Read Online Badge of Glory (1982) by Douglas Reeman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Douglas Reeman
Tags: Navel/Fiction
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and rough. ‘I hope you’ll be happy with us while you’re in
Satyr.
’ His voice was deep and resonant, and he made no attempt to conceal his pride for his command. As an afterthought he said, ‘I’ll probably see you at breakfast.’ Then he too was swallowed up in the drifting vapours of steam and funnel smoke.
Blackwood allowed himself to be led rather than guided down a companion ladder and eventually to a square panelled cabin.
Lascelles said, ‘It’s yours, sir. I’m bunking in with the third lieutenant.’ He picked up a bag from the deck. ‘It’s the next cabin, if you need me.’ Then he stepped outside and closed the door.
Smithett had somehow been here already. Probably even forced Lascelles to vacate the cabin in his favour.
The stand was there, ready for his watch. A clean shirt nearby.
Blackwood sat down on the bunk and felt the hull shaking impatiently. What pleasure it must have given
Satyr
’s captain to shatter the night watches with his siren before he quit the harbour. It had been for Ashley-Chute’s benefit.
He lay back and thrust his hands behind his head.
Monkey.
He would not sleep, he was certain of it. The ship echoed and rattled all around him, and he heard a whirring sound like a fan. And she was not even moving yet.
Poor Harry. He would probably be on deck as they steamed past the anchored flagship. That was the last conscious thought of Captain Philip Blackwood. Even as the first iron link of
Satyr
’s cable clanked through the fair-leads he fell fast asleep.
4
First to Land
Private Smithett wedged himself in one corner of the cabin and muttered between his teeth, ‘Is it
always
like this, sir?’
Blackwood pressed his body against a locker and peered at his reflection in a mirror. Each time he brought the razor to his face he could sense Smithett’s quick intake of breath, as if he expected to see him cut his throat. It was not surprising. When he had been awakened by the ship noises around him he had been unable to recall where he was. Then, as his memory had returned, he had been startled by the unfamiliar clatter and growl of engines, and when he had tried to leave his bunk he had been hurled across the cabin and almost knocked senseless.
He answered tightly, ‘I expect so.’
He laid down the razor and dabbed his skin with a towel. His body felt clammy, and he knew he was near to being sick. Smithett had already told him that several of the marines were ‘spewin’ fit to bust’, but even he had lost his usual relish for disaster.
Blackwood thought of breakfast and clung to a stanchion for support as the deck rocked violently and the whole hull seemed to try and shake itself apart. Down and down, and then he heard the thunder of water alongside and saw a wave crest lift casually above the cabin scuttle. Breakfast? Not yet anyway.
He allowed Smithett to assist him with his coat and then struggled out into the cabin passageway which was also trying to roll on to its side.
Blackwood had been at sea in every sort of vessel from a line of battle ship like
Audacious
to a tiny brig, and had seen storms which had almost torn the masts from the decks. But never could he recall anything like this.
Staggering and gasping, he reached the foot of a companion ladder and looked up with surprise at a blue rectangle of sky. He had imagined they were entering a storm. Taking his time he climbed to the upper deck and clung to a handrail to get his bearings before stepping out into the open.
The
Satyr
was bigger than he had imagined her to be and totally unlike any warship he had seen. She had two masts and what appeared to be a brigantine rig, although all her sails were neatly furled, and his attention was immediately taken by the two giant paddle-boxes, one on either side, which were linked together by an unprotected catwalk like a bridge. Abaft the two paddles was a tall funnel, the smoke streaming towards the quarter in an unbroken trail. Just forward of the mizzen mast
Satyr.
’ His voice was deep and resonant, and he made no attempt to conceal his pride for his command. As an afterthought he said, ‘I’ll probably see you at breakfast.’ Then he too was swallowed up in the drifting vapours of steam and funnel smoke.
Blackwood allowed himself to be led rather than guided down a companion ladder and eventually to a square panelled cabin.
Lascelles said, ‘It’s yours, sir. I’m bunking in with the third lieutenant.’ He picked up a bag from the deck. ‘It’s the next cabin, if you need me.’ Then he stepped outside and closed the door.
Smithett had somehow been here already. Probably even forced Lascelles to vacate the cabin in his favour.
The stand was there, ready for his watch. A clean shirt nearby.
Blackwood sat down on the bunk and felt the hull shaking impatiently. What pleasure it must have given
Satyr
’s captain to shatter the night watches with his siren before he quit the harbour. It had been for Ashley-Chute’s benefit.
He lay back and thrust his hands behind his head.
Monkey.
He would not sleep, he was certain of it. The ship echoed and rattled all around him, and he heard a whirring sound like a fan. And she was not even moving yet.
Poor Harry. He would probably be on deck as they steamed past the anchored flagship. That was the last conscious thought of Captain Philip Blackwood. Even as the first iron link of
Satyr
’s cable clanked through the fair-leads he fell fast asleep.
4
First to Land
Private Smithett wedged himself in one corner of the cabin and muttered between his teeth, ‘Is it
always
like this, sir?’
Blackwood pressed his body against a locker and peered at his reflection in a mirror. Each time he brought the razor to his face he could sense Smithett’s quick intake of breath, as if he expected to see him cut his throat. It was not surprising. When he had been awakened by the ship noises around him he had been unable to recall where he was. Then, as his memory had returned, he had been startled by the unfamiliar clatter and growl of engines, and when he had tried to leave his bunk he had been hurled across the cabin and almost knocked senseless.
He answered tightly, ‘I expect so.’
He laid down the razor and dabbed his skin with a towel. His body felt clammy, and he knew he was near to being sick. Smithett had already told him that several of the marines were ‘spewin’ fit to bust’, but even he had lost his usual relish for disaster.
Blackwood thought of breakfast and clung to a stanchion for support as the deck rocked violently and the whole hull seemed to try and shake itself apart. Down and down, and then he heard the thunder of water alongside and saw a wave crest lift casually above the cabin scuttle. Breakfast? Not yet anyway.
He allowed Smithett to assist him with his coat and then struggled out into the cabin passageway which was also trying to roll on to its side.
Blackwood had been at sea in every sort of vessel from a line of battle ship like
Audacious
to a tiny brig, and had seen storms which had almost torn the masts from the decks. But never could he recall anything like this.
Staggering and gasping, he reached the foot of a companion ladder and looked up with surprise at a blue rectangle of sky. He had imagined they were entering a storm. Taking his time he climbed to the upper deck and clung to a handrail to get his bearings before stepping out into the open.
The
Satyr
was bigger than he had imagined her to be and totally unlike any warship he had seen. She had two masts and what appeared to be a brigantine rig, although all her sails were neatly furled, and his attention was immediately taken by the two giant paddle-boxes, one on either side, which were linked together by an unprotected catwalk like a bridge. Abaft the two paddles was a tall funnel, the smoke streaming towards the quarter in an unbroken trail. Just forward of the mizzen mast
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