The Bombay Marines (12 page)

The
Eclipse
caught the wind, lying over no more than a few degrees, and with an exhilarating lurch, got underway in the moonlight, graceful despite the crew’s frenzied work – shrouds singing, fall and block creaking, yards shivering from quick tug and stress.

As the topsails bellied against the starry sky, Horne looked to the mouth of the cove and saw the French brig tacking southeast, bringing her head to the wind as she set a course straight for the
Eclipse.

Using hands for his trumpet, Horne bellowed, ‘Set course for northeast!’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

‘Mind that jib, Groot. The wind’s more powerful than you think.’

‘Aye, aye,
schupper.’

Horne gauged the point in the cove at which the two ships would pass. ‘Tops’ls short!’

Pilkington’s body had been carried below deck when Jingee was freed from his irons. No officer stood near Horne to repeat his orders so he shouted above the excited din of the frigate.

‘Steer firm, Tandimmer.’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

‘There’s tail lag, Gibbons. Get that anchor stowed, blast it!’

Gibbons was thrilled to be once again trusted by his captain and he beat his knotted rope across the back of his
tugging crew, exhorting them with a stream of profanities.

Horne tilted back his head. ‘Jud! Ahoy up there! Any sign of sails beyond?’

The big African waved from his perch high atop the main topgallant mast, signalling to Horne that – as far as moonlight and the surrounding islands allowed a view – there were no other vessels in the night.

The French brig, closing the gap between herself and the
Eclipse,
fired another ball.

The brig was still out of range and Horne interpreted the blast as a ranging shot, wondering if he had misread the enemy’s intent for a broadside. Might they start firing for the prow? Use their bow-chasers?

He raised his hands to his mouth again and shouted to the gun deck. ‘Is there time enough and men, Merlin, to position a cannon upwards from the waist battery?’

‘I’ll shoot you the moon, sir!’

‘Pack her grape tightly!’

If command aboard the
Eclipse
had previously been slipshod and short of Admiralty standards, the frigate’s present activities now defied all naval traditions. But Horne felt that the men’s high spirits compensated for lack of form, that the contact between them was as taut as a violin string, quick as any ship of the line.

‘Hoist that cannon to cripple their yards, Merlin!’

‘Aye, aye, Captain!’

Horne glanced back at the brig.

Two cables distant, the French ship was still silhouetted on her course to pass a’beam the
Eclipse.

Checking Merlin’s progress with the cannon, Horne spied Jingee running along the gangway, scurrying with a succession of wooden buckets, alternating loads of sand and water – sand to give grip to the gunners’ feet, water for drenching sudden fires.

The sound of the French brig drew his attention back to battle. The distance between the two ships was shortening as they continued on a parallel course, their prows closing …

‘Prepare to –’

Horne waited another one, two, three seconds …

‘–
fire
!’

The cannons belched flames, blue clouds of smoke rising in the night. Both ships shook under the impact. The acrid odour of gunpowder filled the air.

Feeling the deck tremble beneath his bare feet, Horne heard timbers crash, sails rip, the screams of men rising from the gun deck.

The two ships continued past one another, their timbers groaning like two crippled leviathans, leaving wisps of smoke in their wake.

Craning his neck to inspect the damage done to the
Eclipse’
s yards or masts, Horne was pleased to see that the crashing sound had not come from the frigate. He turned to evaluate the damage done to the French brig and saw her topgallant and topsails crashing downwards, the canvas twisting like wings of a moth singed by a flame. Merlin had struck his target.

Lowering his eyes to the brig’s stern, he saw that the French ship followed the new naval fashion of wearing her name resplendent in gilt paint –
La
Favourite.

Another cannon explosion rent the air and Horne jerked his head, wondering if he had missed a manoeuvre. Across the portside stern, he saw the island’s stone pier explode in the moonlight.

La
Favourite
was firing on the settlement.

Headquarters was a powderkeg, the stone house filled with ammunition and explosives. Before Horne could think of a way to warn Rajit, Babcock, and Mercer’s watch to evacuate to the far side of the island, he heard another burst of fire and saw that a warning was too late – Headquarters exploded in a cloud of white smoke.

The bastards!

The crew’s anger matched Horne’s, and as their curses rose from deck, Horne trumpeted, ‘Stand by to go about!’

The men needed no urging.

Tandimmer let the spokes of the wheel spin through his hands.

‘Head to wind!’

‘Aye, aye, sir!’

Sails thundered; canvas snapped; the yards ran alive with the quick figures of the crew and prisoners doubling as seamen.

The
Eclipse
caught her stays. But the movements were not fast enough for Horne’s liking, and he bellowed, ‘Get it over, men! Hang her up in that wind!’

Ropes screamed, blocks groaned, and as the
Eclipse
spun in the night, water swelled, creaming from the frigate’s prow, bubbling in her wake.

‘Prepare to fire!’

‘Guns sponged and loaded, sir.’

‘Canister on round shot?’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

The
Eclipse
turned in the mouth of the cove, moving on the course blazed by
La
Favourite.
Seeing the French brig presently tacking and preparing to come back for the
Eclipse,
Horne nodded to himself as he watched her bring ing her stern to the wind. He was pleased to see the ship move awkwardly in the manoeuvre.

As his next plan boiled in his brain, he again began gauging at what point the two ships would come a’beam one another. He only had a few minutes for preparations.

‘Seize grappling hooks!’

No more than a few men at first understood his plan.

‘Seize grappling hooks and form three boarding parties!’

A cheer spread through the decks as more and more men grabbed the spiked irons attached to long throwing ropes.

Horne commanded, ‘Board the enemy to capture, not to kill!’

Now everyone understood that Horne was ordering hand-to-hand battle.

‘I repeat – do not board to kill. Board to take the ship as a prize, not the enemy as corpses!’

Horne pointed Pilkington’s sabre. ‘Lovett, board men from the prow.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Bapu, you lead from amidship.’

The Rajasthani bandit raised his fist in agreement. ‘Yes, sir!’

‘I will lead from the stern. But we wait for the brig to come astern.’

Horne raised the sabre above his head. ‘Now arm yourselves!’

Not knowing how many men he had aboard the
Eclipse,
he guessed that the French crew would easily outnumber them two to one. He could only depend on his men’s enthusiasm and the physical training they had received in the past few days.

‘Cannon ready?’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

‘Weapons to hand?’

His answer was a roar.

Horne thought of the nickname tagged to Bombay Marines. They
did
look like a shipful of buccaneers, himself included.

He smiled for the first time in – how long had it been since he had smiled so proudly?

Armed with Pilkington’s sabre, a dirk in his other hand and a flintlock stuck into his waistband, Horne felt the wind against his naked chest as he clung to the ratlines and watched the two ships drawing closer for their second encounter. He listened to timbers creaking, sails snapping, waves slapping against their hulls as he waited for the best moment to order – ‘Fire!’

Cannon smoke engulfed the two ships.

‘Throw grappling hooks!’

The spikes flew towards the brig like iron stars. The men began tugging the ropes as the topsmen descended the ratlines and shrouds, their whoops filling the night.

Horne waited for the two bulwarks to collide.

‘Board!’

Leaping over the railing, he led his men across the narrow gap, stabbing his dirk towards a swarthy sailor who greeted him with the swing of an axe.

A French officer, natty in gold braid, hurried to form a line of Marines to repulse the boarding party. But the soldiers were too excited, fumbling as they poured shot into their muzzles.

Horne dodged a strike from a spiked club and continued fore, stabbing to slice a pistol butt from an officer’s hand. All around him the deck was filled with the clank of steel and the pop, pop, pop of flintlocks.

Seeing that the French resistance was weakening quickly, no match for his men’s ferocity, Horne reached the brig’s most vital spot and swung his sabre with both hands, sinking the blade into the rope which held the French colours to the mast.

The flag fluttered downwards, cheers arising from Horne’s men as
La
Favourite
became a prize for the Bombay Marine.

Commodore Watson brushed the yellow dust from his frockcoat after inspecting the damage done to Bull Island. ‘You made yourself a compact little drill station here, Horne. Too bad old Frenchie had to come along and blast it to smithereens.’

Less than twenty-four hours had passed since
La
Favourite
had begun firing on the
Eclipse.
Even less time had elapsed since Commodore Watson had arrived in his flagship,
Ferocious,
forty-two guns, announcing to Adam Horne that he had brought important news from Bombay Castle. So far Watson had not divulged the reason why he had appeared two weeks ahead of schedule.

Adam Horne had not changed clothes since Jud had spotted the
Ferocious
billowing against the purpling of the new dawn; the time since then had been spent dividing the French prisoners between the
Eclipse,
La
Favourite,
and the one shore Barracks which had been quickly transformed into a gaol. After interviewing the French captain, a shrewish man named Pierre Tolent, Horne had conducted burial services for his casualties, committing their death hammocks to the sea before heat hastened putrefaction.

Commodore Watson shaded his eyes in the glare of the midday sun as he faced Horne in the harbour yard. ‘Some officers have a genius for handling vast numbers of men, Horne. Your gift appears to be surviving with damned few.’

Horne had lost five men aboard the
Eclipse
during last
night’s battle and two more from the land explosion. Among them had been two prisoners he had never come to know, Jim Pugh and Edward Quinte. He added the deaths of McFiddich and Wren to the toll, as well as their killing of Vega and the demise this morning of Martin Allen from his knife wound. He had lost a total of eleven men – prisoners, crew, Marines – nine of them having belonged to the special squad he had been training.

‘I make do, sir.’

Watson glanced towards the
Eclipse
anchored on the lee side of
La
Favourite.
‘Your crew must be near enough depleted, Horne.’

‘By many men’s standards, sir, yes.’

Unlike Horne, Watson felt strangely lighthearted. He was pleased to be away from the pressures of Bombay Castle. Also, he did not have to worry about his wife discovering that he had broken his abstinence from spirits.

‘I propose, Horne, that we reward the officer who evacuated the men from your Headquarters before Frenchie began gunning it.’

‘The man’s not an officer, sir. He’s one of the prisoners.’

Watson’s porcine eyes widened. ‘A prisoner?’

‘Yes, sir. His name’s Fred Babcock. He carried Marine Sergeant Rajit on his back to the top of that plateau.’

Watson looked from the plateau back to Horne.

‘So you only have two officers now?’

‘Correct, sir. Midshipman Bruce and Midshipman Mercer. We read Last Rites over Lieutenant Pilkington at dawn. I shall be writing to his family this evening.’

Watson considered the situation. ‘Horne, take time today to provide me with the names of men you’d like promoted at tonight’s ceremony.’

‘Ceremony, sir?’

‘The induction of your new Marines.’

Horne did not understand. ‘Sir, I thought you would induct the new men officially after the mission.’

‘I think they proved themselves worthy to be Marines, Horne.’

Horne felt his first moment of elation for the day. ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

Studying Horne’s unshaven face, the stubble of which was only a fraction shorter than the dark bristles on his shaved head, Watson said, ‘Horne, I’m surprised you haven’t asked why I arrived a fortnight ahead of schedule.’

‘Sir, if seven years in service to the Honourable East India Company has taught me anything, it’s to prepare myself for the worst.’

‘And what, Horne, would be the worst at this moment?’

‘The Governors have advanced the mission, sir. We’re to leave immediately for Fort St George.’

Watson put his arm around Horne’s shoulders, then remembering that he was covered with perspiration and grime, he quickly pulled away, saying, ‘Horne, why not come aboard the
Ferocious
with me now? The awning will be stretched across the quarterdeck. We can sit in the shade. Have a gin. I can tell you the few things I’ve learnt about the assignment since I last saw you.’

Horne recognized the invitation as a command.

‘Yes, sir.’

Following Watson down to the jolly-boat, he glanced at the heap of rubble and stones which had once been Headquarters. Was his stay at Bull Island already over? Had his work here been profitable?

In the evening ceremony conducted aboard the
Ferocious,
Commodore Watson raised Midshipman Bruce and Midshipman Mercer to Second and Third Lieutenant respectively. Their age differences and lengths of service in the Honourable East India Company influenced their promotions in rank.

Adam Horne recommended three crew members to be raised to Midshipman – George Tandimmer, Corin Bramhall, Chris Bennett – a temporary step to make them
higher commissioned officers. But Tandimmer declined the honour, saying he hoped to retire early to an uncle’s farm in Dorset. Horne doubted the existence of such an uncle or farm while admiring Tandimmer’s refusal to rise above a station he enjoyed aboard the
Eclipse.
Bramhall and Bennett both eagerly accepted the offer to swear their oaths to King and Company, as well as to be eligible to receive four pounds boost in pay per annum.

The shipboard ceremony also included the Marine induction. Seven men remained from the original sixteen prisoners from Bombay Castle – Babcock, Bapu, Groot, Kiro, Jingee, Jud and Mustafa.

All the men had been amongst Horne’s final contenders, except for Jingee who had been locked in the ship’s hold. The duel with McFiddich had proved that Jingee had the ability to fight. His actions during the battle with
La
Favourite
had shown his loyalty. Instead of punishing him for fighting with McFiddich, Horne gave him the choice of becoming a Marine.

The squadron would consist only of prisoners from Bombay Castle. Had that been his hidden wish all along? Horne wondered.

The sinking sun painted the evening sky a lush spectrum of rose and purple, a slight breeze flapping the quarterdeck’s awning as Commodore Watson seized an opportunity after administering the Oaths of Allegiance to deliver a few words to the assembled men.

‘Despite the way Captain Horne has pampered you in the past weeks, the life of a Bombay Marine is not the party you’ve been enjoying on Bull Island.’

Polite laughter greeted Watson’s joke, the seven new Marines still uneasy in the broadcloth uniforms hurriedly provided for them from the flagship’s stores.

Cheeks red from an afternoon spent drinking gin and
lemon juice, Watson expounded on the fame of his predecessor, Commodore William James, before airing his repertoire of humour about ‘the other Watson’, Rear Admiral of the Red Charles Watson, with whom people still confused him, despite the fact that Charles Watson had died four years ago.

Adam Horne’s mind wandered during Watson’s tipsy speech-making, remembering the facts he had been given that afternoon about the decision of the three Governors to send the Marine squadron earlier than scheduled into Fort St George. As he had guessed, the assignment to Madras
was
to abduct the French Commander-in-Chief, General Thomas Lally. But Watson had refused to expound this afternoon on the reasons for the action. He dwelled on the difficulties to expect inside the fortress, explaining that the Marines must treat the British Army and Navy as enemy.

Laughter jolted Horne back to the present.

Expansively, Watson was announcing, ‘We shall sail in convoy at tomorrow’s dawn for the Coromandel Coast. Captain Horne will disembark with you seven new men near Cuddalore. Horne’s planning a spot more shore training.’

The announcement surprised Horne. Should Watson be disclosing such a detail so publicly?

Watson continued, ‘From Cuddalore, we’ll proceed north with
La
Favourite
for Bengal where you can lay claim to your prize money. Ten per cent of that brig divided amongst you will buy a few bobs’ worth of pudding, eh?’

Cheers and whistles spread across deck.

‘Now I want every man to enjoy himself with the refreshments provided. But remember – we sail at dawn!’

As the seamen and Marines began to disperse, Horne looked for his escape from the flagship. Sergeant Rajit had been left in command of Barracks Prison Detail and Horne wanted to talk to him, to prepare him for his exclusion from the mission.

Feeling an arm on his shoulder, his heart sank. He
expected to turn and find Watson pressing a gin into his hand.

Instead, he saw Babcock.

‘What’s this about “shore-training”?’

The brash question startled Horne. He had not planned to explain the mission to the squad until they were aboard the
Eclipse
and bound for the Coromandel Coast.

Babcock’s hair had grown long enough to part down the middle of his forehead, making his ears look more prominent.

‘That’s why you chose us from prison, isn’t it? For some secret mission?’

Horne’s first reaction was to discipline Babcock for insolence and for failing again to address an officer properly, but not wanting to alert the other men to the American’s astute guess, he checked the impulse and said, ‘Babcock, for someone so badly disciplined, you sometimes show surprising intelligence.’

Babcock pulled one ear. ‘Is that some kind of compliment … sir?’

‘Only for tonight, Babcock. And another thing.’

Babcock blinked.

‘Keep your suspicions to yourself.’

Turning, Horne moved quickly towards the port entry, realising that Elihu Cornhill had taught him how to escape from everything but a social gathering aboard a Commodore’s flagship.

Fort St George was a fortress within a fortress, the Honourable East India Company’s most important settlement on India’s eastern coast, in the Presidency of Madras. The Military Guardhouse and King’s Army Barracks formed the western wall of the outer fortress, stretching between the Nabob’s Bastion on the southwest to the Royal Bastion on the northeast.

Inside the Guardhouse a man was imprisoned in a small, humid room; he sat on the edge of a cot, his head bent forward, his hands clasped between the thighs of his white breeches. European, fifty-six years old, he was attired in a clean shirt, his white hair knotted at the nape of his sunburnt neck. He appeared to be agitated, constantly fidgeting with his hands.

Springing from the cot, he paced the room’s plank floor, glowering at the four cracked plaster walls of the prison.

A wooden crucifix hung above the cot; a deal table and rattan-bottomed chair were positioned against the opposite wall; the table held writing materials and three leather-bound volumes, one of the books being a Roman Catholic breviary inscribed by the man’s confessor and friend,
Pére
Lavour. To the man, this room was as desolate as Madras itself.

He had always thought poorly of Madras, even when he had besieged Fort St George two years ago, leading an army of three thousand European horse and foot soldiers, five hundred native cavalrymen and three thousand Sepoys.

Oh, the fickleness of fate!

Here he was back in Madras, a prisoner, and not even accommodated according to his rank.

What liars these English were! What had happened to the terms of the capitulation which the English officers had so greedily signed? The requirements for civilized treatment? A bountiful table and adequate drink and a garden for reflection? How long would he be kept in this cell – in bleak Fort St George – before being taken to England as his captors had agreed? He wondered now if Colonel Eyre Coote was trying to renegue on the terms of surrender as he had also been so ready to exclude Admiral Pocock from the victory at Pondicherry?

The man continued pacing the floor, planning how he might spring upon the next man who stepped through the door. Not a wretched servant but some man of consequence who
must
soon call upon him. He considered what
weapon he would use: a leg from the table or chair; a string of rattan for a garrotte; any improvised weapon to show that he was still a man to be reckoned with – a soldier, a leader.

His eyes stopped on the wall crucifix. Pulling it from its peg, he gripped the small wooden cross by its base, cutting it down through the air, chopping with the cross-arms of the crucifix as if it were an axe.

Smiling, he resumed his pacing of the room, remembering words from his Jesuit education in Paris –
Ad
Majorem
Dei
Gloriam.
The crucifix made a good, sharp little weapon. And if not for the Greater Glory of God, then at least for the glory – and survival – of Thomas Lally, Baron de Tolendahl.