Badge of Glory (1982) (24 page)

Blackwood exclaimed angrily, ‘Is that
all
she gave you?’

‘You thought she’d murdered me, that’s right, isn’t it?’

‘What the hell does it matter what I think! She’s gone, and is probably getting her father’s warriors on their way here right now!’

‘Look, sir.’ Harry’s sudden formality made it even more unreal. ‘It wasn’t like that. She said that if her people saw her as our captive they would kill us, we’d have no chance. But once freed she
promised
to help us.’

Blackwood saw Jones groping through the scrub and beckoned to him. ‘Rouse the men.’ To Harry he added fiercely, ‘If we get out of this alive I’ll see you courtmartialled, damn you, family or not!’

Sergeant Quintin stood aside as Blackwood pushed past him. ‘Trouble, sir?’

Harry tried to smile but nothing happened. ‘I seem to have put my foot in it, Sergeant.’

Quintin was glad the second lieutenant could not see his face. It wasn’t only his foot he had put in it. Quintin had paused in his patrol around the clearing and had heard them, had seen Mr Blackwood’s buttocks framed by the girl’s black thighs. Going at it like a fiddler’s elbow, he was. Lucky young bugger.

He said as calmly as he could, ‘I s’pect it’ll be all right, sir. I probably know ’im better than you do, in a manner o’ speakin’.’

Harry said quietly, ‘You’re fond of him, aren’t you?’

‘Fond, sir? That’s too strong a word fer the likes o’ me. But as an officer ’e’s the best I’ve served with. That’ll do.’ He could not restrain a grin. ‘But then, sir, I’m
not family
!’

A few moments later Blackwood gathered the others around him. Sergeant Quintin and Corporal Jones, while his half-brother tried to stay invisible between them. In the clearing the marines were buckling on their belts and pouches, taking a last look at their weapons. Nobody said a word about the black princess. Blackwood was beginning to suspect he had been the only one not to know what was happening.

He said, ‘Well leave now. According to Mr Patterson’s map and instructions the mission is about two miles distant. A short climb and then downhill all the way to another river.’ He glanced at the sky again. But for the princess’s unerring sense of direction he doubted if they would even have got halfway, let alone by dawn as Patterson had suggested. ‘If the worst has happened we’ll make our way back to where we landed.’ He glanced at each one in turn. ‘Tell the men that.’ He had known it happen in the past. Marines were half-sailors at heart, and if the mission had been destroyed and the occupants butchered they would very likely continue down to the next river. To seamen and marines alike, water was not an enemy or a barrier, but a way out. Not this time, he thought grimly. ‘Questions?’

Quintin said, ‘Them slavers wot fired on the boats will be too busy to come this way, won’t they, sir?’

Blackwood had already considered it. Lessard and others who used the local tribal chiefs like a private army must have some method of maintaining contact along hundreds of miles of coastline. They had seemed to know what Ashley-Chute had in mind before he did.

‘We can’t take that for granted. We are passing through King Zwide’s territory. He may have other ideas about our progress.’ He saw them glance at Harry and added shortly, ‘But what’s done is done. We’ll have to take the chance. Once we reach the river,’ He looked at Harry, ‘you’ll go with Corporal Jones and Private Frazier to a point above the mission while the rest of us move in to investigate.’

Harry remarked as lightly as he could, ‘Rather like being an umpire, sir!’

Blackwood eyed him calmly. ‘You’ll be the bloody burial party if you don’t watch out!’

He turned away, angry with himself and with Harry’s inability to take things seriously.

‘Corporal Jones, lead off. If you see or hear
anything
, I want to know instantly.’

He could feel his heart beating faster. And they had not
even started yet. He wished suddenly he had accepted Smithett’s offer of something stronger than water.

As the marines waded into the clinging grass and bush Harry said quietly, ‘Take my shako, sir.’ He held it out to him and added simply, ‘It might give them a bit of confidence at the mission.’

Blackwood bit back an angry retort and jammed the shako on his head.

‘Thanks.’

Then he swung on his heel and followed the others into the remaining shadows.

Harry Blackwood paused only to look at the small, flattened patch of grass where the blanket had been. His legs still felt like jelly, and he could feel the scent of her body like something physical.

He saw the Rocke twins trudge past, muskets at the ready as they watched the scrub on either side. He was getting to know all of them, their ways and their attitudes. He thought of the sergeant’s comment.
Too strong a word
. Perhaps it was trust which Philip offered them and in return they gave him an instant loyalty.

He sighed and fell in behind the twins, his pistol drawn and resting in the crook of his arm.

His mother and father would be proud of him, but in his heart he knew that the one man he needed to share it with was up there in the lead, wearing
his
shako.

Harry smiled, the mood past. After today nothing might matter any more.

The last part of the journey took longer than expected, and by the time Blackwood was satisfied they were close enough, the sky seemed too bright for any hope of surprise. With Sergeant Quintin breathing heavily behind him, he crawled through the treacherous gorse and dried grass to make sure each of his men was in position.

‘What d’you think, Sergeant?’

Quintin had already discarded his shako and leaned on his
elbows as he scanned the river below their hiding-place. In the weak daylight it looked dirty yellow, the sluggish current moving idly through long reeds and around sand-bars as it continued towards the sea. In the protective arm of a bend stood the mission. A collection of crude huts and one central building which was larger but no less spartan than the others.

Blackwood waited while Quintin, the old campaigner, took stock of the situation. There was no sign of movement, nor of smoke from cooking fires. He shivered and felt the hair rise on his neck. Maybe they had already been seen and were surrounded, and at any second a spear might plunge into his back. He recalled with stark clarity what old Tom Fenwick had told him about the mutilation which had been done to his companions and felt the bile rise in his throat.

Quintin said slowly, ‘There should be some natives at the mission, sir. But there’s nobody, as far as I can make out.’

Blackwood swallowed. ‘Very well. Two men with me. You stay here with the others.’ Their eyes met and he added, ‘If it’s a trap, get out while you can. Lieutenant Blackwood and his two marksmen will cover you.’

He looked at the tangle of trees and creeper. Harry would be up there by now. Did he realize he had been sent with Jones and Frazier to keep him safe if things went wrong? Safe? Even the word was a mockery here.

Blackwood listened to the disturbed squawking of birds, or were they humans signalling to one another, preparing an ambush.

He got to his knees and examined his pistol. Smithett was ready to go with him, his face grim and strained. Another private, named Bell, a man almost legendary for his skills in brawls and hand to hand fighting alike, was the second one.

Quintin whispered, ‘Pass the word. Be ready to fire.’

Blackwood nodded to Bell. ‘To your left.’

Then, very slowly, crouching and hopping like frogs, they moved down the slope towards the huts. As they drew closer Blackwood felt a sense of apprehension and dread. They were too late. It was a dead place.

Bell dropped on one knee and held up his hand while he gripped his musket and bayonet firmly with the other.

Blackwood wormed his way among the scrub, unaware of the scrapes and cuts on his hands and face.

Bell whispered, ‘Here, sir.’ He did not need to explain further.

A man sat propped against some kindling wood, a floppy straw hat over his forehead as if to protect his face from the sun. A musket lay across his legs, and there was a wine bottle at his side.

Bell grasped the man’s head and levered it back so that Blackwood could see the terrible slash across his throat which ran almost from ear to ear. It must have been swift and instant, for the man’s eyes were wide and bulging, brought from his doze to meet an agonizing death.

He had certainly not been a member of the mission. Doubtless one of Lessard’s men. Blackwood wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Whoever had done it had left the musket behind, something more precious in Africa than gold itself. Somebody? He thought of his brother’s explanation and wondered. Maybe he had been right, and the black princess had kept her word and had helped in the only way she understood.

Bell hissed, ‘Someone’s about, sir!’

Blackwood cocked his pistol with great care. He had heard nothing.

Then feet scraped on sand and a figure emerged from the main hut, ducking through the low entrance and then stretching up his arms and emitting a huge yawn. The yawn and the stretch froze as he saw Blackwood and the others. It was a matter of seconds, and yet they all seemed to stand stock still like statues for an eternity.

Blackwood bounded forward and fired, seeing the ball smash through the man’s forehead and hurl him against the hut. He was dead before he touched the ground.

He shouted, ‘
Now!
’ and charged for the low entrance, tossing his empty pistol aside as he dragged out his sword and ducked under the crude thatch.

The world exploded in his face in a livid flash and he was momentarily blinded, but aware the shot had missed him and had hit Bell who was immediately behind him.

Vague shadows swayed about him and he felt the pain in his wrist and arm as his blade cut through muscle and bone and then slashed hard against another.

A figure blotted out the light from the entrance but fell back inside gasping, propelled by the thrust of Smithett’s bayonet which had taken him in the stomach.

Smithett finished it with a second lunge and then loped across to join Blackwood in the centre of the mud floor.

Blackwood ignored the two men he had just cut down and hurried to the hut’s one other occupant. The girl lay against some old bedding and broken cases, her hands and ankles pinioned, her mouth cruelly gagged with a neckerchief. Her clothing had been ripped open almost to the waist, so that her bared breasts shone in the filtered daylight, moving painfully as she stared up at him in a mixture of terror and shocked disbelief.

Blackwood dropped down beside her and pulled her torn dress together across her breasts, feeling her eyes watching his every move.

‘Ferch Sergeant Quintin and help Bell.’

Smithett glanced at the two groaning figures by the wall. ‘Bell’s done for, sir.’ Then he hurried away.

Blackwood removed the gag with great care and held her shoulders as she gasped and choked, ashamed in spite of her suffering that he should watch her vomit on to the floor.

He had to use a knife to cut her bonds, and he felt her cringe as he massaged the bruised skin where they had bitten into her. They must have made her suffer. It was a wonder she was not driven mad by what she had seen and endured here.

She fell, breathing fast, against him, her eyes hidden by the cascade of hair across her face.

Outside the hut there was the sound of order and discipline as Quintin and the others arrived. It would not last for long, but the moment was precious to Blackwood as he held her, saying nothing, while he waited for her breathing to recover.

Then she said in a small voice, ‘I can’t believe it. You of all people.’

One hand moved up to touch her throat and breast and she turned away as some terrible memory was reborn.

He said, ‘We came as fast as we could.’ He could feel her sobbing, each beat driving against him as if he was sharing her pain. ‘Now we must leave.’

He glanced up as Quintin stooped through the door. ‘Two natives dead round the back, sir. Nobody else except . . .’ He looked at the girl.

She said huskily, ‘They took my father. He’s done so much for the people here.’

Blackwood said, ‘Smithett, come here. Look after this lady.’ He released her shoulders and saw the tears making lines on her dusty face. ‘Don’t leave her.’

Outside the sunlight was brighter but seemed without warmth.

Quintin said heavily, ‘They’d pegged ’Im out by the river while ’e was still alive. There must be crocodiles round ’ere. There ain’t much of ’im to bury.’

Blackwood leaned on his sword and closed his eyes tightly? for several seconds.

‘Must have happened recently.’

Quintin nodded. ‘They came by boat. I found marks on the sand. The people at the mission must ’ave known ’em, or seen no reason to be afraid. There’s no sign of a fight. It must ’ave bin over in minutes.’ He spat out the words, ‘The murderin’ bastards!’

‘That girl is in no state to walk. Make a litter. We must get away from here before any of Zwide’s people find us.’

He ducked into the hut and waited for Smithett to move away.

He said, ‘It’s time to go, Miss Seymour. We’ve a hard march to reach the others. Then you’ll be safe.’ He looked around the hut at the upended boxes and chests. ‘Is there anything you need?’

She shook her head violently. ‘Nothing. I don’t want to
touch any of it, ever.’ Then in an almost level voice she said, ‘My father knew there was trouble. He’d been warned often enough. All his helpers had left. He said he had to stay,
had to
. It was his purpose for being, especially after Mother died. Then a ship came.’ She glanced at the low door. She did not seem to see the corpse which had been forced back, on Smithett’s bayonet. It was as if she saw the ship in the river.

Blackwood held her tightly, knowing the sudden calm could not last.

‘I can remember what Father said.’ Her voice shook. ‘“It’s the Navy, Davern. That young lieutenant who is always coming here to warn me.”’ She turned and looked at Blackwood, her eyes in deep shadow. ‘But it was not the Navy. It was men like those over there, like the ones who killed the house-boys, and then . . .’ She pressed her face into Blackwood’s shoulder, ‘. . . they took my father away . . . I could hear what they were doing to him . . .’