Badge of Glory (1982) (6 page)

The sea was set in a flat calm, with only an occasional flurry of breeze to stir the ship’s topsails and jib.

The squadron must make a fine if familiar picture from the shore, Blackwood thought. Like part of a great painting, or one of his grandfather’s memories.

Audacious
in the lead, with the three two-deckers,
Swiftsure, Valiant
and
Argyll
following obediently in her wake. Only the hulls were changed from those which had shaken to the roar of cannon fire at Trafalgar. White and black stripes instead of Nelson’s black and buff. Otherwise there was little outward difference.

Gun for gun the salute to the governor on the Rock crashed out, to be returned with equal precision. Probably the only ones they would hear on this voyage, Blackwood thought.

He glanced forward from the quarterdeck at the assembled seamen who were waiting to wear ship in readiness to drop anchor. Others with their petty officers and lieutenants in their various parts of ship. To sway out the boats, to rig awnings and windsails, to man the side for visitors from the
shore, and all within minutes of the great anchor splashing down.

The marines were paraded in three neat formations, Colour-Sergeant M’Crystal on the flank, Sergeant Quintin in the rear.

Second Lieutenant Harry Blackwood stood in front of the first platoon, his sword drawn and resting between his feet, his eyes slitted against the misty glare from the bay. Sea-haze mingled with the departing gunsmoke, and in the humid air the marines were getting the worst of it in their high-collared coatees.

‘Ready, sir!’

Ackworthy nodded. ‘Helm a’lee!’

Slowly and ponderously
Audacious
turned towards the wind. Sails flapped against the rigging in meek protest. There was barely enough air to carry her to the idling guard-boat with the bright pendant hoisted to mark where she should anchor.

Blackwood glanced across to the group by the quarterdeck rail. The misshapen figure of Ashley-Chute, his hands linked across his buttocks by a pair of white gloves which he had been tugging in time to the gun salute. Ackworthy and his first lieutenant, the signals midshipmen ready to make signals and acknowledge them, their assistants standing amongst the coloured bunting, very aware of the need for haste with their admiral barely yards away.

‘
Let go!
’

As the anchor hurled spray high above the beakhead, the ship’s sailing master glanced at his quartermaster and helmsman and gave a quick grimace. Blackwood could guess what he was thinking. It had taken fourteen of the longest days he could recall to reach Gibraltar from Spithead. With each dragging hour the ships of the squadron had gone through their paces in response to Ashley-Chute’s endless procession of signals.

Three ships of the squadron had been spared. The little frigate
Peregrine
had been sent on ahead to Gibraltar, but even
she had taken two days to draw away from her heavy consorts. The other frigate, the forty-four-gun
Laertes
, had held up to windward, a spectator as the ships of the line had formed up ahead or astern of their admiral, opened or closed distances as demanded, while the limp sails had been changed and reset until the various companies were worn out.

Only the squadron store-ship,
Amelia
, a very elderly vessel which had once been used for transporting convicts, had been allowed to make her own way south.

Even Biscay had been cruelly calm, with not the usual urgency of shortening sail and changing tack to keep the men’s minds occupied. Around the north-west tip of Spain and still further south with the coast of Portugal just visible to the masthead lookouts.

Gun drill in blazing sunlight, the crews panting and cursing as they had hauled the great muzzles up to their ports, timed by the first lieutenant’s watch, and with Ashley-Chute’s small figure never far away from poop or quarterdeck.

Pelham stayed at his side like a lean shadow, a pad rarely absent from his hand, as the admiral’s thin mouth opened occasionally to make a criticism or to ask who was responsible for a delay or a mistake.

It was a far, far cry from the eloquent host at the Spithead reception, the man who could describe the beauty of sail and dismiss the benefits of steam and leave no room for doubt among his listeners.

The slow passage had played its part. There had hardly been a day when the squadron had not been passed or, worse, overhauled by some packet or coaster.

In the Bay itself they had sighted a tell-tale plume of black smoke far astern, and Blackwood had heard the admiral say, ‘Damn rattle-box! What did I tell you, Pelham?
Bloody useless!
’

But the little paddle-steamer had grown sharper in the telescope lens none the less, and when the hands had been piped to their midday meal she had been overtaking the
squadron in fine style. Her master must have done it deliberately, for his after-deck was almost awash from the paddles’ surging throw back. Smoke and sparks had belched from the spindly funnel, and the vessel had churned up a bow wave like a giant’s moustache.

When the
Audacious
’s hands had been piped back to their various tasks once more the little paddle-steamer had been passing
Argyll
’s quarter at the rear of the line.

Ashley-Chute had snatched a telescope from a terrified midshipman and had shouted, ‘Captain Boyd’s people are
cheering
that filthy object!’ He had hurled the glass at the midshipman. ‘God damn it, Ackworthy, must I be served by fools?’ He had swung away adding, ‘Make a signal to the squadron.
Make more sail and close on the flagship.
’

Ackworthy had seen the protest in the sailing master’s eyes and had pleaded, ‘In these light airs, sir, it will do no use.’

Ashley-Chute had had to climb on to a bollard to seek out the paddle-steamer.

‘Just do as I say!
More sail!
’

Like monkeys the seamen had swarmed up the ratlines in a living tide to set the topgallants and then the royals in an effort to draw ahead. It was pointless, and the great main-course could barely lift its belly, so weak was the wind.

The other vessel had steamed past, dipping her ensign as she did so.

As the first lieutenant had said later, ‘Not only that, but she was a bloody Frenchie!’

Harry Blackwood brought the hilt of his sword to his mouth with a flourish.

‘Permission to fall out the marines,
sir
!’

From one corner of his eye Blackwood saw M’Crystal nod with approval. He did not know the half of it. Harry should have been an actor, not a marine.

He said calmly, ‘Carry on, Mr Blackwood. Tell Sergeant Quintin to detail a shore picket, just in case our people are allowed off the ship.’

He shaded his eyes and looked up to watch the last of the
big sails being furled neatly to its yard. All down the squadron it would be the same. Another passage completed. A landfall made. At least they didn’t have to put up with the admiral.

Blackwood walked on to the larboard gangway as the first of the boats was swayed up and over the side to a clatter of blocks and bellowed commands.

There were several steam vessels lying in the Rock’s shadow. It must be marvellous to be able to manoeuvre at will and tell the wind to act as it pleased. To cut across an enemy’s stern without the need to stand and receive a bellyful of iron because you have lost your sails in a broadside.

‘Is this your first time here, Major?’

Blackwood turned and looked down at Ashley-Chute’s son. He had barely spoken to the third lieutenant since he had joined the ship at Spithead. Their duties never seemed to meet, and he had thought him to be either aloof like his father or merely shy.

‘No, I’ve been this way before.’

Blackwood watched him curiously. About his own age, and yet he seemed much older, or from another period altogether. He would not have looked out of place with Raleigh or Drake, he thought. He had deep lines at his mouth and nose, and his eyes were restless and heavy lidded. He gave the added impression of great physical strength, as if it was all gathered in his shoulders and long, ungainly arms.

Lieutenant Ashley-Chute pointed towards the shore. ‘See that mast beyond the anchored store-ship?’

Blackwood shaded his eyes again. The lieutenant must have damn good vision as well.

Then he saw it. A raked mast, almost bare of spars and rigging, and a thin black funnel.

The young Ashley-Chute was saying, ‘She’s the
Satyr.
A new steam-frigate.’ He could not contain the excitement he felt. It was like a secret pride. ‘I was supposed to be joining her. I’ve completed the new gunnery course, everything.’ His
arms dropped to his sides as if they were too heavy. ‘But I’m third lieutenant in
Audacious
instead.’

Blackwood did not need to ask why. ‘Maybe you can transfer later on.’

‘Later on?’ He did not hide the bitterness in his voice. ‘He’d never allow it. He wanted me here, to make certain I’d follow the “tradition”.’ He spat out each word. ‘I love the Navy. I really do. And he’s almost made me hate it!’

A petty officer hurried towards him and he thrust himself away from the side.

‘Sorry about that, Major.’

Blackwood smiled. ‘I think I understand how you feel.’ He turned and stared again at the raked mast. Lithe, modern power; no wonder a young officer could dream of serving and maybe commanding such a vessel. ‘Perhaps we could go over and look at her while we’re here?’ But when he twisted round Lieutenant Ashley-Chute had vanished.

The first lieutenant strolled across to join him. ‘The captain wants a full quarter-guard mounted this evening, Major.’ He removed his hat and wiped the inside rim with his handkerchief. ‘More visitors to drink up our mess bills, I expect!’

But Netten, the first lieutenant, was wrong. The only important visitor to arrive aboard the flagship was Sir Geoffrey Slade, as neat and composed as ever, dressed all in white and removing his hat as he received full honours from the side-party.

Later, after dining with the admiral in his cabin, he came on deck where Blackwood was watching his marines mounting guard and listening to their night orders from Corporal Jones, the man who had wanted to be a prize-fighter.

He nodded companionably. ‘Good to see you again, Blackwood.’

He seemed so relaxed and at ease that Blackwood asked, ‘Are you remaining here at Gibraltar, Sir Geoffrey?’

Sir Geoffrey Slade shook his head and leaned out to watch some local trading boats idling as near as they dared to the
ship’s side. From the lower gunports there would be some brisk bartering between these boatmen and the sailors until the master-at-arms discovered what was happening.

‘No. I shall continue in the mail-packet to Freetown and then, if everything is properly arranged, take a steam vessel on to Fernando Po. How the African coasts are opening up with these new craft, eh?’ He gave an amused smile. ‘I’m afraid I do not share Sir James’s views on maritime progress!’

Blackwood hesitated. ‘Er, your niece, sir . . .’

Slade regarded him calmly. ‘She came with me, of course.’ He saw Blackwood’s surprise and added, ‘But she’s not here now. Left yesterday. Wouldn’t wait, and I could not very well keep her company. My business here and in Africa is pressing.’

Blackwood had imagined the girl back in England. But she had been here and had already gone. It was making no sense.

Slade said, ‘She wanted to join her father. She’s a headstrong young woman. I’ve done all I can for her since her mother died. I can understand how she feels.’ He waited and then said gently, ‘You seem very interested in my niece.’

‘I think she found me rather stupid, sir.’ He shrugged. ‘I thought she was fascinating, as it happens.’

‘I see. Well, her father’s a doctor. Could have been a great man in his profession, but he chose tropical medicine. It’s what killed his wife, as a matter of fact. Now he’s down there working his heart out in some wretched mission or other. I’ve sent word to our people in Freetown to help my niece as much as they can, but I’m not sure any more. The area where he was last known to be is in a state of turmoil. Which is why I am on my way there, and where you will eventually be required to make a show of strength, and I hope that is
all
that will be needed!’

He looked dreamily towards the Rock’s great shadow. ‘It’s all there in Africa, y’know, Blackwood. The picklock of empire. People don’t count for much when something’s true value is realized.’ He turned aft towards the poop. ‘A game of
cards with Sir James before I go ashore, I think.’ He gave a casual wave. ‘Remember what I said.’

Blackwood gripped the nettings with both hands and stared at the glittering lights on the water.

She had known when she had spoken to him.
I think it’s wrong to oppress people.
Now she was on her way to Africa, to a part which Slade had made clear was about to erupt for one of a hundred reasons.

He walked quickly along the gangway, only partly aware of the watching side-party and boatswain’s mate, a marine sentry who stiffened as he passed.

She might think differently of him if he could see her again.

In his mind’s eye he seemed to see Africa spreading like a vast jungle, engulfing her and dragging her down into oblivion.

He thought of the screaming horde of Maoris as they had charged towards the single line of marines, the jarring pain in his arm as he had hacked one of them down, their faces almost touching.

Blackwood stopped short at the forecastle. There was a solitary marine sentry there on a little platform above the beakhead. To watch over the cable, to ensure no unlawful visitors used the great rope to pull themselves aboard. Likewise, he was useful to deter anyone from deserting.

The sentry stamped his heels to attention. Blackwood peered through the gloom but could not put a name to the stiff, youthful face.

‘You’re one of the new recruits?’

‘
Sir!
Private Oldcastle, sixth company, sir!’ He had a Yorkshire dialect you could carry in a spoon.

‘Have you settled in, Oldcastle?’