OLD AND NEW

The Hampshire countryside gleamed dully after a heavy overnight mist. The big house which dominated the Hawks Hill estate and outlying farm cottages felt damp, despite the fires in each room which had been laid and lit long before dawn.

From a window in his study Major General Harry Blackwood gazed out at the grey clouds and frowned. November. At any other time he would have relished this month with its first meeting of the local hunt of which he was Master, but he could not dispel his apprehension, which both worried and irritated him. In a few weeks it was the birth not only of a new year but also of a new century. The thought disturbed him more than he would ever admit to his wife, Deirdre, or anyone else. When 1899 closed he knew his life would somehow lose its purpose. This might even be his last November. He swung away from the window and looked around the room with its dark panelled walls and cheerful log fire. The servants and visitors to Hawks Hill always referred to this as the General's Room. Indeed it contained innumerable relics and mementoes of his life and career in the Royal Marines. A portrait of his father hung on one wall. As he had lived, not as he had died here in this great house. Stern-faced and proud in his scarlet coatee, one hand resting on his sword. Even the sword was mounted in a glass case. Pictures, weapons, fox masks, a bugle with a hole punched through it. It was not difficult to see the expression of horror on the boy's face as he had been cut down by a bullet even as he was sounding the charge. Harry Blackwood was 67 years old but in his immaculately cut frock coat he was as straight-backed and trim as the day he had won his majority in the corps he loved so dearly. But his features told a different story. There were deep crows-feet around his eyes caused by staring at sun and sky in so many ships, so many campaigns in all parts of the globe. His hair and neatly clipped moustache were white, in marked contrast with his skin, which was like tooled leather.

He crossed to the fire and lifted his coattails to benefit from the blaze. He had been born here in this house which had been in the Blackwood family for four generations and purchased originally by old Samuel Blackwood, the last of a long line of soldiers. After him all the Blackwoods had been Royal Marines, although Harry had never been able to discover how the change had come about. The main house was a great rambling place which had begun as a fortified Tudor farmhouse. Added to over the years, it spread in several directions with cellars and tiny attics, which had once delighted the Blackwood children like a magic castle. It even had a moat, although that was only half-filled nowadays: a home for geese and swans.

He heard his wife speaking with one of the maids beyond the door and hoped she would not disturb him. A quiet, faded lady, it was difficult to recall her as the vibrant girl she had once been. She had given him three sons, all of whom were now in the corps. The youngest, Jonathan, had joined his first ship at Portsmouth just two weeks ago.

Deirdre had been tearful about it but had made no protest when her husband insisted that his sons should follow the family tradition.

The general had many fixed ideas, one being that women in any kind of authority could not be tolerated. Even the queen, whom he had served for the whole of his life, irritated him. Still on the throne after 61 years. It did not seem possible. With the British Empire spreading to encompass the whole world you needed strong and decisive leadership, an example for those who had to defend it.

He smiled grimly, the years falling from his features as he did so. It was proclaimed that the sun never set on the Empire. Nor would it while there were still marines.

The door opened slightly but it was Briggs, once his trusted attendant and orderly, now his valet, his shadow.

"Well man?" His voice was sharp. He was not looking forward to the next moments. The thought of them had spoiled the morning, and Deirdre might just be inclined to argue with him.

"Young Mr Blackwood is 'ere, sir." Briggs eyed him warily. He knew all the general's moods and had been at his side on blood-reddened decks with all hell breaking loose around them. In the desert and the jungle, wherever the Royal Marines had been called to action.

"Give me a few minutes, Briggs."

Briggs withdrew. He knew this mood. Keep a young officer waiting, even if he was one of the family. Make 'em sweat a while.

Alone again the general walked to the place of honour in his collection. A great painting depicting a battle which had raged in the Crimea: snow, flashing guns, grim-faced marines with fixed bayonets ... running to and dying on the summit ... of that terrible redoubt. Framed against one fiery explosion was a solitary officer, sword high over his head as he urged his dwindling followers to drive the Russians away from their guns.

Philip Blackwood, Harry's half brother, was that officer. Now as then he was a hero in the general's eyes. All those years ago when Harry had been a youthful lieutenant, like the one he was about to receive in this room, Philip's life had been marked with pain. His wife, Davern, had died in childbirth, and Philip died just ten years later from a fever he contracted in India.

The general had taken it upon himself to care for and raise Philip's only son, Ralf. Maybe he and Deirdre had spoiled him because of his background. Ralf had never known his mother, and seen little enough of Philip, who like all serving officers had been more away from the country than in it.

Ralf Blackwood was eighteen, the same age as Jonathan, and was until recently at Woolwich, the Court Division as it was nicknamed. Other than that, he had no other similarity with the general's youngest son. Ralf had some of his father's good looks, but was resentful of discipline, and inclined to sulk if admonished.

For although the general's military activities were now confined to occasional ceremonials in London or twenty miles away at the Royal Marines' barracks at Portsmouth, he retained a close link with the corps and had plenty of friends who were still serving. He knew all about Ralf's heavy gambling in the mess. His frequent outbursts of temper when he had been accused of cheating. Being a bad loser usually led to something worse. Had his weakness been women, the general would have understood and probably encouraged him. As a boy he had had his first woman, one of the servant girls, right here at Hawks Hill. There had been dozens since of every class and colour.

Deirdre knew the general's record but like most things she never mentioned it.

The door opened and Ralf Blackwood entered. He was in uniform, the scarlet tunic bright in the poor light.

The general said, "You look well."

Ralf exclaimed, "I've come from Portsmouth, Uncle." He sounded as if he could not believe it...