Muffled by the overhang he heard the sullen bang of Norseman’s remaining mortar. It could hit nothing from there, but Lieutenant Ashley-Chute was showing that he understood the gamble which the marines were about to take.
Harry was saying, ‘Attack from the right.’ It was as if he was afraid he might forget at the last moment.
Then he said, ‘I’ll go and prepare the others.’ His voice was quite calm again. ‘I shan’t let you down, Philip.’
Blackwood smiled. ‘Never imagined you would.’
Then he turned and crawled into the dense thicket where the wounded had been dragged for safety. Safety?
Blackwood saw the small fifer watching him fearfully and said, ‘You’ll remain here with the wounded. Private Ackland has a bugle.’
He watched the boy’s desperation give way to pitiful relief.
He added, ‘If we lose today, you must get back to Major Fynmore.’ He stumbled deeper into the thicket, grateful to be spared the boy’s gratitude.
A wounded marine peered up at him and tried to wriggle into a sitting position. Blackwood noticed his musket was beside him, his bullets and caps within easy reach.
‘All right, Collins?’
The man tried again to sit up. He had been shot in the side, how badly nobody had found time to discover.
‘Yew’m not leavin’ us, sir?’
More time was running out like sand from a glass. Blackwood patted his arm.
‘No. We’re going in to the attack. You rest easy.’
The man fell back and stared at the sky through the overhanging trees.
‘Wish I was with you . . .’ He peered round wildly, all his pain and despair seemingly gone as he yelled, ‘Come on, lads! Load! Present! Fire!’ His voice trailed away as he sank again into unconsciousness.
Corporal Bly looked down at him. ‘Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but we’re ready to move off.’ He bent over and felt the other marine’s chest. ‘God’s teeth, another good one gone.’ He looked at Blackwood, his eyes bleak. ‘We’ll take a few of them buggers with us, eh, sir?’
Blackwood nodded. ‘I’ll just speak with Mr Quartermain.’
Bly stared at him. ‘Didn’t you know, sir? The lieutenant’s already gone!’
‘Gone?’ The picture of Quartermain’s agonized face, the jagged wound in his shoulder, put a new sharpness to his voice. ‘What the hell d’you mean?’
Bly said, ‘Clipped on ’is sword and marched out bright as paint, sir.’
Blackwood left the thicket and hurried to find the others.
M’Crystal watched him warily. ‘Aye, we know, sir. The lieutenant’s gone.’
Blackwood drew his sword and took a pistol from Smithett, glad he had something to grip and so stop his hands from shaking.
Quartermain, a man he barely knew. Driven almost mad by his wound, and yet like the marine who had just died had held on to that one final spark of determination and courage.
He crawled to the last barrier of thorns and rough scrub, his eyes stinging in the glare as he stared straight at the spot where he had seen that tell-tale puff of smoke. Quartermain had realized what they were doing and had offered his own life when he knew he was most needed.
‘Frazier! Corporal Jones!’
But they were already kneeling in position, as if they too had known. Even through his reeling thoughts Blackwood realized that Frazier had taken one of the captured rifles and was stroking it as if to pacify it.
‘Gawd!’
Quintin’s sharp exclamation made Blackwood turn towards the far side of the ridge. It was like some terrible dream, a nightmare coming alive even in the brightness of day. Lieutenant Quartermain was marching very stiffly up the slope, his drawn sword in hand, while his other arm hung motionless at his side. The dressing had burst open so in the distance his bared arm matched his coatee as he headed purposefully towards the summit.
There was the sudden crack of a musket and Quartermain halted as if to listen before continuing on his way.
‘On your feel!’
Blackwood kept his eyes on the erect lieutenant and knew the tension around him was stretched like a taut cable.
‘Ready, sir!’ That was M’Crystal. Even he sounded different.
Crack! The musket’s sharp bark echoed over the ground, and Blackwood held his breath as he saw Quartermain stagger and almost drop his sword.
Frazier watched only the ridge where the scrub and trees ended, his eyes unblinking as he cradled the rifle against his cheek.
The lieutenant had been hit. He could not take another. And yet he was still marching up the slope, his mouth opening and shutting as if he was shouting orders to his own invisible platoon.
Frazier’s finger tightened on the trigger. A man’s head and shoulders had appeared over the ridge, and another, then two more. Frazier could barely stop himself from laughing. They had their bodies turned away from the marines and were all looking at the oncoming spectre with the glistening arm.
‘Ready, Jonesy?’
Corporal Jones grunted and gripped his musket even tighter. He heard the crack of muskets on the ridge and saw Quartermain fall, only to struggle up again, his shako gone, his head thrown back in torment as he staggered up towards the group who had left cover to shoot at him. Jones was sickened by what he saw, the pathetic figure as it fell and this time did not rise. He hated Frazier in those brief seconds for his callous acceptance, his interest only in the target and his aim.
Blackwood heard the muskets fire together, the sharper crack of Frazier’s rifle ringing in his ears as he yelled, ‘Charge!’
Then they were bounding up the slope, oblivious to everything but the figures silhouetted against the sky. Two had fallen dead, and Frazier was already reloading. One of the men was standing by Quartermain, his body twisted round as he realized too late what was happening. Blackwood saw Quartermain’s sword strike out at the man, as if it alone was trying to defend its owner.
He forgot everything else as they reached the top of the ridge and he saw the great gun directly below him in a shallow pit. It was surrounded by a litter of tackles and handspikes and there were more figures running from cover as the marines hurled themselves over the top.
Beyond the gun was the fork in the river, and he thought he could see the pointed huts of Zwide’s kingdom on the far bank. There were two vessels at anchor, one he guessed was the captured Kingsmill. But none of it mattered any more. Blackwood saw a man in ragged white clothing running at him, a pike levelled at his stomach. He stepped aside and parried the pike with his sword and waited for the man to stumble before slashing the blade hard across his neck.
There was no time to reload now, and hand to hand, blade to blade the marines lunged and hacked their way remorselessly to the other side of the ridge. Here and there a red coat was down, and as Blackwood fired his pistol into a man’s chest and slashed out at another with his sword he knew it could not last much longer.
Corporal Bly had lost his bayonet and was using his musket like a club. He swung round on loose sand, his mouth wide in a silent scream as a blade darted at his stomach like a steel tongue. Another figure leapt forward and drove a cutlass into his body again and again, until Quintin fought his way through and cut him down beside the dying corporal.
A great blaring bellow echoed and resounded against the ridge and far beyond to Zwide’s kingdom.
Tiny pictures flitted through Blackwood’s mind as he crossed blades with a tall, swarthy slaver and rocked back on his heels from the man’s thrust.
Satyr was here.
Tobin, calm-faced and proud of ship, had come for them.
There was another blare from Satyr’s siren, followed immediately by the crash of one of her geat guns.
Blackwood saw the expression on the slaver’s face change to apprehension and then hatred as some of the men around him threw down their weapons, the fight already gone out of them like blood.
He parried his blade and their hilts locked. Blackwood gasped as his
wounded leg seemed to buckle under him and he felt himself falling.
The siren blared again and the slaver yelled, ‘Too late for you!’
Blackwood lay on his back and stared at the other man’s blade. No matter what happened, they had won. He tensed his body and prayed it would be quick.
There was a single shot and the shadow above him was flung aside like a curtain.
Corporal Jones ran the last few yards and lowered his smoking musket until the point of his bayonet touched the wounded slaver’s throat.
Blackwood felt himself being hauled to his feet, the searing pain of his wound making him cry out. I am alive.
The wounded slaver gasped, ‘Quarter! In th’ name of God!’
Corporal Jones looked around the dazed and bleeding figures and then saw Corporal Bly. They had served together for a long time. Had been made up to corporal together. Had made Audacious’s contingent of marines something special.
Jones was a gentle man for the most part and popular with everyone, even Frazier.
He looked straight into the slaver’s eyes. ‘Quarter, you bastard?’
Blackwood called thickly, ‘Stop him, Sergeant!’
Jones leaned on the bayonet and watched the light in the slaver’s eyes snuff out, as Bly’s must have done.
Quintin pulled him roughly aside and said, ‘I didn’t see nothin’, sir.’
Blackwood looked away and allowed Harry to guide him to the overhang above the Norseman. All the seamen on her deck and in the boats which crowded around her were waving and cheering, at him, and then at the great thrashing paddles of Tobin’s Satyr as she ploughed towards the bend of the river.
Through a vague mist he saw patches of scarlet on the frigate’s deck and knew she had picked up Fynmore and his rear-guard on her way up stream.
He said abruptly, ‘Take charge of the prisoners, Harty.’ He no longer recognized his own voice. It was thick and ragged, like his emotions. To Smithett he added, ‘Help me to the lieutenant.’
It was a hundred yards down the slope from the hidden gun to where Quartermain lay staring at the sky.
Blackwood broke away from Smirhetr’s hands and stumbled the last few paces on his own. He did not care about his reopened wound and the pain which grew with each foot of the way. It was desperately important that Quartermain should be alive, should know that he alone had carried the day.
Quartermain’s eyes flickered and looked up at him.
Blackwood said, ‘Get some water, Smithett.’ Then he knelt down and said, ‘I just wanted you to know that we took the battery. All because of you.’
Quartermain was smiling, but Blackwood sensed that he could not see him.
‘So, so glad . . .’ He tried to find his sword which had fallen beside him. ‘W – wanted my son to wear this one day – one day. Now I’ll not have one.’
Smithett thrust his flask into Blackwood’s hand. ‘’Ere, sir.’
‘Would you send it to my mother? Tell her . . .’
Blackwood held the flask to his lips but saw the water trickle unheeded across the lieutenant’s cheek.
Then he closed Quartermain’s eyes and waited for Smithett to help him to his feet.
I’ll tell her, have no fear.
He limped away, resting on Smithett, the lieutenant’s sword under one arm.
Some armed blue-jackets had climbed up from the boats while they had been away and were already herding the prisoners into line and searching them for weapons.
M’Crystal was shouting at the dazed handful of marines as they stared at the chaos around them, as if they no longer understood where they were or what they had done.
‘Who d’you think you are? You’re more like a bunch of sea-cooks than Royal Marines! Smarten yourselves up, d’you hear!’
He realized that Blackwood had returned, and when he swung about to face him Blackwood was shocked to see the hurt and despair in his eyes. He did not recall ever before seeing M’Cryscal’s guard drop.
The towering colour-sergeant reported hoarsely, ‘Ready to move off, sir!’
Blackwood released his hold on Smithett’s arm. Just as he had needed to see Quartermain before he had died, it was suddenly necessary he should face his men, the survivors.
The fire in his leg was almost unbearable, but he made himself walk along the single rank of men, only vaguely aware of the watching sailors and prisoners, now silent without knowing why.
Blackwood paused at each familiar face. Here and there one tried to smile, others were too stunned to meet his gaze. Jones, Doak, Frazier, and even the Rocke twins were still together.
He saw Harry take half a pace forward and realized he had expected him to fall. Blackwood clenched his jaw. He would not faint. Not yet anyway.
‘Stand them at ease, please.’ It sounded so formal, so out of place in this arena of death and hate that he needed to blaspheme or weep.
‘I just wanted you to know . . .’ They were all watching him now, but nothing was coming out right. He tried again. ‘There will be other days, some worse than this and for less reason.’
He rested on Quartermain’s sword and recalled the man Jones had killed. But for his swift action with the musket he would be lying dead like Quartermain.
Blackwood continued, ‘When that happens, I want you to remember this day with pride, and the friends we left here.’ He was getting confused and could not see their faces properly. ‘I am proud of each and every one of you.’
M’Crystal hissed, ‘The major’s here, sir.’
Fynmore’s neat figure appeared over the ridge and Blackwood turned in time to see his face stiffen in a mask of disbelief as he saw the corpses and the small group of victors.
Then he strode forward and snapped, ‘Well done. I am sorry I did not get here earlier but—’
Harry Blackwood ran from the others and caught his half-brother before he hit the ground. Through his teeth he exclaimed, ‘I am sure we all understand, sir!’
When he looked up he saw Fynmore’s face had gone pale, as if he had just been struck. Without another word the major turned away and, followed by his attendant, vanished down the slope.
A lieutenant from one of the boats hurried across the scorched grass and said, ‘I’ll have my men do the burials.’
Harry shook his head. ‘No. Just get Captain Blackwood to the surgeon, will you.’ He picked up Quartermain’s stained sword and handed it to the naval officer. ‘Take this too.’ He looked at M’Crystal’s grim features. ‘Burial party, if you please, Colour-Sergeant.’
He saw a brief flicker in M’Crystal’s eyes. For once he had said the right thing. What Philip would have done. We take care of our own.
The pounding in his head was louder and more insistent, and Blackwood had to use something like physical strength to force his eyelids apart. There was a vile taste in his mouth and he guessed he had been sick. He felt sudden terror and groped frantically beneath the sheet for his leg. He sobbed aloud. There was a cool dressing, not some obscene stump where a leg had once been.
As his senses returned he peered around fearfully as memory after memory flooded through his aching mind. He was in a ship. A steam vessel. Alone in a cabin, but it was too dark to recognize anything. He heard the rumble of machinery, the surge of water against the hull as it frothed astern from the paddles. He thought of the little Norseman stranded on the river-bank, men cheering, the cold claws of fear and the wildness of battle.
He tried to recall Fynmore’s face, what he had intended to say to him before he had collapsed. But nothing came, and he wondered how long he had been unconscious.
He thought of the girl on the litter, the way she had looked at him, the feverish touch of her skin when he had tried to cover her breasts. He groaned. It was all behind, over.
The door opened and someone stepped carefully over the coaming. Blackwood knew it was Captain Tobin. How did he know?
Tobin said, ‘How are you feeling?’ He must have smiled in the darkness because his voice changed
as he added, ‘Yes, you’re back in Satyr, the same cabin too.’
Blackwood stared at the man’s sturdy shadow. ‘How long?’
‘A week or so. You gave my surgeon a few scares, but you’re on the mend now. It will be up to more professional doctors to finish the job.’
‘Where are we headed? Freetown?’
Tobin cocked his head as a voice-pipe shrilled in the depths of the hull.
‘We’re going home. England. You’ve more than earned it.’
The door closed just as silently as it had opened. Blackwood lay back and stared into the darkness. Home. Hawks Hill. A new beginning.
Once he was able to move about again he would write to Davern Seymour and tell her . . . He smiled ruefully. Tell her what?
He was still thinking of her when he fell into a deep sleep.
14
The Colonel’s Lady
Philip Blackwood sat listlessly in a high-backed cane chair and stared at the snow-edged window. It was cold in spite of the stout walls, even for late January, and to Blackwood it felt like the nearness of death.
Instead of showing a steady improvement, Blackwood knew his health and his memory were faulty. Days and places overlapped, and the slow passing of time meant nothing.
He glanced around the room, practical and spartan like the place. The Royal Naval Hospital at Haslar. At night, if he was allowed up, he could see the lights of ships in the outlet to Portsmouth Harbour, the one remaining link with a life which seemed to have passed him by.
The surgeons had explained that his wound had been badly infected, that he had been fortunate not to lose the leg. He had suffered some kind of fever too, which in turn had blunted his memory. When Tobin had told him that Satyr was on passage to England, he had failed to mention that Blackwood had been desperately ill and the ship had in fact already been at Freetown. And he could remember nothing about it. Blurred images, pain, gentle hands, pans of a dream rather than reality.
In his eagerness to get Blackwood back to England without further delay, Tobin had driven his ship hard. Satyr had paid for his haste and was now out there in the dockyard having her engine overhauled and put to rights.
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