The housekeeper was watching him anxiously. ‘Master Harry’s here, sir. Arrived first thing.’ She sounded close to breaking down. ‘He looks a fine sight, bless him.’
‘I’ll go up.’
Blackwood mounted the stairs slowly and deliberately. He had pictured his half-brother in Africa or patrolling the coast with Ashley-Chute’s squadron. The unexpected news of his return made him feel even more out of touch and vulnerable.
At the end of the passageway he saw Oates slumped in a chair outside the door. He looked like death but got to his feet as he heard Blackwood’s footsteps.
He said huskily, ‘We found him lying on the floor, sir.’ He dropped his eyes, again ashamed of revealing something secret. ‘He was trying to put on his dress-uniform when it happened.’
‘Who else was there, Oates?’ He thought he already knew.
‘The colonel’s lady, sir. She sent your man for the doctor. Must have flown like the devil.’
Blackwood looked away. Poor Smithett had ridden nothing but a mule in his whole life as far as he knew. He was a man of many surprises.
He gripped the handle and said, ‘Try and rest.’
He pushed open the door and saw the table with the decanter and glasses near the window. As if his father had been waiting for another detailed account of his exploits in Africa.
His stepmother came from the shadows near the bed and reached out to take both of his hands.
‘I’m so glad you came, Philip. It was as if you knew.’
Blackwood kissed her cheek, searching for a sign, some hint of what had happened here. He was conscious of her perfume, the cool smoothness of her skin, and the fact that in spite of everything she was beautifullly dressed in a dove-grey gown and her hair was set in a crown which left her ears bare.
He said, ‘Tell me!’
She moved to the end of the bed and looked at her husband. Blackwood joined her and saw that his father was in a deep sleep, his eyes screwed up as if to protect them from danger.
She said quietly, ‘I could not rest. The house seemed empty with you away.’
She touched his arm and he watched her fingers on his sleeve, fascinated even as he tried to hate her.
‘I often feel like that, Philip. I was walking in the gallery, watching the shadows in the moonlight. Then I heard him cry out.’ She turned away as if to dismiss it from her thoughts. ‘He was wearing his uniform, or part of it. Doctor Sturges says he is over the worst.’ Then she faced Blackwood and held his eyes with her own. ‘But any bad shock might bring on another stroke, and that would kill him.’
Blackwood returned to the bed and saw the dress-coat lying on a chair. What had made his father do it, he wondered? Like that dying marine perhaps, who had found the strength to yell commands and encouragement to his invisible comrades.
‘Harry’s here, by the way.’
Without turning he could see her expression. It was as if she knew, had been prepared for something like this. He recalled with sudden clarity how she had lost her composure for a few revealing seconds when he had told her about Rainbott’s visit. The late Lord Lapidge’s steward.
‘I heard.’
She came round and gripped his arm. ‘Something’s happened. Was it that girl?’
That girl. ‘I saw her.’
He could not bear to speak about her here. He felt trapped, outmanoeuvred.
‘Well, perhaps it’s better this way.’
He swung round, his voice shaking in a harsh whisper. ‘What do you know about her? How can you possibly understand?’ He saw her step back as if he had tried to strike her.
The door opened and Harry strolled into the room, his eyes moving between them as he said, ‘Hello, Philip, I feel better now that you’re here.’
Blackwood looked at him and crossed the room in quick strides. His half-brother was wearing his uniform trousers and his shirt which was open to the waist. He looked tousled and tired, and somehow even younger than ever.
Blackwood clapped his hands on his shoulders.
‘Sorry I missed your birthday, Harry.’ He knew he was not making any sense, just as he knew he was already beaten.
‘Why don’t you two go downstairs and get Mrs Purvis to fetch you something. I’ll stay here for a while.’
Blackwood looked at her. She was watching him steadily, her hands relaxed by her sides. She knew too.
Blackwood left the room and together with his half-brother walked along the gallery which was dappled in weak sunlight.
Harry asked quietly, ‘What do you think about the old man? Did he have a shock or something?’
Blackwood paused by a window and in his mind’s eye saw his stepmother walking through the silent house in the darkness. Something she often did. He felt the same sensation of warning. Perhaps his father had also found out about Lord Lapidge? He gripped his hands together until the pain calmed him.
‘What’s wrong, Philip?’
Blackwood shrugged. ‘I went to see Miss Seymour.’
‘Yes, Mother said. Bad luck, but it happens.’
Blackwood studied him. You sound just like her.
He said, ‘It’s me, I expect.’
Harry looked different in some way. More confident, and yet with the same old touch of recklessness.
He said, ‘Congratulations on your promotion, by the way.’
Harry grinned. ‘Yes. I’m catching you up.’ Then he said, ‘Seriously, I think it’s terrible you’ve had no recognition for what you did. But for you there would have been no “afterwards”.’
Harry’s mood changed again. ‘Anyway, things will be different now. The squadron’s being split up. Some of the older ships are being paid off, and others are being ordered to the Mediterranean. I came home in a steam-frigate.’ He sliced his hands through the air. ‘Whoosh! Like a streak of lightning. Well . . . almost!’
‘What did Doctor Sturges say?’
Harry grimaced. ‘Nothing much. He’s arranging for a senior physician to come down from London. But he said that Father will be better off here than in some damned hospital, and I agree.’
Blackwood thought of his quiet room at Haslar, the painting of the crest above the bed. His father would go out of his mind there.
One of the maids bustled past, her arms laden with towels.
She saw them and blushed as Harry said, ‘Why, Jenny, I do declare you’re prettier than ever!’ She tried to pass but he blocked her way and said, ‘I shall have to do something about you one of these days, or nights, eh?’
Blackwood watched her as she fled down the passageway. Harry made him feel older than his years with his casual treatment of the local girls. Yet they seemed to love it.
He felt Harry watching him as he said, ‘You had a bad time, Philip. After you’d been put aboard ship for passage home there were some who said you’d never recover.’ He touched his arm with sudden affection. ‘Not me though. I know you better than that. Now.’
Together they descended the stairs, and Blackwood asked, ‘How were the others when you left?’
Harry toyed with the idea of teasing him and then blurted out, ‘You’ll see for yourself. They’re all here, at Forton Barracks.’ He watched the life returning to Blackwood’s eyes. ‘Two new companies are being formed. They need all the trained men they can get.’
Blackwood strode to a fire and held out his hands. ‘When have things ever been otherwise?’ He was strangely excited at the prospect of returning to duty, just as he was touched by Harry’s genuine pleasure in seeing him.
Harry was saying dreamily, ‘Someone in high places must have listened to your ideas about new methods of training for the Corps instead of the Waterloo mentality.’
Blackwood looked up quickly. ‘How’s Fynmore?’ It was not difficult to recall his face that day when he had climbed up from the boats and had seen the carnage.
‘Oh, didn’t I say?’ He was not that good an actor. ‘He’s in command. Been made up to half-colonel too for his brilliance!’
He asked, ‘What about the new companies?’
Harry played with the front of his shirt. ‘Ogilvie’s got one, and a Major Brabazon’s been given the other. He’s also second in command.’
Blackwood nodded. He had no right to feel disappointed, but he did. He was lucky to be alive, and that had to be enough. But to think of Fynmore being given overall command of some crack contingent was laughable.
Harry changed the subject. ‘Mother’s a marvel, don’t you think? All this worry and responsibility, yet she seems to ride right over it.’
Blackwood walked to a window, afraid Harry would see his expression. She’s a whore with no thought for anyone but herself and her greed.
He said, ‘I can see where you get it from.’ But the joke went flat.
Smithett appeared silently and said, ‘They’re bringin’ yer ’orse, sir.’
Harry nodded and began to fasten his shirt. ‘Thanks.’
He sauntered away to dress himself, and Blackwood said, ‘You remain at Hawks Hill, Smithett. I’m going to Forton to report for duty.’
Smithett watched him passively. ‘Somethin’ wrong, sir?’
‘Probably not. But I’d like you here, just in case. Poor old Oates is getting shaky. It would please my father no end if there was a real marine nearby when he feels better.’
‘I dunno about that, sir.’ But Smithett was obviously pleased with the compliment.
Half an hour later they were both ready to leave.
Harry clasped his mother to his chest and hugged her. Blackwood saw that she was watching him instead of listening to her son, her eyes level and challenging.
He could do and say nothing now. It would only add to his father’s suffering and provoke a family disgrace.
She moved towards him and touched his collar.
‘You both look very splendid. I’m proud of you. We all are.’
Harry climbed carelessly into his saddle and looked down at them with amusement.
‘You look more like lovers than respectable people.’
Only then did Blackwood see her start, her eyes spark with alarm. ‘Don’t be so vulgar, Harry!’
Blackwood stooped and kissed her cheek. It was as cold as ever. Then without another glance he mounted his horse and followed Harry away from the house.
Whatever happened after this, things would never be the same at Hawks Hill.
Lieutenant-Colonel Rupert Fynmore handed his hat and riding-crop to a clerk and marched through the outer office and into his own.
It was morning, and although the air was cold and damp the sky remained clear, as if the snow was just a bad memory.
Fynmore glanced briefly at his desk and the carefully arrayed papers which awaited his attention, then, as if for the first time, he looked at Blackwood.
‘I hear you arrived back last night?’ His eyes moved busily over Blackwood’s appearance. ‘You could have reported then. I am never too busy to receive one of my officers.’ His mouth shot up in his twisted smile. ‘Especially one of so gallant acquaintance, what? Delayed, were you?’
Blackwood nodded. ‘My half – Mr Blackwood had to retrace his steps and leave some papers with somebody.’
It sounded so peculiar that he flinched under Fynmore’s stare. It had been strange, he thought. They had been keeping up a good pace, talking about the African campaign, the squadron, filling in the gaps. Then Harry had reined up his horse and had pointed at a small inn nestled in a curve of the road.
‘God, my memory! I was supposed to leave some letters at a house back there. But for this inn I’d have forgotten completely. You wait there and have a glass. I’ll not be long.’
Without waiting for an answer he had turned his horse and cantered back along the road. When he had eventually arrived at the inn about an hour later he had been reticent and apparently unwilling to elaborate on where he had been.
Fynmore snapped, ‘No matter. You’re here and that’s the main thing. Mr Blackwood has told you about the formation of the new companies, right? We have to make a success of it. A step in the right direction. Half the trouble in the past has been the lack of coordination in a squadron. Send the marines, orders some admiral or other, and we all tumble into boats and storm ashore, most of us never having worked together before. Monstrous, in my opinion, asking for trouble.’
Blackwood watched him, fascinated. Fynmore seemed to have grown in stature with his new rank, and it was almost impossible to remember him as the cautious, hesitant commander in West Africa.
‘I’ve read your reports, Blackwood. Fine as far as they go. But the medical men are all agreed. Your wound could weaken you again. Can’t have that, what?’
Fynmore crossed to a window and raised some papers to his eyes. ‘Now let me see. Your own Doctor Sturges says much the same.’
Blackwood stiffened as he saw an envelope pinned to the other papers. He would recognize his stepmother’s writing anywhere. He felt trapped, or like a boy at school who is about to be expelled.
Fynmore replaced the papers on his desk and adjusted them until they were in an exact line with the others.
‘Still, can’t believe everything they say, can we?’
‘I’d like to return to duty, sir.’
‘Of course.’ Fynmore studied him thoughtfully, his sandy hair perfect, his uniform looking as ifhe had been poured into it.
‘I have spoken to the Colonel Commandant. He fully understands the need for experienced officers. The fleet is undermanned and cannot raise enough volunteers for any sudden emergency. The marines, on the other hand, are the real force. Like a well-forged weapon which, if properly used, can put a stop to local wars and uprisings before they know what’s hit them.’ He calmed himself with an effort. ‘I got the Colonel Commandant to agree to your secondment on a temporary basis.’ He watched his words go home and added smoothly, ‘Do your duty, and make good use of your undoubted experience in the field, and I feel sure that this will only be a momentary setback.’
Beyond the room and the thick walls Blackwood heard the measured tramp of feet from the parade-ground, the shouted commands which came from every angle until they merged into a meaningless chorus.
One, probably the sergeant-major’s, ebbed and flowed, chased and persuaded above all the rest.
‘Advance in column from the left, A Company leading!’ There were more shouts and then, ‘Stand still, that man! Wait for the order!’
Fynmore was enjoying this. Watching his disappointment, waiting for him to plead. Secondment on a temporary basis. It was better than nothing. But only just.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Anyway, there’s a lot to do before we leave.’ He sounded vaguely irritated. ‘We are embarking in a troopship the week after next. For Malta.’ He squared his shoulders and glared round the office. ‘Not like this place, eh? Do some of the recruits good to see what an old barracks looks like.’
Blackwood considered it. That was unexpected. An immediate transfer to the Mediterranean. He had imagined that perhaps the new companies had been formed to support the campaign he had left behind in Satyr. For although the Navy was having plenty of successes against the remaining strongholds of slavery, the campaign was still dragging on, with fever taking a heavier toll of seamen and marines than anything else.
Fynmore said suddenly, ‘I understand Sir Geoffrey Slade is back in England too.’
‘Yes, sir. I visited his London house just two days ago.’ There was no need to add that Slade had not been there. His so-called friendship with Slade must be about the only reason Fynmore had requested his secondment to the new command.
‘Splendid. He thinks out every move. I like that.’
The door opened two inches and a clerk said nervously, ‘The sergeant-major’s here, sir.’
‘Good. Punctual as usual.’ Fynmore glanced around the office and
added, ‘Two men for field punishment this morning. I will not have slovenly behaviour and I want everyone to know it.’
Blackwood followed him through the outer office and into the pale sunshine.
Fynmore said over his shoulder, ‘We are getting some of the new Minie rifles too. Mine is the first command to have that honour.’
The sergeant-major stood like a ramrod on the side of the parade-ground, his stick tucked beneath one arm. In the sunlight his brass shoulder-scales shone like gold, perfection, like the rest of his uniform.
His eyes flickered to Blackwood and his mouth opened and closed like a trap.
‘Good to ’ave you back, if I may say so, sir.’
That was all he said, but Blackwood valued his bare welcome more than a full parade.
He watched the nearest marines marching past, their boots kicking up the dust, their eyes glazed with the constant changes of direction, the intricate movements with musket and bayonet which, if the sergeant-major had his way, would soon be as familiar as their own feet.
He saw Harry standing by a platoon which was being instructed in the use of the new Minie rifles. If he remembered the cruel accuracy of these rifles which had taken the lives of so many of their own men he did not show it. He was smiling and joking, and even at a distance Blackwood could sense the relaxed almost carefree atmosphere.
Fynmore said fiercely, ‘Deal with that, Sergeant-Major.’ As the giant strode towards the offending platoon Fynmore muttered, ‘Sloppiness will not be tolerated.’ He darted Blackwood a quick glance. ‘From anybody.’
Harry hurried across the square and saluted.
Fynmore said coldly, ‘Those men are raw recruits, Mr Blackwood. You may wish to appear popular in their eyes, but I warn you, they’ll not respect you for it. Discipline is what they know and need.’
Harry flushed. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’
‘Report to the adjutant for extra duties, Mr Blackwood. But first attend to the punishment of two offenders. A dozen lashes each, I believe?’
The sergeant-major grunted. ‘Sir.’
‘Carry on then.’
Fynmore turned on his heel and strode away, an orderly trotting behind him.
Badge of Glory (1982) Page 26
