Badge of Glory (1982) (8 page)

Blackwood allowed himself to be led rather than guided down a companion ladder and eventually to a square panelled cabin.

Lascelles said, ‘It’s yours, sir. I’m bunking in with the third lieutenant.’ He picked up a bag from the deck. ‘It’s the next cabin, if you need me.’ Then he stepped outside and closed the door.

Smithett had somehow been here already. Probably even forced Lascelles to vacate the cabin in his favour.

The stand was there, ready for his watch. A clean shirt nearby.

Blackwood sat down on the bunk and felt the hull shaking impatiently. What pleasure it must have given
Satyr
’s captain to shatter the night watches with his siren before he quit the harbour. It had been for Ashley-Chute’s benefit.

He lay back and thrust his hands behind his head.
Monkey.

He would not sleep, he was certain of it. The ship echoed and rattled all around him, and he heard a whirring sound like a fan. And she was not even moving yet.

Poor Harry. He would probably be on deck as they steamed past the anchored flagship. That was the last conscious thought of Captain Philip Blackwood. Even as the first iron link of
Satyr
’s cable clanked through the fair-leads he fell fast asleep.

Private Smithett wedged himself in one corner of the cabin and muttered between his teeth, ‘Is it
always
like this, sir?’

Blackwood pressed his body against a locker and peered at his reflection in a mirror. Each time he brought the razor to his face he could sense Smithett’s quick intake of breath, as if he expected to see him cut his throat. It was not surprising. When he had been awakened by the ship noises around him he had been unable to recall where he was. Then, as his memory had returned, he had been startled by the unfamiliar clatter and growl of engines, and when he had tried to leave his bunk he had been hurled across the cabin and almost knocked senseless.

He answered tightly, ‘I expect so.’

He laid down the razor and dabbed his skin with a towel. His body felt clammy, and he knew he was near to being sick. Smithett had already told him that several of the marines were ‘spewin’ fit to bust’, but even he had lost his usual relish for disaster.

Blackwood thought of breakfast and clung to a stanchion for support as the deck rocked violently and the whole hull seemed to try and shake itself apart. Down and down, and then he heard the thunder of water alongside and saw a wave crest lift casually above the cabin scuttle. Breakfast? Not yet anyway.

He allowed Smithett to assist him with his coat and then struggled out into the cabin passageway which was also trying to roll on to its side.

Blackwood had been at sea in every sort of vessel from a line of battle ship like
Audacious
to a tiny brig, and had seen storms which had almost torn the masts from the decks. But never could he recall anything like this.

Staggering and gasping, he reached the foot of a companion ladder and looked up with surprise at a blue rectangle of sky. He had imagined they were entering a storm. Taking his time he climbed to the upper deck and clung to a handrail to get his bearings before stepping out into the open.

The
Satyr
was bigger than he had imagined her to be and totally unlike any warship he had seen. She had two masts and what appeared to be a brigantine rig, although all her sails were neatly furled, and his attention was immediately taken by the two giant paddle-boxes, one on either side, which were linked together by an unprotected catwalk like a bridge. Abaft the two paddles was a tall funnel, the smoke streaming towards the quarter in an unbroken trail. Just forward of the mizzen mast was a big double-wheel, but to his surprise Blackwood saw there was only one helmsman. The officer of the watch, a quartermaster and a red-cheeked midshipman completed the group near the compass.

‘Morning, Major.’

Blackwood released his grip and almost fell. Captain Tobin had appeared from aft and was watching his reactions with some amusement.

‘Sleep well?’

‘Aye, sir.’ Blackwood looked around again, the captain’s obvious pride in his ship was giving him a kind of strength. ‘I thought we were in a gale.’

‘I should have warned you.’

Tobin had his hands jammed deeply in his watch-coat, and his salt-stained sea-going cap was tugged tightly down level with his eyes. He was a sturdy, ruddy-faced man in his mid-thirties, Blackwood guessed. You would know him as a sailor no matter what he was wearing.

Tobin added, ‘You’re used to carrying a lot of canvas, the same as I was. Steadies the hull, no matter how steep the
angle. Here,’ he waved his fist before replacing it in his pocket, ‘we ride the sea.’

He rocked back on his heels and waited for the hull to plunge down into a deep Atlantic trough. The starboard paddle lifted slightly and Blackwood felt the same vibration as the blades churned up to the surface. Tobin’s resonant voice carried easily above the regular thump of machinery and he spoke for several minutes about his ship, what she could do, if given half a chance.

Without bitterness he said, ‘We are the scavengers of the fleet. We take any mission, any job so as not to give their lordships the chance to get rid of us.’ He gave a crooked smile. ‘But Sir James Ashley-Chute will have drilled
that
into you, eh? No place for steam, the majesty of sail and all that rot?’

Satyr
was two hundred and forty-nine feet from her graceful stem to her taffrail, and was of nearly two thousand tons burden.

Blackwood listened without interruption. He had rarely heard a ship’s captain speak with such understanding of every aspect of his command and the individual tasks of her company. It was something akin to love.

Tobin said, ‘It’s a long haul to our rendezvous, so I’ll try and make your stay a pleasant one.’ He grinned. ‘Might even convert you too.’

Blackwood had noticed the apparent lack of guns. In any other ship you were always aware of the vessel’s main purpose for being. On every deck, be she frigate or first rate, the guns pointed towards each broadside port. The seamen lived, ate and slept between them in their tiny messes. The guns were there when they were piped on deck. They were waiting when they were piped below.

Tobin saw his uncertainty and gestured with his chin towards the midships deck.

‘Up forrard I’ve got two rifled ten-inch chasers, and abaft the paddle-boxes there are four-inchers divided on either broadside.’ He pivoted easily on the deck and looked at him
searchingly. ‘Just six guns, compared with your average frigate’s forty or so! Yet with my armament I can outshoot and outmanoeuvre anything else afloat.’ He nodded to the lieutenant by the wheel. ‘I’m going down to breakfast, Mr Spalding.’ He looked at Blackwood. ‘Well?’

Blackwood took a deep breath. His lurking sea-sickness had vanished completely.

‘Thank you, sir.’

The captain’s quarters were right aft, following the usual custom. There was little other similarity.

The dining space was panelled and unmarred by gunports. There was a proper carpet on the deck instead of painted canvas, and the place had a feeling of privacy and comfort. The captain’s sword rested in its rack on the bulkhead, and nearby Blackwood saw a painting of a woman and a little girl by a stream.

Tobin had handed his cap to the cabin steward and sat at the table where Sir Geoffrey Slade was reading a sheaf of papers and sipping coffee, apparently oblivious to the ship’s irregular plunges.

Tobin got down to a large breakfast, and Blackwood lost himself in his own thoughts. Steam and sail had one thing in common. Officers never spoke at breakfast unless absolutely essential. The wardroom was only yards away, and that too was silent.

Slade got up suddenly. He looked less at ease in the reflected sunlight.

‘Are we making good time, Captain?’ He smiled despite his inner worries. ‘I know we have only been at sea for a matter of hours, however . . .’

Tobin watched him calmly. ‘My officers are well aware of the importance of this passage, Sir Geoffrey. The chief engineer is confident enough. We shall put into Tenerife for more coal, although I
can
manage without it. But we might hear something useful.’

Slade nodded slowly, his mind moving on again. ‘I hope so.’ He moved to the door. ‘I shall go and discover if my
secretary has managed to overcome his nausea. He’s here to work, not lie abed!’

As the door closed Tobin gave a slow grin. ‘He seems worried. I’m damn grateful to him all the same. I’d still be anchored at Gib but for his insistence.’

‘Why do you think so many senior officers object to steam, sir?’

Tobin gestured to the steward to refill his cup. ‘They’ve never learned to handle it, to understand it. Lines of ships, thousands of men, those they do understand. But God help us when we go to war again, unless we’ve a steam-minded Nelson somewhere!’

Blackwood made to leave the table but Tobin waved him down again.

‘A moment, Major. I asked you to mess with me and Sir Geoffrey and not join my wardroom officers, for several reasons. I think we might learn from each other. In my heart I have little doubt that we are set on something dangerous. Sir Geoffrey would not be here otherwise. And neither would you.’

He stood up and walked to a scuttle, his broad shoulders balanced to his ship’s persistent motion.

Almost dreamily he said, ‘I worked the West African coast for five years. On anti-slavery patrols mostly. I once commanded a little sloop down in the Gulf of Guinea when I was very young and raw. God, what days! Most of the slavers were better armed than we were, and they could show us a clean pair of heels if they got the chance. If I’d had
Satyr
then it would have been a different story.’

Blackwood waited. He could feel the man’s powerful restlessness. Something like his own.

Tobin said, ‘Ever seen a slave-ship?’ He did not wait for an answer. ‘If there is really a hell that must be it. Men and young girls, babies even, chained like animals to lie in their own filth until they reach a suitable market. And it’s still going on, believe me, even though their lordships look the other way when it suits ’em. But now it’s something worse. As our patrols draw the net tighter the rush for quick cargoes
of black ivory, as they call them, are amounting. The whole coast will be in flames unless we can do something. All the trading missions we used to protect will have to be withdrawn. It will turn the clock back fifty years.’ He pounded his palms together forcefully. ‘We must act now, or a lot of people are going to get massacred.’

Blackwood tried not to think of the girl’s face, or picture her going to search for her father. Perhaps one of Slade’s subordinates would prevent her, but in his heart he knew she would get her way.

He said, ‘And you think this new uprising is a part of it?’

‘I do. I used to know Mdlaka, the king Sir Geoffrey was speaking about when he came aboard. Bloody pirate, cannibal too, I’ve heard, but loyal to the Crown?
Bought
might be a better word.’

When Blackwood grinned he said, ‘Testing you, Major. You’re my sort of man, I think!’

Calls trilled overhead and Tobin made to leave.

‘Both watches of the hands to exercise. I like them to know I’m about.’ He hesitated by the door. ‘What makes this ship special is that she is new, and I don’t just mean in timber and iron. Here, everyone has to learn something extra. It gives him pride, in the ship and himself. The Navy’s no longer a place for felons and pressed men. It’s become something they
want
to join and to put their skills into.’ He grinned. ‘I’m just saying this before Mr Lascelles tells you, Major. Because when we get to Tenerife and coal ship, everyone turns to and lends a hand.’ His grin broadened. ‘Even the marines. Understood?’

Blackwood smiled. ‘Officers included?’

‘
Everyone.
’ The door had almost closed as he added, ‘Except the captain.’

Deacon,
Satyr
’s lean first lieutenant, handed his telescope to Blackwood as he joined him at the quarterdeck rail.

‘There it is, Major. We made landfall at first light.’ Like Tobin, he did not conceal his pride.

Blackwood levelled the glass and studied the great sprawl of coastline. Tobin had promised Slade a fourteen-day passage. They had stayed for one day in Tenerife and had thrust out of port with the decks covered in black dust. Despite that, Tobin had made his landfall in only thirteen days. What an unhappy-looking coast, he thought. Humps of clay-coloured rock and steep hills, with a hint of high ridges further inland. A shimmering mist and probably blown sand made the picture in the lens vague and without substance.

The steam frigate had reduced speed and her decks were crammed with seamen and a sprinkling of marines, the old hands telling the new ones what it was like. The stories never changed. Only the tellers.

The great twenty-six-foot paddles were thrashing almost quietly at the blue water, a far cry from the din and bedlam of the past days.

Blackwood glanced along the upper deck and picked out some of his own men among the rest. It was hard to believe that some two hundred men could vanish into so crowded a hull. Almost a third of the ship was taken up by engines and boilers, and the warrant officers and the bulk of the complement had to fit in as best they could forward of the paddles. Aft, in comparative comfort, the officers, and of course the captain, had greater space, while below them on the orlop the odds and ends of the ship’s company lived like owls with never a glimpse of natural light.

And yet, in spite of the overcrowding, machinery and coal before human beings, there was a real sense of camaraderie which Blackwood knew he would be loath to lose. During the discomfort of coaling ship he had seen it at work. In blazing sunlight, choking in clouds of grit and dust, the men had toiled back and forth to the bunkers with baskets of coal until Hamilton, the chief engineer, was satisfied. There had not been a uniform to be seen, and the blackened, almost naked
figures had bumped against one another with a total disregard for rank and authority.