Authors: Porter Hill
Horne lowered his ear to Bapu’s mouth. ‘Yes, man? What is it?’
‘Don’t argue with … old … sawbones …’
‘You keep calm. You’ll pull through this.’
‘No …’ Bapu swallowed the blood welling in his mouth. ‘Don’t waste time on … me …’
Horne glanced at Babcock.
Bapu grasped Horne’s wrist and whispered hoarsely, ‘There’s only one thing I’m sorry about … Captain …’
‘What’s that, man?’
‘I’ll never know if it was … was worth it …’
‘Worth what?’ asked Horne, holding out his hand for Bapu to grip in his pain.
‘My waiting for our new mission … I’ll never know now what the new mission will … be …’
Bapu choked, coughed, clung tighter to Horne’s arm and, the next moment, Horne felt the big Indian’s hand go limp, fall lifelessly onto the table. Bapu was dead.
The cliffs of Madagascar rose above a long white beach lapped by the Indian Ocean, a welcome sight for the
Unity
trailing her two prizes, the
Huma
and the rake-sailed pattimar. The vessels belonged to the Omani pirate, Hoodad al Sur, a long-standing predator of the trade of the East India Company. Hoodad himself had not been aboard either ship but his lieutenant, Junah, had been captured from the
Huma
and was being taken in custody to Madagascar.
Captain Goodair ventured from his cabin at the hail of landfall. It was his first visit to the quarterdeck in the eight days since receiving his injuries. His pain had abated and Mr Shanks kept his wounds dressed and a splint tied to his right arm. Goodair’s legs had not been broken but he used a stick in his slow progress from the roundhouse to the quarterdeck.
A blue awning had been stretched across the
quarterdeck
, and Goodair invited Adam Horne to sit with him in the shade to enjoy tea and sesame cakes. Goodair’s First Mate, Charles Ames, had not yet recovered from his illness, so the Second Mate, Simon Tree, remained the ship’s acting senior officer. Horne knew that Goodair was on the way to recovery when the wry old commander said with a twinkle in his eye, ‘Mr Tree must be uniquely grateful for your companionship on this voyage, Captain Horne.’
Horne did not want to debunk any victory Tree might be
claiming over the pirate ship. But neither did he want to spread lies.
‘I think you have a loyal man in Tree, sir.’ He stopped himself from saying that he also thought that Tree was uncouth, loud and, at the same time, was too familiar with superior officers to make an effective commander himself.
The breeze was warm but Goodair clutched a Kashmiri robe to his throat. ‘I’m sorry to be parting company with you in Port Diego-Suarez, Captain Horne. I’d enjoy more of your companionship myself. All the way back to England.’
‘Thank you, sir. But duty for me begins in Diego-Suarez.’
‘Your days aboard the
Unity
have hardly been restful, Captain.’
Horne hoped he did not sound arch as he answered, ‘Every voyage has its surprises, sir.’
‘As do you, Captain Horne. As do you.’
Dreading what Goodair might be planning to say Horne kept his eyes on the distant cliffs, verdant foliage darkening their crests.
‘I have spent more than a few hours in your company, Captain Horne,’ Goodair went on, ‘yet I feel as if I don’t know you at all.’
Horne was frequently accused of being secretive, overly protective of his privacy, drawing a circle around himself and refusing to let anyone through. Believing there was no reason to unfold his innermost thoughts, ambitions, fears, and pleasures, he replied, ‘I also enjoyed my time with you, sir. Thank you.’
Goodair knew he had overstepped social boundaries. He said in a brighter voice, ‘You may rest assured, Captain Horne, that I shall inform your father what a fine son he has. A boon to his name.’
Horne had completed the letter to his father but was having misgivings about sending it with Goodair. The
letter was brief and, Horne feared, gloomy. Bapu’s death had left him desolate, and the last rites had been a grim, painful farewell. Horne had wrapped the corpse in a hammock, sewing it shut and weighting the corners with shot. He had dropped it into the Arabian sea as Jingee read
Praise
For
A
Rajput
Warrior.
After the brief ceremony, Horne had tried to keep himself busy making repairs to the
Unity
and working aboard the
Huma.
The pirate frigate was Bombay-built, finer than Horne’s expectation. Tree had asked him to take command of it for the remainder of the voyage to Port Diego-Suarez, but Horne had adamantly refused, explaining that the East India Company would probably judge both the frigate and pattimar to be war prizes for the Maritime Service, distributing the reward money among the officers and crew. It would therefore be highly improper for an officer of the Bombay Marine to bring the
Huma
into port; there was already enough hostility between the Maritime Service and Bombay Marine.
Tree, joining Horne and Goodair under the canopy on the quarterdeck, made his farewell to Horne, concluding, ‘Captain Horne, sir, you’ve taught me to respect the—’ he raised his voice—‘Bombay …
Buccaneers
!’
Horne flinched. Tree had obviously meant no offence but he explained, ‘Mr Tree, a Marine goes into battle when someone calls him a “buccaneer”.’
Bewildered, Tree looked from Horne to Goodair. ‘But … but … but … I’ve always heard Bombay Marines called “buccaneers”!’
‘Slang, dear boy, slang,’ interrupted Goodair, clutching the robe to his neck. ‘An unflattering description of the Company’s brave Marine.’
Tree lowered his head. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I had no idea, sir.’
Horne realised there were many things which Simon Tree did not know. He doubted, however, if any of those short-comings, major or trivial, would prevent the young
man from rising in the Honourable East India Company’s Maritime Service.
* * *
Madagascar, the shoe-shaped island off Africa’s southeast coast, was separated from the mainland by the
two-hundred
-and-fifty-mile wide Strait of Mozambique. The first Europeans to visit Madagascar had been the Portuguese in the sixteenth century. In the following two hundred years, the island had been controlled by a succession of English, French, and local Malagasy rulers. At present, the English were temporarily back in command of Madagascar, the fourth largest island in the world.
Fred Babcock learned these facts in an open boat while crossing from the
Huma
to the stone quay of Port
Diego-Suarez
. Horne had given his men the morning to explore the small settlement located at the island’s northern tip and Babcock, knowing that Horne was paying an official visit to Company House, guessed that the call concerned their new assignment which their Captain would later explain to his men.
Two wine shops flanked the small harbour and, by late morning, men off the
Unity
had settled under the shady bamboo awnings or had drifted off into the surrounding streets, exploring the white-washed settlement for other public establishments. Groot, Kiro, Jud and Mustafa were grouped around Jingee and an old Malagasy villager, a shrivelled little man whom Jingee was questioning in Bantu about the island’s people, asking why they looked Oriental rather than African.
At the moment Babcock was more interested in food than in local people or their ways; he decided to search out a cook shop.
In the past, Babcock had been suspicious of native food, but he was convinced now that it was Groot’s cooking that
had made him sea-sick. Groot had prepared a Dutch
hot-pot
on the day when the Press Gang had surprised them and Mustafa, who had refused to eat Groot’s stew, had not fallen ill. Babcock decided it would be safer eating local dishes than anything the Dutch Marine concocted. As he left the main square, he was dreaming of a bowl of rice, some thick sauces, fresh pastries stuffed with lamb, cheese, dates, nuts, or a combination of some of them, if not all.
The day was hot, but a sea breeze cooled the hillside. Babcock walked between the rows of low houses topped with thatched roofs, emerging into a small opening—more of a triangle than a square. A cluster of familiar faces from the
Unity
had gathered in front of a clay building, each man holding a large bamboo cup.
‘Babcock, my boyo! Come and join us!’ shouted the gunner’s mate.
A red-haired man held up his cup. ‘Try the local poison, Cockers!’
A bewhiskered Scotsman invited, ‘Aye, take a swill with us, laddie.’
The
Unity
must wait here at Port Diego-Suarez for the merchant convoy to arrive from the China Sea. Babcock knew that seamen often became restless in port, drinking too much, usually ending up quarrelling or worse. Knowing he was likely to find himself in the middle of a fist-fight, he decided to keep trudging up the hill.
Company House sat on the crest, a sprawling white building which commanded a sweeping view over the
deep-water
harbour and the turquoise sea beyond. As Babcock passed the ornately wrought gates guarding the drive, he thought of Horne who was inside the large house at that very moment, probably receiving orders which could affect the next few months, possibly even years.
Thinking about Horne, Babcock remembered how upset he had been by Bapu’s death. Babcock did not know much about the Indian caste system, only that there were four
main castes, and that Bapu had supposedly been born into one of the highest, the caste of warriors. But Babcock thought that Bapu had been very like himself, a man who did not follow the life set out for him. Instead of being a valiant warrior serving some maharajah or even the Grand Moghul, Bapu had been a thief, the leader of a mountain band which had attacked Company supply wagons in Rajasthan.
Babcock himself should have been a farmer. Back in Ohio, he would almost have been gentry by now—upright, respectable, a husband and father, probably even an elder in the church. But Babcock had quarrelled with his father and run away to sea. Aboard a ship out of Boston, an officer had goaded him about his hulking size; he was forever pushing Babcock, finally forcing him into a fight. Babcock had defended himself but, unfortunately, the officer had struck his head on a capstan and died, and Babcock had been imprisoned in Bombay Castle.
When Horne had chosen his men from the underground prisons at Bombay Castle, Babcock had suspected he was taking them to another prison, or to form some kind of work gang. They had gone to a penal colony, certainly, but Horne had taken them there—to Bull Island—only to separate the wheat from the chaff, to school his recruits to be a squadron of highly-trained saboteurs.
During the few short weeks that Babcock had spent with Horne on Bull Island and, later, at Madras, he had felt as if he were being set back on the right path in life; Horne believed in him, and in his abilities. Babcock suspected, too, that the other men respected Horne as much as he did, and were as grateful to him.
As for the new mission, what would it be like? Would it last longer than the foray into Fort St George at Madras? Would they remain together afterwards like a true unit? Babcock and Horne’s other men were Bombay Marines, yes, but they avoided conscription aboard Marine ships,
voyages that would take them on chart-making
expeditions
, locking them into a life of drudgery.
A chattering sound disturbed Babcock’s reflections.
To the left of the stone path he saw a pile of bamboo cages containing monkeys; the animals were gripping the bamboo slats, baring their brown teeth at Babcock as an old crone in front of the cages held out a hand to him, asking, ‘Buy? Buy? Buy?’
Adam Horne’s first clue to the identity of the man who would be receiving him at Company House came when a secretary said that His Excellency, Governor Spencer, was not expecting Horne to arrive in Madagascar until the following week.
Governor Spencer of Bombay, a slim man with a meticulously trimmed moustache and pointed goatee, was wearing a neatly cut but unfashionable frock-coat when he greeted Horne in a second-storey room in Company House. After a curt handshake, he nodded to a pair of gilt chairs in front of the tall, shuttered windows, saying, ‘Let us sit there.’
Horne sat down, his back to the window, cocked hat on his knee. He had met Spencer on only two previous occasions, both brief, before he had captured General Lally from Madras, a mission which had been ordered by Spencer and his two fellow Governors, Pigot of Madras and Vansittart of Bengal.
Dispensing with any social niceties, Spencer came straight to the point. ‘As you’re well aware, Captain Horne, the war with France is entering its sixth year.’
Horne kept his eyes on Spencer’s gaunt face, his complexion apparently untouched by India’s harsh weather which turned most men’s skin to leather.
The Governor, his voice clipped and impatient, went on. ‘The two countries seem to have reached a stalemate. The fighting has come to a lull. In the meantime, the French are still plagued with the problem which led to Lally’s downfall at Pondicherry: lack of money.’
Commodore Watson had also mentioned money, Horne remembered. Had Watson known that Spencer was waiting to see him in Port Diego-Suarez? If so, why had he not said anything about it?
Spencer continued, ‘But only in the past weeks, Captain Horne, have we heard about a consignment of gold being shipped from France to pay their troops in Mauritius.’
Commodore Watson
had
known about the mission, Horne was sure of it, but the Governors had obviously forbidden him to say anything about it. So the old walrus had done his best by uttering hints about a treasure ship.
‘The British Navy Board has instructed the East India Company to intercept the French gold shipment, Captain Horne. That’s why we are turning to you.’
Without waiting for Horne’s response, Spencer rose from his chair and moved to a large, delicately painted map stretched on the wall.
Pointing to the pastel-green tip of Africa, he said, ‘Governor Pigot, Governor Vansittart and myself are calling upon you, Captain Horne, to commandeer the French war chest between the Cape of Good Hope and—’
As Spencer pointed to a small dot directly east of Madagascar—Mauritius—Horne noticed that the Governor’s fingernails were torn and ragged. Apart from being at variance with his neat appearance, the bitten nails betrayed that he was a very troubled man.
* * *
‘With all due respect, Your Excellency, why does the Navy Board not dispatch its own ships on this mission?’
Horne’s question surprised Spencer. Looking over his shoulder, he studied the man sitting in the chair, his grey eyes dulling as he formed his answer.
Turning from the map, he nodded, explaining, ‘His Majesty’s Navy are servants of the King, Captain Horne.
When England signs a peace treaty with France—an event which we see as being imminent—England will be made to repay any gold taken in war.’
‘Does not the Company’s charter give it the same responsibility as the state, Your Excellency? Would not gold taken from a French ship by the Honourable East India Company also have to be returned by articles of an international treaty?’
Spencer’s face softened. ‘Yes. But only if the East India Company could be directly connected with the … event—which it will not be if the attack goes as we hope it will.’
Horne began to understand. ‘The Navy Board—as well as the Company—want unidentifiable raiders to seize the French war chest.’
‘In a manner of speaking, yes.’
‘That’s why you’re turning to—’ Horne decided that only the Marines’ loathsome nickname would be appropriate. ‘—the Bombay buccaneers.’
‘Precisely.’
‘But why choose
me
to lead the mission, Your Excellency?’
‘Your performance at Madras makes you the most likely candidate, Captain Horne.’
‘I had the
Eclipse
.’
Spencer turned away from Horne. ‘I understand, Captain, that your recent voyage from Bombay to Madagascar was itself interrupted by raiders. I also understand that you helped thwart the attack as well as capture two ships, one of which is a frigate, a fine, strong ship called the
Huma
.’
Who told him that? Goodair? Tree?
Spencer continued, ‘Even as we talk, Captain Horne, below us in the harbour the
Huma
is undergoing repairs—masts replaced, guns fitted, entirely provisioned and crewed.’
Horne refused to allow himself to become excited about the possibility of the majestic
Huma
being assigned to his command. Instead, his voice sharpened as he asked, ‘What
ship would have been assigned for the mission had the
Huma
not been captured, Your Excellency?’
The young man’s questions disturbed Governor Spencer. He did not like subordinates being so thorough.
He replied, ‘A Company brig was to have been spared.’
‘How, sir, can one ship—brig
or
frigate—hope to take an entire convoy?’
‘You’re assuming that the French gold is travelling in convoy, Captain Horne. Our sources in France report that the gold departed six months ago from Le Havre aboard a ship called the
Royaume
.’
‘And the ship is still at sea, sir?’
‘Yes.’
‘With all due respect, sir, how do you receive information so quickly?’
‘The
Royaume
is also laden with cargo, Captain. Heavy cargo. Progress is slow.’
Horne thought of one possibility of danger. ‘Could not Mauritius also have been alerted and be sending an escort for the
Royaume
when she passes into the Indian Ocean?’
‘That could be dealt with.’
‘Am I to understand by that remark, Your Excellency, that Pocock’s fleet will also be participating in the operation? If only in a minor capacity?’
‘Admiral Pocock and His Majesty’s Navy will be kept informed, yes.’
It was on the tip of Horne’s tongue to argue that word passed by sea messenger would not help him and his men in a difficult situation, not if they needed immediate support.
Spencer said, ‘You look troubled, Captain Horne? Why? At Madras, the odds against success were much greater.’
‘At Madras, Your Excellency, you and your distinguished colleagues supplied me with ground plans for Fort St George. Watch charts. Time lists. I have nothing now except a fairly dated report saying that the French have dispatched a treasure chest—aboard a ship named the
Royaume
—destined for the island of Mauritius.’ Unimpressed, Horne shrugged.
‘Ah, but you do have a squadron of highly trained Marines, Captain Horne. Six of them.’
Not seven? Governor Spencer’s source of information about the Marines must be impeccable, including the news of Bapu’s death. Horne had an inexplicable feeling that his enemy might easily be not the French, but England’s Honourable East India Company.
* * *
Horne had left Company House. Governor Spencer sat at a table in a small room, holding the letter which Horne had written to his father in London. Chips from the wax seal were scattered across the table’s leather top.
Reading the simply-written communication, Spencer liked Horne even less than he did in person. The letter’s tone was like Horne himself: straightforward, yes, but it seemed to be hiding something. As Horne did.
Horne had written of a leader’s responsibility to his troops, of man’s need to be constantly ready for death, of the fact that death in a distant, alien land was not as terrifying as the prospect of death in one’s homeland.
Reading these thoughts, Spencer wondered what kind of relationship a son had with his father when he could write to him about such ideas instead of gossiping about cousins and marriages and blisters, and too much rice and not enough potatoes. Spencer pictured the red-nosed
tradesman
who had sired him and felt a strange, new jealousy of Horne.
Despite the fact that it was no normal letter home, the pages contained no mention of any mission, no facts which Horne might have deduced from Watson and was passing on to his father. The Honourable East India Company was insisting that there must be no hint to anyone—not even
family, especially an influential family like Horne’s—about the assignment to seize the French war chest. Ramifications were going to be difficult enough without unnecessary inquiries. The undertaking was volatile.
Putting aside the letter, Spencer rang a silver bell on the table to summon his secretary. The letter could be resealed and given back to Goodair to deliver in London. Spencer also made a mental note that Goodair must somehow be rewarded by the Company for his co-operation in handing over the letter. Perhaps a ceremonial sword, something given to him at a Company banquet, something to make the old man swell his pigeon chest.
As he sat waiting, Spencer decided that what troubled him most about Adam Horne was his lack of resemblance to most young men who came out to India. In general they were running away from gambling debts in England; from a wife, from scandal or crime. Although rumour had it that Horne had fled London after his fiancée had been murdered by a well-bred hooligan, Spencer had the distinct feeling that he had come to India not running from anything, but looking for something. But what? Who? Why?
Horne troubled Spencer. He was a puzzle, an aristocrat by attitude if not birth, who lived by his own rules. Spencer’s one consolation was that young men like Adam Horne did not know what a relentless world they lived in, that they were innocent creatures compared to men like Spencer who had to plot, connive, juggle right and wrong to reach a profitable end. Men like Spencer used men like Adam Horne.