by Porter Hill
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.
Chapter Three
THE ECLIPSE
The morning wind swept away all trace of cloud from the Indian sky. The gale was still rising, chopping Bombay’s harbour into silver-capped waves, making the air fresh and Adam Horne pleased to be once again aboard the Eclipse.
Climbing the ladder to the quarterdeck, Horne watched the crew gathering below the masts. Ten days back in Bombay had apparently raised the men’s spirits.
Bombay was a congested, noisy settlement built around the bastions of Bombay Castle. It was not unusual for East India Company officials and their wives to complain about the growing city. English families found its accommodation crude, its social life boring, compared to the busy whirl of Calcutta and Madras.
But a seaman in search of a good time found many lusty diversions in Bombay, from dockside cafés serving coarse liquor called ‘arrack’, to the narrow, winding alleyways crammed with warrens of brightly painted rooms where dancing-girls entertained strangers for a few copper pisces.
Horne had expected the crew to complain about embarking so soon after returning from the last mission. But when he had been piped aboard the Eclipse shortly after dawn, he had been greeted with neat, crisp salutes from the men, all uniformly dressed in new white shirts and wide trousers sewn from blue Indian cloth called ‘dungri’.
He had also noticed that his two Midshipmen, Jeremy Bruce and Calvin Mercer, seemed pleased with their new uniforms, waist jackets cut with small round sleeves and brass buttons sewn on the cuffs. Perhaps the East India Company knew how to please men better than Horne suspected they did.
First Lieutenant Pilkington stepped towards Horne on the quarterdeck. ‘Stores secure, sir.’
Horne touched his hat, seeing that his first officer, Ronald Pilkington, looked smart in his own new uniform, a frock coat trimmed with yellow facing and gold braid.
‘Pilkington, sixteen prisoners from Bombay Castle were boarded during the night. Have they been fed this morning?’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Pilkington stood as tall as Adam Horne, blue-eyed, eager to please, and fastidious. ‘Sergeant Rajit has the new men chained on the orlop deck, sir.’
Horne was impressed that Pilkington did not try to find out why prisoners were aboard the Eclipse. The First Lieutenant had obviously learnt at last that his Captain was full of surprises but would not answer any questions until he was ready.
‘Lieutenant, I presume Mr Bruce and Mr Mercer will not be sleeping on the orlop deck.’
‘No, sir. They’ve moved their hammocks to the forecastle, sir.’
‘Fine.’ Horne was pleased that his young officers were as adaptable as the crew.
He filled his lungs with fresh air. ‘Lieutenant. I’m ready to make way.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘We’ll lay a starboard tack past Elephant Rock. With this wind, I gauge sou-west by west.’
Horne turned towards Midshipman Bruce waiting abaft the mizzenmast. ‘Signal shore, Mr Bruce. The Eclipse is prepared to proceed.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Jeremy Bruce, a sandy-haired son of a Manchester shopkeeper, had proved in the last mission that he could turn his hand to many tasks and now served as Horne’s flagman.
The signal flags were rolled into tight balls, quickly moving up the halyard, bursting into brightly coloured pennants in the wind.
Horne shaded his eyes against the sun as he studied the westerly turret of Bombay Castle. Hopefully,
Commodore Watson was watching from the flag tower to answer with a personal reply. Watson had given Horne strong support in the last ten days, having argued with Governor Spencer for the Bombay Marine to recruit men from the Company’s prison, and for Horne to have time and a suitable place to train the new men to become part of the mission to Fort St George.
Governor Spencer of Bombay was a conservative man, a conventional, dedicated man who had come to India many years ago as a lowly writer for the East India Company. He had immediately resisted the idea of freeing convicts from Bombay Castle. But Watson had cajoled, even bullied him, using Horne’s recent victory in the North Arabian Sea as the main basis of his argument. Spencer had finally agreed to the proposal, allowing Horne to take sixteen men from the prison. He had also prepared an official document authorizing the despatch of the Eclipse to a remote island in The Laccadive cluster of islands. Commodore Watson promised to join Horne in four weeks’ time to inspect the new men and supply Horne with the final details of the mission.
As the signal flags fluttered in their hoists, Horne considered the island which Governor Spencer had chosen for their temporary base.
Officially, the Governor was sending Horne to reclaim an uninhabited dot in the Indian Ocean named in honour of a Company navigator, Alfred Bull. Knowing a few facts about the history of Bull Island, Horne feared what might be waiting for them there.
Midshipman Bruce reported, ‘Sir, Bombay Castle replies: “Go in the name of God, King, and Company.”’
Horne stood by the taffrail and weighed the reply. If he and his men were apprehended from this point onward, a Military Court of Inquiry could subpoena the record of Commodore Watson’s last flag call to the Eclipse and find nothing but an innocuous message to a captain. Safe orders. An uninhabited island in the Laccadives. Prisoners boarded under the protection of night. Yes, the departure was neat, tidy, and extremely cautious, protecting Watson, Spencer, the East India Company, everyone except the men whose lives would be in danger.
Lieutenant Pilkington’s voice broke Horne’s reflections. ‘Anchors hove short, sir.’
Horne remembered his decision not to speculate, only to obey orders.
‘Loose tops’ls, Lieutenant.’
* * *
The command echoed through the shrouds of the Eclipse, the men’s shouts quickly becoming louder in rapid repetition, and soon the top hands ran across the canvas and riggings, making the frigate’s peaks come alive against the cloudless morning sky. Small figures of men swung on the yards, tugging at tackle and sail, freeing the halyards, canvas threatening to take shape from a pushing wind.
Tom Gibbons, the ginger-whiskered boatswain, shouted at the forecastle hands pulling the anchor. ‘Heave, you damned old women! Heave!’
The cable began to grate against the weight of the anchor. Gibbons cursed louder at the tugging men and, soon, the anchor bumped inward, dripping sea water, dragging a trail of slimy green weed.
Midshipman Bruce reported to Horne, ‘Anchor’s weighed, sir.’
Overhead, the wind puffed at the sails, canvas opening up and down the frigate’s three masts – sky sails, top sails, royals, all popping with the force. And with the succession of loud snaps, the Eclipse took her first lurch, the deck canting, the sails thundering.
Adam Horne’s stomach jumped as the ship moved forward on the wind. Looking overhead, he saw the hands racing to top gallants and courses, the sails opening like a white flower in sunlight, a chorus of calls accompanying this spectacle which he never ceased to find magnificent.
Lieutenant Pilkington returned to Horne’s side. ‘Wind holds strong, sir.’
‘Lay the course to weather the headland.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Horne felt energy coursing through his body, a tonic he found only at sea; his muscles were already beginning to relax, his mind snapping clear of the demands and trying formalities of Bombay Castle. As the ocean spray cooled his face, he watched the hands in the forecastle drawing the headsail sheets, bringing around the Eclipse. Strangely, he felt pride that so few hands could man the frigate when necessary. Their performance was somehow an extention of himself. Despite their ability, though, he knew that one of his first duties must be to rearrange watch duties. He would begin by dispensing with the luxury of a dog watch.
Noticing that the wind was rising too quickly, lunging heavily into the sails, he glanced at George Tandimmer standing at the wheel, seeing that his Sailing Master was also keeping his eye on the canvas.
George Tandimmer was one of Horne’s best men. Horne approved of the way Tandimmer did not hang the turn as he held a starboard tack, allowing the head to decrease a point and then to gain force with the rudder to hold onto the course.
Satisfied with Tandimmer’s control of the Eclipse, Horne felt assured that he could leave him to continue getting under way as he himself retired to his cabin to attend to more pressing duties.
‘Lieutenant Pilkington, I want to see you and Sergeant Rajit in my cabin.’
He turned to descend the ladder from the quarterdeck, noticing that the wind was still rising.
* * *
Adam Horne’s cabin was like no other place on the face of the earth to him. The pitch of the deck; the creak of timber as the ship tilted and dipped to the toss of the sea; the oddments of cabin fixtures, from the thin mattress slung across leather straps in the berth to the wide mahogany desk splintered in one corner by a cannonball fired from a Tamil raider’s twelve pounder. Cluttered and dishevelled and smelling of tar and salt water, Horne’s cabin was also the closest thing to a home he had known in the last three years – perhaps in all his seven years in India.
Lieutenant Pilkington stood alongside Marine Sergeant Rajit facing Horne’s desk. Horne sat with his back to the mullioned stern windows as he explained the few bits of information he was allowed by Commodore Watson and Governor Spencer to divulge to his officers about the posting to Bull Island.
‘We’re sailing down the Malabar Coast, then southwest for a small island in the group of islands called The Lacca-dives. I’ll make an official announcement later this morning.’
Horne saw no flicker of curiosity in either Pilkington’s or Rajit’s eyes. Good men, he thought.
‘Bull Island has been abandoned for more than ten years,’ he continued. ‘The Company’s considering it as a training ground. We’re to make repairs on its few existing buildings.’
How plausible did this story sound to Pilkington and Rajit? There was a war raging with France and half of the Marine fleet had been lost in a storm off the coast of Pondicherry. Under such circumstances, would Commodore Watson despatch a thirty-six gun frigate to make repairs on the tumbledown buildings of an abandoned island in the middle of the Arabian Sea? Did this deceit insult his men’s intelligence?
Horne proceeded with the excuse he had been given.
‘As you men know, we returned from the Gulf to headquarters badly under strength. I received Commodore Watson’s permission to induct sixteen men from the prisons of Bombay Castle. We’re to train those men in the next few weeks. If they do not prove fit to join our Marine unit, they’ll become part of the crew.’
Horne looked at Sergeant Rajit. ‘In four weeks’ time, Commodore Watson will arrive on Bull Island to inspect the new men. That does not leave us much time to get them into shape.’
Sergeant Rajit, an Indian soldier trained by Europeans, a Sepoy, was a short, strongly built man from the Punjab. Rajit excelled in drilling recruits. He could also read and write, and his diction was more precise than that of most of the British seamen aboard the Eclipse.
Horne studied Rajit’s pudgy brown face. ‘Do you understand the orders, Sergeant?’
‘Yes, suh!’
Horne looked back at Pilkington. ‘Lieutenant, I want every able-bodied man aboard the Eclipse to participate in the training of these new men.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Horne hesitated before explaining the presence of another new man aboard
the Eclipse, an old Irishman whom Watson had foisted off onto him yesterday, one day before departure.
‘Commodore Watson assigned us a ship’s surgeon. His name’s Tim Flannery. I’ve given him the wardroom cabin. Lieutenant, I want you to find an assistant for Mr Flannery.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Horne rose from behind the desk. ‘Assemble the crew now, Lieutenant.’
Pilkington raised his salute.
Horne looked at the Sepoy Sergeant of the frigate’s Marine Battalion. ‘Sergeant Rajit, bring the prisoners to deck.’
‘Suh!’
‘I shall join you shortly, gentlemen.’
Horne returned their salute.
* * *
‘It’s a pleasure to be sailing with you again, Sergeant Rajit.’
‘Thank you, Lieutenant Pilkington. I likewise look forward to the privilege of your company on this voyage.’
‘I might be imposing on your store of reading matter again, Sergeant. After enjoying your copy of Delmore’s World of Vasco Da Gama I am eager to see what other distinguished works you have in your locker.’
‘Feel at liberty to ask, sir. I have a new volume which might interest you even more than the Delmore book. It’s Cartwright’s History of Oriental Music.’
Lieutenant Pilkington and Sergeant Rajit emerged from the companionway, both men stiffly formal with one another despite the fact that they had spent fourteen months aboard the same ship in the North Arabian Sea.
Pilkington was still surprised to find that a native, albeit a Sepoy Sergeant, could not only read English so well but travelled with such an impressive library of expensively bound books.
Sergeant Rajit was astounded to learn that Pilkington appreciated Indian music, that he did not complain that the ragas played upon a sitar had no Western harmonies, that he actually seemed to understand the meaning of rasa, the mood of a raga, the flavour which most Europeans found incomprehensible. ‘Perhaps, Sergeant, you can interest Captain Horne in one of your books.’
