Badge of Glory (1982)

by Reeman, Douglas

  As the first lieutenant had said later, ‘Not only that, but she was a bloody Frenchie!’

  Harry Blackwood brought the hilt of his sword to his mouth with a flourish.

  ‘Permission to fall out the marines, sir!’

  From one corner of his eye Blackwood saw M’Crystal nod with approval. He did not know the half of it. Harry should have been an actor, not a marine.

  He said calmly, ‘Carry on, Mr Blackwood. Tell Sergeant Quintin to detail a shore picket, just in case our people are allowed off the ship.’

  He shaded his eyes and looked up to watch the last of the big sails being furled neatly to its yard. All down the squadron it would be the same. Another passage completed. A landfall made. At least they didn’t have to put up with the admiral.

  Blackwood walked on to the larboard gangway as the first of the boats was swayed up and over the side to a clatter of blocks and bellowed commands.

  There were several steam vessels lying in the Rock’s shadow. It must be marvellous to be able to manoeuvre at will and tell the wind to act as it pleased. To cut across an enemy’s stern without the need to stand and receive a bellyful of iron because you have lost your sails in a broadside.

  ‘Is this your first time here, Major?’

  Blackwood turned and looked down at Ashley-Chute’s son. He had barely spoken to the third lieutenant since he had joined the ship at Spithead. Their duties never seemed to meet, and he had thought him to be either aloof like his father or merely shy.

  ‘No, I’ve been this way before.’

  Blackwood watched him curiously. About his own age, and yet he seemed much older, or from another period altogether. He would not have looked out of place with Raleigh or Drake, he thought. He had deep lines at his mouth and nose, and his eyes were restless and heavy lidded. He gave the added impression of great physical strength, as if it was all gathered in his shoulders and long, ungainly arms.

  Lieutenant Ashley-Chute pointed towards the shore. ‘See that mast beyond the anchored store-ship?’

  Blackwood shaded his eyes again. The lieutenant must have damn good vision as well.

  Then he saw it. A raked mast, almost bare of spars and rigging, and a thin black funnel.

  The young Ashley-Chute was saying, ‘She’s the Satyr. A new steam-frigate.’ He could not contain the excitement he felt. It was like a secret pride. ‘I was supposed to be joining her. I’ve completed the new gunnery course, everything.’ His arms dropped to his sides as if they were too heavy. ‘But I’m third lieutenant in Audacious instead.’

  Blackwood did not need to ask why. ‘Maybe you can transfer later on.’

  ‘Later on?’ He did not hide the bitterness in his voice. ‘He’d never allow it. He wanted me here, to make certain I’d follow the “tradition”.’ He spat out each word. ‘I love the Navy. I really do. And he’s almost made me hate it!’

  A petty officer hurried towards him and he thrust himself away from the side.

  ‘Sorry about that, Major.’

  Blackwood smiled. ‘I think I understand how you feel.’ He turned and stared again at the raked mast. Lithe, modern power; no wonder a young officer could dream of serving and maybe commanding such a vessel. ‘Perhaps we could go over and look at her while we’re here?’ But when he twisted round Lieutenant Ashley-Chute had vanished.

  The first lieutenant strolled across to join him. ‘The captain wants a full quarter-guard mounted this evening, Major.’ He removed his hat and wiped the inside rim with his handkerchief. ‘More visitors to drink up our mess bills, I expect!’

  But Netten, the first lieutenant, was wrong. The only important visitor to arrive aboard the flagship was Sir Geoffrey Slade, as neat and composed as ever, dressed all in white and removing his hat as he received full honours from the side-party.

  Later, after dining with the admiral in his cabin, he came on deck where Blackwood was watching his marines mounting guard and listening to their night orders from Corporal Jones, the man who had wanted to be a prize-fighter.

  He nodded companionably. ‘Good to see you again, Blackwood.’

  He seemed so relaxed and at ease that Blackwood asked, ‘Are you remaining here at Gibraltar, Sir Geoffrey?’

  Sir Geoffrey Slade shook his head and leaned out to watch some local trading boats idling as near as they dared to the ship’s side. From the lower gunports there would be some brisk bartering between these boatmen and the sailors until the master-at-arms discovered what was happening.

  ‘No. I shall continue in the mail-packet to Freetown and then, if everything is properly arranged, take a steam vessel on to Fernando Po. How the African coasts are opening up with these new craft, eh?’ He gave an amused smile. ‘I’m afraid I do not share Sir James’s views on maritime progress!’

  Blackwood hesitated. ‘Er, your niece, sir . . .’

  Slade regarded him calmly. ‘She came with me, of course.’ He saw Blackwood’s surprise and added, ‘But she’s not here now. Left yesterday. Wouldn’t wait, and I could not very well keep her company. My business here and in Africa is pressing.’

  Blackwood had imagined the girl back in England. But she had been here and had already gone. It was making no sense.

  Slade said, ‘She wanted to join her father. She’s a headstrong young woman. I’ve done all I can for her since her mother died. I can understand how she feels.’ He waited and then said gently, ‘You seem very interested in my niece.’

  ‘I think she found me rather stupid, sir.’ He shrugged. ‘I thought she was fascinating, as it happens.’

  ‘I see. Well, her father’s a doctor. Could have been a great man in his profession, but he chose tropical medicine. It’s what killed his wife, as a matter of fact. Now he’s down there working his heart out in some wretched mission or other. I’ve sent word to our people in Freetown to help my niece as much as they can, but I’m not sure any more. The area where he was last known to be is in a state of turmoil. Which is why I am on my way there, and where you will eventually be required to make a show of strength, and I hope that is all that will be needed!’

  He looked dreamily towards the Rock’s great shadow. ‘It’s all there in Africa, y’know, Blackwood. The picklock of empire. People don’t count for much when something’s true value is realized.’ He turned aft towards the poop. ‘A game of cards with Sir James before I go ashore, I think.’ He gave a casual wave. ‘Remember what I said.’

  Blackwood gripped the nettings with both hands and stared at the glittering lights on the water.

  She had known when she had spoken to him. I think it’s wrong to oppress people. Now she was on her way to Africa, to a part which Slade had made clear was about to erupt for one of a hundred reasons.

  He walked quickly along the gangway, only partly aware of the watching side-party and boatswain’s mate, a marine sentry who stiffened as he passed.

  She might think differently of him if he could see her again.

  In his mind’s eye he seemed to see Africa spreading like a vast jungle, engulfing her and dragging her down into oblivion.

  He thought of the screaming horde of Maoris as they had charged towards the single line of marines, the jarring pain in his arm as he had hacked one of them down, their faces almost touching.

  Blackwood stopped short at the forecastle. There was a solitary marine sentry there on a little platform above the beakhead. To watch over the cable, to ensure no unlawful visitors used the great rope to pull themselves aboard. Likewise, he was useful to deter anyone from deserting.

  The sentry stamped his heels to attention. Blackwood peered through the gloom but could not put a name to the stiff, youthful face.

  ‘You’re one of the new recruits?’

  ‘Sir! Private Oldcastle, sixth company, sir!’ He had a Yorkshire dialect you could carry in a spoon.

  ‘Have you settled in, Oldcastle?’

  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.