Fynmore dragged some papers on to the table. ‘Straightforward, seems to me.’ He tried to relax. ‘Sit down, won’t you?’ He smiled. ‘We’ll be the only two officers with field experience, how about that, eh?’
He hurried on, ‘Won’t come to anything probably. Flags of truce, while Commander Netten speaks with the local king.’ He squinted at the top page of his notes. ‘King Zwide, by all accounts. He should be no trouble.’
Blackwood watched the major’s hawklike profile with sudden apprehension. It must be another of Fynmore’s vanities that he was pretending he could read without effort when in fact his sight was obviously failing. Things were getting worse by the minute.
‘May I suggest something, sir?’
‘Well?’ Fynmore looked at him warily.
‘As senior marine officer could you not advise the admiral that we make use of some, if not all, of the steam vessels here?’
Fynmore chuckled. ‘Thought of that already. I saw the admiral myself about it. He’s made his own plans, of course, but only the flagship and the frigate
Peregrine
will be taking part in the operation. He did agree to one small steam gunboat, the
Norseman
, coming with us, more for use as a tug
than as a warship, I suspect.’ His chest shook with laughter, but no sound emerged.
Blackwood nodded. The bulk of the squadron would stay at anchor. They could do nothing anyway against the maze of rivers used by the slavers. By remaining at Fernando Po they might also put any spiesoff the scent.
‘One steam vessel is better than nothing, from my experience.’
Fynmore faced him and said, ‘Of course, you were in the
Satyr
. So you know all about that kind of thing, eh?’
Blackwood asked, ‘Is that what it sounded like, sir?’
‘I’m afraid it did. You know what your trouble is, Blackwood?’ He gave his quick smile. ‘Pride, that’s what. Except that in your case it changes too quickly to arrogance.’
Blackwood stood up slowly.
He wants to provoke me.
He said, ‘You have the advantage of me, sir.’ He watched Fynmore’s eagerness fade. ‘In rank, that is.’
Fynmore glared at him. ‘You are dismissed. I shall let you know when I need you.’ As Blackwood turned to leave he asked, ‘Is your brother still aboard?’
Blackwood felt his throat go dry. Like that night on the wall of the fort. Feat. But not for himself this time. Fynmore’s casual question was a threat. He knew well enough the name and seniority of every marine officer in the squadron. Men like Fynmore, who hungered for promotion and dreaded the prospect of being discharged from the Corps, always knew such things.
‘He is.’
‘Good. We must see he is suitably employed, what?’
Blackwood left the cabin and banged the screen door behind him.
Private Callow, who had once rescued a man from drowning, was the cabin sentry, but Blackwood did not even notice him.
Too proud, arroganr, hungry for glory? Blackwood had had just about enough for one day.
He thought suddenly of the girl with violet eyes, Davern
Seymour. What would Major bloody Fynmore say about her when he discovered what Slade intended?
By the time he had reached the quarterdeck he had regained his composure, outwardly at least.
As he stood by the nettings and took full advantage of the spread awnings he saw a boat approaching the main chains, and a boatswain’s chair being lowered towards it.
He noticed several of the seamen who were working on deck grinning and nudging each other, and when he looked into the boat he saw Harry sitting in the sternsheets beside an African woman who was swathed from chin to toe in a long green robe. Blackwood stared as two seamen steadied the chair for her to climb into while the youthful marine lieutenant took her hand to help her.
The last time he had seen her she had been naked, like a wild animal as she had pressed herself against him. He found himself bunching his fingers into a tight fist as he remembered the feel of her breast under his hand, the way she had looked at him.
As the bosun’s chair squeaked up towards the gangway she sensed him watching her. She held her robe up around her mouth and nose so that only her eyes remained visible, and they never moved from his face until she was lowered again and lost from view.
Harry appeared by his side and touched his hat, some of his jauntiness fading as he saw his expression.
‘What is
she
doing aboard?’
Harry eyed him curiously. ‘Apparently she’s a princess. Daughter of a king near Benin. I received an order to fetch her from the slaver.’
Blackwood looked away. Slade’s hand was doubtless behind this too. A bargaining point, a hostage, or a viper in their midst. It was not difficult to imagine the black princess selling her own people into slavery.
A huge woman in a brightly striped gown was now being hoisted aboard to the accompaniment of yells of encouragement from the sailors.
Harry was still watching him. ‘A servant and guardian for the princess. She’ll probably need one in a ship full of lusting tars!’
Blackwood glanced at him and smiled. ‘The other way round.’
There was a quick step on the deck and Major Fynmore snapped irritably, ‘I cannot have my officers setting a bad example by idling and gossiping, eh? We have extra marines coming aboard from the squadron, and I shall want a
full
inspection this afternoon, orders in the first dog watch, right?’ He gave Harry the benefit of his crooked smile. ‘No passengers here, what?’
Harry said softly as Fynmore bustled away, ‘I wonder if he knows about the princess?’
Captain Ackworthy lowered his telescope and growled, ‘Bad stretch of coast.’
With all sails furled to her yards,
Audacious
swung heavily to her cable, oblivious to the activity on the upper deck as boats were swayed out from their tier and dropped alongside. Slightly closer to the lush green coastline the small frigate
Peregrine
had also anchored, and was no doubt awaiting the next signal from the Flag.
Ashley-Chute stood by the nettings, well apart from his officers, hands gripped across his buttocks as he stared fixedly at the land.
Blackwood watched him. It was hard to tell what the admiral was thinking. If he was impatient at the delay in leaving Fernando Po, at the further irritations of failing wind and a snail’s-pace to reach this point on the chart, he did not show it. He had given vent to some feeling on the first day at sea when, after gushing dense smoke high into the air, the little gunboat
Norseman
signalled that she had broken down and was unable to proceed.
Ashley-Chute had almost crowed with delight. ‘What did I say, eh, eh?’ He had darted his piercing stare from one
officer to the next. ‘No damn use! Bundle of bloody iron scrap, that’s what
that
is!’
The officer of the watch approached Ackworthy and touched his hat.
‘All boats lowered, sir.’
‘Very well.’
Once again Blackwood noticed Ackworthy’s hesitation. As if he was unwilling or unable to make the next decision. Or as if he had not been allowed to share his admiral’s plans.
In that he could sympathize with the massive captain. Since Major Fynmore had come aboard, he and Commander Netten had been as thick as thieves, and had told him little beyond the needs of routine and preparation.
Fynmore seemed to revel in his new command. For the three days it had taken to reach this place, some fifty miles to the north-west of the Niger Delta, Fynmore had behaved as if the marines were to be employed on ceremonial parades rather than possible action. Every day they had been kept busy polishing and cleaning, painting their packs until they gleamed like black leather. Several marines had been awarded punishment for allegedly having grit in their muskets, although Blackwood had the nagging feeling it was Fynmore’s way of covering up his poor eyesight when he inspected the weapons.
He looked at the shore and restrained a shudder as he recalled the last time. No birds, no tell-tale smoke, but he sensed that the two ships had been watched since first light as they had completed their slow approach.
It was a pity about the
Norseman
, he thought. She would have made the crossing to the shore easier and safer. It was four cables, at a guess, to the nearest wedge of green land, a long pull for the oarsmen with boats loaded with men and weapons. The marine landing party would consist of ninety men, with three lieutenants selected from other ships in the squadron. Blackwood glanced down to the main-deck where Harry was speaking with M’Crystal. He was coming too, for liaison work, as Fynmore had vaguely described it.
Netten would have a party of armed seamen from
Audacious
, and each boat would be under the command of a lieutenant or midshipman.
Blackwood looked again towards the shore. It was like something impenetrable, the overlapping layers of thickly wooded slopes completely hiding the rivers which twisted inland. He gripped the nettings until the pain steadied his nerves. They must not be outfoxed a second time.
Then he saw Fynmore, who had been called across to speak with the admiral. How pleased he looked.
He thought of Slade, two hundred miles away at the consulate. He was probably regretting that he had not joined them in the flagship, no matter what he said to his subordinates about responsibility which excluded all else. Or perhaps he realized that Ashley-Chute might see his presence here as a lack of confidence. But he had sent one of his aides, a mild-looking man named Patterson, whose knowledge of Africa in general and the slave trade in particular had astounded the whole wardroom.
One night he had walked the deck with Blackwood and had told him how Slade had tried over the years to tempt the African kings and chiefs away from their wretched trade by offering the lure of other profits. The greatest of these had been palm oil, which was always in growing demand in Europe. But the more powerful kings, and Zwide was one of them, had burned thousands of new trees to the ground to force their people back on the cruellest but most rewarding trade of all.
Slade must think very highly of Patterson to send him on such an important mission.
The officer of the watch coughed politely. ‘Would you join the admiral, sir?’
Blackwood walked across the quarterdeck which was already half in shadow as the boatswain’s party set to work rigging awnings above it.
Ashley-Chute regarded the small group of officers, his face expressionless. Netten would be in overall charge. Fynmore
would command the landing force, and his own son was apparently taking control of the boats.
His eyes settled on Blackwood. ‘All present. Capital. The sooner we begin, the better.’ He looked at his son without any hint of recognition. ‘Pass the order to start loading the boats.’ He turned away, dismissing him. ‘Questions?’
Netten leaned forward. ‘If the king’s people have left the area, sir, what –’
Ashley-Chute’s wide mouth snapped open and shut like a trap. He said scornfully, ‘
Left?
Why should they? It is their reason for being, man. But Mr Patterson intends to speak with this Zwide fellow. After that it’s up to him. But no damned arguments, hmm? I cannot abide upstart natives, and never have.’ His cold stare swivelled to Blackwood. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Blackwood saw Fynmore’s resentment. Something from the past which he did not share. Perhaps the little admiral had said it deliberately.
In the distance he heard Sergeant Quintin’s rough voice yell, ‘First section! Into the boats! Lively there! Private Shadbolt, ’old yer ’ead up, yer like a bloody whore on the mornin’ after!’
Blackwood could picture them all grinning as if he were down there with them. Quintin’s comments were always coarse and usually repeated until his men knew them word-perfect.
Ackworthy, who was standing a little apart from the group, said, ‘Lookout has just sighted smoke to the sou’-east, sir. Must be the
Norseman.
’
Ashley-Chute scowled at the interruption. ‘I’m not waiting for that madman! He’ll likely blow up anyway!’
Netten laughed but Fynmore fiddled with his belt. Even he obviously disliked the way the admiral treated his flag-captain.
Patterson appeared below the poop yawning hugely as if he had just risen from his cot. He smiled gently. ‘I’m ready, Sir James.’
To everyone’s surprise, Ashley-Chute clapped him on his shoulder and exclaimed, ‘Very good! Now go and tell that savage about our Queen’s displeasure, or whatever you do in these circumstances!’
Several people laughed. It was rare for Ashley-Chute to be in such high spirits.
Then he turned on his heel and with a curt nod added, ‘Carry on, gentlemen.’
Blackwood paused by the starboard gangway and stared along the upper deck. How empty it seemed after the squads of scarlet coats and piled weapons. He touched his shako to the quarterdeck and then scrambled quickly down into the nearest boat. Smithett was already in the sternsheets with his bag, and doubtless a bottle of something.
As he got his bearings the heat covered the boat like a heavy blanket. The marines were pressed together anyway to allow the oarsmen some room, and it was just the same in all the other boats as they idled clear of the ship’s side.
Familiar faces leapt out of the crowd as he ran his eyes over them. Half smiles or carefully blank, he knew them all, as they did him. Some, like those who had been at the fort, knew him even better now.
He saw Harry sitting with Major Fynmore and Netten in the big launch, ready to perform his liaison duties, no doubt. He thought of the black princess who had remained in a carefully guarded cabin on the orlop deck forward of the sick-bay. This would be her first time in the open since she had been transferred from the brigantine. Her name was Nandi. Harry had told him after inspecting the sentries who had been posted to prevent any amorous seaman or marine from intruding on her privacy. From what he had heard, she had more to fear from Sergeant Quintin, who had protested at being taken off guard duty for the first time in living memory.
He saw Smithett’s eyes flicker, and when he looked up he saw a midshipman and the mild Mr Patterson assisting the princess down the tumblehome towards the cutter.