Badge of Glory (1982) (11 page)

Tobin came back and said, ‘I’ve passed the word, sir.’ He shook his head. ‘A rum lot, these marines. The last six I had on board began to cheer when Mr Deacon told them they were being sent over.’

Slade smiled. ‘You worry too much, Captain. Who knows, together we may be making a small part of history?’

Tobin cocked his head to listen to a boat being pulled around the stern. Stuck out there in the middle of nowhere. He considered how he would have felt under the same circumstances. Without a ship. Helpless.

He said, ‘I’ve told the Chief to get under way as soon as the boats return, sir.’

Anything but sit here with this composed, practical man who seemed to consider any sort of sentiment as weakness.

It was completely dark when the boats returned and were hoisted smartly inboard.

Tobin was waiting to meet his first lieutenant on the quarterdeck, his mind for once uninterested in the coursing rumble of the engines and the gushing plume of smoke.

Deacon looked around the bustling seamen and listened to the clank of the capstan as if it was beautiful and inspiring music.

‘How was it?’ Tobin asked.

Deacon licked his lips. ‘Terrible, sir. The stench, everything.’ He tried to smile. ‘Captain Blackwood sent you his best wishes, by the way. Cool as an ice-floe, that one.’

Tobin looked away. Shadows hovered around him, waiting for orders, ready to move, to prove once more what they could do. Deacon was a good man, but he didn’t understand half of it.

He said harshly, ‘I’ll send him a message too. From us. The ship.’

Moments later, as the anchor rose dripping to the cathead and the frigate turned in a welter of froth and spray, her siren rent the sky apart with its piercing squawk.

Tobin climbed on to his unprotected bridge and examined the extra compass there. Then he looked astern where only the frothing wake left by paddles and rudder broke the darkness.

He said, ‘I’ll be back. Be certain of it.’

Captain Philip Blackwood walked slowly along the parapet, his eyes straining through the darkness which reached out from the barred gates like a black wall.

The marines had been hard at work all day with barely a break for rations and a gulp of fresh water. It was a marvel that any of them could even contemplate food, Blackwood thought. As it was, several of the marines had staggered retching from the grisly work of hauling the corpses to the parapets to fling them clear of the fort. Although the stench still lingered over the compound, the sights of horror were gone. The dead white men had been buried on part of the compound, while the food and stores sent across from
Satyr
had been stacked inside the communal building at the sea-ward end of the fort. The whole place measured about eighty yards by fifty, and from the size of the store huts, now burned to the ground, it must have been a thriving post until disaster had struck.

Brogan,
Satyr
’s marine sergeant, seemed very competent, and was outside the fort at this moment with a patrol of five men to make sure there were none of the attackers still in the undergrowth.

Blackwood paused and looked over the wall as he thought of his long talk with the remaining trader, Tom Fenwick. He was like something from a boy’s story-book. Fenwick had been everywhere in his search for a fortune, which so far had eluded him. He had been at the fort for two years and knew the local tribes better than most.

As Sergeant Brogan had prepared to lead his patrol clear of
the gates he had said in his quavery voice, ‘No point in it, Captain. Them buggers ’as gone. They’ll be dancin’ and jiggin’ to their ’eathen rites right now, an’ after they’ve filled their bellies with drink they’ll be samplin’ the local girls to make ’em feel like warriors again!’

Blackwood stared at the darkness, recalling his feelings when the
Satyr
’s siren had echoed along the river to signal her departure. It was typical of Tobin, of the man behind the uniform and the authority. He had seen the effect it had made on the others. The younger ones had gazed at each other as if only just aware that they had been left to fend for themselves. The older men had gone about their various tasks in silence. They knew what to expect, or thought they did.

Blackwood heard footsteps moving cautiously along the parapet and saw Lascelles peering towards him.

‘Sentries mounted, sir. The rest are settling down as ordered.’

It was strange, Blackwood thought, but the lieutenant seemed more at a loss even than the recruits. Too long with a small detachment of marines in a modern vessel like
Satyr
, perhaps that was it. It would become easy to be a passenger under those circumstances.

He wrenched his mind away from vague uncertainties and said, ‘We’ve got food and water for three weeks.’ He saw him flinch. ‘If need be. The water must be rationed, for although there is a stream, old Fenwick thinks it might have been poisoned. I’ve warned the men, but keep at them.’ He felt drained and unreasonably angry that Lascelles seemed able to let him make all the decisions and offer nothing. ‘Marines are taught to be clean and tidy at all times from the moment they enlist. They must unlearn that lesson immediately. I want all uniforms stowed away, and each man to stain his shirt so that it will not make him a target. Colour-Sergeant M’Crystal is dealing with that. Under protest.’

He pictured M’Crystal’s red face, the look of horror when he had ordered him to use tea or coffee for staining the men’s shirts. It must have sounded like blasphemy to him.

Blackwood added, ‘We are trained to fight, but not to deal with this kind of enemy. I’ll not have our men marked down by some bloody sharpshooter just because of the drill book.’

Lascelles rested his palms on the rough wall. ‘You believe they’ll come back?’

‘Yes.’

He thought of old Tom Fenwick, the way he had somehow gained in stature after being on the threshold of hell itself. He had said that the king, Mdlaka, must have promised someone a clear passage down-river with an important cargo. It had to make sense. With the armed schooner
Kingsmill
missing, probably wrecked, it was a chance in a thousand to run a shipment to the coast for collection. Only the trading post stood in the way, and Mdlaka had had no intention of allowing a single soul here to survive. He had even sent men to steal the fort’s two boats before the real attack had been started.

Fenwick had described it with little emotion. As if he had been somewhere else, or a mere spectator.

They had rushed the gates when they had been open for any would-be barter from the nearest villages, and the battle had surged back and forth, hand to hand and without quarter. Somehow they had driven the first attack clear of the compound long enough to bar the gates. After that it had been a slower, more terrifying process. Burning wads had been thrown over the walls to set fire to the huts, and several of the defenders had been shot down by marksmen concealed on the hillsides.

Two of the traders had decided to leave the fort and look for one of the missing boats. The next morning one of them had been found outside the gates horribly mutilated and apparently skinned alive. The next day the second man had been sighted tied to a tree directly opposite the gates but too for away for rescue. Even Fenwick, who had seen what savage torture could do, had said he did not know what had made the man stay alive for a whole day. ‘They must’ve give ’im to the women to do that to ’im,’ he had said harshly.

Blackwood said, ‘They may try a mock attack to test our strength. But it’s those rifled muskets I’m worried about.’

Lascelles said vaguely, ‘The Corps will be getting them next year, sir, like the army.’

‘That won’t help us!’ He relented, knowing it was fatigue and strain which were giving his tongue an edge. ‘Fenwick has drawn a map for me.’ He pointed across the wall into the blackness. ‘There’s a shallow dip in the ground beyond the ridge, and then a pointed hill, like a loaf. Perfect place for a spotting post. We’ll have it manned as soon as we know the enemy are keeping their distance.’

Lascelles nodded and swallowed hard. ‘I see, sir.’

Blackwood said, ‘I know it sounds bad, but it’s all we have. Whoever the enemy is, they’re going to fight in their own way, and that is what we must do. This fort is an important key and it must be held. Now go around the sentries and I’ll relieve you in an hour.’ He groped his way to a ladder and lowered himself to the compound.

A fire was burning cheerfully behind a wall, all that was left of a store-room. Several marines, unfamiliar without their red coats and cross-belts, crouched around it, and Blackwood waved them down as they made to stand in his presence. He noticed that their weapons were in easy reach, the pouches of ammunition and percussion caps ready to be snatched up in seconds.

‘Carry on, Corporal Jones.’

He walked to the shadows again and tried not to think of the
Satyr
as she pounded her way further and further to the south.

He found a blanket and rolled greatcoat propped by another wall, and a metal cup of brandy covered with a piece of wood to keep out any insects. He sat down carefully and sipped at the brandy. Thank God for Smithett.

Blackwood tried to free his mind from tomorrow, of Fenwick’s horrific description of the mutilated traders.

He wondered if his father had taken any further steps to sell the estate and move to London. Compared with his own
predicament, his father had led a very full life. Two wives, an eventful career in the Corps, with sons to carry on the tradition.

A creature shrilled beyond the palisade, and Blackwood rolled on to his side and pressed his eyes tightly shut. Harry stood a good chance of being the only one left.

He tried to think of the dark-haired girl named Davern, but her picture was blurred and indistinct. It made him suddenly apprehensive and sick, and when Lieutenant Lascelles came to rouse him he found him still wide awake, his chin resting on his knees as he stared at the leaping shadows from the marines’ fire.

It was nearly dawn by the time he felt he could sleep, and by then it was too late.

He watched the men stirring and finding their bearings, glancing at each other for reassurance, to convince themselves it was really happening.

Beyond the wall and vigilant sentries the land was coming to life. Unusual bird cries, unlike yesterday’s eerie silence, and a glint of sunlight on the ridged hillside.

Sergeant Brogan had reported finding dried blood where the swivel gun had blasted through the undergrowth, but the corpse had been spirited away, or as Fenwick had commented curtly, ‘Probably eaten by some poxy hyena.’ It made your flesh creep.

Blackwood surveyed his temporary command without enthusiasm. It looked like a forgotten place. It had even changed the marines. In their shirts and white trousers, unwashed and unshaven, they already had the appearance of renegades. It was a far cry from drilling on the barrack square at Forton, the stamp and swagger which even the foot guards envied.

Lascelles watched him anxiously. ‘Both watches have eaten, sir. Weapons inspected.’

Blackwood glanced at the marines’ shirts. The staining had only partly worked, but would certainly help to break up a man’s outline, especially at night.

Old Fenwick was at the far side of the compound, his jaw
working on a piece of dried beef as he stared moodily at the line of graves. How well had he known them? How much did he miss them? Or was it like soldiering, Blackwood wondered, where survival was the only real consideration?

Fenwick turned as if he had felt him watching, but said, ‘They’re comin’!’

Lascelles stared at him. ‘How can you be –?’

Blackwood snapped, ‘
Stand to!
’

In total silence the marines seized their muskets and pouches and ran to the ladders as if it was all part of a regular drill. But Blackwood could recognize a pattern even here. Friends of long standing kept together. An old hand cast a cautious glance at a younger companion as he stood up to the parapet, his face like a mask.

Blackwood climbed to the parapet above the gates. He could hear it now for himself. A throbbing murmur of sound, like a giant bird beating its wings.

Fenwick wheezed up to join him and remarked, ‘Gettin’ up their courage, blast ’em!’

Blackwood bit on his chin strap until the pain steadied his tumbling thoughts. A cloud of dust was spreading over the side of the hill and the din was growing every minute.

He darted a glance at the nearest marines. Shakos tilted to shield their eyes from the sun, muskets at their sides and shoulders back. They must have been the same sort of men at the Nile or Trafalgar. Except that this was no fleet action, no field of honour.

‘Here they come!’ Sergeant Brogan pointed over the wall.

Lascelles whispered, ‘Oh, my God!’

It was impossible to estimate the numbers or how far the advancing army extended. The swirling cloud of dust could not hide the black bodies which shone with sweat or the precision of the drum-like beat as they pounded their shields with spear hafts. Just ahead of the packed ranks a few individuals stood out as they capered in complicated steps, striking at the air with stabbing spears as they led their cohorts into battle.

Blackwood said, ‘Mark those men down.’

He heard Private Frazier mutter a reply. He had doubtless already selected his first target.

Fenwick said, ‘Mdlaka must’ve called in reinforcements. ’E means business right enough, God rot ’im!’

Blackwood stared at the oncoming, bobbing tide until his eyes were raw. This was no North Island, he thought grimly. No ships behind you to carry you off if things went against you. No soldiers and blue-jackets to give support.

The wall seemed to shiver as a great: roar of voices came down the hillside like a roll of thunder. There must be hundreds and hundreds of them.

Then they started to run. It was not a controlled movement like their slow advance, but a mad rush, as if it was a matter of honour to be the first one at the gates.

Spears flew towards the fort and were trampled underfoot by the charging mass of figures.