Badge of Glory (1982)

by Reeman, Douglas

  The launch hooked on and Blackwood hauled himself bodily up the side, his leg moving clear of any bolt or protruding timber. He was getting good at it.

  The lieutenant approached them and asked, ‘Can I help you?’

  Netten replied bluntly, ‘We are from the admiral.’ It was all he needed to say.

  The young lieutenant pointed along the dirty, littered deck. ‘Most of the crew are negroes, would you believe, sir. The master’s a Spaniard, and his mates are Dutch half-castes.’

  Blackwood glanced at some swivel guns which were depressed towards the hold and hatch covers. It was unbelievable to accept that the hull was crammed with people. He could smell brandy. The brigantine’s after-guard must have been celebrating their transactions. They had certainly not been alert enough to see the frigate running down on them.

  Netten asked, ‘Want a look? I’ve seen it before many times.’

  Blackwood walked to the nearest hatchway with Quintin close on his heels.

  ‘Open it.’

  Two seamen hauled aside the heavy iron staples and together pulled the doors apart. Blackwood had often heard old sailors speak of the stench in a slave-ship but he was unprepared for it nonetheless. Even though the brigantine carried a fresh batch of slaves, he doubted if the vessel had been cleaned for years. Decay, misery and death were all combined into something inhuman.

  A petty officer said, ‘Watch out, sir. If you fall amongst that lot we’ll never be able to get you free in time.’

  Blackwood stared down for a long moment until he saw the heaving mass of black bodies beneath him. While the vessel rolled into the troughs as she lay hove to, the sunlight spilled down the hatchway, and Blackwood saw it playing across hundreds of upturned eyes. It was unnerving, perhaps because of the total silence. As if all the packed bodies had died and only the eyes held on to life.

  ‘Open all the hatches.’

  They could not escape or try their fury on the newcomers. Blackwood had no doubt they would, given the opportunity. British seamen, Spanish slavers, they all looked the same to them.

  He saw the shackles, the cruel way that all the slaves were linked to longer chains which ran from forward to aft through each hold and cargo space.

  There must be two or three hundred of them.

  Netten said offhandedly, ‘I want to know his destination and the last anchorage.’

  The young lieutenant grimaced. ‘He threw his charts overboard.’

  ‘That’s not what I asked. Tell him I want the truth, and quickly.’

  The petty officer murmured, ‘There’s a whole bunch o’ women up forrard, sir.’

  Blackwood glanced at him. He could sense it in the man’s voice. Slaves were one thing, girls were different.

  The sailors removed the canvas from the forward hold and lifted a hatch for Blackwood and his sergeant.

  This time there was no mute silence. They had probably been expecting some of the slaver’s crew to drag them on deck for their sexual pleasures, and the sight of Blackwood’s red tunic brought a chorus of terrified voices.

  Blackwood found himself staring at them. Young, small-breasted bodies, white teeth and pleading eyes. He knew he should be disgusted. Instead he was reacting no better than the petty officer.

  He strode aft again. ‘Do the prisoners understand what you say?’

  The lieutenant shrugged. ‘I – I’m not certain.’

  Blackwood looked at the three prisoners. The master was as thin as a stick, the two half-castes just the reverse in their filthy duck trousers and straw hats. There were enough weapons on the deck where they had been dropped to arm a vessel twice her size.

  ‘Take them across to the flaghip. I’m going to look further.’

  As he lowered himself through a small companion-way by the wheel, Netten said to the Peregrine’s boarding officer, ‘Marines. What can you do with them, eh?’

  The young lieutenant frowned. ‘But isn’t he the one who . . .’

  Netten watched the prisoners being pushed down to the launch. ‘Yes. He’s the one. That’s what a hero looks like.’

  Blackwood groped his way to the master’s cabin, his body bent in the low confines of the hull. A skylight was wide open and he heard Netten’s words with some surprise. Blackwood had not realized that his exploits had created a barrier between them. He had always liked Netten, but now he had changed. Surely not envious of nearly being killed? He wished suddenly he had not heard him.

  He forced the door open and then tensed as he saw a pair of eyes watching him from a low bunk.

  Behind him he heard Quintin exclaim, ‘Gawd, the pick o’ the bunch!’

  She was blacker than most of the others, but even here amidst the squalor she had an arrogance to match her primitive beauty. She was naked with a gold chain around her neck which betrayed her breathing as she watched his uncertainty.

  As she moved closer her body rolled towards him and her eyes never left his face. She touched her lips with her tongue and ran it along her teeth. It was very pink, like a tempting serpent.

  And what the hell would it matter? They had saved all these people from slavery, and worse. No one would care. Quintin would keep his mouth shut, and even if he didn’t the marines would make a joke of it.

  He gripped her shoulder and felt her thrust towards him, her lips parted like a trap. He touched her breast and squeezed it, thinking of that last time so long ago.

  It was like releasing a spring, and she pulled herself up against him, her hand tightening on his groin.

  ‘Look under the bunk!’ He had to shout for his own sake as well as Quintin’s. ‘Now!’

  The sergeant dropped to the deck and flailed about under the bunk with his hands although his eyes were still on the girl’s out-thrust leg.

  Quintin lurched to his feet and stared at Blackwood with astonishment. ‘’Ow did you know, sir?’

  Blackwood pushed the girl down on the bunk and took the gleaming weapon from Quintin’s grip. Like the ones which had been used against the fort. New, rifled, and deadly.

  Almost to himself he said, ‘She’s the slaver’s mistress. That gold chain is worth a few guineas, he’d not waste it on a slut. She’s too at home here. I guessed there must be a reason.’

  She seemed to understand what was happening and flung herself from the bunk like an enraged puma, screaming and slashing at him with her fingers.

  Quintin twisted her arms until she became quiet again. It had been a close thing.

  Blackwood said, ‘Watch her. I’m taking this over to Monk . . . I mean the admiral.’

  Quintin grinned. ‘Right, sir.’

  He watched Blackwood leave. She had really got the young captain going. He pressed the girl’s shoulders down on the bunk. There was no time now. But it was still a long way to Fernando Po.

  His grin widened. ‘Now you be a good lass an’ the nice sergeant will look after you!’

  On deck Blackwood handed the rifle to Smithett.

  Netten whistled softly. ‘Well now, that’s a find. How was it missed?’

  Blackwood glanced at the Peregrine’s lieutenant who looked at the deck and blushed.

  ‘Easily done.’ He saw Netten’s surprise and realized his voice must have betrayed his feelings. ‘A marine was killed by one of those rifles. He was a hero too.’

  He could feel Netten staring after him as he climbed down into the boat which had returned from Audacious.

  Was it really the first lieutenant who had inflamed his anger? Or the sensuous girl in the cabin?

  She would have killed him if she had got the chance. But to take her by force if necessary, to sink into her and forget everything, would have been worth the risk. Sergeant Quintin was probably laughing his head off.

  ‘Wind’s gettin’ up a bit, sir.’

  Smithett had seen the gleam in Blackwood’s eyes and felt relieved. Nothing was changed. The captain was just as moody as before the battle at the fort. A real fire-brand he had picked for his officer.

&nbs
p; Blackwood nodded. ‘Good. The sooner we get this over and done with the better for all of us.’

  Smithett had no idea what he was talking about and did not much care. They were all back together again, and that was what counted.

  Captain John Ackworthy trod heavily around his day cabin, his head moving from side to side as he listened to the occasional shouted commands from the quarterdeck.

  As Smithett had observed an hour earlier, the wind was freshening, and Audacious lay over on the larboard tack, her spars and shrouds rejoicing to the unusual turn of speed.

  Ackworthy touched his sword on its rack and glanced at the seated officers who waited like actors unsure of their lines.

  Pelham, the flag-lieutenant, blank-faced but watchful, too afraid of his master to miss even a tit-bit of information. Netten, who lounged in a chair, his shoes still stained from the slaver’s filth.

  In a chair on the opposite side of the cabin Blackwood watched Netten and wondered why he had not noticed the flaw before. Casual and relaxed, always ready with a quip when things got heated. That was not him at all. He was tensed like a spring, expectant, wary.

  Ackworthy said, ‘With luck we shall lop off a few days to Fernando Po with this wind.’ He looked at them gravely. ‘As you know, we have a consul there who is solely responsible for the rights of all traders of any nationality in the Bights of Benin and Biafra. Sir Geoffrey Slade will be with him now, and upon their decision will rest our part in future operations. The capture of the brigantine by Peregrine was a piece of good fortune as it turned out.’ His gaze paused on Blackwood. ‘The slaves were taken from Dahomey and on passage to Brazil. It is proof, if it was needed, that the trade is still flourishing.’

  Blackwood thought of the packed, shining bodies and wondered if many would have reached their final destination. Probably half would have died. It was cruel, inhuman madness to throw lives away.

  Ackworthy said in the same heavy tone, ‘The discovery of the rifle in the master’s cabin was something I did not expect. A new French rifle, part payment, part bribe for these scum.’

  Blackwood could recall without effort Lascelles blurting out about the new Delvigne-Minie rifle as he had fought to overcome his own fear. What the British army were already being issued with and the marines would be getting next year. Maybe. So if anyone with the right money could obtain them, they could not lay the blame of arms smuggling at the French door.

  ‘I am instructed to tell you that a private despatch is being sent to each captain in the squadron. Sir James Ashley-Chute,’ he all but spat out his name, and Blackwood saw the flag-lieutenant stiffen in his chair, ‘intends that we should attack the main supply route from Lagos as soon as we get the affirmative.’ He looked at their faces and added, ‘You are here because you will be in the leading flotilla.’ He looked at Blackwood. ‘Your experience will be important, even though you will not be in overall command of the marines taking part.’

  Blackwood had guessed that already. Argyll’s marine officer was senior to him in both age and service. A major named Fynmore, he was known to be something of a perfectionist. He saw Netten watching him, waiting for a reaction.

  Blackwood said, ‘I understand.’

  Ackworthy moved on. ‘Mr Netten, I am to inform you that as of tomorrow you will assume the rank of commander. It is the admiral’s wish that the promotion be advanced.’

  Netten compressed his lips and then said, ‘I never expected that, sir.’

  Ackworthy regarded him coldly. ‘Really?’

  Blackwood shifted in his chair as he weighed up the admiral’s tactics. Any captain in the squadron could have been put in direct command of a landing operation. But no, it had to be under Ashley-Chute’s own hand. A major would lead the marines, but Netten would be in overall charge.

  Ackworthy turned towards the stern windows where Valiant followed obediently some two cables astern.

  ‘I did suggest that we act independently.’ He measured each word as if he already saw them on a brief at his own court martial. ‘We have captured a slaver with a full cargo. The master confessed to everything once he was confronted with the rifle. Slavery is one thing, but when Sir James had done with him he was almost convicted for piracy! I advised the admiral,’ he turned to look at Pelham, ‘that we should send a force ashore without further delay.’

  Pelham fiddled with some papers. ‘It is necessary for the squadron to proceed to Fernando Po, sir.’ He was like a boy repeating a lesson. ‘Sir Geoffrey Slade’s instruction was –’

  Ackworthy waved him aside. ‘I know all that, Flags.’

  Blackwood knew that the captain had said as much as he dared. By the time the squadron reached Fernando Po the news would have spread up and down the coast like a brush fire. If they did attempt to land and seek out the slavers’ main base they would have no surprise on their side and might find a hot reception.

  No wonder Ackworthy was worried. He was a sailor to his finger-tips, one of the old school, but no match for his admiral. Surely Ashley-Chute did not want a bloody confrontation? Or was it Slade, moving his pawns with quiet dedication while he hoped for just that?

  Old Fenwick had spoken of it at the fort one night when they had walked the parapet together, waiting for the dawn and dreading it.

  He had explained in his quavery voice, ‘They let some well-intentioned missionary chance his luck with the tribes. If’e keeps ’is ’ead on ’is shoulders, they allows a few traders to set up a post, then mebbe a fort to exchange their wares for somethin’ better. When they get attacked or murdered, the soldiers arrives to restore order.’ He wagged his unlit pipe like a sage. ‘The difference is, Cap’n, that even if the priests and the traders go away, the military don’t.’ He had given his eerie chuckle, delighted by Blackwood’s doubt. ‘That’s wot they calls empire, y’see?’

  Fenwick, Slade and Mdlaka knew the rules. It was to be hoped that Ashley-Chute did too and did not merely see the operation as another North Island affray.

  ‘So, gentlemen, you may carry on to your duties. Perhaps when we anchor we will receive contrary orders.’ He did not sound as if he believed it.

  As they left the cabin Netten said, ‘We’ll get a chance to do something useful after all.’ He glanced at Blackwood. ‘You all right?’

  ‘Thank you, sir, yes.’

  Netten grinned uneasily. ‘Come along now. Not so much of the sir. We’re between decks, not at divisions!’

  Blackwood saw Harry waiting by the poop ladder, his features carefully composed.

  ‘Tell me, sir, have you ever taken part in an operation like the one our admiral has in mind?’ He saw a momentary uncertainty and added, ‘It’s not like a Spithead regatta, with a keg of rum for the winner!’

  Netten’s jaw tightened. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m just about sick of having your name jammed down my throat! You did your job, nothing more, now I’ll do mine!’ He strode away and brushed past the marine lieutenant without seeing him.

  Blackwood sighed. It was better out in the open no matter what consequences it might bring.

  ‘Storm-clouds, sir?’ His voice was innocent.

  ‘Shut up, Harry, and come down for a drink. I’ve got some thinking to do.’

  In his cabin again Blackwood threw his tunic on the cot and massaged his leg while Harry poured two generous glasses of brandy. It was strange, but this was the first day he had not thought about his wound. Not until now.

  Harry said, ‘I hear that Major Fynmore is taking charge of our little war?’

  Blackwood grinned. It was refreshing to have Harry with him even though he had first reacted against it.

  The youthful lieutenant held up his glass to the light. ‘Everyone’s talking about it.’ He shot him a direct glance. ‘You two don’t exactly hit it off, do you?’

  Blackwood let the brandy run over his tongue. He could still feel the smoothness of her body, the animal heat as she had thrust herself at him.

  ‘No, Harry. We don’t. His father served
with our father and they heartily disliked each other.’

  He tossed back the brandy and gasped. What with Netten and Fynmore things would get very lively before long.

  Harry did not look at him as he poured two more drinks. Even his hand shook as he said quietly, ‘I can’t wait. Thank God I was able to get this appointment before you weighed anchor.’

  Blackwood said nothing. He was eight years older than Harry. It might have been a hundred. But he remembered when he had felt like him, had itched for the chance to serve and fight rather than inspect some barrack guard.

  It made him feel both protective and uneasy, as he had about Oldcastle when he had looked at him on that dreadful day when Ackland had sounded the Advance.

  ‘God? I thought it was your mother?’

  Harry laughed. ‘Same thing!’

  Suddenly the worst was over and it was so good to be alive.

  9

  Officers and Men

  It was no great distance from the waterfront to the low-roofed buildings of the British Consulate of Fernando Po, but by the time he had forced his way through an endless throng of people Blackwood had cause to remember Ackworthy’s warning. The heat was unbearable, so that his face felt as if it had been in a desert sandstorm. Noise, colour and a variety of smells and stenches made Blackwood wish more than once that he had remained in the flagship.

  M’Crystal marched at his side, like a massive plough as he forced a passage for his captain. Without him Blackwood doubted if he would have been able to leave the waterfront.

  The squadron had anchored in the early morning before the sun had gained its true power. Now, shimmering above their separate images, the four ships of the line, the frigates and their captured brigantine made an impressive array. Blackwood had often wondered why Britain had chosen a Spanish island like Fernando Po to set up this consulate which in fact controlled all the traders in the Bights of Benin and Biafra, which in turn affected the coastal shipping throughout the whole Gulf. But if the Spanish flag flew above the citadel, the impressive might of Ashley-Chute’s squadron left no doubt as to where the real power lay.