The First to Land (1984)

by Reeman, Douglas

  ‘Ready, sir.’ He hesitated. ‘Will an officer be comin’ with us?’

  ‘No, Sergeant.’ It was painful to see his relief. ‘It’s up to you.’

  O’Neil called to his friend the Nordenfeldt gunner. ‘Will you be safe without me, Willy? I’ll try not to be too long!’

  Kirby’s harsh voice echoed from the wall. ‘Quiet, you bog-trottin’ madman!’

  Blackwood looked away. Kirby had changed again in some way. There was no malice in the sergeant’s voice. He was glad to be back, more than that, he needed to be here.

  ‘Open the gates.’

  The scouting party drifted through the gap and vanished into the gloom. From the parapet a sentry called in a hushed voice, ‘All’s well, sir!’

  Blackwood crossed to the graves. What did they always say? No goodbyes, never go back.

  ‘Withdraw the sentries, Mr Bannatyre, and take command of the rearguard.’ He stopped him in his tracks. ‘No heroics this time, Ian. We’ll try and stay together.’

  In sections the marines began to move towards the gate, rifles slung, shoulders bowed under their packs, extra ammunition, food and all that went to make them independent of the land.

  Swan coughed politely. ‘’Ere we are, sir.’ His teeth were very white in the darkness. ‘’Is name’s Trooper.’

  Blackwood smiled. He could almost feel Blair watching and listening. It was what he would have done.

  Blackwood raised his foot to the stirrup and heaved himself into the saddle. It reminded him of those keen mornings at Hawks Hill, the copse sweeping past in that first gallop.

  Swan stood back and looked at him. ‘Wish I ’ad one of them new camera-things, sir. The General’d be right proud of you!’

  Blackwood spurred the horse after Fox’s handcart. ‘Come on then, Trooper, let’s see what you can do.’

  As he trotted along the lines of marines he saw them glance at him, some to nudge their companions and grin. A bit of soldiering, as Fox would put it. What it was all about.

  At the rear of the thin column Private Jack Swan placed his captured pike on the cart and fell in step behind the others. His belly was full, his throat was no longer like a kiln, and he had enough ammo to last him quite a while.

  When you considered it, he thought, you didn’t need much else.

  The gully was about ten feet deep and lined with crudely cut stone blocks which looked as old as time.

  For most of the day the marines had trudged along the gully’s curved base, some gasping for breath as the sun made the airless heat unbearable.

  Every so often Blackwood had signalled them to pause and take a rest. Weighed down as they were, they could not be expected to keep up a good pace. And all the time they had heard the distant bark of light artillery, the crack of rifle fire, where or whose it was Blackwood did not know, he was just thankful it was away from their gully. There was smoke too which as dusk closed in looked solid against the sky.

  A runner came back along the straggling column, jumping to avoid the cracks between the stones and the great tufts of grass which had somehow survived in the searing heat.

  ‘Beg pardon, sir.’ He paused for breath. ‘Mr de Courcy’s respects, an’ we’re in sight of the wall.’

  ‘Tell the advance guard to stand-to.’

  Sergeant Greenaway would keep his scouts hidden; he always seemed to know what to do.

  Blackwood hurried after the runner and heard Swan calling somebody to lead the horse in his place. Even here, Swan trusted nobody to guard him.

  He found Gravatt and de Courcy sprawled amongst some stones which had collapsed over the side of the gully. Neither of them was wearing his helmet as he peered over the side. Another lesson learned, thought Blackwood.

  ‘What is it?’ He noticed that Gravatt had Blair’s binoculars slung around his neck and saw dried blood on the leather case.

  He dragged out his own glasses and wriggled up beside the others. The land was quite flat, and he could see the smouldering buildings of the Native City, and clouds of drifting sparks from the more substantial European houses.

  He trained his glasses with great care and saw the wall and sand-bagged defences of the south-west corner. The girl had been right about everything so far.

  The gunfire seemed to be coming from the other sector, and he heard someone shouting as more shots cracked amongst the ruins.

  He said quietly, ‘Most of the fighting seems to be on the far side near the canal. Maybe some of our people are trying to reach the city from the Peiho itself. If so they’re getting a hot reception.’

  Gravatt pointed at another low wall which crossed diagonally in front of the city. It had obviously been the first line of defence for the various legation guards, but they had been forced back into the city itself. The low wall was pockmarked with white stars where hundreds of bullets had left their mark. In the centre of the wall, almost opposite the barricaded gates, was a great V-shaped gap. A shell must have done it, but it looked as if some giant beast had gnawed it out.

  Gravatt waited for him to see the occasional movements where the attackers were now using the same wall for their own cover.

  White smocks criss-crossed with bandoliers of ammunition and the now familiar red head scarves.

  ‘No more than a dozen of them, sir.’

  Blackwood measured the distance with his eyes. Once they left the gully there was over a hundred yards to the gates. A lot depended on the intelligence of the defenders, and the strength of enemy forces nearby.

  They could proceed no further in the gully. Most of the sides had fallen down to block it nearer the city, or had been detonated to prevent a surprise attack.

  The sky was getting darker. It was the colour of blood towards the west. He bit his lip. Hopefully not an omen.

  ‘Firing’s getting heavier, sir.’ De Courcy watched him patiently. ‘Another attack before nightfall maybe?’

  Gravatt slid down and replaced his helmet. ‘We’ll not get a better chance, sir.’

  ‘I agree.’ Blackwood levelled his glasses again. The Boxers behind the low wall were so confident that only two were watching the city wall, the others had their backs to it, their weapons propped or lying nearby.

  One Boxer looked straight at him, his face stark and cruel in the lens. For an instant Blackwood thought he had seen him, but the man’s eyes moved on, impassive once again.

  ‘We shall attack in two prongs from left to right. One section only will remain in the centre with the MG carriage and Sergeant Major Fox’s cart.’ Like the others he always saw the cart as Fox’s personal property.

  De Courcy eyed him doubtfully. ‘They could still pin us down while they call for reinforcements. There are probably others in those ruins over yonder.’

  ‘We must have what our late Colonel would call a diversion.’ He looked for Swan. ‘Lead Trooper up here and fetch the Colour Sergeant and a bugler.’

  It was a strange unnerving feeling. As if his whole body had suddenly become weightless. The tension was the biggest drain on men’s nerves. It was now or never.

  He heard the horse thudding past the crouching marines and saw Chittock with his sheathed flag following close behind.

  ‘Get to your positions.’ He glanced at the lieutenants and tried to smile. But his muscles were so hard that he could barely manage it. It was like that other time when he had thought he was about to die. When he had won his VC.

  ‘Good luck. Tell your people to trot when they hear the bugle. They’ll drop like flies before they’ve covered half the distance otherwise.’

  They nodded, their faces stiff, like strangers.

  To Swan he added, ‘Take those rags off Trooper’s hooves.’ He loosened his sword and did the same with his revolver.

  Swan stared at him. ‘You’re not goin’ over on ’im?’

  ‘Watch me.’ Blackwood turned to the others. ‘When I come past, sound the Charge, and keep on, no matter what.’ To Swan he said quietly, ‘Listen. The firing is getting less.
Soon it will be too late. Try to understand. It’s what I’m here for.’

  Swan opened his mouth to protest but closed it again. Then he said, ‘I’ll be with you, sir. All the bloody way.’

  Blackwood pulled himself into the saddle and felt the horse flinch nervously, Perhaps it knew, or could smell the blood.

  He replied, ‘I know that, you rascal.’ Then he cantered back down the gully where the NCOs were hissing instructions to their men.

  ‘Fix bayonets!’ In the red glow from the sky the blades looked as if they had already been used.

  They watched him pass and then Blackwood saw Ralf waiting for him by the cart and the men with the machine-gun carriage. Pity they couldn’t use that now, he thought vaguely. But they would need it later on. If they survived.

  He wheeled his horse and faced the end of the gully which he had just left. All movement had ceased and the marines crouched or lay along the side, some chewing on their chinstraps, others looking at him as he gauged the moment.

  ‘What is it, Ralf?’ It came out sharper than he intended.

  ‘The interpreters, sir. They want to leave.’ He sounded on the edge of real fear. ‘They’ll betray us!’

  The two interpreters came and stood beside the horse, the girl soothing the animal with her small hand.

  ‘We leave now.’ She was not pleading. ‘We go to my home.’

  Blackwood thought of the dense smoke and flattened buildings. Home. He tried to control his body. It must be shaking for everyone to see.

  He asked, ‘Is it safe?’

  She touched his stirrup. ‘Where is safe?’

  Where is safe? Its very simplicity seemed to sum up every campaign he had ever seen.

  He tugged down his helmet and then drew his sword. As he bit on his chinstrap he managed to say, ‘Pass them through. And good luck.’ Then he spurred the horse into a trot, his sword over his shoulder as the waiting marines seemed to flash past him.

  Round the long curve and there were the fallen stones, the bugler and the others staring at him as if they would never move again.

  ‘Sound the Charge!’ As the bugle blared across the gully Blackwood spurred the horse into a gallop, straight for the fallen barrier. For an instant he thought Trooper was going to rear up and throw him, but he dragged at the reins and felt the powerful body lift beneath him and they were suddenly thundering across open ground. It was all moving like a wild dream, the bugle seemed to go on and on, and in his mind he could see the two halves of his company bursting from cover and pounding along behind him.

  And here was the wall, with more gaping faces, and the sudden crack of a rifle. One Boxer ran straight for him but slithered away with a terrible shriek as Blackwood’s blade hacked him across the neck. Up again, and through the gap in the wall. There were more shots now, but they were coming from the advancing marines who fired from the hip without even taking aim in the confusion. Pinned against the wall the remaining Boxers stood ready to fight, but those who did not fall reeled before the glittering bayonets as the marines charged through them.

  Protected by the centre section the colour sergeant managed to hold the flag high, his bright scarlet sash at odds with his crumpled tea-stained clothing.

  Two marines on the right flank fell in the dust, and as another section opened covering fire they were dragged on to the cart and rushed towards the wall.

  Blackwood galloped along the barricades and shell-pitted wall and saw startled faces peering down at him. Their uniforms all seemed to be different, like the flags which flew over Seymour’s ships.

  ‘Open the gate!’ Blackwood waved his sword. ‘Move your bloody breeches!’

  The gates swung inwards and Blackwood reined back as his breathless wild-eyed men charged through.

  A few shots whimpered overhead but Blackwood barely noticed them.

  Somewhere a voice shouted, ‘The reliefs here! My God they’ve got through! Who are you, lads?’

  And Fox’s harsh voice as loud as on any parade ground.

  ‘The Royal Marines, that’s who, mate!’

  But Blackwood patted the horse and waited for Swan to join him. Only when the gates crashed together behind him did he really understand what they had done.

  As he allowed the horse to carry him beneath the overhang of the wall he heard a marine exclaim, ‘You should’er seen ’im! Talk abaht the Charge o’ the bleedin’ Light Brigade!’

  Blair would have approved.

  14

  Love and Hate

  Blackwood sat uncomfortably on a straightbacked chair which seemed to have been placed about ten feet from the desk. It made him feel isolated from the man behind it, and he guessed that was probably the intention.

  Colonel Sir John Hay of the Foot Guards had sent for him as soon as the Royal Marines had arrived at their temporary quarters, a long stone building which had been stables. At least Trooper would feel at home there.

  The thought made him smile. It was like everything else, unreal, larger than life. Sergeant Kirby’s return, the mad dash on horseback, the cheers of his men.

  It had taken a toll of his own strength. He could feel the hammers beating inside his skull and recalled what the naval surgeon had hinted about concussion.

  Colonel Hay was almost the strangest person you might expect to find in this situation, he thought.

  He was tall, square-shouldered, with an upturned ginger moustache, and bright, pale eyes which were almost colourless. On the rare occasions Blackwood had seen him smile he changed entirely. His grin, like his voice, was fierce, so that he looked slightly unhinged.

  Blackwood recalled Hay’s first words as the exhausted marines had waited patiently in a square which was littered with debris from the surrounding buildings, and which stank of corpses still buried under the bricks and charred beams.

  After what they had done to reach Tientsin, and the many pitched battles since their arrival in China, Blackwood had expected a brief speech of welcome at least.

  Hay had seemed almost beside himself with disbelief. ‘Is this all? What happened to the relief?’ He had glared at Blackwood accusingly. ‘How many have you got, for God’s sake?’

  Blackwood had answered as calmly as he could. ‘Seventy officers and marines, sir.’ He had forced a smile. ‘And two Austro-Hungarian sailors we gathered on the way.’

  Hay had not been amused. ‘They promised reinforcements.’ He had glared at the marines in their tea-stained uniforms and filthy boots. ‘God, they look like –’ He had not said any more. Then as now Hay made a stark contrast in his red tunic and gold shoulder straps. There was not a speck of dust on his uniform in spite of the irregular explosions around the city, the occasional whiplash crack of sniper fire.

  Blackwood shifted in the chair. His body felt restricted in his scarlet tunic which Swan had hastily unpacked and brushed for him.

  Hay had said hotly, ‘We represent the British authorities here. As senior officer in Tientsin I expect, no, demand, a proper turnout at all times. It is the only way to retain these people’s respect.’

  Blackwood was still not certain whom he had meant by ‘these people’. The Chinese, or the Allied troops who made up most of the city’s defenders.

  Hay turned his head and stared at the heavily shuttered window. ‘We’ve about two thousand soldiers here. Russians, French, Americans, Japanese and of course my own men. We’ve a perimeter of some five miles to defend, and the barricades make up much of the protection along the river and canal. Some American engineer named Hoover did most of the planning. Quite a fair job.’

  It sounded condescending. As if it was of no real importance.

  His head was getting worse and he knew he needed sleep more than anything. It was incredible to accept that they had marched from the arsenal that morning. Now it was midnight or near enough and it was all he could do to concentrate on Hay’s sharp, irritated voice.

  ‘Pity you didn’t blow up that magazine. The enemy have enough looted weapons as it is. It’s been abs
olute hell here, and we’ve all the civilians, women and children to care for.’

  Blackwood made himself ask, ‘How many of the enemy, sir?’

  Hay glared at him as if he expected a trap. ‘They estimate about ten thousand, with more coming every day. Unless reinforcements can break through there’ll soon be nothing to defend. Somebody should try to negotiate again with the Chinese government. This kind of uprising ought to be stamped out immediately.’

  There was no point in telling Hay it was no longer just an uprising. At Hawks Hill the General with his maps and his memories would probably agree with him and describe it as a ‘skirmish’.

  Instead he said, ‘The whole countryside is terrified of the Boxers.’

  ‘You would know of course.’ Again the fierce grin. ‘I’ve heard about the Royal Marines.’

  ‘I’ve lost my colonel, another officer and twenty-three others killed and wounded. Some of the latter have voluntarily rejoined the detachment.’ He added bitterly, ‘They can still give a good account when called for.’

  Hay changed tack. ‘I shall give your men the south-west sector. Some fortifications, several good strong buildings, and one of the hotels which we use for civilians.’ He dropped his pale stare. ‘Ours, of course.’

  Of course. What was the real cause of his dislike? Blackwood wondered. He thought of the marines’ expressions when Hay had criticized their appearance. For an instant he had feared that some wild man might yell something from the safety of the ranks. But as had happened before it had acted as a challenge to the marines. Within the hour they were paraded again in their scarlet kerseys with buttons as bright as ever.

  He had heard Fox saying in a voice just a bit too loud, ‘And any Royal Marine who lets me down in front of a bloody Foot Guard will know what my temper can be like!’

  Perhaps because of their calling they had hated the dirt, the sweat and torn clothing which they had carried with them all the way from Mediator’s gleaming messdecks.

  ‘I’ve heard that you have seen quite a bit of service, Captain Blackwood.’

  Blackwood said nothing. How different from Blair. The day that Hay calls me by my first name will be theday.