She said, ‘You love those men, don’t you?’
He looked at her and then slowly raised his arm around her shoulder. ‘I’d never thought of it like that. I just did not know what to say. How to explain.’
He felt her shiver and her fingers bunch tightly against his back. He knew she was crying. Perhaps for all of them.
They returned to the cabin in silence, the ship rolling and creaking around them as if in a restless sleep after her moment of glory. Swan sat him on the bunk, removed his boots but stood aside as she said, ‘Thank you, Herr Swan. I can do what is necessary.’
The door closed and Blackwood allowed her to remove his tunic and cradle his shoulders as he lay back on the bunk.
‘You sleep now.’ She watched him sadly, her cheek marked with tears. ‘Tomorrow, who knows?’
He reached out and took her hand. ‘I wish – ’ Her hand moved in his grasp. In a moment she would pull away.
He persisted, ‘If only –’
She grasped his hand in hers and without taking her gaze from his face pressed it beneath her breast and held it there.
‘Do you think, my dear David, I am made of ice? That is my heart you can feel.’
He felt her breast against his fingers, the pressure as she leaned over him and kissed him. Not as a countess, but as a young girl.
She stood up, her face flushed, her calm momentarily gone. She said quietly, ‘If only, you said. What words, David. What might have been.’
She reached out suddenly and extinguished the lamp. ‘I shall be near if you need me.’ Then the door closed behind her.
He stared at the darkness again. She had called him by name. Even the pain seemed less, the sting in his eyes of no importance. He thought of the way she had looked, the pressure of her breast against his hand.
He was still thinking of her when complete exhaustion carried him into a deep sleep.
9
Divided Loyalty
Captain Vere Masterman watched impassively as Mediator’s surgeon completed his examination. Only the fingers of his left hand which plucked at his white drill uniform gave any hint of his impatience and mounting irritation.
Eventually he could stand it no longer.
‘Well, Doc, what’s the verdict?’
The surgeon straightened his back and wound his hands together as if he was washing them.
‘The eyes are excellent, sir. The blow on his head might be described as a serious concussion. There could be some trouble from it unless Captain Blackwood is allowed to rest, or at least undertake light duties.’
Blackwood sat on the edge of the bunk and controlled the desire to laugh. They were discussing him as if he were somewhere else, or did not really exist. Through the door of the sickbay he could see the gently swaying cots, everything spotless, glaring white.
He recalled his return to the Mediator, the unreality of it, the tremendous relief hitting him for the first time when he realized he had never expected to see the cruiser again. The poor little Bajamar had only just managed it. Even with Austad’s skill, his threats and his pleas, they had still had to burn everything movable to get them here to Taku. It had been dusk and the evening air had been torn apart by the wild cheering which had greeted the listing paddle-steamer’s arrival.
Now in the cool, ordered world of Mediator’s sickbay it was impossible to accept what they had done. Even the anchorage was a surprise. He had expected to see Mediator’s sleek outline, perhaps even a few support ships, but instead there seemed to be a whole fleet. Not just British either. German, Russian, Japanese and American, the vessels ranged from ponderous battleships to low, black-hulled torpedo boat destroyers.
Blackwood touched his head and felt both pairs of eyes turn towards him. If he was not careful he might be sent home to England. He thought of the past few days as the Bajamar had puffed and pounded her way north and around the Shantung Peninsula and into the vast Gulf of Chihli, to here off the Peiho River. Friedrike had rarely left his side. She had bathed his injured eye, changed his bandages, and refused to permit even Swan to take care of him. Now it was over and she was somewhere across the anchorage in the German cruiser which had been promised by the official called Westphal in Shanghai. He sighed. A million years ago.
The door slid shut and Masterman said abruptly, ‘He’s like an old woman.’ He smiled, and Blackwood guessed that he probably knew that the surgeon was still listening outside the door. Masterman added, ‘I am very glad to have you back aboard, although for how long –’
Blackwood struggled into his white tunic. ‘I’m feeling much better, sir.’
Masterman continued wryly, ‘I would not release you anyway. We are going to need experienced officers more than ever.’ He sounded angry. ‘I hate politicians. They seem to believe that a show of force is all that is needed to quell this uprising.’ He snorted. ‘Uprising? We’ll have a full-scale bloody war on our hands if we’re not careful!’
Blackwood stood up and glanced through the gleaming scuttle. Concussion, the surgeon had said. He could certainly feel the ache. Like blood pounding. He would have to be careful. He had known of a young lieutenant who had never recovered from a blow on the head. It had made him forgetful, only half aware of what was happening.
‘What is the position, sir?’
Masterman shrugged. ‘We and our allies have sent more troops by rail to Peking to protect the legations. They are getting very little aid from the Chinese government. Only these damned Boxers seem to have any power. Several outlying missions have been attacked, clergymen and nuns brutally treated. It must be stopped.’ He studied Blackwood’s grave features. ‘It will be stopped. By the way, your new commanding officer has joined us. That chap Blair from Hong Kong.’
‘Major Blair?’
Masterman was already thinking of something else. ‘Lieutenant Colonel Blair now. That gives you some idea of the urgency. Damned politicians!’
There was a nervous tap at the door and a small midshipman peered at his captain with something like terror.
‘Well, boy?’ Masterman glared down at him from his great height.
‘Th-the Commander sends his respects, sir, and would you repair on board the Centurion.’
‘Hmm. Call away the pinnace.’
Blackwood pricked up his ears. Centurion was a battleship. It was that important.
Masterman saw his expression and nodded. ‘Our lord and master, Sir Edward Seymour, is come amongst us.’ He snorted again. ‘Any captain worth his salt should be able to manage this affair.’ Surprisingly he laughed. ‘Of course, I won’t take that view when I’m an admiral, eh?’
Muffled by steel and distance Blackwood heard a boatswain’s mate bellow, ‘Afternoon watchmen and relief boats’ crews to dinner!’
A new anchorage, the very real chance of a war, but nothing changed the Royal Navy.
Masterman said over his shoulder, ‘You may return to general duties as far as I’m concerned.’ He looked round and added, ‘Sorry you had to go through all that other business. You lost some good fellows by all accounts.’
It was the nearest Masterman would ever get to actual praise.
Swan flitted through the door within seconds of the captain’s departure. ‘I’ve got your cabin all sorted out, sir.’ He bustled about, picking up odd garments and Blackwood’s field-service cap, his eyes everywhere. ‘You ’eard about ‘Tenant Colonel Blair, sir?’
‘Yes.’ It would be good to see him again, although how Blair would like this sort of situation was something else. ‘I’ll report to him right away.’
Swan watched him rise to his feet, the way he waited to accustom himself to the gentle roll. This was more like it, he thought.
Swan replied, ‘I’m afraid ’e’s gone over to Centurion too, sir. All captains and senior officers from other ships to repair on board.’
Swan thought of the excitement their return had caused. Slaps on the back, more grog than any man could carry, and the whole ship was still buzzing with wh
at they had done upriver. The German countess put just the right touch to the story, he thought. The beautiful woman in distress, rescued by the gallant Royals. It would read well if it ever reached the papers in Portsmouth.
She was probably over there with Admiral Seymour. Even that made him chuckle. He would never show disrespect for an officer in front of Captain Blackwood, not a senior one anyway, but he knew that right through fleet Admiral Seymour was nicknamed ‘See-no-More’.
Blackwood walked slowly through the sickbay, glancing at the various faces as he passed. Most of them were sailors of the ship’s company but in the end cots he found familiar ones, some of his own marines who were recovering from their injuries. He paused by one.
‘Hello, Erskine, how are you feeling?’ God, he thought, he looked such a boy, it was impossible to see him with rifle and fixed bayonet when they had rammed the boom across the Hoshun. He had been badly wounded in the foot and Swan had brought him the news that Mediator’s surgeon had amputated it to save his life. Private Erskine peered at him seemingly without recognition. He was drugged but probably still in great pain.
Then he shaded his eyes and said, ‘Why did ’e do it, sir?’
Swan tried to move him away but Blackwood was bending over the boy as he whispered, ‘I’d rather be dead than like this. I’ll be like them others we used to see hangin’ around the gates at Forton Barracks.’ He turned his face away and said, ‘I – I’m sorry, sir, it worn’t your fault.’ He was sobbing uncontrollably.
Blackwood looked at the other. Sergeant Kirby, pale and tight-lipped, refusing to die. Private Farley who had been the first to be cut down. Now he was trying to play cards with an injured seaman, his arm in a sling. But he was over the worst. He would soon be back with his pals, cursing Fox, and chasing the girls ashore.
Blackwood knew all about Erskine. His father had been in the Corps, but had been drowned seven years ago when his ship the Victoria had been accidentally rammed and sunk by the Camperdown while on manoeuvres in the Mediterranean. Not only Erskine’s father had been killed that day. Victoria had been the flagship of Vice-Admiral Sir George Tryon. The admiral and over three hundred others had died because of a stupid miscalculation.
Erskine was the last Royal Marine in the family. Now he was a cripple for the rest of his life.
Why did he do it? he had asked. There was no answer. Men had been asking the same question since the Battle of Hastings.
He touched the boy’s shoulder. ‘I’ll do what I can.’
Swan followed his captain and wondered why he always became so caught up with their affairs. It was the job. You always thought it couldn’t happen to you anyway. He shrugged. But if it did, that was it.
Instead of going to the privacy of his cabin Blackwood went on deck, almost blinded by the sun despite the taut awnings above the after guns.
It was more like a fleet review than a preparation for war. He recognized several of the ships at anchor. Like the Corps the Navy was also a family. Ships came and went, old and new, happy ones and those which bred trouble like fever.
‘You are looking so much better, sir.’
Blackwood turned and responded to his cousin’s salute. Ralf looked wary, as if he expected to be criticized. To Blackwood he was one of the vague faces who had come and gone to visit him in the sick-quarters. The passage to Taku in the little paddle-steamer, to say nothing of the battle, had taken more out of him than he had realized. Even as he returned Ralf’s salute he felt the sore tightness across his ribs. The wound he had not even felt in the heat of the fighting. Ralf looked pale. Perhaps he was the sort who never got sunburned.
‘It’s good to be back.’ Was it? He remembered her replacing that dressing within hours of their arrival here. Her hands had been cool against his skin, her eyes downcast to avoid his gaze. He had watched his own hand as if it had belonged to someone else. A stranger. He had touched her shoulder, and as she had worked deftly with the bandage she had bent her head to rest her cheek on his wrist, still without looking at him.
Blackwood had heard some of the Bajamar’s crew shouting. They had sighted smoke. Help was close. It would soon all be finished.
Blackwood had raised her chin and had said, ‘I love you, Friedrike. You know that –’
She had tried to smile. ‘I adore your funny accent. The way you speak my name.’ But instead of a smile only tears had come. They hugged each other, murmuring words that neither heard, holding, then touching with a boldness made from desperation.
She had forced herself away, her breasts rising and falling, her eyes wanting him and yet holding him away.
‘Please, David! Please help me! You know I cannot, must not!’
He had climbed from the bunk, the dangling bandage forgotten. ‘And I love the way you say my name.’ They had clung together, and she had kissed him again and again while his hand held her breast.
Blackwood looked past his cousin, the ache disturbing him as he knew it would.
‘And I was terribly sorry to hear about Charles Earle.’ Ralf was almost pleading. ‘It should have been me.’
Blackwood smiled. ‘It should not have been anyone.’ He thought of the young marine with only one foot. ‘Have you settled in now?’ He almost said ‘at last’.
Ralf shrugged easily, glad to be on safer ground.
‘They’re not a bad crowd. Some of them thought you weren’t going to get back. I soon told them to mind their manners!’
A midshipman, the same one who had faced his captain, shouted to the officer-of-the-day, ‘Boat coming from the German cruiser, sir! From SMS Flensburg, heading this way, sir!’
The lieutenant, who had been melting in the heat and thinking only of a drink before lunch, gripped his sword and snapped, ‘Yes, there was a signal about it. Some important German count is coming to pay his respects or something.’ He saw Blackwood and added in a calmer voice, ‘Inform the Commander, Mr Lacy, and man the side.’ He raised his telescope and then exclaimed loudly, ‘And clear those idlers off the upper deck! The countess is aboard!’
Blackwood stared at the smart steam pinnace which was pushing up a moustache of foam as it swung in an arc towards the main gangway. He saw the familiar white ensign with its black cross and eagle streaming from the stern, but his eyes fixed on her, holding the brim of her wide hat as she stared up at the anchored cruiser.
Marines were falling into ranks by the gangway, with Lieutenant de Courcy and Sergeant Greenaway of the Third Platoon making certain that everything was as it should be to receive foreigners.
Swan said quietly, ‘I think you should go below an’ change, sir.’ He saw the curious glance from the second lieutenant. A snotty little bugger, Blackwood or not, Swan decided. It was like talking to a stone wall. His captain did not even hear him.
De Courcy drew his sword with a flourish. ‘Royal Marines –’
Blackwood saw them tense, their white gloves gripping their rifles. A few paces inboard from the ship’s brass nameplate Commander Wilberforce tipped his hat over his eyes, and dabbed his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘Present – arms!’
Count Manfred von Heiser stood with his hat in his hand as the small marine band crashed out their version of ‘Deutschland über Alles’, while the guard of honour, bayonets at the present, and eyes fixed on some far-off point, waited for the din to cease.
Commander Wilberforce said, ‘You do us a great honour, Count von Heiser. I regret that the Captain is aboard the flagship and he sends his apology.’ He bowed slightly. ‘We have of course had the additional honour of carrying the Countess as a passenger.’
The count was a big man, tall and straight-backed like Masterman. It was not difficult to picture him in uniform before he became a respected diplomat.
Blackwood watched and then heard the count reply. He had a deep voice, clear and not at all guttural. Powerful, like the man.
‘We all have our duties, Commander. Now, perhaps more than ever.’
Blackwood s
aw her move slightly away from her husband so that he might see her. Beside him she looked like a very young girl playing a role. She had told Blackwood her husband was forty. He looked a lot older.
Blackwood tried not to think of him holding her, caressing her, wanting an heir. And he could tell from her eyes that she knew it was what he would be thinking.
‘I cannot begin to thank you for all you have done, Commander. When I heard what had happened I believed that nothing could save the Countess. I will not waste your time or mine by making speeches. The purpose of my visit is to meet the officer responsible if that is possible?’
Blackwood saw the pain on her face. Perhaps he had brought her here to prove that nothing could ever alter.
‘Of course, Count von Heiser.’ Wilberforce glanced at a lieutenant and snapped his gloved fingers. ‘My compliments to Captain Blackwood, and –’
Blackwood stepped forward and moved hesitatingly towards them. Several tiny images flashed across his mind. Lieutenant de Courcy’s eyes filled with horror at the sight of his company commander, hatless and without his proper uniform. Sergeant Greenaway, sucking in his cheeks, but still able to remain motionless beside his men, and as for Wilberforce he seemed to have lost his usual urbane calm.
‘So this is the man.’ Von Heiser gripped his hand, his deep-set eyes exploring Blackwood’s face as he continued, ‘Blackwood. Victoria Cross. Now I understand.’
He stood aside as she held up her hand to Blackwood. She touched his so lightly with her gloved fingers he could barely feel it.
Blackwood kissed it and it was instantly withdrawn.
Wilberforce said rather too loudly, ‘Well, now, we can go aft and take some sherry perhaps.’
Blackwood followed the others like a man in a trance. It would have been better never to see her again. Even as he watched her shoulders as she walked into the shadows of the quartermaster’s lobby, he knew it was a lie.
They stood around in Masterman’s day cabin like unrehearsed actors. The count’s presence amongst them had brought an unnatural stiffness which only made things harder. As the stewards moved around with their trays of sherry Blackwood guessed that the other officers present already had a good idea of what was happening. Mediator’s own major of marines was here, two or three of the ship’s lieutenants and a German officer who had accompanied Von Heiser as his escort.
The First to Land (1984) Page 13
