Badge of Glory (1982)

by Reeman, Douglas

He saw the ripple of stabbing flames as the men on the parapet fired into the attackers, and two marines who had climbed up in full view as they reloaded to fire again. It was an awful madness, and yet the most inspiring thing Lascelles had ever seen or heard. The bugle’s strident call, the marines advancing as if they had all the time in the world.

  Frazier ignored the lieutenant’s excitement and pressed his cheek against his musket with deliberate care. He too had seen the two madmen on the wall, he had also seen Jones wipe his knife on some grass as he had emerged from his hiding-place. One dead, another to go.

  He held his breath as a shot echoed from the hillside, magnified by the fallen slabs of rock where the other marksman had been concealed. Frazier did not watch as one of the small figures pitched from the wall where it was immediately engulfed by a hacking, stabbing mob. Frazier concentrated on the drifting feather of smoke from the rocks, his eyes unblinking as he waited.

  A head rose very slightly, and Frazier imagined he could see the man reloading. He was wasting his time, he thought, and squeezed the trigger, letting out his breath as the marksman leapt into the air and then rolled down the slope like a bundle of rags.

  Jones said harshly, ‘That’s it, sir. We can join the others now.’

  He watched as Lascelles half rose to his feet, his face empty as the air crackled with shots and another blare on the bugle.

  Frazier fired again and saw one of the running figures fall spread-eagled even as he waved to some of his warriors to change direction towards the marines.

  Lascelles licked his lips. ‘I – I’m not sure.’

  Frazier stood up and snapped his bayonet on his musket. ‘I am.’ He started to lope down the slope without another glance.

  Corporal Jones said, ‘Come along, sir. Captain Blackwood may expect it. You’ve done what he asked.’

  He watched the officer’s emotions with angry resignation. Me and Frazier did all the work. He could still feel his arm around the marksman’s neck, his terrible gurgle as he had thrust the blade up and through his ribs.

  But above all else Jones was a trained marine, and would no more leave his officer than fly. Frazier would probably be disciplined if any of them survived, but he was used to that.

  He persisted, ‘Now, sir.’

  Lascelles nodded and picked up his pistols. Then together they walked down the slope.

  ‘Halt! Prepare to fire!’

  Blackwood did not turn his head as the odd numbers in the single line stepped forward and knelt on one knee while the others remained standing.

  He hardly dared to draw breath, and was certain that every muscle and limb in his body was shaking beyond control.

  But in spite of everything they had remembered. In the face of death, even the most junior recruit among them had recalled the drills aboard Satyr.

  Blackwood looked at the oncoming tide of painted shields and glittering spears. The first surprise was over and the bulk of the attackers were now heading for the motionless marines. Blackwood had seen the man fall from the wall and guessed he had been shot by one of the marksmen. There had been no further shots from the rear as far as he could tell. He flinched as another crack made his hope a lie, but instead of a marine, one of the leading savages was flung to the ground by the force of a ball.

  ‘Present!’

  Blackwood raised his sword, his eyes fixed on the leading runners. Thirty yards, twenty, now less . . . he felt a spear thud into the ground nearby.

  ‘Fire!’

  The fusilade of shots ploughed through the advancing crowd like an invisible scythe.

  There was not time to reload or for anything else. They were out in the open. No way back, and no help other than they could give each other.

  ‘Again, Ackland!’

  How he could blow his bugle after all the din and frenzy which confronted him was a miracle.

  The front rank rose together, and as the others moved up to re-form the line Blackwood shouted, ‘At ’em, lads!’

  Keeping together they charged headlong towards the nearest shields. Every man was shouting and cursing, and the pace seemed to quicken as the attackers wavered, those behind colliding with their companions in a momentary tangle of limbs and weapons.

  The marines hit the front ranks like a battering-ram, the bayonets knocking aside spears and clubs alike as their despair gave way to a desperate ferocity.

  Blackwood vaguely heard a ragged volley of shots from the fort as Brogan did what he could to cause confusion from another direction. He saw a pair of bulging eyes above the rim of a shield and fired his pistol through the painted hide, seeing the man collapse even as he jumped over him and slashed another across the chest with his sword. He could hear Smithett at his side, saw his bloodied bayonet stabbing forward like a tongue, his boot thrusting the corpse free as he guarded his face from a club.

  From one corner of his eye Blackwood saw a red coat fall among the stamping feet and stabbing bayonets. Another marine pitched amongst his attackers, his screams cut short by a single blow from an axe.

  Blackwood trampled on more sprawled bodies and realized, as if in a daze, that they were advancing, that the enemy was reeling back and causing panic in their rear.

  ‘Halt!’

  Breathless and lurching, their eyes wild, the marines heard and obeyed.

  Blackwood watched, his heart pounding like a hammer as he waited for the attack to begin again. But the gap was widening and there were no longer any battle cries to urge them on.

  ‘Reload!’

  He saw a figure dart from the stamping, gesturing mob and run headlong for the marines. One of their leaders making a last challenge which could so easily end everything.

  Blackwood heard a solitary shot and saw the running man fall. Frazier was back with his comrades.

  ‘Ready, sir!’

  Blackwood looked down and saw blood on his leg. Yet he had felt nothing until now.

  ‘Present!’

  The muskets lifted again. Not so steadily this time, some of the men were finding it hard to breathe after their short, crazy charge.

  ‘Fire!’

  They did not even try to run. The volley hit the packed bodies and hurled several to the ground. But the others stayed where they were. More like beasts at the slaughter than the warriors they had been.

  Surely it was enough? It had to be. Blackwood felt sick of the sights and the stench of death, but knew it was not yet finished.

  Very deliberately he walked towards Mdlaka’s warriors, praying that his leg would not give way as the pain came up to his thigh like a hot iron.

  At any second one of them might lunge forward. Not even Frazier could do anything to save him.

  Just ten paces clear he sheathed his sword, feeling its resistance as the blood caught on its scabbard.

  He could smell them, feel their strength, temporarily lost for the lack of a leader.

  Then they parted to allow a small figure to approach. Tiny, wrinkled, he was more monkey than man. The thought almost unnerved Blackwood as he thought of Ashley-Chute safe in his flagship, in another world. Monkey.

  The old man must have taken his silence for dissatisfaction, for with surprising dignity he waved his arm towards his men and without hesitation they dropped their weapons and shields beside the corpses.

  Blackwood looked at him, his mind cringing from all the senseless, brutal slaughter this place had seen.

  Slade had spoken of meeting this man, who was obviously Mdlaka. Two of a kind perhaps. Dedicated to conquest.

  Blackwood shook himself angrily. What the hell did it matter? Any of it?

  He snapped, ‘You are under arrest.’ He saw emotion for the first time in the reddened eyes. Fear or contempt, he was not certain. He thought of what would be happening here if his tactics had failed and added coldly, ‘Tell your people to go home. Now!’ He motioned to the line of marines behind him. ‘Present!’

  It was only a gesture, for he knew the marines had not even reloaded. Every eye had
been fixed on him as he had strode to meet the enemy. But it was enough. Slowly at first, backing away as if suspecting some further trap, the crowd of warriors broke into a stampede.

  Colour-Sergeant M’Crystal marched through the corpses and said thickly, ‘God in heaven, that was a wild thing to do, begging your pardon, sir.’ He glared at the king. ‘What’ll I do with him?’

  Blackwood looked back at the men who had followed him without question to attempt the impossible. Three were obviously dead, several others crouched or hobbled among the motionless line of fixed bayonets.

  Smithett joined him and exclaimed, ‘Gawd, yer leg’s done in, sir!’ It sounded like an accusation.

  But Blackwood ignored him. He stared instead at one sprawled figure with out-thrust legs, a musket still gripped in his hands as he stared unseeingly at the sky.

  A sixteen-year-old boy from Yorkshire who had signed on when his father had died.

  He said quietly, ‘Put the prisoner in irons and see he is guarded.’

  He tore his eyes from the dead marine, the boy who had been so frightened but who had trusted him.

  ‘I want Mdlaka to share the shame of what he has done.’ He could barely keep his voice under control. ‘And I want to see him hanged.’

  He looked at M’Crystal. ‘Return to the fort. You know what to do.’

  M’Crystal nodded, his face troubled. ‘Aye, sir. We’ll not leave any of our own out here.’ He followed Blackwood’s glance towards Oldcastle’s body. ‘Especially him.’

  Blackwood turned on his heel and limped towards the gates. As if in a misty dream he saw they were open, that the handful of defenders were waving and cheering.

  He knew he would collapse. The pain was worse, but it acted like a spur to drive him on and through those gates.

  Sergeant Brogan ran to assist him, but from somewhere in the blur Smithett said fiercely, ‘I can deal with ’im, Sarnt!’

  Brogan stood aside as M’Crystal and the first section of marines tramped wearily through the gates.

  ‘Close thing, Colour-Sergeant.’

  M’Crystal watched Blackwood being lowered to a blanket by the wall, his face stiff against the pain.

  To nobody in particular he murmured, ‘He’ll do me, and that’s a fact. One o’ the best.’

  7

  Pride

  ‘Starboard your helm, steady, steer east-nor’-east.’

  Captain George Tobin watched narrowly as the frigate’s bows began to swing towards the headland and then settle in direct line with the swirling current.

  ‘Ring down dead slow.’

  He would have smiled but for the anxiety in his mind. The engine-room responded to the order instantly, as if Hamilton, the Chief, had been sweating it out as he waited for the signal on his telegraph. They had steamed along the coast from Freetown with all the power the engine could offer, and Tobin had been forced to overrule Hamilton on a dozen occasions when he had pleaded with him to reduce speed.

  Deacon touched his cap. ‘Cleared for action, sir.’

  Tobin grunted and took a telescope from his signals midshipman. The same bleak coast, the rocks and shoals he remembered so vividly from his days on the anti-slavery patrols.

  No sign of life anywhere. Just a pall of drifting smoke which they had sighted soon after dawn as the great paddles had driven Satyr towards the land like an avenging demon.

  He looked along his command, the men at the guns, Spalding, the third lieutenant, up forward by the two ten-inchers, his arms folded and with one foot on a flaked rope as he watched the shore with the others.

  Tobin swore beneath his breath. One of the most powerful, modern ships afloat, but what use were Satyr’s big rifled guns against spears and poisoned arrows?

  ‘I am going under the headland, Mr Deacon.’

  Tobin tried not to think of what they might discover and concentrated instead on his ship’s safety.

  ‘Put the best leadsmen in the chains. I don’t trust the charts hereabouts. Sand-bars come and go like smoke in these rivers.’

  ‘Starboard two points.’

  The slow-moving paddles threshed noisily as the first of the inshore current surged around the hull.

  Tobin added, ‘Be ready to lower boats and take the landing party ashore.’

  Deacon nodded, his eyes on the top of the headland searching for a possible lookout.

  How trivial they had tried to make it sound in Freetown, Tobin thought savagely. They were all too busy with their trade and lofty ideas of expanding it along the African mainland to take Blackwood’s position seriously.

  The senior naval officer, a commodore, had snapped testily, ‘It could happen to any of us. It’s what we’re here for, dammit!’ Perhaps he had just been told that Ashley-Chute would be relieving him of his command and could think of nothing else.

  Even Slade, who had dashed ashore with his secretary within minutes of mooring, had said, ‘He’ll know what to do. He’d better.’

  Very gingerly, the helm moving this way and that to compensate for the current, Satyr nosed her way into the shallows, the leadsman’s cry making the master and his assistants tense with apprehension.

  Tobin levelled his glass as the fort’s low outline moved into view. He heard the clank of metal as the starboard ten-inch gun moved slightly on its slide, the black snout already trained on the fort.

  It was still early morning, and a mist hovered along the shore to merge with the smoke from inland.

  Lieutenant Deacon watched him curiously. If the captain ran this ship aground it would be the finish of his career. He saw a muscle jerk at the side of Tobin’s jaw as a whistle shrilled and the signals midshipman called, ‘Chief engineer, sir!’

  Tobin strode to the big bell-mouthed voice-pipe and barked, ‘Don’t bother me now, Chief! I don’t care if your dog-clutch has burst apart!’ He paused and then said, ‘My apologies, Chief,’ and replaced the whistle in the pipe.

  Then he glanced at Deacon and grimaced. ‘Just wanted me to know I can have all the steam I want! And I almost tore his head off!’

  They forgot Hamilton and his crashing, roaring world below decks as a lookout yelled, ‘The fort, sir!’

  Tobin stared as something moved on the wall. It was occupied. By whom and with what intent he did not know.

  ‘Stand by, all guns!’ Tobin glared at the master. ‘Be ready to come about and keep an eye open for that bloody sand-spit!’

  Deacon was so overwhelmed he touched his captain’s arm with excitement. ‘They’re running up the Colours, sir!’

  Tobin trained his glass again and watched the familiar flag jerking up to a crude pole above the wall. He saw red coats too, and somebody waving his hat in the air, his shouts lost in distance but no less moving in the telescope’s lens.

  ‘Larboard helm! Steady, man! Stand by on the fo’c’sle, Mr Spalding! Look alive there!’

  Men dashed forward with rope fenders while others climbed out on to the cathead in readiness to leap on to the rickety pier.

  Tobin snapped, ‘Stop engine. Take over, Mr Deacon. I’m going ashore myself.’

  Tobin knew now that his earlier fears had been false. He had expected them all to have been killed, wiped away like some of the other outposts he had heard about at Freetown. Normally he would have waited for the engine’s last dying quiver before he relaxed, and then only until the next demand of duty. He was like that, even though he believed he could hide it from his subordinates.

  But the sight of that flag, the one which he knew M’Crystal had carried ashore with him, had driven all caution aside like steam in the wind.

  Lines snaked across the pier, and as men leapt down to secure the bow and stern ropes, Satyr ground against the sagging piles and came to rest.

  Tobin beckoned to his midshipman. ‘Come with me, Mr Allison!’ Ignoring the glances of the second lieutenant and his armed landing party who were already mustered amidships, Tobin clambered out and down by the great paddle-box, the midshipman hurrying behind him.r />
  He was only halfway up the beach when he stopped and said quietly, ‘We’ll wait a while, Mr Allison. Just a moment longer.’

  He watched the file of marines as they appeared around the side of the fort, their fixed bayonets shining brightly in the early sunlight.

  ‘Marines halt! R-i-g-h-t turn!’

  Tobin said softly, ‘Watch this, Mr Allison, and mark it well.’

  Colour-Sergeant M’Crystal marched down the slope and saluted stiffly. Only near to could you see the stains on his trousers and coatee, the stubble around his chin.

  Tobin returned his salute and asked, ‘Was it bad?’

  M’Crystal stared past him at the ship. ‘Seven dead all told, sir. Not too bad when you consider the odds. We’ve got fifteen wounded too.’ Only then did his eyes return to Tobin. ‘Including Captain Blackwood, sir.’

  Tobin said, ‘Fetch the surgeon, Mr Allison, and tell Mr Oliver to take his landing party to the fort, at the double.’

  Tobin walked up the slope with M’Crystal at his side. It was all so clear, as if he had taken part in it himself. The piled-up earth and stones where the corpses had been buried, the thousands of footmarks where a savage army had attacked this place again and again. As he got closer to the fort he saw the scars on the wall, the dark bloodstains both at the top and at the foot of the rough palisades where men had died.

  ‘Will they attack again?’

  M’Crystal glanced at him, seemingly surprised at the question.

  ‘We fought ’em in the open, sir. Up there, by those rocks. Blade to blade.’

  Feet pounded up the beach and seamen bustled past towards the fort, but Tobin did not see them. He saw only the small detachment of marines, fighting in the open, the only way they knew.

  M’Crystal added firmly, ‘No, sir, them buggers won’t try it again.’

  ‘What is the smoke?’

  ‘Captain Blackwood insisted we pushed inland, in spite of his wound, sir. The day after the battle he took half of us and marched round that hill. We found several barracoons and burned them, big enough for two hundred slaves apiece they were. Empty when we got there, o’ course. Just a couple o’ dead ones and some shackles.’ He added bitterly, ‘For souvenirs.’