Badge of Glory (1982) (10 page)

‘Pull, lads!
Faster!
’

Another shot cracked out and whined above the sweating oarsmen.

In the bows, Frazier, the expert marksman, took slow and deliberate aim and then squeezed the trigger. Even at that range, and firing from a moving boat, he did not miss. Blackwood had never known him to lose a target.

A figure burst from the scrub and staggered against the split rock before pitching headlong down the slope. It could be anyone, Blackwood thought. Dressed in robes, more like an Arab than a local tribesman.

He drew his sword and pointed at the shore. ‘
Fire!
’

The swivel, training hard round until it was pointing abeam, spat out a long orange tongue, the crash of the shot echoing around the river like a thunder-clap. The tightly packed charge of canister exploded amongst the bushes and coarse scrub barely feet from where the figure had fallen.

From this distance it was like seeing a freak wind hitting the side of the hill. Stones and branches were hurled in all directions, and Blackwood imagined he saw someone crawling into deeper cover, wounded perhaps from the murderous charge of the ‘daisy-cutter’ as it was termed.

There was no more time to wonder about that. The beach was suddenly right here, and as the oars stilled seamen and marines tumbled over the gunwales to wade alongside and guide the boat firmly ashore.

Blackwood did not even remember getting his feet wet. One second he was steadying himself against the grounding, the next he was on the hot beach, his eyes everywhere as the marines ran and staggered into two sections, their eyes slitted as they peered around for another sign of an enemy.

Blackwood looked across the slowly moving water. God in heaven, Lascelles was in direct line with this boat. He would be unable to offer covering fire without killing and wounding half of the landing party. He saw the oars come to life again and breathed out noisily. Either Lascelles or M’Crystal had seen the danger in time.

Blackwood shouted, ‘Take cover in those rocks! First section,
go
!’

The marines and the sergeant trotted up the beach, while the others knelt down and aimed their muskets at the place where the swivel had carved its path.

Lieutenant Deacon called, ‘Shall I call in the second boat, Major?’

‘Not yet.’

Blackwood wiped his eyes quickly with the back of his sleeve. The first section was there. Like fallen red plums dotted among the rocks. He gritted his teeth. His fingers were so slippery he could barely grip his sword. Where was courage now?
What does it feel like?

Corporal Jones peered up at him, his homely Welsh features anxious. ‘Sir?’

It steadied Blackwood.
Sir.
He must have spoken aloud without knowing it.

He bared his teeth in a grin but his face felt frozen. ‘Second section,
advance
!’

What must it look like, he wondered, had there been anyone to see? A line of marines walking up the beach towards the mission. He glanced quickly to left and right. A mere handful of men, faces grim beneath their black shakos, muskets held at the ready as they trudged across the open ground.

Doak, who had been under arrest for drunkenness when he had returned from leave. Frazier, who could shoot an acorn out of a tree but would do anything to avoid promotion. Oldcastle, not even seventeen and already facing possible death.

To think I nearly left them and others like them.

He could see the other section amongst the rocks watching their progress, ready to fire if there was any sort of challenge.

His heart was beating against his ribs loud enough for Jones or the others to hear. Soon now. The crashing impact. Hopefully quickly done. Not the agony of
Satyr
’s surgeon, the humiliation of returning home a cripple.

They reached the rough wall and halted. Blackwood looked up and listened. The enemy, whoever they were, would know that the only way into the compound was through the gate, which was on the other side where they would be unprotected and shot down before they could get inside.

Corporal Jones said, ‘Grapnel, sir?’

Blackwood nodded. Suppose the first attack had been a ruse to get them this far? The real menace might be inside the wall, waiting for them to enter or attempt to climb over.

Private Doak slung his musket and stood back from the wall, a grapnel swinging gently from one hand. A solitary man, in spite of his calling, with a secret sorrow, Blackwood had decided. Whatever it was, he did his best to lose it with rum whenever he got the chance.

He made up his mind and unclipped his scabbard and handed it and his sword to Smithett. His shako too, while the nearest marines watched him with tense expectancy.

Corporal Jones said cautiously, ‘Won’t do at all, sir, begging your pardon. I’ll go.’

Blackwood watched as the grapnel soared up to the parapet and caught fast. Then he took the line and tested it, his eyes on the rough horizon between wall and sky. ‘If I fall, Corporal Jones, retreat back to the boat.’ He took a firm grip on the line and hoped his palms would not slip. It would take too long to explain to Jones.

He leaned back and pressed his foot against the wall. What had his father said of him?
Honour and glory.
He cursed aloud and began to haul himself up the line. He had been ready enough to give Lascelles advice. Now it was his turn to earn his pay.

Once he paused to gather his strength, aware of the silence again, the upturned faces below him. By his hand he saw an ant probing into a hole in the crude stonework. How many people had died to build this place? he wondered.

With a start he realized his head was level with the top. Holding his breath he reached out for a fingerhold, his mind throbbing with strain and concentration.

As his eyes rose higher he saw a burned-out roof and some fallen timber on the far side of a mud compound. But the gates were there right enough, and heavily barred with a massive timber. His nostrils twitched and he felt his body contract with fear. Death. He knew the smell of that all right.

‘Anything, sir?’ Jones was getting worried again.

Blackwood did not answer but very gingerly hauled his body up and up until he was lying prone on the top of the wall. He heard a bang and flinched as a ball slammed into a piece of timber supporting an inner parapet. There was an instant rattle of musket fire, then the bang of a swivel as the challenge was met from the boats.

Blackwood threw himself over the wall and dropped on his knees. As he tugged the pistol from his belt he saw a face peering at him over the edge of the same parapet. Bearded and filthy, with eyes ablaze with despair and worse, the creature shouted, ‘In God’s name!
Who are you?
’

Blackwood moved towards him, knowing the next seconds were vital. The man was armed, although his weapon was hidden beneath the parapet’s planking. He was also on the verge of madness. One false move and he would get a full charge straight in his belly.

He said slowly, ‘The marines are here.’ He deliberately thrust the pistol back into his belt as he watched the man’s eyes trying to translate what they saw. Faded eyes like his grandfather’s.

It was unbearable to see the ragged creature as he began to weep. There was no sound at all, which made it worse, and all the time those eyes stared at Blackwood as if unable to accept what was happening.

A white leg came over the parapet and Corporal Jones crouched beside him.

‘Hell’s teeth, sir!’ He sniffed. ‘Corpses too!’

Blackwood lowered himself on to the ladder and stared at the ragged defender.

‘How many of you?’

‘F-four, I think.’ He shook his head dazedly. ‘Bin here for days fighting them off.’ He waved vaguely with his musket. ‘The devils are out there still.’ He reached out and felt Blackwood’s tunic with a filthy hand. ‘
Marines
, y’say?’ His eyes were pleading. ‘Come to help
us
?’

Blackwood stood up slowly, his mind rebelling as he saw
the corpses littered by the gate and sprawled in careless attitudes where they had fallen. It must have been a pitched battle. He listened to the dull buzz of flies but heard only the screams and yells which must have filled this terrible place.

He saw Smithett clambering over the parapet, ducking without any change of expression as a ball shrieked over his head.

‘I think we need one of those bottles, Smithett.’ To Jones he said, ‘Call up the others and get them in position.’ He thought suddenly of the boy Oldcastle. What would he think of the horrors here? Black men and white, staring eyes and gaping wounds. ‘When you’ve done that, signal the first section to join us at the double.’

He turned towards the old man with the musket. ‘Yes, we are here to help you.’ He made himself smile when he felt like weeping. ‘But first I want you to help me.’

Captain George Tobin stood with his shoulders set against the stern windows of his day cabin, his face grim as he listened to the first lieutenant’s report. It was early evening, and although the wind had completely died
Satyr
rolled continuously in an offshore swell.

Sir Geoffrey Slade was sitting in one of Tobin’s leather chairs, and huddled in a corner as if to be invisible. Barrow, the private secretary, peered at his papers, his pen scribbling at irregular intervals.

Lieutenant Deacon looked exhausted and had one wrist tied in a crude bandage as he completed his description of what they had found at the trading mission.

He said, ‘The old man, Thomas Fenwick by name, says there were thirty-two white men in the fort.’ He dropped his eyes as he remembered the gaping corpses, the swarming flies. ‘Another died shortly after we scaled the wall. I brought the remaining three aboard for the surgeon.’ He shrugged heavily as if it was all beyond imagination. ‘Old Thomas Fenwick refused to leave, sir.’

Slade gave a wry smile. ‘He would. He’s been trading these coasts for as long as anyone can remember.’ He stood up and crossed to the table and peered over his secretary’s shoulder. ‘If it’s all true, Captain Tobin, I was wrong about Mdlaka. We were all wrong. The old king was not overthrown, he obviously planned the massacre himself, with outside aid.’ He glanced up sharply, ‘Rifled weapons, you say?’

Deacon nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Captain Blackwood told me to
be sure I reported that. Not many of them, maybe only three or four. One shot went clean through the boat’s side. No ordinary smooth-bore did that.’

Slade rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘You waited all day and nothing else happened. Interesting. Our unexpected arrival in
Satyr
upset their plans, no doubt. They intended to kill the last of the defenders and make it look like a raid by somebody else.’

Tobin said, ‘Any small vessel would have entered the estuary and moored at the pier as usual. Those few muskets would have cut down any attempt to make sail and escape. You’re right, Sir Geoffrey, they’d not be expecting a steam-frigate.’ There was no pride in his voice this time, only disgust.

Slade said, ‘Wait outside, Mr Deacon, if you please.’ As soon as the door was closed he said crisply, ‘I cannot order you about, Captain Tobin. I can only
advise
, there is a subtle difference.’

Tobin smiled. ‘I know, sir. I’ve been in the Navy long enough to learn that. I am the senior officer present, and until we reach higher authority at Freetown I must act as I think proper.’

Slade added, ‘What you mean is that if you act wisely others will receive the praise, but if you make a mistake you alone will carry the blame?’

‘Something like that, sir.’

‘Then let me
advise
you. Mdlaka is just one of many African kings or chiefs who have kept an uneasy peace at our bidding. They grew rich on slavery, and now on a growing export of palm oil. Although most European countries have done their best to restrain slavery, if only in words, there are individuals who still see it as rich profit. Cuba, Brazil, even in the Indies there are ready markets for those who will run the risk of seizure. To compensate slave-owners was not enough. The sources must be stamped out. If an old king like Mdlaka can be bought with a few modern guns and induced to commit mass murder, there is no saying what will happen further south in the Gulf.’

Tobin sat down. ‘Funny thing, sir, I was recently telling Captain Blackwood about
my
days in the Gulf.’ He looked up, his eyes direct and hard. ‘You’re going to leave him there, aren’t you?’

‘You like him?’ Slade walked to a scuttle and studied the golden sunlight on the water. It would soon be dusk. ‘Yes, I must. If the fort had been taken and everyone killed, the bodies and evidence burnt, I might have left it at that.’ His voice was cold as he continued, ‘But Mdlaka knows me and will realize that I understand what he has done. If we leave now, the word will spread like a forest fire. The white man has fled from Mdlaka. There would be a stampede to copy his example.’

‘And your advice, sir?’

‘As soon as it is dark send the remaining marines across, and any stores you think Captain Blackwood might need.’

Tobin remained expressionless. There was no point in telling Slade there were only six marines still aboard. He was a landsman, a man of politics.

Slade said, ‘I must reach Freetown without delay. There I shall discover the latest and, I trust, more accurate intelligence about what is happening.’ He eyed the captain sadly. ‘Do not fret too much about young Blackwood. He takes after his father, though I doubt he would admit to it. He is as resourceful as he is brave.’ He shrugged. ‘And like you, he is the only one who is available.’

Tobin moved from the chair. ‘I’ll tell my first lieutenant. The boats can go in as soon as it’s dark.’ He watched the other man and added, ‘With respect, sir, you should have been an admiral yourself.’

Slade watched the door close and said, ‘Have you written all that down, Barrow? I want no misinterpretation later on because you’ve omitted something.’

He peered through the scuttle again. Some people were frightened of Africa merely because it looked vast on a map. It just needed courage, the urge to explore and create a new way of life here. Already there was a steady stream of
missionaries, religious and medical, some in the most feared and previously hostile territories. They were the true vanguard, whether they knew it or not. His mouth tightened. Not a thousand Mdlakas were going to ruin a dream of empire, there was far too much at stake.