Badge of Glory (1982) (23 page)

Blackwood darted a glance down the slope and saw Lieutenant Heighway’s platoon charging after them, the front line already passing one of the men who had fallen to the second fusilade of bullets.

He also saw Smithett close on his heels, his musket across his body as he loped easily over the rough ground.

The marines’ refusal to fall back had obviously caught the enemy off guard. Perhaps they had imagined the destruction of Netten’s launch and the presence of their heavy guns would be enough.

Blackwood saw them darting about among the scrub which lined the ridge like the ruff on a wild boar’s back. They were shooting and dropping into cover to reload with practised ease. As they must have done so often when they had surprised a sleeping village to kill the old and carry the young away as slaves.

More red coats lay on the ground. It was taking too long, and, like the oarsmen, the marines were getting worn out by the uphill attack and the relentless heat.

Blackwood yelled, ‘At ’em, lads!’ It was the same madness. ‘
Charge!
’

Shouting and cheering like demons, the marines pounded up the steeper ground of the ridge, some firing as they ran, others breaking from their ranks to overtake their exhausted companions.

Blackwood slithered and almost fell as his foot caught in some brush, and he realized they had almost reached the top. A figure rose from the ground just yards away, teeth bared as he threw up his rifle and aimed straight at him.

There was a slapping sound and the man fell back, a bayonet, complete with its musket, impaling him like a lance. The marine who had hurled it cheered and ran forward,
jerked it free and dashed on after other figures who were breaking from cover, unable to face such a fierce attack.

‘Extend from the centre! Right section, covering fire!’

Blackwood saw stones jumping around him as bullets hammered into the ground. Some marksmen were keeping their heads and had already marked him down as a leader.

His face felt like a mask of dust and swear, and without his shako to protect his eyes from the glare he had to mop his face repeatedly with his sleeve.

‘Cease firing!’

Blackwood peered round for a bugler but saw him lying face down, blood pouring from his neck.

‘Sergeant!’ He waited until the man reached him. He did not know his name. ‘Send your skirmishers along the other side. No risks. See if you can find where they’ve gone.’ He was shouting, and yet with all firing stopped by both sides it was as quiet as a grave.

The sergeant blinked the sweat from his eyes. ‘
Sah!
’ Then he was off again, calling names, whipping up their energy like hounds who had lost the scent.

Blackwood dropped on one kneee and dragged his telescope from his belt. Beyond the ridge there was another, and then another. Where were those guns?

He turned and looked towards the river as it swung away towards the sea and wondered if they had heard the shooting aboard
Audacious.

A runner dropped panting beside him, his eyes fixed on the dead bugler.

‘Sir! Major Fynmore’s compliments and will you rejoin him?’

Blackwood touched the runner’s arm. He was young but would learn quickly if he survived this.

‘Steady down, my lad.’ He made himself smile. ‘Tell the major I’ll be with him as soon as I have deployed the men here.’

He beckoned to Lieutenant Quartermain and together they watched the runner scamper down the slope, zigzagging
amongst the dead and wounded as if he was afraid of them.

Quartermain was still grinning with disbelief. ‘There were
hundreds
’ of ’em, sir! Thirty of us, and they
ran
!’

Blackwood listened to the cries of the skirmishers as they called to each other among the scrub. He hoped the sergeant would remember to collect the new rifles if any had been left behind.

‘They’ll be back.’

What was the matter with Fynmore? Why didn’t he come up here and show some encouragement to his men? It was not fear in his case. Fynmore had walked through the whole affair from the firing of the first cannon without any change of demeanour at all.

Quartermain took his silence for interest and added, ‘I’ve had a look at some of the men we shot. Every race under the sun, I’d say, but mostly Spaniards and Portuguese by the cut of them. Bunch of bloody pirates.’

Blackwood stood up and tensed as if expecting a shot. ‘Take over here.’ He saw Smithett waiting for him, his face as mournful as ever. ‘You did well.’

Quartermain beamed. ‘Thank you, sir.’

Blackwood walked swiftly down from the ridge, his mind grappling with what they should do. Without support from
Norseman
they could achieve very little.

He saw a marine on his knees beside another who had fallen earlier in the fierce exchange of shots. He was trying to shield his friend’s face from the sun with his body, and turned as Blackwood approached, his voice desperate.

‘It’s me mate, sir! Can’t leave ’im like this!’

Smithett hurried forward and stooped beside them, his water flask held to the wounded man’s lips. As Blackwood’s shadow joined with the other marine’s Smithett glanced up and gave a brief shake of his head.

Blackwood looked at the wounded man. His face was like parchment and there were flecks of blood on his lips. He was dying while he watched him, shot once, possibly twice in the stomach. It was amazing he had lasted this long.

His friend said, ‘He’ll be all right if we can get ’im back aboard ship, sir!’

Blackwood watched the dying man. ‘Did you hear that?’

He seemed to realize for the first time Blackwood was there and whispered hoarsely, ‘It ain’t true, sir. Them bastards ’ave done for me.’ He reached out to hold his friend’s arm to console him but he had no more strength and his hand fell in the coarse grass as if its life had already gone.

‘You go with the officer, Tim. I’ll be all right ’ere. You see.’

Smithett said roughly, ‘Do as ’e says. I’ll stay with ’im.’

Blackwood walked away, his mind holding the picture of the dying man and his friend like an engraving. Behind him he could hear the other marine’s dragging steps as he repeatedly stopped to look back up the ridge where Smithett crouched like some ancient warrior. He would not have to wait long.

Fynmore greeted him testily. ‘Took your time.’

Blackwood ran his fingers through his dishevelled hair. It was filled with sand.

‘We’ve taken the ridge, sir. There’s less chance of being outflanked now.’

‘Outflanked? Oh yes, I see.’ Fynmore’s lips twitched in a smile. ‘A touch of steel. That did the trick. Knew it would. Damned barbarians!’

Sergeant Quintin crunched over the loose stones. ‘Casualties, sir. Ten killed, includin’ Commander Netten and Mr Ward. Twelve wounded.’

Blackwood saw Smithett coming from the slope, his shadow lengthening as he approached.

‘Make that eleven killed, Sergeant.’ He turned to the major. ‘Will you move the third platoon to the ridge, sir?’

Fynmore rubbed his chin busily. ‘I think not. We’re better off here. I’ve already sent one of the boats back to
Audacious
with the first group of wounded, and my report to the admiral. It’ll be an hour or two before we get fresh instructions. I suspect that Sir James will order us to return on
board.’ When Blackwood said nothing he snapped, ‘
Well?
’

‘I think we should hold the high ground, at least until the gunboat arrives.’

Patterson had materialized from out of the rocks. ‘And there’s the matter of the
mission
, Major.’ His eyes were calm but his tone was like a knife.

Slade chose his aides with great care, Blackwood thought. He could almost feel sorry for Fynmore as Patterson dropped this extra complication into his lap.

Patterson looked at Blackwood. ‘You’d better get started. If you’re not there by dawn, my guess is that you’ll be too late. If we’re not already.’

Fynmore exclaimed, ‘I’ll trouble you to stop giving orders to my officers.’

Patterson was unrepentant. ‘Only Captain Blackwood knows what Sir Geoffrey’s niece looks like, Major. Apart from Mr Blackwood junior that is. Dead or alive, Sir Geoffrey will insist on knowing and expect an answer.’ He let his words sink in. ‘Or I could go, of course.’

Fynmore looked trapped. ‘No. I shall need you here, in case Lessard sues for peace.’

The idea of offending Slade had changed everything.

Patterson said, ‘Well, Captain Blackwood, I wish you luck. At least by your going inland there’s no possibility of a complete retreat.’

Blackwood glanced at Fynmore but he had moved away and had not heard the bitterness in Patterson’s voice.

He saw Harry waiting to speak. ‘Yes?’

‘I’ve just been speaking with the Princess Nandi, sir.’ He flushed under their combined stares. ‘She will agree to guide us to the mission by a quicker route.’

Patterson pouted. ‘Makes sense. She would know all the tracks around here. She could also be used as a hostage if need arose.’

Blackwood thought of it warily. The black princess might betray them as soon as they were away from the river, although she had certainly shown some dismay when her
father had failed to meet her under the flag of truce. It was only this morning. The two lines of boats, Netten’s hideous injuries, Midshipman Ward and the marine who had died on the hillside, unwilling to embarrass his friend with his final suffering.

Fynmore returned, his back erect and showing no sign of fatigue.

‘That’s settled then. Take eight men and Second Lieutenant Blackwood and leave as soon as you can.’

They watched one another like adversaries. Blackwood had already selected the men he would take, as if this had been decreed for a long while. Perhaps this was how it would end?

Fynmore added, ‘As soon as you’ve gone I shall withdraw the men from the ridge.’ It sounded like some sort of triumph.

‘I think you’re wrong, sir.’

Fynmore gave his twisted smile. ‘Your privilege.’ He turned on his heel, already searching for his runner. ‘And I’ll see that you eat your words, believe me!’

Patterson smiled wryly. ‘He’s a strange one, but I’ll not deny his courage.’ He knew Blackwood wanted to go and thrust out his hand. ‘Good luck. And watch the black princess night and day.’

Later, as Blackwood and his small party moved away from the river and the long ridge where men had died, he heard the mournful call of the bugle once more.

He thought of Quartermain and wondered how he would accept retreat after overcoming his fear to lead his men to victory.

He saw two marines moving away ahead, scouting for any kind of danger as the bush and scrub thickened around them.
Eight good men and true.

Blackwood turned and saw Harry following up in the rear, the black princess moving with easy grace just ahead of him. Had she really suggested she should lead them, or had Harry dreamed up the idea as some extra excitement?

By afternoon the river, and even the smell of the sea, had left them to their own devices.

Blackwood tensed and was instantly awake as he felt a gentle pressure on his shoulder. Thoughts crowded through his mind as the realization of where he was drove away all ideas of sleep.

Smithett whispered, ‘All still quiet, sir.’

Blackwood sat up slowly and gingerly, his body aching from the forced march through the bush, his face and skin pricking from countless insect bites and stings.

He felt Smithett put a cup in his hand and heard him pouring water from a flask.

Smithert said, ‘I can give yer somethin’ stronger if you want, sir.’

Blackwood sipped the water, it was lukewarm. ‘Save it for later.’

He thrust his hand through his open shirt and rubbed his skin to drive away the itches. How quiet it was. Not like the first part of their uncomfortable march or when dusk had fallen and the air had been rent apart by strange animal shrieks and barks, like an insane asylum.

Only the princess had made light of it. She had never faltered or complained, and her feet had found a path when others had stumbled or cursed their way through clinging thorns and creeper.

Around him patches of deeper shadow showed where his men were sleeping, their weapons in easy reach. Sergeant Quintin would be out there in the darkness, making sure their sentries stayed awake.

He thought of the princess, the way she had looked at Quintin, goading him.

Blackwood smiled in the darkness.
As she did me
. But there had been no sign that she had betrayed them . . . yet. He had seen several places where an ambush could have been easily sited.

The mission was not far away now. Two miles at the most. It would have been folly to continue in the dark, and the men needed to rest. It was hardly what they had enlisted for, to fight slavers who were obviously better armed and prepared than they were themselves.

He looked at the sky, held like a small blue lake in a circle of trees. It was already lighter and the few stars had lost their brilliance. The realization stirred him and made him uneasy.

With an effort he got to his feet and crossed the clearing where they had made camp and eaten their meagre rations. Once again the black princess had shown her strength, had refused to share their food and had sat apart from them, missing nothing.

He would give his final instructions to Harry. If something was about to go wrong it would be soon.

Blackwood stopped dead as he saw his half-brother’s shape, pale in the darkness. For a moment he could not speak or breathe. Harry was sprawled across a blanket, one arm out flung, his face pressed into the ground. Of the girl there was no sign.

Blackwood threw himself down and grasped Harry’s arm. He had been guarding her. Sharing the duty with Corporal Jones. She must have had a knife or some other weapon concealed in her robe and . . .

Harry rolled on to his back and peered at him. ‘What is it?’

Blackwood stood up violently. ‘You bloody young fool, she’s got away!’

Harry scrambled to his feet and they faced each other like strangers.

‘She gave her word –’