Even the role of the marine battalion seemed to have lost its purpose since the death of the little admiral. They had all been landed and encamped at Varna, and while the reports had been wild with excitement about the great Anglo-French force of some sixty-five thousand troops which had smashed through the Russian defences to land on the Crimea itself, Fynmore’s command had been held fretting in reserve. The Turkish resistance on the Danube had halted the enemy advance on Constantinople, and with the fleets in the Baltic and the Black Sea harrying their flanks and now actually putting an army on Russian soil, the enemy was on the defensive.
An attempt to capture the vital port of Sebastopol had been repulsed with heavy losses, but undeterred the British had landed elsewhere, had crossed the Alma and had by-passed the Russian stronghold. They had marched south to capture the harbour and town of Balaclava instead. But the casualties were mounting. There had been a steady stream of wounded from the Crimean Expedition, as it was now termed, and their daily arrival made the marines even more aware of their inaction.
Winter was almost upon them, and the optimistic suggestion that ‘it would all be over by Christmas’ had given way to the prospect of a stalemate until the better weather returned.
Blackwood had received one further letter from Davern. It had been short but intimate. She had heard of Ashley-Chute’s death and prayed that Blackwood was safe and well. She had mentioned that her husband had accepted a supervisory appointment with the British Army which, in view of the war and his previous researches, would be of some importance to him.
He had also received a letter from his stepmother. Colonel Blackwood was poorly, his condition worsened by the news from the Crimea. He and his faithful Oates studied the daily reports like retired generals, and Blackwood was saddened to think of his father ending his days in such a manner.
Blackwood turned his back to the sea and began to walk down the track to the camp. He might just as well be at Hawks Hill with his father as here, he thought bitterly. The inaction and lack of direction was having its effect on everyone, Harry most of all. It was almost impossible to get a civil word from him, even on the subject of his father.
A private hurried towards him and saluted smartly.
‘Beg pardon, sir, but the colonel’s called an officers’ conference. Hour’s time.’
Blackwood nodded. ‘Thank you, Keele.’
What would it be this time? Slackness at drill, or punishment to be awarded to marines who had broken out of camp to sample the doubtful pleasures of Varna?
Later, as he walked with Major Brabazon to the command tent, he said, ‘If the men were divided up again amongst the ships they would have work to take them out of themselves, sir.’
Brabazon glanced at him and winked. ‘Better than that, Philip. We’re under orders. Just between ourselves, we’re going across to the Crimea.’
Blackwood looked away to hide his feelings. He had been expecting it, if he was honest, hoping for it. Now that it had happened he felt strangely apprehensive.
Brabazon added cheerfully, ‘The sector commander is a Major-General Richmond. Bit of a fire-eater. Must be getting hard for him if he has to call in the Marines!’ He sounded confident enough.
Fynmore met his officers and waited for total silence. He was as neat as ever, but his narrow features were strained, as if he had not slept well for some time.
‘Gentlemen, the battalion is being embarked this week for the Crimea.’ He frowned slightly as several of the junior lieutenants raised a cheer. ‘I think that will do, gentlemen!’ He waved one hand towards a large map which he had hung on an easel. ‘We shall land at Balaclava and await orders. Platoon commanders will ensure that our men are issued with one extra pair of boots, entrenching tools and additional ammunition as will be laid down in my standing orders.’
Blackwood watched him thoughtfully. Apart from matters of duty their paths had barely crossed, hard to believe in an overcrowded encampment. Was it because of the commendation which had been sent to Tenacious after her return to Varna? A special mention had been made by the commander-in-chief of the marines’ part in the battle’s final stages. He had left it in no doubt that but for the prompt action by the marine riflemen in the tops, Tenacious might now be an enemy prize and a humiliation to the allies for all time. Fynmore should have been pleased and proud. Unless . . . Always the doubt was there. Where was he when the two ships had come together? Brabazon had never mentioned seeing him, neither had the lieutenant on the middle gundeck.
He looked at Fynmore’s curt gestures and wondered what was wrong with him.
Fynmore said, ‘I will expect the very highest standards of discipline and determination from all ranks. We shall be with the Army, remember that, and under their overall command.’
He seemed suddenly at a loss, and Blackwood could feel the officers around him growing restless while they waited for him to continue.
Fynmore said vaguely, ‘It is upon the Corps, and upon –’ He broke off abruptly and nodded at Brabazon. ‘Carry on, please.’
Mystified, the junior officers hurried from the tent, and only Brabazon, Captain Ogilvie of B Company and Blackwood remained.
Fynmore gathered up some papers and let them fall on his trestle-table again.
‘Something wrong, sir?’ Brabazon watched him anxiously.
‘Wrong? Why should there be, dammit?’ Fynmore glared at him. ‘Naturally I’m concerned about the behaviour of my command, but I am relying on you to produce the best results, right?’
‘Right.’
Blackwood and the others left the tent.
Ogilvie, a pleasant if unimaginative man, remarked, ‘Wife trouble, old chap. Stands out a bloody mile. Always the same when you marry a woman much younger than yourself, what?’ He did not see Brabazon’s warning glance. ‘It needs a man to ride to hounds, that’s what I say.’ He sauntered towards his company lines, oblivious to Blackwood’s feelings and everything else.
Blackwood thought of his father, what his young wife would do if his condition continued to deteriorate.
Brabazon grunted, ‘Stupid clod. Sorry about that, Philip.’
Blackwood found that he could smile about it. His father was right, the Corps was a family in itself. It was impossible to keep any secret from anyone.
After an unexplained delay the marines broke camp and accompanied by an Army band marched down to the harbour to board their various ships.
To his surprise Blackwood found the frigate Satyr to be one of them. She looked older than the last time he had boarded her, scarred and well-used, but as he climbed aboard he received a further surprise. Tobin was aboard and stepped forward to greet him like an old friend.
‘Who knows, Blackwood, we may really achieve something this time, eh?’
Blackwood was warmed and touched by their meeting. For Tobin no longer commanded his beloved Satyr but flew a broad-pendant of commodore from her masthead. Blackwood could think of no one who deserved it more.
As the assorted flotilla of vessels moved north-east into the Black Sea the weather worsened and the dust and sweat of Turkey were soon forgotten. There was a bite in the air, and a wind which cut through clothing like cold steel.
As in the rest of the ships the marines in Satyr were packed like herrings in a barrel, but they seemed good humoured and glad to be doing something, although M’Crystal still complained bitterly of his Irish trouble-makers even though he never seemed to catch them committing any offence, much to his disgust.
A patrolling brig met them while they were still out of sight of land, and after a brief exchange of signals Tobin ordered a change of course. They would make their final approach by night, Blackwood was told. It would be safer. It did not sound quite so straightforward as Fynmore had indicated.
Blackwood was in his shared cabin when he heard the murmur of voices on deck. He pulled on his greatcoat and hurried up the companion and saw that the deck seemed to be filled with marines and many of the ship’s company.
He found Tobin with the captain by the compass, his powerful shape just one more shadow on the crowded deck.
‘Shall I order my marines below, sir?’
Tobin was puffing at a massive pipe and shook his head.
‘Let ’em watch. It might help later on.’
Blackwood saw the commodore’s features light up, and as he turned saw the sky alive with flashes which seemed to stretch from bow to bow.
He heard the sullen boom of artillery fire, and that too was unbroken, like thunder at the height of a storm.
Tobin bit on his pipe. ‘Poor devils. It’s like this every night, bombardment and artillery duels, shot and shell, they get no rest.’ He touched his face as some sleety rain splashed from his cap. ‘Then in daylight it starts all over again.’
Blackwood moved among his men, feeling their uneasiness, their surprise at the war’s intrusion.
He found the sergeants in a tight bunch by one of the paddle-boxes.
Quintin recognized him in spite of the shadows and said, ‘Bit more soldierin’, sir?’ The others chuckled as if it was a private joke.
Blackwood smiled. ‘They need us to show them how it’s done.’
He felt someone touch his sleeve and saw Harry’s face pale in the reflected flashes.
‘Philip, we must talk.’
Blackwood pulled him from the crowd of jostling marines until they shared the warmth of the tall, sparking funnel.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s Colonel Fynmore. His wife wrote to me. She’s having a baby, had it by now, I’d think, unless something went wrong.’
The words just tumbled out of him, as if he could no longer bear to carry his secret. ‘I think she’s told him about it, that I used to . . .’ He dropped his eyes and added brokenly, ‘Well, you know.’
Blackwood exclaimed, ‘But it can’t be yours . . .’ He nodded slowly. ‘But the blame will rub off, I can see that.’ He gripped his half-brother’s arm, wanting to show anger but feeling only concern for him. ‘You idiot, Harry. I should have guessed, I suppose. I was thinking too much of someone else.’
Harry whispered fiercely, ‘It might bring disgrace on the whole family, you know what Fynmore’s like.’
Blackwood felt his stomach tighten. Suppose Fynmore knew or guessed about Marguerite Blackwood’s affair, he would be far more likely to use that against them.
He said, ‘I’m glad you told me anyway. Perhaps nothing will happen.’ He turned as an extra loud rumble thundered across the black water. It was no time to be worried about things like that. ‘Try not to antagonize the colonel.’
Harry made a weak attempt to grin. ‘That should be easy.’
He raised his head and ran his fingers through his hair.
‘It’s been driving me insane, Philip. I feel better now, telling you. My big brother. I think it must run in my side of the family.’
Blackwood started and asked sharply, ‘What do you mean by that?’
Harry was still thinking of something else. ‘Georgina, didn’t Mother tell you? She sent her to Paris to keep her out of trouble with some fellow from the Foot Guards.’ He sighed and gulped at the cold air. ‘I’m going to turn in.’ He hesitated. ‘And thanks for putting up with me. I’ll not let you down again.’
Blackwood waited by the guardrail until he realized he was half frozen and that the deck had quietly emptied.
It was getting worse, not better, he thought.
The eventual landing at Balaclava was completed almost without incident, and the last marine and piece of equipment was ashore before dawn finally opened up across the black terrain.
An army major met Fynmore and Brabazon while the other officers inspected their men and ensured that nothing had been left aboard ship.
Blackwood stood slightly apart while he waited for the lieutenants to report. In just a matter of hours the marines seemed to have changed in some way. They were on edge, unsettled by the constant murmur of gunfire, the scene of incredible desolation. Shell-scarred houses and fallen rubble, among which small areas of order and planning made a stark contrast. Army huts and tents, guns and limbers, supply waggons and great piles of crates and casks for an unseen army.
But the army was evident here too. Maybe that was the cause of the uneasiness among the marines. The soldiers looked tired out and gaunt, their uniforms stained and often ragged. Many wore beards, something unknown in the Corps. Even the major who was speaking intently with Fynmore and making grand gestures with a walking-stick was a far cry from any parade-ground.
Blackwood looked at his men. Uneven red lines beside the pitted road. Some were staring longingly at the anchored ships, others watched the sky, or tried not to listen to the guns. Each man seemed weighed down by his weapons and equipment. Apart from his Minie rifle and bayonet, every man carried a full knapsack which contained three days’ rations, extra clothing, the additional pair of boots, plus blanket, greatcoat and sixty rounds of ammunition and caps which were tightly packed into a black leather pouch. When they finally moved off, each would be carrying nearly seventy pounds in weight on his back.
‘A Company ready, sir!’
Sergeant Quintin grimaced as some soldiers shouted, ‘Wot ’ave we got ’ere then? Sea-soldiers?’
Quintin muttered, ‘Sea-soldiers indeed!’
‘B Company ready, sir!’
An extra loud explosion shook the earth but the soldiers took no notice. It was a part of their lives.
Fynmore came over and snorted, ‘Five miles march to the line. No horses for the officers either, would you believe?’
He glanced at the lines of marines. ‘The army have scouts out to guide us. We will head north-west.’ He handed his notes to his orderly. ‘It will be night again before we can settle down.’
Captain Ogilvie asked mildly, ‘May I ask what we are to do, Colonel?’
Fynmore’s pale eyes followed Harry Blackwood’s figure along the leading platoon. He pulled himself together and snapped, ‘The enemy has a strong redoubt in that sector. Open ground. Heavy artillery.’ Each phrase was short and terse. ‘Lot of casualties.’
Brabazon pulled on his gloves and stamped his boots on the ground.
‘What a way to begin. Like a blind man joining the cavalry.’
Nobody laughed.
Blackwood saw M’Crystal with his colour-party, the cased flag carefully laid over his massive shoulder. Sailor one day, infantryman the next.
The lieutenants took their places, the marines shouldered arms, and without further ceremony they marched away from the harbour.
There was little talking along the ranks even when they were marching at ease. It was like nothing Blackwood had ever seen, so he could imagine how much worse it was for the young recruits.
Craggy, broken hills, treeless and hostile, while along the rough, winding track they came across signs of the war they had come to join.
Great puddles which were already crusted with thin ice hid the holes where enemy shells had exploded. Broken and charred waggons, discarded tools and unfilled sandbags marked every yard of the advance. Here and there were little cairns of stones, some marked with a crude cross, others with a man’s head-gear or sword. It was probably too hard to dig a grave here, Blackwood thought.
Then there were the wounded. As the guns grew louder and more personal the wounded seemed to grow in numbers. Arm in arm, hopping on sticks, or being carried on stretchers by bearers, they passed the marching marines with barely a glance.
Blackwood quickened his pace to join Harry at the head of the first platoon. He glanced at the men’s faces as he strode by. Most were like stone, some looked afraid of what they might see next.
He asked, ‘All right, Harry?’
Harry turned his head to stare at a man who lay on his back, his hands upheld like claws. Corporal Jones broke ranks but soon rejoined them as he cried, ‘Dead, sir!’ The soldier must have died even as he made his own lonely way to a dressing station.
Harry murmured, �
��Did you see those soldiers back there? They’re still in summer uniforms.’ As if to emphasize his remark his feet crunched through some of the wafer-thin ice.
Blackwood had noticed. The marines might complain about their heavy packs, but at least they had greatcoats and blankets.
A runner scampered past. ‘Halt the column!’
Fynmore strolled to the head of the marines and tapped the ground with his stick. ‘Bloody army,’ he muttered.
There was a clatter of hoofs and two field officers, followed by their orderlies, trotted around the next bend.
The senior officer, a grey-haired major-general, reined in his horse and studied the marines for what felt like an eternity.
‘’Tenant-Colonel Fynmore?’ He had a thin, incisive voice. ‘Your men are two days late.’ He did not dismount. ‘Arrangements have been made for you to support the line.’
Fynmore stood like a ramrod, his mouth twitching with barely contained fury.
‘We were ordered to stand off because of a bombardment, sir.’
The major-general turned to his companion who was smiling hugely.
‘D’you here that, Percy? Bombardment! Talk about the giddy limit, what?’ He touched his hat with his riding crop and then spurred his horse into a gallop.
Brabazon bit on his chin strap and said, ‘That was General Richmond, God help us!’
‘Royal Marines, by the right . . .’ They were on the march again.
The closer they got to their allotted sector the flatter the ground became. Low hills with tracks and gullies, some man-made, which wound through them like a maze.
The army pickets knew their job well. They seemed able to smell if a shell was about to crash down on the jagged rocks, even allowed the extra seconds for the marines to get accustomed to the need for instant movement. Down on their faces, then scrambling up again to continue towards the gunfire. Quick, nervous glances to seek out friends, to reassure, to hope.
Badge of Glory (1982) Page 33
