It was a cruel twist of fate, Blackwood thought, that these same gentle nuns were one of the main targets for Boxer hatred. Foreign missionaries of any kind represented a threat to their beliefs, to the very roots of their religion. Missionaries, men and women, had been among the first to fall victim to the long knives of the Righteous Harmonious Fists.
Above the head and shoulders of a nun who was kneeling to placate a small sobbing girl Blackwood suddenly saw Friedrike. She looked very calm or would appear so to anyone who did not know her, and seemed withdrawn from the bustle around her.
She looked straight at him, and as Blackwood pushed his way across the room he marvelled at the way she managed to appear so unafraid. He made to seize her hands but something in her violet eyes signalled a caution. He realized that several women were standing nearby, and although they were apparently speaking to each other, he had the feeling they were watching and listening.
Blackwood said awkwardly, ‘I’m so sorry about this – ’ He faltered. ‘Countess.’
He saw the pain and the relief in her eyes. She understood what it was costing him. Both of them.
She said, ‘You must not always apologize, Captain. I think the war is not of your doing.’ She tried to smile, but it only made her look more sad.
It was like saying goodbye minutes before a troopship casts off, and the thin path of water widens to an impossible gulf. Never the right words when you needed them most. It was always too late.
Blackwood said quietly, ‘You look wonderful. I want to hold you, to touch you – ’
She dropped her eyes and he saw her breasts moving quickly despite her guard, her pretence.
‘Please, David. I cannot bear it. To have you so close, and yet – ’
He said, ‘I am wearing the locket.’ He looked round at the milling figures, his voice despairing. ‘I love you.’
She forgot her caution and reached up to touch his mouth. ‘Shh. Do not torture yourself.’ She could barely hold back the tears.
‘I have to go, Friedrike.’ He could smell perfume or soap on her fingers and wanted all the more to hold her, to shut out the others, the war, everything.
She glanced quickly at the other women, probably the wives of German officials and traders.
‘Together yet so apart, David.’ She looked up, startled as a stray bullet cracked amongst the buildings. ‘I must be strong.’
Blackwood knew he had to leave but found it almost impossible.
She whispered, ‘Our night together, my dearest. I shall never, never forget no matter what happens.’
He started to protest. ‘It’s not over, Friedrike!’
She smiled at him but did not speak as she studied his face. As if they would never see each other again.
A solider stood beside them, his arm in a sling. ‘Pardon, sir, but one of your men is here.’
Blackwood turned towards the door, knowing it would be Swan.
Swan was wearing his blue field-service cap. Blackwood had ordered his men to discard their helmets. It was just possible that the enemy might think there were fresh, unused troops on the barricade, but now as Swan looked across at him it seemed a pitiful deception. Against the cannon they would need more than party-tricks.
He said, ‘I’m needed.’ He moved slightly towards her so that her back was towards the other women. ‘I hate to go. I want you so much.’
Her eyes glistened in the full lamplight. ‘I know.’ She bit her lip to hold back the emotion. ‘I know.’
Blackwood took her hand and kissed it. Then he released it and looked at her. ‘Until we meet –’
She lifted her chin as he had seen her do many times.
‘Take care, David.’
Oblivious to the watching eyes Blackwood hurried from the room. He did not look back. He did not dare.
Swan held the door for him and shot the countess a quick glance. Had they? he wondered. God she was a fair treat to look at.
‘Mr Gravatt’s musterin’ the men now, sir.’
He glanced at Blackwood’s stern profile.
‘Think we’ll ’old the buggers off, sir?’
Blackwood tried not to think of her at the mercy of the Boxers.
‘Of course.’ It was what Hay would have said.
Blackwood paused by the machine-gun and lowered his head to peer along its five barrels. The old Nordenfeldt might be hand-operated but a good gun-layer like Private Hudson could still get off some three-hundred and-fifty rounds a minute.
Corporal O’Neil followed his glance and said, ‘When they come over the outer barricade we’ll give them a right welcome, sir.’ His face was blistered from the sun after all his hours on the flat roof which he had now abandoned.
Blackwood looked at the gates, the rough and ready defences. De Courcy had used his common sense again and had painted two large aiming marks so that the marksmen could fire off the explosion.
He saw the two sharpshooters, Roberts and Dago Trent, in their sandbagged positions, each with extra ammunition pouches opened and within reach. Colour Sergeant Chittock had unrolled his Colours although in the morning gloom the red looked black. Before they had fallen back to the second defence line Chittock had hoisted his borrowed Union Jack above the gateway. That more than anything would attract the enemy’s anger and attention.
Blackwood walked slowly down the line. He saw Sergeant Kirby leaning on some old steel plates and gripping them with both hands. It looked as if he was taking slow, deep breaths, but before he saw Blackwood’s approach and straightened his back, the pain on his heavy face was only too apparent.
‘Morning, Sergeant.’
‘Sir.’
‘How’s the wound?’ Blackwood watched the sudden wariness in Kirby’s eyes. What was the matter with him? If he was afraid of being sent back to the Mediator or a field dressing station he could put it from his mind. Nobody would leave Tientsin until the battle was fought and won, or the city was relieved.
‘Never better, sir.’ Kirby stared at a point above Blackwood’s shoulder.
‘Good, I’m glad to hear it.’ He saw the relief on the sergeant’s face. What did he expect him to say?
The sergeant major stood near the colour sergeant, his features calm, as if he had accepted the reality of defeat.
Blackwood said, ‘Have you spoken to Mr Bannatyre?’
‘Yessir.’ Fox looked at him squarely and added, ‘’E’ll be a good ’un, after this, sir.’
It was the worse part of it. But they had to make a show of defending the outer barricades until the last moment. Twenty men including Bannatyre and the sergeant major, and that was more than they could really spare.
Somewhere a voice yelled a command. The Japanese were preparing for their own dawn. Blackwood had met their major only briefly, a stocky little man in blue cap and tunic, with a sword which seemed far too large for him. A dangerous adversary to meet in battle.
He found Gravatt with de Courcy and a runner, drinking tea from giant mugs which they had carried from their quarters.
Gravatt put down his mug. ‘Sorry to call you so soon, sir. It’s all quiet now, but the pickets saw some movement on our left front. It could be they’re moving a cannon, and making sure we can’t see where it’s hidden.’ He peered forward. ‘Have you had any sleep, sir?’ He sounded concerned.
Blackwood climbed over the barricade and walked across the open ground to the outer defence line.
‘I don’t need sleep.’
He found the same box he had used before and stood on it to peer towards the enemy’s camp. Most of the fires were out now, and even the stars had almost faded away. He shivered in spite of the fact he knew he was prepared for what must come. He did not feel afraid, at least he did not recognize it. Committed, resigned, it was an empty ache like hunger.
It would soon be dawn. He glanced at the gateway’s battered silhouette. It would serve him right if the enemy fired first because they already knew the packed charges were there. He would be blown to pieces in th
e blink of an eye.
Lieutenant Bannatyre turned to face him. He had removed his field-service cap and had tucked it in his belt.
Blackwood said, ‘They may gather behind the old wall where Adams was caught in the trap. It would give them cover until the gun is brought to bear.’ He recalled Ralf’s description, the hostility in his voice, Blackwood could almost see the gun for himself.
He heard the careful tread of feet as the marines who were to man these defences approached from the rear.
He said, ‘God, Ian, you’ve not brought Sergeant Kirby here with you?’
Bannatyre shrugged. ‘I tried to dissuade him, sir. But he is my platoon sergeant, and sick or not the men respect him.’
‘I see.’ Blackwood thought of Kirby’s anxious eyes. It was like the last time when he had volunteered to go with O’Neil to blow up the boom across the river. He had been eager then. It had been far more than bravado. Kirby was too professional a Royal Marine for that.
‘In position, sir.’
‘Very well, Sergeant.’ Bannatyre sounded as if he wanted to yawn. A bad sign. Men who were afraid often needed to yawn; Blackwood had known the feeling but had never understood it.
A marine who stood with his back to the enemy said, ‘Looks good, dunnit, sir?’
Blackwood followed his gaze and saw Chittock’s borrowed flag lift lazily in a tiny breeze above the gateway. The red no longer looked black, and the white crosses were as clear as a marine’s belts.
‘Permission to sound Stand-To, sir?’
‘Not yet. I want every man under cover first. Tell Mr Gravatt to pass the word.’ He knew that Fox was standing nearby although he had not heard his approach.
‘It’s time, Sergeant Major.’ Blackwood looked at his tall figure with affection, and recalled his words about Neil when he had received the news of his death. At times like these Fox was like a rock, and yet Blackwood felt he knew as little about him as when they had first met.
Swan glanced up at the gateway. The whole of the Union Jack and its staff were now clearly visible. But the small breeze had expended itself, and the flag had no movement. It was as if the whole area including the scattered corpses was holding its breath.
Bannatyre said, ‘Good luck, sir.’
Blackwood nodded as he glanced at the extended line of pale uniforms. ‘You too. Keep those men down and out of the way until the signal.’
He walked slowly across the open stretch of churned-up ground and thought of the injured marine with the vicious trap still clamped to his leg, of Ralf, aloof, defiant, but changed for all that. The General might approve now, he decided.
Gravatt reached down to assist him over the barricade. He saw the nearest marines looking at him. They trusted him, and yet he had nothing to offer. They needed him more than ever, and would never understand that he needed them more.
Sergeant Greenaway, his rifle like a stick in his massive fists. Private Kempster, the lad from Leeds who had been so excited at seeing the engine from his home-town. Oates, the bugler, Corporal Addis, the barrack-room lawyer who had been strangely subdued since Ralfs return with the injured marine. But there were too many missing faces. There would be more.
He took out his handkerchief and unbuttoned his collar to wipe his throat. He felt the locket-chain warm against his skin and thought of that one night when they had loved so fiercely and with such need.
He heard a man whisper, ‘’Ere comes ’is lordship!’
Blackwood pretended he had not heard and turned to greet Colonel Hay who was to his surprise riding the horse Trooper.
Hay looked along the defences. ‘All ready, I see.’ The horse sidestepped but Hay brought it instantly under control. ‘These animals need exercise. I hope you don’t object to my borrowing him, what?’
‘Not at all, sir. He doesn’t belong to me either.’
‘I see.’ Hay made even trivialities sound important. ‘I shall visit you later on.’ He looked at Blackwood and lowered his voice. ‘This line will be held, d’you understand?’
‘I do, sir.’
‘Good.’ Hay nodded to Gravatt and spurred the horse on towards the other sector beyond the mission.
Gravatt emitted a deep sigh. ‘I was just thinking, sir. Summer in England. It’s hard to believe, isn’t it? I don’t suppose anyones knows about Tientsin, or cares for that matter.’
Blackwood smiled grimly. ‘Well I care and so must you.’ He tugged out his watch and held it up to his eyes. He saw Gravatt and Swan watching him, and pictured de Courcy and Ralf at the other end of the line which would act as a hinge if the defences were forced back.
This line will be held, Hay had said. The buts and the if onlys no longer counted for anything.
Blackwood licked his lips and tried to shut out the memories and the hopes. They never helped.
‘Bugler! Sound off!’
He stepped down from the barricade and watched the retreating shadows as the bugle’s clear notes put an end to the night and its protection.
Along the outer line of barricades he heard the hoarse shouts from Bannatyre’s small detachment, calling along the line as if it were fully manned as usual, so that it would sound more like a battalion than a mere handful of men.
Blackwood watched the sky and remembered how he had torn himself from her when dawn had been near. The heat of her body, the curve of her breasts in his hands. Everything.
There was a violent bang, very loud and without an echo, and seconds later the shell landed inside the defences with a deafening explosion.
‘Keep down!’ Not that they needed telling. The aiming shot. The next would be more accurate. Blackwood saw a young marine press his face against some sandbags, his fingers locked into them like claws.
Crash. The next shell hit the centre of the open space where Blackwood had just been walking. He felt the air sucked from his lungs, the hiss and crack of steel splinters as they scythed wall and barricade alike. But for Ralf’s unexpected act of courage that one shell alone would have killed and wounded a third of their strength.
Gravatt muttered, ‘Here comes another bastard!’
Blackwood turned his face away. He wanted to yawn, and the discovery was worse than any wound.
17
Roll-Call
The bombardment of the south-western defences continued for an hour. Each explosion was deafening to the men crouching and hiding behind their barricades or inside collapsed buildings, but by some miracle none of the marines had been seriously hurt.
Lieutenant Ian Bannatyre counted each shot. The bang, the abbreviated whistle followed instantly by the crash of an exploding shell seemed to scrape the inside of his skull like hot claws. There was a ten-minute interval between each shot. Either the Boxers were short of ammunition, which seemed unlikely, or they were having to carry it some distance to the gun, probably from that same gully, he thought despairingly.
When he looked back at the nearest buildings there was smoke everywhere. A few reluctant coolies had been ordered to douse the fires, and to carry more material to the barricades, but they were more afraid of the Boxers than of the marines.
Sergeant Major Fox peered over the sandbags as the dust swirled overhead from the last shell.
‘They’re massin’ for a charge, sir.’
Bannatyre raised his head and saw the vague groups of Boxers and troops beginning to merge into a solid wedge of men and weapons. Like that last time. He shuddered.
Fox watched him grimly. ‘We just makes a show, then we falls back to the second line, sir. We should catch a few ’undred of ’em ’til they catches on wot we’re up to.’ Bannatyre worried him. For one who had never seen any real combat before, the young lieutenant had done fairly well, he thought. But his strength was running away like sand.
Bannatyre gripped his revolver until his fingers ached. ‘God, how long can we hold out?’
Fox thought, as long as it bloody well takes. He said, ‘They’ve only got one gun anyway. The other wheels must ’ave b
een a limber for the ammo.’
Bannatyre looked along his stretched line of men. He could only see the occasional cap, or the gleam of a bayonet.
There was a dull roar of voices which rose to a terrifying crescendo as the enemy began to lope forward. They were moving more slowly than before. It only added to the menace. Bannatyre tried to moisten his lips but they were hard and dry like leather.
Fox snapped, ‘They can’t understand.’ What was the use. Bannatyre was too frightened to give the order.
‘Open fire!’ He snatched up a rifle and poked it through the sandbags. ‘Rapid fire, damn you!’
Along the barricade the rifles cracked and spat flame at the oncoming horde. Some of the enemy must have fallen but they were trampled underfoot so that it appeared as if the yelling, screaming ranks were unstoppable.
Fox felt the butt kick into his shoulder and jerked the bolt even as he took aim on one of the leaders. He groped for fresh bullets before his target had hit the ground.
He thought of Blackwood and all the others watching and waiting. It would have to be perfectly timed. He thought too of Blackwood’s behaviour in the past, his ability to think of everyone but himself.
Fox took careful aim and fired again.
Bannatyre emptied his revolver over the barricade, his breath rasping aloud like an old man’s.
Some of the Boxers were almost at the barricade where it joined the broken wall. Above the old gateway the Union Jack moved only occasionally as a bullet or musket ball cut it into defiant ribbons. It seemed to draw the enemy like a magnet, a symbol of all they hated.
The bugle bleated above the crackle of rifles and the roar of voices. ‘Retreat! Fall back!’
Bannatyre was trying to reload his revolver, his mind reeling to the din. More than anything he wanted to run with his men as they scrambled or fell from the barricades and pelted for the second line.
Fox shouted, ‘Come on, sir!’ He gave a mad grin. ‘No time for a picnic!’
The surging mass of Boxers and Imperial soldiers seemed to sway as one and change direction towards the gates as they realized that the defenders were running for their lives.
The First to Land (1984) Page 25
