Blackwood said quietly, ‘I’m all right. No worse than some of the others, and better than the dead ones!’
He beckoned to Smithett who was standing behind the seamen.
‘Here, help me up!’
Smithett stood fast and said dourly, ‘Don’t seem right to me, sir.’
‘Do as you’re told, damn you.’ Blackwood was almost sobbing with pain and humiliation. ‘Fetch my coat!’
Tobin’s midshipman hovered in the passageway until the captain saw him.
‘Mr Deacon’s respects, sir, and
Audacious
is approaching the anchorage.’
He was careful not to stare at Blackwood.
‘Thank you, Mr Allison.’ Tobin carefully closed the door and shut out the others. ‘So he finally got here.’
But Blackwood scarcely heard him. All the while he had been in
Satyr
, then at the fort, Ashley-Chute’s squadron had been sailing ponderously for this same destination. The terrible sights and sounds, the feel of a man’s last breath as he had hacked him down on that stretch of hard-fought land had meant nothing to the squadron as they had gone about their daily affairs. Now Monkey was here. Ready to take over command of operations from a mere commodore. It was a strange sort of promotion, but at this moment it was all Blackwood could think about, all he had left. If he went ashore he would be put aboard a home-bound ship. Marine captains, young or otherwise, carried little weight, and he knew he would be discharged without room for argument.
He knew too that it was desperately important he should hold on, and the
Audacious
, slow and outdated as she might be, was his only chance.
‘I’d like to return to my ship, sir.’
Tobin stared at him. ‘The admiral may think otherwise.’
‘Let me
try
, sir.’ He was pleading.
Tobin listened to the dull thud of a gun salute as the squadron flagship tacked towards the anchorage.
With any luck
Satyr
might be ordered to sea again within a day or so. Reports and despatches took time to pass from hand to hand, especially here at the Freetown naval base. He was probably doing Blackwood no favour, and he might end up a cripple if he rejected proper care. But Tobin could not forget his own feelings when he had seen the mission fort, the flag, the ragged defiance of M’Crystal’s guard of honour. Nor would he ever lose the picture of these same men as they had watched Blackwood carried down to the ship. If they had held on to their strength, then Blackwood had certainly given it to them, and it had shown on their faces.
He made up his mind. ‘Call away my gig for Captain Blackwood!’
He did not open the door but feet hurried away to do his
bidding. He did not want his men to see Blackwood’s face.
Blackwood held out his hand. ‘Thank you,
very
much.’
‘It’s worth a try.’ Tobin opened the door for Smithett. ‘I’ll be waiting to hear. Perhaps you’ll come back to
Satyr
one day.’
Very carefully Blackwood lowered himself to the deck while Smithett encircled his waist with a grip of steel. He could smell the rum on the marine’s breath and guessed that he too had been saying his farewells in his own way. He gasped as the pain came again.
To me mates.
It seemed to take an hour to reach the quarterdeck where he was almost blinded by the sunlight. There seemed to be ships everywhere, every class of war vessel, colourful native craft with huge lateen sails, even a stately East Indiaman unloading cargo into a mass of bobbing lighters.
But Blackwood had eyes only for the slow-moving flagship, her black and white hull shining like glass on the clear water, the receding gun smoke still clinging to her rigging and yards like muslin.
It was like a pain in his heart, and he wanted to tell Tobin how he felt.
Tobin gave a slow smile. ‘I wish you luck.’ Then he stood aside and saluted as Blackwood was carried bodily down to the gig alongside.
The first lieutenant joined him by the rail, eager to get on with the day’s work. They were short-handed without the landing party.
Tobin watched the gig until it was swallowed up amidst the bustle of local craft and bat-like sails.
‘If he lives long enough, that young man will do great things.’
‘About coaling ship, sir?’
Tobin glanced at him and they both smiled. Deacon was not that good at hiding his feelings. Yet. He had been there when the attack had been made on the boats. He had memories of his own now.
‘Yes, Mr Deacon, now what
about
coaling ship?’
The flagship’s side and tumblehome looked like a great cliff from the gig. Blackwood gritted his teeth as the bowman hooked on to the main chains and faces lined the gangway to peer down at him.
God, he must look a mess. The other marines had already been sent across from
Satyr
, except the badly wounded ones, so the story would be all over the ship.
Smithett muttered, ‘Don’t like it at all, I don’t, an’ that’s a fact, sir.’ He squinted up at the thick stairs to the entry port and then to a ladder which dangled from the gangway itself. Either way was asking for a fall.
Blackwood got into a more comfortable position on one leg, his arm around Smithett’s shoulders. The gig’s crew sat at attention as they watched his every move, and the midshipman in charge seemed at a total loss as to what to do next.
If only the pain would stay away. Blackwood could barely see through the mist as he fought to contain the rising fire in his leg. At any moment the wound would burst open. Why had he imagined he could do the impossible?
Smithett was watching him worriedly. ‘I’ll ’ave a bosun’s chair sent down, sir!’
Feet clattered on the steps and Blackwood looked up into the eyes of his half-brother.
‘Come along, sir.’ He reached down and slipped his hand through Blackwood’s arm. ‘Easy now. Together.’
A seaman had also climbed down, and as they waited for the boat to lift and then settle again, Blackwood took his first step on to the tumblehome.
He nodded and tried to speak but nothing came.
Harry guided him carefully so that he could make use of the handholds. Blackwood could feel the protective strength of his arm, the care he was taking to help him. It was as if the whole ship was holding her breath, urging him to make the climb without failing.
His whole body was running with sweat, and from the wetness on his leg he guessed that some of his dressing had come loose.
‘Never mind, Harry!’ He peered up at the outstretched hands and concerned faces. ‘Never bloody well mind, eh?’ He was half gasping and half laughing as the senses of shock and pain joined against him.
Harry whispered against his ear, ‘Oh, Philip, you crazy, wonderful idiot!’ He did not seem to care if Blackwood heard him or not. All that mattered was the entry port, the bright blue sky above.
Blackwood felt more hands gripping his arms to lift him to the quarterdeck.
The sight of the assembled side-party, the officer of the watch and all the rest of this ordered world was too much for him.
What chance had he now of staying aboard? He had been stupid, too full of his own pride to accept the inevitable.
As if through a mist he saw Captain Ackworthy’s great bulk striding towards him, and Sergeant Quintin coming aft from the main-deck. What a sight he must make.
Everybody froze as if suddenly bewitched, even their expressions of anxiety, surprise or merely curiosity remained fixed and set.
Only one small figure moved at the poop rail, head jutting forward, his voice cutting through the shipboard noises like a saw.
‘It would appear that my captain of marines has decided that a life in coal dust and filth is not for him! He has shown some sense. I shall see him aft when he has collected himself, hmm?’ He vanished.
Blackwood looked around him. Monkey neither could nor would bid him welcome, it was not his style. But at this moment it was the closest thing to it Blackwood had ever heard.
Slowly and carefully he straighted his back and balanced himself on one foot while he gauged the ship’s gentle motion.
Then he looked at Ackworthy’s strained face and touched his hat.
‘I am rejoining the ship, sir.’
Ackworthy glanced from Blackwood’s pale features to the bright spot of blood which had fallen to the deck by his feet where it gleamed like a malevolent red eye.
He needed to find the right words to convey what he felt, but all he could feel was envy. Not that it mattered, for at that moment Blackwood fainted.
For two whole weeks after he had boarded
Audacious
in such an undignified fashion, Blackwood lived in a state of mounting frustration. His relief at being allowed to return soon gave way to a feeling of reprieve, a momentary delay after which he would be sent packing to England. He had plenty of visitors, but noticed they were wary about discussing the daily routine, as if that might only make it harder when the axe fell.
Dalrymple, the senior surgeon, was not very encouraging and almost as gloomy as Smithett.
Too early to say. Wait and see
seemed to be the corner-stone of his diagnosis.
Confined to his cabin, Blackwood was very aware of his isolation. When he was not in a drugged sleep he lay in his cot putting faces and names to the sounds above and around him. There were several receptions and parties given on board, apparently to mark Ashley-Chute’s taking command of the West Coast Squadron. As the temperature in his cabin rose to stifling humidity, Blackwood was forced to listen to muffled music, the clink of glasses and the carefree comings and goings of boats alongside.
He thought a great deal about the fort, and especially of the men who had fallen there. Of Oldcastle with his fear and determination, and Lascelles who had been prepared to throw his life away rather than let him down. What would become of Old Fenwick? he wondered. Stay there until the next traders joined him at the mission fort, or try his luck elsewhere in his hunt for riches?
At night, when the ship was quiet, Harry would come to the cabin and sit with him until he dozed off in his cot. Blackwood had got to know his eighteen-year-old half-brother better than he had ever done before, and together they had spoken about their futures, what would become of Hawks Hill and the estate after it had all been auctioned.
Harry had been more than candid about his mother. ‘Far too young for the gov’nor. Still, but for her I suppose the Corps would be missing the services of a
superb
second lieutenant!’
Ashley-Chute’s son had also visited him on a couple of occasions, but mostly it seemed to speak about
Satyr
and her performance rather than what lay ahead.
One late afternoon as Blackwood climbed from his cot to stand naked before Dalrymple and his assistant surgeon, he somehow knew it was the moment of decision. For several days he had heard stores being hoisted inboard from lighters, the familiar squeak of tackles punctuated by the twitter of boatswain’s calls. A ship preparing to leave port.
He fixed his eyes on the mirror above his table and made himself stand quite still as Dalrymple’s hard fingers probed at his leg. In the mirror he looked older, with deep lines at his mouth to reveal the strain he had been under.
Dalrymple said casually, ‘Your other marines returned aboard today. They were brought from that fort by a gunboat. Full of bounce, they are. Fighting seems to agree with ’em.’
The assistant surgeon chuckled and wrote in his notebook as Dalrymple murmured something to him as an aside.
Blackwood felt a bead of sweat run from his hairline and drop on to his bare shoulder. They were back, apart from the ones who would never return.
Think of them and stop being so bloody selfish. You lived. They did not.
He could stand it no longer. ‘Can I stay?’
Dalrymple looked up and a basin of water appeared as if by magic as Smithett eased his way round the cabin.
‘Of course I shall make a report to the captain.’ The surgeon’s eyes settled on Blackwood. ‘What do
you
think? Could you do your work under the same circumstances which gave you this wound?’
Smithett’s voice broke the sudden uncertainty. ‘Cap’n’s comin’, sir.’
The cabin seemed to shrink as Ackworthy stepped inside, his head lowered still further beneath the deckhead beams. He looked at Blackwood for several seconds, his eyes even more troubled than usual.
Blackwood guessed that Ashley-Chute had driven them all very hard on the passage from Gibraltar. Ackworthy more than anyone.
Ackworthy said abruptly, ‘The squadron will weigh tomorrow morning.’ He could not resist adding, ‘Wind or no wind, apparently. How do you feel?’
Blackwood was very aware of the watching eyes, the two surgeons, and Smithett trying to be invisible in the background. He was more conscious of Ackworthy’s tone than he was of standing naked in front of them.
The surgeon murmured, ‘In my opinion, sir –’
Blackwood replied, ‘I’m all right, sir. Bit stiff.’ He had meant it to come out like an adjutant’s report on the barrack square. Brief and firm. Instead he had sounded like a guilty schoolboy.
‘Can you get dressed?’ Ackworthy glanced round the cabin, probably remembering other ships, other times.
When Blackwood nodded he added, ‘We are proceeding to Fernando Po. Sir Geoffrey Slade has already taken passage there in
Satyr.
Left yesterday.’ He glanced at Blackwood’s pale face. ‘He didn’t come and see you, did he?’
Blackwood shook his head, surprised he could still feel hurt about it after he had invented so many excuses for Slade’s behaviour.
‘By the time we’ve picked up the right winds it’ll be close on two thousand miles to Fernando Po.’ Ackworthy let his words sink in. ‘It’s a foul coast down there, all the way from
Lagos to Benin there’s nothing but fever and trouble. There are some powerful slavers pushing the local kings into using their territory for the trade. Your experience with Mdlaka was just a tip of the iceberg.’ He mopped his jowls with a handkerchief. ‘Hardly apt, eh?’
Blackwood understood well enough. ‘Then I must decide now. After tomorrow there’ll be no turning back.’ His leg throbbed as if to mock him.