The First to Land (1984)

by Reeman, Douglas

  Austad bit hard on his pipe. ‘I stop engine.’ The paddles stilled as if seized by a giant’s hand.

  Through the din and bellowed orders Blackwood heard a wild cheer, and saw the head and shoulders of one of the marines in his bowline as he deftly made a line fast to Kirby’s bloodsoaked body.

  ‘Got both of ’em!’

  Lyde grinned wildly. ‘Deserve Victoria Crosses, th’ pair of ’em!’ He flushed. ‘No disrespect, sir.’

  Blackwood swung round as a great groan came from forward.

  The smoke was slowly dispersing. Reluctant to go.

  It was impossible. The boom was still there.

  Fox snapped, ‘Get those wounded men under cover.’ But his eyes were on Blackwood.

  Blackwood wiped his forehead with his sleeve and saw the glances. The utter despair on their faces. After all this. He felt like giving in, he had failed them.

  Swan stood by his shoulder, his eyes slitted against the smoky glare.

  ‘A bang like that, sir.’ He waited for Blackwood to look at him. ‘Chances are it’ll ’ave weakened the thing anyway.’ He ran his thumb along his rifle’s backsight. ‘We got nowhere else to go.’

  Blackwood reached out and gripped Swan’s shoulder. Swan was right. They could not retrace their course upstream. They would be hunted and ambushed at the first opportunity. The ammunition must be getting low anyway. But it was more than that. Certainly more than Swan could ever guess.

  He said, ‘Thank you.’ He turned to Fox. ‘Share out the ammunition, Sergeant Major.’

  Fox understood. Only one way out. Fight or die. Probably both.

  Blackwood glanced at Austad’s untidy shape.

  ‘Two minutes. Then full ahead.’

  Austad grunted, his eyes fixed professionally beyond the bows, the slow drift as the paddle-wheels barely held the hull steady.

  Blackwood raised the telescope and watched the little groups of figures on either bank, many of them struggling out along the boom. At least Earle’s grisly remains had been hurled away.

  ‘Nine rounds per man, sir!’ That was Lyde.

  It was precious little for what they were up against.

  Blackwood placed the telescope on its rack by the helmsman.

  ‘How’s the sergeant?’

  Lyde turned as several marines raised a cheer.

  Blackwood stared as O’Neil lurched through a door and picked up one of the spare rifles. He looked dazed, drunk. He saw Blackwood and bared his teeth in a grin.

  ‘I’ll not be left out o’ this, sir!’

  Fox shook his head. ‘Hell’s bells! I don’t bloody well believe it!’

  Blackwood drew his revolver.

  Here we go. ‘Now, Captain Austad. Let us make a bit of history.’

  It was soon obvious that Austad had taken Blackwood at his word. The Bajamar shook violently from keel to bridge, every plate and plank squeaking and protesting as the twin paddles worked up to full speed.

  Blackwood stood on the port side just forward of a paddle-box and watched the boom, the pale figures which stood or crouched along it, and the occasional stab of rifle and musket fire. Someone had even hoisted a banner in the same position where Earle’s head had been displayed. It was motionless, as if the air between the banks had been sucked away.

  Beyond the high salient the sky was clear, and Blackwood knew that the sea would soon be in view if they managed to break through. When they hit the boom the greatest danger would be if the paddles became entangled, even for a moment. The enemy might try to board them again, and this time they would face less resistance. Nine rounds per head, and the Maxim could not train to the lowest part of Bajamar’s freeboard, midships to aft. Bannatyre had taken charge of the opposite side and Blackwood prayed that he would offer the example his weary men needed when the time came.

  Shots hammered into the hull and superstructure or whined overhead. Blackwood saw some of the marines’ rifles waver as their owners marked down enemy marksmen, and cursed the order not to retaliate.

  He tried not to think of the countess as she waited behind the frail barricades with the wounded and the dying. After what she had already experienced it was a wonder she did not break down completely. At the same time he knew she had gained strength in some way. Did she still have her toylike silver pistol, he wondered, and the resolve to use it?

  ‘Here they come!’

  Blackwood thumbed back the hammer and stared at the nearest bank. Then he ducked down as the air exploded from another flaming ball hurled from the high bank, and held his breath. As the heat and stench enfolded the deck, he heard men coughing and retching, a solitary shot as one of the marines hit back without waiting for the order.

  A tide of running, screaming figures had already reached the waterside and were shooting down at the churning, smoke-enshrouded Bajamar, their voices shrill and bonded together like a chorus from hell.

  ‘Be ready! Easy there!’ Blackwood needed all his strength to hold his voice level and outwardly calm. Like a trainer steadying a frightened horse.

  A kneeling marine dropped his rifle and fell on his side, blood running between his fingers as he clutched at his stomach. Blackwood saw the man staring up at him, his eyes outraged and disbelieving even as another fusillade swept over the hull in a hail of splinters. When he looked again the man was dead.

  The boom was sweeping towards them now, and he could identify the various figures, the reckless way they stood to fire at the oncoming steamship.

  Austad was not even weaving his helm, and Blackwood saw that he had two men on the wheel, while he himself leaned against the binnacle, his long-barrelled Colt levelled towards the shore.

  Blackwood watched the barrier rushing towards them and wondered briefly if anyone would ever hear about this day if the worst should happen. His parents, young Jonathan; it might even have some effect on Ralf.

  ‘Stand by to ram!’

  The telegraph jangled as Austad cut down the speed. Surely he must have served in the navy, his own country’s or somebody else’s. He was taking his battered command straight for the boom with all the dash of a torpedo boat destroyer.

  Still the Boxers made no attempt to withdraw. Blackwood peered at one of them across the backsight of his revolver and waited for the collision. Maybe that was their only weakness. So fanatical and without fear that they could not recognize the courage of others. The impact was worse than he had expected. The bows seemed to rear right up, as if the hull had broken its back. Men were flung about like dolls, while the remnants of the charred mast plunged amongst them in pieces.

  The paddles churned and frothed, forging ahead, catching and grinding at underwater fragments, now barely under control.

  Blackwood saw the great pile of blackened timber and splintered fishing boats where the sampan had exploded. The whole boom was bending and lurching under the vessel’s iron stem and he saw several Boxers leaping towards the bulwarks, some dropping, others clambering on to the deck to fall and die under the waiting bayonets.

  ‘Take aim! Fire!’ The rifles cracked out in a ragged volley, cutting down some of the nearest attackers, driving back others from the bows, each bullet aimed with care and desperation.

  Blackwood shouted, ‘To me, Marines!’ Together they charged aft as faces appeared above the bulwark, some within inches of the thrashing paddle-blades.

  Blackwood fired his revolver and then drew his sword as feet pounded on the stained planking and a knot of boarders rushed towards him. The hiss and clang of steel as sword met bayonet, the curses and yells of his men matched against the Boxers’ blood-chilling screams blotted out all else. Beneath his feet Blackwood felt the deck jerking and sagging as Austad tried to hold her bows-on to the boom. But they were not forging ahead, and he heard one of the paddles grating and ripping at the piled logs like a fractured saw.

  ‘Hold them!’ Blackwood drove his blade through one of them, and heard him shriek as Swan, his magazine empty, finished him with his bayonet. But shoulder t
o shoulder the marines were falling back, pressed together in a tight group as more and more figures clambered over the rails, hampered only by their leaders with their glittering, deadly swords.

  Lyde gasped, ‘Can’t-do-it, sir!’ He fired point-blank into a Boxer’s face and then lunged at another with his already reddened bayonet. Blackwood was dimly aware that one of the helmsmen was down, his head split open by a single blow, and that Austad, bleeding from a great slash on his cheek, was bellowing like a wild bull, his empty Colt rising and falling like a club.

  A sword clattered by his feet and Swan shouted, ‘Not this time, Johnnie!’ Then he brought down his rifle-butt on the man’s neck. His companions, wild-eyed and baring their teeth, stamped over the fallen man in their efforts to hold their advantage and hack down wounded and stragglers alike.

  Blackwood felt the deck give one great lurch and saw the nearest barrier of sharpened bamboo stakes begin to fall aside. He heard some of his men cheering like demons, their strength renewed as the boom began to give way under the stem.

  They were going through.

  Blackwood caught a brief glimpse of a figure framed against the sun and realized he was taking aim. He felt the wind of the bullet and heard it hit the deckhouse beside him. It all took less than a second and he heard himself sob with agony as something like splinters cut into his eye, blinding him instantly. He was aware only that his men were cheering, that screams and splashes told him that most of the boarders were gone. He reeled about, his sense of position gone as the pain left him blinded and gasping. A shadow passed over his face and he heard Swan yell, ‘Watch out, sir!’

  Something struck him across the neck. He was barely aware that he was falling, or which way he was facing. Perhaps his head had been struck off like Earle’s and there was merely a flash of understanding before the darkness came.

  And yet he was conscious of a new voice rallying his victorious marines. Clipped and decisive. It was Bannatyre who had found strength through his fear. The hardest kind to discover.

  He felt an arm under his shoulder, a shadow across him as the sun was extinguished. Then he seemed to be falling from a great height and tried to tense his limbs against the impact.

  But instead there was oblivion.

  When Blackwood eventually tried to open his eyes he found nothing but darkness. As his senses reluctantly returned he became aware that there was a cool bandage across his left eye, and that the other one pricked and smarted when he tried to focus it. The deck still swayed, but there was no feeling of movement. The paddles were stilled and for a moment more he imagined they were aground, that the enemy had somehow boarded and seized the ship.

  He groped blindly for his holster but it had-gone. So too had his tunic, and as his fingers moved across his ribs he felt another bandage although he could not remember being wounded there. In fact the pain in his skull was so intense he could barely think at all. And yet in spite of it his memory was returning. In his mind he could hear the fury of the battle, see the wild eyes, the flash of steel.

  He made to move, but the pain held him motionless. Then he heard some empty cartridge cases rolling unheeded on the deck and knew the Bajamar was at anchor somewhere. He reached out gingerly and touched the bulkhead. It was cool, the heat of the day had gone. Or had it been more than one day? He felt something like despair while he strained his ears and fought to hold back the terrible throb in his head and neck.

  He heard someone cry out. Just one short sound. It was close by, but separated by the bulkhead.

  Blackwood moved his head on one side and tried not to catch the bandage on his eye. He was in a bunk and from the faint scent of perfume he knew it was hers.

  Where the hell was Swan? He had to know what was happening. He would be needed. But when he tried to call out all he heard was a groan. There was an immediate response and he felt her come out of the darkness and sit beside him on the bunk.

  ‘Rest easy, Captain.’

  He felt her hand on his shoulder, her fingers gentle.

  She said, ‘We are safe. Thanks to you.’ Her fingers reached the scar on his shoulder, the one he hated so much. They rested there, soothing him, holding him like someone under a spell.

  ‘My – my men . . .’

  The fingers did not move and he could sense that she was sharing his pain.

  ‘Ten wounded.’ Again the slight hesitation. ‘Five dead.’

  ‘God.’ He lay back and peered at the darkness. ‘My eyes.’

  ‘You were fortunate. But you must rest.’

  Her hand caressed the scar as if she was thinking of something else. Even her voice seemed far away.

  ‘Did you take care of me?’

  ‘Of course. I think your Mr Fox was unwilling to let me attend all the wounded.’ He felt her give a little shrug. ‘Besides, I wanted to.’

  ‘But – but . . .’ He could not form his words. She had undressed him. Washed and tended his injuries.

  She said in the same quiet tone, ‘Do not worry so much. Would you prefer that I stayed away? Hidden out of danger while you fought for me and nearly died because of it? Is that what you wanted?’

  ‘You know it’s not that.’ She had stayed with him. Watched over him.

  Blackwood struggled on to his elbow, aware of her closeness in spite of the pain, the turmoil in his mind.

  ‘I have to get up. Must, go to them –’ He tried again. ‘Could you send someone for Swan, please?’ He knew he was pleading, but he had to make her understand.

  But she did not argue and Blackwood heard her speaking quietly to her maid outside the door.

  She returned and said, ‘Close your eyes. I am going to light a lamp.’ She stood between him and the small lamp and watched him without speaking as he opened his sound eye and blinked at the cabin. He could see shot and splinter holes in the side, and there were spots of blood on her clothes, his own or one of the wounded’s, he did not know.

  He peered down at his nakedness. ‘Must look a mess.’ It was all he could find to say.

  Swan entered the cabin, his eyes moving swiftly between them, questioning and understanding.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I need to get up.’

  Swan regarded him doubtfully. ‘You took a real whack on the neck with a pike-’andle, sir. If it ’ad bin a blade –’ He did not finish.

  She said, ‘If you must, Captain.’ She took his tunic from a chair and gently eased one of his arms into it. ‘Now the other one.’ He winced as the pain shot through him again, but he was very aware of her hair against his face, her breath on his skin.

  ‘Now.’ She looked at him gravely. ‘Off we go.’

  With Swan on one side and the countess on the other Blackwood staggered towards the door.

  He gasped, ‘Swan, boots and belt.’

  Swan sighed. The captain would kill himself if he went on like this, but he knew he would never change, nor would he want him to.

  She buttoned his tunic, her eyes averted from his as she said, ‘Let me come.’

  Swan thrust the door aside and clinging together they moved very slowly towards the saloon. There were several shaded lamps burning here, and the smell of blood and pain.

  Those who were not asleep or too faint to care turned towards the trio in the entrance, their eyes flickering in the lamplight.

  Blackwood saw it all. Pride, hostility perhaps towards her for throwing them at risk, and something more. They had survived. The victors.

  Blackwood moved painfully along the saloon and felt her hand on his back. Somehow his tunic had caught on his belt and he could feel her fingers pressed into his skin like small extensions of her own emotion.

  Fox loomed out of the shadows. ‘You shouldn’t be ’ere, sir.’ But from his tone Blackwood knew he had done the right thing.

  He paused and looked down at Sergeant Kirby. Even in the poor light he looked old and pale.

  Fox said shortly, ‘’E’ll live if we can get ’im to a surgeon in time.’ He looked at the counte
ss. ‘She done wonders with ’im, sir.’ He gave a rare smile. ‘With you too, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so.’

  Blackwood felt her fingers biting into his skin as a man cried out and another marine knelt down beside him with a water flask. He knew that some of the sentries were peering through the ports to see what was happening, and could smell the strong aroma of Austad’s tobacco. He was glad the Norwegian had survived.

  Blackwood said, ‘I just want to tell you –’ He hesitated and looked at the deck. Tell them what? They knew well enough what they had achieved. What it had cost them. And this was just a beginning. He tried again. ‘I am proud of all of you, grateful that I was given the honour to be with you.’ He felt emotion in his unbandaged eye as he remembered the dying marine who had stared up at him. Why me? his eyes had asked. Of Corporal O’Neil who had staggered on deck again to fight in spite of everything. Not least of Kirby, so bitter, and yet too much of a marine not to volunteer. Of them all.

  ‘Soon we shall be back aboard ship to await orders. Some of us will be parted.’ Her hand stopped moving and lay flat on his spine. As if it, and not she, was listening to the meaning of his words.

  Blackwood lifted his chin as he had seen his father do so many times when he had relived one of his experiences aboard ship or in some godforsaken battlefield. How right was the Corps’s motto, he thought. Per Mare, Per Terram. Do anything, go anywhere. You were never supposed to ask questions.

  ‘And some will never return.’ He swayed and might have fallen but for Swan’s powerful grip. ‘But we shall not forget them. It is not our way.’

  He turned with his supports to the door and saw Lieutenant Bannatyre smiling at him, his arms folded as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  A voice came from the darkness, ‘Good old Blackie, eh lads!’ It had to be O’Neil. Nothing could disguise that brogue.

  Outside the saloon the three of them stood by the guardrails and stared abeam. There was no moon, and it was too dark to see how far out Austad had decided to anchor. But Blackwood could smell the land, and feel the power of the swell under the old keel which had somehow carried them to safety.