost forgot. Guard-boat brought a message from Forton Barracks. A marine second lieutenant will be joining the ship tomorrow. Sounds as if he may be straight from training. Don’t even know his name yet. But all the same . . .’ He did not finish.

  Blackwood gauged the moment. They were alone except for Ackworthy’s cabin servant, who was probably waiting in his pantry for the call to bring in some of the captain’s claret.

  He said, ‘May I ask what orders we are under, sir?’

  Ackworthy pouted his lower lip. ‘We are assuming the duties of the West African Squadron. For how long and to what purpose I cannot say at present.’ He frowned so that his eyes almost vanished. ‘I’d be obliged if you would not mention anything about it.’

  Blackwood nodded. ‘Of course, sir.’ Poor old devil. You’re scared of Monkey and he’s not even here yet.

  The servant entered quietly and placed a tray and glasses on the table, then withdrew just as softly.

  Ackworthy picked up a decanter and held it to the deck-head lantern. In his great fist it looked like a flask.

  ‘I understand you served with Sir James Ashley-Chute before?’ He poured two glasses with elaborate care. ‘That affair in New Zealand, wasn’t it?’

  Blackwood sipped the wine. ‘Yes, sir. In forty-six.’ He waited, the wine moistening his throat, calming him.

  ‘I have a new third lieutenant since you went on leave.’ Ackworthy poured himself another glass and some of the wine slopped across his papers. He did not seem to notice. ‘Thought you should know. He’s Sir James’s son.’ He moved violently away from the table and stared through the stern windows. ‘As if I don’t have enough trouble on my plate!’ He seemed to realize he had exposed his feelings too much in front of a subordinate and added harshly, ‘Just make certain your marines put on a good display tomorrow.’ He turned away from the windows. ‘I expect you’ve got things to do.’

  Blackwood stood up. ‘Yes, sir. And thank you.’

  Ackworthy shrugged. ‘Glad you’re staying under my command, by the way.’

  Blackwood left the cabin and walked slowly towards the quarterdeck. The Wes
t African Squadron. It was a long way to go. When he came home again there would be no house, no familiar places to walk and ride.

  He thought then of his half-sister Georgina. She was sixteen, with the wild beauty of a young foal. She had kissed him goodbye this morning, was it only today? She had not acted like a sister, nor had he felt like a brother towards her as she had pressed against him. Perhaps West Africa was just about the right distance after all.

  Colour-Sergeant M’Crystal and his friend Sergeant Quintin stood motionless in the shadows as Blackwood approached the glowing rectangle of the companionway.

  M’Crystal said in a hoarse whisper, ‘There he goes, Joe. Cool as steel. Nothing to worry about.’

  Quintin grunted. ‘We’ll see about that, Hamish. You just get this bloody commission over an’ done with, an’ with yer stripes still on yer arm, then I’ll believe yer!’

  As the first pale stars glittered above the gently spiralling mastheads, the ship and the eight hundred and fifty souls who served her settled down to wait for the new day which might change things for all of them.

  ‘Got a good day for it, sir.’ Smithett flicked a piece of invisible dust from Blackwood’s coatee and regarded him unsmilingly.

  Blackwood was used to him and knew that he would never have to worry about taking a parade with some fault in his uniform or equipment. He glanced at himself in the mirror above his small writing table and grimaced. Perhaps he was making too much of Ashley-Chute’s arrival. Maybe they all were. He sighed and said, ‘Keep a weather-eye open for the new second lieutenant.’

  He climbed up the companion ladder knowing that Smithett would vanish until the ceremonial was over.

  On deck the sunlight was bright and the reflections across the Solent harsh to the eyes. Since the hands had been roused and then piped to breakfast after the decks had been washed down, a sort of expectancy had fallen over the whole ship.

  Blackwood tugged on his white gloves and glanced quickly along the upper deck.

  Every line and halliard neatly flaked or turned on its belaying pin, each strand of rigging taut and stiff like black glass. On either side of the deck, partly hidden by the two gangways which linked forecastle to quarterdeck, the upper batteries of twelve-pounders looked as if they had been positioned with the aid of a carpenter’s rule.

  He shifted his glance to the marine guard and the smaller figures of the boy fifers who were being lectured by Corporal Bly.

  Across the poop there were further ranks of marines, and he guessed that Sergeant Quintin had had the good sense to place the new recruits as far aft as he could manage so that they would not disgrace him.

  He walked slowly towards the guard, his eyes automatically picking out the familiar faces, the expressions which disguised their owners’ backgrounds which were as varied as their names.

  That was one of the main differences between a marine and a seaman, he thought. Sailors usually came from ports and harbours, or very close to the sea, whereas marines were often recruited miles inland, or joined to follow a family tradition. Marines were trained ashore, and seamen had to learn from the moment they stepped aboard their ship, from the deck up, and from the deck down.

  The marines were standing in loose lines, their long muskets at their sides, their ranks rolling slightly to the ship’s motion.

  Colour-Sergeant M’Crystal tapped the deck gently with his half-pike. ‘Marines . . .’

  He did not shout or raise his voice. It was more like a deep rumble. But Blackwood saw the ranks of scarlet coatees and white trousers stiffen, as if an invisible force had thrust rods right through each line of men.

  M’Crystal reported, ‘Ready for inspection, sir.’

  Blackwood walked slowly along each rank. He could feel the officers watching from the quarterdeck, the seamen who were working aloft in the shrouds or on the yards pausing in their search for last-minute faults to stare down as the marines went through their ritual.

  Beneath the peak of each Albert shako he caught a brief glimpse of a blank, expressionless face. Like the white cross-belts and gleaming bayonets, it was part of the whole, but to Blackwood every one was different. Corporal Jones who fancied himself as a prize-fighter. Private Callow who had dived overboard to rescue a seaman who had fallen from the main-yard. Private Frazier who had been with him in New Zealand, a superb shot, but a man who shied away from promotion as if it was poison. The Rocke twins, like mirror images. M’Crystal had said that if one cut himself shaving the other would do the same to sustain the confusion. Private Bulford who had run away from home to enlist. Later they had discovered it was because his father was in jail for robbery.

  It was a good turn-out, as he had expected. How they managed it in their quarters, called as always the barracks, he could barely imagine. Especially with the extra marines who had been sent across from the shore. And why did they need additional men anyway? There should be enough aboard the four ships of the line and their two frigates for any normal activity.

  The midshipman-of-the-watch called in a shrill voice, ‘Barge has left the sallyport, sir!’

  The quarterdeck stirred into life immediately. As another midshipman ran to inform the captain, boatswain’s mates stood at the entry port, moistening their silver calls on their lips in readiness to greet the new lord and master.

  Seamen vanished from the yards, and those still on deck were dressed in their best uniforms, their horny feet confined uncomfortably in shoes.

  Blackwood glanced at the quarterdeck where the lieutenants and senior warrant officers were lined up in sweating discomfort. It was unusual to see them all together except for special parades. Cocked hats and gold lace, swords and gloves. His glance settled on a short, pale-faced lieutenant in the front rank. That had to be Ashley-Chute’s son. The same short legs which made his arms dangle at his sides as if they were too heavy for him. He felt a tinge of sympathy even though he did not know him. Blackwood had always managed to avoid serving under his own father, he had heard too many tales about the rift it could cause. Like the teacher whose son attends the same school and must therefore be the brightest pupil, no matter what.

  Captain Ackworthy, even bulkier and more impressive in his full dress uniform, appeared on deck. He had probably been standing in his cabin listening and waiting, Blackwood thought.

  Blackwood turned his head slightly and looked across the glistening water. There were plenty of local craft about again, and he could see the upturned faces and the bright colours of women’s clothing as they bobbed around the anchored ships. The guard-boat pulled warily amongst them, just in case one might try to get too close on this special day.

  Eight bells chimed out from the forecastle, and from the corner of his eye Blackwood saw Audacious’s dark green barge turning in a neat arc for the final approach to the main-chains. Through the arched backs of the bargemen he could see the cocked hat of the passenger. Behind him, one of the ship’s lieutenants stood with the coxswain as if he was carved out of wood.

  ‘Stand by on the quarterdeck!’

  The marine fifers raised their instruments or adjusted their drums, and Blackwood drew his sword, recalling with sudden clarity that day he had faced Ashley-Chute across the table, the day the major had drawn his sword and had died leading his men.

  Colour-Sergeant M’Crystal hissed in a fierce whisper, ‘God Almighty, sir!’

  It was so unlike M’Crystal to lose his self-control during a ceremonial parade that it was somehow worse than if he had shouted a terrible obscenity.

  Blackwood saw another boat pulling purposefully towards the Audacious. It must have come around the stern when everyone was watching the opposite direction. It was a small boat, probably from Gosport, not that it mattered now. It had only one passenger, and Blackwood could well appreciate the strength of M’Crystal’s feelings. There was no mistaking the uniform of a Royal Marines second lieutenant.

  Captain Ackworthy opened and closed his mouth but no sound emerged.

  It fell to Netten,
Audacious’s first lieutenant, to yell, ‘Stand away there!’

  The guard-boat too had realized what was happening and increased speed to intercept the waterman. Unfortunately, one of her oarsmen lost the stroke and vanished into the bottom, legs kicking wildly, to the delight of the boy fifers. They were too young to realize the enormity of the disaster.

  The barge hooked onto the chains, the oars rising like white bones as the side-boys steadied the gunwale against Audacious’s fat hull.

  Then all was drowned by the shrill of calls, the stamp and crack of muskets being brought to the present and the fifers’ rendering of ‘Heart of Oak’.

  Blackwood brought his sword down with a flourish and watched narrowly beneath the shadow of his peak as the cocked hat and epaulettes of Vice-Admiral Sir James Ashley-Chute, KCB, appeared at the top of the ladder.

  He looked much the same, but older. He still wore his cocked hat at a rakish angle. If his subordinates had dared to wear their hats in anything but a fore and aft position they would have imagined the heavens had fallen on them.

  A broad, puggy nose and large iron-grey sideburns, and the disdainful stare which Blackwood remembered so well. His mouth was set in a thin line, as if he had no lips at all. He was carrying a pair of white gloves and he flicked his hat with them, more like a dismissal than a salute.

  As Ackworthy hurried to meet him he made the vice-admiral look even smaller. But only in stature, Blackwood thought. Somehow Ashley-Chute’s tightly packed belligerence seemed to reduce the captain to shambling awkwardness.

  ‘Welcome aboard, Sir James.’

  The admiral’s eyes moved across the guard of honour and rested just for a second on M’Crystal. They shifted to the ship, the neatly furled sails, the assembled lieutenants and the blue press of seamen on the upper deck.

  ‘Quite so, Captain Ackworthy.’ He slapped his palm with his gloves in time with his words. ‘A fine looking ship.’ Ackworthy’s smile vanished as the little admiral added crisply, ‘But then I have the right to insist on excellence, hmm?’