The Bombay Marines (10 page)

Adam Horne awoke on the seventh morning in Headquarters with one thought foremost in his mind: he was wrong to weigh himself down with the problems that had developed on Bull Island when the goal of his mission was not here but at Fort St George.

As he shaved and dressed, he realised that he would utilize his time better by relegating all administrative duties – including discipline – to his officers and concentrating his own efforts on choosing the final candidates for the squadron.

Thinking about his officers, Horne remembered how Tim Flannery had reported last night that Sergeant Rajit’s ankle would take ten days to two weeks to mend. Horne wanted Rajit with him at Fort St George and, as departure was only three weeks away, he faced the fact that Rajit would have to stay off his feet and not help him in preparing the team.

Glancing out of the window as he dried himself, he looked across the harbour yard at the men pouring from the two barracks. Why not begin separating the wheat from the chaff this morning at breakfast? By the end of the day’s drill, he could make the next eliminations.

Of the one-hundred-and-twenty men on Bull Island, Horne suspected there would be little more than a dozen or so potential candidates for the mission. Why not start discovering today exactly how many fit and truly able men he had?

Leaving Headquarters, he crossed the yard at a smart
pace, feeling enthusiasm for the work building inside him. It was the same glow of excitement he had felt before the fight between Jingee and McFiddich. Perhaps he was losing himself in duty, but the spark of renewed energy made every problem seem surmountable again.

‘Groot, climb that wall! There’s a hound snapping at your arse … Can’t bloody Turks jump higher than a foot off the ground, Mustafa? … You’re a good shot with a musket, Bapu, but you throw that grappling iron like a girl.’

Adam Horne heard himself mimicking Rajit’s staccato commands as he pushed the sixteen men he had selected at breakfast through the drill courses dotted around Bull Island. As the morning sun crested in the sky, he led the single file of men over stone hurdles, snaked them on their bellies across stony ground and improvised bridges, barked them up greased poles planted in sand.

‘Babcock, when I say run, you ask “how far,
sir
?” … Put more weight into that fist, Kiro. You’re not going to kill a man with your knuckles. Not the way you hit … Sweet-water, you tackle that sandbag like an old maiden aunt.’

Three of Horne’s training team came from the
Eclipse
’s Marine unit, Tyson Lovett, Cable Wendell and Randy Sweetwater. Brett Dunbar and Geoff Hands belonged to the ship’s crew. The other eleven men were prisoners from Bombay Castle: Allen, Bapu, Babcock, Kiro, Groot, Jud, Mustafa, Poiret, Quinte, Scott and Vega.

Horne broke drill for the midday meal earlier than Rajit’s usual hour, but instead of allowing the team time to rest after eating, he ordered them back up on their feet and began them running in the blazing sun. Groaning, the men trudged from the island’s main settlement towards the southern plateau, dragging their feet up the slope, a few vomiting as they mounted the hill.

Horne pushed them, and when Randy Sweetwater was
unable to rise from the ground, he left him on his knees retching, the first man to be eliminated from the final contenders for the mission.

As the sun began sinking towards the western horizon, Horne detailed the remaining fifteen men to dig new latrines, split firewood, mend fishnets and join guard duty. He moved from post to post, observing which men still had some energy after a gruelling day’s exercises, which men complained about long hours, which men pushed themselves to obey orders.

The time came for supper, but Horne postponed his own meal. He remained in Headquarters to inform two more men that he was eliminating them from the squadron.

Brian Scott, brawny and loyal, did not understand silence. Horne hated to lose a rugged man like Scott but one badly timed cough, one clank of the musket could betray a unit’s location and endanger the entire mission.

The next man to be dismissed was Kiro. The Japanese prisoner stood barefooted in front of Horne’s desk, a
dhoti
tied around his sinewy body and a red bandana twisted around his forehead.

Horne paced the floor behind Kiro. ‘You’re strong. Quick. You have stamina. You’re good at everything except a hand-to-hand fight.’

Silently, Kiro stood facing Horne’s desk.

‘For some reason, Kiro, you freeze at the moment of attack. Why?’

Kiro’s voice was soft and respectful, touched with his musical Eastern accent. ‘My master taught me to show caution, Captain Horne.’

Horne looked over his shoulder at Kiro. ‘Master?’

‘Master of the Open Hand, sir.’

Intrigued, Horne asked, ‘Your teacher of
Karate
?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Horne had forgotten about Kiro’s knowledge of
Karate
; he had killed a man in Bombay Castle with one deft chop of the hand, and he might well worry about accidentally injuring someone.

The germ of an idea sprouting in his brain, Horne resumed his pacing of the room. ‘I learned from a man I respect very much, Kiro, that Greeks travelled to Japan hundreds of years ago, that they taught their art of open-hand combat –
Pankration
– to the Japanese in exchange for the secret of silk-making.’

Kiro remained facing the desk. ‘I have not heard that story, sir.’

‘If you turn round, Kiro, I’ll show you the similarities I learned between Japanese
Karate
and Greek
Pankration.’

Horne raised both hands, holding both elbows down wards, resting his weight on his back foot as Elihu Cornhill had taught him.

Kiro turned and immediately recognized Horne’s stance as a Japanese
kata.
Raising his own hands, Kiro rested his weight on his back leg, raising one heel of the other foot off the floor, toes pointed upwards.

Horne sliced one hand at Kiro.

Kiro blocked the chop, spinning, striking at Horne with his bare foot.

Horne stepped away from Kiro’s kick, swinging his left hand for the next move. The two men continued in silent combat, one deft slice or kick following another, each block, each kick being potentially lethal had it struck its mark.

Satisfied, Horne stepped back from Kiro and dropped his arms.

‘Kiro, why didn’t you tell me you were worried about injuring somebody with your hands during training?’

Kiro’s finely chiselled face remained placid but his dark eyes twinkled. ‘The Japanese also have the art of
Haiku,
Captain Horne. I do not know if we learned it from the Greeks but one poem says, “Water changes to steel but leaves fall softly when the bird flies”.’

Horne returned to his desk. ‘Kiro, will you agree to keep training with the team?’

Both arms by his side, palms inwards, Kiro bowed to Horne.

The garish purple Indian sunset was darkening to an indigo night as Horne climbed into the jolly-boat to row out to the
Eclipse
for an overdue meeting with George Tan-dimmer. Since morning, he had enjoyed boundless energy. His list of chores seemed endless but he felt he could accomplish everything as long as he kept driving himself. In the rapidly spreading night, he was pushing the snub-nosed boat from the pier when he heard Midshipman Bruce running towards him, calling, ‘Captain Horne! Captain Horne! A message from Sergeant Rajit, Captain Horne!’ Horne leaned from the boat, grabbed the folded paper from Bruce’s outstretched hand. Tucking it into his waistband, he hurried to stop one oar from slipping in its rowlock.

Tandimmer waited for Horne at the port entry of the
Eclipse,
pleased to be free from shore drills and honoured that Horne had invited him for a tankard of beer in the Captain’s cabin.

The two men sat on opposite sides of the desk, in the breeze from the stern window. While enjoying Tandimmer’s company, Horne also hoped to glean information from him about Madras.

Not wanting to arouse Tandimmer’s suspicions about the
Eclipse’
s destination after Bull Island, Horne manoeuvred the conversation towards the subject of native craft, eventually asking, ‘What’s the name of those boats that carry passengers ashore at Madras?’

Tandimmer licked foam from his upper lip.
‘Masulah.’

‘What are they? Dug-out logs?’

‘A
masulah,
sir, is a plank boat sewn together with coconut twine.’

Horne was certain of Tandimmer’s loyalty but Commodore Watson had given him strict orders not to tell anyone the few available details about the Governors’ mission for the Bombay Marine.

He risked another question. ‘What shape are these boats?’

‘Flat bottomed with tall sides inclining like –’

Tandimmer set his tankard on the corner of Horne’s desk and slanted both hands inwards, ‘– like this.’

Horne took another sip of his beer. ‘Odd shape for a shore boat.’

Tandimmer explained. ‘There’s no harbour at Madras, sir. Also, the surf’s rough there and comes in three stages. When the first wave crashes ashore, the second is a hundred yards or so out, and the third wave is the same distance away again. All three race to shore in great, galloping speeds.’

‘And these
masulah
boats can withstand such a surf?’

‘Oh, they leak and capsize every now and then, you can be certain of that. They’re also known to dunk their passengers in the drink. That’s why they’re usually escorted by catamarans, to fish out the passengers. The
masulah
oarsmen wear tall, hollow hats to carry important papers back and forth between ship and shore.’

Satisfied with these few details, Horne turned the conversation to the subject of catamarans, then to another unique Indian boat, a
gurab,
which the Bombay Marine had developed into a ship known to the English as a ‘grab’.

Finally bidding Tandimmer good night, Horne saw him to the cabin door.

The Sailing Master hesitated in the companionway. ‘Sir, if you want to know more about the surf off Madras, you should ask Jingee. I talked with him on shore for several nights after supper and he told me his family have a fishing fleet near Cuddalore.’

Horne knew that Jingee’s family came from the Coromandel Coast, that they were rich merchants and members of the
Vaisya
Caste. He had not asked the Indian about Madras because a decision still had to be made about his punishment for fighting McFiddich.

He remembered another fact about Jingee. ‘Did he ever learn how to pronounce your name?’

Tandimmer’s freckled face broke into a grin. ‘Tin hammer.’

Horne extended his hand. ‘Good night.’

‘Good night, sir.’

Horne closed the door, displeased that Tandimmer had reminded him about Jingee. He liked Jingee. Apart from being a devoted worker, the little man was good company. But he had done wrong in fighting with McFiddich and a decision had to be made soon about his punishment.

The sky glittered with small pinpoints of stars as Horne climbed the ladder to the quarterdeck and found Lieutenant Pilkington on watch.

Pilkington saluted Horne and returned to studying the full phosphorescent moon swept by clouds. ‘A brisk westerly tonight, sir.’

Horne nodded, wishing they could weigh anchor tonight for Madras and embark on whatever mission awaited them there. He was making headway on Bull Island but he was becoming impatient for real action, or at least to learn the exact orders for the Marines. His last assignment had been so clear cut, so concise in its instructions to stop Singee Ranjee attacking Company trade routes. He had known exactly how to prepare his men and ship, how to make the most of advantages and shortcomings.

‘Sir, we were lucky today, weren’t we?’

‘Lucky, Lieutenant?’

‘Not to have had another big downpour.’

‘Hmmm.’

‘I’ll tell you now, sir, I wouldn’t like to have been McFiddich in that hot box.’

Horne did not want to talk about Kevin McFiddich any more than he had wanted to discuss Jingee, but as usual, Pilkington was eager to talk.

‘Sir, do you imagine that if McFiddich were left long
enough inside that hot box he would cook? Roast like a joint of beef?’

‘Lieutenant, may we abandon the subject of McFiddich?’

‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’ Pilkington moved fore, leaving Horne by the taffrail.

Alone, Horne began pacing the quarterdeck, his thoughts moving from Jingee and McFiddich to his hesitation about deciding their punishment and so to the responsibility of a leader. Standing beneath the starry Indian sky, he clasped both hands behind his back and remembered how he had begun to understand the true challenges of leadership on the last assignment. He recalled his early years of military training with Elihu Corn hill, the squarely-built old soldier who had first tutored him in the art of leading others.

‘A leader must remember two things, Horne. Never be without a command for your men, even if it’s no more than “show courage” … “take cover” … “prepare for action” …

‘Secondly, Horne, always be prepared to get in and fight alongside your men. That doesn’t mean relaxing discipline or becoming overly familiar. A leader must keep his men’s respect while at the same time setting the example for them, showing them how to fight like a dog.’

Elihu Cornhill had been fifty-seven years old when Horne had studied with him in Wiltshire, a veteran of the War of the Austrian Succession but a soldier who preferred to remember his years fighting North American Indians in Quebec.

Cornhill had taught his young pupils to cover their bodies with chimney soot and crawl through inky-black English nights. To cake their arms and legs with lead paint in winter and dash from poplar to poplar in a January snowfall, camouflaged against a winterscape of whiteness.

Food was as important in survival training as avoiding detection by the enemy. Cornhill had taught his students how to bite open a squirrel’s neck, how to skin the fur from
the rodent’s warm body and devour its flesh raw. He had also taught his young men how a soldier could survive in prison by eating the callouses from his feet and hands.