Badge of Glory (1982)

by Reeman, Douglas

  Blackwood realized with a start that Ackworthy was speaking again.

  ‘I never thought that I should be off on another campaign like this, Major.’ He was talking almost to himself. ‘I thought I should end up like the dockyard captain, the one who . . .’ He did not finish it.

  So Ackworthy had also seen the admiral vent his anger on the man.

  He continued, ‘But maybe when we get some sea-room things will seem different.’

  Blackwood felt suddenly sorry for Ackworthy. Of all the officers in his ship he probably felt safe to speak his mind only with a marine who shared yet was quite apart from his chain of command.

  Blackwood tried to draw him from his gloom. ‘Sir Geoffrey Slade. Is he sailing with the squadron, sir?’

  The captain shook his head, his mind already elsewhere. ‘No, he’s going ahead in a fast mail-packet. Don’t like the smell of it. The Service and politics don’t mix, not in my book.’

  Some violins struck up, and the remaining guests moved aft towards the poop and the beckoning music.

  Most of the screens in the admiral’s quarters had either been removed or hoisted up to the deckhead to give as much space as possible. Tables of glasses and yet more punch to fill them lined the sides, and right aft in the great cabin itself Ashley-Chute’s table had been fully extended to seat his guests in lavish comfort. Silver candlesticks were placed at measured intervals, and there was hardly an inch of its polished surface which was not filled with food, gleaming cutlery and flowers.

  Ashley-Chute stood with his friend Slade and watched his guests’ reactions with barely concealed satisfaction.

  Pelham, the flag-lieutenant, glanced nervously around the laughing, chattering throng and consulted his list of names and where each guest would be seated.

  Blackwood took a glass from one of the temporary cabin servants and tried to remember how many drinks he had taken. This was no time to get drunk. The thought made him smile to himself. Ashley-Chute would probably put him ashore and Harry would be made to take over command of the marines in his place. ‘Mother’ would be pleased.

  ‘Something amuses you, Captain Blackwood?’

  He turned, startled, and saw her looking directly at him. She was even more striking close to, with the candlelight and deckhead lanterns making her dark ringlets shine against her bare shoulders.

  ‘I – I’m sorry. Just something which might have spoiled an otherwise happy occasion.’

  He watched for some break in her guard. Harry was right, she did not smile. But she had lovely skin, like cream in the reflected lights, and her eyes were dark, possibly violet, he thought.

  He asked, ‘How did you know my name?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  Her directness took him off balance.

  ‘Not really. I know yours, Miss Seymour.’

  She looked away, but made no attempt to move. ‘I hate these gatherings. So much talk. Too much.’ She looked at him again. ‘Actually, my uncle pointed you out to me. You were involved in the Maori War, I believe.’

  Blackwood was getting out of his depth. There must be a great deal more to Slade than he had realized if he had kept note of the marines’ part in the Maori War, especially that of a lowly lieutenant. Unless Ashley-Chute had said something. A warning clicked in his mind like a pistol hammer.

  ‘I was there, yes.’ When she said nothing he added, ‘Straightforward landing operations. What we’re trained for. It had to be done.’

  ‘You don’t sound so sure, Captain Blackwood.’ She watched him gravely, her gown rising and falling to her breathing.

  Blackwood shrugged. ‘I’m sure.’ It was like listening to Harry all over again. What is it really like?

  He looked down at her. God, she was lovely. He could smell her perfume. Like a part of her.

  He added, ‘We go where we’re ordered, Miss Seymour. No country can survive without strength, but you must know that, surely?’

  She shook her head, the dark ringlets barely touching her shoulder.

  ‘I think it’s wrong to oppress people. No matter who they are. Some folk seem to take a delight in power, at any cost. Greed and power usually go hand in hand.’

  Blackwood retorted, ‘I wouldn’t know about that.’ He had spoken sharply but could not help himself. She had got under his skin and he felt confused by her candour and her confidence. ‘I do my –’

  She nodded very slowly. ‘Your duty, were you going to say?’

  Lieutenant Pelham called in his reedy voice, ‘Ladies and gentlemen! Dinner is about to be served!’

  Blackwood found himself alone as the others moved eagerly to their allotted places. She had been laughing at him, had made him feel a fool, like a common foot soldier.

  Pelham brushed his elbow. ‘There, sir. Next to the lady mayoress.’

  He was almost grateful to be submerged in a torrent of conversation and the din of eating and drinking.

  The candles flickered across the bright gowns and the officers’ epaulettes, and beneath the laden table Blackwood felt the ship stir as if made uneasy like himself.

  The girl named Davern Seymour was seated at the head of the table with Ashley-Chute and her uncle. Occasionally he heard her laugh, but it was a controlled sound, and not once did she look in his direction.

  The lady mayoress had had a great deal to drink and was leaning against him by the time the table was rearranged for a special pudding which had been prepared by the admiral’s cook.

  She said huskily, ‘My father was a sailor, y’know.’

  She had difficulty in focusing her eyes on Blackwood’s face, but none at all in pressing her knee against his under the table.

  Blackwood regarded her despairingly. She was sixty if she was a day. It would serve her right. He took another swallow of wine and dabbed his face with a napkin. What was the matter with him? Had that girl unsettled him so badly?

  The lady mayoress seemed to take his silence for encouragement and he felt a hand on his thigh.

  There was a sharp tap from the head of the table, and Blackwood thought for an instant that someone had seen what was happening.

  Vice-Admiral Sir James Ashley-Chute rose to his feet and stared at the table until he had their full attention.

  ‘Before the ladies retire, God bless ’em,’ his eyes moved restlessly along their faces, ‘I would like to say a few words on behalf of the squadron, my squadron, which is soon to quit these shores.’ He tucked one hand inside his coat and continued, ‘We are all living in stirring times. An age of discovery, the founding of trade and colonies the length and breadth of the globe. There will soon be no land worthwhile where the Union flag does not fly with authority. Our mother country will surely benefit and continue to do so.’ Some of the gravity was thrust aside as he added, ‘But I am a simple sailor. I leave such matters to others. Unlike some . . .’ he paused and glanced coldly at Captain Boyd of the Argyll who was said to have a woman in Southsea, ‘. . . I am content to serve my country and take the ocean as my mistress.’

  Somebody gave a nervous laugh.

  The admiral stared into the distance, the lights shining on his iron-grey sideburns.

  ‘We have a young queen on the throne, a fleet to be proud of, and a future that holds no fears for those resourceful enough to seek and win!’

  Captain Boyd of the Argyll, still flushed with anger at the admiral’s pointed comment, muttered, ‘God, you’d think we were going to fight a war!’

  The lady mayoress slumped back, and Blackwood saw the girl watching him from the end of the table.

  Ashley-Chute was saying, ‘Loyalty and duty are the foundations of my faith.’

  Blackwood watched the girl’s mouth quiver very slightly. She was laughing at him. Goading him.

  The admiral broke off and snapped, ‘Well, what is it, Pelham?’ He seemed irritated by his flag-lieutenant’s sudden gestures. ‘I am still speaking, man!’

  But he listened none the less and then motioned for Pelham to relay his news to
Captain Ackworthy.

  Strangely ill at ease in his own ship, Ackworthy rose to his feet, his hair almost brushing the deckhead.

  ‘I beg your pardon, ladies and gentlemen, but the master has sent his respects and apologies and insists that a squall is rising from the sou’-east. Under the circumstances, it might be in the interests of safety for visitors to return to the shore without delay.’

  Ashley-Chute gave a fierce grin. ‘Any lady still aboard will remain so, hmm?’ He walked briskly to the cabin door to bid his guests farewell.

  Blackwood said to the flag-lieutenant, ‘A bit sudden, surely?’

  The man shook his head wretchedly, probably visualizing all those hundreds of miles to Africa.

  ‘Sir James is bored or tired, I’m never certain which. He ordered me to pass that message to him. There’s no squall. It’s an old trick of his.’ He glanced at the long-armed lieutenant who was the admiral’s son. ‘I feel sorry for him. For all of us.’

  ‘Come along, Pelham.’ Ashley-Chute’s voice was like a father speaking to a backward child. ‘See that the ladies are escorted to the gangway.’ He glanced at Blackwood and nodded curtly. ‘So your brother is aboard, eh? A bit of string-pulling at the Admiralty, hmm?’

  He turned aside to speak with his special guest.

  The girl was waiting for him, her body concealed from her throat to her toes in a boat-cloak.

  ‘Good night, Captain Blackwood.’ She eyed him thoughtfully. ‘I hope you are not too troubled by duty.’ She did not offer her hand from the protection of her cloak.

  Blackwood bowed from the waist. ‘I look forward to our next meeting, Miss Seymour.’

  She gave a brief smile. ‘I fear that may be a long way off.’

  She curtsied to the admiral, the movement taking her through the door and into the shadows like a trained dancer.

  Blackwood walked out into the cool damp air and drew deeply on the tang of salt. Boats were already thrusting away from the ship’s side, and he could hear laughter and muffled cheers as the occupants waved to the watching seamen on the gangway.

  ‘How did you get on, sir?’

  Blackwood swung on the scarlet blur of Harry’s coatee in the gloom.

  Then he shrugged. What had he expected anyway? That a girl like her would swoon into his arms merely because he was going overseas?

  He said wearily, ‘I survived, Harry.’ He touched the lieutenant’s sleeve, suddenly glad of his company. ‘Come below and take a glass before you turn in.’

  The admiral’s quarters were already quiet, the screens replaced, a sentry planted beneath a lantern like a toy soldier.

  Then, as Blackwood thrust open his cabin door they both heard Ashley-Chute’s voice cutting through the screens and all else like a saw.

  ‘What the hell were you thinking of, Ackworthy? Some of those servants were like ploughmen, more used to the dung in the fields than to civilized people!’

  Ackworthy must have mumbled something and the admiral’s voice rose even higher.

  ‘It was a bloody shambles! I was humiliated by it! By God, Captain Ackworthy, you’ll live to regret it if you repeat such incompetence!’

  Harry Blackwood stared at his half-brother with astonishment.

  ‘What was that?’

  Blackwood glanced at the quiet cabin, the bottle and goblets where Smithett had placed them in readiness. He never needed to be told anything.

  ‘I fear, Harry, that the party has just ended.’

  3

  A Man of Authority

  ‘Begin the salute.’

  The crash of the first cannon shattered the afternoon silence and drove a cloud of gulls soaring into the sky in screaming protest.

  Moving very slowly at the head of the squadron, the flagship Audacious headed purposefully towards the anchorage, beyond which the impressive slab of Gibraltar loomed up in the mist.

  The sea was set in a flat calm, with only an occasional flurry of breeze to stir the ship’s topsails and jib.

  The squadron must make a fine if familiar picture from the shore, Blackwood thought. Like part of a great painting, or one of his grandfather’s memories.

  Audacious in the lead, with the three two-deckers, Swiftsure, Valiant and Argyll following obediently in her wake. Only the hulls were changed from those which had shaken to the roar of cannon fire at Trafalgar. White and black stripes instead of Nelson’s black and buff. Otherwise there was little outward difference.

  Gun for gun the salute to the governor on the Rock crashed out, to be returned with equal precision. Probably the only ones they would hear on this voyage, Blackwood thought.

  He glanced forward from the quarterdeck at the assembled seamen who were waiting to wear ship in readiness to drop anchor. Others with their petty officers and lieutenants in their various parts of ship. To sway out the boats, to rig awnings and windsails, to man the side for visitors from the shore, and all within minutes of the great anchor splashing down.

  The marines were paraded in three neat formations, Colour-Sergeant M’Crystal on the flank, Sergeant Quintin in the rear.

  Second Lieutenant Harry Blackwood stood in front of the first platoon, his sword drawn and resting between his feet, his eyes slitted against the misty glare from the bay. Sea-haze mingled with the departing gunsmoke, and in the humid air the marines were getting the worst of it in their high-collared coatees.

  ‘Ready, sir!’

  Ackworthy nodded. ‘Helm a’lee!’

  Slowly and ponderously Audacious turned towards the wind. Sails flapped against the rigging in meek protest. There was barely enough air to carry her to the idling guard-boat with the bright pendant hoisted to mark where she should anchor.

  Blackwood glanced across to the group by the quarterdeck rail. The misshapen figure of Ashley-Chute, his hands linked across his buttocks by a pair of white gloves which he had been tugging in time to the gun salute. Ackworthy and his first lieutenant, the signals midshipmen ready to make signals and acknowledge them, their assistants standing amongst the coloured bunting, very aware of the need for haste with their admiral barely yards away.

  ‘Let go!’

  As the anchor hurled spray high above the beakhead, the ship’s sailing master glanced at his quartermaster and helmsman and gave a quick grimace. Blackwood could guess what he was thinking. It had taken fourteen of the longest days he could recall to reach Gibraltar from Spithead. With each dragging hour the ships of the squadron had gone through their paces in response to Ashley-Chute’s endless procession of signals.

  Three ships of the squadron had been spared. The little frigate Peregrine had been sent on ahead to Gibraltar, but even she had taken two days to draw away from her heavy consorts. The other frigate, the forty-four-gun Laertes, had held up to windward, a spectator as the ships of the line had formed up ahead or astern of their admiral, opened or closed distances as demanded, while the limp sails had been changed and reset until the various companies were worn out.

  Only the squadron store-ship, Amelia, a very elderly vessel which had once been used for transporting convicts, had been allowed to make her own way south.

  Even Biscay had been cruelly calm, with not the usual urgency of shortening sail and changing tack to keep the men’s minds occupied. Around the north-west tip of Spain and still further south with the coast of Portugal just visible to the masthead lookouts.

  Gun drill in blazing sunlight, the crews panting and cursing as they had hauled the great muzzles up to their ports, timed by the first lieutenant’s watch, and with Ashley-Chute’s small figure never far away from poop or quarterdeck.

  Pelham stayed at his side like a lean shadow, a pad rarely absent from his hand, as the admiral’s thin mouth opened occasionally to make a criticism or to ask who was responsible for a delay or a mistake.

  It was a far, far cry from the eloquent host at the Spithead reception, the man who could describe the beauty of sail and dismiss the benefits of steam and leave no room for doubt among his listeners.


  The slow passage had played its part. There had hardly been a day when the squadron had not been passed or, worse, overhauled by some packet or coaster.

  In the Bay itself they had sighted a tell-tale plume of black smoke far astern, and Blackwood had heard the admiral say, ‘Damn rattle-box! What did I tell you, Pelham? Bloody useless!’

  But the little paddle-steamer had grown sharper in the telescope lens none the less, and when the hands had been piped to their midday meal she had been overtaking the squadron in fine style. Her master must have done it deliberately, for his after-deck was almost awash from the paddles’ surging throw back. Smoke and sparks had belched from the spindly funnel, and the vessel had churned up a bow wave like a giant’s moustache.

  When the Audacious’s hands had been piped back to their various tasks once more the little paddle-steamer had been passing Argyll’s quarter at the rear of the line.

  Ashley-Chute had snatched a telescope from a terrified midshipman and had shouted, ‘Captain Boyd’s people are cheering that filthy object!’ He had hurled the glass at the midshipman. ‘God damn it, Ackworthy, must I be served by fools?’ He had swung away adding, ‘Make a signal to the squadron. Make more sail and close on the flagship.’

  Ackworthy had seen the protest in the sailing master’s eyes and had pleaded, ‘In these light airs, sir, it will do no use.’

  Ashley-Chute had had to climb on to a bollard to seek out the paddle-steamer.

  ‘Just do as I say! More sail!’

  Like monkeys the seamen had swarmed up the ratlines in a living tide to set the topgallants and then the royals in an effort to draw ahead. It was pointless, and the great main-course could barely lift its belly, so weak was the wind.

  The other vessel had steamed past, dipping her ensign as she did so.