The First to Land (1984)

by Reeman, Douglas

The wheels spun, and smoke belched from the funnel and then with the horse trotting beside it the train backed slowly along the tracks.

  Blackwood climbed through the carriages, speaking to his men, or just letting them know he was there.

  He heard one marine say, ‘One thing, Fred, we are goin’ towards the sea this time, eh?’

  Blackwood felt a lump in his throat. Was it that simple? He thought of the girl with the baby at her breast and pushed the sentiment from his mind.

  There was a hell of a lot to do before they found the sea again.

  11

  The Hero

  Captain Vere Masterman put down his empty teacup and stared impassively through the stern ports of his spacious quarters. Separated from Mediator’s busy routine by steel bulkheads he could still hear the shrill of the boatswain’s calls, and the cry, ‘Hands to breakfast and clean!’ Seven in the morning although the light cruiser’s people or a large part of them had been up and about for an hour and a half already.

  Masterman prepared himself for the many tasks he had to attend to. In another hour the Colours would be hoisted to mark the official start of another day, but to Masterman this was always the best part, the early morning when a man’s mind was crisp like the air. He stared at the nearest anchored warships, the German Flensburg, and beyond her an elderly French steam sloop. Like some of the other foreign men-of-war they had their guns trained on the shore. Masterman was irritated by what he saw. Things were quite serious enough without this pointless show of force.

  Aboard his ship at least things would remain normal until he decided otherwise. When the time came Mediator would respond without any fuss or bravado.

  He could see two of the Chinese forts through the morning mist, biscuit-coloured in the frail sunlight. There would be another series of useless parleys with the Chinese garrison commanders, but nothing would happen. The Chinese knew that the Allies would not open fire with Seymour’s force still trapped ashore. And every captain knew he would not shoot. So what was the point?

  There was a tap at the door. Time to make decisions.

  ‘Come!’

  It was Commander Wilberforce as he knew it would be, his arm wrapped around a bundle of lists, requests, and the usual signal pad. Wilberforce took his time as he laid down his papers, it was his usual ploy while he gauged the captain’s mood. The signs were not good.

  Wilberforce said, ‘Signal from Flag, sir. A report has got through to say that Admiral Seymour’s force is falling back as planned.’

  ‘Falling back?’ He did not hide his anger. ‘It’s a bloody rout!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Masterman glared at the throngs of junks and small Chinese boats which hovered around the anchored warships like moths. Some of them would be pirates, the sweepings of the China Seas, he thought. They probably hated the Boxers more than anyone, as a criminal hates a man who murders a policeman. They knew that while the crime was unavenged they would get no peace to go about their affairs, unlawful or not.

  ‘The sloop Caistor has anchored, sir. From Hong Kong with despatches for the flagship.’ He held out a signal. ‘This came over in the guard-boat, sir.’

  Masterman did not look at it immediately. He kept thinking of the Royal Marines he had landed at this godforsaken place. A day to reach Peking the admiral had proclaimed. It was already five days, and Seymour’s force was in full retreat, ridding itself of stores and equipment in its haste to reach the sea.

  And things were getting steadily worse, backed up by terrible rumours which had spread through the Allied squadron like a forest-fire.

  The Boxers had stormed and seized the Native City of Tientsin and were now preparing an attack on the International Settlement there. Word had filtered through that the Japanese Chancellor Sugiyama had been murdered in Peking by Chinese troops, so any hope of some last-minute parley was gone.

  He read through the signal and then realized what it said.

  ‘Sergeant Kirby, does he know?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Well, better get it done as quickly as possible. I’ll go and see him myself after Colours.’

  As if to measure the time a boatswain’s mate called again, ‘Guard and Band to muster on the quarterdeck!’

  Masterman glanced at the deckhead just inches above him. Some captains hated the tramp of marching above their private quarters, the clatter of weapons and the blare of a Royal Marines band. Not Masterman, he loved every part of it, just as he knew the name and face of every man under his command.

  Wilberforce said, ‘It’s strange you should say that, sir, but Sergeant Kirby has already put in a request to see you. He’s walking quite well, considering.’

  ‘Very well. This is bad luck after what he’s been through.’

  A midshipman tapped on the outer door and Masterman’s steward called, ‘For the Commander, sir. Two minutes to Colours.’

  Wilberforce picked up his cap and withdrew.

  The stern swung slightly as the inshore current began to move the anchored warships around their cables. Masterman was glad when that happened, and the land vanished from his vision for a few hours at least.

  He picked up the photograph of his wife which stood in a silver frame on a polished cabinet. He was always close to her at this time of the day.

  Through the open skylight he heard a voice call, ‘Colours, sir!’ And Wilberforce’s reply, calm, unruffled, ‘Make it so!’

  ‘Royal Marines! Pre-sent arms!’

  The rest was drowned in the blare of bugles and rattle of drums but Masterman did not need to be there. He had seen it in every major harbour around the world, the White Ensign rising in time to the salute. It never failed to move him.

  He spoke aloud, ‘If only we could get those men off.’ Where was Blackwood and his men? Cut off and abandoned by the rest of the landing force. It was unthinkable. Outrageous.

  Masterman sat down at his table and contained his sudden rage. It was not the right time.

  The outer door opened and he saw Wilberforce again, followed by the wounded sergeant with a sickberth attendant hovering anxiously in the rear.

  The sergeant looked very pale, but was moving well, and doing his best not to show the pain he must feel.

  Kirby brought his heels together and looked at the captain squarely. He had known it was coming, but the shock seemed somehow worse now that he was away from the company, from his fellow NCOs.

  Masterman eyed him gravely, measuring the moment, hating it.

  ‘I have bad news, I’m afraid, Sergeant Kirby.’

  ‘Sir?’ He had half expected to be placed under immediate arrest.

  ‘I have just received word from Hong Kong that your wife is dead.’

  He snapped his fingers. ‘Chair, man!’

  The sickberth attendant snatched a chair and held it for Kirby as he slumped down.

  ‘Dead, sir?’ Kirby barely recognized his own voice. He was going mad. All the weeks of worrying and tormenting himself and now the captain was acting as if he was sorry for him. Of course she was bloody dead! He felt like screaming, or throwing himself on the deck.

  Masterman nodded. ‘There was, is a street lamp outside your house it seems. There was a gas explosion and I fear that your wife perished in the fire which followed.’

  Kirby tried to speak but nothing came. In his reeling thoughts he could see that solitary street lamp. They had often undressed by its glow to save money when they had first got married. An explosion? A fire? Masterman’s voice scattered his memories as he continued.

  ‘I have to tell you, Sergeant Kirby, and I hope it may be of some consolation, that I received confirmation from the flagship that your recommendation for an award has been approved. For your gallantry under fire, well over and above the line of duty, you will in due course be decorated with the Victoria Cross, and I am instructed to offer my congratulations.’

  Masterman saw the sergeant sway on the chair. He must not prolong it any more.

  He said in
a gentle voice which Wilberforce would not have recognized had he not been staring at the scene which he would always remember. ‘Remember this, Kirby. She would have been proud of you.’ He turned away, embarrassed by his own sincerity. ‘As we all are.’

  Wilberforce gestured to the steward. ‘Help the SBA to take Sergeant Kirby down to the sickbay.’

  As the door closed behind the two white-coated figures and the tall, bent shape of the sergeant, Masterman said, ‘I know how I’d feel.’ He glanced at the photograph again, hearing her voice calling the dog, waking him in time to catch the train back to his ship.

  ‘Now, John, about this retreat. What is our state of readiness?’

  Wilberforce tried to relax, but he knew that he would never see Masterman as quite the same again.

  Safely laid in his cot once more Kirby stared at the revolving deckhead fan and tried to assemble his thoughts. It was hard to believe it had happened. His secret had tortured him for weeks; now because of some impossible act of fate the burden was lifted. He peered over the edge of the cot, but he was alone. Even Private Erskine who had lost a foot had been carried on deck to benefit from the air and the sunshine.

  He thought of the medal, of Masterman’s words. Of what Fox would say when he heard about it. The Victoria Cross. Just like Captain Blackwood and his father.

  Jeff Kirby, born and raised in a London slum, respected and often feared by his men, was suddenly aware of something which had never happened before. He was shocked beyond reason to discover that tears were pouring uncontrollably down his face. He tried to stop, to stifle his terrible sobs in the pillow and to shut out the picture of her terror as she had pleaded with him.

  ‘Oh, Nance!’ He crushed the pillow into a ball against his face but he only saw her more clearly. ‘Nance! I – I’m so sorry, love!’

  It was worse than any secret.

  ‘Stop the train!’ Lieutenant Colonel Blair clambered through the little door at the end of the carriage which was now in the front of the train. ‘Quickly.’ He blinked at Blackwood, his chest heaving from exertion and the oppressive heat. He had been squatting like a wiry bird on the roof of the carriage for most of the journey. Blackwood heard the warning being shouted from carriage to carriage as the driver applied the brakes.

  Blair said, ‘They’ve broken the track again.’ He nodded gratefully to Swan as he swallowed a mug of water. ‘A mile ahead of us.’

  Blackwood wanted to ask why they had stopped here, but knew Blair would have a good reason.

  ‘Not just Boxers this time. Imperial soldiers too.’ Blair added quietly, ‘I could see the buggers through my glasses. They’re waiting for us to stop. They could kill or wound half of our people before we could hit back. They know this territory, we don’t.’ He unfolded his map and Blackwood saw that his hand was shaking from the strain he was under.

  Blair sounded absorbed. ‘According to this there’s a small river beyond those hills to our right. It joins the Peiho after a mile or so, down to the sea after that, eh?’

  Blackwood waited seeing the excitement returning to Blair’s thin features.

  ‘If we tried to reach the hills the Boxers would cut us down before we got halfway. I want our men ready to fight, not to die like bloody scavengers!’

  Fight? Blackwood pictured their dispirited, weary faces.

  Blair glanced up as the lieutenants climbed into the carriage, their faces full of questions.

  Blair said, ‘We shall detrain here, gentlemen. By platoons as before. Mr Gravatt, go with the Sergeant Major and start the ball rolling.’ He spoke lightly, as if it was an exercise rather than a walk into probable death.

  Gravatt swallowed hard. ‘In the open, sir?’

  ‘Yes. There is an army of Boxers and soldiers up there where they’ve ripped up the tracks. They will expect us to make a stand or break out from there while they shoot us down from cover, right?’

  Gravatt nodded. ‘I see, sir.’

  Blair smiled. ‘You don’t but never mind. When the Boxers see us leave the train here they’ll have to leave their cover to cut us off.’ He looked at Blackwood. ‘The machine-gun sections will remain on the train. We shall have to leave the two field-pieces behind, I’m afraid. Have them spiked before you follow me. Tell the engine driver to go like hell. I want to catch those bastards out in the open with their trousers down for once!’

  Blackwood nodded. ‘I’ll tell him.’

  Blair touched his arm. ‘It’s up to you really. Reverse back here when you’re ready and don’t leave it too late.’ He looked at the others. ‘Leave no one behind.’ His eyes rested momentarily on Ralf. ‘We take care of our own in the Corps.’ He nodded curtly. ‘So let us be about it, eh?’

  Outside Blackwood could hear the bark of commands, the sudden bustle and stamp of feet as the marines jumped from the train, dragging their packs and ammunition with them.

  ‘Fall them in, Sergeant Major.’

  By the time Blackwood reached the engine the marines were standing in sections beside the train. He could sense their sudden reluctance to leave the train’s frail protection.

  Blair stood in front of them and raised his voice. ‘Now listen to me, all of you. We shall march to those hills, and I mean march. I don’t give a damn what you’ve seen or done in the past, this is bloody now! So stop feeling sorry for yourselves!’

  Blackwood saw the hurt and resentment on their faces, the way they held their rifles as if they wanted to kill the man who was flaying them with his insults.

  ‘Remember that you are Royal Marines, not a lot of mummy’s boys!’

  As Blackwood walked back along the train Blair looked at him and grinned. ‘I’m a real bastard, aren’t I?’ He returned Fox’s salute and at a shouted command the first platoon marched away from the train.

  Blair’s grin widened. ‘But it’s working.’

  Blackwood took a deep breath. The arms were swinging, the dusty boots moved as one, and the sloped rifles would have done credit to Forton Barracks.

  Blair lifted his glasses and stared along the line. ‘It’s working with them too. Now get your men under cover.’

  A door squeaked and Blair nodded with satisfaction as the other Nordenfeldt machine-gun poked through the gap. Then he strode briskly after the winding column of marines and did not look back.

  Blackwood climbed over the sandbags and boiler plates on the leading car and knelt down with the small squad of marines there.

  Corporal O’Neil stared at him. ‘Is it yourself, sir?’

  Blackwood found he could smile in spite of the tension which held him like claws.

  When he trained his binoculars over the barrier he saw the horde of figures breaking from their hiding places and charging across the flat ground towards the slow-moving column.

  Suppose the engine failed to move, or the driver got into a panic and ran for his life?

  The men moved around restlessly and dragged up more ammunition to be in easy reach.

  O’Neil rested his hand on the machine-gun and murmured, ‘And if you jam, me boyo, I’ll not forgive you!’

  One of the marines said sharply, ‘Some of ’em are headin’ for the train, sir.’

  Blackwood saw Swan nestle his rifle against his cheek while he adjusted his sights with great care. The Boxers on the track were probably coming to loot rather than to fight. They would get a rude surprise.

  A few shots cracked across the ground, but the Boxers were too eager to get to grips with the column to take proper aim.

  It was almost time. Blackwood felt the sweat trickle down his spine. He made himself count up to twenty and then stood upright on the top of the sandbags so that the driver could see him above the roofs of the carriages.

  He yelled, ‘Now!’ To his surprise he saw the stoker petty officer and two sailors in their wide-brimmed sennets on the footplate with the driver. He had forgotten all about the stokers. They would make sure that the engine kept going with or without the driver.

  The car gave a
great lurch and Blackwood almost fell over the side. He looked at O’Neil. Good old Blackie. ‘Here we go.’

  Whatever the Boxers thought was happening they showed no sign of slowing down or changing direction.

  Blackwood drew his revolver. ‘Open fire!’

  The sandbags were rolled aside and the machine-gun clattered into life even as the other one poured a long burst into the charging mob of Boxers and troops. A few rifles joined in, and Blackwood wondered if the marching marines would dare to turn their heads to watch.

  Back and forth the five-barrelled gun ripped above the track until the figures which had been running towards the train were either hurled down or had turned to flee.

  The train gathered momentum, the bright wheels cutting through the fallen corpses and bringing screams from the wounded before they too were smashed aside.

  Blackwood tried to concentrate on the bulk of the attackers. As O’Neil’s gun joined forces with the other one, the running figures seemed to become confused, like a sea caught between wind and tide. Many were falling, others ran on, and a few swayed back again against their companions.

  ‘Reload! Steady, lads!’ A sight like this one was enough to make any man shoot without aiming or caring.

  It was unreal and terrible, and Blackwood flinched as two of the marching marines fell from the ranks. They were gathered up into the column as if it was the living being and the marines merely incidental.

  We take care of our own, Blair had said. What officers in the Corps had probably said at the Nile and Trafalgar.

  Blackwood peered at the torn-up rails. They would never be repaired in time. Blair was right about that also.

  ‘Stop the train! Back up!’ It was far enough. The engine shuddered to a halt and Swan vaulted over the side to snatch up a fallen pike with its fearsome blade attached and was back with it even as the wheels spun into reverse.

  Blackwood said hoarsely, ‘You bloody fool! I should put you on a charge for that!’

  Swan hung his head. ‘Souvenir, sir.’

  They stared at each other, both knowing the real reason for Blackwood’s concern.

  O’Neil watched impatiently as the gun was reloaded. ‘You’re a terrible chap, Private Swan, desertin’ your train in the face o’ the enemy!’