The Bombay Marines

by Porter Hill

  ‘I sailed three years aboard the Land of Hope so I know what I’m talking about.’ McFiddich’s piercing dark eyes studied the six other men in the group. ‘Horne’s ignoring all the rules. Doing what he damn well pleases.’

  Ned Wren straightened his right leg from his thigh. ‘I was seven years aboard the Treaty. I know other Marine captains don’t run their ships like Horne. No officer makes his crew crawl through no bloody weeds. Look here at my belly. Look at these scratches …’

  McFiddich raised his hand. ‘Why does Horne want to make Marines out of you? Like he says he’s going to do with us new men? That’s what’s not clear to me.’

  He looked at the sunburnt faces around him. ‘I don’t know about the rest of you but I don’t want to be no Bombay Marine.’

  Wren glanced over his shoulder, confiding in a lower voice, ‘I don’t even know if I want to be crew for Horne no more. That’s how I’m thinking.’

  McFiddich’s dark eyes glowed like two shining chunks of coal in their sockets. ‘So let’s get a plan.’

  He looked at Fred Babcock. ‘How about you, Babcock? Are you going to let Horne make you keep scrubbing deck whenever he wants to humiliate you?’

  Babcock shrugged, pulling on one ear.

  McFiddich glanced at the bare-knuckle fighter. ‘And what about you, Allen? You got family at home. Don’t you want to go back to them?’

  Martin Allen nodded slowly. ‘More than anything in the world.’

  McFiddich nodded at the small building which stood at the end of the wharf and served as Horne’s Headquarters. ‘That’s where our plan starts. Right down there.’

  The other six men looked at Headquarters. They saw Jingee approaching the front door with a covered tray in his hands.

  McFiddich curled his upper lip with disgust. ‘Look at that poor bastard. See what Horne has him doing. Does Horne want to make Marines out of us like he says? Or is he going to train us to wait on him hand and foot?’

  Martin Allen watched Jingee enter Headquarters. ‘I talked to that little Indian guy. His name’s Jingee. He’s not bad. He likes cooking and working for Horne.’

  McFiddich scoffed, ‘Then maybe this … Jingee’s trying to be Horne’s pet.’

  Vega interrupted. ‘Forget about the Indian, McFiddich. Tell us your plan.’

  McFiddich studied Vega’s face, strong Latin features drawn tight with hatred and jealousy. ‘How do I know you’re not going to run and tell Horne our plan? Try to be one of his pets yourself?’

  Vega’s chest swelled. ‘You insult me, McFiddich.’

  McFiddich smirked. ‘So what if I do, Spanish?’

  ‘My name is not “Spanish”.’

  ‘To me it is.’

  ‘And to me you are … caja … shit!’

  McFiddich rose to his knees.

  Grabbing McFiddich by the elbow, Tom Gibbons whispered, ‘Kev, hold it. Fighting’s not going to do nobody no good. We learned that.’

  McFiddich’s deeply set eyes glared at Vega. ‘This greaser better watch it.’

  Vega’s fists were clenched. ‘You’ve got to prove yourself worthy before we listen, McFiddich.’

  ‘I don’t have to prove nothing to you, Spanish.’

  Babcock broke the tension with a laugh. ‘What about me? You said yourself, McFiddich, I’m not Horne’s pet. Maybe you’ll tell me your plan.’

  Wren chorused, ‘I want to hear too.’

  Martin Allen joined in. ‘You said something about me going home, McFiddich. I want to hear what you got to say.’

  McFiddich sank back onto the ground. He looked from Allen to Wren to Babcock. Glancing around the hillside for eavesdroppers, he turned to Vega and threatened, ‘If one word of what I’m going to say gets out, Spanish, I know exactly where to look for the rat.’

  He proceeded to explain his plan for escape, keeping his voice low as he told the six men what he wanted them to do.

  Chapter Eleven

  BITE IF YOU CAN’T KICK

  The sixth day was over. Adam Horne sat contentedly on the bench outside Headquarters, boots crossed in front of him, facing the Eclipse riding high beyond the pier, a single lantern shining on the starboard gangway, a beacon for the next watch.

  The challenge of settling Bull Island and establishing a training schedule had invigorated Horne. He felt alive, confident, enthusiastic about moulding a squadron of fit men to follow him into whatever waited at Fort St George for the Bombay Marine. With the first week of physical training nearly complete, he knew that the rigid programme puzzled the men but, thankfully, no one had openly questioned their orders since arrival. He was pleased not to have had to make another ugly example of discipline as he had done aboard the Eclipse.

  Living with day-to-day developments of accommodation and training. Horne was beginning to feel more satisfied that he could meet Commodore Watson’s deadline. But the future – like the past – had little meaning to him these days. He was living and breathing the demands of Bull Island, and enjoying it.

  As he thought about his own schedule, he felt hunger pangs and remembered that no food tray had appeared tonight on his desk in Headquarters. Either Jingee had forgotten to prepare his supper or the day’s work had finally sapped the dubash’s store of energy. Horne suspected that Jingee was asleep like the other one-hundred-and-eleven men not on duty tonight.

  Rising from the bench, he decided to make the rounds of the sentry posts before looking for something to sate his hunger, a handful of dates, a few oranges, anything left over from the men’s evening meal.

  Stepping inside Headquarters, he struck a flint light and studied the guard list posted on the wall. He saw the names of the men standing watch at the three sentry posts and grabbed two clay pipes and a pouch of tobacco from the shelf. He tucked them into his shirt pocket and locked the door behind him.

  The surf boomed beyond the rocks edging the island’s eastern shore, the rollers crashing like cannon fire on the jagged shoreline, erupting into tiny pinpoints of spray and creaming into foamy tide.

  Horne climbed the hill above the thundering surf, both hands tucked into his waistband, deciding that the time had come to alter the training schedule. Tomorrow morning he would tell Sergeant Rajit to slacken pace on the majority of men, to concentrate on the fit and able. That would leave three weeks to develop a small, tight squadron for the mission.

  Three of the ship’s seventeen Marines – Tyson Lovett, Randy Sweetwater, and Jim Davis – were proving to be in better condition than Horne had expected. He was also now able to count seven men from the ship’s crew who had become hearty enough to be considered for a special Marine squadron. If Tom Gibbons gave him some sign that he was dependable, Horne could raise the number to eight.

  Reaching the top of the hill, Horne counted over to himself the prisoners who might possibly be of use to him.

  Mustafa the Turk was strong, well-disciplined, as skilful at firing muskets and fighting with knives as he was at swinging his garrotte. But Mustafa was a quiet man, always behaving so secretively. Did he have something to hide? If so, what was it? Was he a potential mutineer?

  Kiro also puzzled Horne. The Japanese gunner backed away from all physical confrontation. Why? Was Kiro the kind of man who tightened in action? Or was he simply cowardly?

  The Glaswegian prisoner, Brian Scott, was well-built, nimble, and not frightened to take chances. But Scott was always creating a disturbance. He accidentally knocked over poles, dropped a knife or flintlock with a loud clatter, coughed or sneezed at the wrong moment. Soldiers often had to be quiet but Scott could not stand still without making a noise.

  The two prisoners who worried Horne the most were Babcock and McFiddich. Neither man had shown any signs of disobedience since arriving on Bull Island. Although Babcock never remembered to address an officer with respect and McFiddich’s burning eyes always seemed to be hiding a secret, so far both men had obeyed Rajit’s orders. They learned quickly. They were proving to be strong and brave. Nevertheless,
something about them troubled Horne.

  At the summit of the hill, he called out in the night to identify himself to Tyson Lovett and the prisoner whom Lovett had chosen for sentry partner, Martin Allen. Horne produced the pipes and tobacco for the men as they set down the butts of their muskets on the stony ground.

  Tyson Lovett, a forty-two year-old Marine, broad-chested, with straw-coloured hair and large glassy blue eyes, helped himself to the tobacco as he reported, ‘All’s clear again tonight, sir.’

  Horne looked towards the southern horizon.

  Martin Allen took the tobacco pouch from Lovett, scooping a bowlful of rough brown shreds as he asked, ‘You say, sir, that the French sail these waters?’

  Horne detected a slight hesitation in the young bare-knuckle fighter’s voice. ‘The French have their southern base in Mauritius.’

  Allen puffed on the pipe’s long stem, making the bowl glow in the darkness. ‘What about the other islands out there, Captain? They have people living on them?’

  Allen’s question might be innocent but Horne worried about the prisoners becoming too interested in the surrounding islands. The Laccadives could be used as an escape route to the mainland.

  ‘Allen, your guess is as good as mine about what’s out there.’

  The young bare-knuckle fighter took another quick draw on the pipe.

  Horne added, ‘Just follow orders, Allen, and you might get back to Stepney sooner than you think.’

  Allen’s head jerked. ‘Stepney?’

  ‘Isn’t that home for you?’

  ‘How do you know?’

  The question had unnerved Allen. Why?

  ‘I read your record at the Castle, Allen. I saw you have a wife at home.’ Horne did not divulge, however, that he had also read that Allen was illiterate, or that the Company Service officer had put down his suspicions that Allen applied himself so feverishly to exhibition fighting to compensate for the fact that he could not read or write.

  Allen had tightened into a shell, his eyes lowered, his voice thinning as he admitted, ‘Yes, I have a missus. Her name’s Ellen. We have a little one. He’ll be four come April. I’ve never seen him.’

  Horne tried to be light-hearted. ‘I think I can safely say you won’t be home for your son’s next birthday. But you might well make it back next year.’

  Allen’s eyes widened. ‘Sir, you think so?’

  ‘I’m not making any promises. But I can do this much. Come and see me in Headquarters in the next couple of days. We’ll see about sending a letter home to your wife.’

  ‘Sir, would you help me write it?’

  Horne had learnt that seamen who openly admitted their illiteracy were more trustworthy than men who were ashamed of the fact.

  ‘Come and see me, Allen, and I’ll see your wife gets a letter from you.’

  Lingering a few more minutes with the two men before bidding them goodnight, Horne took the pipes and tobacco pouch for the guards on Post Two.

  Hands gripped behind his back, head bent forward, he ambled down the western side of the plateau, wondering as he walked what it would be like to have a family waiting for you to come home. A son you’ve never seen. A wife.

  The thought of being married, of having a family, reminded him of Isabel and his week-long contentment cracked with the image of her oval face, soft chestnut hair, eyes the colour of aquamarines. Would she have borne him children had she lived? A son? Daughters? Where would they have made their home? London? Or would she have taken the children to live with her father in Essex? Or would Horne’s own father have given them the house in Mount Street in London?

  Remembering how anxious Isabel had been to taste everything in life, Horne thought she would probably have wanted to come with him to India, to live in Bombay, build a little garden house with a view of Elephant Rock.

  Slowing his pace with the bittersweet memory of Isabel, he realised that if she had lived, he would most likely not have come to India. His life would have been completely different. But having lost Isabel, he had replaced her with a continent. A strange country. A new life. Was it a fair substitute or was he hiding here from reality?

  Unable now to stop his rush of memories and reflections, he wondered if a man who truly cared about a foreign country should not be learning more about it? Acquainting himself with the people and their ways? Eating more of their food? Learning at least a few words of their language and history?

  Horne disapproved of colonial families who brought English lives with them to India, lock, stock, and barrel. But had he not done worse? Was he not living in a movable shell he had locked himself into years ago? Wallowing in melancholy and self-pity?

  Perhaps he was making himself a hermit as well. Keeping himself too guarded from society when he was ashore. Should he look for someone – something – to replace Isabel? To be the new centre of his life apart from work? But what about the idea he had entertained, of never becoming attached to anybody, of protecting himself from more disappointment? Was that cowardly? Unadventurous? Even puerile?

  A sound disturbed him at the foot of the hill.

  * * *

  Horne stopped at the sound of the noise, studying two roofless buildings in the moonlight, the tumbledown stone structures which had once been the French prisons but now looked like jagged boulders in the darkness.

  Again he heard the noise, a grunt like an animal.

  Moving towards the larger of the two ruins, Horne realised the sound had come from one of the shallow prisons chipped into the ground, the stone prison dug only a few yards away from him.

  The prison’s iron doors were closed. Horne moved closer, seeing an iron pin holding them shut.

  He heard the noise again. This time it sounded like a muffled call.

  Bending over the rusty doors, he removed the pin and raised one door with a screech of metal. He saw the wrist of a man’s bare arm chained to a metal ring. Hurriedly he opened the second door and recognized the man. Dropping to his knees, he pulled the rag from Jingee’s mouth and began freeing his arms from the iron rings.

  Jingee remained silent as Horne released him, scrambling from the prison as Home stood up.

  ‘Jingee, who did this to you?’

  Jingee did not answer. He stood with his eyes to the ground.

  ‘Jingee, why aren’t you talking?’

  Jingee shook his head.

  ‘Are you refusing to tell me who locked you in there?’

  Jingee began to speak but stopped.

  ‘Jingee, I can’t make you talk. But I know you’re an intelligent man so I can ask you to think about what happened to you. I want you to think how this could affect the other men and I want you to come and see me tomorrow morning.’

  Horne escorted Jingee to his barracks in silence. He waved him past the guard and turned to the cove.

  Forgetting about hunger, he felt a foul mood overtaking him, discontentment with Jingee and agitation with all the crew.

  Horne had to be so many things to his men. Teacher. Warden. Sleuth. Disciplinarian. The responsibility could sometimes feel unbearable, especially at these times when he wanted nothing more than to have a simple existence, to be a husband and father, to have a chance of that life which had been destroyed on the night when Isabel had been shot.

  Unbuckling his belt and pulling off his shirt, Horne began dropping his clothes as he moved towards the end of the pier. The only panacea for despair was to keep in motion, to exhaust the body until the mind was dull.

  His naked body sliced the ruffled water in a neat, silent dive.

  * * *

  Jingee lay awake in his hammock in the darkness of the barracks. He held both hands clasped behind his neck, thinking about the three men who had locked him in the shallow stone prison earlier tonight when he had been on his way to Headquarters with Horne’s supper. The men were English and had called Jingee the ‘Captain’s pet’. It was not the first time that Jingee had been called such a name.

  From childhood, Jingee had b
een smaller than other boys. His parents had taught him that he must acquire abilities which taller, stronger boys did not possess. They had tutored him to read, to write, to cook and sew, to do menial tasks which men – even women – considered unworthy for people in their high station of society, the Vaisya caste.

  Unlike many Tamils, Jingee’s parents had interpreted the coming of the feringhi – foreigners – to India as the end of life as their ancestors had known it. The Muslim Mughul had begun changing India three hundred years ago. Dutch and Portuguese traders had come next, bringing their ships and strange plants – potatoes and corn. Now it was the English.

  Apart from learning how to make himself indispensible to powerful conquerors with his talents and skills, Jingee had also learnt how to protect himself.

  His father had taught him to fight, beginning by giving the basic advice that if you are too small to strike your adversary, then kick him, and if you can’t kick, then bite him – to do anything to protect yourself and your honour.

  Thinking about the men who had locked him in the shallow prison tonight, Jingee lay in the hammock and began plotting his revenge against their leader and instigator, Kevin McFiddich. He was sorry that his revenge would anger Horne. Home was a good man, a rare feringhi who, despite his strength, was a feeling, sensitive man. Jingee greatly respected him. But Jingee also respected himself, and he decided to fight McFiddich with the same weapon which he had used to kill the English factor in Hyderabad. Jingee knew, too, where he would get the knives.

  Chapter Twelve

  BURN IN HELL

  Adam Horne did not know how long he had been swimming when he pulled himself onto the pier, but his muscles ached and his brain was numb from the physical exertion. Grabbing his clothes from the wharf, he dried himself with his shirt as he padded in darkness towards Headquarters.

  He collapsed onto the cot and the next thing he knew somebody was pounding on the door, shouting, ‘Captain Horne! Wake up, Captain Horne! There’s trouble!’