He thought of the days since Vice-Admiral Sir James Ashley-Chute’s flag had broken at the masthead. After the brisk scrutiny of the assembled officers and marine guard they had barely seen anything of him. Nothing had changed, Blackwood thought, not even that old idiosyncrasy which had stamped him like a hallmark. On the New Zealand station he had been notorious for his aloofness. He was rarely seen to speak to junior officers, let alone common seamen, but made his wrath felt through his captains. It was odd, but Blackwood could not recall Ashley-Chute ever being known for awarding a word of praise about anything.
The captains of the squadron had come aboard the flagship regularly each forenoon and had entered the admiral’s quarters like men going to the scaffold. They had left in their various boats, with no word being exchanged but for the necessity of ceremony.
Blackwood leaned back in his chair and listened to the great ship around him. Ashley-Chute was like a force within the hull. The ship felt heavy with it.
He thought too of the army of carpenters and working parties which had converged on the admiral’s quarters almost
within an hour of his arrival. Officers had been moved from their cabins and made to share with others on the deck below. Screens had been extended, fresh furniture brought from the shore, and many of the guns withdrawn from the cabin ports and replaced by cut down Quakers or wooden replicas to give more space in Ashley-Chute’s quarters. His flag-lieutenant, a nervous, stiff-faced man named Pelham, was frequently seen dashing ashore in the duty boat or rushing back again with some important message for his master.
But apart from a rare glimpse of the great man on the poop perhaps at sunset, or looking from the stern gallery of his cabin, the admiral remained withdrawn from his ship and her company.
Blackwood took up a pen and hesitated as he saw the name of his junior officer at the top of the list. H. Blackwood, RM2L.
As they had faced each other on the day of the admiral’s displeasure, Blackwood could remember his feelings of annoyance, and something else perhaps, shame?
Harry Blackwood, his eighteen-year-old half-brother, was too like Georgina for comfort. The same recklessness in the eyes, the way of being serious and mocking at the same time.
It was not easy to be angry with him because of his eagerness to join his first ship, even at the expense of infuriating the admiral and of course Colour-Sergeant M’Crystal.
Calls trilled overhead, and he heard the muffled cries of boatswain’s mates as they yelled at the working parties on deck to stand easy and prepare for the midday meal.
It would be good to get away from England, Blackwood thought suddenly. He was sick of all the uncertainties about his father’s proposed move to London, about his own feeble attempts to resign his commission, about so many things.
He signed the list with an angry flourish and wished he could go ashore for one last walk through the untroubled crowds who were taking advantage of the late summer. But he knew it would be too risky to leave his young second-in-command to deal with the affairs of the flagship and a crowd
of new recruits as well. He must stay aboard and keep an eye on him without his knowing it.
But to face one more lunch in the wardroom with all the unspoken questions, the sense of uneasiness which pervaded it like an extension of the admiral’s moods, was unbearable.
They had all received a surprise this morning, those who did not yet know of Ashley-Chute’s habits. There was to be a ‘grand reception’ on board before sailing. In the afternoon there would be a squadron race for the fastest boat’s crew. The ship’s company would provide entertainment with hornpipes and other dances, and
then
, Vice-Admiral Ashley-Chute would entertain his own personal guests to dinner in his quarters.
A handful of the squadron’s officers would also attend the dinner. The captains, the flag-lieutenant, Ashley-Chute’s son and, to Blackwood’s amazement, himself.
He walked to an open gunport and leaned out to look at the Solent. Calm and with barely a breeze to ruffle its surface. It was to be hoped it remained so until after the admiral’s guests had come and gone.
There were plenty of boats still clustered along the ship’s side. Food and stores, equipment and spare rigging, everything a ship-of-war might need on a passage to the shores of Africa.
Blackwood thought of his grandfather. It was as if he could still hear the old man’s voice as he had retold the stories of great campaigns, the horror and comradeship of battles long past.
Now, when
Audacious
broke out her anchor and led the squadron away from her home port, she would meet nothing but servile foreign traders who would willingly dip their ensigns to Victoria’s unchallenged might on the oceans. Routine, ceremonial, drills and more routine.
There was a tap at the door and he turned to see Second Lieutenant Harry Blackwood standing stiffly in the entrance.
‘Come in.’
The youthful officer closed the screen door behind him and took up the same stance of eager attention.
Blackwood gestured to the other chair. ‘Sit down, for God’s sake, Harry.’
The lieutenant sat and crossed his legs, his eyes fixed on his half-brother with a mixture of innocence and amusement.
‘I want you to go round the ship with one of the lieutenants and learn all you can while we’ve got the time.’ Blackwood felt irritated with himself that he should sound on the defensive. He added shortly, ‘Colour-Sergeant M’Crystal will put you right about the duties for our people.
Listen
to him, and do not try to be clever. He has little confidence in junior officers.’ He smiled in spite of the tension between them. ‘I certainly had to earn
my
spurs from him!’
Harry Blackwood asked quietly, ‘We are to sail on the day after tomorrow, sir? To Africa.’ His tongue lingered on the word like a caress. ‘I am so
lucky
to be coming with you.’
Blackwood studied him warily. There was a certain softness to Harry’s mouth. A gentleness, like his sister’s.
He asked abruptly, ‘How
did
you get a last moment transfer to
Audacious
, by the way? You were at Woolwich. I’d have thought a replacement could have been more easily sent from Portsmouth.’ It came out like an accusation.
The lieutenant shrugged. ‘It was mostly coincidence, sir. I had been told I was to join a Portsmouth ship very shortly, but when I heard about the squadron needing more marines, I made enquiries about vacancies for officers.’ He dropped his eyes beneath Blackwood’s gaze. ‘Then, er, Mother spoke to someone and hastened things.’
Blackwood nodded slowly. ‘Did she indeed?’
So there it was. Whether this squadron’s duties were to be important or not was open to question, but in times of peace any activity outside ceremonial visits to foreign harbours was a rare opportunity for a young officer embarking on a new career, sailor or marine.
And the colonel’s lady would be the first to recognize such a chance, he thought grimly.
He relented and said, ‘You may not be as lucky as you
think, my lad. I am no favourite of the admiral’s, but I expect you already know that?’
Harry Blackwood eyed him mildly. ‘Really, sir?’
‘So keep on your toes. For the sake of the men, if not for me. They’re a reliable lot of fellows. Rough and ready, but they’ll give as good as they get. So stand up for them. No matter what.’
Harry’s eyes followed him across the small cabin. ‘Even if they’re in the wrong?’
Blackwood looked down at him. ‘Yes, if need be. We’ll deal with our own, in our own way, understood?’
He wondered why he was speaking like this. Did he resent sharing it with a member of his family? Or was he really so protective of something he had so recently tried to leave?
Harry Blackwood was at the door again, his shako balanced in the crook of his arm.
Blackwood waited. ‘Well?’
‘What’s it like, sir?’ He kept his gaze fixed on Blackwood’s face. ‘I’ve never really had the chance to know you in recent years. Either you’ve been at sea or I’ve been away somewhere.’ He shrugged, the gesture making him look even younger and more vulnerable. ‘But to
kill
someone. In battle. What is it really like?’
Blackwood turned away. The question had hit him like a fist. Maybe because at one time he had asked it so often himself.
‘You don’t think about it, Harry. You put your shoulder against that of a friend and you keep going. No matter what is happening or how bad it looks. Afterwards . . .’ He glanced down at the deck. ‘Well, maybe you remember pieces of the whole, I’m not sure even now.’ He met his gaze steadily, knowing it was important. ‘But to kill a man is just a part of it. Like loading and firing a gun. You do it right, or you go under.’
Corporal Bly hovered in the passageway, and as the lieutenant withdrew he reported, ‘Gangway sentries ready for inspection,
sir.
’
The young lieutenant tugged the shako down across his forehead and followed Bly towards the companion ladder.
Blackwood saw Smithett waiting to tidy the cabin after he had gone to lunch. Nothing seemed to matter to the taciturn marine, Blackwood thought. If the squadron completed a full three year commission on that inhospitable African coast he would not care. But if they were away that long Blackwood would be nearly thirty when he returned, whereas Harry would still only be twenty-one with his whole life ahead of him.
‘Damn and bloody hell!’
Smithett paused in brushing one of Blackwood’s tunics.
‘Sir?’
‘Nothing.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘The usual feeling, I suppose.’
Smithett hung the jacket carefully on a rail. ‘There’s nothin’ ashore for me, sir.’ He glanced around the cabin as if it were his own. ‘This is the life. In me ship. With me mates.’
It was the longest sentence Blackwood had ever heard him make, and he was strangely moved by his sincerity.
He left the cabin, still thinking about Smithett. Perhaps it was better to be like him. No thought for the impossible or the improbable. Just one day at a time. He chuckled to himself. ‘With me mates.’
‘By God, Captain Ackworthy, I do declare that
Audacious
’s cutter is in the lead!’ Ashley-Chute moved his telescope slightly to watch the other boats in the race and added, ‘Just as well, hmm?’
Ackworthy said nothing, and Blackwood, who was standing nearby on the quarterdeck, saw the captain’s hands opening and closing as if to restrain his feelings. Only a week, and yet Ackworthy seemed to have aged even further.
And yet on the face of it everything was going well. The weather was clear and warm, although the evening would
have a nip in it, and the snaking currents of the Solent looked harder and more silvery.
From the forenoon onwards the ship had steadily filled with visitors, some important, some less so. Local dignitaries and their wives, the port admiral and the senior captains from around the harbour. The marine fifers played lively jigs, and a small orchestra which had been brought specially from Southampton was ready to fill any gaps in the entertainment.
There was one very important visitor who was also a personal guest of the admiral. Sir Geoffrey Slade was known to be a top-ranking government adviser on overseas development, a man who was said to be equally at home in Court and in Parliament.
He seemed a quiet, unassuming man, quite at odds with his formidable reputation, and Blackwood wondered what he and Ashley-Chute could have in common.
But the eyes of everyone, from midshipman to first lieutenant, had been on the girl who had come aboard with Sir Geoffrey Slade. Young but sure of herself, Blackwood decided, with dark, almost black hair and a face which could make your head swim. She was Slade’s niece, and that was all he knew about her. Yet.
There were plenty of other lady guests, and their presence swept aside the pre-sailing uncertainty and added a gaiety which the Navy always seemed to encourage.
Somewhere a cannon banged dully, and Ackworthy said, ‘The races are finished, Sir James.’
‘Good. Capital.’ Ashley-Chute’s puggy face surveyed the jostling visitors, the bright gowns and bare shoulders mingling amongst the epaulettes and gold lace. ‘A keg of rum for the winners, hmm?’
It was incredible. Nobody who did not know Ashley-Chute would realize there was any other side to his nature. Short in stature he might be, but people seemed to look up to him as he swaggered amongst the guests and visitors, kissing a hand here, pinching a cheek there as he murmured something under his breath which was guaranteed to bring out a
blush of pleasure. Any other man taking similar liberties would probably have ended up with a bloody nose or worse.
Only twice did he show his other self, and Blackwood would have missed both had he not been watching.
To cope with the numbers of visitors, members of the ship’s company, mostly seamen, had been pressed into service as mess servants and stewards. One man, overawed perhaps by so many women around him, dropped a full tray of glasses to the deck, splashing wine on a few gowns and the feet of several officers.
Ashley-Chute had frozen in the middle of a conversation and had given the man a glance which should have killed him stone dead.
Then an elderly captain from the dockyard had gestured towards Portsmouth Point. The sun was going down rapidly, and some of the ladies had sent for their shawls to protect their shoulders against the evening breeze. Etched against the fortifications and huddled dwellings around the Point was a long drifting smoke cloud. It was probably a paddle-wheeled tug, or one of the brand-new steam gunboats which had been vividly portrayed in the
Gazette
just a few weeks ago.
The old captain had said gruffly, ‘Well, Sir James, what d’you think of the new Navy? I fear your squadron and its like may never be seen again.’
Ashley-Chute’s eyes had fixed on him like needles.
‘
Damn your impertinence!
You should stay ashore with the women, blast you!’
The captain had wilted. ‘I beg of you sir–I–I did not infer that . . .’
Ashley-Chute had not even heard him. He had stared at the drifting cloud of black smoke with something like loathing.