Badge of Glory (1982)

by Reeman, Douglas

  The young second lieutenant stared past him at the carnage, the strange patterns of blood which seemed to writhe with a life of their own as the churning paddles carried the gunboat forward.

  He nodded and said in a forced whisper, ‘I – I never thought it would be like this!’

  Blackwood gripped his arm. He understood exactly how Harry felt. But there was no more time.

  He heard himself explain, ‘You wanted to know what it was like! Now get down aft with the other boat!’ He pushed him roughly. ‘They’ll be looking to you today!’

  He tore his eyes away as Harry lurched after the other marines. He wanted to keep him at his side, to make him understand. The thoughts surged through his mind in distorted confusion.

  It was no use. Blackwood looked at Ridley. ‘We’ll do our best!’

  He remembered the burly able seaman grinning at him and shouting, ‘Up the Royals!’ The nextinstant he was staring at the deck, his cheek bleeding on the planking where he had been hurled by an explosion he had not heard. Wreckage and splinters were falling across the deck and splashing outboard to add to the turmoil. There were more cries and yells, and the hull seemed to be tilting right over so that for a moment he imagined they were sinking. A crazy thought shone through his cringing mind so that he wanted to laugh. They would sink in the shallows anyway, the dead leadsman had proved as much. His body convulsed violently and he thought he was going to vomit. He could barely move, as ifhe was pinioned to the deck.

  Slowly and fearfully he tested each limb in turn, but apart from the raw pain of his wounded leg he felt nothing. He tried to lever himself up, his lungs rebelling against the smoke and stench of burned powder.

  ‘Damn you, Fynmore!’ The words were torn from him. ‘Damn you to bloody hell!’

  He felt someone gripping his shoulder and when he twisted his head saw that it was Harry.

  ‘Help me, Harry!’

  His half-brother tore at some smoking timber which had tumbled across the deck like a trap.

  ‘I – I thought you were dead! When you fell, I . . .’ He could not continue.

  Blackwood staggered to his feet and together they swayed about like a pair of drunks returning to barracks.

  The motion was far worse, and there was a grating sound and deep crashes in the hull. There seemed to be blood everywhere, and men and pieces of men were flung about the deck in grisly profusion.

  But all Blackwood could think of was Harry’s face, the pale lines of tears which were cutting through the grime, like the terrified girl at the mission. It did more to steady him than any other thing, and he knew it.

  Smithett rose from the chaos and groped for his musket and his precious bag.

  Ridley knelt near the wheel, hands clasped as if in prayer. Even as he saw him, Norseman’s commander fell forward on his face and lay still.

  Blackwood gasped and retched, and then heard the sound of a pump. Someone was alive and working to save the ship. Blurred figures were groping through the dead and dying, and then Blackwood heard a youthful voice ask, ‘What are your orders, sir?’

  It was the midshipman who had written a part of history on a slate just before the game had become stark realiry.

  Blackwood saw the starboard paddle spinning wildly, most of it broken and useless, while the other wheel continued to drive the hull in a wild arc towards the shore.

  Through the smoke he could see the boats, the blurred red coats of the landing party which he was supposed to be leading.

  Smithett said helpfully, ‘There are six of th’ lads still aboard, sir.’

  ‘Fetch them.’

  He looked at the midshipman. Like Harry, he was near to breaking. As I was. ‘Now, Mr?’

  The youth said huskily, ‘Sampson, sir.’

  ‘Well, Mr Sampson, you are in command of this vessel now.’ He saw the midshipman’s eyes widen. ‘Stop the engine, and do what you can to anchor. We shall be wrecked if we are not careful.’

  Corporal Jones and the remaining marines pounded past to help the seamen and a solitary petty officer who were trying to put out a blaze on the forecastle.

  The gunfire had stopped as the cannon could no longer be depressed enough to hit them.

  Blackwood stared at the destruction and the gruesome litter of death. Instead of success it would be a disaster. The survivors of the attack would be lucky to get back to the original landing-place.

  The broken paddle jerked noisily and then fell still, and Blackwood felt the keel quiver as the hull lurched on to a sandy bottom.

  Harry was tearing at his collar as if it was choking him.

  Blackwood eyed him gravely. ‘Ready?’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Lessard, or whatever his bloody name is, will know by now that his guns have done for Norseman.’ It was like talking to yourself. There was no understanding on Harry’s features. ‘If Kingsmill is up river, this is the moment she’ll break out. She’s an agile vessel and has the wind’s favour, the same one which is keeping our admiral’s ships useless and too far off shore to help.’ Why am I telling him this? Maybe to convince myself it is worth dying for. ‘The Kingsmill will carve through our boats and kill every man-jack aboard, unless we act now.’

  Harry stared at him. ‘What can we do?’

  Blackwood brushed some splinters and dust from his jacket. He was thinking aloud as he said, ‘We can wade ashore here. Fetch Corporal Jones and the others.’

  He touched Harry’s arm impetuously. ‘Of course, you never knew your grandfather, I was forgetting.’ He smiled at his incomprehension. ‘I know what he’d have done. Finish what he had started.’

  He gestured to the handful of marines as they mustered by the listing bulwark.

  ‘So then, Master Harry, shall we.’

  13

  Remember This Day . . .

  ‘Come on, at the double!’ M’Crystal’s voice carried above the floundering marines better than any bugle. He seized a man who had sprawled headlong within feet of dry land and dragged him bodily from the water. ‘Pick up your musket, you silly wee man!’

  A few stray shots whined overhead and splashed into the river.

  Lieutenant Quartermain dropped to one knee and tugged his telescope from his belt.

  It was hard to believe that minutes earlier they had been on Norseman’s deck, that they were abandoned now to their own resources.

  Blackwood watched the last of the platoon scrambling ashore. The enemy must be surprised at their own success, he thought bitterly. The smoke from the stranded gunboat was swirling across the water in a protective screen. But for it, the marksmen along the ridge would already be shooting down at his men.

  ‘Spread out! Take cover!’

  He saw sand spurt from the bank and guessed that someone was already in position and testing the range. He gritted his teeth. They would have to get much nearer to have any chance of success.

  Quartermain called, ‘There’s a deep fold in the land to our left, sir.’ He grimaced as a shot smacked down beside him as if to answer him back.

  ‘I see it.’

  Blackwood made himself scare up at the ridge as a solitary cannon fired. It was the one which had been sited above the bend. He saw a brief puff of smoke before it was quenched by the gun’s crew and sponged out to hide their position.

  ‘Did you mark that, Mr Quartermain?’

  The lieutenant wriggled amongst the brush and scattered stones. ‘Aye, sir.’

  Blackwood lay on his side and peered around at his men. Colour-Sergeant M’Crystal on the flank. Quintin with the fifer, Doak, Frazier and all the rest of them, hunched like animals facing a trap. They would fight well enough, but pinned down and killed piecemeal they would soon lose the will to move forward.

  ‘Stand to!’ Blackwood got to his feet, his eyes like slits in the dusty glare. ‘Advance!’ He waited for the scattered groups to hurry into some semblance of order. ‘Third section, fire!’

  The muskets crackled as the leading lines of marines ch
arged forward.

  Quartermain yelled, ‘Second section . . .! Prepare to fire!’

  Blackwood shut the lieutenant from his mind as he ran up the steep indine, his heart pounding as ifit would burst from his body.

  Shots cracked and whimpered around him and he heard one smack into flesh and bone, a terrible gasp as a marine was hurled on to his back.

  Another man, just to his left, spun round and dropped his musket, his hands tearing the air as if to seize the invisible attacker.

  Blackwood saw the astonishment in the marine’s eyes, as if he was incapable of accepting what was happening to him. He rolled out of sight, and the man nearest to him hesitated, his bayonet drooping as he stared after his dying companion.

  ‘Forward! Get up there, damn you!’ Blackwood shook his sword at him and the line lurched forward again.

  The third section had reloaded, and with M’Crystal bellowing like an enraged bull, charged up the slope, yelling and cheering while they passed through the motionless marines who had just fired, their ramrods rising and falling. Routine, discipline, tradition.

  Two more were hit, their cries lost in the crack and hiss of musket fire.

  Blackwood blinked the sweat from his eyes. Merciful God, they had reached the fold in the ground. It was very shallow, but as they threw themselves along the fer side it felt like a fortress.

  ‘Take aim!’

  Blackwood stared at the ridge and thought he saw a figure dart from cover to cover.

  ‘Independent!’

  He sensed the aim steadying as they regained their breath.

  ‘Fire!’

  The next section bounced into the depression in a flounder of weapons and limbs.

  Quartermain darted him a glance and grinned fiercely. ‘Bloody hell!’

  Blackwood drew a pistol and got to his feet. ‘Covering fire!’ He gestured with the pistol. ‘Second section! Advance!’

  As they struggled up again a volley of shots raked over the depression and two men were hit simultaneously. The little fifer stared horrified at the nearest one, he had been hit in the face and was making terrible gurgling noises as he drowned in his own blood.

  Blackwood shouted, ‘Sound the Charge!’ He punched the boy’s arm. ‘Now!’

  The bugle responded, and Blackwood marvelled that he had managed to make any sound at all.

  Up and running again. Here and there a man fell or crouched down while the next section bounded up in support.

  There were fewer shots from the ridge, and Blackwood guessed that Frazier and his companions were keeping the enemy’s marksmen pinned down.

  ‘Mr Quartermain’s hit!’

  Blackwood saw a shadow move from a clump of trees and felt a shot whip past his cheek as one of the marines knelt and fired. The shadow merged with the grass and lay still.

  In those brief seconds Blackwood saw Quartermain lying on his back, his teeth bared in agony while he gripped his left shoulder, his clenched fingers the same colour as his uniform.

  Harry was running with a mere handful of men on the flank, but they were not in any sort of panic. They wheeled and zigzagged, fired and ran on again, and if anyone was foolish enough to break cover to try and shoot them down he would expose himself to Frazier or one of the others.

  They burst into scrub and among trees, the shadows blinding them after the relentless glare. More shots whined through the bars of smoky sunlight and ricocheted from the trees like hornets.

  ‘Take cover!’

  Blackwood threw himself down and stared at another darting shape beyond the trees. The pistol jerked in his grasp but the shot went wide.

  He heard his men crashing down and reloading, while others attempted to drag their wounded companions into some kind of shelter, no matter how flimsy.

  He heard M’Crystal’s deep voice calling the roll of survivors and pictured the individual face of each man who answered.

  A wounded marine gasped, ‘For God’s sake shut yer bloody mouth, can’t yer?’

  M’Crystal’s voice found him too. ‘I heard that, you miserable man!’ He seemed to relent slightly. ‘See to him, Corporal Bly!’

  Then M’Crystal called, ‘Nineteen men fit for duty, sir. I think we’ve lost six dead.’

  Blackwood rolled over and crawled to join Harry who was helping Smithett to cut away the lieutenant’s sleeve.

  Smithett remarked gloomily, ‘Lost a lot er blood, sir.’

  Blackwood leaned across the lieutenant and looked at the wound. It had missed the bone, but he was in great pain.

  ‘I – I’m all right, sir.’ His eyes flickered and tried to focus on Blackwood’s face. ‘Not too bad at all really.’

  He fainted away and Blackwood said, ‘Put a dressing on it.’

  He stared round. Already his men were quietening down. The worst sign of all. Accepting it. Waiting for the inevitable.

  Quintin said, ‘I reckon that cannon is less’n fifty yards over yonder, sir.’ He tugged his shako over his eyes. ‘Them buggers is waitin’ for our boats to appear.’

  Blackwood stared at him. Surely Ashley-Chute’s son would not continue with the attack now that the gunboat was run ashore and unable to assist? The thought of the little admiral’s rage answered the question for him. He would never dare to retreat and face Monkey, not after all this.

  Harry said in a whisper, ‘Where is the major?’

  Blackwood glanced at him, but he was not speaking to anyone. It sounded more like a prayer.

  ‘Makes sense, Sergeant.’ He clapped him on the arm. ‘A diversion is what we need.’

  Quintin sucked at his chin strap. ‘I’ll go.’

  M’Crystal growled, ‘Like hell you will, Sergeant!’

  Blackwood wriggled between them and peered through some entangled thorns. He had not realized they were so near to the end of the ridge. The river was now on his left, he could even see a spiral of smoke from the stranded gunboat below the overhang. Norseman with her child-captain was safe only until Lessard’s men had driven the marines back to the water again.

  He looked down at his hands, filthy and cut in a dozen places. A tiny insect, smaller than a pin’s-head, crawled across his fingers and he winced. It had a sting like a wasp. It had been a fatal mistake to bring his men here with no hope of retreat. When the gunboat had been put out of action and her commander killed, he should have broken off the attack altogether. It had been his decision. Pride again? It had cost his men dearly and worse was to come.

  He dug his fingers into the hot ground until they were like claws.

  Quintin said, ‘Punny thing, sir. Them blacks ’ave kept out of it. Far as I can fathom it’s only the slavers.’ He sucked his teeth as a single shot brought down some leaves from overhead. ‘But they’re more ’n enough.’

  Blackwood stared at him. Trust Quintin to notice what should have been obvious. The bully sergeant, feared, admired and seldom loved, but a real campaigner. Not for Quintin the complications of blame or final responsibility. He was the true professional and thought only of winning if there was still a way out.

  Harry whispered, ‘It’s true.’

  Blackwood took his telescope out and thrust it between the thorns. King Zwide was far cleverer than Mdlaka, it seemed. He was determined to see who was going to win before he threw in his weight of warriors.

  They must move soon, and before dusk. Fynmore was obviously waiting for more support from the ships anchored off shore. What did he feel at this moment? Despair, or shame for what he had begun without thought for the consequences?

  He heard a marine yell at someone to keep his head down and saw a seaman crawling anxiously through the scrub, his head swivelling from left to right as he searched for an officer.

  M’Crystal groaned. ‘All we need is Jolly Jack, I don’t think.’

  The seaman fell panting between Blackwood and his half-brother. He gasped, ‘I’ve been sent from the boats, sir. Lieutenant Ashley-Chute’s respects, an’ ’e intends to refloat Noreseman an’ tow ’er
clear.’ He fell silent, his job done, the responsibility safely handed over.

  Blackwood looked away to hide his concern. The misshapen lieutenant was already beneath the overhang. Save the ship, every sailor’s unspoken prayer. The solitary cannon had not fired for some time. He felt the hair rise on his neck. Lessard’s men must already be moving it where it could depress directly on the boats and the stranded Norseman.

  He looked at the seaman. A plain, homely face you might see any day in a man-of-war or a barracks. He had a round Yorkshire voice. Like Oldcastle.

  ‘My compliments to Mr Ashley-Chute. Tell him he is likely to be attacked at any moment, from above and from upstream.’ It would take too long to explain all the dangers, and it was important that this seaman should get it right.

  The seaman nodded. ‘An’ what shall I tell ’im about you, sir?’

  ‘Tell him we are going to attack.’

  The seaman hesitated. ‘Aye, sir. I’ll do that.’ He started to crawl away and added, ‘Good luck, sir.’

  Quintin murmured, ‘We’ll need all er that, matey!’

  Blackwood beckoned to the others. ‘We’ll attack in two halves. We can’t afford anything grander. But it’s now or never. I think . . .’ he forced out each word, ‘. . . they’re moving the gun. God knows where the other two are, but my guess is they’ll be kept in case Major Fynmore’s contingent arrives.’ He watched their mixed emotions. Quintin’s doubt, M’Crystal’s grim acceptance and Harry’s too-steady stare. He undersood now what it all meant. ‘Share out the ammunition between the men. Leave everything else here.’

  There was no more time for any of them. And yet it was important they should not leave without a word more.

  He said quietly, ‘This is a bad place to die, if die we must. But there’s more at stake than just us.’

  M’Crystal sighed. ‘Och, I’m no bothered, sir.’ He glanced at his friend. ‘Sarnt Quintin will look after me!’

  They crawled away and Blackwood felt as if a line had been cut.

  Harry asked, ‘Ready?’

  ‘Attack from the right when I give the signal. If we fail, you must press on with the attack.’ He touched his arm, hating each word. ‘Must!’