Even at sea, with the decks once more washed clean and the brasswork on the narrow bridge all agleam, it felt different. Not a cocked hat or epaulette in sight, and with Tobin usually in view somewhere on deck, Blackwood had shared the sailors’ respect for a true seaman.
Blackwood had seen little of Slade after leaving Tenerife. He had been ashore during their short stay and had returned grim and unsmiling. .
There was still no news of the missing patrol vessel. She was an armed schooner named
Kingsmill
and commanded by a young lieutenant. His first commission on the Slave Coast, so almost anything might have happened.
The first lieutenant tensed slightly and Blackwood knew that Tobin had joined them. For such a powerful man he could move like a cat.
‘Well, there it is, damn it. That round-shouldered hill is the headland. The river winds inland to the south’rd of it. At this time of year it’s too risky to head far up-river. But I’ll close the land and anchor as near as I can.’ Without turning his head he said, ‘Alter course four points, Mr Oliver. Steer east by south.’
Blackwood turned to watch the order relayed by voice-pipe to the engine-room, and as the helm went over he saw the sudden increase of power on the nearest paddle-wheel. It was hot on the open quarterdeck. What it must be like down there as coal was shovelled into the hungry furnaces was hard to imagine.
‘South by east, sir!’
‘Steady as she goes, Mr Oliver.’
Tobin rubbed his chin. ‘I’ll bet a million bloody eyes are watching us already.’ He looked at Blackwood. ‘Have you got it fixed in your mind?’
Blackwood thought of the many hours he had spent with Tobin in his cabin. The captain had taken him over charts and sketches, had read him scraps from some of his old
note-books until he felt he knew this place from memory. During each forenoon before the sun had become too hot he had exercised the marines again and again until they too knew what was expected of them once they had left the safety of
Satyr
’s hull.
‘Aye, sir, thanks to you.’
Tobin regarded him gravely. ‘I’ll not risk lives for nothing.’ Again a brief command. ‘Dead slow, Mr Oliver.’
Somewhere a gong jangled and the great paddles rose and fell to a quieter beat.
Slade strode from the companion-way, his face shaded by a straw hat.
‘Anything?’
‘No, Sir Geoffrey. Not even a local fisherman. Like the grave.’
Slade looked past him, his eyes cold. ‘Very apt, I shouldn’t wonder.’
Suddenly he drew Blackwood aside. ‘I did not intend this should happen. The fact is, I must know what is happening here, as it could have a vital effect on what action we must take later on. The only people who can help are at the mission. They were under Mdlaka’s protection and able to do much as they pleased. However . . .’ The word hung in the air like a threat. ‘But if this uprising is no accidental affair to settle old scores, someone’s behind it, fanning the flames.’ Impetuously he touched Blackwood’s arm. ‘I’m sorry to ask you to do this. But I
must
know.’
Blackwood said, ‘I’m ready, sir.’ He forced a smile. ‘Do my men good to stretch their legs.’
Slade did not smile. ‘As quickly as you can. In and out before nightfall.’ He fixed his eyes on Blackwood’s features as if to try and memorize them. ‘Right?’
‘Right, sir.’ Blackwood walked to the rail. ‘Be ready, Colour-Sergeant! As soon as we anchor!’
Lascelles stood beside him. He had changed into his scarlet coatee.
Blackwood said, ‘We’ll take two boats, Mr Lascelles, that
way we shall divide the target.’ He saw the lieutenant’s eyes widen as if he had only just realized what was happening. ‘I think we are in for some trouble, so check their weapons, and make certain each man carries an extra pouch of ammunition.’
Along the frigate’s main-deck the marines dashed back and forth to prepare their equipment and weapons for loading into the boats. No longer the passengers, they made the rest of the ship’s company look like mere spectators.
Lascelles would be quite useless. It hit Blackwood like a fist. Outwardly a good officer and popular with his own men, he would crack wide open in a real battle. But it was too late now.
Blackwood clapped him on the shoulder and felt the stiffness beneath the scarlet cloth. There was no nice, easy way.
‘You draw your pay, Mr Lascelles. Now bloody well earn it!’
He watched the lieutenant march away, his face tight with humiliation.
Then he said quietly, ‘Go with Mr Lascelles, Colour-Sergeant.’ He saw all the arguments building up on M’Crystal’s red face. ‘I shall take his sergeant with me.’
M’Crystal nodded. ‘Aye, sir. I understand.’
Tobin came out of the companion-way and said, ‘I heard most of that, Major. You’ve an old head for one so young. Try and keep it on its shoulders. I think we’re going to need you again before long.’
Lascelles came aft again and touched his shako. ‘Landing party ready for inspection.’ He did not look directly at Blackwood’s face.
‘Very well.’ What was it his grandfather had told him? In the Corps it was always the same.
The first to land. The last to leave.
He glanced towards the bare line of hills and fallen rocks. And that meant anywhere.
When he spoke he was surprised his voice sounded so flat and unemotional. ‘Once round that first bend and we shall be on our own. So remember, see to the men, no matter what.’
Much as he had said to young Harry. He would have loved this, hazards and all.
He paused by the second marine in the front rank. It was the young recruit he had spoken to aboard
Audacious
at Gibraltar.
‘Eager to go, Oldcastle?’ It was so cruelly simple to win the youth’s heart merely by remembering his name.
‘Yessir.’ He could barely stand still as M’Crystal checked his weapons, pouches, bayonet and all the rest. ‘Wh-where are we, sir?’
Blackwood looked at M’Crystal who snorted indignantly. ‘That doesn’t matter, boy, not now anyway!’
Half an hour later
Satyr
dropped anchor and swung to the current from around the headland.
At the last moment Blackwood glanced aft and saw Tobin watching him. He did not take his hands from his pockets but gave a slight nod.
Blackwood climbed out and down into one of the frigate’s boats. Deacon, the first lieutenant, was already in the boat, and the marines were packed among the oarsmen like hammocks in the nettings.
‘Shove off forrard! Out oars!’ The boats sidled clear of the ship’s shadow. ‘Give way together!’
Blackwood gripped his chin strap with his teeth and tried not to blink in the glare. It was so quiet after the ship. Just the steady creak of oars, the occasional boom of waves somewhere around another hump of land. The water was deep and sluggish, and he could smell the shore, just as he could feel the stillness and the air of menace.
Deacon said quietly, ‘We’re going to look bloody silly if everything’s normal here!’
Blackwood saw the stroke oarsman’s eyes moving slightly, and when he turned saw that the headland had crept out like a great door to shut off the anchored frigate. How fine she looked above her own reflection, her ensign barely moving in the offshore breeze. The boat turned into the first bend and
Satyr
was hidden from view.
Blackwood noticed that the stroke oarsman had shifted his eyes to him. What are my chances with you? they were asking. Will you be any good if hell breaks loose?
He shut the man from his thoughts and tried to concentrate on what Tobin had taught him.
The river would widen in a moment. The trading mission would be to starboard. What sort of madmen would want to work in a place like this? He gritted his teeth on the chin strap. Stop wandering. You are on your own. No brave but foolhardy major to lead you this time.
He said, ‘Next bend. If it’s coming, that’s where it will be. Private Frazier!’
But the sharpshooter was already crouched in the bows beside two seamen with a swivel gun, his long musket poking over the gunwale like a feeler.
He glanced at the other boat and was sickened to see Lascelles staring at him instead of watching over his men.
Deacon was examining his pistol and remarked, ‘And to think I had the chance to go ashore and take a safe appointment in the dockyard!’
He looked up at Blackwood and they smiled at each other like conspirators.
The man at the stroke oar heaved back on his loom and let his limbs relax. The officers wouldn’t joke about it if there was any real danger.
Along either side of the river the vegetation was thick and tangled. Blackwood watched it as it glided past, his mind darting from one possible eventuality to the next.
A seaman in the bows called, ‘Comin’ up now, sir!’ He hushed his voice, as if he too was conscious of the unnatural stillness. Not a bird, not even a breeze here to make the bushes come alive.
Corporal Jones exclaimed, ‘Flash from the top o’ the hill, sir! Larboard quarter!’
Lascelles’ sergeant muttered, ‘Silly bugger!’
But Blackwood said, ‘What was it, Jones?’ He gestured to the boat’s coxswain, and as the oars stilled the silence crowded in like a living force.
Of all the men in the boat, Corporal Jones had probably seen the most action. He had originally been a soldier in a line regiment stationed in India. If only half his barrack-room yarns were true, he had tackled every kind of situation a soldier on the Indian frontier could expect.
Jones said without hesitation, ‘Light from a mirror, sir. A signal of some kind. Bloody Afghans used to do it.’
Blackwood looked across at the other boat and motioned with his hand. He waited for Lascelles to tell his men what to expect and prayed he had not forgotten everything at the first scent of danger.
Smithett stirred uneasily on the thwart. ‘’Ere, sir.’ He handed Blackwood a loaded pistol. ‘The other one’s ready when you needs it.’
Blackwood looked at Deacon. ‘Let’s get it over.’ As the boat moved forward again he added, ‘Still think we’re going to look bloody silly?’
Deacon did not answer.
Blackwood rose to his feet and stared across the heads of the seamen and marines. It was hard to hold his concentration after what Jones had seen. He could feel a tingling sensation at the nape of his neck, as if it was already fixed in a sharpshooter’s sights.
The boat swept round the next bend and the river opened out immediately to a width of about a quarter mile. To larboard it was still steep and rocky, but to starboard the land fell away to a long stony beach with a fragile looking pier or jetty giving the first hint of human life. A twisting swirl of current betrayed the presence of a sand-bar in the centre of the stream. No wonder Tobin was loath to venture this far.
Deacon whispered, ‘There’s the mission!’
It was more like a low fort. It was well sited at the far end of the beach, its stout walls built of stones and layers of sand
pounded rock-hard inside outer palisades of timber. Ugly, but safe against anything but trained artillery.
Deacon stood up beside him and grimaced. ‘No sign of life.’ Some of his confidence returned. ‘It was probably all a rumour.’
Blackwood ignored him and said to the
Satyr
’s sergeant, ‘If you were putting men ashore. Where is the most dangerous place?’
The sergeant hesitated, unused to being asked for an opinion.
Blackwood felt the sweat trickling down his spine and soaking his shirt around his waist. The distance was falling away, but the sergeant had to understand. In minutes, seconds even, he might be in sole command.
‘That pier thing, sir. No cover. Long run up the beach.’
Blackwood reached down and touched his shoulder but did not take his eyes from the land.
‘Good man. I agree.’
He made himself fold his arms. Someone with a glass might be watching for a sign of alarm. On open water they would stand no chance, no matter what any marksmen ashore might believe.
‘Steer for the pier, cox’n. Nice, easy stroke. No fuss.’ He even forced a grin as he glanced above the crowded hull. ‘But when I give the word pull like hell for the end of the beach. Get the boat ashore and use it for cover.’
His voice was hoarse yet he was afraid to clear his throat. Here and there a hand moved to loosen a bayonet in its scabbard or a finger beat a nervous tattoo on a musket stock.
Blackwood measured the distance. If they could reach the beach it was fifty yards to the nearest cover, some broken rocks below the mission. It would be up to Lascelles to give them covering fire. If he failed . . . he thought of M’Crystal’s red face and took comfort. He at least would give the order.
Deacon said hoarsely, ‘I wonder where the bloody door is on that place?’
Blackwood replied, ‘Facing inland, I expect.’
He was speaking to hold his thoughts in check. There was no sign of movement. No smoke, not even a moored boat.
The pier glided towards them, the current gurgling gently through the rough piles. This was where the fort would receive its stores to trade with the local tribes, and from where their gains could be collected. Slade had described it as the ‘picklock of empire’. It looked like a place of the dead.
Jones hissed, ‘Saw something move, sir! Bushes to the right of the mission! By the split rock.’
Blackwood turned slightly and said, ‘Easy, lads. Not long now.’ My God, but for Corporal Jones they might all be dead on that pier.
He said, ‘Stand by. Swivel gun at the first sign of attack. Have you got the bearing?’
The two seamen in the bows bobbed their heads like puppets.
‘
Now!
’
It only needed one seaman to catch a crab with his oar like that day at Spithead and it would end in chaos. But to the manner born the boat’s crew threw themselves back on their looms, and as the tiller bar went hard over the rickety pier seemed to fall away as they swept past, the blades churning like
Satyr
’s paddles.
For just a moment longer Blackwood imagined he had made a stupid mistake, and then as shadows moved beyond the line of thick scrub he heard the sharp crack of a musket. A seamen yelped in alarm as a bullet struck the gunwale and left a neat hole above his knee before striking the opposite side. A very powerful weapon, and certainly not handled by an ignorant savage.