Badge of Glory (1982)

by Reeman, Douglas

  Her response had been astounding and immediate.

  She had taken his hands and pulled them to her bosom, her eyes shut as she had murmured, ‘I submit, Master Harry. Take me.’

  Afterwards, full of frightened excitement and guilt, he had tortured himself by remembering every breathless, tantalizing moment of their embraces. Things which he had never known and now would never forget.

  Her tongue in his mouth, their skin chilled in the cellar’s dampness rising to passionate heat as they had come together while she had instructed and guided him until they were both completely spent.

  He dragged at his runic again. He was feeling it now in this heat.

  Fynmore snapped, ‘There! They’ve sighted something!’

  Netten raised his hand to silence the chatter in the boat.

  ‘About time.’

  Harry Blackwood peered between his two superiors and saw a boat coming from around a bend in the river.

  It was not a crude dug-out canoe, but another long-boat, larger if anything than this launch. The oarsmen were black, but in the stern he could see two, maybe three white faces.

  Netten exclaimed angrily, ‘Dammit, they’ve dropped a stream-anchor!’

  Harry watched as the other boat’s oars rose and halted like frayed wings while the current surged around the hull as if it was going astern.

  Netten twisted round. ‘Signal the boats to anchor!’ He gestured towards the boat directly abeam, and after a moment’s hesitation the cutter began to pull towards them.

  Fynmore shifted on the thwart and asked, ‘What do you intend to do?’

  Netten was watching the anchored long-boat. ‘Patterson will speak with them. He’ll probably know the white men. Slavers perhaps, but it’ll not be like dealing with bloody savages.’

  Harry was only eighteen but he recognized alarm when he heard it.

  The cutter closed to within a few yards and Patterson called, ‘The king is not with them. One of those men is called Lessard. The last time we met was in Senegal.’ There was nothing mild about him now.

  He nodded to himself. ‘I think we should stand off and let him make the first move.’

  Netten exploded, ‘I’ve run up the white flag, he must know we’ve come to parley.’

  Patterson shrugged. ‘If King Zwide was here we could let him see his daughter. Without him we cannot bargain. Lessard has little regard for life, other people’s that is.’

  Netten glared at him. ‘I’m not here to bargain, as you put it. I have come in the Queen’s name, and you would do well to remember it!’

  Fynmore looked across at Blackwood. ‘What are your views?’

  Harry watched his half-brother, fascinated as he replied without hesitation, ‘We should fall back and land our people on the right hand bank, sir. It looked safer there, easy to defend. The gunboat Norseman will come up in support before dusk. Once she’s here, Lessard and his friends will not dare to move against us.’

  Fynmore let him finish. ‘Is that all, Captain Blackwood? No fire and blood? We just retreat, is that it?’

  Blackwood replied flatly, ‘There is a ridge over there, sir. Not more than a cable distant. If they have marksmen placed in cover they can fire down into the boats. The oarsmen are tired. It’s not worth the risk.’

  Fynmore swallowed hard. ‘I shall speak with you later.’ To Netten he said, ‘I say we should call his bluff. Now.’

  Netten nodded. ‘I agree.’

  Fynmore turned towards the cutter once more. ‘You anchor and take charge of the flotilla, Captain Blackwood. And the women, of course.’

  Harry watched his brother’s features, sickened at Fynmore’s jibe.

  Netten looked aft. ‘Give way together, Cox’n.’ But his eyes lingered on the other boats which were dragging on their anchors or grapnels, the oarsmen drooping over their looms while they regained their breath.

  As the launch started to move ahead Blackwood stood in the cutter, his heart pounding against his ribs as he tried to contain his anger. He did not even remember getting to his feet, but was aware of the watching eyes of his men. Indifferent, critical, hostile, they were all lost in a haze of disbelief.

  Patterson said softly, ‘You spoke correctly. I know that for a professional fighting man it must go against the grain. But even as a civilian I think you are right.’ He peered after the launch. ‘I know Lessard. He has estates in America, in Georgia. He has others in Brazil and Cuba, and has grown rich beyond measure from slavery. And never once have we been able to prove it.’

  Blackwood tried not to look towards the launch which was now almost blocking the view of Lessard’s boat.

  ‘Why should this Lessard be here?’

  ‘It will be important.’ Patterson looked briefly at the black princess. ‘Too important to be frightened off by a few redcoats.’

  Midshipman Ward asked huskily, ‘Shall I anchor, sir?’

  Blackwood looked at him. The boy was ashamed, for him and of him. In his eyes he had failed, had chosen caution when he should not have hesitated.

  ‘No, Mr Ward.’ He heard an edge in his tone as he spoke over their heads. ‘Be ready to pull with all your might. I don’t give a damn if your arms come out of their sockets. Corporal Bly, get up forrard with two of the best marksmen.’

  It was like a cold wind blowing through the boat. Hands jerked at weapons and pouches, others tugged down shakos as their owners responded to the hint of danger.

  ‘Remain in midstream.’

  Blackwood heard Smithett checking his pistols.

  Midshipman Ward said suddenly, ‘There must have been a waggon over there, sir!’ He pointed abeam at the first slope of the ridge.

  Patterson remarked, ‘Unlikely.’

  Blackwood leaned over the seated girl and felt her tense away from him.

  ‘Waggon be damned! They’re cannon tracks!’ He straightened up and shouted, ‘Pull, lads! Together!’ He felt the bottom boards shiver beneath his feet as the oarsmen flung themselves back on the looms. ‘Signal the next boat to –’

  The rest of his words and thoughts were scattered by a shattering explosion which echoed above the river like a clap of thunder.

  A tall waterspout shot up beside the launch, so close that several of the oars were flung into the river. As the current took control the launch began to swing round, the seamen in confusion as they struggled to back water with the remaining oars.

  Blackwood saw a puff of smoke from the ridge and felt sick as another ball slammed through the forepart of the boat and something which a second earlier had been a sailor was flung over the side like a piece of meat.

  Thank God Netten had not had time to anchor within speaking distance of the other boat. Now the launch was drifting with the current while somebody was frantically trying to bale out the inrush of water from that last shot.

  ‘Stand by in the bows!’ Blackwood saw Ward staring at him, his eyes wide with shock. ‘Keep down, the rest of you!’

  He heard the familiar crackle of firing from the ridge, saw feather-like splashes as shots pattered around the other boat or smacked into her planking.

  Blackwood bit on his chin strap. Our turn next. God Almighty. ‘Keep pulling!’

  Midshipman Ward gave a yelp as a shot whipped his cap away like an invisible hand.

  Blackwood felt his mouth set in an insane grin. ‘You are not doing your duty, Mr Ward!’ He seized his shoulder. ‘Join the princess!’

  The midshipman lowered himself until his body all but covered the girl on the bottom boards.

  Across the boy’s shoulder she stared up at Blackwood with neither fear nor hatred.

  Blackwood saw the bowman getting ready to hurl his grapnel into the drifting launch. He could see Harry trying to drag an injured seaman aft away from the incoming water, and Fynmore standing up in the sternsheets, pointing at something, while one of the few marines in the launch opened fire on the river bank.

  Shots cracked against the cutter now, and others whimpered overhead. A
seaman gasped and fell across his oar, blood pouring from his skull, and another was hugging his chest and sobbing with agony.

  Down-river a bugle wailed mournfully, and Blackwood guessed that the other boats were heading towards the shore. With three lieutenants who had never been in action before, it might fall once again on M’Crystal to drag the hot coals out of the fire.

  The cutter lurched against the other boat and there was a stampede to drag the injured into an already overcrowded hull.

  Blackwood stood on a thwart and ignored the deadly whisper of shots as they passed dangerously close. The launch was obviously sinking fast. There was blood everywhere, even splashed up on to the pathetic flag of truce.

  Fynmore stared at him, his eyes wild as he shouted, ‘They’ve got artillery, for God’s sake!’

  As if to taunt him another bang echoed across the river and they fell back gasping and spluttering in a cascade of stinking water.

  Blackwood grabbed a wounded seaman’s arm and hauled him bodily over the gunwale and shut his ears to his screams.

  ‘What are the orders now, sir?’

  Fynmore lurched aside. ‘No good asking him.’

  Commander Netten was still seated aft, his telescope grasped in his hands like a baton.

  His chin and most of his face had been shot away, and yet above the torn flesh his eyes remained staring ahead, frozen at the moment of impact.

  With the launch drifting clear, its dead occupants lolling deeper and deeper in water, Blackwood’s boat turned and thrust towards the lower bank.

  A few more shots struck the side, and near the bows an unconscious seaman was hit again but died feeling nothing.

  Blackwood felt for his shako, but, like Ward’s cap, it had been knocked from his head and he had not noticed.

  He looked at Harry, his throat raw from shouting.

  ‘Close thing.’ He wanted to smile for both their sakes but nothing came. He kept thinking of Netten, how they had avoided each other after that day aboard the brigantine.

  Then he glanced down as someone touched his foot and saw the girl staring at him. He dropped on one knee as he saw blood on her face, but as he reached out she shook her head, and then with unexplained tenderness put her arms around Midshipman Ward.

  She said, ‘His blood, not mine.’

  Very gently they lifted the midshipman from the girl’s body. A shaft of sunlight shone on his tightly closed eyes. It came through a neat hole in the planking where the bullet had found its mark.

  Harry bent over his shoulder. ‘Is he dead?’

  Blackwood covered the midshipman’s face with some canvas. The boy in the toy-shop.

  He could barely speak and was afraid his voice would betray him.

  ‘Yes, Harry. He was obeying orders, you see. Protecting the women.’ He looked at Fynmore’s stricken face. ‘So you command, sir.’

  Fynmore seemed to jerk himself from his trance.

  ‘Yes. Get the men ashore.’ His eyes followed the sinking launch as it drifted past, the terrible figure sitting upright in the sternsheets as if to seek out his killer.

  Of the long-boat and the mysterious Lessard there was no sign.

  Smithett let out his breath very slowly. ‘Now fer a spot o’ soldierin’, I suppose.’

  Blackwood looked at the river, the marines tumbling ashore and forming into squads like parts of a machine.

  It was the same nightmare about to begin all over again.

  Dust and gunsmoke mingled in a low cloud above the ridge as the hidden cannon kept up a measured bombardment of the river.

  Blackwood watched the marines fanning out on either flank, their movements jerky as they responded to a hundred drills ashore and afloat. No more men had fallen, and the boats were huddled together as if for comfort below the nearest bank.

  ‘What sort of guns, d’you reckon, Colour-Sergeant?’

  M’Crystal’s eyes vanished in concentration. ‘Big enough, sir. Twelve-pounders, is my guess. Two, mebbe three o’ them.’

  Major Fynmore marched down the slope, his attendant trotting behind him carrying his sword and pistol like a native bearer.

  He snapped, ‘Where’s the bloody gunboat, eh?’

  Blackwood glanced at the tall colour-sergeant and said, ‘She’s very small, sir. Only mounts a six-pounder and a couple of mortars.’

  Fynmore’s eyes swivelled on him hotly. ‘Not like the Satyr, eh?’

  Blackwood watched the puffs of smoke from the scrub as Quartermain, one of the lieutenants, put his marksmen to work. Fynmore was beginning to sound just like Netten.

  He said evenly, ‘I meant that if we can drive those sharpshooters off the ridge, Norseman can get inshore and use her mortars to better effect. If the cannon straddle her before she can bring her weapons into action, she’ll stand no chance at all.’

  Fynmore massaged his chin vigorously. ‘I was thinking much the same.’ He gestured to the nearest lieutenant. ‘Mr Heighway! First platoon, prepare to advance!’ He watched the officer hurry away, his face pale but determined. ‘Young idiot.’ He beckoned to his runner. ‘Pass the word to both flanks. Covering fire.’

  Patterson winced as a stray bullet smacked among some rocks. ‘I think you’re taking one hell of a risk, Major.’

  ‘You stay out of this!’ Fynmore swung on him. ‘Get back with the wounded. I’ll need you in a minute when that bloody slaver sees sense!’

  A bugle blared, and all firing ceased along the ridge as if the hidden enemy had stopped to listen.

  Fynmore eyed the deployment of his men with obvious impatience.

  Harry said quietly. ‘There go the skirmishers, sir.’

  Fynmore raised his small telescope and studied the centre platoon of marines as they formed into two long lines.

  ‘God damn his eyes! What is that fool Quartermain doing?’ He looked at Blackwood. ‘Get up there. I want that ridge cleared before they can move those cannon and lay them on us!’

  Blackwood drew his sword and saw Harry’s eyes following the blade, mesmerized as he laid it across his right shoulder, the steel warm against his neck.

  Then he strode quickly up the slope, his boots crunching on sand and stones, and he stared unwinkingly at the lines of marines as they began to move forward.

  He barely knew the lieutenant in charge, but guessed he was probably too stunned by the swift change of fortunes to have much else in his head.

  Blackwood shouted, ‘From the centre, extend!’

  He hurried past the rear line of marines and caught up with the lieutenant.

  ‘Keep them well spread out!’ He saw the lieutenant staring at him, his expression a mixture of gratitude and confusion. ‘And fix bayonets, now!’

  Quartermain’s head bobbed. ‘Platoon, fix –’

  The order was drowned by the sporadic rattle of musket and rifle fire. Shots whipped past and through the slowly advancing lines, but by a miracle nobody fell. Most of the marines were too busy dragging out their bayonets and snapping them to their muskets and did not even falter.

  Blackwood licked his lips. A long line of heads had risen above the ridge. Not some blood-maddened natives, but men in robes, and others dressed much like Patterson. There were hundreds of them. An army. The mysterious Lessard must have banked everything on driving any British expedition from his territory with enough force to discourage further interference.

  ‘Halt! Ready!’ Blackwood saw the bayoneted muskets rise in a wavering line. ‘Fire!’

  The mass of figures along the ridge swayed back and then forward again like corn in the wind.

  ‘Retire!’

  Blackwood watched the front line of marines fall back through the second rank and begin to reload as a corporal barked out the time as if on a firing range.

  ‘Ready!’

  Before the marines could fire another volley of shots lashed down from the hill, and here and there a marine fell or rolled gasping down the slope.

  Somewhere a bugle sounded the Advance, and Blackwood k
new that Fynmore was rushing up support. If only they could top the ridge and find some cover.

  ‘Fire!’ Quartermain was waving his sword, his face split into a madman’s grin, as fear drove away caution.

  Blackwood darted a glance down the slope and saw Lieutenant Heighway’s platoon charging after them, the front line already passing one of the men who had fallen to the second fusilade of bullets.

  He also saw Smithett close on his heels, his musket across his body as he loped easily over the rough ground.

  The marines’ refusal to fall back had obviously caught the enemy off guard. Perhaps they had imagined the destruction of Netten’s launch and the presence of their heavy guns would be enough.

  Blackwood saw them darting about among the scrub which lined the ridge like the ruff on a wild boar’s back. They were shooting and dropping into cover to reload with practised ease. As they must have done so often when they had surprised a sleeping village to kill the old and carry the young away as slaves.

  More red coats lay on the ground. It was taking too long, and, like the oarsmen, the marines were getting worn out by the uphill attack and the relentless heat.

  Blackwood yelled, ‘At ’em, lads!’ It was the same madness. ‘Charge!’

  Shouting and cheering like demons, the marines pounded up the steeper ground of the ridge, some firing as they ran, others breaking from their ranks to overtake their exhausted companions.

  Blackwood slithered and almost fell as his foot caught in some brush, and he realized they had almost reached the top. A figure rose from the ground just yards away, teeth bared as he threw up his rifle and aimed straight at him.

  There was a slapping sound and the man fell back, a bayonet, complete with its musket, impaling him like a lance. The marine who had hurled it cheered and ran forward, jerked it free and dashed on after other figures who were breaking from cover, unable to face such a fierce attack.

  ‘Extend from the centre! Right section, covering fire!’

  Blackwood saw stones jumping around him as bullets hammered into the ground. Some marksmen were keeping their heads and had already marked him down as a leader.

  His face felt like a mask of dust and swear, and without his shako to protect his eyes from the glare he had to mop his face repeatedly with his sleeve.