The Bombay Marines

by Porter Hill

  The next man to be dismissed was Kiro. The Japanese prisoner stood barefooted in front of Horne’s desk, a dhoti tied around his sinewy body and a red bandana twisted around his forehead.

  Horne paced the floor behind Kiro. ‘You’re strong. Quick. You have stamina. You’re good at everything except a hand-to-hand fight.’

  Silently, Kiro stood facing Horne’s desk.

  ‘For some reason, Kiro, you freeze at the moment of attack. Why?’

  Kiro’s voice was soft and respectful, touched with his musical Eastern accent. ‘My master taught me to show caution, Captain Horne.’

  Horne looked over his shoulder at Kiro. ‘Master?’

  ‘Master of the Open Hand, sir.’

  Intrigued, Horne asked, ‘Your teacher of Karate?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Horne had forgotten about Kiro’s knowledge of Karate; he had killed a man in Bombay Castle with one deft chop of the hand, and he might well worry about accidentally injuring someone.

  The germ of an idea sprouting in his brain, Horne resumed his pacing of the room. ‘I learned from a man I respect very much, Kiro, that Greeks travelled to Japan hundreds of years ago, that they taught their art of open-hand combat – Pankration – to the Japanese in exchange for the secret of silk-making.’

  Kiro remained facing the desk. ‘I have not heard that story, sir.’

  ‘If you turn round, Kiro, I’ll show you the similarities I learned between Japanese Karate and Greek Pankration.’

  Horne raised both hands, holding both elbows down wards, resting his weight on his back foot as Elihu Cornhill had taught him.

  Kiro turned and immediately recognized Horne’s stance as a Japanese kata. Raising his own hands, Kiro rested his weight on his back leg, raising one heel of the other foot off the floor, toes pointed upwards.

  Horne sliced one hand at Kiro.

  Kiro blocked the chop, spinning, striking at Horne with his bare foot.

  Horne stepped away from Kiro’s kick, swinging his left hand for the next move. The two men continued in silent combat, one deft slice or kick following another, each block, each kick being potentially lethal had it struck its mark.

  Satisfied, Horne stepped back from Kiro and dropped his arms.

  ‘Kiro, why didn’t you tell me you were worried about injuring somebody with your hands during training?’

  Kiro’s finely chiselled face remained placid but his dark eyes twinkled. ‘The Japanese also have the art of Haiku, Captain Horne. I do not know if we learned it from the Greeks but one poem says, “Water changes to steel but leaves fall softly when the bird flies”.’

  Horne returned to his desk. ‘Kiro, will you agree to keep training with the team?’

  Both arms by his side, palms inwards, Kiro bowed to Horne.

  * * *

  The garish purple Indian sunset was darkening to an indigo night as Horne climbed into the jolly-boat to row out to the Eclipse for an overdue meeting with George Tan-dimmer. Since morning, he had enjoyed boundless energy. His list of chores seemed endless but he felt he could accomplish everything as long as he kept driving himself. In the rapidly spreading night, he was pushing the snub-nosed boat from the pier when he heard Midshipman Bruce running towards him, calling, ‘Captain Horne! Captain Horne! A message from Sergeant Rajit, Captain Horne!’ Horne leaned from the boat, grabbed the folded paper from Bruce’s outstretched hand. Tucking it into his waistband, he hurried to stop one oar from slipping in its rowlock.

  Tandimmer waited for Horne at the port entry of the Eclipse, pleased to be free from shore drills and honoured that Horne had invited him for a tankard of beer in the Captain’s cabin.

  The two men sat on opposite sides of the desk, in the breeze from the stern window. While enjoying Tandimmer’s company, Horne also hoped to glean information from him about Madras.

  Not wanting to arouse Tandimmer’s suspicions about the Eclipse’s destination after Bull Island, Horne manoeuvred the conversation towards the subject of native craft, eventually asking, ‘What’s the name of those boats that carry passengers ashore at Madras?’

  Tandimmer licked foam from his upper lip. ‘Masulah.’

  ‘What are they? Dug-out logs?’

  ‘A masulah, sir, is a plank boat sewn together with coconut twine.’

  Horne was certain of Tandimmer’s loyalty but Commodore Watson had given him strict orders not to tell anyone the few available details about the Governors’ mission for the Bombay Marine.

  He risked another question. ‘What shape are these boats?’

  ‘Flat bottomed with tall sides inclining like –’

  Tandimmer set his tankard on the corner of Horne’s desk and slanted both hands inwards, ‘– like this.’

  Horne took another sip of his beer. ‘Odd shape for a shore boat.’

  Tandimmer explained. ‘There’s no harbour at Madras, sir. Also, the surf’s rough there and comes in three stages. When the first wave crashes ashore, the second is a hundred yards or so out, and the third wave is the same distance away again. All three race to shore in great, galloping speeds.’

  ‘And these masulah boats can withstand such a surf?’

  ‘Oh, they leak and capsize every now and then, you can be certain of that. They’re also known to dunk their passengers in the drink. That’s why they’re usually escorted by catamarans, to fish out the passengers. The masulah oarsmen wear tall, hollow hats to carry important papers back and forth between ship and shore.’

  Satisfied with these few details, Horne turned the conversation to the subject of catamarans, then to another unique Indian boat, a gurab, which the Bombay Marine had developed into a ship known to the English as a ‘grab’.

  Finally bidding Tandimmer good night, Horne saw him to the cabin door.

  The Sailing Master hesitated in the companionway. ‘Sir, if you want to know more about the surf off Madras, you should ask Jingee. I talked with him on shore for several nights after supper and he told me his family have a fishing fleet near Cuddalore.’

  Horne knew that Jingee’s family came from the Coromandel Coast, that they were rich merchants and members of the Vaisya Caste. He had not asked the Indian about Madras because a decision still had to be made about his punishment for fighting McFiddich.

  He remembered another fact about Jingee. ‘Did he ever learn how to pronounce your name?’

  Tandimmer’s freckled face broke into a grin. ‘Tin hammer.’

  Horne extended his hand. ‘Good night.’

  ‘Good night, sir.’

  Horne closed the door, displeased that Tandimmer had reminded him about Jingee. He liked Jingee. Apart from being a devoted worker, the little man was good company. But he had done wrong in fighting with McFiddich and a decision had to be made soon about his punishment.

  * * *

  The sky glittered with small pinpoints of stars as Horne climbed the ladder to the quarterdeck and found Lieutenant Pilkington on watch.

  Pilkington saluted Horne and returned to studying the full phosphorescent moon swept by clouds. ‘A brisk westerly tonight, sir.’

  Horne nodded, wishing they could weigh anchor tonight for Madras and embark on whatever mission awaited them there. He was making headway on Bull Island but he was becoming impatient for real action, or at least to learn the exact orders for the Marines. His last assignment had been so clear cut, so concise in its instructions to stop Singee Ranjee attacking Company trade routes. He had known exactly how to prepare his men and ship, how to make the most of advantages and shortcomings.

  ‘Sir, we were lucky today, weren’t we?’

  ‘Lucky, Lieutenant?’

  ‘Not to have had another big downpour.’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘I’ll tell you now, sir, I wouldn’t like to have been McFiddich in that hot box.’

  Horne did not want to talk about Kevin McFiddich any more than he had wanted to discuss Jingee, but as usual, Pilkington was eager to talk.

  ‘Sir, do you imagine
that if McFiddich were left long enough inside that hot box he would cook? Roast like a joint of beef?’

  ‘Lieutenant, may we abandon the subject of McFiddich?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’ Pilkington moved fore, leaving Horne by the taffrail.

  Alone, Horne began pacing the quarterdeck, his thoughts moving from Jingee and McFiddich to his hesitation about deciding their punishment and so to the responsibility of a leader. Standing beneath the starry Indian sky, he clasped both hands behind his back and remembered how he had begun to understand the true challenges of leadership on the last assignment. He recalled his early years of military training with Elihu Corn hill, the squarely-built old soldier who had first tutored him in the art of leading others.

  ‘A leader must remember two things, Horne. Never be without a command for your men, even if it’s no more than “show courage” … “take cover” … “prepare for action” …

  ‘Secondly, Horne, always be prepared to get in and fight alongside your men. That doesn’t mean relaxing discipline or becoming overly familiar. A leader must keep his men’s respect while at the same time setting the example for them, showing them how to fight like a dog.’

  Elihu Cornhill had been fifty-seven years old when Horne had studied with him in Wiltshire, a veteran of the War of the Austrian Succession but a soldier who preferred to remember his years fighting North American Indians in Quebec.

  Cornhill had taught his young pupils to cover their bodies with chimney soot and crawl through inky-black English nights. To cake their arms and legs with lead paint in winter and dash from poplar to poplar in a January snowfall, camouflaged against a winterscape of whiteness.

  Food was as important in survival training as avoiding detection by the enemy. Cornhill had taught his students how to bite open a squirrel’s neck, how to skin the fur from the rodent’s warm body and devour its flesh raw. He had also taught his young men how a soldier could survive in prison by eating the callouses from his feet and hands.

  The young men whom Elihu Cornhill selected to train came from all parts of Britain, from every walk of life – country bumpkins, city rakes, heirs to vast fortunes, destitute lads without even a pair of shoes to their name.

  Were Cornhill’s teachings eccentric, perhaps even dangerous? Were his students no more than an odd selection of boys playing exotic games of tin soldiers on a tumbledown Wiltshire estate?

  Perhaps so. But whatever their background, Cornhill selected students who had had some brush with crime.

  Grab a criminal early enough in life, Horne, and you might find a soldier.

  Standing aboard the Eclipse off the rocky shore of Bull Island, Horne wondered if his idea to make Bombay Marines out of prisoners should really be attributed to Elihu Cornhill. Had the suggestion to recruit men from the dungeons of Bombay Castle stemmed from Cornhill’s philosophy of giving a young man a chance to prove his worthiness on the battlefield, to serve King and Country rather than to murder, rob, and vandalise?

  A splash in the water broke his reverie.

  Standing motionless on the quarterdeck, he scanned the ruffled water between the Eclipse and the shoreline.

  He spotted a swimmer approaching the frigate with strong, clean strokes.

  * * *

  A voice hailed from the water. ‘Ahoy! Permission to come aboard!’

  Lieutenant Pilkington moved alongside Horne on the quarterdeck, his hand resting on the hilt of his sabre.

  Horne raised his hand. ‘I’ll deal with this, Lieutenant.’

  Descending the ladder, Horne crossed to the port entry and cupped both hands to his mouth. ‘Identify yourself.’

  The swimmer’s head bobbed below the bulwark, a round spot in the spreading glow from the port lantern.

  ‘Babcock!’

  Horne threw a rope.

  Babcock’s bare feet scrambled up the hull, his breath steady despite the climb and the long swim.

  Standing in front of Horne, he dripped water onto the deck. ‘McFiddich’s out.’

  ‘Out?’

  ‘Of prison. Somebody set him loose.’

  Horne’s dark eyes narrowed. ‘How do you know this, Babcock?’

  ‘Mercer had me listed for guard duty with Rajit and –’

  Horne sharply corrected, ‘You call him Midshipman Mercer, Babcock. And Sergeant Rajit.’

  ‘Midshipman Mercer had me listed for guard duty with Sergeant Rajit … sir. But I remembered that Rajit – Sergeant Rajit – twisted his ankle yesterday. So I goes to the Infirmary to see if there was some change of command. Rajit – Sergeant Rajit – he sent me to check with the old Marine, Witherspoon, who was standing guard duty tonight with Vega over McFiddich’s hot box. That’s when I saw it.’

  ‘Saw, Babcock?’

  ‘McFiddich gone, Witherspoon too. And Vega dead.’

  ‘Vega … dead?’

  Babcock sliced one finger across his throat.

  Fernando Vega had trained all day with Horne. The Spanish prisoner was moody but had shown more energy than any other man on the team. Now he was dead. Horne was less one more man for Fort St George.

  Babcock continued. ‘I reported back to Rajit. That was when he – Sergeant Rajit, sir – told me to come out to you.’

  ‘Why didn’t you row?’

  ‘Rajit told me to draw as little attention to myself as possible.’

  The advice was sound. Horne wondered, however, if it had indeed come from Rajit. He remembered that Babcock had been part of the plot in Bombay Castle to get the cell keys. He also remembered seeing Babcock eating his midday meals with McFiddich.

  Unable to tell from the big American Colonial’s manner whether he was lying, Horne pressed, ‘What’s happened to Vega’s musket?’

  ‘Gone.’

  ‘McFiddich’s armed.’

  ‘Witherspoon too.’

  Horne waited a few seconds trying to evaluate Babcock’s report. He had to admit that his manner was not altogether displeasing. Babcock was either a friendly man or a truly accomplished actor.

  ‘Babcock, why do I think I can’t believe you?’

  Grinning, Babcock pulled on his ear. ‘I didn’t think you’d believe me, Captain, so I asked Rajit what I could tell you for proof.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He said he’d sent you a note earlier tonight.’

  Horne remembered the note which Midshipman Mercer had brought as he was leaving the pier in the jolly-boat. He took it from his waistband, unfolded it, and read the one word which Rajit had written on it.

  ‘TROUBLE’.

  Horne made his decision. ‘I’m going back ashore with you, Babcock. We’ll go the same way you came out. Swim.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  THE MYSTERY SHIP

  Horne and Babcock crawled from the surf a short distance along the shore from Headquarters. Still uncertain about Babcock’s loyalties, Horne sent him to check on the sentry at the far side of the island. He remained crouched alongside the boulders until he saw Babcock disappear up the western slope. He made his own way in the opposite direction.

  Tonight’s guard at Headquarters were the two Marines, Cabel Williams and Jim Hobbs; Horne paused a few yards from the small house until he saw them turn towards the pier, then, dashing towards the building, he pressed himself against the plank door, reached sideways, turned the iron ring, and slipped across the threshold.

  Accustoming his eyes to the faint light pouring through the small window above the cot, he heard snores come from a body heaped on the mattress – Midshipman Mercer.

  Calvin Mercer jumped at the clamp of Horne’s hand on his mouth.

  Ready to defend himself if the young Midshipman struggled in his half-awake state, Horne whispered, ‘It’s me … Captain Horne.’

  Mercer raised himself on his elbows, his dark eyes wide with surprise.

  Horne kept his hand clamped over Mercer’s mouth. ‘McFiddich’s escaped.’

  Mercer’s eyes shot above him to the window.

&nbs
p; ‘He’s got recruits.’

  Mercer sat higher on the cot.

  ‘We can’t trust more than a handful of men.’

  Mercer nodded.

  ‘I want you to get dressed. Slip out of the window. Go down to Barracks One. You’ll find Midshipman Bruce there on guard with Bapu.’

  Horne released his grip from Mercer’s mouth. ‘One man’s already been killed.’

  ‘Mutiny, sir?’

  ‘It could be. So after alerting Midshipman Bruce, go to the Infirmary and wake Sergeant Rajit. Help him walk back here. Rajit can keep watch on the arsenal while you take command of Pier Guard.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Now get dressed.’

  Horne moved to his desk and removed a brace of pistols from the top drawer. He stuck them into the waistband of his soaked breeches and moved back to the bed while Mercer was pulling on his boots.

  Standing by the window, Horne watched Williams and Hobbs pass in their patrol. He waited until they had turned the corner, then leaped onto the cot, pushed out the window frame and hopped onto the sill. Holding the framed glass, he jumped outside to the ground. Mercer followed him over the sill and disappeared into the night; then Horne replaced the pane.

  Crouching in the darkness, Horne listened to Williams and Hobbs talking around the corner about the advantages of owning farmland as opposed to a public house.

  When he finally moved from the shadows he kept low to the ground, dashing in short sprints across the barren space between Headquarters and the western slope of the island which rose jagged in the moonlight.

  * * *

  Horne made faster time moving on higher ground where he was protected by the silhouette of the cliffs and by the sound of the sea crashing against them. Pausing at the crest, he espied the dark shapes of two men ahead of him on the plateau: one man was kneeling in front of another who appeared to be propped against the trunk of a stunted tree.

  ‘Horne?’

  Horne froze at the call of his name.

  The voice belonged to Babcock. ‘They got Allen, Horne.’

  If Babcock was a spy for McFiddich, he was a good one. Horne was impressed that the American had not only heard him climbing the slope but had identified him without turning his head.