A fire was burning cheerfully behind a wall, all that was left of a store-room. Several marines, unfamiliar without their red coats and cross-belts, crouched around it, and Blackwood waved them down as they made to stand in his presence. He noticed that their weapons were in easy reach, the pouches of ammunition and percussion caps ready to be snatched up in seconds.
‘Carry on, Corporal Jones.’
He walked to the shadows again and tried not to think of the Satyr as she pounded her way further and further to the south.
He found a blanket and rolled greatcoat propped by another wall, and a metal cup of brandy covered with a piece of wood to keep out any insects. He sat down carefully and sipped at the brandy. Thank God for Smithett.
Blackwood tried to free his mind from tomorrow, of Fenwick’s horrific description of the mutilated traders.
He wondered if his father had taken any further steps to sell the estate and move to London. Compared with his own predicament, his father had led a very full life. Two wives, an eventful career in the Corps, with sons to carry on the tradition.
A creature shrilled beyond the palisade, and Blackwood rolled on to his side and pressed his eyes tightly shut. Harry stood a good chance of being the only one left.
He tried to think of the dark-haired girl named Davern, but her picture was blurred and indistinct. It made him suddenly apprehensive and sick, and when Lieutenant Lascelles came to rouse him he found him still wide awake, his chin resting on his knees as he stared at the leaping shadows from the marines’ fire.
It was nearly dawn by the time he felt he could sleep, and by then it was too late.
He watched the men stirring and finding their bearings, glancing at each other for reassurance, to convince themselves it was really happening.
Beyond the wall and vigilant sentries the land was coming to life. Unusual bird cries, unlike yesterday’s eerie silence, and a glint of sunlight on the ridged hillside.
Sergeant Brogan had reported finding dried blood where the swivel gun had blasted through the undergrowth, but the corpse had been spirited away, or as Fenwick had commented curtly, ‘Probably eaten by some poxy hyena.’ It made your flesh creep.
Blackwood surveyed his temporary command without enthusiasm. It looked like a forgotten place. It had even changed the marines. In their shirts and white trousers, unwashed and unshaven, they already had the appearance of renegades. It was a far cry from drilling on the barrack square at Forton, the stamp and swagger which even the foot guards envied.
Lascelles watched him anxiously. ‘Both watches have eaten, sir. Weapons inspected.’
Blackwood glanced at the marines’ shirts. The staining had only partly worked, but would certainly help to break up a man’s outline, especially at night.
Old Fenwick was at the far side of the compound, his jaw working on a piece of dried beef as he stared moodily at the line of graves. How well had he known them? How much did he miss them? Or was it like soldiering, Blackwood wondered, where survival was the only real consideration?
Fenwick turned as if he had felt him watching, but said, ‘They’re comin’!’
Lascelles stared at him. ‘How can you be –?’
Blackwood snapped, ‘Stand to!’
In total silence the marines seized their muskets and pouches and ran to the ladders as if it was all part of a regular drill. But Blackwood could recognize a pattern even here. Friends of long standing kept together. An old hand cast a cautious glance at a younger companion as he stood up to the parapet, his face like a mask.
Blackwood climbed to the parapet above the gates. He could hear it now for himself. A throbbing murmur of sound, like a giant bird beating its wings.
Fenwick wheezed up to join him and remarked, ‘Gettin’ up their courage, blast ’em!’
Blackwood bit on his chin strap until the pain steadied his tumbling thoughts. A cloud of dust was spreading over the side of the hill and the din was growing every minute.
He darted a glance at the nearest marines. Shakos tilted to shield their eyes from the sun, muskets at their sides and shoulders back. They must have been the same sort of men at the Nile or Trafalgar. Except that this was no fleet action, no field of honour.
‘Here they come!’ Sergeant Brogan pointed over the wall.
Lascelles whispered, ‘Oh, my God!’
It was impossible to estimate the numbers or how far the advancing army extended. The swirling cloud of dust could not hide the black bodies which shone with sweat or the precision of the drum-like beat as they pounded their shields with spear hafts. Just ahead of the packed ranks a few individuals stood out as they capered in complicated steps, striking at the air with stabbing spears as they led their cohorts into battle.
Blackwood said, ‘Mark those men down.’
He heard Private Frazier mutter a reply. He had doubtless already selected his first target.
Fenwick said, ‘Mdlaka must’ve called in reinforcements. ’E means business right enough, God rot ’im!’
Blackwood stared at the oncoming, bobbing tide until his eyes were raw. This was no North Island, he thought grimly. No ships behind you to carry you off if things went against you. No soldiers and blue-jackets to give support.
The wall seemed to shiver as a great: roar of voices came down the hillside like a roll of thunder. There must be hundreds and hundreds of them.
Then they started to run. It was not a controlled movement like their slow advance, but a mad rush, as if it was a matter of honour to be the first one at the gates.
Spears flew towards the fort and were trampled underfoot by the charging mass of figures.
Blackwood yelled, ‘Face your front! Take aim!’
Along the parapet the muskets lifted and settled as one.
Blackwood tried to swallow but it was no use. He felt as if his throat was choked with that dust.
‘Fire!’
The volley crashed out along the parapet, and as the first line of marines fell back to reload the second line stepped forward to the parapet wall and took aim.
‘Present! Fire!’
Surely every shot must have found its mark, they could not miss, but it had as much effect on the mass of charging bodies as a pike against an elephant.
The first of them hit the gates and the wall on either side like something solid, and above the bark of commands and the sporadic bang of muskets the yells and screams were joined in one terrible chorus.
Loading and reloading, the marines kept up a steady fire, and as Blackwood emptied his pistol into the attackers directly below the parapet he saw heavy logs being rushed through the throng to be used as battering-rams against the gates.
A marine beside him fell gasping with a short spear embedded in his shoulder. Another was holding his face, his fingers running with blood.
‘Load . . . present . . . fire!’
Sergeant Brogan was beating out the time as the ramrods rose and fell and the men stepped up once more to the parapet wall.
Someone yelled, ‘They’re attacking from the river, sir!’
Blackwood swung round. ‘Mr Lascelles, take a section to support them!’ He saw him nod jerkily, his eyes glazed like glass in the sunlight.
A marine whirled round and fired his musket from the hip as a black, screaming face appeared above the wall. They were handling logs and branches with the same skill as grenadiers would use scaling ladders.
The savage’s face exploded in a scarlet blur as he dropped out of sight.
Blackwood tugged out his sword, remembering the dead major as he shouted hoarsely, ‘Marines! Fix bayonets!’
The hiss of steel ran along the parapet, and as more struggling figures tried to pull themselves over the wall the blades rose and fell with desperate precision.
One attacker, his powerful body naked but for a twist of feathers, threw his leg over the wall and smashed down a marine with a knob-headed club. It all happened in a second. Blackwood saw the young recruit, Oldcastle, staring at the savage, hi
s bayonet shaking, his face transfixed with horror. Then he was almost knocked down by Private Bulford as he thrust his bayonet into the man’s belly. As he wrenched it free he swung the butt of his musket into the contorted features and set him crashing to the ground below.
He stared at Oldcastle. ‘Don’t play with it, sonny! The bugger’ll do for you else!’
Colour-Sergeant M’Crystal, massive even in his stained shirt, shouted, ‘They’re running, sir!’
‘Cease firing!’
Sergeant Brogan had to forcibly pull a musket from one marine’s grip as the attack turned just as swiftly into a retreat. Bodies lay everywhere, some still, others writhing and groaning where they had dropped.
Blackwood removed his shako and wiped his face with a rag. A near thing. His heart was pounding faster than he had ever known, and he felt as if his stomach was filling with bile. He tugged on his hat again and gritted his jaws together. Must not show it.
He heard some of the injured marines whimpering like sick animals as they were carried into the shelter of the remaining building.
He heard himself say, ‘Check the ammunition, Sergeant. Corporal Jones, how many wounded?’
Colour-Sergeant M’Crystal was wiping his sword very carefully on some dried grass. The blood looked black in the sunlight.
Old Fenwick chewed on his meat. ‘They’ll come again. Mdlaka will be watchin’, the cunnin’ bastard, weighin’ up your strength. ’E’ll try to pare it away if ’e can.’
Jones reported, ‘Seven men wounded, sir. Private Simcoe’s pretty bad. Lung, I think, sir.’
‘Thank you.’
Blackwood stared at the hillside. It must be important for Mdlaka to risk so many lives. If some traders could defend the fort, the marines were a much tougher proposition. And yet there had been a madness, a fervour in the attack which made a mockery of numbers and experience.
What was the choice? Stay behind the walls and lose men with each ferocious attack, or get out and fight them in the open? There seemed no choice at all.
He raised his small telescope and examined the bare hill beyond the ridge. From its summit you would be able to see for miles.
Crack! A piece of stonework flew from the parapet and fanned past his face.
He stepped behind one of the supporting timbers as M’Crystal said angrily, ‘One of those new guns, sir. Och, I’d like to get my hands on that bugger!’
Blackwood deliberately turned his back towards the unseen marksman and said, ‘I think we’ll issue a tot of rum per man, Colour-Sergeant. This is thirsty work, eh?’
He felt his shoulder-blades throbbing as he waited for the pain. He saw some of the smoke-grimed marines peering at him, even grinning at his apparent contempt for the danger. It was working. They could still respond to his stupid bravado.
Sergeant Brogan came back again and said, ‘Most of the men used up their extra ammunition. But they’ve got sixty rounds each, and the others which Satyr sent over for us. Course, it all depends how long we’re ’ere, sir.’
Blackwood nodded. They want reassurance. They needed to know that things would be all right, that somehow their officer would think of a plan.
‘Here they come again!’
‘Stand to! Controlled firing this time!’
Another shot from the concealed marksman ripped into the wall and flung fragments over their heads.
If the marines were prevented from manning the parapet while the attackers smashed through the gates, it would all be over in minutes. He stared at the drifting dust cloud and the tangled barricade of scrub until he was blinded by it.
‘Fire!’
The flashes of muskets rippled along the parapet and several charging figures pitched among those killed previously.
The marksman must have fired at the same time, for Blackwood saw a marine fall from the parapet to the compound below.
Corporal Jones ran to help him but looked up and shook his head before hurrying back to his section.
Blackwood’s eyes smarted with hatred and despair.
Their first death.
He pushed forward to the wall and fired at a man directly below him. Smithett thrust a loaded pistol into his hand and he fired again, seeing a man fall and be trampled down by the writhing press of shining bodies and shields.
M’Crystal had taken up a musket from a wounded marine and stood like a bear at bay as he fired and reloaded more with rage than accuracy.
‘Come on then, you black bastards!’ M’Crystal had always seen himself dying gloriously in battle like one of the paintings at the marine barracks; the red coats, the impassive stares of the tightly formed square as they confronted their country’s enemies.
To die here in squalor was unthinkable, and his fury seemed to transmit itself to the men near him so that they yelled and cheered like lunatics as they fired, reloaded and fired again.
Blackwood stood back and lowered his arm as the attackers waned and then scattered away from the fort.
‘Cease firing!’
How many wounded this time? Blackwood was almost fearful to ask. He saw the dead marine being carried towards the other graves. One of the recruits. He could not even remember his name, his brain was pounding so badly.
He looked at Fenwick. ‘What do you think?’
The old man plucked at his beard. ‘’E knows ’ow many men you’ve got now. ’E’ll keep tryin’. Otherwise ’e’ll lose face, an’ ’e’s an old man.’ He showed his few teeth in a grimace. ‘They’d soon get rid of ’im.’
Keep trying. Blackwood peered down at the scattered corpses and the few which still twitched in agony.
Sergeant Brogan looked up from the compound. ‘We got fifteen wounded all told, sir. Private Carson ’as been killed, an’ Private Simcoe’s sinking fast, if you ask me, sir.’
Blackwood nodded. He did not trust himself to speak. Sixteen killed and wounded altogether. It was a third of their total strength, and all in one day!
Lascelles joined him and after a moment said, ‘About that spotting post on the hill, sir.’ He looked tight-lipped and desperate. Like a stranger.
‘Yes?’
‘I could reach it. If you think it will help, sir.’
Blackwood studied him gravely. ‘If they keep attacking, and Fenwick knows them better than we do, we’ll be down to a dozen men in a week, probably less. Mdlaka is running out of time. He’s trying to swamp our defences.’ He saw Lascelles’ eyes watching a wounded man being assisted into shelter, his face running with blood. ‘Fenwick believes that slavers are behind it, that they’ve put pressure on Mdlaka to destroy the fort. It makes sense to me. The use of a mirror for signals, the accuracy of that rifled weapon tells me there’s another brain behind Mdlaka.’ He was speaking his thoughts aloud. ‘Those marksmen, no matter how few, can shoot down our men with each frontal attack. We either die piecemeal or get butchered when the others force the gates.’ He faced Lascelles again and said quietly, ‘I won’t order you to go to the hill. You know the odds against survival, what might happen if you get captured.’
Lascelles swallowed hard, his eyes very bright in the sunlight. ‘I’ll go. I want to.’
‘Very well.’ He looked away, unable to watch Lascelles’ fear, his fight to overcome it. ‘At dusk, take Corporal Jones and Frazier and all the rations you need and make for the hill. When they rush the fort tomorrow, try and discover the sharpshooters.’ He thrust his small telescope into Lascelles’ limp hand. ‘Jones and Frazier will do the rest.’
‘What will you do, sir?’
Blackwood smiled. ‘I’m not waiting here to die.’ He gripped his arm and felt the strain Lascelles was enduring. ‘If we fail, try and work your way to the headland and wait for Satyr. Someone should tell them what happened.’
Colour-Sergeant M’Crystal marched over the dried mud compound and waited, breathing heavily.
‘Orders, sir?’
‘Mr Lascelles is taking out a patrol as soon as it’s dark. See that he gets all he needs.’
Blackwood looked around at the marines along the parapets, leaning on their weapons or the rough palisades, their eyes dark from fatigue and the fury of battle. The spirit was going out of them. They were not to blame. Perhaps it had been decreed from the beginning.
He came to a decision and added abruptly, ‘After that, I want every fit man paraded for inspection. I want them washed and shaved and turned out like marines.’
He could feel the sudden apprehension around him. They imagined he had gone raving mad.
‘The wounded men will be moved to the parapets before dawn, and I want every spare musket and pistol ready to fire. There may be no time to reload.’
Sergeant Brogan asked warily ‘We goin’ to fight ’em in the open, sir?’
Blackwood saw Smithett unrolling his kit below the wall. He must have ears like a fox.
Then he turned and looked at Lascelles again. ‘Let me know when you’re ready and I’ll tell you what I intend.’
To Brogan he added, ‘You will command the fort. If we fail tomorrow, I shall expect you to fight to the finish and not leave the wounded to suffer at the hands of those savages.’
Brogan nodded, his face pale. Now he understood.
Blackwood walked towards the wall, hoping that his light-headedness would not make him stumble.
Right or wrong, he had made a decision. Tomorrow would show if it was the right one.
6
One of the Best
‘Everything quiet, Sergeant?’ Blackwood peered over the parapet for what felt like the thousandth time.
‘Aye, sir.’ Brogan, still dressed in his filthy shirt, made a sharp contrast with Blackwood’s coatee and white shoulder-belt.
Three hours since they had left.
When Lascelles’ party had lowered themselves over the rear wall which faced the river, Blackwood had expected a challenge or some terrible cry to show they had been captured. But there had been no sound at all. That might mean nothing. Fenwick had described only too clearly how his two companions had vanished without even a whimper.
Badge of Glory (1982) Page 9
