‘Come to join us, sir?’
Blackwood scrambled over the wooden barrier and glanced at the grim, familiar faces.
‘Well, Frazier, now’s your chance.’
He saw Harry clambering into the foretop, waved to him as their eyes met across the destruction and death below them.
He said, ‘The Russian will foul our cable. She can still fire on us, but our broadside won’t bear on her. Make every shot tell. It’s up to you now.’
He handed his pistols to Smithett, who had followed him at a more leisurely pace, and picked up a spare rifle.
Once he peered down at the deck and saw the admiral’s strange figure below him. Men bustled about him, and wounded were dragged sobbing and screaming to the hatchways, their progress marked by scarlet lines across the deck. In spite of all this, the admiral seemed to stand alone. Whatever happened now he was ruined, and he knew it.
Blackwood thought suddenly of the quiet garden at the Maltese hospital all those months ago. Where was she at this very moment? Would she ever know what had happened to him?
More shots hammered into the hull and he felt the mast sway violently.
Quintin said, ‘’Ere come the buggers! Take aim, me beauties! Glass o’ grog for the winner!’
Private Bulford pressed his cheek against the warm wood and curled his finger around the trigger. This might be the day when it all ended, he thought. Even so, it was better than being in prison like his dad.
Private Frazier’s mind was empty of everything but for a man he had never met. He was watching him now, a Russian officer, resplendent in epaulettes and frock-coat.
Him first.
With a shuddering jerk the other ship crossed
Tenacious
’s cable and began to slew into her.
Blackwood pulled the trigger and felt the new rifle kick painfully into his shoulder.
Down there in the enclosed world of smoke and searing flashes men fought and died while the two ships remained locked together. But on the Russian’s quarterdeck the captain had already fallen to a shot from
Tenacious
’s maintop, and many of the other officers near him had shared his fate. Russian marksmen fired blindly through the smoke and saw their comrades die as the new pointed bullets cut through their defences and marked them down.
Unnerved by their change of fortune, the Russians tried to work their ship clear. As the
Rostislav
swung drunkenly free
of the anchor cable she exposed her quarter and rounded bilge just long enough for Jervis’s second lieutenant to point his remaining guns and fire. This time there was no response, and as the Russian drifted down the
Tenacious
’s side she was battered and raked for every yard of the way until blood ran from her scuppers in shining red stripes. There was more smoke too, probably from a burning wad or an upended lantern below decks.
In
Tenacious
’s maintop the marines had risen to their feet to fire down on the enemy’s deck. Nobody seemed to miss, and even when a few shots smacked into the barricade they cheered all the louder, like men already driven beyond human help.
A great shudder transmitted itself up the mast and shrouds and a marine yelled, ‘God, we’re bloody aground!’
But Blackwood felt Quintin grip his hand and wring it until it ached, his normal sense of discipline momentarily lost.
‘It’s the engine, sir! Gawd, the bloody black gang ’ave got us moving again!’ He too was nearly beside himself.
Blackwood grinned and leaned over the barricade to peer at the foremast. He saw Harry looking towards him and then toss him a casual salute.
Up forward axes flashed and cut through the cable, and with her last obstacle thrown aside
Tenacious
forged very slowly ahead.
A few waterspouts burst alongside, but as Blackwood climbed wearily down to the deck he felt the pain of the ship which no amount of cheering could ease.
‘
Cease firing!
’
Blackwood saw men being carried to the hatches, some badly wounded, others already dead. The damage was immense, but the engine’s steady throb and a growing plume of smoke told the rest of the story.
Jervis studied him grimly and said, ‘That was well done, Blackwood. But for your marksmen those Russians would have battered us into submission and then overrun us. It was
the closest thing I’d ever wish to see.’ He clapped him on the arm and then turned as one of his lieutenants ran to report on casualties and damage.
Major Brabazon met him by the quarterdeck rail and mopped his face with a piece of bunting.
He shook his head. ‘Like a bloody slaughter-house on the middle gundeck.’ He eyed him curiously. ‘You all right, Philip?’
But Blackwood was staring at a small bundle by the poop ladder. It was covered by a White Ensign, but there was no mistaking the out flung, gloved hand and admiral’s sword by its side.
Brabazon said quietly, ‘They say he just stood there. Never moved the whole time. He was killed instantly.’
Blackwood turned away. Ashley-Chute was no longer part of his life. He had gone and taken so many others with him.
He said, ‘He didn’t want to live after this.’ He glanced at the damage, the terrible stains on the scarred decks. ‘I never thought I would, but I shall miss him.’
He was even more surprised to discover that he meant it.
Later, as
Tenacious
moved slowly away from the smoke which had completely hidden the bay like something solid, Captain Jervis sent his men aloft to loose the sails and prepare to tack clear of the land before the damaged shaft broke down again.
Close by, the battered frigate
Sarpedon
clung to the gunboat’s towing hawser, unaware that their admiral had died, grateful only they had survived.
Blackwood remained on deck and watched the land fade into a smoky shadow. It had been a very close thing. A lucky shot and a handful of rifles had saved the day, but only just.
He thought a lot about Ashley-Chute and the lessons he had refused to learn. How would he be remembered?
Better to be a dead hero than a live scapegoat.
Captain Philip Blackwood stood on a craggy spur of land and looked down at the crowded anchorage of Varna. Ships of every size and class, from stately three-deckers to puffing paddle-steamers, with more coming and going every day. The badly mauled
Tenacious
had left for England and the repair yard several months ago, and now, looking at this great array of allied shipping, it was hard to believe the raid had ever happened, that Ashley-Chute was dead.
Even the role of the marine battalion seemed to have lost its purpose since the death of the little admiral. They had all been landed and encamped at Varna, and while the reports had been wild with excitement about the great Anglo-French force of some sixty-five thousand troops which had smashed through the Russian defences to land on the Crimea itself, Fynmore’s command had been held fretting in reserve. The Turkish resistance on the Danube had halted the enemy advance on Constantinople, and with the fleets in the Baltic and the Black Sea harrying their flanks and now actually putting an army on Russian soil, the enemy was on the defensive.
An attempt to capture the vital port of Sebastopol had been repulsed with heavy losses, but undeterred the British had landed elsewhere, had crossed the Alma and had by-passed the Russian stronghold. They had marched south to capture the harbour and town of Balaclava instead. But the casualties were mounting. There had been a steady stream of wounded from the Crimean Expedition, as it was now termed, and
their daily arrival made the marines even more aware of their inaction.
Winter was almost upon them, and the optimistic suggestion that ‘it would all be over by Christmas’ had given way to the prospect of a stalemate until the better weather returned.
Blackwood had received one further letter from Davern. It had been short but intimate. She had heard of Ashley-Chute’s death and prayed that Blackwood was safe and well. She had mentioned that her husband had accepted a supervisory appointment with the British Army which, in view of the war and his previous researches, would be of some importance to him.
He had also received a letter from his stepmother. Colonel Blackwood was poorly, his condition worsened by the news from the Crimea. He and his faithful Oates studied the daily reports like retired generals, and Blackwood was saddened to think of his father ending his days in such a manner.
Blackwood turned his back to the sea and began to walk down the track to the camp. He might just as well be at Hawks Hill with his father as here, he thought bitterly. The inaction and lack of direction was having its effect on everyone, Harry most of all. It was almost impossible to get a civil word from him, even on the subject of his father.
A private hurried towards him and saluted smartly.
‘Beg pardon, sir, but the colonel’s called an officers’ conference. Hour’s time.’
Blackwood nodded. ‘Thank you, Keele.’
What would it be this time? Slackness at drill, or punishment to be awarded to marines who had broken out of camp to sample the doubtful pleasures of Varna?
Later, as he walked with Major Brabazon to the command tent, he said, ‘If the men were divided up again amongst the ships they would have work to take them out of themselves, sir.’
Brabazon glanced at him and winked. ‘Better than that, Philip. We’re under orders. Just between ourselves, we’re going across to the Crimea.’
Blackwood looked away to hide his feelings. He had been expecting it, if he was honest, hoping for it. Now that it had happened he felt strangely apprehensive.
Brabazon added cheerfully, ‘The sector commander is a Major-General Richmond. Bit of a fire-eater. Must be getting hard for him if he has to call in the Marines!’ He sounded confident enough.
Fynmore met his officers and waited for total silence. He was as neat as ever, but his narrow features were strained, as if he had not slept well for some time.
‘Gentlemen, the battalion is being embarked this week for the Crimea.’ He frowned slightly as several of the junior lieutenants raised a cheer. ‘I think that will do, gentlemen!’ He waved one hand towards a large map which he had hung on an easel. ‘We shall land at Balaclava and await orders. Platoon commanders will ensure that our men are issued with one extra pair of boots, entrenching tools and additional ammunition as will be laid down in my standing orders.’
Blackwood watched him thoughtfully. Apart from matters of duty their paths had barely crossed, hard to believe in an overcrowded encampment. Was it because of the commendation which had been sent to
Tenacious
after her return to Varna? A special mention had been made by the commander-in-chief of the marines’ part in the battle’s final stages. He had left it in no doubt that but for the prompt action by the marine riflemen in the tops,
Tenacious
might now be an enemy prize and a humiliation to the allies for all time. Fynmore should have been pleased and proud. Unless . . . Always the doubt was there. Where was he when the two ships had come together? Brabazon had never mentioned seeing him, neither had the lieutenant on the middle gundeck.
He looked at Fynmore’s curt gestures and wondered what was wrong with him.
Fynmore said, ‘I will expect the very highest standards of discipline and determination from all ranks. We shall be with the Army, remember that, and under their overall command.’
He seemed suddenly at a loss, and Blackwood could feel the officers around him growing restless while they waited for him to continue.
Fynmore said vaguely, ‘It is upon the Corps, and upon –’ He broke off abruptly and nodded at Brabazon. ‘Carry on, please.’
Mystified, the junior officers hurried from the tent, and only Brabazon, Captain Ogilvie of B Company and Blackwood remained.
Fynmore gathered up some papers and let them fall on his trestle-table again.
‘Something wrong, sir?’ Brabazon watched him anxiously.
‘
Wrong?
Why should there be, dammit?’ Fynmore glared at him. ‘Naturally I’m concerned about the behaviour of my command, but I am relying on you to produce the best results, right?’
‘Right.’
Blackwood and the others left the tent.
Ogilvie, a pleasant if unimaginative man, remarked, ‘Wife trouble, old chap. Stands out a bloody mile. Always the same when you marry a woman much younger than yourself, what?’ He did not see Brabazon’s warning glance. ‘It needs a man to ride to hounds, that’s what I say.’ He sauntered towards his company lines, oblivious to Blackwood’s feelings and everything else.
Blackwood thought of his father, what his young wife would do if his condition continued to deteriorate.
Brabazon grunted, ‘Stupid clod. Sorry about that, Philip.’
Blackwood found that he could smile about it. His father was right, the Corps was a family in itself. It was impossible to keep any secret from anyone.
After an unexplained delay the marines broke camp and accompanied by an Army band marched down to the harbour to board their various ships.
To his surprise Blackwood found the frigate
Satyr
to be one of them. She looked older than the last time he had boarded her, scarred and well-used, but as he climbed aboard he
received a further surprise. Tobin was aboard and stepped forward to greet him like an old friend.
‘Who knows, Blackwood, we may really achieve something this time, eh?’
Blackwood was warmed and touched by their meeting. For Tobin no longer commanded his beloved
Satyr
but flew a broad-pendant of commodore from her masthead. Blackwood could think of no one who deserved it more.
As the assorted flotilla of vessels moved north-east into the Black Sea the weather worsened and the dust and sweat of Turkey were soon forgotten. There was a bite in the air, and a wind which cut through clothing like cold steel.
As in the rest of the ships the marines in
Satyr
were packed like herrings in a barrel, but they seemed good humoured and glad to be doing something, although M’Crystal still complained bitterly of his Irish trouble-makers even though he never seemed to catch them committing any offence, much to his disgust.