Badge of Glory (1982)

by Reeman, Douglas

  It would be impossible to keep Ashley-Chute’s intentions secret for long, he thought. The waterfront and anchorage were packed with vessels of every kind and nationality. Arab dhows and local coasters, Spanish scooners and American brigs. Ashore and afloat the place was a melting-pot ofhumanity.

  M’Crystal said wearily, ‘Och, there’s the gate, sir.’ He pushed a jabbering street vendor aside and guided Blackwood through the consulate’s entrance and past the two sweating British sentries.

  The wall acted like a shutter, so that as the street noises faded Blackwood felt a tinge of uncertainty. Harry had hinted that he was wasting his time when he had told him he intended to see Slade. Ashley-Chute would tear him limb from limb if he upset his old friend.

  A robed servant appeared at a doorway and bowed smoothly. ‘This way, sir.’

  M’Crystal grunted. ‘I’ll be waiting, sir. Just in case.’

  Blackwood glanced at him. The colour-sergeant had obviously seen through him as well. That thought and the sweating discomfort of this place made him unreasonably angry, and without a word he followed the servant into the shady entrance, which compared with the street was almost cool.

  The servant gestured politely for him to wait and disappeared into one of the many doors which opened off the entrance hall. It was a plain, spartan building, with little to show of its true purpose.

  A few minutes later Barrow, Slade’s private secretary, came from one of the rooms and regarded him warily. When told of Blackwood’s wish to see his master, Barrow pursed his lips and said, ‘Sir Geoffrey is with the consul. However . . .’ He sighed. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  Blackwood tried to relax. Barrow had put him in his place with no trouble at all. He would leave it a few more minutes and then reappear to say that Slade was engaged, and anyway . . .

  The door opened and Barrow said in his dry voice, ‘Sir Geoffrey will see you now.’

  Blackwood licked his lips and followed the private secretary through the door. He noticed that poor Barrow was wearing a heavy frock-coat, no doubt very suitable for London but certainly not here. The realization made him start. It would be December in a few more days. Perhaps there might even be snow over Hawks Hill, thoughts of Christmas in the cottages, decorations at the little church.

  Through another door and there was Slade, standing behind a great marble-topped table as if he had been expecting him. There were papers and despatches all over the table, and two empty glasses. The consul must have made a discreet departure by another door.

  Slade eyed him calmly. ‘Unexpected visit.’ He studied him for several seconds. ‘You look recovered. I’m pleased.’ Surprisingly, he smiled. ‘Well, Captain Blackwood, since you seem to have forgotten what you intended to say, may I suggest you be seated.’ He did not wait for a reply but rang a small bell and when a servant appeared said, ‘Some hock.’

  Blackwood sat down. He was out of his depth. What had he really expected? He looked at the one picture on the wall behind Slade’s table. A portrait of the Queen. It must have been done soon after her wedding to Albert when she was twenty-one. A face which was both strong and sensitive. Now she was ten years older, and Blackwood wondered how she saw her expanding empire.

  He blurted out, ‘I wanted to ask you about Mdlaka, sir.’

  ‘I thought you might. Naturally I was kept informed about what you did, the men you lost. But you must see that you and those like you are small though vital parts of the whole. I do my work as best I can, but even I cannot know the complete pattern. In war it is the same. There are always the lonely men who are never heard. The one on the prongs of a charge, or the first up the scaling ladders, men with little hope of survival.’ He shrugged as if remembering something or someone. ‘And others who out of necessity must be left behind to cover the retreat of their comrades. Peace too has such men.’ He waited for the servant to place the glasses on the table and added, ‘Mdlaka was a fool, but his weakness increased our influence over him. Mdlaka, alive and back with his own people, is unpredictable. But Mdlaka dead or in chains would leave a dangerous space which would soon be filled.’

  Blackwood raised the glass to his lips. The hock was perfect, and he marvelled that it was so cold.

  He said quietly, ‘I wanted to kill him and burn his village to the ground.’ He looked up, his eyes steady. ‘But for my injured leg . . .’

  Slade smiled gently and refilled his glass. ‘You might act because of different reasons, but for revenge? I think not.’ He seemed amused at Blackwood’s surprise. ‘I told you weeks ago. I take an interest in your affairs. Without officers like you, where would Her Majesty’s ministers turn for aid?’

  ‘You are laughing at me, sir.’ He made to rise but Slade waved him down.

  Slade said gravely, ‘No. After what you have done, the courage you inspired in your men, only a fool would laugh, and that I am not.’

  Barrow’s head poked round a door. ‘It is nearly time, Sir Geoffrey.’ He pointedly did not look at Blackwood.

  Slade nodded. ‘Very well.’ Then he turned to Blackwood and said, ‘Sir James Ashley-Chute intends to mount an attack on an area which is known to be a main artery for the slavers. You know about it, of course, so I will not interfere. I guide the Navy and the military, I try not to impose my will.’ Again the briefest of smiles. ‘Not too obviously anyway.’ He became serious once more. ‘I must confess that I do not fully understand the ways of the Navy, but Sir James commands the forces in this theatre. He is a man of experience, of considerable determination.’

  Blackwood waited, his earlier confusion forgotten. Slade seemed to be ticking off certain points in his mind, as if he expected each one to be challenged.

  ‘If he insists on his present strategy, I am not the one to disagree.’

  He hesitated, and for a second Blackwood imagined he saw anxiety on his features.

  Then he said, ‘You once asked about my niece.’

  He turned, his eyes suddenly cold and fixed on Blackwood’s reaction.

  ‘Yes, sir. Is something wrong?’

  ‘I have found out where she is. It is a mission some ten miles inland from where you may have to land your men.’ He did not hide his concern now. ‘Ten miles? In Africa that can be like a hundred!’

  ‘Is she safe, sir?’

  ‘At present, I believe so. But if Sir James’s first approach fails, she and every other mission in the area will be in mortal peril. I must try not to think too much about it. I have to be above personal involvement. Results are the same as intentions where I am concerned. He walked round the table and grasped Blackwood’s hand. ‘But if you can, bring her out.’

  Blackwood’s head was awhirl. An argument, an eventual reprimand and worse, these he might have expected. In a few words Slade had dropped his guard, had revealed the agony he was enduring because of his headstrong niece.

  Blackwood returned his grasp. ‘You may rely on it, sir.’

  Barrow entered the room, a warning frown on his urbane features.

  Blackwood watched the change as Slade stepped easily into his other role.

  ‘Don’t fuss, Barrow. The wine was too good to hurry, eh, Blackwood?’

  Alone with the Queen’s portrait, Blackwood considered his discovery. That Slade, the instrument of government and empire, was just a man after all.

  Major Rupert Fynmore leaned his hands on the sill of Ackworthy’s cabin windows and peered at the shimmering jumble of passing craft.

  Blackwood waited, wondering why he disliked the lean, sunburned major.

  Fynmore straightened his back and turned towards him. He was forty years old but took every care not to show it. His coatee fitted his erect figure without a crease. His boots were like black glass, and his neat sandy hair looked as if it had just been trimmed by the company barber.

  ‘Captain Ackworthy is ashore. He has allowed me the use of his day cabin while I prepare my orders.’ He had a way of smiling with one side of his mouth, as if the lips were being turned upwar
ds from within. The smile never quite reached his eyes. ‘I was expecting to see you somewhat earlier.’

  Blackwood said, ‘I’m sorry, sir. I was not told of your intended visit.’

  Visit?’ The mouth lifted again. ‘Hardly that. I am taking charge of the landing operations, eventually.’

  Blackwood said quietly, ‘Under Commander Netten, I believe, sir.’

  ‘True.’ Fynmore regarded him calmly. ‘Funny how things turn out, don’t you think? Meeting again like this, I mean?’

  Blackwood remained silent. Fynmore was enjoying his new command. There was no sense in putting men’s lives at risk by creating a wider rift between them.

  Fynmore was saying in a level, matter of fact tone, ‘My father served under yours at Lake Erie and at Navarino. Bit of a hard man in those days, I understand.’

  Blackwood said, ‘He never discussed it, I’m afraid, sir.’ It was a lie but he saw the major’s eyes spark with anger.

  Fynmore snapped, ‘No matter. I just want to get things straight before we go to work. I know about you, your ideas, your death or glory escapades. Well, I’ll have no blind heroics on this mission. The job will be done. My way. Understood?’

  ‘I think so, sir.’ He was surprised how calm he felt. Death or glory. His father would have approved of this Fynmore.

  Fynmore said sharply, ‘You were at the consulate.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘By whose orders?’

  ‘It was a friendly visit, sir.’

  The lip lifted slightly and hovered as if uncertain what to do.

  ‘Sir Geoffrey Slade?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Oh well, in that case . . .’

  Fynmore walked to Ackworthy’s table and opened his despatch bag.

  Blackwood had heard a great deal about Fynmore. He was old for his rank and would use anything which might boost him to lieutenant-colonel and higher. And why not? Why should he be so unlikeable, Blackwood wondered? His old commanding officer at North Island who had died leading his men had been wild to a point of madness if an occasion offered itself. He had been a Scot like M’Crystal, and had been known to play the bagpipes while marching on the table at the end of a mess dinner. But the men had worshipped him, and in the face of death had followed him without hesitation.

  Fynmore dragged some papers on to the table. ‘Straightforward, seems to me.’ He tried to relax. ‘Sit down, won’t you?’ He smiled. ‘We’ll be the only two officers with field experience, how about that, eh?’

  He hurried on, ‘Won’t come to anything probably. Flags of truce, while Commander Netten speaks with the local king.’ He squinted at the top page of his notes. ‘King Zwide, by all accounts. He should be no trouble.’

  Blackwood watched the major’s hawklike profile with sudden apprehension. It must be another of Fynmore’s vanities that he was pretending he could read without effort when in fact his sight was obviously failing. Things were getting worse by the minute.

  ‘May I suggest something, sir?’

  ‘Well?’ Fynmore looked at him warily.

  ‘As senior marine officer could you not advise the admiral that we make use of some, if not all, of the steam vessels here?’

  Fynmore chuckled. ‘Thought of that already. I saw the admiral myself about it. He’s made his own plans, of course, but only the flagship and the frigate Peregrine will be taking part in the operation. He did agree to one small steam gunboat, the Norseman, coming with us, more for use as a tug than as a warship, I suspect.’ His chest shook with laughter, but no sound emerged.

  Blackwood nodded. The bulk of the squadron would stay at anchor. They could do nothing anyway against the maze of rivers used by the slavers. By remaining at Fernando Po they might also put any spiesoff the scent.

  ‘One steam vessel is better than nothing, from my experience.’

  Fynmore faced him and said, ‘Of course, you were in the Satyr. So you know all about that kind of thing, eh?’

  Blackwood asked, ‘Is that what it sounded like, sir?’

  ‘I’m afraid it did. You know what your trouble is, Blackwood?’ He gave his quick smile. ‘Pride, that’s what. Except that in your case it changes too quickly to arrogance.’

  Blackwood stood up slowly. He wants to provoke me.

  He said, ‘You have the advantage of me, sir.’ He watched Fynmore’s eagerness fade. ‘In rank, that is.’

  Fynmore glared at him. ‘You are dismissed. I shall let you know when I need you.’ As Blackwood turned to leave he asked, ‘Is your brother still aboard?’

  Blackwood felt his throat go dry. Like that night on the wall of the fort. Feat. But not for himself this time. Fynmore’s casual question was a threat. He knew well enough the name and seniority of every marine officer in the squadron. Men like Fynmore, who hungered for promotion and dreaded the prospect of being discharged from the Corps, always knew such things.

  ‘He is.’

  ‘Good. We must see he is suitably employed, what?’

  Blackwood left the cabin and banged the screen door behind him.

  Private Callow, who had once rescued a man from drowning, was the cabin sentry, but Blackwood did not even notice him.

  Too proud, arroganr, hungry for glory? Blackwood had had just about enough for one day.

  He thought suddenly of the girl with violet eyes, Davern Seymour. What would Major bloody Fynmore say about her when he discovered what Slade intended?

  By the time he had reached the quarterdeck he had regained his composure, outwardly at least.

  As he stood by the nettings and took full advantage of the spread awnings he saw a boat approaching the main chains, and a boatswain’s chair being lowered towards it.

  He noticed several of the seamen who were working on deck grinning and nudging each other, and when he looked into the boat he saw Harry sitting in the sternsheets beside an African woman who was swathed from chin to toe in a long green robe. Blackwood stared as two seamen steadied the chair for her to climb into while the youthful marine lieutenant took her hand to help her.

  The last time he had seen her she had been naked, like a wild animal as she had pressed herself against him. He found himself bunching his fingers into a tight fist as he remembered the feel of her breast under his hand, the way she had looked at him.

  As the bosun’s chair squeaked up towards the gangway she sensed him watching her. She held her robe up around her mouth and nose so that only her eyes remained visible, and they never moved from his face until she was lowered again and lost from view.

  Harry appeared by his side and touched his hat, some of his jauntiness fading as he saw his expression.

  ‘What is she doing aboard?’

  Harry eyed him curiously. ‘Apparently she’s a princess. Daughter of a king near Benin. I received an order to fetch her from the slaver.’

  Blackwood looked away. Slade’s hand was doubtless behind this too. A bargaining point, a hostage, or a viper in their midst. It was not difficult to imagine the black princess selling her own people into slavery.

  A huge woman in a brightly striped gown was now being hoisted aboard to the accompaniment of yells of encouragement from the sailors.

  Harry was still watching him. ‘A servant and guardian for the princess. She’ll probably need one in a ship full of lusting tars!’

  Blackwood glanced at him and smiled. ‘The other way round.’

  There was a quick step on the deck and Major Fynmore snapped irritably, ‘I cannot have my officers setting a bad example by idling and gossiping, eh? We have extra marines coming aboard from the squadron, and I shall want a full inspection this afternoon, orders in the first dog watch, right?’ He gave Harry the benefit of his crooked smile. ‘No passengers here, what?’

  Harry said softly as Fynmore bustled away, ‘I wonder if he knows about the princess?’

  Captain Ackworthy lowered his telescope and growled, ‘Bad stretch of coast.’

  With all sails furled to her yards, Audacious swung
heavily to her cable, oblivious to the activity on the upper deck as boats were swayed out from their tier and dropped alongside. Slightly closer to the lush green coastline the small frigate Peregrine had also anchored, and was no doubt awaiting the next signal from the Flag.

  Ashley-Chute stood by the nettings, well apart from his officers, hands gripped across his buttocks as he stared fixedly at the land.

  Blackwood watched him. It was hard to tell what the admiral was thinking. If he was impatient at the delay in leaving Fernando Po, at the further irritations of failing wind and a snail’s-pace to reach this point on the chart, he did not show it. He had given vent to some feeling on the first day at sea when, after gushing dense smoke high into the air, the little gunboat Norseman signalled that she had broken down and was unable to proceed.

  Ashley-Chute had almost crowed with delight. ‘What did I say, eh, eh?’ He had darted his piercing stare from one officer to the next. ‘No damn use! Bundle of bloody iron scrap, that’s what that is!’

  The officer of the watch approached Ackworthy and touched his hat.

  ‘All boats lowered, sir.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Once again Blackwood noticed Ackworthy’s hesitation. As if he was unwilling or unable to make the next decision. Or as if he had not been allowed to share his admiral’s plans.

  In that he could sympathize with the massive captain. Since Major Fynmore had come aboard, he and Commander Netten had been as thick as thieves, and had told him little beyond the needs of routine and preparation.

  Fynmore seemed to revel in his new command. For the three days it had taken to reach this place, some fifty miles to the north-west of the Niger Delta, Fynmore had behaved as if the marines were to be employed on ceremonial parades rather than possible action. Every day they had been kept busy polishing and cleaning, painting their packs until they gleamed like black leather. Several marines had been awarded punishment for allegedly having grit in their muskets, although Blackwood had the nagging feeling it was Fynmore’s way of covering up his poor eyesight when he inspected the weapons.

  He looked at the shore and restrained a shudder as he recalled the last time. No birds, no tell-tale smoke, but he sensed that the two ships had been watched since first light as they had completed their slow approach.