Blackwood waited while Quintin, the old campaigner, took stock of the situation. There was no sign of movement, nor of smoke from cooking fires. He shivered and felt the hair rise on his neck. Maybe they had already been seen and were surrounded, and at any second a spear might plunge into his back. He recalled with stark clarity what old Tom Fenwick had told him about the mutilation which had been done to his companions and felt the bile rise in his throat.
Quintin said slowly, ‘There should be some natives at the mission, sir. But there’s nobody, as far as I can make out.’
Blackwood swallowed. ‘Very well. Two men with me. You stay here with the others.’ Their eyes met and he added, ‘If it’s a trap, get out while you can. Lieutenant Blackwood and his two marksmen will cover you.’
He looked at the tangle of trees and creeper. Harry would be up there by now. Did he realize he had been sent with Jones and Frazier to keep him safe if things went wrong? Safe? Even the word was a mockery here.
Blackwood listened to the disturbed squawking of birds, or were they humans signalling to one another, preparing an ambush.
He got to his knees and examined his pistol. Smithett was ready to go with him, his face grim and strained. Another private, named Bell, a man almost legendary for his skills in brawls and hand to hand fighting alike, was the second one.
Quintin whispered, ‘Pass the word. Be ready to fire.’
Blackwood nodded to Bell. ‘To your left.’
Then, very slowly, crouching and hopping like frogs, they moved down the slope towards the huts. As they drew closer Blackwood felt a sense of apprehension and dread. They were too late. It was a dead place.
Bell dropped on one knee and held up his hand while he gripped his musket and bayonet firmly with the other.
Blackwood wormed his way among the scrub, unaware of the scrapes and cuts on his hands and face.
Bell whispered, ‘Here, sir.’ He did not need to explain further.
A man sat propped against some kindling wood, a floppy straw hat over his forehead as if to protect his face from the sun. A musket lay across his legs, and there was a wine bottle at his side.
Bell grasped the man’s head and levered it back so that Blackwood could see the terrible slash across his throat which ran almost from ear to ear. It must have been swift and instant, for the man’s eyes were wide and bulging, brought from his doze to meet an agonizing death.
He had certainly not been a member of the mission. Doubtless one of Lessard’s men. Blackwood wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Whoever had done it had left the musket behind, something more precious in Africa than gold itself. Somebody? He thought of his brother’s explanation and wondered. Maybe he had been right, and the black princess had kept her word and had helped in the only way she understood.
Bell hissed, ‘Someone’s about, sir!’
Blackwood cocked his pistol with great care. He had heard nothing.
Then feet scraped on sand and a figure emerged from the main hut, ducking through the low entrance and then stretching up his arms and emitting a huge yawn. The yawn and the stretch froze as he saw Blackwood and the others. It was a matter of seconds, and yet they all seemed to stand stock still like statues for an eternity.
Blackwood bounded forward and fired, seeing the ball smash through the man’s forehead and hurl him against the hut. He was dead before he touched the ground.
He shouted, ‘Now!’ and charged for the low entrance, tossing his empty pistol aside as he dragged out his sword and ducked under the crude thatch.
The world exploded in his face in a livid flash and he was momentarily blinded, but aware the shot had missed him and had hit Bell who was immediately behind him.
Vague shadows swayed about him and he felt the pain in his wrist and arm as his blade cut through muscle and bone and then slashed hard against another.
A figure blotted out the light from the entrance but fell back inside gasping, propelled by the thrust of Smithett’s bayonet which had taken him in the stomach.
Smithett finished it with a second lunge and then loped across to join Blackwood in the centre of the mud floor.
Blackwood ignored the two men he had just cut down and hurried to the hut’s one other occupant. The girl lay against some old bedding and broken cases, her hands and ankles pinioned, her mouth cruelly gagged with a neckerchief. Her clothing had been ripped open almost to the waist, so that her bared breasts shone in the filtered daylight, moving painfully as she stared up at him in a mixture of terror and shocked disbelief.
Blackwood dropped down beside her and pulled her torn dress together across her breasts, feeling her eyes watching his every move.
‘Ferch Sergeant Quintin and help Bell.’
Smithett glanced at the two groaning figures by the wall. ‘Bell’s done for, sir.’ Then he hurried away.
Blackwood removed the gag with great care and held her shoulders as she gasped and choked, ashamed in spite of her suffering that he should watch her vomit on to the floor.
He had to use a knife to cut her bonds, and he felt her cringe as he massaged the bruised skin where they had bitten into her. They must have made her suffer. It was a wonder she was not driven mad by what she had seen and endured here.
She fell, breathing fast, against him, her eyes hidden by the cascade of hair across her face.
Outside the hut there was the sound of order and discipline as Quintin and the others arrived. It would not last for long, but the moment was precious to Blackwood as he held her, saying nothing, while he waited for her breathing to recover.
Then she said in a small voice, ‘I can’t believe it. You of all people.’
One hand moved up to touch her throat and breast and she turned away as some terrible memory was reborn.
He said, ‘We came as fast as we could.’ He could feel her sobbing, each beat driving against him as if he was sharing her pain. ‘Now we must leave.’
He glanced up as Quintin stooped through the door. ‘Two natives dead round the back, sir. Nobody else except . . .’ He looked at the girl.
She said huskily, ‘They took my father. He’s done so much for the people here.’
Blackwood said, ‘Smithett, come here. Look after this lady.’ He released her shoulders and saw the tears making lines on her dusty face. ‘Don’t leave her.’
Outside the sunlight was brighter but seemed without warmth.
Quintin said heavily, ‘They’d pegged ’Im out by the river while ’e was still alive. There must be crocodiles round ’ere. There ain’t much of ’im to bury.’
Blackwood leaned on his sword and closed his eyes tightly? for several seconds.
‘Must have happened recently.’
Quintin nodded. ‘They came by boat. I found marks on the sand. The people at the mission must ’ave known ’em, or seen no reason to be afraid. There’s no sign of a fight. It must ’ave bin over in minutes.’ He spat out the words, ‘The murderin’ bastards!’
‘That girl is in no state to walk. Make a litter. We must get away from here before any of Zwide’s people find us.’
He ducked into the hut and waited for Smithett to move away.
He said, ‘It’s time to go, Miss Seymour. We’ve a hard march to reach the others. Then you’ll be safe.’ He looked around the hut at the upended boxes and chests. ‘Is there anything you need?’
She shook her head violently. ‘Nothing. I don’t want to touch any of it, ever.’ Then in an almost level voice she said, ‘My father knew there was trouble. He’d been warned often enough. All his helpers had left. He said he had to stay, had to. It was his purpose for being, especially after Mother died. Then a ship came.’ She glanced at the low door. She did not seem to see the corpse which had been forced back, on Smithett’s bayonet. It was as if she saw the ship in the river.
Blackwood held her tightly, knowing the sudden calm could not last.
‘I can remember what Father said.’ Her voice shook. ‘“It’s the Navy, Davern. That young l
ieutenant who is always coming here to warn me.”’ She turned and looked at Blackwood, her eyes in deep shadow. ‘But it was not the Navy. It was men like those over there, like the ones who killed the house-boys, and then . . .’ She pressed her face into Blackwood’s shoulder, ‘. . . they took my father away . . . I could hear what they were doing to him . . .’
Blackwood tightened his grip around her as the sobs returned until it felt as if her body would break.
The vessel must have been the missing armed schooner Kingsmill which Slade had spoken of a million years ago. A young lieutenant and probably a couple of master’s mates. The crew would likely have been made up of recruited natives, a lot of local vessels used Kroo seamen, usually reliable, but no match for this kind of thing.
‘Now I’m going to ask you to stand.’ Blackwood got to his feet but kept a firm hold of her hand. She shook her head and tried to pull away but he insisted, ‘Please. For me. Will you try?’
Very slowly and carefully Blackwood helped her to rise and then steadied her until she was able to face him again.
She said in a voice so small he could barely hear, ‘The last time we met I was rude and hurtful to you.’ Then she began to weep uncontrollably and did not resist as he held her against his body as if to shield her from her suffering.
Sergeant Quintin re-entered the hut and said, ‘Ready, sir.’
Blackwood looked at him across the girl’s head. Quintin was carrying a shovel.
‘Very well, we’re coming.’
Quintin glanced coldly at the two moaning figures. ‘Shall I do for ’em, sir?’ He might have been discussing chickens for the pot.
Blackwood felt the girl go rigid against him as some part of her listened to what was happening.
‘No. Leave them. A doctor could have helped. They can think about that.’
He guided the girl out into the sunlight where the handful of marines waited and watched in silence. Blackwood noticed a mound of sand and rocks by some trees, a crude cross with Bell’s shako on the top of it. Another familiar face and voice wiped away.
One of the Rocke twins helped to break the tension. ‘Litter’s roight ’ere, Missy.’ Whichever twin it was, his round Somerset dialect seemed to help.
Smithett and Quintin lifted the girl on to the litter as if she was a piece of delicate porcelain, and as she tried to hold her torn dress together her eyes remained fixed on the pathetic mound they were leaving behind.
Quintin said roughly, ‘I took care of yer dad meself, Miss. ’E’s safe enough now.’
Blackwood accepted a reloaded pistol from Smithett and sheathed his sword.
What a sight we must look. Not a bit like the fierce-eyed veterans in his grandfather’s paintings at Hawks Hill. The lines of scarlet coats, the streaming flags, and not even a whisker out of place.
‘Ackland, take the point.’
In single file, with the litter in the middle of their little force, they trudged back into the cover of the bush. At the prescribed place, Harry, with Jones and Frazier, joined them, and together they continued towards the other river.
When they were well clear of the mission Harry dropped back to walk beside his half-brother. He had not asked about the doctor who had been left for the crocodiles, nor even about Private Bell. The faces of the others and the presence of the exhausted girl on the litter spoke more than words.
He said, ‘You were being watched, sir, did you know that?’
Blackwood looked at him. ‘Watched?’
‘A hundred or so warriors were on the next hill to ours. Armed to the teeth. But they did nothing. They just stood and waited.’
Blackwood removed his borrowed shako and returned it to Harry. ‘It seems you were right about the princess and I was wrong. She kept to the bargain, otherwise we’d all be dead.’
Harry glanced back at the litter. ‘I’m really glad about her.’ He looked at his half-brother’s strained profile. ‘For your sake too.’
Blackwood quickened his pace. ‘Don’t talk such damned rubbish, and get up front with Ackland.’
But in his heart he was pleased. It was hopeless, just as it was dangerous to fantasize at moments like these. They were to all intents and purposes fighting a war. Small, local and unheard of in Britain, but just as deadly as the grander fields of battle.
He turned to look at the girl as if to reassure himself it was not a dream and saw her watching him as the litter swayed between the two tall brothers.
Could she ever forget what had happened to her? Would she find some small part in her life which he might somehow share?
He heard Quintin rasp, ‘Watch where yer walkin’, Private Frazier! Yer a marine, remember?’
Blackwood sighed. That just about summed it up.
12
‘Up the Royals!’
Major Rupert Fynmore sat on an upturned ration box and nodded impatiently.
‘What shape is Sir Geoffrey’s niece in? Must have been a terrible ordeal for her.’
Blackwood wiped his face with a filthy handkerchief. After the return march through the bush and the constant threat of being attacked, even Fynmore’s brusque manner seemed like a relief.
As his small, weary party had scrambled down to this same river-bank he had left just three days earlier he had seen their step smarten, the air of defiance and something akin to pride as they had carried the crude litter to the boats.
Nothing had changed as far as he could see. A few marines were scattered among the rocks and others sat or lay in the shelter of the bank while they waited for orders.
Some more seamen had joined the landing party, and he saw Lieutenant Ashley-Chute moving among them as they loaded their weapons under the watchful eyes of their petty officers.
Blackwood said, ‘Miss Seymour was wonderful. I can’t imagine what she’s been through!’
Fynmore’s sharp eyes watched him curiously. ‘Raped, d’you suppose?’
Blackwood looked away, his thoughts laid bare by Fynmore’s brutal reality.
‘No. I think Lessard had given his men certain instructions.’
Fynmore’s mind had already moved on. It was no longer his responsibility.
‘And you believe the schooner Kingsmill was responsible. That, more to the point, she’s up there round the bend in the river?’
‘Yes, sir. I think she must have entered the river just ahead of us.’
He watched his words sink in, but he was thinking of the moment when Lessard’s long-boat had rounded the bend and confronted Netten’s launch bows on. King Zwide’s territory had been Lessard’s haven. Now it could be a trap, provided Fynmore acted without any more delay.
Blackwood asked, ‘Is there any word from the admiral?’
Again he felt Fynmore’s cool scrutiny. It made him feel unclean and dishevelled. In contrast, the neat, sandy-haired major could have just come from a parade-ground.
‘He ordered me to wait your return, until tomorrow anyway.’ He gave his lopsided smile. ‘I sent word to Audacious as soon as our pickets reported your approach. We’ll just have to be patient.’ He flinched as a crack echoed across the hillside and a bullet kicked into hard ground. He said irritably, ‘We’ve had a few casualities because of those bloody sharpshooters!’
Blackwood looked at the ridge where Quartermain’s platoon had charged among the enemy, where one marine had told his friend to leave him before he had died. Fynmore had kept his word and had withdrawn all his men from the high ground. A good marksman like Frazier could mark down an army from there.
But now it did not seem to matter. He tried to put it down to exhaustion, to the relief of getting his men safely back here. But in his mind he could see the girl being carried swiftly to one of the boats with Slade’s agent, Mr Patterson, watching over her like a guard dog.
She was probably already aboard the flagship and would remember little of their flight through the bush. She had been barely conscious for most of the time and seemingly unaware of what was happening.
&nb
sp; Fynmore remarked, ‘The gunboat is here, by the way.’ He regarded Blackwood calmly. ‘The admiral will send her up to us shortly.’ He compressed his lips into a tight smile. ‘Not much choice really. The wind has veered. Nothing else can stand inshore.’ It seemed to amuse him greatly.
Crack. Another shot echoed among the rocks and a sailor shouted angrily at the invisible marksman.
Fynmore said, ‘And that black woman, the er, princess, you believe she called off the hounds?’
‘Yes. No doubt about it. We were tracked all the way. They could have swamped us any time had they wanted to.’
Fynmore looked up as one of the lieutenants hurried towards him.
‘Well, Mr Shephard?’
The lieutenant swallowed hard. ‘Mr Heighway’s pickets have sighted the gunboat, sir.’
But Fynmore glanced at him accusingly. ‘Do up that button, sir! You are supposed to set an example to the men!’ He calmed himself with an effort. ‘Send a runner to Mr Quartermain’s section. He knows what to do.’
Blackwood saw the neat major in another light. He was about to mount an attack, the method and the outcome of which were doubtful to say the least. And yet he could still find strength from petty detail, if only to cover his poor eyesight.
A finely-pitched whistle floated up the river and several birds rose flapping and screeching from among some reeds. The gunboat’s siren was no match for Tobin’s Satyr.
Minutes dragged by and eventually the small, shallow-draft gunboat, gushing smoke from a stick-like funnel, nosed around the first bend where everything had first started to go wrong.
After Satyr’s impressive size and raked bow, the Norseman seemed little more than a platform suspended between two thrashing paddles. Blackwood watched her approach, thinking of her two mortars and solitary six-pounder, hardly a match for those well-sited cannon. Unless she could get into a suitable position before she was severely mauled.
Several of the marines raised an ironic cheer as the gunboat’s anchor cable rattled into the swirling water and she came to rest beneath a cloud of dense black smoke.
Fynmore snapped, ‘My compliments to Norseman’s commander, and would he join me with alacrity.’
Badge of Glory (1982) Page 19
