The Bombay Marines (16 page)

‘Good man’ Babcock thrust the riding crop towards his chest. ‘Here. Take this with you.’

Groot stared quizzically at the riding crop. ‘Why this?’

‘So you look important.’

Babcock turned and took long strides across the cobbled Parade, the leather pouch slapping against the side of his breeches.

At the opposite end of the Parade from the King’s Barracks, Mustafa and Bapu led the elephant into the Stables. Bapu called loudly in Hindi for hay and water for the animal, creating a commotion for the
mahoot
on night duty as Mustafa moved quickly towards the back wall, finding the door to the steps which led up to the West Wall.

The inner stairwell was narrow, rising steeply, and the sound of Bapu’s orders grew fainter as Mustafa felt his way in the darkness lit only by shafts of dark morning light pouring through apertures gashed into the stonework.

Carrying the coil of rope in one hand, he halted at the top of the stone steps in front of an iron-banded door. Listening, he pulled back the bolt and – slowly – pushed open the door.

Stepping outside onto a narrow walkway, he flattened himself against the wall, looking cautiously to his left and then to his right. All was clear and, pulling a slice of cork from his shirt pocket, he shut the door and bent to plug the cork at its base. Then he grabbed the rope and began edging his way to the left, moving towards the low-tiled roof of Nabob’s Bastion, a circular structure on pillars, silhouetted like a mushroom against the inky blue sky.

A guard stood by one of the pillars, a lone figure leaning
against his musket, looking eastwards towards the sky beginning to blot with the morning light, the surf crashing below him.

Mustafa began feeding rope from the coil of his other hand, moving closer towards the guard, and as he reached the corner of the West Wall, he looked down the length of the South Wall. He saw no one approaching from the far lookout – St Thomas Bastion – and he made the last few steps.

The rope whistled over the guard’s head. Mustafa tightened his grip until he felt the man weaken, the musket clattering to the stone floor.

Lowering the unconscious body, Mustafa stuffed a rag into the guard’s mouth and corded it tightly with a leather thong. Binding the man’s hands and feet, he rolled him past a pyramid of cannonballs.

Working quickly, he anchored one end of the rope to the base of a cannon and tossed the other end over the wall. He sat down beside the stack of cannonballs, aware that his heart was pounding. He was excited. He felt alive for the first time in – how long?

He realised he had not been this excited – this happy – in the eight years since he had left his parents’ home in Alanya, after strangling his brother in a fight. Running away to the Turkish port of Izmir, he had joined the Ottoman Navy and served aboard one of the Sultan’s warships until he was recognized by a man who remembered him from Alanya. He had jumped ship in Port Said and joined a merchant crew of the East India Company in Suez.

After fighting with and fatally garrotting a Greek sailor aboard the Company merchant ship, Mustafa was condemned to Bombay Castle.

He had thought he was going to be imprisoned in the dungeons there for the rest of his life and had been immediately suspicious when Adam Horne had chosen him from the other criminals to go to Bull Island. At first he had feared that he was being sent back to Turkey, then that he was
being taken to a life of hard labour in a penal colony. But Horne had been telling the truth. Mustafa had not been imprisoned. He had been fed, exercised, trained and brought on a mission as Horne had promised.

But Mustafa was still confused. This was not work. This was not war. Horne had even cautioned them to try to avoid taking men’s lives! So what kind of navy – or army – was this ‘Bombay Marine’? What kind of officer didn’t want you to kill men?

Sitting beside the unconscious guard in the Nabob’s Bastion, Mustafa remembered how Land Group had entered the fortress, how they had passed so easily in front of the guards’ very eyes, and he began to laugh.

He was still laughing when the rope tugged against his leg.

He laughed louder. Look! He had caught himself a fish!

Oh, yes, he liked being a Bombay Marine. What would their next mission be?

Sea Group reached the base of the fortress’s South Wall and Adam Horne immediately found the rope dangling from the Nabob’s Bastion. After testing that it was securely attached across the overhead battlements, he stepped back for Kiro to lead the climb up the wall.

Dressed in twill breeches, shirt and tall boots, like the rest of Sea Group, Kiro moved quickly up the rope, a leather packet of explosives dangling from his belt as his hands gripped their way upwards, his feet walking the wall.

When he disappeared over the red tiled battlements, Jud followed, ascending as easily as he had scaled the shrouds and ratlines of the
Eclipse.
Jingee went next, gripping the rope, his turbanned head back, his dark eyes trained on the overhead goal, a leather packet of supplies dangling from the side of his breeches.

The leather wrappings had kept Sea Group’s disguises and supplies dry when the
masulah
had capsized in the surf. No serious harm had been done except that the mishap had cost time, the surf washing them ashore a hundred yards farther down from the fortress’s South Wall than Horne had wanted. A bamboo break had provided necessary cover for them to slip into the Company twill clothing and make a dash across the shipyards towards the South Wall.

Horne waited for Jingee to disappear into the Nabob’s
Bastion, then he too gripped the rope, moving upwards hand-over-hand, hoping there was enough darkness to cover his climb. Dawn would soon be breaking.

Swinging over the stone battlement, he saw that everyone – Mustafa included – had left for their posts. The only person remaining in the circular enclosure was the guard, bound and lying face down on the stone floor. The next change of watch would not be until six o’clock – the time when the bells rang in the English Church – and Horne hoped to be starting back to the Chingleput coastline by then.

Pulling up the rope from the wall, he took out his knife, slit off the length he needed, and dropped the rest over the bastion.

He glanced along the South Wall towards St Thomas Bastion, but could see no one approaching on the watch-walk. Satisfied, he made his way down the West Wall with the small coil of rope, quickly finding the door flush with the stone. Falling to his knees, he pulled at the door’s base and a piece of cork tumbled onto the stone step.

Closing the door behind him, he shot the bolt and waited until his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. Then he descended the spiralling steps and swept one hand along the wall, halting when he felt the edges of a wooden hatch built into it. Locating its wire lock, he pushed open the hatch, threw out the rope and climbed out after it onto a flat roof.

He crawled on his stomach to the edge of the tiled roof and peered out at the fortress spread before him. The Governor’s House stood in the centre, its walls thick and cornered by their own sturdy bastions. Beyond it rose the peaked roof of the Sea Gate, a row of columns leading from the gate to the entry of the Governor’s House. The spire of the Portuguese Church rose to Horne’s left, while to his right was the steeple of the English Church. The Parade ran directly below him; the King’s Barracks to his left, the Stables to his right; he was on the roof of the Guardhouse.

Tightening one end of the rope to a stone kerb, Horne threw the other end over the front of the Guardhouse, wondering if Kiro had crossed the Parade by now and reached the English Church.

Looking southeast beyond the slim steeple of the English Church, he saw the arched roof of the side entrance, St Thomas Gate. Jud and Jingee should be making their way there. Mustafa had a shorter distance to go, rejoining Bapu in the Stables to prepare the horses for escape, working to finish before the day shift came on duty.

A racket shattering the early morning’s stillness answered Horne’s question about Kiro’s whereabouts.

At the sound of the pop, pop, popping of Chinese fireworks exploding on the far side of the Governor’s House, he swung over the edge of the Guardhouse, springing down the front wall and hoping that no glass panes had been installed across the front of the porches in the time since Governor Pigot had supplied Commodore Watson with details about the fortress.

Making his last spring, he swung beneath a sandstone cornice – and landed on stone floor!

Horne left the rope hanging down the front of the Guardhouse, and flattened himself against a wall while he took bearings in the darkness. There was no one in the first hallway and, creeping along a stucco wall, he moved to what he hoped was the back corridor.

Reaching the end of the wall, he listened before peering around the corner.

The back corridor was long, lit by one torch sputtering in an iron wall-ring. Horne was surprised to see no guard standing duty outside Lally’s room. The place seemed deserted.

Edging around the corner, he wondered if he had entered the wrong building. Landed on the wrong floor. Or had Lally’s guard been changed earlier than usual today? If so, where was the relief? Horne had planned to create a diversion here with his own fireworks, a ruse to give him the
opportunity to tackle the guard. But where was the guard?

He had now reached the door of what should be Lally’s prison. He stepped forward and saw that the door was ajar.

Moving closer, he peered into the room.

Empty.

Slowly he pushed open the door and stepped into the whitewashed room, finding no window or torchlight there to give him light. Examining the room in the glow from the hall torch, he saw a narrow bed against one wall. He noticed that the mattress had been slept on. There was a table against the opposite wall with a candle and books. Reaching towards the table, he felt the candle’s wax: it was still warm, pliable in his fingers. The titles of the books were French …

‘Stand
where
you
are
!’

Horne spun round at the sound of the voice.

Two men blocked the doorway, the hall’s torchlight glittering the gold epaulettes paired on their shoulders. The red coats, white breeches and gold stripes instantly identified them as officers in His Britannic Majesty’s Army.

The taller of the two officers stepped into the room. He levelled a pistol at Horne. But, tilting his head to one side, he began to laugh, saying, ‘Why, I’ll be damned. If it isn’t … Adam Horne!’

A few stunned seconds passed before Horne recognized Oliver Giltspur.

Looking as rakish as Horne remembered him from London, Giltspur spoke in the same clipped manner which Horne also remembered – and loathed – from the days before he had come to India.

‘Horne, what in damnation are you doing
here
of all places? I heard you’d joined the Bombay Marine.’ I say, that’s the best outfit for you! The bloody Bombay – Buccaneers!’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment, Giltspur.’ Horne studied Giltspur’s face, sideburns arched across high cheekbones, a thin aristocratic nose and strong chin.

‘A compliment’s not intended, Horne.’

Turning to his companion, Giltspur explained, ‘Lieutenant, my old acquaintance here, Adam Horne, came out to this God-forsaken land of his own free will.’

He turned back to Horne and asked, ‘Am I correct, Horne? Was it free choice? Or did you flee England after Starington killed Isabel … what was her name? Isabel
Springer
?’

Horne stepped forward. ‘I warn you, Giltspur. Don’t say one word about Isabel.’

Giltspur smirked, holding Horne’s glare. ‘I remember why I never liked you, Horne. You were always too sure of yourself. Always so pleased with yourself and … Miss Springer!’

‘Keep your mouth shut, Giltspur!’

Giltspur’s laugh echoed in the bare room. ‘Horne, you are capital! Capital indeed! Here you are. Apprehended in a room occupied until recently by a valuable prisoner. And what do you do?
You
start giving
me
orders? What a rare fellow you are, Horne.’

Horne appraised Giltspur and his companion, gauging how well both men were armed, how strongly they could block the door. He remembered there was no window behind him for escape.

Giltspur stepped farther into the room, one hand gripping the pistol. ‘What a capital position I’m in, Horne. Consider how many men would pay to change places with me at this moment. You do know, Horne, that men from the old days in London thought you were a sober, boring old stick. Who cared if you always won in those yard games? The model young gentleman who had so much to look forward to! Such a brilliant future! Do you know how many of the Mayfair set still despise you, Horne?’

‘You are obviously one of them, Giltspur.’ Horne noticed
that Giltspur’s other hand rested on the hilt of his sabre.

‘Tell me this, Horne. How exactly did your cherished Isabel get killed? I heard a story that Starington took her to Greeley’s. Wasn’t Greeley’s the name of that stew in Bow Street which was the rage back in those days?’

‘I warn you, Giltspur. Don’t you say a word against Isabel –’

Giltspur laughed at Horne and went on. ‘The version I heard was that Starington told Isabel Greeley’s was a private music club! He enticed her there by saying they would hear some new Purcell played by a quartet! Gad!’ Throwing back his head, he laughed, ‘The only quartet at Greeley’s would be four poxy wenches from Dublin!’

The Lieutenant joined in Giltspur’s mirth, while Horne was rapidly forgetting about his duty.

‘Of course, a fine young lady would not have heard about any place so vile as Greeley’s,’ Giltspur continued. ‘But once inside she understood its purpose. As soon as they were ensconced in the front parlour, Starington tried to force himself on the delicious Isabel. He had drunk too much, and when your divine Isabel resisted his charms, he struck her a few times too many. You arrived when Starington produced that pistol and fired. You bludgeoned him with a rather heavy object. A bit too heavy I’m told. The police came in a trice and old Ma Greeley hurriedly hid Starington’s corpse. But there was nothing anybody could do with poor Isabel. She lay bleeding to death. Rather than allow her name be stained with scandal, you swore to the police that she and you had been set upon by toughs in the street and had taken refuge at Greeley’s. Ma Greeley welcomed your gallant lie. Who wants the police shutting down a veritable gold mine?’

Horne was surprised that Giltspur had so much accurate information. He obviously thrived on the story.

Like men of his fast London set, Giltspur also enjoyed a good barb, and his voice thickened as he teased, ‘Come on, Horne. You were young and honourable back in those days
and didn’t talk much. But you’re amongst gentlemen now. Officers of the King’s Regiment. So share a story or two about how a tasty doxy like Isabel Springer felt when you got her alone, how easily she gave you her –’

Horne lunged for Giltspur.

As tall as Adam Horne, Captain Oliver Giltspur was also as solidly built. But Horne’s attack surprised him, and he tumbled backwards onto the floor, the pistol clattering from his hand, the sabre tangling in his legs.

The other officer fell onto Horne’s back, jerking to pull him from Giltspur. But Horne held on tightly, choking Giltspur’s throat with one hand, pummelling his face with his fist.

Oblivious of Giltspur’s blows, ignoring the Lieutenant’s tugs on his back, his efforts to pull him away, Horne fought against reason, not even noticing that another man had entered the room.

A voice shouted, ‘Don’t go crazy, man! Don’t go to pieces! Not here! Not now!’

Horne turned, gasping for breath, seeing Babcock standing beside him, a bloody knife in one hand.

Looking from Babcock to the Lieutenant now lying in a pool of blood, Horne snatched the knife from Babcock and, with one deft slice, broke his rule about not taking human lives.