by Porter Hill
Pilkington’s remark surprised Rajit, but the Lieutenant held his head aloft, trying to sound casual. ‘Captain Horne takes life so seriously. Does not allow himself to enjoy life’s little pleasures. I believe that reading would put a smile on his face. Musical and literary discussion might take some of the weight of the world off Captain Horne’s shoulders.’
Pilkington loved to talk. About anything. Rajit knew that. He also knew that Horne seldom allowed Pilkington to talk on the quarterdeck.
Stopping at the end of the companionway, Rajit faced Pilkington and snapped a salute. ‘Suh!’ He did not want to become involved in discussion with – or about – his superior officers.
* * *
Alone in the cabin, Horne sank back into his chair, black boots crossed in front of him beneath the desk, staring at the waterproof leather envelopes heaped in front of him. They contained official commands for Bull Island, reports of stores loaded aboard the Eclipse, dockyard reports of repairs completed on the frigate.
Looking from the desk to the brass-bound sea chests dotted around the cabin, Horne realized how badly he needed someone to unpack for him, a steward to bring him meals at the desk, keep his clothes washed and in relatively good repair, to perform small chores while he himself tended to more demanding tasks.
Horne’s last steward had been killed by a broadside in the Gulf of Makran. There had been three other men killed the same afternoon but Horne missed Geoff Wheeler the most. He knew his reasons were purely selfish but he missed him nonetheless.
A knock on the door disturbed Horne’s reverie. He grabbed his hat, ready to inspect the new men.
Stopping in front of the small bullseye mirror fastened inside the cabin door, he squared the hat on his head and fleetingly thought about who might miss him if a broadside claimed his life. Was it only commanding officers – and loved ones – who mourned men killed at sea? If so, who would grieve for him?
He turned from the mirror, wondering if this morbid thought was another facet of the desolation which had begun troubling him on the last voyage. He hoped not. He had wanted to leave all thoughts of death and mourning behind him in London when he had buried Isabel Springer. The senseless death of his fiancée still pained him, creating a dark chasm in his soul. He felt that the energy he used to fight his grief sapped any cheer he could be showing to the world, making him appear cold and uncaring, brittle to his fellow men.
Nothing chilled a man more than witnessing death; reaching for the cabin’s door handle, Horne thought of more recent deaths he had seen close at hand, strangers whom he and his men had killed on Company orders, enemies of the Honourable East India Company.
Did killing under order remove the ignominy of taking a human life? Raise it above murder?
This mission to Bull Island and Madras was young, but Horne had already blinded one man at Bombay Castle. The action had been savage, true, but it had also quickly established his authority. The impulse to act in such a manner had come quickly to him, rising from his impulsive nature. Did this mean he was more savage than he had ever considered himself to be?
Remembering how he had decided not to speculate about orders given to him by superior officers, he stepped out into the companionway, telling himself that neither must he question his instinct to kill, blind, or maim. Those instincts might prove to be the difference between the success or failure of a mission, or the saving of his own life. If savagery troubled him, he must remember that his father kept a banking job for him in the landlocked safety of Lombard Street, London.
Chapter Four
ROLL MUSTER
The sun remained hot in the morning sky but the Arabian Sea was quickly turning grey and murky. The wind was growing stronger, making the Eclipse rise on the swells, tilt to starboard, hold for a count, then creak back to vertical before mounting the next swell.
The ragged prisoners stumbled seasick from the hatch, squinting their eyes in the sun’s brightness before running across the canting deck to double over the scuppers and vomit their breakfast.
The crew gathered on gangways between the forecastle and quarterdeck, laughing at the misery of the sixteen new men who had not developed their sea legs. Lieutenant Pilkington demanded order as Sergeant Rajit sent his Marines to assemble the prisoners for roll muster.
Adam Horne, emerging from the companionway, noticed the tossing whitecaps beyond the ship’s bow and guessed that a gale was strengthening off the Bombay Low. Deciding it was too soon to worry, he turned his attention back to the prisoners, the first time he had seen them in the harsh light of day.
Roll muster began with Martin Allen, a wiry man in his late twenties with a mop of yellow hair. Horne watched Allen touch his forehead as Pilkington called his name and step neatly back into line. He remembered that Allen had been a petty officer aboard a Company merchant ship. The young seaman was also a bare-knuckle fighter and had been imprisoned for killing his opponent in a match on the outward voyage from Gravesend.
Fred Babcock answered with a shout. The big-eared American Colonial did not appear to be as self-assured as when Horne had first seen him in the prison. But Babcock still looked fit and healthy, brawny and towering, hopefully good material for a Bombay Marine.
Bapu was taller, more broad-chested than most Asians Horne had met. He wore a red rag tied around his greasy black shanks of hair, and his small, dark, piercing black eyes were spaced closely together on his tawny face. Coming from Rajasthan, Bapu had led a band of thieves against Company supply caravans travelling between Jodhpur and Delhi, and he spoke fluent English. Horne had required that each man he recruited from prison should speak at least a little English.
Eid was a ship-builder from Oman. Thin and swarthy, he looked better in daylight than he had in the torchlit prison beneath Bombay Castle. Skilful with wood, canvas, and coir, the swarthy Omani was also a knifeman, quick, coolheaded, and deadly. Horne watched Eid standing in line and saw him exchanging glances with the man next to him. Were they friends? Horne had been cautious not to choose too many prisoners from the same cell. Or had a camaraderie only developed between these two men since they had been boarded last night?
Kiro was a compactly-built Japanese gunner, a captive from a pirate boat out of Nagasaki. Horne had read in Kiro’s prison report that he had learnt to speak English from a Lascar sailor. It also disclosed that he had killed a fellow prisoner at Bombay Castle with one lethal chop of the hand. Horne knew of the Japanese martial art of Karate, understanding it to be similar to the Ancient Greek combat form, Pankration, which he himself had learnt as a young pupil of the retired soldier, Elihu Cornhill. Would he and Kiro ever contest their strength, Karate against Pankration, Japanese against Greek?
Dirk Groot was the one prisoner who did not appear to Horne to be seasick. But Groot’s pale, Dutch complexion had blanched to a sickly pallor after being confined to the sunless dungeon of Bombay Castle. Having been gaoled for robbing a wagon of Saidabad silk which he had negotiated to sell through Dutch traders Groot had already served two-and-a-half years of a twenty-year sentence.
The smallest of Horne’s sixteen prisoners was Jingee, a neat, trim, courtly Tamil from the east coast of India. Jingee had been a dubash – secretary and translator – to the English factor in Hyderabad. The Company official had chained an Indian of the high Brahmin caste to a lowly Panchama worker and ordered them to pull a plough together in his kitchen garden. When the Englishman stubbornly refused to listen to Jingee’s pleas that a Brahmin was a priest, a figure of great respect in India, Jingee plunged a knife into the foreigner’s heart.
Ted Malloy, a British sailor with a short pigtail, had been recruited into His Majesty’s Royal Navy from the Crown Prison in Bristol. Horne had chosen Ted Malloy because of the knowledge of explosives he had acquired in the Navy. He had chosen only one other man who had been previously imprisoned, the British man with burning black eyes who next stepped forward to identify himself – Kevin McFiddich.
The stocky Turk with a thick black
moustache, Mustafa, identified himself by raising his arm and simultaneously dropping his head as if he were ashamed. Why? Did Mustafa feel humiliated at being a prisoner? Or was the Turk embarrassed that he had vomited, considering seasickness a slur against his masculinity? Whatever the reason, Horne knew from Mustafa’s prison record that he was masterly with a garrotte.
Jud Mwambi’s ebony skin glistened in the bright sunlight as he stepped forward, exposing a wide expanse of pearly white teeth. This African giant could scale the highest wall if there was something he wanted badly enough. Horne had tested Jud’s climbing ability in prison, and he planned to make good use of this thief both at sea and on land.
Gerard Poiret, skilled with a strongbow, threw out his bare chest and identified himself with military crispness. He was a Frenchman who had killed an English Second Lieutenant who had stolen his wife.
The roll call proceeded. Horne closely scrutinized the men answering to the names of Jim Pugh, Edward Quinte, Brian Scott, and Fernando Vega. Looking at each one, he searched for some clue to who might become a Marine or a sailor, and who might be the man to spark trouble.
* * *
As Lieutenant Pilkington completed roll muster, Horne stepped forward. Standing with his boots wide apart, hands gripped behind his back, he studied the sixteen shabby men lined in front of him, an oddly matched collection of scowling faces, squinting eyes, ragged beards.
‘Any man trying to escape will be killed on the spot.’
The announcement was dramatic but Horne was pleased to see he instantly had everybody’s full attention.
‘If any man manages to escape, the rest of you will be sent back to prison. So it’s to your advantage to stop all escape attempts.’
The prisoners glanced at one another.
‘We’re sailing for Bull Island.’
The Eclipse lifted on a swell, tipped, and creaked back again on the creaming dark sea.
‘Bull Island used to belong to the French. It was settled by a man named Dupleix. Does anyone know who he was?’
Horne scanned the dirty, unshaven faces. Not even the French prisoner, Poiret, showed a flicker of recognition at the mention of the name.
‘Dupleix was France’s first Commander out here. He coined the phrase Le Grande Jeu for India. He also applied it to the island where we’re sailing. For those men who don’t understand French, Le Grand Jeu means “The Great Game”. Dupleix obviously had a rather twisted sense of humour. The island was a French penal colony. Its prison and torture racks were far from being a “great game”. At least for the prisoners.’
Murmurs now passed through the crew.
Horne kept his eyes on his new recruits. ‘Why am I taking you from one prison to another? The answer’s simple. I want your muscle. Your skills. We have to rebuild Bull Island.’
He nodded towards the gangways. ‘The other men will tell you we put our backs to every task aboard this ship. They’ll tell you, too, that I don’t believe in punishment. Not severe punishment. I believe there’s a better way to get work and obedience from a man than flogging him to death. But any man who disobeys me will suffer the consequences. And I’ll tell you all now that those consequences are numerous and definitely no “game”.’
The prisoners glanced at the crew.
Horne raised his voice, speaking loud and clear, not at all uncomfortable that some of the men he was threatening might be stronger than himself, or a few old enough to be his father.
‘You will learn that I don’t hold store with rank and ceremony. I don’t pretend this is a ship of His Majesty’s Navy. By the same token, I expect my orders to be obeyed and all my officers to be shown absolute respect.
‘Life on Bull Island won’t be easy for any of us. Everybody will get more than his fair share of work. Hard work. Eighteen hours a day of work.
‘Those new men who survive Bull Island will be granted a full pardon for their crime. They will be sworn in as Bombay Marines, to serve as members of the ship’s crew or as –’ Horne nodded at Sergeant Rajit’s line of soldiers standing ramrod stiff, the butts of their muskets resting on the deck in front of their boots’ – or as members of the ship’s Marine battalion.’
He looked back at the prisoners.
‘I have left Writs of Freedom with all your names on them at Bombay Castle. Upon my recommendation those Writs will be counter-signed by Governor Spencer and you will be free men.
‘Likewise, I can request that those documents be destroyed and any or every one of you sent back to the prison.
‘Also, it may interest you new men to know that if I don’t return from this mission, those Writs of Freedom will be destroyed and you will be returned to prison. So it does not take a wise man to figure out that it’s to all your advantage that I stay alive.’
Horne raised his eyes aloft, looking at the topgallant billowed in the growing wind. ‘Now, if any man has a question, this is the time to ask it.’
As the sea slapped against the hull, sending fine sheets of spray above the bulwark, Horne looked at the line of prisoners, at Rajit’s file of Marines, at the crew gathered on the gangways.
‘Anybody have a question?’
Tom Gibbons, the barrel-chested boatswain, called from the forecastle, ‘Sir, do we stay at this Bull Island too?’
‘Are you part of my company, Gibbons?’
‘Aye, aye, sir, and proud to say so.’
‘Then you stay at Bull Island.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Merlin the gunner rose from a capstan. ‘Sir, you mention that there’s work to be done on Bull Island. What kind of work, sir?’
‘Repairing buildings. Mending roofs. Rebuilding fortifications. We’ll know more when we get there, Merlin.’
‘What do we get, sir, for doing this extra work, sir? Us of the ship’s crew?’
‘Forty lashes if you don’t work, Merlin.’
Laughter greeted Horne’s quick response.
Horne turned his head to Sergeant Rajit. ‘Sergeant, inform your men that a Marine also does his duty and expects no bonus or reward.’
Rajit saluted.
Horne clarified. ‘Both at sea and on land, Sergeant.’
‘Suh!’
Horne glanced at the prison column. ‘Any questions here?’
The tow-headed Dutchman stepped forward, neatly saluting, identifying himself, ‘Dirk Groot, schupper.’
The title schupper was Dutch for Captain. Horne knew it was creeping into the English language as ‘skipper’ and he allowed Groot the freedom to use it in addressing him.
Horne returned the salute. ‘What’s your question, Groot?’
‘Schupper, you say “Marine”, but what kind of Marine do you mean? Is this the English King’s Marine?’
For the first time smiles cracked below the tall shakos of Rajit’s Marines as laughter spread through the rest of the ship.
Permitting the men their fun, Horne finally raised his voice to silence them. ‘Groot, Holland was the first country to send an organized trading company to the East Indies. England and the rest of the world followed. The English East India Company is controlled by a group of rich trades-men and not the Crown. So the English Company has a private Marine to protect their trading ships instead of the King’s forces. That’s who we are, Groot. The trading company’s troops. The Bombay Marine. A private navy of sailors and military financed by the East India Company to protect their merchant ships.’
‘Sir, are the men of the Bombay Marine like … like …’ Groot raised his head as if thinking of the correct English word or phrase, ‘… like … soldiers of fortune?’
‘Soldiers of fortune, Groot, usually fight for a country. We are employed by a company. Our leader is a Commodore. Our headquarters is at Bombay Castle. That’s where we get our name. The Bombay Marine. But the men of the force are called Marines. The Bombay Marines.’
A voice shouted from the opposite end of the prisoner column. ‘The Bombay Buccaneeeeers!’
Horne lo
oked and saw the big-eared American Colonial grinning in the prison line.
‘That’s right, Babcock. Other forces have a low opinion of the Company’s Marine and call us “Buccaneers”. And to thank you for sharing your knowledge with us this morning, Babcock, I’m going to grant you a very special privilege.’
The grin widened on Babcock’s unshaven face.
‘Do you know what a ship’s Bible is, Babcock?’
‘A Bible?’
‘A ship’s Bible, Babcock.’
Babcock shook his head.
‘Have you lost your voice, Babcock?’
‘No.’
‘Have you forgotten again how to address an officer, Babcock?’
‘No … sir.’
‘Very good, Babcock. Now where was I?’
‘You were giving me a special privilege … sir.’
‘Ah, yes, Babcock. The ship’s Bible.’
Horne began nodding his head, moving across the tilting deck towards Babcock. ‘A ship’s Bible, Babcock, is something a man holds whilst kneeling on deck. You’ve been to sea before so you might know it under it’s other name: a holystone. Something you scrub the deck with. And every morning, Babcock, you’re going to get down on your knees and holystone the deck. Do you understand, Babcock.’
Babcock’s face flushed a deep red.
Horne asked louder. ‘Do you understand, Babcock?’
‘Yes, sir. Aye, aye, sir.’
‘Good, Babcock.’
Horne turned to Pilkington. ‘I leave these men to you now, Lieutenant. Pair them off for drill.’ Raising his eyes to the sun layering with dark clouders, he announced, ‘We’re going to shorten sail, Lieutenant.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Horne climbed the ladder to the quarterdeck, leaning against the taffrail as the prisoners paired off with the seamen. Arms folded against his chest, he watched closely to see which hands tried to avoid mingling with the new men and which prisoners kept back from being coupled with the crew.
