The First to Land (1984)

by Reeman, Douglas

Masterman ignored him. ‘My guess is pirates. This coast is rotten with ’em.’

  The bridge was shaking so violently that it felt as if every rivet would burst loose. A great creaming wake carved a straight line astern and above it Blackwood could see the dense smoke belching low over the sea as evidence of the stokers’ efforts far below the decks.

  Pirates. They were in for a nasty surprise.

  Masterman said abruptly, ‘I want you to go with the boarding party, Blackwood. My people are pretty young and inexperienced.’ He almost smiled but contained himself. ‘Like Mediator. Do ’em good to have a real-life hero amongst ’em.’

  Blackwood looked at him. There was neither sarcasm nor malice. He actually meant it.

  He said awkwardly, ‘I’ll go below and change, sir.’

  ‘Don’t be too long. We’ll be within range shortly. It will be first light by then. We’ll need to bustle about a bit smartly. If there are any survivors aboard the Delhi Star they’ll be in a bad way by now.’

  Blackwood ran down a ladder and found Swan waiting beside the forward funnel.

  ‘We goin’ over, sir?’

  ‘I am.’ He relented immediately. To go without Swan would be like carrying an unloaded revolver. He grinned. ‘Get our gear ready.’

  It seemed unnaturally bright between decks. All the deadlights had been clamped shut across the scuttles and it was hard to imagine pirates so near. Masterman could be wrong, but that was even harder to believe.

  The deck had been opened near the cabin flat and he saw some seamen by the tackles of a shell-hoist. He had not realized he had been sleeping directly above a magazine.

  On the marines’ messdeck Swan was dragging on his boots and buckling on belt and bayonet. He snatched his rifle from its rack and clattered up the ladder again to find the rest of the boarding party.

  Blackwood dashed from his cabin and almost collided with Ralf. Like the rest of the new detachment he had no proper action station, and seemed at a loss.

  ‘Is it true? About the pirates?’

  Blackwood drew his heavy revolver and examined the chamber. There was no need. Swan had seen to that too.

  ‘Yes, want to come?’

  He had said it as a joke, something to steady his own nerves. But it was as if he had struck him.

  ‘N-no, sir.’

  A voice bellowed. ‘A-way starboard whaler! Boardin’ party to muster!’

  Blackwood dashed by the men at the shell-hoist, oblivious to everything but Ralf’s face.

  He was terrified. And in a matter of weeks they might be fighting for their lives.

  One of the light cruiser’s lieutenants, pistol at his belt, saw him and grinned.

  ‘Here we go, sir!’

  The boat’s crew were already in their places and there were more armed seamen in the sternsheets.

  ‘Slip the gripes! Turns fer lowerin’!’

  Blackwood climbed up and over the gunwale and saw the great seething wash begin to die away as Mediator reduced speed so that the boat could be dropped without danger of capsizing.

  ‘Lower away, handsomely!’ That was the commander. Masterman must have sent him to ensure there were no mistakes.

  The boat dropped down the Mediator’s white plates, the sea lifting to meet them.

  ‘Avast lowering!’

  The pins were out and the boat swayed a foot or so above the water like an overloaded pod.

  ‘Slip!’ They were away, but as the oars dropped smartly into their crutches and the tiller was thrust hard over, all Blackwood could see was Ralf’s terror.

  3

  Boarders Away!

  Lieutenant Hudson, Mediator’s boarding officer, lurched to his feet to recover his bearings as the boat plunged and yawed in the short, choppy waves.

  He rested one hand on Blackwood’s shoulder, the only way he could remain upright, and shouted, ‘I heard shots!’

  Blackwood nodded. So there was still some resistance aboard the little steamer. How quickly the light was spreading down from the horizon, and how fast events were moving since the whaler had been lowered. He peered astern and saw that the ship had not moved and guessed that Captain Masterman was about to drop a second boat as additional support.

  The lieutenant shouted, ‘Watch the stroke, dammit!’ But he sounded less confident without the Mediator’s authority at close quarters.

  The boat seemed to fly across the water, spray rising from the oar blades as the seamen threw their weight on the looms, no easy task with the twenty-seven-foot hull packed with bodies and weapons.

  Crack – crack – crack.

  Blackwood licked his lips and unclipped the flap on his holster. He did it almost unconsciously, without even drawing the attention of the stroke oarsman.

  The whaler’s graceful hull lifted on an offshore roller and he saw the little steamer Delhi Star clearly for the first time. Masterman had been right about her too, he thought grimly.

  And yet she was similar to dozens of an ever-growing fleet of such vessels. Small, single-screwed, able to carry passengers and light cargo for the benefit of the East’s expanding trade and importance. He could see her white side glinting faintly in the early sunlight, her funnel smoke drifting downwind, and other smoke too, although whether from internal fires or explosions he could not say.

  One of the seamen said hoarsely, ‘Gawd! That’ll please the Old Man, I don’t think!’

  Hudson snapped, ‘Hold your tongue!’ But he too stared astern where the second boat was in total confusion. She was the cruiser’s cutter, and therefore double-banked for extra speed. But her oars were all mixed up and slashing at thin air, and Blackwood saw some men hanging over the boat’s flat transom trying to re-ship the rudder which had obviously fallen off as the boat had been dropped from the davits.

  The unknown sailor was correct. Masterman would be fuming.

  He glanced at Hudson’s tight profile. He looked scared to death. It was hard enough to board even a docile junk in these conditions. And there was fresh firing. Short and sharp. A last resistance. Perhaps the steamer’s crew had sighted the light cruiser as sunlight swept over her like thin gold.

  Blackwood turned his head towards the shore. He could not see the mainland, but there were several scattered groups of islets, some so small that they looked like basking whales, oblivious to the drama which was revealing itself more strongly every minute. There were fishing boats too amongst the islets, motionless like black sticks. Another hot day, he thought.

  Hudson squatted down at his side, their faces an inch apart.

  ‘Shall we wait for the cutter, d’you think?’

  Blackwood could almost smell his fear. In a moment it would transmit itself through the boat with the speed of an arrow.

  It was likely that the cutter was under the command of a midshipman, at best a sub-lieutenant. Hudson would still be in overall charge.

  He replied, ‘We’ll go in as ordered.’ He wished he knew the lieutenant’s first name. It often helped in moments like these. He glanced at his attendant and knew that Swan was also recalling those other times. The fear changing to hate, the caution giving way to madness. Swan had already loosened his bayonet and as Blackwood nodded to him he jerked back the bolt of his rifle and slammed a bullet into the breech. It acted better than any bugle, and the oars seemed to blur as the boat surged forward. Blackwood peered over the swaying shoulders and saw the Delhi Star’s attacker rising above her opposite side like some nightmare bat.

  Pirates and junks went together. The little steamer’s master should know that. If not he was paying dearly for it.

  A bullet hit the whaler’s gunwale and threw a splinter at the stroke oarsman’s feet. He barely blinked, but along the boat men were pulling in their heads as if that would help.

  ‘Swan.’

  Swan climbed deftly over the swaying looms and amongst the panting seamen until he was right in the bows.

  He seemed to rise and fall like a figurehead, but Blackwood noted that the gleamin
g Lee-Metford rifle managed to remain steady.

  There was a crack, and Swan remarked calmly, ‘One down.’

  ‘Keep firing, Swan. Drive them away from the rails!’

  He did not need to be told but it would help to hold the discipline in the boat.

  The air cringed as Mediator’s siren tore the morning apart with a raucous screech.

  Birds rose flapping from the nearest islets, adding their protests to the din, and the whaler’s coxswain exclaimed, ‘She goin’ to fire on the bastards, sir!’

  There was a violent bang and from one of the light cruiser’s long six-inch guns came a vivid orange flash.

  They heard the shell rip overhead, like tearing a giant’s canvas before exploding far beyond the fishing boats and islets in a solid tower of water.

  Hudson said shakily, ‘The junk’s casting off!’ He shook his fist in the air. ‘We’ll blow her sky-high!’

  Blackwood kept his eyes on the steamer’s hull, very aware of Hudson’s relief, also that the junk’s commander would use the Delhi Star as a shield until he was lost amongst the islets and the fishermen.

  But it was too early for overconfidence. The junk must have cast off with such haste as the Mediator had announced her arrival that some of the pirates might still be aboard, and to all intents abandoned.

  Hudson was yelling, ‘Stand by bowman! Ready with grapnel!’

  He looked elated, all his anxieties gone after the gun had fired.

  The seamen boated their oars as best they could, and as the grapnel soared above the rails and held fast, they came alongside with a violent shudder.

  ‘Boarders away!’ Hudson had drawn his revolver and, with his men yelling and waving their cutlasses, scrambled up the ship’s side. It was quite a low-hulled vessel, with just one line of scuttles before rising to a second deck beyond the bridge.

  Blackwood darted a quick glance at the cutter; it was still a cable clear but pulling well, and there was a Maxim gun mounted above the stem.

  He nodded to Swan and together they hauled themselves after the others.

  The sudden silence was almost worse than a fusillade of shots.

  Blackwood heard a man retching uncontrollably and saw a body by the scuppers so hacked about and mutilated that it was barely human. Blood filled the scuppers, surging this way and that as if to escape.

  Hudson tore his eyes away. ‘Bridge! Martin, take three men to the other side, lively now!’

  From the corner of his eye Blackwood saw a movement by one of the companion-ways. He dragged out his sword, ‘Swan, you come with me!’

  It was useless to tell Hudson who was already charging towards a bridge ladder. It would delay things. Someone had run below. To do what? To blow up the whole ship perhaps?

  He almost pitched down the ladder as he skidded on more blood.

  He heard Swan gasp, ‘Jesus Christ!’ It took a lot to impress Swan these days.

  There was blood everywhere. Splashed on the sides of the long central passageway, up the sides, even on the deckhead. Corpses too, mutilated beyond belief, one even headless.

  Blackwood said harshly, ‘There’s at least one of them down here!’

  He almost ducked as Mediator fired again, the shell exploding in the sea with such force you could believe the ship had run aground.

  A figure in white robes bounded from the cabin, a wide-bladed sword across his shoulder as he peered wildly at the two marines.

  Blackwood felt Swan’s bullet fan past his ear without remembering the sound of the shot. He heard it crack into the man’s forehead, killing him instantly. But all Blackwood could recall was the blood pouring unheeded from the man’s sword and down his arm before he dropped.

  He kicked open the cabin door, his pistol held so tightly it hurt his fingers.

  The contents of the drawers and luggage were all around but the cabin’s occupants, a man, a woman and a small girl, were hacked to ribbons.

  Blackwood looked meaningly at Swan. These people had been butchered slowly. It was a scene from hell. But not by the man lying dead in the passageway. He had not had the time.

  Swan said in a whisper, ‘Reckon ’e was lookin’ for a mate, sir.’

  Blackwood pursed his lips. ‘Another one then?’

  Faintly overhead, from another world, they heard shouts and two shots. There was steel on steel as Hudson’s men got busy with their cutlasses.

  But this was here. Now. He could feel his heart thumping as if to break free, but when he glanced at his revolver his hand was as steady as Swan’s rifle.

  Two more cabins yet. Both doors shut. Not even a whimper.

  Swan drew his bayonet deftly and snapped it into place.

  He said almost casually, ‘There’s another of ’em in the shadows!’ But as he lunged over a steel locker and swung the rifle down he gasped, ‘This one’s already done for.’

  Blackwood pulled him backwards. There was a tiny hole in the cabin door where that one had fallen. A lucky shot perhaps but it had found its mark.

  Swan gestured urgently to the other cabin. Its handle was moving very slowly. It would not even be noticed but for some blood which shone from the handle like cruel red eyes.

  It was time to act. Blackwood pressed his back against the opposite side of the passageway and then hurled himself forward against the door just as it began to open.

  He got a vague glimpse of another white-clad figure, the gleam of a swinging blade before he fell headlong into the cabin.

  Swan fired from the hip, and using just his right hand parried the sword aside and drove his bayonet into the figure’s chest almost to the hilt.

  Blackwood peered at the body and then kicked the sword away.

  They both looked up as feet stampeded across the deck above with sporadic firing coming from elsewhere, probably from the cutter.

  There was a man sitting on the bunk, the body of a woman across his knees.

  Blackwood murmured hoarsely. ‘Take her from him and cover her up, for God’s sake.’ But the man tightened his grip, his whole body shaking to his grief. But no sound came from his lips as he held the dead woman in his arms.

  Blackwood moved to the door, seeing it all in his mind. The last hope, then horror as the madman with the sword had burst in again.

  ‘I’ll be back!’ But it made no impression.

  Swan said tightly, ‘Next door, sir. ’Eard a sound.’

  ‘Right.’ Blackwood felt hot and icy cold in turns. He looked at the cabin’s door, the one with the small hole in it. Whoever had been in there might have killed one attacker but it could mean something else. More pirates. A last rally. After all they had nothing to lose. Once taken they would be hustled ashore and beheaded for their trade, and as a warning.

  Blackwood had seen it before in China, could remember his own men standing around like uneasy spectators as a local mandarin’s axeman had done his macabre works.

  Blackwood heard himself say, ‘I’m going in. These bloody doors are like cardboard.’

  Swan grimaced, but kept his eyes on the door. ‘Ready when you are, sir.’ He brought his rifle to his waist. ‘Good luck.’

  Blackwood found a split second to look at him. The last time? Like it had been for Neil?

  He drew aside and then flung himself at the door with Swan’s bayonet almost brushing his shoulder as they burst through.

  Light from the sun made a smoky beam across the cabin, and as Blackwood twisted round to get his back against a bulkhead he stared with astonishment at the woman who faced him. She stood absolutely motionless, her slim figure covered from neck to her bare feet by a dark blue dressing gown which shone in the sunlight like silk. Her hair was tangled across one shoulder and the gown had been badly torn; he could see the bare skin where a hand had tried to rip it from her.

  A small Chinese girl crouched on her knees, her arms wrapped around the motionless figure. Blackwood noticed all and none of these things. He could only stare at the woman in blue, and at the tiny silver revolver she
held in one hand, its muzzle levelled at his heart.

  He said as steadily as he could, ‘Don’t be afraid. I am a British officer.’ It sounded ridiculous, and he stared at her eyes which had not moved from his face.

  There was a muffled crash as the cutter at last managed to get alongside, cheers and running feet, but somehow it meant nothing.

  A body lay near the opposite end of the cabin, and for an instant he imagined it was a repeat of the terrible murders he had already seen.

  Swan said, ‘One of the pirates, sir.’ He lowered his bayonet until it was aimed at the man in the white robe. ‘Still alive.’

  The woman slowly lowered the revolver and then, almost casually, tossed it on to the bunk.

  ‘You were just in time.’ She spoke with a foreign accent. ‘I had but two bullets left. One for this foolish maid, Anna.’ She seemed to realize he was looking at the bare skin below her shoulder. ‘One for myself.’

  Blackwood heard men charging through the ship, voices yelling orders, others vomiting as they discovered more butchered remains.

  He took a step towards her, yet she seemed to get no nearer.

  She said, ‘I am the Countess von Heiser. I was –’ She hesitated and looked at the door as if expecting to see more attackers surging through. ‘I am going to Shanghai to join my husband.’

  Blackwood could feel himself shaking. It would not show to others but it was there just the same. He slipped his revolver into its holster and said, ‘You are very brave, Countess.’ German. The name was familiar too. Her husband was important. It explained why she had the best cabin in the ship.

  She waited for her quivering maid to release her hold and then reached out one hand and said in the same level tone, ‘Please. I think I am going to be sick.’ She held his arm with both hands, her nails biting through the tunic and breaking his skin.

  Close to she was not merely beautiful, she was entrancing. Her hair was the colour of honey, her eyes, now tightly closed, were violet.

  Beside her Blackwood felt clumsy and unclean. He wanted to hold her, to console her after what must have been a terrible ordeal.

  She said quietly, ‘And your man is wrong. These are not pirates. They are Boxers.’ She made herself say it. ‘The Big Knife Society.’