The Bombay Marines

by Porter Hill

  ‘Jingee, you can say Pilkington. So say – Tandimmer.’

  ‘Tod –’

  ‘No. Tan – dim – mer.’

  ‘Tad – diu –’

  Horne paused. ‘Tell me about Pilkington, Jingee.’

  ‘Lieutenant Pilkington has all the men out in the sunshine, Captain sahib. He calls for “all hands on deck”.’

  Horne was pleased that Pilkington was pursuing his orders to mix the new men with the crew.

  Listening again to the voices on deck, he stretched his arms and yawned. ‘I’ll go and make an appearance on deck. Let everybody see I’m still kicking.’

  ‘Still “kicking”, Captain sahib?’

  ‘Still alive.’ Horne had not felt so rested for as long as he could remember. And perhaps had he found someone to replace Geoff Wheeler, his last steward?

  ‘Captain sahib. You eat. You rest. You get more well.’

  Horne ignored Jingee. He was listening to the men’s voices growing louder on deck.

  Realising he was hearing the sounds of men fighting, he shoved aside the food tray and sprang from the bed. He threw open the top of his sea chest and grabbed the first pair of trousers he found. Then he pulled open the cabin door, dashed up the companionway, and pushed his way through the crush of shouting men at the base of the mainmast.

  The men surrounded two fighters, the sound of striking fists coming from inside the circle.

  Lieutenant Pilkington and Sergeant Rajit were trying to impose order on the men, swinging cudgels and the butts of their flintlocks. Pilkington grabbed a half-naked man by his bare shoulder but dropped his hand when he realised the identity of the man.

  ‘Captain Horne!’

  ‘Lieutenant, what’s going on here?’

  By now Sergeant Rajit had also noticed Horne, half-naked and bare-footed, standing on deck. Gradually more men saw Home amongst them and the circle opened, exposing the fighters.

  Horne espied Tom Gibbons, the ginger-whiskered boatswain, with a puffed eye and cut jaw. The prisoner Kevin McFiddich stood next to Gibbons, his lip bleeding and one eye badly cut.

  A voice shouted, ‘Those prison rats started it, Captain!’

  ‘Lying coward!’ shouted a prisoner.

  Another seaman bellowed, ‘Go back to the hole you crawled out of!’

  As the men began hurling insults at one another, Gibbons and McFiddich flung themselves back into their fight, and the circle tightened back around them. Horne’s demand for order was lost in the shouts. Pushing into the crowd, he shoved them aside to reach the middle of the circle, catching a fist on his chin and blows on the arm, back and shoulders, before he reached the centre. He shoved Gibbons to one side and stopped McFiddich with a fist.

  McFiddich held the bridge of his nose and glared at Horne. ‘Why hit me? Protecting your favourites?’

  Horne’s fist flew at him again.

  As McFiddich stumbled back on the deck, the crew cheered.

  Horne turned on his men. ‘What kind of bloody animals are you?’

  Looking towards Pilkington, he shouted, ‘Lieutenant, I want an explanation for this behaviour.’

  Pilkington stepped forward. ‘Sir, we were pulling down the netting for drills when –’

  A voice interrupted. ‘These pigs want us to do their work for them.’

  Horne spun around and saw the Spanish prisoner, Fernando Vega. He grabbed the Spaniard by the bicep and slapped him across the face. ‘Never interrupt me.’

  He pushed Vega back towards the crowd and, facing the men, shouted, ‘Nobody fights unless I say “fight”! Understand?’

  He thumbed his chest. ‘If you want to pick a fight with somebody, pick it with me.’

  He stepped towards McFiddich who was hunched on deck. ‘You want to fight, McFiddich?’

  McFiddich did not raise his head.

  Horne kicked at him. ‘I’m talking to you, McFiddich.’

  McFiddich lifted his glowering eyes up the length of Horne’s body.

  ‘Go on, McFiddich,’ taunted Horne. ‘Go on. Prove what a man you are.’

  McFiddich held Horne’s angry glare.

  ‘What’s the matter, McFiddich, you a coward?’

  ‘Don’t push me –’

  Horne stepped back, leaning forward from his waist and beckoning to McFiddich. ‘Come on, coward. Come on –’

  McFiddich lunged for him.

  Horne stepped aside, cutting down his right hand onto McFiddich’s neck and driving him down to deck. He drove the heel of his foot between McFiddich’s shoulder blades, pulled back his other foot and repeated a tattoo of sharp kicks into the man’s kidneys.

  He turned to Tom Gibbons. ‘What about you, Gibbons? You want to fight me too?’

  The ginger-haired boatswain backed away from Horne, shaking his head. ‘Sir, you didn’t do nothing to me. I got no gripe –’

  ‘Then why don’t I do something to you, Gibbons? Why don’t I –’

  Horne widened the knuckles of his second and third fingers, reaching to twist the end of Gibbons’ nose. ‘Why don’t I do … this?’

  His other hand flew up and grabbed Gibbons’ muttonchop whiskers.

  ‘Or this? Or –’

  Horne slugged Gibbons in the stomach, wrapped an arm around the boatswain and locked him helplessly to his side.

  ‘Now listen to me, Gibbons, and listen hard. No matter who does what to you on this ship, you ignore him. Understand?’

  He drove his fist into Gibbons’ ribs. ‘Understand?’

  ‘Yes –’

  ‘Yes who?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘That’s right, Gibbons. You’re learning, Gibbons. And this is to make you remember.’

  Horne drove his fist a second time into Gibbons’ ribs. He released him from his grip, shoving him towards deck.

  Turning to face the crew, prisoners and Marines, he spoke in a low even voice, his hazel eyes wild with excitement, sharp with anger.

  ‘I tried to be fair with you men. I tried to treat you decently. Now I see that I was wrong. I see you’re the kind of men who have to learn the hard way. So I’m going to teach you the hard way.

  ‘Whether you like it or not, you’re all part of this ship. Understand? And as you’re part of this ship, you’re also going to be part of Bull Island. The sooner you start realising that fact, the less trouble you’re going to get from me.

  ‘But the one thing you can count on from here is that I’m going to teach you the hard way. Every day. Every night. You’re going to end up better men than you are now. Or you’re going to end up … dead. No matter who you are. Ship hands. Marines. Prisoners from Bombay Castle. You’ll all be the same.’

  Nervous coughs passed through the crowd.

  ‘The next man who fights is –’ Horne pointed to the sea, ‘– thrown overboard.’

  Horne looked at Rajit. ‘Do you hear that order, Sergeant? The next man who fights is thrown overboard.’

  Rajit saluted. ‘Suh!’

  ‘If we’re in shallow water, Sergeant, the orders are to tie the man’s arms behind him, shoot him in both legs and then throw him overboard.’

  ‘Suh!’

  Horne looked at Gibbons and McFiddich. ‘As for these two men, Sergeant, lock them in bilboes. They will stay below deck till we make landfall.’

  ‘Suh!’

  Horne turned to Pilkington. ‘Lieutenant, I want to see you in my cabin. Midshipman Bruce and Midshipman Mercer will proceed with drill. I also want to see Mr Flan-nery and Mr Tandimmer. And the man over there — Jud.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  Remembering a disciplinary order he had already given, he added, ‘Is Babcock doing his deck duty, Lieutenant?’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  Horne glanced at the big-eared Colonial. ‘Good.’

  He raised his eyes towards the main royals. There was a southerly wind, but its strength was little more than a breeze. Turning, he padded down the companion way in his bare feet.

  *
* *

  The rest of the day passed without incident and, as the sun sank beyond the curving horizon, Tim Flannery emerged from the wardroom cabin and stood by the larboard railing, watching a spectacular suffusion of purple and orange in the far distance of the Arabian Sea. The Malabar Coast had not been sighted for over a day.

  Flannery was a rangy man with silky white hair and a network of tiny red veins patterning his round cheeks. He held a tin brandy flask in his bony hands as he leaned on the railing, the sunset reflecting in the blank cast of his eyes.

  A voice behind him asked, ‘Thinking of swimming ashore, doc?’

  Flannery turned and saw one of the prisoners from Bombay Castle. Not knowing the man’s name or country of origin, Flannery held out his brandy flask as a token of introduction. ‘Want to come with me, bucko?’

  The prisoner, Fred Babcock, took his first greedy drink of brandy for three years.

  Handing the flask back to Flannery, he answered, ‘I’ve got nowhere to run to, even if I did make it ashore. This spot seems to be as good a place as any for a man to sort out his mind.’

  ‘I’d think that a spell in Bombay Prison would’ve given you time enough to do all the thinking you needed.’

  Babcock laughed, pulling one of his big ears. ‘I was sentenced for life. Where was I going? What use did I have for thinking?’

  ‘Bucko, your voice has a twang to it. You an emmigrant from the Americas?’

  Babcock nodded proudly. ‘Ohio Valley. Best bottom land in the world. But I got no home, no kin to go back to even if I could.’

  ‘Captain Horne’s going to take care of all your problems, bucko. He’s going to make a Marine out of you.’

  ‘I don’t know if I want to be some … Bombay Marine.’

  Flannery passed back the flask. ‘How did you end up in prison, bucko?’

  ‘An officer started pushing me around on a ship out of Boston. He kept pushing and pushing and when I didn’t push back, he finally took a swing at me. I defended myself and landed him right smack on his butt. Only trouble was his head hit a capstan and killed him straight out.’ Babcock upended the flask over his mouth.

  Enjoying the deep swallow of liquor, he asked in a brighter voice, ‘Why’re you aboard this tub, doc?’

  Flannery reached for the flask and took a long swig. Smacking his thin lips with contentment, he answered, ‘Revenge.’

  ‘Revenge?’

  ‘Sweet, driving, slow-burning revenge.’

  ‘Revenge for what, doc?’

  Flannery fixed his liquid emerald eyes on the far horizon. ‘You’re the man who wants to sort out his problems, bucko, not me. I’ve known what I want for the past sixteen years. I’m just not having much luck finding the fancy devil.’

  Babcock pulled on his ear again. ‘Sorry to tell you this, doc, but according to what Captain Horne says about this Bull Island place, you ain’t going to find much sign of nobody there.’

  ‘Revenge, bucko, is like this brandy. It gets sweeter and stronger with each passing year. This ship will leave Bull Island one day and you can be sure as there’s a St Paddy I’ll be aboard.’

  Babcock bit back the urge to say that revenge was also like a mad dog. It turned on you. He suspected that the lanky Irish surgeon might not be a safe man to befriend.

  Chapter Eight

  BULL ISLAND

  Adam Horne greeted Lieutenant Pilkington on the quarterdeck the second morning after the storm. ‘Lieutenant, I want the lifelines strung today.’

  Pilkington thought he had misheard the order. The sea was barely ruffled by the breeze.

  ‘I also want six spools of rope brought on deck, Lieutenant.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Pilkington descended the ladder.

  Horne was in a foul temper this morning. Despite reports that the shot holes had been plugged in the hull, that ripped sails had been replaced or repaired, his mood had remained black for the past two days.

  The fight between Gibbons and McFiddich had reminded him how isolated he was aboard the Eclipse. Apart from Pilkington, his commissioned officers were few, very junior, and had not as yet shown themselves to be capable of handling a difficult crew. Sergeant Rajit was the only other figure of strength aboard the frigate, but being a Sepoy and a Sergeant, he conscientiously kept his place – well down the line of command.

  Horne suspected that his bad mood was caused by more than not having adequate support aboard the Eclipse. He was becoming lonely, and this realisation angered him.

  The last voyage had been his first mission of consequence as a captain. Isolated in his command, he had begun to understand the fabled loneliness suffered by captains, commanders, any man who had to make decisions and be responsible for the safety of human life. Unlike many commanders, Horne had no family to go home to, no one to confide in except his crew or subordinate officers. These options were pared down as the number of subordinates dwindled each passing month, or as his crew became more surly, more tired, spent in one way or another.

  The success of his mission to the North Arabian Sea had become obsessive to him; the prospect of failing, frustrating. Dedication to his command became the focus of his life. He began to feel little different from Indian warriors who drugged themselves for battle, but instead of opium his drug was an incessant personal drive. Secretly, he envied men who kept their work separate from the rest of their lives. But he had no other life except work. Nor did he have any prospect of one. His memory of Isabel was so vivid, so devoted, so painful that he could not even consider offering his hand to anyone else.

  Being a practical man, he kept reminding himself that a life in the Bombay Marine was his own choice, that he must pursue it with all his gusto, not question any decisions he made. The path to excellence, however, had its own variety of pitfalls; a man’s problems were doubled when his orders were tied to tight schedules.

  This morning Horne had awakened realising he was losing valuable time in training a squadron for Fort St George. The thought had attacked him like some gnawing worm. Washing and shaving, he had decided to start doing something about training the men today. As he dressed, he had wondered if he were beginning to hide again in his work, but he had instantly pushed the question from his mind. He did not want to solve one worry and pass to another, to become obsessed with personal problems, a man who whined, complained, carried his troubles like a flag, some banner of misery to flap every day of his life. Oh, no. The ideal was a decisive one. He had also pondered the idea that it might be advantageous to keep himself from forming personal attachments to other people. Pain and hurt were not only caused by enemy cannon at sea.

  * * *

  Horne stood on the quarterdeck, watching Pilkington ordering the lifelines being strung from starboard to larboard. He descended the ladder to direct the way he wanted the auxiliary ropes laced lengthwise across the lifelines.

  Satisfied at last with the weaving of squares, he stripped off his shirt and boots and began to lead Sergeant Rajit, Tyson Lovett and four other men from the Marine unit in a high-legged run through the course created by the ropes. Then organizing a larger group – a collection of Marines, crew, and prisoners – he ordered the ropes to be raised higher, making the exercise more difficult. For the next course he raised them higher still and invited Sergeant Rajit to join him in leading the drill.

  For the following exercise, Horne sent the men beneath the ropes, ordering them to crawl on their bellies, keeping their hips down, propelling themselves by their elbows and shoulders, heads pressed flat to the deck. He called for Sergeant Rajit to stand nearby with a birch rod ready in one hand in case a man raised his back or buttocks.

  Before the morning ended, he had evolved the men into four groups, four combinations of crew, prisoners and Marines arranged in graduated degrees of physical stamina, quickness and brute strength.

  After the midday meal, he ordered two ropes to be suspended from the top mainmast yardarm and watched the prisoners compete with the crew in a climb. He hoped the c
ontest would release some of the hatred between them. He was not surprised by Jud’s excellence in the rope climb. Apart from being strong, the big African seemed to be a friendly, contented man, almost having a religious air to him.

  The prisoners all impressed Horne one way or another with their strength. Jingee moved more quickly than Horne had expected. He wondered if the young Tamil dubash would prove to be as gifted in physical agility as he was at cooking and cleaning. The Turk, Mustafa, never smiled but never tired from daybreak to dusk. The Dutch sailor, Groot, was strong, bright, eager to please his new schupper.

  But the men of the ship’s Marine unit greatly disappointed Horne. They lacked stamina, moving sloppily and sluggishly. He remembered, though, that they were tired, having returned from a recent voyage, some of them being far past the retirement age by the standards of the Royal Navy, only acceptable to a force as desperate for manpower as the Bombay Marine.

  * * *

  On the fifth day out of Bombay, the first sight of land was hailed from the mainmast. Horne ordered all men to deck. He sent for Gibbons and McFiddich to be freed from the bilboes for landfall.

  Sailing under topsail, the Eclipse moved gracefully between large, conical-shaped islands, many covered with vegetation and palms, past smaller islands, some no bigger than a rock protruding from the clear turquoise water.

  Horne had studied Bull’s chart carefully and was pleased that his calculations for arrival were proving correct. With the yards trimmed for an anchoring course, he saw the water shoaling quickly and estimated they would be dropping anchor within the hour at what had once been the French penal island.

  The leadsman called, ‘By the mark nine …’

  Horne felt the sun’s heat cresting in a cloudless blue sky.

  ‘By the mark eight …’

  Men lined the rails, waiting to catch the first glimpse of their temporary home.

  ‘By the mark seven …’

  Horne kept his eyes on a rocky promontory of the island off the larboard bow. ‘Anchor clear?’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir. Clear.’

  ‘By the mark seven …’