Badge of Glory (1982)

by Reeman, Douglas

  It was a pity about the Norseman, he thought. She would have made the crossing to the shore easier and safer. It was four cables, at a guess, to the nearest wedge of green land, a long pull for the oarsmen with boats loaded with men and weapons. The marine landing party would consist of ninety men, with three lieutenants selected from other ships in the squadron. Blackwood glanced down to the main-deck where Harry was speaking with M’Crystal. He was coming too, for liaison work, as Fynmore had vaguely described it.

  Netten would have a party of armed seamen from Audacious, and each boat would be under the command of a lieutenant or midshipman.

  Blackwood looked again towards the shore. It was like something impenetrable, the overlapping layers of thickly wooded slopes completely hiding the rivers which twisted inland. He gripped the nettings until the pain steadied his nerves. They must not be outfoxed a second time.

  Then he saw Fynmore, who had been called across to speak with the admiral. How pleased he looked.

  He thought of Slade, two hundred miles away at the consulate. He was probably regretting that he had not joined them in the flagship, no matter what he said to his subordinates about responsibility which excluded all else. Or perhaps he realized that Ashley-Chute might see his presence here as a lack of confidence. But he had sent one of his aides, a mild-looking man named Patterson, whose knowledge of Africa in general and the slave trade in particular had astounded the whole wardroom.

  One night he had walked the deck with Blackwood and had told him how Slade had tried over the years to tempt the African kings and chiefs away from their wretched trade by offering the lure of other profits. The greatest of these had been palm oil, which was always in growing demand in Europe. But the more powerful kings, and Zwide was one of them, had burned thousands of new trees to the ground to force their people back on the cruellest but most rewarding trade of all.

  Slade must think very highly of Patterson to send him on such an important mission.

  The officer of the watch coughed politely. ‘Would you join the admiral, sir?’

  Blackwood walked across the quarterdeck which was already half in shadow as the boatswain’s party set to work rigging awnings above it.

  Ashley-Chute regarded the small group of officers, his face expressionless. Netten would be in overall charge. Fynmore would command the landing force, and his own son was apparently taking control of the boats.

  His eyes settled on Blackwood. ‘All present. Capital. The sooner we begin, the better.’ He looked at his son without any hint of recognition. ‘Pass the order to start loading the boats.’ He turned away, dismissing him. ‘Questions?’

  Netten leaned forward. ‘If the king’s people have left the area, sir, what –’

  Ashley-Chute’s wide mouth snapped open and shut like a trap. He said scornfully, ‘Left? Why should they? It is their reason for being, man. But Mr Patterson intends to speak with this Zwide fellow. After that it’s up to him. But no damned arguments, hmm? I cannot abide upstart natives, and never have.’ His cold stare swivelled to Blackwood. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Blackwood saw Fynmore’s resentment. Something from the past which he did not share. Perhaps the little admiral had said it deliberately.

  In the distance he heard Sergeant Quintin’s rough voice yell, ‘First section! Into the boats! Lively there! Private Shadbolt, ’old yer ’ead up, yer like a bloody whore on the mornin’ after!’

  Blackwood could picture them all grinning as if he were down there with them. Quintin’s comments were always coarse and usually repeated until his men knew them word-perfect.

  Ackworthy, who was standing a little apart from the group, said, ‘Lookout has just sighted smoke to the sou’-east, sir. Must be the Norseman.’

  Ashley-Chute scowled at the interruption. ‘I’m not waiting for that madman! He’ll likely blow up anyway!’

  Netten laughed but Fynmore fiddled with his belt. Even he obviously disliked the way the admiral treated his flag-captain.

  Patterson appeared below the poop yawning hugely as if he had just risen from his cot. He smiled gently. ‘I’m ready, Sir James.’

  To everyone’s surprise, Ashley-Chute clapped him on his shoulder and exclaimed, ‘Very good! Now go and tell that savage about our Queen’s displeasure, or whatever you do in these circumstances!’

  Several people laughed. It was rare for Ashley-Chute to be in such high spirits.

  Then he turned on his heel and with a curt nod added, ‘Carry on, gentlemen.’

  Blackwood paused by the starboard gangway and stared along the upper deck. How empty it seemed after the squads of scarlet coats and piled weapons. He touched his shako to the quarterdeck and then scrambled quickly down into the nearest boat. Smithett was already in the sternsheets with his bag, and doubtless a bottle of something.

  As he got his bearings the heat covered the boat like a heavy blanket. The marines were pressed together anyway to allow the oarsmen some room, and it was just the same in all the other boats as they idled clear of the ship’s side.

  Familiar faces leapt out of the crowd as he ran his eyes over them. Half smiles or carefully blank, he knew them all, as they did him. Some, like those who had been at the fort, knew him even better now.

  He saw Harry sitting with Major Fynmore and Netten in the big launch, ready to perform his liaison duties, no doubt. He thought of the black princess who had remained in a carefully guarded cabin on the orlop deck forward of the sick-bay. This would be her first time in the open since she had been transferred from the brigantine. Her name was Nandi. Harry had told him after inspecting the sentries who had been posted to prevent any amorous seaman or marine from intruding on her privacy. From what he had heard, she had more to fear from Sergeant Quintin, who had protested at being taken off guard duty for the first time in living memory.

  He saw Smithett’s eyes flicker, and when he looked up he saw a midshipman and the mild Mr Patterson assisting the princess down the tumblehome towards the cutter.

  Colour-Sergeant M’Crystal watched Blackwood’s expression and wondered. Quintin had told him some of it, but there was more to come by the look of things.

  In the next boat, Corporal Jones, wedged against Frazier the expert marksman, watched the second lieutenant who was aft with Major Fynmore. He grinned to himself. Cocky young buck. He had seen Second Lieutenant Blackwood, cool as you please, talking with the black girl in her makeshift cabin. Bloody good luck to him.

  Private Ackland sat hunched over his pack and weapons, his lips pursed in a silent whistle as he stared unseeingly towards the shore. He was one of six brothers, all of whom worked on the land. Like a lot of farm labourers, he was a bit slower than those who lived by their wits. It had taken the Corps and several sergeants to sharpen him up. How his brothers had laughed at him when he had enlisted. It had happened almost by accident on market day in Tavistock. A recruiting party had been returning to camp, weary after a fruitless day trying to obtain volunteers for the Colours. The sergeant in charge had paused in front of Ackland and had said, ‘Join us, lad. You’ll not regret it.’

  Ackland was a simple soul and his eyes pricked with pride as he thought of the day Captain Blackwood had just stood there and looked at him. A whole screaming mob lusting for blood, and he had spoken to him as if they were doing rounds between decks. Sound the Advance. If only his stupid brothers could have seen that.

  The Rocke twins sat side by side, like peas in a pod, as they watched Private Doak trying to conceal a bottle of rum in his folded blanket. Nearby Private Bulford eased his cross-belt and watched the girl being helped into the other boat. Try as he might, he could not help thinking about his father. Shut up in jail for the rest of his natural life, they said. Some said he was lucky not have hanged for killing a man in a brawl. Bulford looked at the clear blue sky and felt the comforting jostle of his companions around him and was grateful. Lucky? To be shut up like a beast? Not for him.

  Patterson thump
ed into the boat and fanned his thin face with his hat.

  ‘Exhausting, Captain Blackwood!’

  But Blackwood was looking at the princess.

  She said suddenly, ‘It is you.’

  Her English was fractured but clear. In the reflected glare she looked graceful despite the all-enveloping robe, with the grace of a puma.

  He said, ‘We are taking you to your father.’

  She spat out the words, ‘The King.’

  Blackwood retorted sharply, ‘Just sit down and behave yourself.’ He could feel the eyes and grins around him.

  She sat down at once and folded her hands in her lap, her eyes turned to the shore.

  Blackwood nodded to the bowman. ‘Cast off.’

  He tried to fix the picture of the chart in his mind. The river with the sharp bend like a dog’s hind leg. But instead he kept looking at the girl on the thwart, now so aloof and demure, a princess. It was hard to think of her as the nude savage in that filthy cabin.

  The midshipman by the tiller waited for the other boats to form into line and then directed the cutter astern of the leading one with the White Ensign curling from the stern-post.

  Patterson touched his arm. ‘Join me, Captain.’

  Blackwood half turned and sat, seeing the eyes dropping or looking away as the crowded occupants pretended they had noticed nothing.

  Patterson said quietly, ‘Sir Geoffrey explained things to you?’

  Their eyes met.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. I spoke to your admiral. If it can be done, then it will be up to you.’ He hesitated. ‘If.’

  Blackwood felt the pressure of the princess’s hip against his side as the cutter rolled in the first inshore swell.

  What would his father have done? His grandfather would have made the best of it, he decided. Even in his last year alive at Hawks Hill his faded eyes could still twinkle as he had retold stories of the women he had met and ‘served’, as he always put it.

  He shook himself angrily. He must be mad to let his dreams run riot. He looked at the green barrier which tilted across the bows like a curtain, and then astern towards the horizon. There, far away, was the tell-tale smudge of smoke. Monkey’s pet hate. She was too late now.

  When he looked again he saw the gleam of trapped water around the nearest headland and knew it was the entrance to the river. Zwide’s kingdom, which lay across the slave trails like a treacherous snare. He glanced at the girl’s hands in her lap, but they were relaxed, and he could feel no tension in her hip against his side.

  He saw Lieutenant Ashley-Chute climb up in the leading boat and raise his speaking trumpet. How deformed he looked as he stood framed against the lush green slope at his back.

  ‘Take station!’ His voice sounded hollow in the trumpet.

  Obedient to the order the boats changed formation until they were in two matching lines, which once inside the river would move out to opposite banks.

  Blackwood waited until the midshipman by the tiller had increased the stroke to bring the cutter to the head of the starboard line, directly abeam of Netten’s big launch.

  It was all too casual, too easy. He could feel the warning ringing in his mind like a bell.

  He stood up and looked along the boat. ‘Ready, lads.’

  It was all he said, and in the next boat astern he saw M’Crystal gesturing to his own party. He did not need telling, any more than when he had taken charge when Lascelles had lost his grip. Here and there a musket moved across a gunwale, or a man shaded his eyes to watch the land as it opened up to swallow them.

  Blackwood looked at the midshipman. He was a popular youth and aged about sixteen. He looked as ifhe was enjoying all this enormously. Like a boy in a toy-shop.

  ‘Mr Ward.’ He saw the midshipman start. ‘Leave the tiller to the cox’n and come here.’ He waited for the midshipman to join him and then lowered his voice. ‘If we come under fire I want you to take hold of the princess and put her on the bottom boards, right?’

  The youth nodded jerkily. ‘I – I think so, sir.’

  ‘Good. I’m placing you in charge of her safety.’ He forced a grin. ‘Not every day we mix with royalty.’

  Smithett muttered, ‘I wish that bloomin’ gunboat was ’ere.’

  Blackwood glanced over at Fynmore. He was sitting bolt upright as if he was riding down The Mall in a carriage.

  He saw Harry look towards him, his quick wave as if to reassure him he would be all right.

  He touched the girl’s shoulder and waited for her eyes to lift towards him.

  ‘Your father. The King. When will he come?’

  She did not even blink. ‘He will come.’

  Blackwood saw her nostrils dilate, like someone watching a terrible ritual. Seeing them all killed perhaps?

  He turned to Patterson. ‘Are we in danger yet?’

  Patterson shrugged. ‘Little is known about this place. Zwide is well protected on two flanks by the river. There is a ridge on the right, very soon now. Once past there we should be better placed.’

  ‘Did you tell Major Fynmore about it?’ Somehow he already knew the answer.

  Patterson gave his shy smile. ‘I did. He said it was best to leave such matters to professionals.’

  ‘He would.’

  No wonder they had given him a separate boat, he thought bitterly.

  Patterson was watching him, reading his thoughts.

  ‘Which is why I chose to accompany you, Captain.’

  ‘Thank you for that.’

  Midshipman Ward called, ‘They’ve put up the white flag, sir!’

  Blackwood bit his lip as he watched Netten’s launch thrusting ahead under its two flags. It was so quiet, the boats had no substance, no reality.

  He ran his finger round his collar. His skin felt like fire.

  The bowman stood up and pointed excitedly. ‘Here they come!’

  10

  Sudden Death

  Harry Blackwood plucked his clothes away from his body which was running with sweat. Protected from any sort of breeze by the river banks and rising slopes of thick vegetation, the inside of the launch was like a furnace. He could feel Lieutenant Ashley-Chute moving behind him, speaking with the coxswain as he directed the slow procession of boats. There were ten in all, and when he looked across at the cutter which led the other line he gave his half-brother a quick wave without really knowing why.

  Perhaps because of Fynmore, he thought. He had heard him speaking with the commander and had realized they were talking about Philip.

  Netten had said something about Mdlaka and the admiral’s reaction to the report on what had happened.

  ‘Captain Blackwood as good as told Sir James he thought our methods were out-of-date. The admiral actually listened to him to all accounts. Any other time he’d have exploded!’

  Fynmore had replied, ‘That young chap is too damned intolerant with authority in my book. Needs taking down.’

  They had changed the subject at that point.

  Harry thought about England. It would be his birthday soon. He had always hated having it so close to Christmas. As a child he had loved opening his presents, but as he grew older some people seemed to think one gift would suit for both celebrations. He had thought a good deal about Hawks Hill and what would happen there. He enjoyed going to London but, like his childhood presents, he wanted to hoard those visits for something special.

  He had always been a bit in awe of the old house where he had been born. It had been built originally as a fortified Tudor farmhouse with a moat all around it. Down over the years the house had spread and been added to until it stood as it did today, a great rambling cavern of rooms, hallways and little doors which led to the roof or down to the depths of the cellars. As a boy Harry had pretended the latter were dungeons and had almost frightened himself to death when he had become locked in a cupboard there.

  Now the moat had all but gone, with just one strip preserved for the benefit of visiting swans and geese.
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  Hawks Hill had been bought from one of the previous owners by his great-grandfather, Major-General Samuel Blackwood, who, if his portraits were to be believed, was always employed in one war or another. He had served with Wolfe at Quebec, and had fought his way right through the American Revolution, after which he had retired from the army to settle in Hampshire.

  It was strange to think that he had been the last soldier in the Blackwood family, and Harry had often wondered what had made his grandfather begin the new tradition with the Regiment of the Sea.

  He heard Lieutenant Ashley-Chute say, ‘The first bend is about half a mile ahead, sir.’

  Netten grunted and raised his telescope to examine the nearest bank. The current was quite strong and the oarsmen were showing the strain.

  Harry Blackwood dabbed his face yet again. The handkerchief was little more than a wet rag. He longed for the cool of the evening or the chance of a swim. He grimaced. It was doubtful if it was safe to paddle here, let alone swim.

  He shaded his eyes to look at the cutter, at the girl in the green robe who was sitting with, yet somehow quite apart from his brother.

  It was really strange, he thought, that his half-brother never seemed to understand women or that he was attractive to them. He had seen that attraction several times with a mixture of amusement and envy. Philip had a stiffness about him, a hint of experience far greater than his years, and yet he was totally unaware of it.

  Harry had never met a black girl before, let alone one like the Princess Nandi. Even as he had tried to talk with her on Audacious’s orlop he had felt an urge to touch her, to make her want him.

  He thought suddenly of the cellar where he had accidentally locked himself in a cupboard. His dungeon. When he was sixteen he had enticed one of the housemaids down there with him. She had been older than he, a friendly, buxom girl with a ready giggle.

  By the light of a candle he had told her she was his prisoner, that she would be put to the rack and torture if she did not submit.