Badge of Glory (1982) (28 page)

He looked down at his hands, filthy and cut in a dozen places. A tiny insect, smaller than a pin’s-head, crawled across his fingers and he winced. It had a sting like a wasp. It had been a fatal mistake to bring his men here with no hope of retreat. When the gunboat had been put out of action and her commander killed, he should have broken off the attack altogether. It had been his decision. Pride again? It had cost his men dearly and worse was to come.

He dug his fingers into the hot ground until they were like claws.

Quintin said, ‘Punny thing, sir. Them blacks ’ave kept out of it. Far as I can fathom it’s only the slavers.’ He sucked his teeth as a single shot brought down some leaves from overhead. ‘But they’re more ’n enough.’

Blackwood stared at him. Trust Quintin to notice what should have been obvious. The bully sergeant, feared, admired and seldom loved, but a real campaigner. Not for Quintin the complications of blame or final responsibility. He was the true professional and thought only of winning if there was still a way out.

Harry whispered, ‘It’s true.’

Blackwood took his telescope out and thrust it between the thorns. King Zwide was far cleverer than Mdlaka, it seemed. He was determined to see who was going to win before he threw in his weight of warriors.

They must move soon, and before dusk. Fynmore was obviously waiting for more support from the ships anchored off shore. What did he feel at this moment? Despair, or shame for what he had begun without thought for the consequences?

He heard a marine yell at someone to keep his head down and saw a seaman crawling anxiously through the scrub, his head swivelling from left to right as he searched for an officer.

M’Crystal groaned. ‘All we need is Jolly Jack, I don’t think.’

The seaman fell panting between Blackwood and his half-brother. He gasped, ‘I’ve been sent from the boats, sir. Lieutenant Ashley-Chute’s respects, an’ ’e intends to refloat
Noreseman
an’ tow ’er clear.’ He fell silent, his job done, the responsibility safely handed over.

Blackwood looked away to hide his concern. The misshapen lieutenant was already beneath the overhang.
Save the ship
, every sailor’s unspoken prayer. The solitary cannon had not fired for some time. He felt the hair rise on his neck.
Lessard’s men must already be moving it where it could depress directly on the boats and the stranded
Norseman.

He looked at the seaman. A plain, homely face you might see any day in a man-of-war or a barracks. He had a round Yorkshire voice. Like Oldcastle.

‘My compliments to Mr Ashley-Chute. Tell him he is likely to be attacked at any moment, from above and from upstream.’ It would take too long to explain all the dangers, and it was important that this seaman should get it right.

The seaman nodded. ‘An’ what shall I tell ’im about you, sir?’

‘Tell him we are going to attack.’

The seaman hesitated. ‘Aye, sir. I’ll do that.’ He started to crawl away and added, ‘Good luck, sir.’

Quintin murmured, ‘We’ll need all er that, matey!’

Blackwood beckoned to the others. ‘We’ll attack in two halves. We can’t afford anything grander. But it’s now or never. I think . . .’ he forced out each word, ‘. . . they’re moving the gun. God knows where the other two are, but my guess is they’ll be kept in case Major Fynmore’s contingent arrives.’ He watched their mixed emotions. Quintin’s doubt, M’Crystal’s grim acceptance and Harry’s too-steady stare. He undersood now what it all meant. ‘Share out the ammunition between the men. Leave everything else here.’

There was no more time for any of them. And yet it was important they should not leave without a word more.

He said quietly, ‘This is a bad place to die, if die we must. But there’s more at stake than just us.’

M’Crystal sighed. ‘Och, I’m no bothered, sir.’ He glanced at his friend. ‘Sarnt Quintin will look after me!’

They crawled away and Blackwood felt as if a line had been cut.

Harry asked, ‘Ready?’

‘Attack from the right when I give the signal. If we fail, you must press on with the attack.’ He touched his arm, hating each word. ‘
Must!
’

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.’