But it had given Blackwood his other link with the outside world. Lieutenant Lascelles had visited him at the hospital whenever he had been spared from his duties. Lascelles had been bursting with news, about the capture of Lessard’s base, of the marines’ victory against odds which had been far better armed and prepared.
Lessard was dead and would never stand trial after all. Perhaps someone had suspected he would still use his influence and wealth to evade punishment and had carried out his own judgement and execution. It seemed that Lessard had been ready to leave Zwide’s anchorage and escape in the larger of the two vessels there. He had probably calculated that the Navy would be more intent on retaking the Kingsmill than in capturing the second vessel. The latter had been crammed to the deck beams with slaves, one last profitable cargo before he turned his attention elsewhere, Blackwood thought.
But Satyr’s sudden arrival firing her massive guns had put paid to escape. Lieutenant Ashley-Chute had sent a cutting-out party to board both vessels and in minutes it had ended.
Blackwood could vividly recall how a petty officer had warned him not to stand too close to a hold aboard the first slaver, the glittering pattern of white eyes from that stinking prison-ship.
Even as the slavers had flung down their weapons in surrender to the jubilant boarders, Lessard was said to have lost his balance and had fallen headlong into one of the tightly packed holds. Lascelles had described how Lessard had literally been torn to shreds.
Blackwood had had other visitors. The colonel from Forton Barracks who had somehow refrained from reminding him of their last meeting when Blackwood had tried to resign. He was very likely thinking that he would no longer need to resign. In his poor health he would more likely be discharged from the Corps.
Even the port admiral had paid him a visit and had brought a case of wine to mark the occasion. The case had been swiftly removed by a doctor after the admiral’s departure.
Blackwood wondered why his father had not come immediately to see him. He had been told there had been regular enquiries from Hawks Hill, but always by courier. Perhaps his father was ill or unable to travel. It was only twenty miles from Hawks Hill to Portsmouth, but the whole country was under a blanket of snow, the worst anyone could remember. There was one good thing, Blackwood thought, they had not sold the old place. Not yet anyway.
The window shivered in a fresh squall and Blackwood turned to look at the framed painting above the bed. It was the Royal Marines crest, the globe and the laurel, and the famous Corps motto, Per Mare per Terram, underneath. Painted by a previous inmate, no doubt. How many had this and places like it seen, he wondered? Crippled, diseased, broken survivors of war.
‘If I stay here much longer . . .’ He stood up violently and prepared to meet the pain. He was sick of his own self-pity and anxiety. He did not have to think back as far as the unknown painter to recall faces he would never see again.
There was a discreet tap at the door and Smithett peered in at him.
Blackwood tried to stand without revealing the discomfort of his wound. Even Smithett had come to say good-bye. Off to serve another officer, or to make his own way in the ranks. With his mates.
Smithett regarded him mournfully. ‘Jus’ come from the company tailor, sir. You’ve lost so much weight I’ve ’ad to get some of yer tunics taken in like.’ He tried to grin but all the lines remained pointing down. ‘Can’t ’ave the other MOAs sayin’ I don’t take proper care of me captain, can I?’
‘You’re staying with me?’
Smithett laid a tunic across the bed with great care.
’Course, sir. ‘’O else would want me?’ He turned and looked at Blackwood’s strained features. ‘’Sides, you got a visitor. She’s wiv the ’ead sawbones right now.’
Blackwood stared. ‘Visitor? She . . .’
Smithett looked round for somewhere to hang the other items of clothing.
‘Yeh. That’s right, sir. Yer mother.’
Blackwood sat down and allowed Smithett to prepare him for his visitor.
I am a bloody fool. Who had I expected?
Smithett waited for him to stand again and waited while Blackwood stepped carefully into his trousers. Not near enough to make the officer think he couldn’t manage on his own, it was not Smithett’s style.
‘There, sir.’
Smithett nodded with approval as the red coatee slipped into place. That wily tailor had done a fair job, he concluded. Worth the rum he had ‘won’ for him.
‘I never really thanked you for all you did . . .’
Smithett shrugged to hide his discomfort. Intolerant, impatient, bad-tempered officers he could accept. Blackwood’s distress was something else.
He said, ‘Somethin’ll work out, sir. There’ll be another war somewhere an’ the Royals will be expected to put things shipshape again, you see, sir.’
‘You’re probably right. I wish to God we were with young Harry right now. Today’s his birthday.’
Smithett flicked a brush across his shoulders and gave a secret smile. If the captain knew just half of what that young bugger had been up to he’d soon be his old self again.
He was very tempted, but at that moment the door was thrust open and the senior surgeon and his assistant entered the room.
But for once Blackwood was not looking at their faces to try and discover what would happen to him. Framed between them, his stepmother seemed to make the room empty, to reduce the surgeons to nothing. She had always been a beautiful woman, even though he had been unprepared to accept it. Now, set against the drab and austere surroundings, she was elegant, even regal.
Her hair was like rich chestnut and piled on top of her head to set off her perfect oval face and slender neck. Her skin was white, like marble, and she was complerely composed, like an actress about to mount the stage.
In those few seconds Blackwood felt her steady gaze as it moved over him, missing nothing. The colonel’s lady. How well it fitted her.
‘Well, Philip, and what have you been up to?’
Her voice was exactly as he remembered it. Level and cool, like the woman, without any outward warmth. He doubted if she had reached her fortieth birthday but could not be sure, and was suddenly angry that he had not learned more about her.
He said, ‘Sorry, I’m a bit of a mess.’
It came out like a complaining child. She did that to you.
The senior surgeon said breezily, ‘Out of danger now, Ma’am! Captain Blackwood has inspired all of us.’
Her eyes, which were tawny brown like Harry’s, turned towards him.
‘In my opinion he would be better served in more suitable surroundings. My carriage is here.’ She held up one hand and added in the same confident tone, ‘You must be Smithett.’
Smithett bobbed. ‘Aye, Ma’am, that I am.’
‘Fetch my groom and see to things, Smithett.’
Then she moved across the room and laid a gloved hand on Blackwood’s arm.
He could smell her perfume and wanted to hold her, to hide his face on her perfect neck and tell her everything. What it had been like. About Harry and the others.
She said quietly, ‘Just in time, I think.’
Blackwood looked at her and tried to smile. ‘I’m so sorry. I was thinking only of myself. How are you and . . .’
But she had turned away and was giving curt instructions to her groom, a man Blackwood had not seen before.
To the senior surgeon she said, ‘I will send news to you of my own doctor’s opinion.’
Blackwood expected the surgeon to explode but the magic had already taken effect.
‘Of course, Ma’am. My pleasure, Ma’am.’
She slipped her hand through Blackwood’s arm, and when a hospital orderly hurried forward with a walking stick she said in the same calm voice, ‘Captain Blackwood is a gallant officer. He is not an invalid.’ She gave the surgeon a cool stare. ‘Any more.’
Through the same corridors which Blackwood had seen so often in
what felt like a century, along which he had been wheeled for examination, where he had been probed and prodded, discussed as if he were already dead, this too was like a dream.
Once he staggered and winced as the pain returned and he felt her grasp tighten on his arm.
‘Just a few more steps, Philip. I’ll not have you fall to suit their tiny brains.’
Outside the main entrance it was like pure ice, and yet it seemed to revive Blackwood. The crisp snow, the grey stones, the bracing wind from the Solent. In a moment he would wake up. The same room. The picture above the bed.
She said, ‘Get inside, Philip, out of this wind.’
Blackwood stood beside the coach. Despite the thick patterns of slush on its side and door he saw it was a very elegant vehicle, and, like the groom, new.
He said, ‘After you. I’m not an invalid now. You said so back there.’
She raised the hem of her gown and put a hand on his shoulder to steady herself before climbing into the coach.
‘Well now, I almost forgot.’ She lowered her head and waited for him to kiss her cheek. ‘You may call me Marguerite if you wish.’
Blackwood followed her, his pain forgotten. Her cheek had been like ice too.
She tapped the window. ‘Drive on, Lloyd. I’m not paying for horses to waste time and eat their heads off!’
Smithett climbed up beside the coachman and pulled a blanket around his knees.
‘So that’s the colonel’s lady, eh?’
The coachman flicked his whip. ‘Come on, Wizard! Easy, Comet!’ As he hauled on the reins he murmured between his teeth, ‘You mind your words, soldier, she could take on your lot single-’anded.’
Smithett settled down and braced his legs against the savage motion. He even found time to wave a casual salute to a shivering group of hospital porters.
He had no idea where Hawks Hill was, nor did he care. Private Jack Smithett, who had drawn his first breath in a London slum, had become somebody.
It was getting dark by the time the carriage eventually turned off the road and through the familiar snow-capped gates.
With a start Blackwood realized he must have dozed off several times during the journey, but the sight of the tall, weathered pillars, the gatehouse banked with driven snow, drove the clinging weariness away like a cold wind.
His stepmother had replaced her elegant hat which she had tossed on to the opposite seat and was tying a ribbon beneath her chin while she studied herself in the mirror of her travelling case. She showed no sign of strain or the discomfort of the journey from Haslar, and was examining herself more with satisfaction than anxiety.
She glanced at him and closed the case with a snap.
‘Home, Philip.’
Blackwood nodded and wiped one of the carriage windows as the banks of snow and grotesque shapes of trees and bushes rolled past.
He said, ‘I’m glad you’ve decided to stay here.’
‘For the present anyway. I’ve made some changes.’ She watched him calmly. ‘But they need not concern you. You need rest. You are tired out.’
The carriage swung round in a wide curve and Blackwood saw the broad façade of the main building loom through the snow flurries like a cliff. There were lights in several of the windows which painted yellow reflections on the driveway and churned slush.
Blackwood turned as she put one hand on his sleeve.
‘I did not mention it earlier, Philip, but your Either has been ill.’ She studied his reaction impassively. ‘He is over the worst of it. But I wanted to warn you. He had a stroke. He had been fretting about things.’
Blackwood said, ‘I guessed as much. He was worried about leaving Hawks Hill. He told me.’
She gave a brief smile. ‘Quite.’
The carriage lurched to a halt, and as the snow-covered groom clambered down from the rear and the coachman applied the brake, Smithett jumped on to the driveway and stood stiffly to attention.
She said, ‘Help them with the begs. Smithett. The housekeeper has arranged a room for you.’ She watched the tall marine curiously. ‘Your quarters, as you will doubtless call them.’
The double doors at the top of the steps were opened and more light spilled across the mud-stained coach and its steaming horses.
Blackwood watched, fascinated, as his stepmother mounted the steps, her head erect as she entered the stone archway and gave a curt nod to the waiting servants.
They had kept Hawks Hill, but on her terms, Blackwood thought.
There were several unknown faces, and a smell of newness and fresh paint. He glanced into the great hall, which had looked more like an armoury with its collection of ancient weapons and militaria. There were still a few items on display, but they were high up and arranged around the minstrels’ gallery in decorative patterns. He could not imagine his father giving permission to do that.
He realized she was watching him as she allowed a maid to remove her travelling cloak and take her hat.
She asked, ‘Do you approve?’
Blackwood smiled. She sounded as if she did not really care what he thought, yet somehow he knew it was important to her.
‘It’s fine. Rather grand.’ The heat from one of the blazing fires was making him dizzy again. ‘Really.’
She pursed her lips. ‘There were times when you did not expect to see it again.’ It was a statement. ‘There will be a lot of changes in future.’
‘I was wondering.’ He hesitated as he saw the sudden caution in her eyes. ‘About Georgie?’
‘Indeed?’ She turned aside and examined herself in one of the long mirrors near the entrance. ‘Miss Georgina, the little madam, is in Paris. It was decided to send her there to finish her education.’ She faced him, composed once more. ‘Do her good.’
‘So very glad to see you back again, Captain.’
Blackwood turned and tried to hide his dismay as he saw a face which should have been very familiar. Oates, his father’s old attendant, orderly, valet and friend. So much had happened since he had last seen him and yet it was barely six months ago. In that time Oates had become an old man, had lost his marine’s bearing and was now bent over, his hair almost white.
Blackwood held out his hand. ‘I’m grateful to be here, believe me.’
Oates seemed to hesitate and glanced quickly at his colonel’s lady before returning Blackwood’s handshake. As if he was seeking permission to do so.
Oates studied Blackwood sadly. ‘The colonel asked to see you immediately you arrived, sir.’
Blackwood looked at his stepmother. So she had already decided to remove him from Haslar before she had left the house. That must have been early in the day, and yet she looked as if she had just dressed for dinner. Only some drying mud on the hem of her gown gave a hint she had been all the way to Gosport and back.
She met his gaze without flinching. ‘Go to him. But don’t tire yourself. We’ve a lot to talk about.’
She turned on her heel, and Blackwood saw the assembled servants part before her as she headed towards the drawing room, her maid hurrying behind her.
Blackwood said, ‘Take me to my father. How is he?’ He thought he saw the old man’s guard fall into place and persisted, ‘I want to know.’
Oates fiddled with his white gloves. ‘He’s been taken all aback by his illness, sir. He’d been hoping, you see, hoping they’d ask him to return to the Colours.’ It was obvious the faithful Oates hated to share his secret, to him it was like a betrayal. ‘Now he knows there’s no chance. He’s finished.’
Oates led the way along the first landing and through a gallery where some of the family portraits had been rehung since his last visit. He caught an impression of watching faces and proud stances. Clouds of battle, ships of the line and prancing horses.
Then Oates opened the doors of the bedroom and Blackwood hurried past him, his mouth suddenly dry as he saw his father sitting by one of the tall windows, a small table and a decanter within easy reach.
He did not turn, and
Blackwood guessed he could not do so unassisted.
Blackwood moved around the chair and looked down at him.
‘Hello, Father.’
Lieutenant-Colonel Eugene Blackwood, the man who had once commanded Fynmore’s father, raised his eyes and withdrew one hand from beneath a blanket.
‘You’re too thin, boy. Must tell cook to prepare one of your favourites, eh?’
Blackwood sat on a small stool and watched his father’s efforts to be as he wanted to be remembered. But it was heartbreaking to see the way his face was set and twisted on one side, to feel the feebleness of his handshake which had been like steel.
‘I’m glad you stayed here, Father.’
‘Pour some madeira, Philip. Can’t reach the damn thing myself.’
Blackwood filled two glasses. Like his father, they had been waiting here.
‘Been reading all about your escapades, every deuced word.’ He lifted the glass and examined the wine carefully. ‘In a skirmish like that you’ve always got to think and act fast. You did damn well to all accounts.’ He moved restlessly in his chair. ‘Though from what I’ve read in the Gazette and The Times you’d imagine Ashley-Chute had done it all on his own, blast his eyes!’ He sank back again, even that small outburst had weakened him.
Blackwood raised his glass. ‘To us, Father.’
But his father looked past him at the snow-dappled window, his eyes sad as he said, ‘To the Corps.’
Blackwood watched him and felt disturbed. At any other time it would have been almost amusing to heat the past months described as a ‘skirmish’. His father saw everything but a full-scale war as a necessary backwater and nothing more.
His father added abruptly, ‘The papers were full of it. If it wasn’t Ashley-Chute it was that other bloody upstart. Fynmore this and Fynmore that; I think if I see that name again I’ll – I’ll . . .’
He broke off and for a few moments seemed barely able to breathe.
The reports were much as Lascelles had told him in the hospital, Blackwood thought. It had obviously not fooled his father.
‘Anyway . . .’
Badge of Glory (1982) Page 23