The First to Land (1984)

by Reeman, Douglas

  Blackwood walked down the sloping deck and felt his way past one of the great paddles. Figures crouched behind makeshift barricades, their eyes pale in the grey light as they turned to watch him. Corporal O’Neil was right aft by the taffrail, peering down at the sampan which was tied astern. The charge was concealed with canvas and more timber. It would not do to have a stray shot strike that pile of explosive, he thought.

  O’Neil said cheerfully, ‘Two fuses, sir, in case one misfires.’ No questions, no doubts.

  Blackwood smiled. ‘You’ve done well.’

  O’Neil chuckled. ‘Learned a mite from my brother in the RMA, sir. A fine lad even if he is a gunner!’

  Blackwood continued on his inspection. Even O’Neil’s little joke seemed to symbolize something. The Corps. The family.

  It was strange to think he had never seen Jonathan in uniform. He like O’Neil’s brother was in the Royal Marine Artillery, the first gunner in the Blackwood family. A Blue Marine. That must have given the General a few doubtful moments.

  The hull gave a shudder and a man yelled hoarsely from the bows as the anchor rose dripping against the hawsepipe. The great paddle-wheels thrashed round even as the helm went over, and belching more smoke the Bajamar pivoted in mid-stream like the old veteran she was.

  It was already much lighter, and he could see the riverbank, the indistinct shadow of the ruined mission.

  The paddles churned up sand and dirt from the bottom as with a leadsman in the bows she steadied on course. Austad left his little catwalk and stood near the helmsman. Austad looked over at Blackwood without a word and then put a match to his pipe. He reached out for the telegraph and Blackwood heard the bell jangle in the engine room, and the increasing beat of the paddles as they responded.

  Corporal Lyde stood near the second anchor and eyed the tackle and slips with obvious contempt. It was a job for sailors, or coolie deckhands. Not Royal Marines.

  He patted his ammunition pouches and checked that his Lee-Metford rifle was ready with the safety catch on. But if it had to be done, the Second Platoon would do it best, or he’d want to know why.

  Midway between the machine gun and the oblong superstructure, Sergeant Kirby stood with his arms folded, his eyes apparently on the lieutenant in the bows. Bloody Bannatyre was already scared out of his wits and nothing had happened yet. But the thought failed to console him or shift his mind from his terrible secret.

  He shouldn’t have listened, then he wouldn’t have known. Besides which, they could have sorted things out.

  A friend at Forton Barracks had told him that he had seen Kirby’s wife in a London ale house, she had been with a soldier, and they had apparently been aware of nothing but each other. Kirby had considered asking for leave, but with the whole company standing by for overseas he knew it would not be granted. Besides which, he had his pride, both in the Corps which he had entered as a boy, and in what he had achieved to get the chevrons on his sleeve.

  He had spent all his money on a train fare to London. He did not really remember planning anything. It had just happened. Kirby could see her face right now, as if she was here on this ruddy steamer. He clutched the guardrail and felt the power running through his fingers.

  The way they had stared at him from the bed. His bed. Both naked, and gaping at him in the doorway.

  ‘Oh dear God!’ He heard a man shuffle and knew he had spoken aloud.

  The soldier had been quick. He had dived from the bed and had run frantically from the room. Kirby did not really care about him anyway. He could have been anyone. She had started to plead, to beg. With the same detached efficiency with which he might examine a recruit’s rifle for a speck of dirt, he had strangled her. He could not even remember how long he had sat there after covering her contorted face with a blanket. All his things. Pictures of his past ships, fellow NCOs, even one of himself as a callow recruit.

  Then he had left and had returned to the barracks on a milk train. Nobody had seen him leave or return. He was not even a minute adrift for reveille.

  When her body was discovered the police would inform the barracks. Nobody else would care much. And the soldier? He would be careful to keep his mouth shut. He might well have been seen with her that night at the pub.

  And yet. He felt the anxiety and despair closing round him like his fingers on her neck. I know and I care, his mind seemed to shout.

  And supposing someone had seen him there?

  Blackwood stood beside him. Kirby felt ice-cold. How long had he been watching him?

  But Blackwood merely said, ‘Ready for Rounds, Sergeant. Just to make sure we’ve forgotten nothing.’ He looked at him in the gloom. ‘Are you all right?’

  Kirby nodded. ‘Never better, sir.’

  He followed the young captain, glad to be doing something, grateful to be a part of it all even if he had to die for it.

  Blackwood walked past the saloon. In darkness but with each port wide open. Here and there a rifle muzzle showed itself. He pressed the white paintwork. The metal and wood beneath would not stop a bullet except at long range. But it was all they had.

  He heard Kirby close on his heels. What the hell was the matter with him? he wondered.

  Blackwood paused by the last door and thought of her on the other side. Friedrike. He touched his lips with the back of his hand and thought of her mouth, her nearness.

  Nearby Fox saw his hesitation and allowed his stern features to relax. Then he glared at the crouching figures by the bulwark. In their stained whites they looked more like bloody convicts than marines. He would alter all that when they reached order and routine again. He looked up at the masthead, now clearly etched against the sky. Not even a flag. Gawd.

  There was a sharp crack followed by the thud of a bullet hitting the hull on the port side.

  Fox shouted, ‘Stand-to! Face yer front but keep down!’

  He stared at the lieutenant who was standing alone and framed against the sky. It went against Fox’s instincts to shout at an officer. But in a few more seconds that marksman would see him and pick him out as a target.

  ‘Down, Mr Bannatyre, if you please, sir!’

  He sighed as the officer dropped to his knees.

  Blackwood crouched beside him. Fox felt the captain’s mind going like an engine.

  ‘It’s started, sir.’

  ‘Sooner than I expected.’ He grimaced as another shot clanged into the low hull. He said, ‘No firing until I give the order.’

  Fox watched him duck down and move to the opposite side. Sharp as a tack, that one. Blackwood knew that if they were allowed the marines would blaze away and use most of their ammunition before they had got halfway. Nobody liked to sit and take it without shooting back.

  He looked at Sergeant Kirby who was kneeling behind a winch.

  ‘All right, Jeff?’

  Kirby glared at him. Why don’t they all shut up and leave me alone?

  But he answered readily, ‘Never better, Sar’nt Major!’

  The sun’s rim shone like a gold halo above one of the pointed hills and with it came the attack.

  ‘Hold yer fire!’ Fox’s voice carried like a trumpet above the sporadic crack of rifles and muskets which appeared to be coming from either bank.

  Blackwood peered over the low bulwark and watched drifting smoke rising from some bushes, but of the marksmen there was no sign at all.

  He shouted, ‘More speed, Captain Austad!’ He guessed the vessel was going as fast as she could, and the spray was flying from the churning paddle wheels like spindrift.

  ‘There’s Johnnie Chinaman!’

  Blackwood saw the running figures as they broke from cover by some open ground.

  ‘Two ’undred yards! Independent! Fire!’

  The marines took careful aim and squeezed their triggers. Several of the running men tumbled down the slope, their red ribbons and loose white tunics like untidy bundles amongst the dried scrub.

  ‘Cease firing!’ Fox yelled, ‘Reload magazines! Wat
ch yer front!’

  Blackwood glanced quickly at the nearest marines as they pressed eight more bullets into their rifles. Most of the heavy shooting had come from the port side. They would eventually have to steer closer to the salient where they had fought their swift, decisive battle. Blackwood saw that the dead Boxers had dropped their weapons, not swords this time but great shining blades mounted on staves like pikes. The Big Knife Society. It did not seem so bizarre now.

  More white-clad figures broke from cover and ran recklessly towards the river, some firing, others brandishing their fearsome-looking blades, apparently oblivious to the danger.

  ‘Commence firing!’

  The Maxim gun came to life, tak-tak-tak, the ammunition belt jerking through a marine’s fingers as the bullets made little spurts in the water, across the bank and then through the mob of yelling figures.

  Blackwood recalled what Major Blair had told him in Hong Kong. That the Boxers were so fanatical that they really believed they were invulnerable to sword-cuts, even bullets.

  More of them were flung down by the rapid fire, until the Maxim jerked into silence and Kirby exclaimed, ‘Jammed! Wot did I tell you?’

  But nobody listened as the river-bank and shallows swung even closer to the port-side paddle-wheel.

  Bullets slammed into the hull and Blackwood heard glass shattering, the cry for assistance as one of his men was hit inside the saloon. The leadsman in the bows rose warily to his feet and flung his line over the side. He seemed to pivot on his heels, his mouth wide in a silent scream as a heavy ball smashed him in the chest and hurled him over the bulwark. Blackwood saw one of the marines shutting his eyes tightly as the leadsman was sucked into the great churning paddle-blades and ground to bloody fragments in seconds. Austad had drawn his old long-barrelled Colt revolver and was firing at some of the Boxers who stood waist-deep in the shallows. One fell, another waded closer, his rifle aimed at the bridge even as the stoppage was cleared from the Maxim and a hail of bullets tossed him aside within yards of the hull.

  Blackwood strode to the bows, trying not to duck as several bullets struck sparks from the windlass or ploughed splinters from the deck. They were shooting down into the ship as the Bajamar steamed into the narrows at the start of the wide bend. Another marine fell on his back, gasping in agony as a red stain spread across his tunic and one of his comrades ran to drag him to safety.

  Lieutenant Bannatyre, his revolver in his fist, stared at Blackwood without recognition.

  Blackwood said sharply, ‘They’ll try and board us in a moment!’

  ‘But – but – ’ Bannatyre seemed unable to form his words. ‘H-how can they?’

  There was no time to explain. It would not help anyway. ‘These people don’t know what fear is!’

  Crack – crack – crack! Shots clattered and ricocheted from the paddle-boxes and superstructure, and holes appeared in the sides of the saloon like brightly edged stars.

  Corporal Lyde called hoarsely, ‘Two men down, sir! I think Private Elmhirst is done for!’

  Blackwood winced as a heavier bang shook the bridge. Probably an ancient Chinese gingall left over from the other wars. Like a giant duck-gun, it needed two men to carry and fire it.

  A face intruded into his racing thoughts. Private Elmhirst, Lyde had said. Round and innocent, made more so by his carefully grown moustache. Like Ralf, he thought.

  Running and ducking Blackwood hurried into the deeper shadow of a paddle-box and knelt beside the young marine. He looked so pale he could already have been dead. Elmhirst opened his eyes and stared up at him. His eyes seemed unable to focus properly as if he was barely aware of what was happening. More sharp cracks made the deck quiver and Blackwood could hear Fox calling for him. He took Elmhirst’s hand in his. ‘Easy, lad. Hold on.’ Lyde had torn open his white tunic and was trying to staunch the blood with a dressing. It seemed to be everywhere.

  ‘I – I got one of ’em, sir.’ Elmhirst’s voice was small, almost a whisper.

  Lyde said roughly, ‘’Course you did. Two of the buggers more like, eh, sir?’ He looked at Blackwood, his face saying it was hopeless.

  Blackwood said, ‘I’ll tell them about it.’ He saw the light go out in the youth’s eyes and felt the grip on his hand slacken.

  Lyde watched him stride forward again, then closed the marine’s eyes. ‘I hope you heard, that, my son.’ Then he picked up his rifle, thumbed off the safety catch and fired over the rail. Lyde had already selected another zig-zagging target even as the first one dropped.

  Fox beckoned to Blackwood and pointed at the hillside. ‘Smoke, sir! They’ve got somethin’ ready for us!’

  A marine pounded the Maxim’s breech until blood showed on his knuckles.

  ‘Bloody bastard! ‘Nother misfire!’

  There was a muffled bang and then the early sunlight vanished completely in a great ball of fire and dense smoke.

  Fox rasped, ‘Stink-pot, sir. It’ll set the ship ablaze if they put one into us!’

  Another bang and the hull shook violently as if it had run hard aground. The explosion was deafening, and within seconds the top of the saloon, the catwalk and even the mast flared up like torches.

  ‘Fire party! At the double!’

  Water splashed and hissed on the fires but the stink-pot had taken a firm hold. Blackwood could smell the seared paintwork, and heard flames fanning through the cabins, roaring like something alive.

  Austad shouted, ‘We soon reach the bend!’ He stared at the damage with disbelief and anger. ‘If we don’t sink first!’

  Another man dropped as a bullet flung him to the deck. One of Austad’s crew this time. The flames licked along the deck and set the man ablaze so that he rolled and kicked while two marines tried to cover him with wet canvas.

  Another fireball exploded right alongside, burning a great gash in the paddle-box before striking the river and hurling up a column of smoke and steam.

  The Maxim came alive again and raked the nearest bank, back and forth like a reaper in a field. Bodies littered the ground and drifted in the shallows, but nothing stopped them. It was like a tide, Blackwood thought as he fired his revolver into a group behind some bushes, the gun kicking in his hand as if to fight him.

  The smoke was thicker, pricking his eyes as it funnelled through the cabins and bridge. If they lost control now and ran into a sandbar they would be butchered without mercy. The lucky ones anyway.

  ‘Put more men on the fires, Sergeant!’ Blackwood struggled with his empty revolver then turned as Swan said calmly, ‘Let me, sir.’ He handed it back and wiped his face with his sleeve, leaving a black mark like a handprint.

  Blackwood peered through the smoke and shouted, ‘Mr Bannatyre, take charge here!’ He did not wait for an answer but thrust his way into the saloon and saw flames darting through the bulkhead, consuming furniture and scattered clothing in an instant. More men followed him with slopping buckets of water, and Blackwood heard somebody screaming through the fires and guessed it was one of the stokers.

  He kicked open a door and skidded to a halt as he saw the stooping figure of the countess’s brother-in-law carrying a marine to safety behind some chests and upended foot lockers. He was in his shirt-sleeves and was murmuring gently to the sobbing marine who became suddenly quiet as he realized someone was trying to help. Blackwood knew that the marine did not understand a word of German, but the man’s soothing voice and almost saintly countenance did more than any surgeon. Blackwood touched his shoulder as he hurried past. It was the first time since his wife had been murdered that he had heard him speak.

  He blinked in smoky sunlight as he passed a big hole in the side, the edges bent inwards like wet cardboard. He saw the little Chinese maid crouching in a corner, her head in her hands, and for a moment he thought she had been killed or wounded. But she was sobbing very quietly, her small body rocking to the violent movement of the deck as the Bajamar swung on to a new leg of her dash downstream.

  ‘Come along, Anna!
’ He seized her shoulder and pushed her to the last cabin.

  The countess stared at him, her eyes wide and questioning.

  Blackwood said, ‘Take care of this one!’ He ducked as a bullet or metal splinter came through the port and ricocheted across the cabin.

  ‘Down.’ He took her wrist and pulled her closer to a barricade of luggage which they had heaped against one bulkhead. She crouched beside him without protest as he tried to make her more comfortable. She put her hands over her ears as more crashes and thuds broke against the hull like fiery hammers.

  ‘Sir! Sir! There’s a boat ahead!’ Swan peered in at them then swung round and fired from the hip as a figure loomed from the water right alongside. Blackwood tried to moisten his lips. God, there must only be a few inches under the keel.

  He stood up and peered through the open port. The fires were under control, although he could hear demands for more water coming from aft. They had to keep the flames from reaching the sampan, or from burning the towline. The other sampan had been blasted to pieces by the stink-pots, and in any case time had run out.

  She exclaimed suddenly, ‘I must help! Must do something!’ She watched him desperately, ‘Dieter, my, my vollbruder, is out there, so please let me help him!’

  Blackwood smiled. ‘I’ll send someone.’ He heard shouts and the intermittent rattle of the machine-gun. He ran through the smoke catching stark glimpses of grim, determined faces, bolts being jerked, empty cartridge cases rattling in the scuppers to the swish and thunder of the racing paddles.

  He found Bannatyre, hatless, with his revolver in his hand, standing beside two wounded marines while the rest of his party fired their rifles over the bulwark as fast as they could aim and reload. One of the wounded men, his head wrapped in a bloody bandage, was also busy reloading the discarded rifles, groaning to himself as he thrust in each new bullet.

  Bannatyre looked wild. ‘There, look!’