The Bombay Marines (11 page)

The young men whom Elihu Cornhill selected to train came from all parts of Britain, from every walk of life – country bumpkins, city rakes, heirs to vast fortunes, destitute lads without even a pair of shoes to their name.

Were Cornhill’s teachings eccentric, perhaps even dangerous? Were his students no more than an odd selection of boys playing exotic games of tin soldiers on a tumbledown Wiltshire estate?

Perhaps so. But whatever their background, Cornhill selected students who had had some brush with crime.

Grab
a
criminal
early
enough
in
life,
Horne,
and
you
might
find
a
soldier.

Standing aboard the
Eclipse
off the rocky shore of Bull Island, Horne wondered if his idea to make Bombay Marines out of prisoners should really be attributed to Elihu Cornhill. Had the suggestion to recruit men from the dungeons of Bombay Castle stemmed from Cornhill’s philosophy of giving a young man a chance to prove his worthiness on the battlefield, to serve King and Country rather than to murder, rob, and vandalise?

A splash in the water broke his reverie.

Standing motionless on the quarterdeck, he scanned the ruffled water between the
Eclipse
and the shoreline.

He spotted a swimmer approaching the frigate with strong, clean strokes.

A voice hailed from the water. ‘Ahoy! Permission to come aboard!’

Lieutenant Pilkington moved alongside Horne on the quarterdeck, his hand resting on the hilt of his sabre.

Horne raised his hand. ‘I’ll deal with this, Lieutenant.’

Descending the ladder, Horne crossed to the port entry
and cupped both hands to his mouth. ‘Identify yourself.’

The swimmer’s head bobbed below the bulwark, a round spot in the spreading glow from the port lantern.

‘Babcock!’

Horne threw a rope.

Babcock’s bare feet scrambled up the hull, his breath steady despite the climb and the long swim.

Standing in front of Horne, he dripped water onto the deck. ‘McFiddich’s out.’

‘Out?’

‘Of prison. Somebody set him loose.’

Horne’s dark eyes narrowed. ‘How do you know this, Babcock?’

‘Mercer had me listed for guard duty with Rajit and –’

Horne sharply corrected, ‘You call him
Midshipman
Mercer, Babcock. And
Sergeant
Rajit.’

‘
Midshipman
Mercer had me listed for guard duty with
Sergeant
Rajit … sir. But I remembered that Rajit –
Sergeant
Rajit – twisted his ankle yesterday. So I goes to the Infirmary to see if there was some change of command. Rajit –
Sergeant
Rajit – he sent me to check with the old Marine, Witherspoon, who was standing guard duty tonight with Vega over McFiddich’s hot box. That’s when I saw it.’

‘Saw, Babcock?’

‘McFiddich gone, Witherspoon too. And Vega dead.’

‘Vega …
dead
?’

Babcock sliced one finger across his throat.

Fernando Vega had trained all day with Horne. The Spanish prisoner was moody but had shown more energy than any other man on the team. Now he was dead. Horne was less one more man for Fort St George.

Babcock continued. ‘I reported back to Rajit. That was when he –
Sergeant
Rajit, sir – told me to come out to you.’

‘Why didn’t you row?’

‘Rajit told me to draw as little attention to myself as possible.’

The advice was sound. Horne wondered, however, if it
had indeed come from Rajit. He remembered that Babcock had been part of the plot in Bombay Castle to get the cell keys. He also remembered seeing Babcock eating his midday meals with McFiddich.

Unable to tell from the big American Colonial’s manner whether he was lying, Horne pressed, ‘What’s happened to Vega’s musket?’

‘Gone.’

‘McFiddich’s armed.’

‘Witherspoon too.’

Horne waited a few seconds trying to evaluate Babcock’s report. He had to admit that his manner was not altogether displeasing. Babcock was either a friendly man or a truly accomplished actor.

‘Babcock, why do I think I can’t believe you?’

Grinning, Babcock pulled on his ear. ‘I didn’t think you’d believe me, Captain, so I asked Rajit what I could tell you for proof.’

‘And?’

‘He said he’d sent you a note earlier tonight.’

Horne remembered the note which Midshipman Mercer had brought as he was leaving the pier in the jolly-boat. He took it from his waistband, unfolded it, and read the one word which Rajit had written on it.

‘TROUBLE’.

Horne made his decision. ‘I’m going back ashore with you, Babcock. We’ll go the same way you came out. Swim.’

Horne and Babcock crawled from the surf a short distance along the shore from Headquarters. Still uncertain about Babcock’s loyalties, Horne sent him to check on the sentry at the far side of the island. He remained crouched alongside the boulders until he saw Babcock disappear up the western slope. He made his own way in the opposite direction.

Tonight’s guard at Headquarters were the two Marines, Cabel Williams and Jim Hobbs; Horne paused a few yards from the small house until he saw them turn towards the pier, then, dashing towards the building, he pressed himself against the plank door, reached sideways, turned the iron ring, and slipped across the threshold.

Accustoming his eyes to the faint light pouring through the small window above the cot, he heard snores come from a body heaped on the mattress – Midshipman Mercer.

Calvin Mercer jumped at the clamp of Horne’s hand on his mouth.

Ready to defend himself if the young Midshipman struggled in his half-awake state, Horne whispered, ‘It’s me … Captain Horne.’

Mercer raised himself on his elbows, his dark eyes wide with surprise.

Horne kept his hand clamped over Mercer’s mouth. ‘McFiddich’s escaped.’

Mercer’s eyes shot above him to the window.

‘He’s got recruits.’

Mercer sat higher on the cot.

‘We can’t trust more than a handful of men.’

Mercer nodded.

‘I want you to get dressed. Slip out of the window. Go down to Barracks One. You’ll find Midshipman Bruce there on guard with Bapu.’

Horne released his grip from Mercer’s mouth. ‘One man’s already been killed.’

‘Mutiny, sir?’

‘It could be. So after alerting Midshipman Bruce, go to the Infirmary and wake Sergeant Rajit. Help him walk back here. Rajit can keep watch on the arsenal while you take command of Pier Guard.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Now get dressed.’

Horne moved to his desk and removed a brace of pistols from the top drawer. He stuck them into the waistband of his soaked breeches and moved back to the bed while Mercer was pulling on his boots.

Standing by the window, Horne watched Williams and Hobbs pass in their patrol. He waited until they had turned the corner, then leaped onto the cot, pushed out the window frame and hopped onto the sill. Holding the framed glass, he jumped outside to the ground. Mercer followed him over the sill and disappeared into the night; then Horne replaced the pane.

Crouching in the darkness, Horne listened to Williams and Hobbs talking around the corner about the advantages of owning farmland as opposed to a public house.

When he finally moved from the shadows he kept low to the ground, dashing in short sprints across the barren space between Headquarters and the western slope of the island which rose jagged in the moonlight.

Horne made faster time moving on higher ground where he
was protected by the silhouette of the cliffs and by the sound of the sea crashing against them. Pausing at the crest, he espied the dark shapes of two men ahead of him on the plateau: one man was kneeling in front of another who appeared to be propped against the trunk of a stunted tree.

‘Horne?’

Horne froze at the call of his name.

The voice belonged to Babcock. ‘They got Allen, Horne.’

If Babcock was a spy for McFiddich, he was a good one. Horne was impressed that the American had not only heard him climbing the slope but had identified him without turning his head.

Moving across the plateau, he fell to his knees next to Babcock; Martin Allen was propped against the trunk, blood soaking his shirt. Horne recalled fleetingly that Allen had also been among the prisoners training in today’s drill team. Damn it! Did this mean he was one more man short for the squad?

Babcock tucked a folded shirt behind Allen’s head. ‘Sweetwater was on duty here with Allen tonight.’

‘Sweetwater’s joined McFiddich?’ Horne remembered how Randy Sweetwater had collapsed in the sun after lunch. He wondered if the Marine had joined the mutineers out of revenge for being eliminated from the squad.

Allen’s breath came in short spurts. ‘McFiddich stabbed me when I said … I said I wanted no part of his plan …’

Horne saw that Allen was in pain but he had to learn at least a few details. ‘How many are there?’

‘More than a dozen, sir … Sweetwater just joined tonight … I was part of it myself … But when you came here the other night, sir … bringing us tobacco … talking about Horne … saying you’d write Ellen a letter for me …’

‘Save your strength, Allen.’

‘Sir, McFiddich’s dangerous … He killed Vega because he didn’t like him … He hates you too, sir, for some reason I don’t –’

Horne saw that Allen was losing blood quickly, that the knife wound had to be staunched.

‘Stay quiet, Allen. We’ll get Flannery up here to look at you.’

The young bare-knuckle fighter winced as he continued. ‘They’ve gone to take the
Eclipse,
sir.’

Babcock looked at Horne. ‘Should I get down to the pier and put a few holes in that rowing boat?’

Horne shook his head. ‘No. They’d know we’re onto them. It’s better if –’ He stopped, staring at a sight beyond the cliffs: a double-masted brig with the flag of France flapping brilliantly in the moonlight.

Seeing the brig approaching on the southern horizon, Horne remembered the mysterious ship which Tyson Lovett had spotted yesterday, the ship which had disappeared beyond the horizon before Horne had arrived with his spyglass. Was it the same one? Were the French keeping Bull Island under surveillance? Were other ships nearby?

Sailing by a westerly breeze, the French brig headed towards the southwest promontory of Bull Island. Horne saw that her larboard gunports were open and that men were swinging from the yardarms, trimming the sails.

Allen temporarily forgot the pain cutting his chest. ‘Blimey, sir, it’s Frenchies!’

Horne’s mind moved to the
Eclipse
on the far side of the island.

Babcock asked, ‘Why are the Frenchies prowling these islands?’

Not answering either man, Horne removed one flintlock from his waistband and laid it on the ground by Allen’s leg. ‘Wait here for Flannery.’

Allen shook his head. ‘Thank you, sir, but don’t waste no arms on me.’

Babcock rose to his feet. ‘Take it. If Flannery tries cutting you up when he’s drunk, use it on him.’

Horne turned to Babcock. ‘You take the other pistol. Go to the south ledge. You’ll find Midshipman Bruce on Barracks Watch there.’

Babcock looked at the weapon. ‘You trust me a little more now?’

Horne nodded. Babcock’s actions had proved his loyalty. Moreover, Horne did not dislike Babcock’s straightforward question. The American Colonial was a strong-minded man, not a mewling milktoast who passively took orders.

Tucking the pistol into his waistband, Babcock felt pleased that he had made the decision to reject McFiddich and stand by Horne. There would be more excitement with the Marines than with any mutineers. Also, Horne had guts. Back in Ohio, men called it ‘grit’.

A loud boom exploded across the island.

Allen sat alert against the tree. ‘What was that?’

‘Cannon fire.’ Horne listened for another report.

Babcock laughed. ‘If McFiddich took a rowboat out to the
Eclipse,
he’s getting more than he bargained for.’

Horne heard no second explosion, only the crashing surf. The boom must have been a warning shot fired at the
Eclipse.
If the rumours were true he had heard about France being unable to pay her men wages, the French brig might be prowling among the islands for prizes.

The brisk wind tossed a silver-capped surf against the island’s uneven shoreline, making the water rise in swells around the
Eclipse.
Adam Horne rose and dipped with the swells as he swam towards the frigate, riding a crest to save energy, falling forward into a trough, plunging onwards through the whitecaps.

Swimming from the south, he spotted a jolly-boat bobbing in the surf below the frigate’s port entry. McFiddich must have come aboard with a handful of men. He saw, too, that the mutineers had not yet hoisted the anchor lines.

Gripping a tarred anchor line, Horne climbed to the taffrail. He paused before jumping on deck, listening for voices, for footsteps, any noise on the quarterdeck. He raised his head and saw in the moonlight that the main deck milled with men; he looked beyond the larboard bow and spied the white sails of the French brig glistening to the east of the cove’s mouth.

Scrambling over the railings, he spotted Pilkington face down on the quarterdeck, the Lieutenant’s right hand clenching his sabre, a dark pool of blood spreading from his chest.

Horne fell to the quarterdeck and pressed his ear to Pilkington’s back. There was no heart beat.

He wrenched the sabre from Pilkington’s grip and remained on his belly as he proceeded fore, straining to make sense of the hubbub of voices below him.

McFiddich was haranguing the crew: ‘Don’t be stupid!
I’m your chance for a new life!
Freedom
!’

Horne raised his head cautiously above the carved dowling of the quarterdeck; the moonlight was strong enough for him to spot McFiddich clinging to a ratline, a flintlock in one hand.

‘We’ll make for Africa! Arabia! Oman! I’ll put the port up to a vote!’

A voice called, ‘How bloody far do you think we’ll get with you in command, McFiddich?’

Merlin the gunner pointed towards the cove. ‘What do you plan to do about them Frenchies out there, McFiddich?’

McFiddich shouted, ‘They’ll help us!’

Scornful laughter met McFiddich’s reply, and as further chaos broke out amongst the men, Horne identified faces in the crowd: Tandimmer, Groot, Bakerswell, Jud.

Warnke the purser shouted, ‘McFiddich, you’re going to get us all sent to the gallows!’

Bakerswell the topsman added, ‘We knew you prison rats would bring us nothing but trouble!’

Ned Wren stepped alongside McFiddich. ‘Give him a bloody chance, damn you! He wants to help all of us!’

‘Yeah! Help us straight back into prison!’

Tom Gibbons, knife in hand, rushed from the companionway. ‘Horne’s not in his cabin.’

McFiddich leapt down from the ratlines. ‘Look below deck where his pet’s locked. In fact, bring up that fancy little Indian –’

A boom from the French brig’s cannon roared across the cove; the brig was still out of striking distance but the shot sent the men into further confusion.

Horne knew he must seize the opportunity to act and, deciding to trust a trait he knew in his crew, he remembered an order which every seaman was always ready to obey.

Springing to his feet on the quarterdeck, he shouted, ‘
Prepare
to
make
way
!’

Silence fell over the main deck. The men stared at Horne as if seeing an apparition.

Horne stabbed Pilkington’s sabre towards the mouth of the cove. ‘That’s a French prize crew out there!’

Horne’s appearance – his sodden breeches, his bare chest beaded with water, sword high in the moonlight – held the men in a trance.

He singled out Tandimmer. ‘Cash in on this westerly!’

Next he chose a topsman. ‘Bakeswell, loose tops’ls!’

He turned to Gibbons. ‘Heave anchor, bo’sun!’

Knife in hand, Gibbons looked in confusion from Horne to McFiddich. Captain Horne was trusting him again!

McFiddich raised his pistol, aiming at Horne on the quarterdeck.

Gibbons’ stab was fast and he repeated it, pulling out the stained blade from McFiddich’s chest as Groot sprung upon Ned Wren, thumbs poking for his jugular vein.

Dropping McFiddich’s corpse to deck, Gibbons faced the crew. ‘Captain Horne’s given his orders. So move your lazy arses and heave anchor!’

The bustle became general, men moving to their posts, scurrying up the shrouds, swinging from ratlines, as commands ran through the frigate.

His hands cupped to his mouth, Horne continued shouting orders for all hands on deck, for the anchor to be stowed, gun carriages run out for battle.