One late afternoon as Blackwood climbed from his cot to stand naked before Dalrymple and his assistant surgeon, he somehow knew it was the moment of decision. For several days he had heard stores being hoisted inboard from lighters, the familiar squeak of tackles punctuated by the twitter of boatswain’s calls. A ship preparing to leave port.
He fixed his eyes on the mirror above his table and made himself stand quite still as Dalrymple’s hard fingers probed at his leg. In the mirror he looked older, with deep lines at his mouth to reveal the strain he had been under.
Dalrymple said casually, ‘Your other marines returned aboard today. They were brought from that fort by a gunboat. Full of bounce, they are. Fighting seems to agree with ’em.’
The assistant surgeon chuckled and wrote in his notebook as Dalrymple murmured something to him as an aside.
Blackwood felt a bead of sweat run from his hairline and drop on to his bare shoulder. They were back, apart from the ones who would never return.
Think of them and stop being so bloody selfish. You lived. They did not.
He could stand it no longer. ‘Can I stay?’
Dalrymple looked up and a basin of water appeared as if by magic as Smithett eased his way round the cabin.
‘Of course I shall make a report to the captain.’ The surgeon’s eyes settled on Blackwood. ‘What do you think? Could you do your work under the same circumstances which gave you this wound?’
Smithett’s voice broke the sudden uncertainty. ‘Cap’n’s comin’, sir.’
The cabin seemed to shrink as Ackworthy stepped inside, his head lowered still further beneath the deckhead beams. He looked at Blackwood for several seconds, his eyes even more troubled than usual.
Blackwood guessed that Ashley-Chute had driven them all very hard on the passage from Gibraltar. Ackworthy more than anyone.
Ackworthy said abruptly, ‘The squadron will weigh tomorrow morning.’ He could not resist adding, ‘Wind or no wind, apparently. How do you feel?’
Blackwood was very aware of the watching eyes, the two surgeons, and Smithett trying to be invisible in the background. He was more conscious of Ackworthy’s tone than he was of standing naked in front of them.
The surgeon murmured, ‘In my opinion, sir –’
Blackwood replied, ‘I’m all right, sir. Bit stiff.’ He had meant it to come out like an adjutant’s report on the barrack square. Brief and firm. Instead he had sounded like a guilty schoolboy.
‘Can you get dressed?’ Ackworthy glanced round the cabin, probably remembering other ships, other times.
When Blackwood nodded he added, ‘We are proceeding to Fernando Po. Sir Geoffrey Slade has already taken passage there in Satyr. Left yesterday.’ He glanced at Blackwood’s pale face. ‘He didn’t come and see you, did he?’
Blackwood shook his head, surprised he could still feel hurt about it after he had invented so many excuses for Slade’s behaviour.
‘By the time we’ve picked up the right winds it’ll be close on two thousand miles to Fernando Po.’ Ackworthy let his words sink in. ‘It’s a foul coast down there, all the way from Lagos to Benin there’s nothing but fever and trouble. There are some powerful slavers pushing the local kings into using their territory for the trade. Your experience with Mdlaka was just a tip of the iceberg.’ He mopped his jowls with a handkerchief. ‘Hardly apt, eh?’
Blackwood understood well enough. ‘Then I must decide now. After tomorrow there’ll be no turning back.’ His leg throbbed as if to mock him.
‘Correct. I have spoken with the admiral. He wants a report.’ He managed a smile. ‘Which means an hour ago.’
‘I want to remain in Audacious, sir.’
The surgeon made one last attempt. ‘I’ve not really decided . . .’
Ackworthy said bluntly, ‘I have. He stays.’ He tugged out his watch and examined it. ‘I’ll expect you aft in an hour.’ He studied him questioningly. ‘Can you get there?’
Blackwood grinned, the years falling from his face in spite of the pain.
‘If I have to crawl.’
As Ackworthy made to leave Blackwood asked, ‘The king, Mdlaka, has he been taken to a prison sir?’ He could picture him without difficulty, old maybe, but with all the cunning of his ancestors.
Captain Ackworthy did not turn. ‘He’s been sent back to his village where he will be under British protection. He needs it now to survive. Sir Geoffrey Slade wrote the order himself. Better the devil you know . . . that kind of thing. Now you understand why Sir Geoffrey chose not to visit you.’ The door closed with a bang.
The surgeons picked up their bags and Dalrymple said severely, ‘I think it’s madness.’ He sensed Blackwood’s sudden anger and added, ‘Don’t expect miracles, that’s all I ask.’ Then like ghouls they both withdrew.
Blackwood slumped on the cot and stared fixedly at the bulkhead.
‘Well, Smithett, what did you make of that?’
Smithett unfolded a clean shirt and shook it out. ‘’Ow d’yer mean, sir?’
‘We lost some good men.’ He thought of Oldcastle, the way his arms had hung out like broken wings as he had been carried up to the fort for burial. ‘For bloody nothing! I wish I’d shot that little bastard while I had the chance!’
Smithett regarded him calmly. ‘Might ’ave ’ad someone worse to take ’is place like? We did wot we was sent to do, sir. It’s all there is to it.’
Blackwood ran his fingers through his hair. All there is to it.
‘Come on then, help me get into that shirt.’ There was no getting the better of Smithett.
Vice-Admiral Sir James Ashley-Chute crossed one leg over the other and regarded Blackwood unsmilingly.
‘I understand you consider yourself fit for active duty?’ His lipless mouth opened and closed to ration each word. ‘Another day and I would have had to discharge you from my command. However . . .’ his cold stare dropped to Blackwood’s leg, ‘that would have meant transferring an officer from Valiant or Argyll. Untidy, and in any case you have been in this ship long enough to know your men and what they can do.’ He indicated a pile of papers on his table. ‘Interesting reading. It seems you were very active in the defence of the fort.’
Blackwood could sense Ackworthy’s sweating discomfort somewhere behind him, the pain in his leg and the fact Ashley-Chute had pointedly not asked him to sit down.
Blackwood replied, ‘Had I known what was intended, sir, I would have acted differently.’
‘Indeed?’ Ashley-Chute plucked at one of his grey sideburns. ‘I think not. But I have to confess I did feel some irritation at the way that damned native was allowed to go about his business.’ His eyes hardened. ‘I’d have had him dancing at the main-yard in double quick time, politicians or no damned politicians, hmm?’
Audacious swung slightly on her cable, and through the cabin windows Blackwood saw the misty panorama of lush green hills and clusters of pale buildings along the shore.
Ashley-Chute continued in a more relaxed tone, ‘However, everything will be changed from now on, as I explained to the commodore before he left.’
Blackwood tried to concentrate and ignore the ache and its attendant nausea. Ashley-Chute was testing him with no less dedication than the surgeon. There was still ample time for him to be put ashore.
The vice-admiral said, ‘For years now we have been contending with flects of slavers who have grown rich on their profits. Our patrols have taken a prize here and there and the guilty shipmasters have been punished. But the trade goes on, and will continue to do so while we play games instead of destroying it at its roots. Britannia rules the waves, so they say. But it has its disadvantages. Other nations who are supposed to be allies in stamping out slavery are content to let us get on with it. France is less cautious than our government in colonizing parts of Africa, she is careful to avoid antagonizing the local chiefs and traders. America is too slow to support our patrols and has sometimes accused us of hitting too hard.’ His eyes settled on Blackwo
od’s again. ‘We shall hit harder, believe me!’
Ackworthy said, ‘I think Captain Blackwood should be seated, Sir James.’
‘Oh, really?’ Ashley-Chute gave a thin smile. ‘A chair, Blackwood.’
Blackwood sat down, almost hating Ackworthy for his genuine concern.
‘Well, we’ve nearly three weeks to prepare ourselves.’ Ashley-Chute stood up and walked to the stern windows, his hands grasped tightly behind him. ‘I was given this station to put things right. Had I been appointed a year ago . . .’ He shrugged. ‘But there’s no point in fretting over spilt milk, hmm?’
Blackwood was more confused than before. Why had Ashley-Chute sent for him? Of all his captains and advisers, why pick on a junior marine officer?
Ashley-Chute continued, ‘I intend to attack the slave trade in its own territory. No more chasing ships around the ocean only to discover they have already dropped their victims overboard at the first sight of danger. You may think that your skirmish at the fort was a waste of time, Blackwood. By God, I wish there were more such opportunities to show them we mean what we say, dammit!’ He changed tack in a second. ‘Any suggestions, by the way?’
Blackwood said, ‘We’re using old methods, sir.’ He saw the warning light in Ashley-Chute’s eyes but persisted. ‘My father spoke of the same tactics in his day.’
Ashley-Chute said dryly, ‘You talk of him as if he were deceased.’
Blackwood flushed. ‘I’m sorry, sir. It’s not that. But in the big ships of the line we drill and exercise as we have always done. On land we march and fight like infantry, form squares, and die if so ordered.’
He expected to be cut short but the admiral remained silent, his eyes boring into him, while Ackworthy’s breathing got steadily heavier by the second.
He added, ‘This is a different enemy, sir. They can fall back and regroup, while we must hang on with minimum rations and await the next attack. They know their territory, we do not.’
‘Good. Capital. What I hoped you would say.’ Ashley-Chute’s thin lips split into a wide smile. ‘I wanted to hear it from you. Somebody who has seen these conditions at close quarters, not from some shoe-licking staff officer who will tell me anything to gain favour.’ He glanced past him towards Ackworthy. ‘Fighting men, that’s what I want!’
Blackwood forgot the pain and discomfort in his leg. Ashley-Chute spoke as if he was embarking on a personal vendetta which only he could inspire. Perhaps it was true about him, that after the confusion in New Zealand he had been quietly censured. What was this appointment to him? A chance to redeem himself, or was he to be a scapegoat if everything failed? Slade had said he was genuinely concerned with the expansion of an empire. He had left little doubt that he would use anyone to achieve that end. Blackwood bit his lip. Even me.
Ashley-Chute cocked his head as the bell chimed out from the forecastle. It was the moment to leave. The audience was over.
Blackwood got to his feet and hesitated. ‘I should like to say something, sir.’
There was a brief spark of irritation. ‘Well?’
‘The rivers are the main channels for the slave-ships, sir. It will take time to get our people into position even without opposition from the shore.’
Ashley-Chute sounded almost relieved. As if he had been expecting something different.
‘You are about to suggest I demand more steam vessels for this operation, am I right?’ He shook his head. ‘I am disappointed, Blackwood, and must put it down to the strain you have been under. This will be a perfect example of seamanship and discipline ashore and afloat. We are fighting slavers, Spanish and Portuguese for the most part, and ignorant, bloody savages! What would the world think if I ordered a fleet to do what any well trained flotilla should be capable of achieving, hmm?’
Ackworthy mumbled, ‘I, er, I think –’
‘I am delighted to hear that!’ Ashley-Chute glanced at the pantry door. It was time for his glass of claret.
‘Steam-powered ships are a novelty, Captain Blackwood, but they are not yet reliable under testing conditions.’ His smile was almost gentle. ‘Do I make myself clear?’
Blackwood left the admiral’s quarters and tried not to limp until he was well clear of those probing eyes.
Ackworthy said thickly, ‘In your place, Major, I’d have gone home, and that’s a fact.’
‘I doubt that, sir.’
He saw the huge captain wince as a midshipman scuttled into view and gasped, ‘Flag-lieutenant’s respects, sir, and would you rejoin the admiral.’ He swallowed miserably. ‘Immediately, sir.’
Ackworthy turned heavily, his hands opening and closing like that day at Spithead. ‘He’ll be the death of me, I’m certain of it.’ He seemed to be speaking to his ship.
Blackwood continued towards the filtered sunlight and saw M’Crystal waiting by the companion ladder. It was the first time they had met since he had been carried from the fort.
‘Good to see you again, Colour-sergeant.’
M’Crystal’s eyes flicked over Blackwood’s uniform and injured leg. The inspection completed he said, ‘Not sorry to be back either, sir.’ He gestured with his head. ‘The lads are having a sale of goods in the barracks, sir. The kit of the ones who didn’t come through.’
Blackwood thrust his hand into his pocket for some coins. The custom was probably older than the Corps itself. The money might be some comfort to the widows and sweethearts in England. Once again he thought of Oldcastle. His mother had nobody at all now.
M’Crystal put the money in a bag and shook it. ‘Och, it’s not much, sir, but . . .’
‘I know.’
M’Crystal turned to go and then said cheerfully, ‘We’re going into action again then, sir?’
There were no secrets.
‘How does it suit, Colour-Sergeant?’
M’Crystal put one big foot on the ladder and replied, ‘It’s what I do best, sir.’
For him the fears of death or mutilation were in the past. Already he was looking forward to the next challenge.
Blackwood smiled to himself. Perhaps it was the best way to be.
The next day the squadron weighed and put to sea. It was a slow, demanding business to get the ships into line, and Audacious’s yards were alive with signals for several hours until Ashley-Chute’s captains had satisfied his demands.
After a few days it was as if nothing had ever happened and nothing would ever change. The curiosity shown by the ship’s company whenever Blackwood had appeared on deck soon gave way to routine acceptance. Even when the surgeon examined and dressed his wound Blackwood found it hard to hold things in the right perspective; the fury of the fighting, the wild need to kill rather than be cut down by the attackers.
It was even difficult to recall the noisy, bounding excitement of Tobin’s Satyr. This was the other navy again, slow, majestic, monotonous.
The squadron eventually altered course towards the east to steer deeper and deeper into the Gulf of Benin, where the coast of Africa was occasionally in view of the masthead lookouts.
Some said that Ashley-Chute was keeping well to seaward to give secrecy to his movements. Others, less charitable, insisted it was because he was making sure he would not meet with any steam vessels which could cruise close inshore in comparative safety.
Ten days after leaving Freetown the morning watch was roused by the mutter of distant gunfire.
Men swarmed up the ratlines and on to the yards in hopes of sighting something, and when the general signal was hoisted to make more sail they went to work with a will. Anything to break the boredom.
Eventually the lookouts reported that a sail had been sighted, the squadron’s own frigate Peregrine which had been cruising well ahead of her massive consorts. Now she was coming about, and just beyond her, partly concealed in the morning mist, was a brigantine.
Netten, the first lieutenant, closed his telescope with a click.
‘A bloody slaver. Peregrine must have run right down on her, the lucky
devils.’
Ackworthy stood at the quarterdeck rail, his cap tugged down over his eyes.
‘Alter course two points to larboard, Mr Tompkins.’ He did not sound enthusiastic about this unexpected encounter. ‘My compliments to the flag-lieutenant, and –’
‘No need, Captain!’ Ashley-Chute had appeared on deck, his eyes everywhere as he strode with his loping gait to the rail. ‘Signal the squadron to proceed. We shall close with Peregrine and investigate.’ He saw Blackwood on the lee side. ‘Ah, Blackwood, I shall want you to go across and see what you can discover.’ His pale eyes flickered in the glare. ‘Not squeamish, I trust?’ Again the barb, never far away. ‘Not like some, hmm?’
Netten whispered, ‘There’ll be murder done if he doesn’t stop goading the captain.’
It took most of the forenoon to reach the two drifting vessels. Blackwood could not help wondering if the little admiral had considered how speedily Satyr or one of her class would have executed the task.
As they drew nearer Blackwood could sense the mood around him. Seamen who had been cheerfully making bets on prize-money had fallen silent as the brigantine rolled heavily in the swell, her filthy hull in stark contrast with the little twenty-six-gun frigate.
‘Heave to! All hands wear ship!’
Audacious responded slowly, her canvas in disarray as she turned into the wind. It was if she too was reluctant to stand close to the slaver.
Ashley-Chute crossed the deck and snapped, ‘Thorough search, Blackwood. Bring the master back with you.’ He rubbed his palms together. ‘Nice little surprise.’
Sergeant Quintin tramped aft and saluted. ‘Boat’s in the water, sir.’
Netten followed Blackwood to the entry port. ‘Even a slaver will be a change from the flagship,’ was his only comment as they both climbed down to the waiting launch.
Close to, the brigantine looked like a hard-worked vessel. Blackwood saw several armed seamen from the frigate placed at intervals around the deck, and a young lieutenant gesturing to somebody by the wheel.
Badge of Glory (1982) Page 13
