Badge of Glory (1982) (12 page)

Blackwood yelled, ‘Face your front! Take aim!’

Along the parapet the muskets lifted and settled as one.

Blackwood tried to swallow but it was no use. He felt as if his throat was choked with that dust.

‘
Fire!
’

The volley crashed out along the parapet, and as the first line of marines fell back to reload the second line stepped forward to the parapet wall and took aim.

‘Present!
Fire!
’

Surely every shot must have found its mark, they could not miss, but it had as much effect on the mass of charging bodies as a pike against an elephant.

The first of them hit the gates and the wall on either side like something solid, and above the bark of commands and the sporadic bang of muskets the yells and screams were joined in one terrible chorus.

Loading and reloading, the marines kept up a steady fire, and as Blackwood emptied his pistol into the attackers directly below the parapet he saw heavy logs being rushed through the throng to be used as battering-rams against the gates.

A marine beside him fell gasping with a short spear embedded in his shoulder. Another was holding his face, his fingers running with blood.

‘Load . . . present . . . 
fire
!’

Sergeant Brogan was beating out the time as the ramrods rose and fell and the men stepped up once more to the parapet wall.

Someone yelled, ‘They’re attacking from the river, sir!’

Blackwood swung round. ‘Mr Lascelles, take a section to support them!’ He saw him nod jerkily, his eyes glazed like glass in the sunlight.

A marine whirled round and fired his musket from the hip as a black, screaming face appeared above the wall. They were handling logs and branches with the same skill as grenadiers would use scaling ladders.

The savage’s face exploded in a scarlet blur as he dropped out of sight.

Blackwood tugged out his sword, remembering the dead major as he shouted hoarsely, ‘Marines!
Fix bayonets!
’

The hiss of steel ran along the parapet, and as more struggling figures tried to pull themselves over the wall the blades rose and fell with desperate precision.

One attacker, his powerful body naked but for a twist of feathers, threw his leg over the wall and smashed down a marine with a knob-headed club. It all happened in a second. Blackwood saw the young recruit, Oldcastle, staring at the savage, his bayonet shaking, his face transfixed with horror. Then he was almost knocked down by Private Bulford as he thrust his bayonet into the man’s belly. As he wrenched it free he swung the butt of his musket into the contorted features and set him crashing to the ground below.

He stared at Oldcastle. ‘Don’t
play
with it, sonny! The bugger’ll do for you else!’

Colour-Sergeant M’Crystal, massive even in his stained shirt, shouted, ‘They’re running, sir!’

‘
Cease firing!
’

Sergeant Brogan had to forcibly pull a musket from one marine’s grip as the attack turned just as swiftly into a retreat. Bodies lay everywhere, some still, others writhing and groaning where they had dropped.

Blackwood removed his shako and wiped his face with a rag.
A near thing.
His heart was pounding faster than he had ever known, and he felt as if his stomach was filling with bile. He tugged on his hat again and gritted his jaws together.
Must not show it.

He heard some of the injured marines whimpering like sick animals as they were carried into the shelter of the remaining building.

He heard himself say, ‘Check the ammunition, Sergeant. Corporal Jones, how many wounded?’

Colour-Sergeant M’Crystal was wiping his sword very carefully on some dried grass. The blood looked black in the sunlight.

Old Fenwick chewed on his meat. ‘They’ll come again. Mdlaka will be watchin’, the cunnin’ bastard, weighin’ up your strength. ’E’ll try to pare it away if ’e can.’

Jones reported, ‘Seven men wounded, sir. Private Simcoe’s pretty bad. Lung, I think, sir.’

‘Thank you.’

Blackwood stared at the hillside. It must be important for Mdlaka to risk so many lives. If some traders could defend the fort, the marines were a much tougher proposition. And yet there had been a madness, a fervour in the attack which made a mockery of numbers and experience.

What was the choice? Stay behind the walls and lose men with each ferocious attack, or get out and fight them in the open? There seemed no choice at all.

He raised his small telescope and examined the bare hill beyond the ridge. From its summit you would be able to see for miles.

Crack!
A piece of stonework flew from the parapet and fanned past his face.

He stepped behind one of the supporting timbers as
M’Crystal said angrily, ‘One of those new guns, sir. Och, I’d like to get my hands on that bugger!’

Blackwood deliberately turned his back towards the unseen marksman and said, ‘I think we’ll issue a tot of rum per man, Colour-Sergeant. This is thirsty work, eh?’

He felt his shoulder-blades throbbing as he waited for the pain. He saw some of the smoke-grimed marines peering at him, even grinning at his apparent contempt for the danger. It was working. They could still respond to his stupid bravado.

Sergeant Brogan came back again and said, ‘Most of the men used up their extra ammunition. But they’ve got sixty rounds each, and the others which
Satyr
sent over for us. Course, it all depends how long we’re ’ere, sir.’

Blackwood nodded.
They want reassurance.
They needed to know that things would be all right, that somehow their officer would think of a plan.

‘Here they come again!’

‘
Stand to!
Controlled firing this time!’

Another shot from the concealed marksman ripped into the wall and flung fragments over their heads.

If the marines were prevented from manning the parapet while the attackers smashed through the gates, it would all be over in minutes. He stared at the drifting dust cloud and the tangled barricade of scrub until he was blinded by it.

‘
Fire!
’

The flashes of muskets rippled along the parapet and several charging figures pitched among those killed previously.

The marksman must have fired at the same time, for Blackwood saw a marine fall from the parapet to the compound below.

Corporal Jones ran to help him but looked up and shook his head before hurrying back to his section.

Blackwood’s eyes smarted with hatred and despair.

Their first death.

He pushed forward to the wall and fired at a man directly below him. Smithett thrust a loaded pistol into his hand and he fired again, seeing a man fall and be trampled down by the writhing press of shining bodies and shields.

M’Crystal had taken up a musket from a wounded marine and stood like a bear at bay as he fired and reloaded more with rage than accuracy.

‘Come on then, you black bastards!’ M’Crystal had always seen himself dying gloriously in battle like one of the paintings at the marine barracks; the red coats, the impassive stares of the tightly formed square as they confronted their country’s enemies.

To die here in squalor was unthinkable, and his fury seemed to transmit itself to the men near him so that they yelled and cheered like lunatics as they fired, reloaded and fired again.

Blackwood stood back and lowered his arm as the attackers waned and then scattered away from the fort.

‘Cease firing!’

How many wounded this time? Blackwood was almost fearful to ask. He saw the dead marine being carried towards the other graves. One of the recruits. He could not even remember his name, his brain was pounding so badly.

He looked at Fenwick. ‘What do you think?’

The old man plucked at his beard. ‘’E knows ’ow many men you’ve got now. ’E’ll keep tryin’. Otherwise ’e’ll lose face, an’ ’e’s an old man.’ He showed his few teeth in a grimace. ‘They’d soon get rid of ’im.’

Keep trying.
Blackwood peered down at the scattered corpses and the few which still twitched in agony.

Sergeant Brogan looked up from the compound. ‘We got fifteen wounded all told, sir. Private Carson ’as been killed, an’ Private Simcoe’s sinking fast, if you ask me, sir.’

Blackwood nodded. He did not trust himself to speak. Sixteen killed and wounded altogether. It was a third of their total strength, and all in one day!

Lascelles joined him and after a moment said, ‘About that spotting post on the hill, sir.’ He looked tight-lipped and desperate. Like a stranger.

‘Yes?’

‘I could reach it. If you think it will help, sir.’

Blackwood studied him gravely. ‘If they keep attacking, and Fenwick knows them better than we do, we’ll be down to a dozen men in a week, probably less. Mdlaka is running out of time. He’s trying to swamp our defences.’ He saw Lascelles’ eyes watching a wounded man being assisted into shelter, his face running with blood. ‘Fenwick believes that slavers are behind it, that they’ve put pressure on Mdlaka to destroy the fort. It makes sense to me. The use of a mirror for signals, the accuracy of that rifled weapon tells me there’s another brain behind Mdlaka.’ He was speaking his thoughts aloud. ‘Those marksmen, no matter how few, can shoot down our men with each frontal attack. We either die piecemeal or get butchered when the others force the gates.’ He faced Lascelles again and said quietly, ‘I won’t order you to go to the hill. You know the odds against survival, what might happen if you get captured.’

Lascelles swallowed hard, his eyes very bright in the sunlight. ‘I’ll go. I
want
to.’

‘Very well.’ He looked away, unable to watch Lascelles’ fear, his fight to overcome it. ‘At dusk, take Corporal Jones and Frazier and all the rations you need and make for the hill. When they rush the fort tomorrow, try and discover the sharpshooters.’ He thrust his small telescope into Lascelles’ limp hand. ‘Jones and Frazier will do the rest.’

‘What will
you
do, sir?’

Blackwood smiled. ‘I’m not waiting here to die.’ He gripped his arm and felt the strain Lascelles was enduring. ‘If we fail, try and work your way to the headland and wait for
Satyr.
Someone should tell them what happened.’

Colour-Sergeant M’Crystal marched over the dried mud compound and waited, breathing heavily.

‘Orders, sir?’

‘Mr Lascelles is taking out a patrol as soon as it’s dark. See that he gets all he needs.’

Blackwood looked around at the marines along the parapets, leaning on their weapons or the rough palisades, their eyes dark from fatigue and the fury of battle. The spirit was going out of them. They were not to blame. Perhaps it had been decreed from the beginning.

He came to a decision and added abruptly, ‘After that, I want every fit man paraded for inspection. I want them washed and shaved and turned out like marines.’

He could feel the sudden apprehension around him. They imagined he had gone raving mad.

‘The wounded men will be moved to the parapets before dawn, and I want every spare musket and pistol ready to fire. There may be no time to reload.’

Sergeant Brogan asked warily ‘We goin’ to fight ’em in the open, sir?’

Blackwood saw Smithett unrolling his kit below the wall. He must have ears like a fox.

Then he turned and looked at Lascelles again. ‘Let me know when you’re ready and I’ll tell you what I intend.’

To Brogan he added, ‘You will command the fort. If we fail tomorrow, I shall expect you to fight to the finish and not leave the wounded to suffer at the hands of those savages.’

Brogan nodded, his face pale. Now he understood.

Blackwood walked towards the wall, hoping that his light-headedness would not make him stumble.

Right or wrong, he had made a decision. Tomorrow would show if it was the right one.

‘Everything quiet, Sergeant?’ Blackwood peered over the parapet for what felt like the thousandth time.

‘Aye, sir.’ Brogan, still dressed in his filthy shirt, made a sharp contrast with Blackwood’s coatee and white shoulder-belt.

Three hours since they had left.

When Lascelles’ party had lowered themselves over the rear wall which faced the river, Blackwood had expected a challenge or some terrible cry to show they had been captured. But there had been no sound at all. That might mean nothing. Fenwick had described only too clearly how his two companions had vanished without even a whimper.

‘You know what to do?’

Brogan bit his lip. ‘I’d rather be with you, sir.’

Blackwood thought of the wounded marines who had said much the same as Brogan. It had not been a stupid gesture of loyalty or courage. They were used to being together. The thought of being separated now in the face of almost certain death was too much for them.

Twelve wounded men might be able to defend the front wall for a short while. It would be up to Sergeant Brogan and old Fenwick to make as much noise and to fire as many weapons as they could to support the deception.

He looked at the sky. They would need plenty of time to get into position. In spite of all that Fenwick had told him, there was still a possibility that a few of Mdlaka’s men were watching the fort. But why should they? There was no way of
escape without boats, and Mdlaka knew it. If they attempted to force their way inland they would be tracked down and killed like wild animals.

He said, ‘I shall inspect the men.’

Down in the compound, lit only by a flickering fire, the marines were paraded in two ranks as if aboard ship.

Blackwood, followed by M’Crystal, moved slowly along each rank, conscious of the silence, the strange air of resignation which seemed to hang over them.

No packs or unnecessary equipment this time. Muskets, bayonets and ammunition pouches were all they carried. In the dancing reflections from the fire their cross-belts and red coats added a final unreality. Dressed to kill, or be killed.

‘Stand easy.’ Blackwood did not raise his voice. He did not have to. ‘We shall be leaving the fort very soon. No sound, no talking. We must be on the hillside before first light.’ He glanced down the front rank. ‘Private Ackland, don’t forget your bugle. Suck a pebble if you must, but I don’t want your mouth too dry to blow when I give the order!’