So that was it. The slavers had brought their live cargoes here to be collected by a ship of some kind. The fort, and then a handful of marines, had stopped them. They were probably fleeing through the bush right now with the slaves’ own people in hot pursuit.
‘I must see Captain Blackwood at once. How badly is he hurt?’
But M’Crystal stood his ground. ‘With respect, sir, we’ve been waiting here for two weeks. Captain Blackwood would not thank me if I did not have you inspect the guard.’
Tobin had seen many sights on his various commissions around the African shores, but to inspect a single squad of gaunt and shabby marines who stood like ramrods as he looked at each unshaven face was one he would put above most of them.
Godby, the frigate’s surgeon, met him inside the gates. ‘Bad gash in his left leg, sir. Poison of some kind. Maybe it was on the weapon which made the wound. Can’t do much here.’ He darted a glance as the marine guard marched back into the fort. ‘He might lose the leg anyway.’
Tobin followed him to a screened-off corner of the fort. Blackwood lay propped on some rolled blankets, his eyes closed as Smithett lathered his face and prepared to shave him. He did not seem to notice as the surgeon lifted a blanket and the dressing he had just cut from the wound.
Godby said softly, ‘I can’t smell anything putrid in it. Not yet.’
Tobin saw Blackwood’s eyes staring at him. They were very bright and feverish.
Blackwood said, ‘Good to see you again, sir.’ He winced as Godby lifted his out-thrust leg to examine it again. ‘Bloody good. Things were a bit difficult here.’
‘I’ve heard. Don’t wear yourself out. You worked miracles.’
Blackwood murmured, ‘Lost some good men. A few others will never do a parade again either. And for what? Some greedy, murderous chief and a couple of dead slaves.’ He gave a crooked grin. ‘The rest of the slaves scattered, so we won’t even get the bounty money!’
He was delirious from the pain and the poison in his leg.
Tobin glanced at M’Crystal and asked, ‘Where is Lieutenant Lascelles? Is he . . . ?’
The colour-sergeant shook his head. ‘No, he’s alive, sir. Out at the village with a patrol and old Fenwick. Making certain those devils don’t have any more weapons hidden away. He’ll burn the place to the ground if he finds ’em.’
Tobin looked away. It did not sound like the amiable Lascelles he knew. Then he glanced down at Blackwood again and guessed what must have changed him.
‘Have the wounded carried to the ship right away. Mr Lascelles will take command here with one squad of marines.’ He looked meaningly at M’Crystal’s red face. ‘Volunteers. I shall leave a landing party and two six-pounders to give them some more authority –’ He broke off as Blackwood struggled up on his elbows.
‘They are my men, sir!’
Tobin smiled sadly. ‘You rest and finish your shave. I’m taking you to Freetown. No arguments. Have no fear about this bloody fort. I’ve seen what you did. A steam gunboat will be here tonight. She couldn’t keep up with Satyr!’
The surgeon was signalling to some men with a stretcher but made himself wait until Smithett had completed the shave to his own satisfaction. Then Smithett eased Blackwood’s arms into his coatee and made an attempt to adjust his shirt for him.
It was then that Blackwood realized how weak he had become, that Lascelles and the others had somehow managed to hide it from him.
Feet pounded across the compound and Lascelles appeared, gasping for breath.
‘Don’t worry, sir. Everything will be all right.’ Their eyes met and he added quietly, ‘Now.’
Blackwood was lifted on to the stretcher and faces swam around him like balloons.
Here and there a hand reached out to touch his shoulder or just the stretcher as he was carried from the fort. Beneath the gate he saw the marks of battle, the stains where one marine had been hacked down. Now it was his turn. He felt his eyes smarting as he tried to hide his despair. He would lose a leg. It was better to die like Simcoe, Oldcastle and the others.
At the pier he was able to open his eyes as a shadow spread over him. It was M’Crystal, as he knew it would be.
‘I shall stay with Mr Lascelles, sir. But he’s thriving on it now.’ He was too used to duty and the stern demands of discipline and was unable to say what he really felt. Instead he said, ‘I’ll see you again soon, sir. When they come back for us.’ He managed a grin. ‘Last to leave, that’s us.’
Blackwood twisted his head to answer him but he had already gone.
‘Worth fifty men, is M’Crystal.’ He even sounded as if he was dying, and his voice lacked any message of hope.
Tobin watched him being carried carefully up the frigate’s side and said to himself, ‘You’re worth a few yourself, my friend.’
Later, as he lay in the same cabin he had used after joining the ship at Gibraltar, Blackwood felt the hull begin to shake and quiver to the power of her engine. He peered up desperately at the scuttle and tried to picture the scene as Satyr cast off and thrashed violently clear of the piles. The surgeon must have given him something because he could feel no pain, and for a terrifying instant he imagined his leg had already been taken off.
The door opened and Smithett padded to the scuttle and opened it slightly. He did not speak but turned to watch his officer’s reaction as the sound of distant cheering penetrated the cabin.
Blackwood tried to move higher but his strength failed him.
‘What are they cheering? Tell me, please!’
Smithett winced as the ship’s siren blasted raucously along the shore and to the hidden village whose king was now a prisoner on the orlop deck.
He closed the scuttle tightly and replied, ‘Cheerin’, sir? It’s fer you, that’s wot.’
Smithett picked up Blackwood’s coatee and curled his lip. Take a week to get it back into shape. Work, work, bloody work, there’s no end to it.
He glanced at Blackwood and waited until he was back in a drugged sleep then left the cabin.
A petty officer was coming along the passageway and paused to say, ‘Glad you got out of it in one piece! You deserve a bloody medal, to all accounts!’ He hurried away to his allotted station.
Smithett stood quite still, the coatee dangling from his hand, as the ship began to surge ahead.
It was then, and only then, that he understood the true significance of the petty officer’s words. He had survived.
Tobin entered the cabin and studied Blackwood thoughtfully. He was required everywhere. Move to another anchorage. Take on more coal. Report to the senior officer at Freetown for orders. But this moment was important too.
‘How are you feeling?’
Blackwood raised himself on his elbows and winced as the pain came back. As if it had been lurking there. Lulling his defences.
‘What’s going to happen now?’
He felt rotten and knew that Tobin had already read the surgeon’s report so knew better than he did about his condition. The wound had been deep and badly infected. But for his stubborn insistence on following up their victory with a march on Mdlaka’s village, he might be on his feet right now.
Tobin shrugged. ‘You are being taken ashore. A surgeon there will be better placed to help you. After that . . .’ He shrugged again. ‘Back to England probably.’ He attempted to smile. ‘I did hear a rumour that you wanted to resign from the Corps anyway?’ But he regretted it instantly as Blackwood’s expression changed to one of dismay and loss.
Two seamen were in the passageway with a stretcher, and Smithett had already packed up their gear. The cabin looked empty and alien. Waiting for Lascelles to reclaim it.
Blackwood said quietly, ‘I’m all right. No worse than some of the others, and better than the dead ones!’
He beckoned to Smithett who was standing behind the seamen.
‘Here, help me up!’
Smithett stood fast and said dourly, ‘Don’t seem right to me, sir.’
Tobin’s midshipman hovered in the passageway until the captain saw him.
‘Mr Deacon’s respects, sir, and Audacious is approaching the anchorage.’
He was careful not to stare at Blackwood.
‘Thank you, Mr Allison.’ Tobin carefully closed the door and shut out the others. ‘So he finally got here.’
But Blackwood scarcely heard him. All the while he had been in Satyr, then at the fort, Ashley-Chute’s squadron had been sailing ponderously for this same destination. The terrible sights and sounds, the feel of a man’s last breath as he had hacked him down on that stretch of hard-fought land had meant nothing to the squadron as they had gone about their daily affairs. Now Monkey was here. Ready to take over command of operations from a mere commodore. It was a strange sort of promotion, but at this moment it was all Blackwood could think about, all he had left. If he went ashore he would be put aboard a home-bound ship. Marine captains, young or otherwise, carried little weight, and he knew he would be discharged without room for argument.
He knew too that it was desperately important he should hold on, and the Audacious, slow and outdated as she might be, was his only chance.
‘I’d like to return to my ship, sir.’
Tobin stared at him. ‘The admiral may think otherwise.’
‘Let me try, sir.’ He was pleading.
Tobin listened to the dull thud of a gun salute as the squadron flagship tacked towards the anchorage.
With any luck Satyr might be ordered to sea again within a day or so. Reports and despatches took time to pass from hand to hand, especially here at the Freetown naval base. He was probably doing Blackwood no favour, and he might end up a cripple if he rejected proper care. But Tobin could not forget his own feelings when he had seen the mission fort, the flag, the ragged defiance of M’Crystal’s guard of honour. Nor would he ever lose the picture of these same men as they had watched Blackwood carried down to the ship. If they had held on to their strength, then Blackwood had certainly given it to them, and it had shown on their faces.
He made up his mind. ‘Call away my gig for Captain Blackwood!’
He did not open the door but feet hurried away to do his bidding. He did not want his men to see Blackwood’s face.
Blackwood held out his hand. ‘Thank you, very much.’
‘It’s worth a try.’ Tobin opened the door for Smithett. ‘I’ll be waiting to hear. Perhaps you’ll come back to Satyr one day.’
Very carefully Blackwood lowered himself to the deck while Smithett encircled his waist with a grip of steel. He could smell the rum on the marine’s breath and guessed that he too had been saying his farewells in his own way. He gasped as the pain came again. To me mates.
It seemed to take an hour to reach the quarterdeck where he was almost blinded by the sunlight. There seemed to be ships everywhere, every class of war vessel, colourful native craft with huge lateen sails, even a stately East Indiaman unloading cargo into a mass of bobbing lighters.
But Blackwood had eyes only for the slow-moving flagship, her black and white hull shining like glass on the clear water, the receding gun smoke still clinging to her rigging and yards like muslin.
It was like a pain in his heart, and he wanted to tell Tobin how he felt.
Tobin gave a slow smile. ‘I wish you luck.’ Then he stood aside and saluted as Blackwood was carried bodily down to the gig alongside.
The first lieutenant joined him by the rail, eager to get on with the day’s work. They were short-handed without the landing party.
Tobin watched the gig until it was swallowed up amidst the bustle of local craft and bat-like sails.
‘If he lives long enough, that young man will do great things.’
‘About coaling ship, sir?’
Tobin glanced at him and they both smiled. Deacon was not that good at hiding his feelings. Yet. He had been there when the attack had been made on the boats. He had memories of his own now.
‘Yes, Mr Deacon, now what about coaling ship?’
The flagship’s side and tumblehome looked like a great cliff from the gig. Blackwood gritted his teeth as the bowman hooked on to the main chains and faces lined the gangway to peer down at him.
God, he must look a mess. The other marines had already been sent across from Satyr, except the badly wounded ones, so the story would be all over the ship.
Smithett muttered, ‘Don’t like it at all, I don’t, an’ that’s a fact, sir.’ He squinted up at the thick stairs to the entry port and then to a ladder which dangled from the gangway itself. Either way was asking for a fall.
Blackwood got into a more comfortable position on one leg, his arm around Smithett’s shoulders. The gig’s crew sat at attention as they watched his every move, and the midshipman in charge seemed at a total loss as to what to do next.
If only the pain would stay away. Blackwood could barely see through the mist as he fought to contain the rising fire in his leg. At any moment the wound would burst open. Why had he imagined he could do the impossible?
Smithett was watching him worriedly. ‘I’ll ’ave a bosun’s chair sent down, sir!’
Feet clattered on the steps and Blackwood looked up into the eyes of his half-brother.
‘Come along, sir.’ He reached down and slipped his hand through Blackwood’s arm. ‘Easy now. Together.’
A seaman had also climbed down, and as they waited for the boat to lift and then settle again, Blackwood took his first step on to the tumblehome.
He nodded and tried to speak but nothing came.
Harry guided him carefully so that he could make use of the handholds. Blackwood could feel the protective strength of his arm, the care he was taking to help him. It was as if the whole ship was holding her breath, urging him to make the climb without failing.
His whole body was running with sweat, and from the wetness on his leg he guessed that some of his dressing had come loose.
‘Never mind, Harry!’ He peered up at the outstretched hands and concerned faces. ‘Never bloody well mind, eh?’ He was half gasping and half laughing as the senses of shock and pain joined against him.
Harry whispered against his ear, ‘Oh, Philip, you crazy, wonderful idiot!’ He did not seem to care if Blackwood heard him or not. All that mattered was the entry port, the bright blue sky above.
Blackwood felt more hands gripping his arms to lift him to the quarterdeck.
The sight of the assembled side-party, the officer of the watch and all the rest of this ordered world was too much for him.
What chance had he now of staying aboard? He had been stupid, too full of his own pride to accept the inevitable.
As if through a mist he saw Captain Ackworthy’s great bulk striding towards him, and Sergeant Quintin coming aft from the main-deck. What a sight he must make.
Everybody froze as if suddenly bewitched, even their expressions of anxiety, surprise or merely curiosity remained fixed and set.
Only one small figure moved at the poop rail, head jutting forward, his voice cutting through the shipboard noises like a saw.
‘It would appear that my captain of marines has decided that a life in coal dust and filth is not for him! He has shown some sense. I shall see him aft when he has collected himself, hmm?’ He vanished.
Blackwood looked around him. Monkey neither could nor would bid him welcome, it was not his style. But at this moment it was the closest thing to it Blackwood had ever heard.
Slowly and carefully he straighted his back and balanced himself on one foot while he gauged the ship’s gentle motion.
Then he looked at Ackworthy’s strained face and touched his hat.
‘I am rejoining the ship, sir.’
Ackworthy glanced from Blackwood’s pale features to the bright spot of blood which had fallen to the deck by his feet where it gleamed like a malevolent red eye.
He needed
to find the right words to convey what he felt, but all he could feel was envy. Not that it mattered, for at that moment Blackwood fainted.
8
Temptation
For two whole weeks after he had boarded Audacious in such an undignified fashion, Blackwood lived in a state of mounting frustration. His relief at being allowed to return soon gave way to a feeling of reprieve, a momentary delay after which he would be sent packing to England. He had plenty of visitors, but noticed they were wary about discussing the daily routine, as if that might only make it harder when the axe fell.
Dalrymple, the senior surgeon, was not very encouraging and almost as gloomy as Smithett. Too early to say. Wait and see seemed to be the corner-stone of his diagnosis.
Confined to his cabin, Blackwood was very aware of his isolation. When he was not in a drugged sleep he lay in his cot putting faces and names to the sounds above and around him. There were several receptions and parties given on board, apparently to mark Ashley-Chute’s taking command of the West Coast Squadron. As the temperature in his cabin rose to stifling humidity, Blackwood was forced to listen to muffled music, the clink of glasses and the carefree comings and goings of boats alongside.
He thought a great deal about the fort, and especially of the men who had fallen there. Of Oldcastle with his fear and determination, and Lascelles who had been prepared to throw his life away rather than let him down. What would become of Old Fenwick? he wondered. Stay there until the next traders joined him at the mission fort, or try his luck elsewhere in his hunt for riches?
At night, when the ship was quiet, Harry would come to the cabin and sit with him until he dozed off in his cot. Blackwood had got to know his eighteen-year-old half-brother better than he had ever done before, and together they had spoken about their futures, what would become of Hawks Hill and the estate after it had all been auctioned.
Harry had been more than candid about his mother. ‘Far too young for the gov’nor. Still, but for her I suppose the Corps would be missing the services of a superb second lieutenant!’
Ashley-Chute’s son had also visited him on a couple of occasions, but mostly it seemed to speak about Satyr and her performance rather than what lay ahead.
Badge of Glory (1982) Page 12
