A bullet slammed into the barricade and Bannatyre clapped his hand to his eye as some grit spurted into it. He tried to climb down to the ground but stumbled over a corpse and pitched headlong.
Fox believed that Bannatyre was behind him and only realized what had happened when he turned and saw some jubilant Boxers on top of the abandoned barricade.
Two figures charged from the right, one was Private Carver, the other was Sergeant Kirby. As one of the Boxers jumped down towards Bannatyre, his bayoneted rifle ready to pin him to the ground, Kirby gave a great, inhuman bellow.
In those split seconds Fox saw it all, the veins bulging from Kirby’s head and neck, the great bloody patch on his tunic where his terrible wound had burst open. Kirby swung his rifle and caught the Boxer off-balance with the heel-plate then as the man toppled sideways he drove his bayonet into his side, almost to the hilt.
Fox ran towards them, firing from his hip as more of the enemy bobbed over the barricade. The main force of attackers were at the gates now and he could hear them tearing the makeshift defences apart with their bare hands.
Bullets whistled across the clearing, and Private Carver fell dead, blood pouring from his mouth. Another Boxer dropped to the ground as lightly as a cat. Fox saw the blade swing in his hands and retched as it cleaved Bannatyre across the neck and shoulder.
Fox’s last bullet brought the Boxer down. He did not wait any longer but thrust his arm about Kirby’s waist and together they ran and staggered towards the next barricade.
Fox was only vaguely aware of some shouted commands, the heads and levelled rifles rising above the defences as the marines poured a devastating volley into the men below the wall. Two other shots were aimed at the packed explosives in the gateway, and even as the barricade there collapsed under the weight of bodies and the enemy surged through the air was rent apart by one thunderous explosion.
Fox hard Kirby gasping in agony. Nothing could save him now. Hands reached out to haul him to safety and Fox shouted, ‘Easy! Carry ’im to the army dressin’ station!’
Some last reserve of strength seemed to rouse Kirby from his terrible pain.
‘No! Just put me down!’
Fox reloaded his rifle and nodded to the grim faces around him.
‘All right, Jeff. You’ll be good as new soon.’
Surprisingly Kirby managed a weak grin. ‘You always was a bloody good liar!’ Then his face twisted in agony again and he fell silent.
Corporal O’Neil waited until the Boxers already inside the defences were trapped by the gateway which was choked with corpses and the remains of a stone arch which had crossed above the original gates. The machine-gun rattled into life, the bullets knocking the confused Boxers from their feet like an invisible arm.
‘They’re running!’
Blackwood strode along the barricade, the bugler hurrying behind him.
‘Cease firing!’ He saw Kirby lying on his back, a blanket folded beneath his head.
Fox said heavily. ‘’E tried to save Mr Bannatyre, sir.’
Blackwood watched him gravely. ‘I know. I saw it. I saw what you did too.’ He knelt down beside the dying sergeant, knowing in his heart he should not be wasting time. He was needed everywhere. His mind still quaked from the roar of firing and the crash of those great shells. Bannatyre was dead, and for what? He was wrong to let his mind drift like this. Bannatyre had been doing his job. Because of his desperate rearguard action at least two hundred Boxers had been killed or badly wounded. It might blunt the edge of their next attack. It was all they could hope for.
Kirby opened his eyes and peered up at him. ‘Sorry ‘bout this, sir.’
‘Don’t talk.’
Kirby tried to shake his head but the pain made him whimper like a child.
‘Must talk. ’Ave to.’
Fox said uneasily, ‘Stow it, Jeff.’
Kirby glared at him. ‘I bin in the Corps almost as long as you. I knows me rights. Dyin’ declaration, that’s wot.’
Fox knelt beside Blackwood. ‘’E’s goin’ fast, sir. Losin’ ’is mind.’
Kirby gritted his teeth. ‘My wife,’ he groaned. ‘Nance, she’s dead.’
Blackwood said gently, ‘I know.’
‘I killed ’er! The fire was later. Oh, Nance, forgive me!’
He opened his mouth wide as if to shout, but it remained open, and his eyes were fixed and without understanding.
Fox stood up. ‘Wot’s he talking about, sir?’ He shook his head. ‘Poor sod. ’E was a good mate.’
Blackwood walked along his men, and waited for de Courcy to lead a party of marines to the outer defences again. There was no point in trying to barricade the gate. If they did, the Boxers would use their gun to blow it down. He saw a wounded Boxer rise up on his elbow and aim a musket at a passing marine. Sergeant Greenaway kicked the weapon aside and brought his bayonet down in a straight lunge.
‘No you don’t, matey.’
He found Gravatt and Ralf in the centre of the line staring after the retreating enemy.
Gravatt said, ‘They’ll be back.’ He saw Blackwood. ‘I heard about Ian, sir. Bad luck.’
They looked at each other. It was always the way. Any one of them could have been killed. As it was they had hardly lost a man. Poor Bannatyre and Private Carver. And now Kirby who had acted like a lion right to the end.
Had he been delirious, or did he really murder his wife?
Blackwood discovered he did not care. Kirby had shown remarkable courage. As if, like the time on the river, he had wanted to die. But who would ever know for certain? Even fewer would care.
Gravatt watched his face and said, ‘I wonder if Colonel Hay’s messenger got through the Chinese lines, sir.’
Blackwood winced as the cannon fired again, then ducked as a shell exploded on the top of a nearby building. Where O’Neil and his machine-gun would have been. Maybe the Boxers did not realize it had been moved. Not yet.
He said, ‘I think we have to assume he didn’t get through, Toby. So until a relief does reach us we must hold on.’ He stared bitterly at the dust above the enemy camp. ‘But for that damned gun –’
Ralf said, ‘Is there no way of destroying it, or knocking it out of action?’
Blackwood studied him thoughtfully. Ralf had certainly changed since he had carried the injured Private Adams to safety.
‘Impossible.’ He saw the shutter drop instantly behind Ralf’s opaque stare. He added, ‘The gun will be in the centre of their camp. There are thousands of the enemy out there, night or day. It would be suicide.’ He saw Swan leaning on his rifle, his eyes closed as if he was asleep on his feet. ‘But I agree with you, Ralf. It’s the only way.’
They ducked again as another explosion made the ground jump beneath them and pebbles and broken beams were flung into the air almost where the previous shell had landed.
‘Ten minutes between each shot or near enough. They must be frightened we’ll produce some artillery of our own and blow up their ammunition store.’
Gravatt grimaced. ‘Some hopes.’
Blackwood tried not to measure their limit of existence. Two more days? At the most. But not with the shells crashing down every few minutes. It seemed likely that even if the Boxers did not attack at night, they would keep up a bombardment around the clock. Then even rest would be denied to his men.
He tried to think it out, but his head was aching unmercifully.
Gravatt lowered his binoculars. ‘They don’t look as if they’re going to attack for a while, sir.’
‘No. They’ll try to soften us with shellfire first.’ He looked at the scattered corpses, some already grotesque in the strong sunlight. ‘Have that lot cleared away from our lines, Toby. Things are bad enough without the stench.’
Gravatt nodded. ‘I’ll get Ian Bannatyre to –’ Their eyes met and he left the rest unsaid. It was often impossible to accept the loss of a man in such a close-knit body.
Blackwood nudged Swan. ‘Come on, man, I have to
see the Colonel.’
Ralf blocked his way. ‘I want to do it.’ He dropped his eyes. ‘Sir.’
They ducked as another shell ploughed amongst some hovels near the mission. Somewhere a voice shouted, ‘Stretcher bearer, this way!’
Blackwood eyed his cousin and said, ‘It would mean blowing up their supply of shells. Without them, the gun is just scrap-iron.’
Ralf fell in step beside him, his hands moving jerkily as he said, ‘The General told me often enough about my father in the Crimea, and the way they blew up the Russian guns.’
Blackwood replied, ‘I’ll speak with Sir John Hay. Then we’ll see.’ He smiled sadly. ‘I’m supposed to be looking after you, remember?’
Ralf shrugged. ‘I can manage.’
Blackwood found Hay in his battered command post, sitting on a canvas chair and sipping a glass of wine. He was studying a map and looked up when he saw Blackwood’s shadow.
‘Holding out?’
Blackwood sighed. There was no wastage with Hay. Not even with words.
‘We’re under heavy fire, sir.’
‘I know that, dammit. But can you hold?’
‘No, sir. Not with that gun out there.’
Hay glared at him. ‘If we try to attack it, they’ll cut us into pieces! Dammit, Blackwood, they outnumber us twenty times over. I’ve heard that Chinese resistance is stiffening, by the way. So it may take even longer to force a relief column through to us.’
Blackwood gauged the moment. It was not easy for Hay. No amount of bluster could change the cruel facts.
Blackwood said, ‘I think we should try to blow up the enemy’s magazine or limber, sir. It’s in the gully, I’m certain of it.’
A shell exploded somewhere, the sound muffled here. Blackwood saw dust fall from the roof and sprinkle Hay’s immaculate red tunic. He did not appear to notice. ‘It sounds like madness.’ For the first time he gave his maniac grin. ‘But I suppose if you’ve earned the VC you must be crazy enough for anything, what?’ He shook with soundless laughter.
He became suddenly serious. ‘Volunteers of course.’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘And you can forget any idea of going yourself. You’re here to command, not to lead some death-or-glory escapade, see?’
Blackwood smiled. What did Hay expect? Whoever volunteered would be unlikely to return. This was not the Crimea as described by the General at Hawks Hill. No great armies this time. A handful of men against an unknown force of fanatics. Surrounded, and probably already listed as missing, it was a terrible responsibility to ask men to throw away their lives because of some hazy idea.
Hay added. ‘I’ll try to get some support for you of course.’
Blackwood walked out into the sunlight and saw Swan waiting for him.
‘Tonight, sir?’
‘It has to be.’
Swan slung his rifle and waited for the dust to settle from the last shellburst. ‘Rather them than me.’
Blackwood found Gravatt at his post and told him. The adjutant listened without comment then said quietly, ‘I’ll go.’
He saw the colour sergeant standing back from the ruined gateway staring up at the bullet-riddled flag which he had obviously replaced in spite of the bursting shells.
Sergeant Greenaway shouted, ‘I think they’re coming at us again, sir!’
Blackwood looked at Gravatt. ‘I shall decide later, Toby.’ You may be in command by then.
Gravatt bit his lip. ‘Very well, sir.’ He drew his revolver and examined it automatically.
‘Until then, Toby, we must hold this line.’
‘Stand-to!’ Fox came striding along the barricade, Kirby momentarily forgotten. ‘Face yer front! Give the bastards ’ell!’
Blackwood walked away from Gravatt. They were too few in number now to be caught together.
He leaned on the rough parapet and levelled his revolver with both hands.
She would be listening. Packed in the mission with all those women and children. He shivered in spite of his taut nerves.
‘Fifty yards! Independent! Fire!’
It was never-ending.
Inside the stone-built stables where the marines were housed, where they rested or fretted with anxiety while they waited for daylight, it was almost dark.
Ralf Blackwood glanced around the spartan surroundings where some marines were lying exhausted beside their kit and was amazed that he felt so self-controlled.
It had been a terrible day. The bombardment, then the wild charges to the barricades. It had sounded as if the Japanese troops were under equal pressure too. It could not last. The realization gave him a strange sensation of power and inner strength.
They had lost three more marines killed, and several wounded; Ralf was not certain how many. Or maybe he did not really care. It could not help to dwell on weakness, he thought.
And soon he would be going out into the darkness. It was sheer, utter madness.
But when the fighting had died down, and they had stood gasping at their posts like stricken animals, his cousin David had told them about the proposed raid into the enemy’s territory. The others had volunteered, and Ralf had seen from the pain in his cousin’s eyes that he wanted to go himself.
Ralf had watched their faces when he had said, ‘I’m the one. I’ve been out there in the dark before, remember?’
He had expected an argument and he had been surprised by their acceptance. Perhaps they believed his simple explanation. Unlikely. They needed to keep together when the end came, it was obvious.
By contrast Ralf hated the stand-and-die sentiment. But he needed two volunteers to accompany him. He could see them now watching him from the shadows.
His cousin had asked if they were genuine volunteers. Ralf almost smiled. How could they refuse in front of their mates?
Corporal Addis was one. It would be interesting to discover if he could still sneer behind his back on this impossible mission. And Private Roberts, the Sussex countryman who never missed with any sort of rifle. He had been brought up in the fields and hedgerows, and could move like a ghost when need be. He would have detailed Sergeant Greenaway but his size and age would only jeopardize the raid. It would have taught him a lesson too.
The sergeant major was already present, as Ralf knew he would be.
‘Six grenades, sir, two each.’
‘I can count, Sergeant Major.’ It was easy when you knew how. Fox was no better than a hotel porter when you learned his weakness, his instant obedience.
There was an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the horse Trooper who was munching contentedly from a feed-bag. Trooper was apparently untroubled by the stench of death and charred buildings, the day’s chorus of gunfire and yells.
Ralf said, ‘Now, you two, pay attention.’ He saw some of the resting marines propping themselves on their elbows, hating him for disturbing them rather than for what he was saying.
‘I want you to strip to your trousers.’ He gestured towards an old unused fireplace, perhaps where a blacksmith had worked in safer times. ‘Rub yourselves all over with soot. I want you as black as boots.’ David would have made a joke about it, even though his mind told him otherwise. There was no point in it, any more than there was with Fox.
I don’t need them. I don’t need anyone.
He thought momentarily of the German countess and wondered if they had made love. He had watched his cousin since that night, but if he had acted with dishonour he was hiding it well.
He recalled that afternoon, during an attack when the centre of the line had almost collapsed. There had been Chinese everywhere, and the marines’ bayonets had shone with blood.
In the weakest part of the line he had seen David waving his sword, his teeth white in the smoky sunshine as he had urged, encouraged, and forced his men back and the enemy with them.
Once as David had turned towards him he had seen the real man, spent, sickened at what was happening, knowing he had to keep them all going. Like a state
of shock, Ralf thought, he had looked right through him.
Enough of this. It was time to make a move.
He unbuttoned his tunic and threw it with his shirt on the ground. He saw the youthful Private Adams staring at him from a rough stretcher, his injured foot a mass of bandages.
‘Here, sir, let me.’
Ralf smiled and sat beside the youth as he leaned over to slap the wet soot all over his naked back. It was wet because at one stage of the battle the roof of the stable had taken fire. Several buildings were still blazing but to the marines this wretched slum was a temporary barracks and they had quickly doused the flames.
They stood and looked at each other. Roberts was unconcerned about going on the raid. For, apart from his genuine pride in the Corps and its comradeship, he was in fact a loner. On leave in Portsmouth, or runs ashore from one ship or another, he always went by himself.
Corporal Addis on the other hand was almost shaking with anxiety and worse. He still could not really believe it. When the second lieutenant had put the idea of volunteering to him it had been in earshot of several other marines. Men he had known and had often dominated with his apparent knowledge of the law and his inside-information about their officers.
Fox said, ‘Cap’n Blackwood is comin’, sir.’ He sounded wary, which was unusual.
Ralf faced the doorway as Blackwood and Private Swan ducked through a rough sacking curtain.
‘Good luck, all of you. If you get sighted before you reach an objective return immediately. There’s been enough waste of life already.’
Ralf watched him. That was what Blair might have said.
Ralf said, ‘I intend to make a wide detour. Longer but safer.’
Blackwood nodded. He felt like dropping, and every nerve and muscle screamed out for sleep. He tried not to think of that afternoon. The relentless attacks, his men fighting them back again and again. He thought of the faces which had fallen. Private Knowles, the one who had ridden Trooper. Hacked to death as a shot had brought him down. Davis, the Welsh sergeant, killed while fighting three Boxers single-handed, and Private McCulloch, whose father was a sergeant major at Forton Barracks. So many faces that they became mixed up in his aching mind.
The First to Land (1984) Page 26
