Badge of Glory (1982) by Douglas Reeman

worry too much, Captain. Who knows, together we may be making a small part of history?’
    Tobin cocked his head to listen to a boat being pulled around the stern. Stuck out there in the middle of nowhere. He considered how he would have felt under the same circumstances. Without a ship. Helpless.
    He said, ‘I’ve told the Chief to get under way as soon as the boats return, sir.’
    Anything but sit here with this composed, practical man who seemed to consider any sort of sentiment as weakness.
    It was completely dark when the boats returned and were hoisted smartly inboard.
    Tobin was waiting to meet his first lieutenant on the quarterdeck, his mind for once uninterested in the coursing rumble of the engines and the gushing plume of smoke.
    Deacon looked around the bustling seamen and listened to the clank of the capstan as if it was beautiful and inspiring music.
    ‘How was it?’ Tobin asked.
    Deacon licked his lips. ‘Terrible, sir. The stench, everything.’ He tried to smile. ‘Captain Blackwood sent you his best wishes, by the way. Cool as an ice-floe, that one.’
    Tobin looked away. Shadows hovered around him, waiting for orders, ready to move, to prove once more what they could do. Deacon was a good man, but he didn’t understand half of it.
    He said harshly, ‘I’ll send him a message too. From us. The ship.’
    Moments later, as the anchor rose dripping to the cathead and the frigate turned in a welter of froth and spray, her siren rent the sky apart with its piercing squawk.
    Tobin climbed on to his unprotected bridge and examined the extra compass there. Then he looked astern where only the frothing wake left by paddles and rudder broke the darkness.
    He said, ‘I’ll be back. Be certain of it.’
    Captain Philip Blackwood walked slowly along the parapet, his eyes straining through the darkness which reached out from the barred gates like a black wall.
    The marines had been hard at work all day with barely a break for rations and a gulp of fresh water. It was a marvel that any of them could even contemplate food, Blackwood thought. As it was, several of the marines had staggered retching from the grisly work of hauling the corpses to the parapets to fling them clear of the fort. Although the stench still lingered over the compound, the sights of horror were gone. The dead white men had been buried on part of the compound, while the food and stores sent across from
Satyr
had been stacked inside the communal building at the sea-ward end of the fort. The whole place measured about eighty yards by fifty, and from the size of the store huts, now burned to the ground, it must have been a thriving post until disaster had struck.
    Brogan,
Satyr
’s marine sergeant, seemed very competent, and was outside the fort at this moment with a patrol of five men to make sure there were none of the attackers still in the undergrowth.
    Blackwood paused and looked over the wall as he thought of his long talk with the remaining trader, Tom Fenwick. He was like something from a boy’s story-book. Fenwick had been everywhere in his search for a fortune, which so far had eluded him. He had been at the fort for two years and knew the local tribes better than most.
    As Sergeant Brogan had prepared to lead his patrol clear ofthe gates he had said in his quavery voice, ‘No point in it, Captain. Them buggers ’as gone. They’ll be dancin’ and jiggin’ to their ’eathen rites right now, an’ after they’ve filled their bellies with drink they’ll be samplin’ the local girls to make ’em feel like warriors again!’
    Blackwood stared at the darkness, recalling his feelings when the
Satyr
’s siren had echoed along the river to signal her departure. It was typical of Tobin, of the man behind the uniform and the authority. He had seen the effect it had made on the others. The younger ones had gazed at each other as if only just aware that they had been left to fend for themselves. The older men had gone about their