He wondered how Ralf was managing, what he would do if anything happened to de Courcy.
Then his thoughts were scattered by that same overwhelming chant. Sha! Sha! The urge to kill the foreign devils or drive them out.
‘Commence firing!’
This must be what Hell is like, Blackwood thought. Only the dream had been Heaven.
Sergeant Major Arthur Fox ducked through the door of the small airless room and regarded his officers impassively.
Blackwood put down his pen and looked at him. ‘All quiet?’
‘Sir.’ Fox glanced at the others. De Courcy lay on his back on a blanket, his arms across his face as if the tiny lamp was blinding him. Bannatyre sat on an empty box, an untouched glass of whisky gripped in both hands as he stared into nothing. Gravatt looked calm enough, his breathing regular as he made his whisky last. Only his eyes told the truth. He was reliving each terrible minute and hour of the day. The insane charges, the crash and bang of rifle fire, the impartial clatter of the machine-gun.
Now it was dark once again, and the city seemed at peace.
Fox said, ‘Three dead, sir, twelve wounded, six badly.’ He saw the pain on Blackwood’s face. ‘It could ’ave bin much worse, sir.’
‘I suppose so.’ Fox always made it sound like routine. But Blackwood had seen them die, or fall in agony. Some good men, some valuable ones. Corporal Bill Handley had died in the last attack, Corporal Lyde had been bayoneted in the stomach. He would not last out the night. Lyde would be sorely missed. What the General would call a proper marine. He could have had Fox’s rank if he’d wanted it. But he had been broken to the ranks more times than he could remember, usually for brawling in a foreign port, or smashing up an alehouse in Portsmouth.
I have not slept for days. I am like a machine.
Blackwood said, ‘Have you made sure that the rations are getting to them?’ It was a pointless question. Fox, for all his threats and fury, always looked after his men before anything else.
‘Yessir.’ Fox gave a grim smile. ‘One good bit er news, sir, I got a Chinese dhobyman to wash out an’ repair our whites.’
Blackwood stared at him. Fox was a marvel. Colonel Hay could fume and bluster if he wanted to, but at least the marines would face a new day in clean comfort.
‘Have a drink, Mr Fox.’
Fox grinned, ‘Ta, sir.’ He took the mug in his hand but as always seemed to remain at attention.
‘What is our strength?’
Fox pouted. ‘Sixty fit men, more or less. Sar’nt Kirby ’as bin an example to the wounded, I must say, sir. They all knows ’ow bad ’e is, so they just carries on like.’
Swan peered through the door and waited for Fox to see him.
‘Corporal Lyde’s gone, Sar’nt Major.’
Fox sighed. ‘A good ’un. The best.’
Blackwood poured some more whisky into Fox’s mug. ‘You’re not too bad yourself, as a matter of fact.’
Gravatt said, ‘About tonight, sir.’
Fox said, ‘I can muster a squad in a few minutes, sir.’
Blackwood glanced at de Courcy and Bannatyre. They had done so well, but they were paying for it. That gate had to be blocked. There was no shortage of material. It would have to be soon, before the moon became too strong. He tried not to think of her beautiful body framed in the silver light. She was just yards away and yet it could have been on the other side of the globe.
‘I want Mr Blackwood to select his own squad.’
He saw Gravatt start, and even de Courcy dropped his arms to stare at him.
Only Fox seemed to understand. Kill or cure. It was a fair trade. ‘I’ll see to it, sir. Young Mr Blackwood is doin’ Rounds with Sar’nt Davis at the moment.’
‘Good. You attend to it. Have the First Platoon stand-to while they’re fixing the gates. The remainder are to get some sleep while there’s still time. Issue the whites as each post is relieved.’
‘Good as done, sir.’
Fox strode away, his mind busy and with no outward sign of fatigue.
Gravatt yawned, ‘I sometimes think old Fox must be related to God.’
Blackwood looked at his diary and felt his head loll forward. What was the point anyway? Would anyone ever read his report of their exploits?
He tried again. Supplies, ammunition, fit and wounded marines, those who could still fight or at least assist in loading spare weapons. Those who would never fight again.
Swan stood by the door. ‘Second Lieutenant Blackwood to see you, sir.’
Blackwood thrust his weariness aside. ‘I’ll come.’ Ralf obviously wanted to speak to him alone.
He ducked through the door, his eyes instantly adjusting to the darkness, and the high pale stars. He could smell the burned woodwork, the clinging stench of gunsmoke and death.
Ralf was waiting by a barricade and exclaimed, ‘I’ve just heard. You want me to go out with a patrol.’
‘That’s true.’ Blackwood glanced over the barricade. It was easy to see the corpses between it and the gates. Everything was so still. It was impossible to believe that this was the same place where men had fought and died. He said, ‘You can select your own men. There should be no danger. If you keep your wits about you, that is.’
Ralf looked away. ‘What about you? Will you be in charge here while I’m gone?’
Blackwood answered calmly, ‘I shall be here.’
‘I mean, that is, I’d not like to think one of the others is left responsible for the safety of my party.’
‘What the hell do you mean by that, exactly?’
Ralf shrugged. ‘Last night you were at the hotel.’ He flinched as Blackwood took half a pace towards him. ‘I’m only repeating what someone told me.’
Blackwood replied, ‘Tomorrow, the next day, any time I might be killed. So might the others. Then you’ll be in command, have you thought about that?’
Ralf faced him with surprising confidence. ‘And have you thought what Aunt Deirdre or the General would think if they knew about your affair? I don’t suppose that Count von Heiser would be too pleased, either!’
Blackwood clenched his fists but controlled himself with a supreme effort.
‘Are you threatening me, Ralf? If so you’ve picked the wrong chap.’
Ralf sounded as if he was smiling. ‘I just wanted you to think about it, sir. I’ll not face a court-martial because of you. Or anyone else.’
‘Have it your way, Ralf. Now go and muster your squad. The Sergeant Major will prepare the necessary gear for you.’
‘I don’t need him either, thank you.’
Blackwood watched his slim figure melt into the darkness. Fear did strange things to people. Unfortunately in this case Ralf held all the cards. Also he knew he was right. The fact that the General had a wild reputation where women were concerned would not prevent a scandal over Friedrike.
He walked slowly along the battered defence line, pausing occasionally to speak with a sentry, or to peer across at the enemy’s campfires which seemed to surround the city like far-off beacons.
If they had more men, preferably cavalry, they could have attacked the Boxers and their comrades in the Imperial Army and cut a corridor right through them.
He thought of Friedrike in her airless room, the little maid combing her hair, or helping her to cleanse her body with the rationed supply of fresh water.
She would be thinking of him. Or was she already regretting her actions, the wanton way she had given herself to him? Someone of her background and breeding might discover how fine the margin between love and disgust could become.
He kicked at a loose stone. No, it was not just an act. The thought gave him strength, and made Ralfs threats seem pathetic and somehow sad.
He found Sergeant Greenaway at the place where the barricade met the old city wall.
The bulky sergeant said, ‘All’s well, sir. Seems nice an’ quiet for the patrol.’ He hesitated and added, ‘I’m rare sorry about Private Vicary, sir. It weren’t ’
is fault. It were mine more than anyone’s.’
Blackwood nodded. ‘Try and forget it. It could have been any one of us.’
‘An’ about young Mr Blackwood, sir, I’m sure ’e’ll be all right given ’alf th’ chance.’ He fumbled for words. ‘’E’s got the makin’s, sir.’
Blackwood was glad the darkness hid his face. ‘Probably.’
He moved on, knowing that Greenaway was still staring after him. Swan followed at a discreet distance, his rifle in the crook of his arm like a gamekeeper going round his traps.
He had heard most of it. Poor old Greenaway, he thought. Doing his best to spare the captain’s feelings. The night-patrol might be very interesting and in a way he wished he was going too.
Sergeant Owen Davis said, ‘I’ve got the men ready, sir.’
Ralf tried to relax as he moved nearer to the small squad of marines by the barricade. He saw the sergeant major’s handcart already loaded with ropes and lengths of timber, just enough to block the gateway, to give the rifles and machine-gun a chance to hold back the next attack, and the one after that.
He said, ‘Listen to me, all of you. This has to be done quickly.’ He turned to the sergeant, ‘Where’s Corporal Lyde?’
Davis stared at him. ‘He died, sir.’
Ralf touched his moustache and tried to remain calm.
Corporal Percy Addis said, ‘So I stood in for ’im, sir.’
Ralf could sense the sneer in Addis’s tone, even though his face was hidden in the darkness. Addis had been there with that ox Greenaway when his revolver had accidentally fired and roused the Chinese garrison at the arsenal. Addis was here for a purpose.
He snapped, ‘Very commendable, Corporal. Try not to foul things up this time.’
It was gratifying the way some of the others chuckled. Addis was not from their platoon anyway. It made all the difference.
Davis whispered, ‘We’d better leave now, sir.’
‘When I’m ready, Sergeant.’ Ralf fidgeted with his belt and holster. What had happened to him? He felt completely at ease, untroubled even by the task ahead.
‘Remove your tunics and leave them behind with your helmets.’ He unbuttoned his own and handed it to Davis while he refastened his belt. He had seen his cousin give this kind of order, the way the men always accepted it without question. Now he could sense their resentment, and even that gave him a kind of strength. ‘Now, tell the sentry, and we’ll move out directly.’
He clambered over the dip in the barricade where a working party had made a space for the handcart.
One officer, a sergeant, a corporal and six privates. They had seemed like a crowd behind the barricade but as soon as they moved beyond it Ralf thought it was like walking naked into a lion’s den.
How near the enemy campfires looked, and each sprawled corpse appeared as if it would suddenly leap up and try to hack them to pieces. He heard Sergeant Davis mutter a warning as one of the cartwheels emitted a loud squeak, but they moved on, apparently unheard and undetected.
The gate suddenly towered over them, the ground littered with broken beams across which Boxer corpses lay like exhausted runners.
‘Corporal, stand guard.’ Ralf walked carefully through the gate and stared over at the twinkling fires. Apart from the flames nothing moved. Probably sleeping after their terrifying charges, he thought.
‘Get on with it, Sergeant.’ Ralf heard the cautious scrape of timber and fallen stones as the men got to work with ropes and levers. It should not take long. Ralf loosened the revolver and touched its hammer with his thumb. Safe but ready.
He thought of his cousin’s quietness when he had attacked him over the German countess, and how it would affect Aunt Deirdre. It had been so easy. Laughable. He recalled when he had joined the countess for tea aboard Mediator, and David’s pathetic jealousy when he had told him about it.
David was brave and had all the qualities he would have liked. Ralf was surprised to discover he did not mind admitting it, at least to himself. But Victoria Cross or not he was a fool where women were concerned. Surely he did not believe that the German aristocrat would let him touch her; he only made himself ridiculous by deluding his mind with such ideas.
Ralf thought suddenly of the girl in England, Helen. With her at his side things would be very different. In the Corps or released from its code and tradition, he would soon rise to the top. Her father seemed to like him, even if he did keep going on about the splendid Blackwood heritage.
He felt his lips lift in a smile. That too could be used to advantage once the old General had passed on.
He started as Addis said, ‘Did you ’ear that, sir?’
‘What, man?’ Ralf hated the corporal. His cocky self-confidence, the smell of his sweat.
Addis gripped his rifle and peered into the darkness. ‘I dunno, sir.’
Bloody idiot! Why must I be plagued by such mindless fools? Ralf tensed as he heard the sound himself. It was the sound of wheels. ‘Come with me.’ He moved further to the right with Addis crouching along behind him. Wheels, but where and what? He continued to move along parallel with the broken walls and paler-coloured barricades. It would be just like some nervous sentry to fire on him, he thought savagely. Soon now. Whatever it was sounded heavy and should therefore be visible against the lines of campfires. The simplicity of it made him grin. Bannatyre or de Courcy would have probably retreated to the defences at the gallop.
‘Still.’ Ralf groped in his pocket and pulled out a small collapsible telescope. It only measured five inches but when extended was still as powerful as some binoculars. He had never shown it to anyone. It had belonged to his father. The one he had used in the Crimea. He thought of the great painting in the General’s room. The fire and thunder of the Russian redoubt. Even the General had admitted that Philip Blackwood should have been awarded the VC instead of him.
He opened the small telescope and heard Addis’s sharp breathing. It was not just sweat, he decided. It was the sweat of fear. Like the others Addis thought him useless. He would bloody well change his ideas soon.
Addis asked nervously, ‘See anythin’, sir?’
‘Hold your noise.’ Ralf moved the telescope slowly and with great care. If some of the corpses were really live Boxers he would be hard put to get back to the barricade before they cut him down. His hand shook slightly as he recalled what they had said about Second Lieutenant Earle’s awful screams. When he had been tortured before they had hacked off his head and stuck it on a pole as an obscene trophy. He forgot Earle as he moved the glass back again. Only one figure moved by the nearest fires, a black shadow framed occasionally against the flames as he flung on more wood. But there was nothing else moving between the fires and himself. There was nobody. He could feel the hair rising on his neck, as if a chill wind had somehow invaded this desolate place.
He listened, his hair falling across his eyes as he leaned forward. The noise continued as before, a very slow rumbling like iron wheels. He stared round wildly, stunned by his discovery. It was artillery, it had to be.
God, it had been a near thing all the previous day. With heavy guns the Boxers could smash down the defences before attacking at full strength. Nothing would stop them.
Addis watched him, much as a rabbit watches a fox.
‘I can’t see nothin’, sir.’
‘It’s the gully.’ He was startled by his own understanding, his grasp of what was happening. The Boxers must be dragging their guns along that same gully. No wonder they were invisible, just as the marines had been until they had burst from cover to surprise the enemy from their rear.
Sergeant Davis loomed out of the darkness. ‘There’s done we are, sir.’ He looked at the officer and added, ‘You heard it too, sir.’
Addis said, ‘Artillery, Sarge.’
Davis rubbed his chin. It made a rasping noise. ‘We’d better tell the commanding officer.’
Ralf raised his telescope again. No wonder there was no movement around the enemy’s fires. Th
ey were all hauling the guns. It had to be that.
‘We have to be certain. A reconnaissance.’
Addis swallowed hard. ‘Who’s goin’, sir?’
Davis said, ‘It’d be a terrible risk, sir.’
Ralf had intended to send Davis and one other while a runner was sent back to alert his cousin.
Addis’s dismay that he might be sent because of his insolence by the river, the fact that his was the mouth which was always ready to smear him with gossip was enough. Even the reliable Sergeant Davis was doubtful and would prefer any other officer to be here. Ralf looked at the squad who waited by the barricade, their work done.
There was one marine called Adams, a quiet, modest youth who was often mocked goodheartedly by the seasoned members of his platoon because of his manner. He never swore or complained, and was obviously glad to be in the Corps. Shown on the records as eighteen he seemed nearer to sixteen, he was so keen to better himself. Unlike so many of the others he was a first-time marine, a new recruit with no family connections in the Corps.
‘I shall go.’ It came out quite easily. ‘You too, Adams.’
That would hit Davis and the others where it hurt most. Their pride, and their contempt for any new officer.
By contrast Adams was delighted. Ralf tried not to think of Vicary’s pleasure at being selected by Greenaway before he had been killed, beheaded just a few yards from here.
Davis said firmly, ‘If you want my advice, sir.’
‘I don’t.’ He thrust the telescope into his pocket and carefully drew his sword. It would make less noise if they stumbled on a Boxer guard. ‘You withdraw with the squad, Sergeant. Try not to make too much noise about it, eh?’
He trembled with chilled excitement. It was easy. An act, but it worked. Why had he never realized it?
They melted into the shadows and Ralf glanced up as a shaft of moonlight touched the scarred gateway like silver paint.
Adams, his rifle across his body, its bayonet already fixed, trod quietly after the second lieutenant.
Adams’s family came from Exeter, where his father was a shoe-maker. His was a large family and times were hard, otherwise his mother would have prevented him from enlisting. Adams had always wanted to join the Corps, and had never lost an opportunity to visit Plymouth to watch the Royal Marines at drill, the men-of-war proud and beflagged in the Sound.
The First to Land (1984) Page 23
