He made up his mind and unclipped his scabbard and handed it and his sword to Smithett. His shako too, while the nearest marines watched him with tense expectancy.
Corporal Jones said cautiously, ‘Won’t do at all, sir, begging your pardon. I’ll go.’
Blackwood watched as the grapnel soared up to the parapet and caught fast. Then he took the line and tested it, his eyes on the rough horizon between wall and sky. ‘If I fall, Corporal Jones, retreat back to the boat.’ He took a firm grip on the line and hoped his palms would not slip. It would take too long to explain to Jones.
He leaned back and pressed his foot against the wall. What had his father said of him? Honour and glory. He cursed aloud and began to haul himself up the line. He had been ready enough to give Lascelles advice. Now it was his turn to earn his pay.
Once he paused to gather his strength, aware of the silence again, the upturned faces below him. By his hand he saw an ant probing into a hole in the crude stonework. How many people had died to build this place? he wondered.
With a start he realized his head was level with the top. Holding his breath he reached out for a fingerhold, his mind throbbing with strain and concentration.
As his eyes rose higher he saw a burned-out roof and some fallen timber on the far side of a mud compound. But the gates were there right enough, and heavily barred with a massive timber. His nostrils twitched and he felt his body contract with fear. Death. He knew the smell of that all right.
‘Anything, sir?’ Jones was getting worried again.
Blackwood did not answer but very gingerly hauled his body up and up until he was lying prone on the top of the wall. He heard a bang and flinched as a ball slammed into a piece of timber supporting an inner parapet. There was an instant rattle of musket fire, then the bang of a swivel as the challenge was met from the boats.
Blackwood threw himself over the wall and dropped on his knees. As he tugged the pistol from his belt he saw a face peering at him over the edge of the same parapet. Bearded and filthy, with eyes ablaze with despair and worse, the creature shouted, ‘In God’s name! Who are you?’
Blackwood moved towards him, knowing the next seconds were vital. The man was armed, although his weapon was hidden beneath the parapet’s planking. He was also on the verge of madness. One false move and he would get a full charge straight in his belly.
He said slowly, ‘The marines are here.’ He deliberately thrust the pistol back into his belt as he watched the man’s eyes trying to translate what they saw. Faded eyes like his grandfather’s.
It was unbearable to see the ragged creature as he began to weep. There was no sound at all, which made it worse, and all the time those eyes stared at Blackwood as if unable to accept what was happening.
A white leg came over the parapet and Corporal Jones crouched beside him.
‘Hell’s teeth, sir!’ He sniffed. ‘Corpses too!’
Blackwood lowered himself on to the ladder and stared at the ragged defender.
‘How many of you?’
‘F-four, I think.’ He shook his head dazedly. ‘Bin here for days fighting them off.’ He waved vaguely with his musket. ‘The devils are out there still.’ He reached out and felt Blackwood’s tunic with a filthy hand. ‘Marines, y’say?’ His eyes were pleading. ‘Come to help us?’
Blackwood stood up slowly, his mind rebelling as he saw the corpses littered by the gate and sprawled in careless attitudes where they had fallen. It must have been a pitched battle. He listened to the dull buzz of flies but heard only the screams and yells which must have filled this terrible place.
He saw Smithett clambering over the parapet, ducking without any change of expression as a ball shrieked over his head.
‘I think we need one of those bottles, Smithett.’ To Jones he said, ‘Call up the others and get them in position.’ He thought suddenly of the boy Oldcastle. What would he think of the horrors here? Black men and white, staring eyes and gaping wounds. ‘When you’ve done that, signal the first section to join us at the double.’
He turned towards the old man with the musket. ‘Yes, we are here to help you.’ He made himself smile when he felt like weeping. ‘But first I want you to help me.’
5
Battle Fury
Captain George Tobin stood with his shoulders set against the stern windows of his day cabin, his face grim as he listened to the first lieutenant’s report. It was early evening, and although the wind had completely died Satyr rolled continuously in an offshore swell.
Sir Geoffrey Slade was sitting in one of Tobin’s leather chairs, and huddled in a corner as if to be invisible. Barrow, the private secretary, peered at his papers, his pen scribbling at irregular intervals.
Lieutenant Deacon looked exhausted and had one wrist tied in a crude bandage as he completed his description of what they had found at the trading mission.
He said, ‘The old man, Thomas Fenwick by name, says there were thirty-two white men in the fort.’ He dropped his eyes as he remembered the gaping corpses, the swarming flies. ‘Another died shortly after we scaled the wall. I brought the remaining three aboard for the surgeon.’ He shrugged heavily as if it was all beyond imagination. ‘Old Thomas Fenwick refused to leave, sir.’
Slade gave a wry smile. ‘He would. He’s been trading these coasts for as long as anyone can remember.’ He stood up and crossed to the table and peered over his secretary’s shoulder. ‘If it’s all true, Captain Tobin, I was wrong about Mdlaka. We were all wrong. The old king was not overthrown, he obviously planned the massacre himself, with outside aid.’ He glanced up sharply, ‘Rifled weapons, you say?’
Deacon nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Captain Blackwood told me to be sure I reported that. Not many of them, maybe only three or four. One shot went clean through the boat’s side. No ordinary smooth-bore did that.’
Slade rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘You waited all day and nothing else happened. Interesting. Our unexpected arrival in Satyr upset their plans, no doubt. They intended to kill the last of the defenders and make it look like a raid by somebody else.’
Tobin said, ‘Any small vessel would have entered the estuary and moored at the pier as usual. Those few muskets would have cut down any attempt to make sail and escape. You’re right, Sir Geoffrey, they’d not be expecting a steam-frigate.’ There was no pride in his voice this time, only disgust.
Slade said, ‘Wait outside, Mr Deacon, if you please.’ As soon as the door was closed he said crisply, ‘I cannot order you about, Captain Tobin. I can only advise, there is a subtle difference.’
Tobin smiled. ‘I know, sir. I’ve been in the Navy long enough to learn that. I am the senior officer present, and until we reach higher authority at Freetown I must act as I think proper.’
Slade added, ‘What you mean is that if you act wisely others will receive the praise, but if you make a mistake you alone will carry the blame?’
‘Something like that, sir.’
‘Then let me advise you. Mdlaka is just one of many African kings or chiefs who have kept an uneasy peace at our bidding. They grew rich on slavery, and now on a growing export of palm oil. Although most European countries have done their best to restrain slavery, if only in words, there are individuals who still see it as rich profit. Cuba, Brazil, even in the Indies there are ready markets for those who will run the risk of seizure. To compensate slave-owners was not enough. The sources must be stamped out. If an old king like Mdlaka can be bought with a few modern guns and induced to commit mass murder, there is no saying what will happen further south in the Gulf.’
Tobin sat down. ‘Funny thing, sir, I was recently telling Captain Blackwood about my days in the Gulf.’ He looked up, his eyes direct and hard. ‘You’re going to leave him there, aren’t you?’
‘You like him?’ Slade walked to a scuttle and studied the golden sunlight on the water. It would soon be dusk. ‘Yes, I must. If the fort had been taken and everyone killed, the bodies and evidence burnt, I might have left it at that.�
� His voice was cold as he continued, ‘But Mdlaka knows me and will realize that I understand what he has done. If we leave now, the word will spread like a forest fire. The white man has fled from Mdlaka. There would be a stampede to copy his example.’
‘And your advice, sir?’
‘As soon as it is dark send the remaining marines across, and any stores you think Captain Blackwood might need.’
Tobin remained expressionless. There was no point in telling Slade there were only six marines still aboard. He was a landsman, a man of politics.
Slade said, ‘I must reach Freetown without delay. There I shall discover the latest and, I trust, more accurate intelligence about what is happening.’ He eyed the captain sadly. ‘Do not fret too much about young Blackwood. He takes after his father, though I doubt he would admit to it. He is as resourceful as he is brave.’ He shrugged. ‘And like you, he is the only one who is available.’
Tobin moved from the chair. ‘I’ll tell my first lieutenant. The boats can go in as soon as it’s dark.’ He watched the other man and added, ‘With respect, sir, you should have been an admiral yourself.’
Slade watched the door close and said, ‘Have you written all that down, Barrow? I want no misinterpretation later on because you’ve omitted something.’
He peered through the scuttle again. Some people were frightened of Africa merely because it looked vast on a map. It just needed courage, the urge to explore and create a new way of life here. Already there was a steady stream of missionaries, religious and medical, some in the most feared and previously hostile territories. They were the true vanguard, whether they knew it or not. His mouth tightened. Not a thousand Mdlakas were going to ruin a dream of empire, there was far too much at stake.
Tobin came back and said, ‘I’ve passed the word, sir.’ He shook his head. ‘A rum lot, these marines. The last six I had on board began to cheer when Mr Deacon told them they were being sent over.’
Slade smiled. ‘You worry too much, Captain. Who knows, together we may be making a small part of history?’
Tobin cocked his head to listen to a boat being pulled around the stern. Stuck out there in the middle of nowhere. He considered how he would have felt under the same circumstances. Without a ship. Helpless.
He said, ‘I’ve told the Chief to get under way as soon as the boats return, sir.’
Anything but sit here with this composed, practical man who seemed to consider any sort of sentiment as weakness.
It was completely dark when the boats returned and were hoisted smartly inboard.
Tobin was waiting to meet his first lieutenant on the quarterdeck, his mind for once uninterested in the coursing rumble of the engines and the gushing plume of smoke.
Deacon looked around the bustling seamen and listened to the clank of the capstan as if it was beautiful and inspiring music.
‘How was it?’ Tobin asked.
Deacon licked his lips. ‘Terrible, sir. The stench, everything.’ He tried to smile. ‘Captain Blackwood sent you his best wishes, by the way. Cool as an ice-floe, that one.’
Tobin looked away. Shadows hovered around him, waiting for orders, ready to move, to prove once more what they could do. Deacon was a good man, but he didn’t understand half of it.
He said harshly, ‘I’ll send him a message too. From us. The ship.’
Moments later, as the anchor rose dripping to the cathead and the frigate turned in a welter of froth and spray, her siren rent the sky apart with its piercing squawk.
Tobin climbed on to his unprotected bridge and examined the extra compass there. Then he looked astern where only the frothing wake left by paddles and rudder broke the darkness.
He said, ‘I’ll be back. Be certain of it.’
Captain Philip Blackwood walked slowly along the parapet, his eyes straining through the darkness which reached out from the barred gates like a black wall.
The marines had been hard at work all day with barely a break for rations and a gulp of fresh water. It was a marvel that any of them could even contemplate food, Blackwood thought. As it was, several of the marines had staggered retching from the grisly work of hauling the corpses to the parapets to fling them clear of the fort. Although the stench still lingered over the compound, the sights of horror were gone. The dead white men had been buried on part of the compound, while the food and stores sent across from Satyr had been stacked inside the communal building at the sea-ward end of the fort. The whole place measured about eighty yards by fifty, and from the size of the store huts, now burned to the ground, it must have been a thriving post until disaster had struck.
Brogan, Satyr’s marine sergeant, seemed very competent, and was outside the fort at this moment with a patrol of five men to make sure there were none of the attackers still in the undergrowth.
Blackwood paused and looked over the wall as he thought of his long talk with the remaining trader, Tom Fenwick. He was like something from a boy’s story-book. Fenwick had been everywhere in his search for a fortune, which so far had eluded him. He had been at the fort for two years and knew the local tribes better than most.
As Sergeant Brogan had prepared to lead his patrol clear of the gates he had said in his quavery voice, ‘No point in it, Captain. Them buggers ’as gone. They’ll be dancin’ and jiggin’ to their ’eathen rites right now, an’ after they’ve filled their bellies with drink they’ll be samplin’ the local girls to make ’em feel like warriors again!’
Blackwood stared at the darkness, recalling his feelings when the Satyr’s siren had echoed along the river to signal her departure. It was typical of Tobin, of the man behind the uniform and the authority. He had seen the effect it had made on the others. The younger ones had gazed at each other as if only just aware that they had been left to fend for themselves. The older men had gone about their various tasks in silence. They knew what to expect, or thought they did.
Blackwood heard footsteps moving cautiously along the parapet and saw Lascelles peering towards him.
‘Sentries mounted, sir. The rest are settling down as ordered.’
It was strange, Blackwood thought, but the lieutenant seemed more at a loss even than the recruits. Too long with a small detachment of marines in a modern vessel like Satyr, perhaps that was it. It would become easy to be a passenger under those circumstances.
He wrenched his mind away from vague uncertainties and said, ‘We’ve got food and water for three weeks.’ He saw him flinch. ‘If need be. The water must be rationed, for although there is a stream, old Fenwick thinks it might have been poisoned. I’ve warned the men, but keep at them.’ He felt drained and unreasonably angry that Lascelles seemed able to let him make all the decisions and offer nothing. ‘Marines are taught to be clean and tidy at all times from the moment they enlist. They must unlearn that lesson immediately. I want all uniforms stowed away, and each man to stain his shirt so that it will not make him a target. Colour-Sergeant M’Crystal is dealing with that. Under protest.’
He pictured M’Crystal’s red face, the look of horror when he had ordered him to use tea or coffee for staining the men’s shirts. It must have sounded like blasphemy to him.
Blackwood added, ‘We are trained to fight, but not to deal with this kind of enemy. I’ll not have our men marked down by some bloody sharpshooter just because of the drill book.’
Lascelles rested his palms on the rough wall. ‘You believe they’ll come back?’
‘Yes.’
He thought of old Tom Fenwick, the way he had somehow gained in stature after being on the threshold of hell itself. He had said that the king, Mdlaka, must have promised someone a clear passage down-river with an important cargo. It had to make sense. With the armed schooner Kingsmill missing, probably wrecked, it was a chance in a thousand to run a shipment to the coast for collection. Only the trading post stood in the way, and Mdlaka had had no intention of allowing a single soul here to survive. He had even sent men to steal the fort’s two boats before the real attack had
been started.
Fenwick had described it with little emotion. As if he had been somewhere else, or a mere spectator.
They had rushed the gates when they had been open for any would-be barter from the nearest villages, and the battle had surged back and forth, hand to hand and without quarter. Somehow they had driven the first attack clear of the compound long enough to bar the gates. After that it had been a slower, more terrifying process. Burning wads had been thrown over the walls to set fire to the huts, and several of the defenders had been shot down by marksmen concealed on the hillsides.
Two of the traders had decided to leave the fort and look for one of the missing boats. The next morning one of them had been found outside the gates horribly mutilated and apparently skinned alive. The next day the second man had been sighted tied to a tree directly opposite the gates but too for away for rescue. Even Fenwick, who had seen what savage torture could do, had said he did not know what had made the man stay alive for a whole day. ‘They must’ve give ’im to the women to do that to ’im,’ he had said harshly.
Blackwood said, ‘They may try a mock attack to test our strength. But it’s those rifled muskets I’m worried about.’
Lascelles said vaguely, ‘The Corps will be getting them next year, sir, like the army.’
‘That won’t help us!’ He relented, knowing it was fatigue and strain which were giving his tongue an edge. ‘Fenwick has drawn a map for me.’ He pointed across the wall into the blackness. ‘There’s a shallow dip in the ground beyond the ridge, and then a pointed hill, like a loaf. Perfect place for a spotting post. We’ll have it manned as soon as we know the enemy are keeping their distance.’
Lascelles nodded and swallowed hard. ‘I see, sir.’
Blackwood said, ‘I know it sounds bad, but it’s all we have. Whoever the enemy is, they’re going to fight in their own way, and that is what we must do. This fort is an important key and it must be held. Now go around the sentries and I’ll relieve you in an hour.’ He groped his way to a ladder and lowered himself to the compound.
Badge of Glory (1982) Page 8
