The Bombay Marines (2 page)

‘Eighty-nine men, sir.’ The number was ludicrously low even by Bombay Marine standards.

‘Your Marine detachment?’

‘Seventeen, sir, including Sergeant Rajit.’

‘These men are capable?’

‘As fit as can be expected, sir. We’ve been fourteen months out of port.’

‘But not the men we need.’

‘No, sir. In fact, I can easily say now, sir, I have no more than three, perhaps four men whom I could recommend for any action demanding a quick mind and strong body.’

Watson turned from the window, speaking as if to himself. ‘Damn it to hell! Why do we never have enough bloody
men
?’

Horne understood Watson’s fury. He himself had grown to feel the same anger, the same unquenchable hunger, like a cat on a constant prowl for canaries.

‘Sir, if I cannot recruit men in Bombay, what about Madras or Calcutta? The Company garrisons troops at both posts.’

Watson shook his head. ‘No. Definitely not. The Governors don’t want Company troops taking any part in this manoeuvre. Governor Pigot of Madras will supply us with details of Fort St George. Governor Vansittart of Bengal will give us the information we need about the military. Governor Spencer, here in Bombay, will turn a blind eye to any preparations we make at the Castle. But none of the three Governors will supply us with men. Their orders are strictly for the Marine.’

‘Sir, am I allowed time to train recruits if I’m lucky enough to find them?’

‘Absolutely. Men could be trained while I’m waiting for maps and charts to be sent from Fort St George. The problem is to find them. The Navy has press-ganged every
man and boy from here to Calcutta.’

Horne made a quick mental note of Watson’s reference to waiting for maps and charts to be sent from Fort St George. That meant the mission would obviously be one of infiltration, a covert entry into the fortress for which they would need precise details.

‘The Navy’s combed all the islands for men, sir?’ he asked.

‘Completely. The one place they haven’t ransacked is Mauritius, and only because the French still have their base there.’

Horne’s mind went back to the
Eclipse,
scanning the faces of his crew, wondering if by any stretch of the imagination he could transform a few more seamen into Marines as he had managed to do on the Maratha campaign, and if the ship’s manning would allow it. He pictured Merlin, the gunner, barrel-chested, strong, loyal – and irreplaceable from the gun deck. Gibbons, the boatswain, foul-mouthed and domineering – and also necessary in casting off, weighing anchor and countless other duties he had come to perform on the main deck. Then there was Kevin O’Flaherty, a young Irish leadsman who had been press-ganged from Mount Keene Prison in Dublin …

An idea struck him and, weighing it for a few seconds, he decided there would be no harm in mentioning it to Watson.

‘Sir, there’s a prison here at Bombay Castle.’

Watson glanced over his shoulder at Horne, his porcine eyes sharp with caution under his bushy eyebrows.

‘Sir, there must be near two hundred men in the dungeons here.’

Watson’s tone was clipped. ‘Horne, I know what you’re going to suggest but put it out of your mind. The dregs of Europe and the Orient are condemned to Bombay Castle.’

Horne moved to the edge of his chair, increasingly excited by the idea. ‘But, sir, there must be a handful of men we can use, convicts I can train as I’d train civilian recruits.’

‘No, Horne. Definitely not. Men are already taken from prisons in England for too many ships during war time. That means that most of the prisoners at Bombay Castle are serving a second, some even a third or fourth prison term. What makes you think they’d obey orders from you?’

Horne was tenacious, a man who did not change his mind easily once he was convinced.

‘We could offer them freedom, sir. Give them freedom and a full pardon in return for their services. Many of them probably never expect to see the light of day again, Sir. I’ll train them on a disciplinary probation.’

‘Horne, murderers and thieves from every corner of the world are locked in the dungeons of Bombay Castle. British. Dutch. French. African. Chinese. Men who have committed crimes against the Crown as well as the Company.’

Horne forgot that he was arguing with his commanding officer. He spoke to prove his point.

‘Sir, I know many of the prisoners are foreign. But so are the Lascar sailors we recruit here and train for our fleets. The Navy does too.’

Horne sat sideways in his chair now, his hazel eyes alert with excitement. ‘And consider this fact, sir. I could train the prisoners during the time you’re waiting for the information from Governor Pigot.’

From the window Watson watched two turbanned
dhoolie
bearers edging along the wharf as beggars, vendors, and naked children swarmed around the covered litter. ‘Horne, why haven’t the Army and Navy raided the prisons of Bombay Castle if such a thing’s possible? Answer me that.’

‘Perhaps, sir, for the simple reason that the thought has never occurred to them.’

Horne was excited by the sudden turn in his prospects. Less than an hour ago he had been pacing the outside hallway, worrying about his future. Now here he was in Watson’s office arguing about taking convicts aboard his ship.

The cocked hat still resting on his knee, he continued,
‘Excuse me for saying so, sir, but if we
wait
for the Navy to think of raiding our prison, there’ll be no men left for us.’

Watson began shaking his bald head. ‘Prisoners for Marines, Horne? No, it’s not possible. Not possible at all. First, what proof do you have they wouldn’t mutiny as soon as you’re to sea?’

‘Sir, does a captain ever have assurance against mutiny?’

Watson did not hear him. ‘And rivalries brought from prison, Horne. What about that? Convicted men are vicious, vengeful creatures.’

‘Are prison rivalries different, sir, from free men arguing about religion? Politics? Blood feuds?’

Adam Horne continued to meet each criticism Watson made, arguing how he might deal with desertion, subterfuge, mutiny, even contagious diseases brought from dank, pestilent cells.

Finally Watson turned from the window. ‘Horne,’ he said resignedly, ‘I’ve learnt over the years that the best way to convince a man that he’s mistaken is to allow him to discover the fact for himself. That is not always possible. But in this case, it is. You can go down to the dungeons and see the men you propose to turn into Marines. Then you can come back here and say you’ve got the idea out of your head.’

Horne detected sarcasm in Watson’s voice but he didn’t care.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Lieutenant Todwell can supply you with a prison list as well as an armed guard.’

Horne rose to his feet, the cocked hat in one hand.

‘One further matter, Horne.’

‘Sir?’

Watson fixed his small blue eyes on Horne. ‘The Governors want Lally aboard that ship bound for England in six weeks’ time. This mission is urgent to the Company. It could also be very important to you, Horne. The kind of assignment an independent, strong-minded young officer
like you dreams of. Something to get your damned teeth into. But it also could be the end of your career. So don’t make it more difficult than it already is. Do you understand what I’m saying, Horne?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Watson studied Home a few moments longer as if he were trying to break the protective wall with which Home always seemed to surround himself, then he shook his head. ‘Oh, the hell you understand,’ he exclaimed, waving his hand. ‘You’re just thinking about finding an able-bodied man or two down in that cess-pit. So go on. Get out of here.’

Home held his salute until Watson dismissed him officially.

After Adam Home had left for the dungeon Commodore Watson went and stood by the window. Ignoring the swarm of wharfside activity and the ships tangled with fishing boats in the harbour, he stared blankly at the hazy line of mountains far away on the Indian mainland.

When would the three Governors allow him to tell Home the reason why General Lally had to be moved from Fort St George? But apart from being unable to disclose full details of the mission, he was also troubled by having no men to assign to Horne for a squadron. The disappearance of one vessel gave him nightmares; news that half his command might be destroyed shattered him.

Watson turned from the window. He wished he had not promised his wife, Emma, that he would stop drinking. A gin and lemon juice would settle his nerves. But no amount of gin was worth the risk of losing the woman who had stood by him for the last forty-two years.

Watson had come out to India after retiring from a career in His Britannic Majesty’s Royal Navy. Rising to Rear Admiral of the Blue in the West Indies, Watson had accepted
the post of Commodore and Commander-in-Chief of the Bombay Marine rather than settle down to a dull life of raising dogs in Surrey.

But why had a young man like Adam Horne joined the Bombay Marine? Horne was young, personable, far more gifted than most officers Watson had met throughout the years. So why did not a bright young man, starting out in life, pursue a career in the Navy or the East India Company’s prestigious Maritime Fleet? Why choose the rough-and-tumble, shabby Bombay Marine?

Watson knew little about Horne’s private life. Company records supplied the facts that he had joined the Marine seven years ago, had risen from the rank of Midshipman to First Lieutenant aboard the
Protector,
forty-four guns, the flagship of Watson’s predecessor, Commodore James, and that James had promoted Horne to Captain on his retirement.

Watson had heard gossip that Adam Horne had been involved in the murder of a young woman in a London bordello. There were stories, too, that Horne had studied as a young man with Elihu Cornhill, the eccentric old soldier who taught boys controversial ideas about survival in the wilderness.

Watson had a rule whereby he did not believe rumours about his officers. He tried to judge a man by his actions, and Adam Horne’s report about the Maratha pirates fortified his opinion that Horne was a versatile leader, both on land and sea, a commander who acted responsibly for other men’s lives yet was unafraid of death himself.

Over his past forty-two years of Naval service, Watson had known no more than a handful of men who were undaunted by the prospect of being killed in battle. Each and every one of those men had had a close encounter with death. The experience had left them with an advantage over fear. He suspected Adam Horne was such a man.

Accompanied by Lieutenant Todwell and a party of eight armed guards, Adam Horne descended deep into the maze of dark passageways channelled into the bedrock beneath Bombay Castle. The clank of cutlasses and muskets echoed with the thud of footfalls; the moving torches sputtered in cross-currents of air, the light illuminating bats hanging upside down from mouldy corners, singeing spiders’ webs festooned across the low, seeping ceilings.

Lieutenant Todwell held a parchment high in front of his eyes, catching the glow of the torch behind him as he read, ‘William Bradford,
Calumet.
Judged guilty of murdering an officer. Death by hanging … Henry Denning,
City
of
Manchester.
Judged guilty of murdering a fellow servant. Death by hanging … Brian McGregory,
Fifth
Regiment
of
the
Foot.
Judged guilty of mutiny and pilfering medical supplies. Thirty-five years imprisonment …’

Moving down a chilly incline, Adam Horne stopped listening to Todwell reading the prison list and began reappraising the scant information Commodore Watson had given him about the mission to Fort St George.

Had the East India Company’s Governors of India’s three Presidencies – Bengal, Bombay, and Madras – ordered the mission for the reason Horne suspected? To abduct an important prisoner-of-war from the Army or Navy? If so, what was their motive? To claim valuable war prizes for the Company?

The East India Company was rich, vastly rich. Their
merchant ships profited well over three hundred per cent from voyages to the Orient, bringing home silks, spices, teas; indigo for dyes, saltpetre for gunpowder, baubles for the British housewives.

Chartered by Queen Elizabeth more than a hundred-and-seventy years ago, in 1600, the East India Company had surpassed the Dutch and Portuguese traders in world markets. Investors streamed to the Company’s headquarters on Leadenhall Street in London to buy shares in every new voyage.

No, Horne decided, the East India Company would not be abducting France’s Commander-in-Chief to claim war prizes. The Company had more wealth – and power – than most nations. And France’s own East India Company – the
Compagnie
des
Indes
Orientales
– had declined in the last few years, changing the war between England and France from a struggle for trade monopoly to a battle for territory.

So, if the Governors’ reason for sending a squadron of Marines to kidnap Lally was not financial, why would they be ordering a secret mission? For military reasons?

Military strength was becoming an increasing concern of the East India Company. It was learning quickly that its profits were larger with the help of the sword and cannon. And not all of the Company’s present battles were being waged against the French.

The present Governor of Bengal was Henry Vansittart. His predecessor, Robert Clive, had led the British Army against Indian troops, defeating the Nawab of Bengal four years ago at Plassey, securing Bengal as a monopoly for East India Company traders. The Army had bestowed the title of Major on Robert Clive for his victory, the first time an employee of the East India Company had also held a commission in the Royal Army.

Walking deeper into the underground maze beneath Bombay Castle, Adam Horne wondered if the Company’s three Governors might be trying to follow Robert Clive’s example. Clive had returned to London where he was
being hailed as a military hero as well as the richest man in the world from his Indian war prizes. The present Governors might have similar ambitions, using Horne’s squadron to lay the groundwork.

The air grew more chilly the deeper the armed party moved underground. Horne braced himself against the change of temperature, realizing that he was foolish to waste time speculating about the motives of his superiors.

He had two choices of action. Either to obey orders, or to break the Oath of Allegiance he had sworn to serve King and Company.

He halted the small band of armed guards on the third subterranean level beneath Bombay Castle, stopping in front of an iron grille flanked by two smoking torches held by iron wall brackets.

Behind the grille, a squat turnkey saluted. ‘Sergeant Suggins, sir.’

Horne touched his hat and stepped aside for Lieutenant Todwell to hand the written pass through the bars.

Sergeant Suggins took the pass and moved his greasy lips as he read the Commodore’s orders. Pushing back the paper through the bars, he lifted a large ring of iron keys from his belt, unlocked the grille and stood aside for the party to file past him. Relocking the gate, he hurried to join them as they continued down to the fourth level.

Horne slowed to speak to Suggins. ‘Tell me, Sergeant, how does the count of one-hundred-and-eleven men compare with your tally of prisoners?’

Suggins puffed to keep pace with Horne. ‘With all due respects, sir, I’m the turnkey and not required to keep roll muster.’

Horne frowned. He disliked people who refused to give help beyond the bounds of duty. Was it a trait common only amongst the English? Or did this annoying, lazy breed
of man exist in all nations of the world?

‘Sergeant Suggins, I imagine some prisoners are less troublesome, quieter than others. I’d like you to point out those men to me.’

‘Ah, now, sir, a quiet man’s the man to watch out for, isn’t he? That’s the fellow you find hanging by his shirt tail. A quiet man’s always the man who does himself in.’

Horne considered himself to be a quiet man, an introspective man, some people even called him moody. But he certainly did not consider himself to be a man who’d take his own life. He fought too hard – too often – to stay alive.

Forcing himself to be patient with the turnkey’s annoying observations, he pressed, ‘You must have noticed ringleaders amongst the prisoners, Sergeant Suggins. Men who rise above others. Distinguish themselves in some way.’

‘Aye, sir. You’re talking about the bullies.’

‘Sergeant, it’s the bullies I want you to point out to me first.’

‘May I ask, sir, the reason for this visit?’

Horne knew he might need the turnkey’s co-operation in the next few days. He suspected that Suggins was the kind of man to undermine a superior officer’s work if he was too severely rebuked.

Forcing himself to be diplomatic, he answered, ‘A man of your position, Sergeant, certainly respects confidential orders.’

‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir.’

The armed party halted in front of a second grille, the torches catching shapes of men crowding inside the bars, the flickering light showing unkempt hair, ragged beards, filthy clothing, grimy hands gripping the iron bars.

Sergeant Suggins snatched the leather cudgel from his belt and began jabbing its spiked head back and forth
between the bars. ‘Back, you scum, or there’ll be no supper for any of you tonight.’

A lanky prisoner pressed his face between the bars. ‘No supper, guv’nor? You mean to rob us of all our tasty morsels?’

Another prisoner shoved his head close to Suggins, the lower half of his round face bushy with red whiskers. ‘Don’t rob us of our supper, Sergeant. We’re just getting a taste for that rat dung!’

More taunts, more coarse laughter surrounded Suggins as he unlocked the grille. Ignoring the prisoners, he motioned the guards forward with their bayonets.

Horne followed the guards through the open grille, estimating that there must be two dozen, perhaps as many as thirty prisoners locked in this first cell, at least a third of the men having oriental features.

Looking towards the next grille, he saw a body sprawled on the floor a few yards in front of him. A dark fluid covered the prisoner’s chest, thick and reddish in the torchlight.

Suggins spied the body and moved to kick him. ‘Up, lazy pig.’

Horne reached quickly to stop him. ‘The man’s bleeding, Sergeant.’

‘Aye, sir. Bleeding from a fight.’ Suggins surveyed the other prisoners gathering across the cell from him. His eyes rested on a tall man with big ears standing apart from the group and he pointed his cudgel at him. ‘There’s the dog he was fighting with, Captain. Look at those hands.’

Horne saw the glimmer of blood on the other prisoner’s hands. He raised his eyes above the man’s chest to see a thin, challenging smirk. Suggins was probably right. Looking back to the blood-covered man on the floor, he beckoned a torch-bearer and dropped to his knees.

Suggins moved behind him. ‘Sir, show no mercy for these dogs.’

Horne’s patience was wearing thin. ‘Sergeant, keep the prisoners against the far wall.’

Turning back to the injured man, he reached to feel his pulse. At the same moment, the blood-covered prisoner sprang upward with a knife.

Clutching Horne by the uniform, the prisoner jabbed the rusty blade at his throat. ‘Tell the Sergeant to throw me his keys, Captain, or I’ll slice you earhole to earhole.’

Horne cursed his stupidity.

‘Those keys!’ The prisoner pressed the knife against Horne’s throat. ‘Tell your fat Sergeant to toss me those keys.’

Behind Horne, Suggins whined, ‘I said not to help him, Captain.’

‘Sergeant Suggins, do as this man says. Toss him your keys.’

Sergeant Suggins stood a few yards behind Adam Horne in the cell, looking from the blood-covered prisoner holding the knife to Horne’s throat to the ragged prisoners crowded in front of the guards’ bayonets. His reply was a nervous belch.

Horne demanded louder. ‘Suggins, the keys. Throw the man your keys.’

‘I warned you, Captain, not to help –’

‘Suggins, the keys.’

Grudgingly, Suggins lifted the iron ring of keys from his belt and tossed them across the cell.

Keeping the blade at Horne’s neck, the prisoner reached to catch the keys.

Horne moved faster.

Grabbing the keys, he slapped at the prisoner’s knife, sending it clattering across the floor. Then, straddling the surprised man, he pressed the long keys down onto his face, raking the iron prongs across his eyes and leaving a scarlet track like the claw marks of a large cat. As he sprang to his feet, he snatched the knife from the floor.

The prisoner lay holding his face. ‘I can’t see! You blinded me! I can’t see!
I
can’t
see
!’

Horne ignored the cries, studying the knife, a rusty blade
secured to a large bone by a wiry substance. What was it? Thin wire? Coarse thread? Hair?

Tucking the knife into his waistband, he ordered, ‘Lieutenant Todwell, line these men against the wall.’

Todwell beckoned the guards forward.

Horne stepped towards the prisoner with big ears and blood smeared on his hands.

‘I presume you were part of this game.’

The prisoner nodded, returning Horne’s glare.

‘What’s your name?’

The prisoner remained silent, his jaw firmly set.

Horne snatched the crudely made knife from his waist band. ‘Name, damn you!’

The man’s confidence weakened. ‘Babcock …’

Horne’s temper was frayed. ‘Don’t you know how to address an officer, Babcock?’

‘Yes …’

‘Yes,
who
?’

‘Yes … sir.’

‘Where are you from, Babcock?’

‘The Colonies. The American Colonies. The Ohio Valley … sir.’

‘What’s your crime, Babcock?’

‘Striking an officer. On the
White
Plover
out of Boston sailing for Madagascar. But I didn’t do it. I’m not guilty … sir.’

‘Do you
want
to do it, Babcock?’

Babcock’s big ears twitched, his brow wrinkling.

‘Do you want to strike an officer, Babcock? If so, now’s your chance to do it. You better take it because you’re not going to get it again.’

Babcock glanced at the other prisoners.

‘Come on, Babcock. You want to do it. So come on. Hit me.’

‘No … sir.’

‘Don’t be a coward, Babcock.’

‘I’m not a coward …’ Babcock faltered, shaking his head.

Horne corrected, ‘“I’m not a coward,
sir
!” Say it, Bab-cock.’ He held Babcock’s eyes, defying him to strike, taunting, ‘Say it, Babcock. Or else show me you aren’t afraid to hit me.’

‘Don’t push me …
sir.’

Horne smiled. ‘Good, Babcock.’ He raised the knife. ‘Now tell me how this got in here, Babcock.’

Babcock nodded to the man lying on the floor holding his eyes. ‘That was Gilbert’s idea. Gilbert sneaked the blade into the cell inside his beard. Then he cut off his beard and used the whiskers to tie the blade to an old bone for a handle.’

Horne nodded his approval; details fascinated him; ingenuity was a man’s fuel for survival.

Tucking the crudely-made weapon back into his waistband, he asked, ‘What about the blood on your hands, Babcock? How did that get there?’

‘A bloody nose. It’s easy to make a nose bleed, isn’t it?’

‘But more than one nose.’

The big American Colonial nodded.

‘So you had a small conspiracy here, Babcock.’

‘That could be one name for it … sir.’

‘How did you know we were coming?’

‘These caverns echo. We heard you a mile or two away.’

‘Whose idea was the ambush?’

A grin cracked Babcock’s unshaven face. ‘I always understand it’s not polite to brag … sir.’

Keeping his eyes on the beefy, big-eared American Colonial Horne called, ‘Lieutenant Todwell, Mr Babcock here appears to have two of the qualities I’m looking for in a recruit. A quick mind and strong body. Enter his name at the top of the list.’

He shoved Babcock towards the wall and shouted to the other prisoners, ‘All right, the rest of you make a line. The tallest to the shortest. The first man who disobeys orders joins his friend behind me on the floor. Now
move
!’

Bare feet scuffed quickly over the floor.