The First to Land (1984)

by Reeman, Douglas

  He said quietly, ‘And yet you risk this upriver passage, Countess. Must you go?’ He sounded as if he was pleading, but he no longer cared.

  She shrugged. ‘You spoke of duty. I have mine also.’

  She faced him through the gloom. ‘That was unfair. Forgive me. But for you what would have happened to me?’

  Blackwood listened to the soft footsteps of a native crewman, the responding scrape of boots as a sentry came to the alert.

  ‘You speak perfect English, Countess.’ Why did he feel embarrassed?

  She sounded as if she was smiling. ‘I do travel a lot, Captain. My husband and I visit England whenever we can. He has relatives there. And there is Cowes, Henley and Ascot to enjoy, St James’s too on occasions.’

  Blackwood swallowed. It was another world, one controlled by the sort of people who decided where men like his marines, and like Neil and all who had gone before him, should be sent. Except that it would not show them as mere men on the plans. Units, ships, and the Flag. It was enough. Or was it? The thought of Neil could still wound him when he was unprepared.

  She said, ‘Was it wrong what I said?’ She looked at him more closely. ‘You are dismayed, hurt, yes?’

  Blackwood shook his head. ‘It was nothing. I thought of my brother. Just for a moment.’

  ‘I understand. A comparison perhaps?’ She saw him start. ‘It is natural.’ She seemed to sense danger in sharing her thoughts.

  ‘This voyage is taking an eternity.’

  Blackwood asked, ‘Will you stay long at the trading mission?’

  ‘I am not certain. Manfred will decide.’ She sounded suddenly wistful. There was resentment too despite her outward calm.

  ‘Do you have children, Countess? I expect you will be pleased –’

  But she turned her face away and he could see her honey hair hanging down her spine in a long plait.

  ‘No children.’

  Just two words but they meant far more.

  She said in a faraway voice. ‘Naturally I wanted children. What woman does not?’ She gave that same shrug again and the gesture touched Blackwood like a blade. ‘It was not to be. But Manfred was generous. He accepts it.’

  Blackwood tried to find the right words. ‘There can be no blame.’

  She swung round, the plait vanishing in the shadows.

  ‘Blame? You astonish me, Captain. You act like a man. You speak like a child. Blame! I have just finished telling you, Manfred accepts it!’

  Her words stung him like a blow to his face but he retorted hotly, ‘You sound as if he had forgiven you, Countess! It might be his fault!’ He had gone too far, and he could hear the regular thump of boots as the new pickets paraded for inspection.

  He exclaimed, ‘I – I am sorry, Countess. That was unpardonable. Please dismiss what I said –’

  He looked down as she touched his forearm. In a small voice she said, ‘There is nothing to forgive. What did you expect me to say?’

  At any minute now Kirby would be coming to report to him.

  He struggled with his words. ‘I admire you so much, Countess. Your courage, everything about you –’

  ‘You see, Captain? It is as I said. A childish dream.’ But she did not remove her hand.

  ‘Perhaps.’ Blackwood covered her hand with his own. ‘I suppose I am so involved with my profession. I have lost the ability to mix with civilized people.’

  She smiled. ‘Civilization counts for very little when a man sets his heart on personal gain.’

  In the darkness Sergeant Kirby coughed politely and Blackwood hated him for it.

  ‘I shall be there directly, Sergeant.’

  She released her hand very gently. ‘Go to him, Captain. He needs you.’ She reached up impulsively and touched his face. In spite of the clinging humidity which enfolded the anchored vessel like a steam bath, her fingers were cool and very soft.

  ‘We shall all need you soon.’ Then she was gone, swallowed up by the shadows like a phantom. He waited to hear her door slide and for his breathing to steady.

  He found Second Lieutenant Earle and the next picket waiting to enter a sampan alongside.

  ‘You know what to do?’ Blackwood had to clear his throat. ‘One sign of an attack and you will withdraw to the bank until we can give you covering fire with the Maxim. Stay together, and remove your helmets. You’ll hear better that way.’

  Earle nodded earnestly in time with his words as if memorizing every syllable.

  ‘Yes, sir. I will, sir. You can trust me, sir.’

  Kirby tore his mind away from his troubled thoughts and said harshly, ‘I’ll go with them, sir.’

  Blackwood said, ‘Very well.’ He excluded the others as he added, ‘No heroics, Charles.’ He sensed the use of the youth’s first name reaching its mark. ‘I want this squad intact and ready for the next leg of the journey.’

  Kirby groaned. It’s all I need, he thought savagely. A second lieutenant who should still be in the bloody nursery, and a love-struck captain.

  ‘Carry on, Mr Earle.’ Blackwood watched the handful of men as they clambered down into the boat’s paler outline. Then the sampan with its passengers merged with the riverbank and soon he thought he heard the returning marines climbing aboard. Thankful to be coming back. It was usually the way. The Royal Marines were soldiers and sailors too. But if there was a ship of any kind available he knew where their preference would lie.

  Blackwood loosened his tunic and touched the bare skin beneath. Hot and sticky. Three hours yet to daybreak and then little relief as the Bajamar thrashed her way around the various obstacles and the sun pinned them down without mercy.

  But he would speak with her again. He had to.

  He sat down on a steel locker and stared hard across the rails. How did she see her husband? Respect, fear, admiration. There had been little hint of anything else, like the moments when she had spoken of her dead sister.

  There was a sudden sharp crack, a momentary flash from the land and then a chilling silence.

  Blackwood was on his feet as Lieutenant Bannatyre came running forward followed by the sergeant major.

  Blackwood rapped, ‘Silence on deck!’ It was hopeless. The Bajamar’s crew were unused to discipline and voices called and echoed around the river in a mad chorus.

  ‘Pistol shot, Ian.’ Blackwood glanced at the lieutenant’s motionless figure. ‘Stand to, man!’

  Fox strode away, barely raising his voice and yet restoring instant order as his marines, some half-naked but grasping their rifles, bustled to their allotted positions on either side and up in the bows.

  Blackwood strained his ears into the darkness but it was as if nothing had happened. It was on Earle’s side of the river. He cursed himself for sending such an inexperienced officer. Maybe he had fired his pistol by accident. It was not unknown. He dismissed the idea instantly. He was looking for an easy way out. An explanation like the ones you heard at a court-martial. No. Earle was young and earnest but he was not a fool.

  He felt the big Norwegian beside him.

  ‘You want me go back?’ He waited, the unlit pipe dragging at his jaw. ‘Better going downstream.’

  Blackwood swung on him, ‘You have your orders. Obey them!’ He realized with a start that the countess was on deck, her Chinese maid clinging to her arm.

  ‘Please go to your cabin, Countess.’

  She looked at him and said, ‘Is it serious, Captain?’

  Suddenly he wanted to throw his arms round her, to bury his face in her hair and tell her what it was like. Once the flood began he knew it would not stop. Faces flashed through his mind, his father the General, Neil and young Jonathan whom he barely knew. And all the other faces he had come to love. In the Corps you got to know people very well. Or you split wide open.

  ‘Not bad, Countess.’ He barely recognized his own voice. ‘It will seem better when daylight comes. Try to –’

  He heard the snap of a rifle-bolt and then Swan’s round Hampshire voice. Its fami
liar tone did more to steady him than he could have believed.

  ‘Boat’s comin’, sir.’

  It was Sergeant Kirby. He dragged himself heavily over the guardrails and sought out Blackwood from the others.

  Across that strip of dirty, sluggish current Sergeant Kirby’s mind had stayed busy, ready for what was to come.

  He said shortly, ‘I’ve left Corporal Lyde in charge, sir.’ Kirby had to grit his teeth together to control himself. Blackwood was like mustard and would see through any stupid lie. It was so bloody unfair on top of everything else. But I should have known. His own thoughts rang in his mind like an official reprimand. That stupid little bugger Earle. It was so unfair.

  Blackwood asked quietly, ‘In your own words, Sergeant. There may not be much time.’

  Kirby fumbled inside his tunic and then dragged out a service revolver.

  ‘Mr Earle’s, sir.’ He looked at the shadowy figures around him, quietly accusing. ‘Weren’t my fault! Must ’ave wandered off!’

  Blackwood took the revolver and then handed it to Swan. He knew she was still there on deck watching him.

  Swan said, ‘It’s ’is right enough, sir.’

  Blackwood felt something like nausea as he recalled the mutilated gaping corpses, the great swinging swords and the blood.

  He said, ‘You go ashore, Ian.’ He listened to his own voice and wondered how he could do it. ‘Looks as if they’ve got him.’

  The lieutenant nodded and hurried towards the boat.

  To Fox he added, ‘You take over here while I have a look at the map.’ He gripped the nearest stanchion and murmured fiercely, ‘Please God, let him be dead!’

  The marines moved restlessly along either side as the news moved amongst them like an evil spectre.

  Fox strode through the shadows and then paused by the slim figure with her maid.

  ‘Would you please go to yer quarters, Ma’am.’ He spoke very slowly and firmly as he always did when talking to foreigners. ‘The Captain wants you to be safe. It’s wot we’re ’ere for, an’ ’e’s got enough on ’is plate at the moment without sweatin’ about you, like.’

  She only understood half of it but the man’s genuine concern was clear in his rough voice.

  ‘I shall do as you ask.’ She hesitated, one hand on the door. ‘You should be proud to serve him.’

  Fox was taken aback. You did not discuss such things with women. ‘I – I ’spect yer right, er, Countess.’ He hurried away to look for Kirby and to force the truth out of him.

  In the tiny, darkened chartroom Blackwood examined the map and compared it with a chart he had brought from Mediator. If nothing else happened in the next few hours they would up-anchor and proceed. He wiped his face with his sleeve. In the cramped space he could barely breathe. It was not helped by the stink of gin and stale pipesmoke.

  Tomorrow. He blinked to clear his aching mind. Today. They would come to a great elbow-shaped bend in the river. High bank to starboard, a bit lower to port. If they got around that without incident they should be clear for a final run. The river was no deeper, but it was much wider. They could even anchor in midstream without the need to put pickets ashore.

  But suppose this last terrible incident was a mere foretaste of what lay immediately ahead? He tried to keep his mind on an even keel, to shut out the pictures of what might be happening to Earle right at this moment. He must decide what to do. He tried again. If there was an attack or, worse, an ambush it would be there on the high ground. The Bajamar would be too busy manoeuvring with her twin paddles to take evasive action, and she could not attempt it under cover of darkness.

  They wanted the countess, whoever they were.

  He measured the distances very carefully with some brass dividers, the sweat from his forehead dropping on his hands like hot rain. He thought of her cool fingers, the way she had looked at him as he had rapped out his orders. She would see him differently now. So would some of his men. The cold ruthless officer who did not even care about one of his own kind. Blackwood gripped the chart table until his fingers cracked. What the hell did they expect?

  His breathing steadied and he slowly straightened his back. With unusual care he buttoned his tunic and adjusted his holster.

  And it was only just beginning.

  They crowded around Blackwood at one end of the Bajamar’s saloon, a place normally used by the vessel’s rare passengers. Now it was littered with the marines’ blankets and packs and some spare boxes of ammunition.

  Blackwood looked at them, at their grim faces under a solitary deckhead oil lamp.

  The sergeant major stooped even here between the overhead beams. Lieutenant Bannatyre had just returned from the shore. He had found Earle’s white helmet tossed in some bushes. As with the revolver it was as if they wanted to be sure they knew they had captured the eighteen-year-old officer. Sergeant Kirby, lips compressed in a thin line, his eyes red from strain, and his two corporals, Lyde and O’Neil, both old campaigners.

  Austad stood with but a little apart from them, his heavy face squinting through his own pipesmoke.

  Blackwood said as evenly as he could manage, ‘This is what I intend.’ He gestured to a rough drawing he had made of the river bend they would have to pass. ‘I believe an attack will be made here. If they delay, we can reach the trading mission and have the protection of a German gunboat. Or if they hoped to frighten us into turning back,’ he sensed Austad’s resentment at his words, ‘they could try another attack closer to the sea. They’ve had plenty of time to prepare if they are as well informed as I think they must be.’

  Kirby said bitterly, ‘Looks like we’re in a trap either way, sir.’

  Blackwood placed his finger on the crudely drawn map. ‘We shall land a small party there. It will soon be daylight and if Captain Austad can make plenty of smoke any lookouts will know his ship is approaching.’ Austad made no comment and Blackwood continued in the same even tone, ‘We shall have to rely on surprise.’ They watched his finger as it moved in a straight line, inland to a point behind the salient which guarded the bend in the river. ‘By my reckoning it should take an hour. Forced march, weapons and ammunition only.’ He glanced at their intent faces. They knew what he meant all right. Kill or be killed. ‘We’ll take them from the rear.’ Then he did look at Austad. ‘If we fail you will turn back and return to Shanghai. Do not try to proceed any further unsupported.’

  Fox said sharply, ‘You goin’ with ’em, sir?’ He sounded as if he had misheard.

  Blackwood eyed him gravely. What else-can I do? Aloud he said, ‘Mr Bannatyre will take command here, and you will, I know, Sergeant Major, give him every support.’ He shifted his glance from Fox’s unspoken protest to the young lieutenant. Bannatyre seemed surprised, or was it just relief?

  ‘Your only task is to protect the Countess and deliver her into safe hands, right?’

  ‘Sir.’ Bannatyre’s head bobbed as if the neck had been broken. He was probably thinking about Earle. They all were.

  Blackwood said, ‘Sergeant Kirby and his two corporals will come with me. I want the best marksmen you can find. I am not asking for volunteers. Just ten good men.’

  Surprisingly Corporal O’Neil gave a deep guffaw. ‘What’s a volunteer, sorr?’

  Blackwood found that he could smile. ‘A deaf Marine.’ He wanted to dash the sweat from his face but needed to appear calm and in control.

  Fox asked, ‘How long, sir?’

  Austad reluctantly removed the meerschaum from his mouth.

  ‘Give me a half-hour. Then, very slow, I move.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Blackwood saw the Norwegian giant sigh. He had already accepted they were as good as killed.

  They left the saloon and Blackwood doused the lamp. Then he opened one of the steel shutters which covered a square port and stared into the darkness. He could smell the land, still hot from the previous day. If only it would rain. Anything was better than this crushing silence.

  He heard Swan say, ‘Can I
have your gun, sir?’

  Blackwood drew it from its leather holster and handed it to him without turning round. Swan would check everything. It seemed wrong to drag him into danger yet again. It would be insulting to leave him behind.

  ‘Shan’t be sorry to stretch my legs, sir.’ Swan was feeling the revolver in the darkness, removing each bullet and making sure it was a perfect one before he refilled the chamber.

  ‘I could be wrong.’ It was easy to admit doubt to Swan, when he could share nothing with his officers. Fear was something. To show it to those he had to lead was different entirely. He half smiled into the darkness. He even sounded like the old General. Then with Swan beside him he walked to the side-deck where Kirby was explaining to his landing party what was expected of them.

  Kirby had picked his men well. It was almost as if he had expected something like this to happen.

  Suppose there were eyes still watching from the riverbank, waiting to hack them down even as they climbed from the boat? Blackwood moved his shoulders briskly beneath his tunic. He was suddenly quite cold. It was always the same. A hazy plan, the need to act before you had time to think it through or to weigh up the chances of failure.

  He could feel it. The decision right or wrong was made. Now all he wanted to do was to get on with it.

  ‘Into the boat.’

  Several of the shadowy figures nearby whispered farewells to their friends as they vanished into the little sampan.

  Fox said, ‘Good luck, sir. I just wish –’

  Blackwood touched his arm and felt the power of the man. ‘I know. But it has to be this way.’

  Fox grunted. ‘I know that too, sir.’

  Then he was in the sampan and the paddles guided the box-shaped hull swiftly clear of the side and into the deeper shadows of the bank. They paused within feet of the land, the paddles motionless while the marines peered and listened for any sign of sudden danger.

  Blackwood swung his leg over the gunwale. Once he glanced over his shoulder but the anchored paddle-steamer was little more than a pale blur against the opposite bank.

  As he waded from the shallows he heard his feet crunching on coarse grass and scrub. Like everything else, tinder-dry and smelling vaguely of rot. There were trees too, but not enough to provide cover.