by Porter Hill
Moving across the plateau, he fell to his knees next to Babcock; Martin Allen was propped against the trunk, blood soaking his shirt. Horne recalled fleetingly that Allen had also been among the prisoners training in today’s drill team. Damn it! Did this mean he was one more man short for the squad?
Babcock tucked a folded shirt behind Allen’s head. ‘Sweetwater was on duty here with Allen tonight.’
‘Sweetwater’s joined McFiddich?’ Horne remembered how Randy Sweetwater had collapsed in the sun after lunch. He wondered if the Marine had joined the mutineers out of revenge for being eliminated from the squad.
Allen’s breath came in short spurts. ‘McFiddich stabbed me when I said … I said I wanted no part of his plan …’
Horne saw that Allen was in pain but he had to learn at least a few details. ‘How many are there?’
‘More than a dozen, sir … Sweetwater just joined tonight … I was part of it myself … But when you came here the other night, sir … bringing us tobacco … talking about Horne … saying you’d write Ellen a letter for me …’
‘Save your strength, Allen.’
‘Sir, McFiddich’s dangerous … He killed Vega because he didn’t like him … He hates you too, sir, for some reason I don’t –’
Horne saw that Allen was losing blood quickly, that the knife wound had to be staunched.
‘Stay quiet, Allen. We’ll get Flannery up here to look at you.’
The young bare-knuckle fighter winced as he continued. ‘They’ve gone to take the Eclipse, sir.’
Babcock looked at Horne. ‘Should I get down to the pier and put a few holes in that rowing boat?’
Horne shook his head. ‘No. They’d know we’re onto them. It’s better if –’ He stopped, staring at a sight beyond the cliffs: a double-masted brig with the flag of France flapping brilliantly in the moonlight.
* * *
Seeing the brig approaching on the southern horizon, Horne remembered the mysterious ship which Tyson Lovett had spotted yesterday, the ship which had disappeared beyond the horizon before Horne had arrived with his spyglass. Was it the same one? Were the French keeping Bull Island under surveillance? Were other ships nearby?
Sailing by a westerly breeze, the French brig headed towards the southwest promontory of Bull Island. Horne saw that her larboard gunports were open and that men were swinging from the yardarms, trimming the sails.
Allen temporarily forgot the pain cutting his chest. ‘Blimey, sir, it’s Frenchies!’
Horne’s mind moved to the Eclipse on the far side of the island.
Babcock asked, ‘Why are the Frenchies prowling these islands?’
Not answering either man, Horne removed one flintlock from his waistband and laid it on the ground by Allen’s leg. ‘Wait here for Flannery.’
Allen shook his head. ‘Thank you, sir, but don’t waste no arms on me.’
Babcock rose to his feet. ‘Take it. If Flannery tries cutting you up when he’s drunk, use it on him.’
Horne turned to Babcock. ‘You take the other pistol. Go to the south ledge. You’ll find Midshipman Bruce on Barracks Watch there.’
Babcock looked at the weapon. ‘You trust me a little more now?’
Horne nodded. Babcock’s actions had proved his loyalty. Moreover, Horne did not dislike Babcock’s straightforward question. The American Colonial was a strong-minded man, not a mewling milktoast who passively took orders.
Tucking the pistol into his waistband, Babcock felt pleased that he had made the decision to reject McFiddich and stand by Horne. There would be more excitement with the Marines than with any mutineers. Also, Horne had guts. Back in Ohio, men called it ‘grit’.
A loud boom exploded across the island.
Allen sat alert against the tree. ‘What was that?’
‘Cannon fire.’ Horne listened for another report.
Babcock laughed. ‘If McFiddich took a rowboat out to the Eclipse, he’s getting more than he bargained for.’
Horne heard no second explosion, only the crashing surf. The boom must have been a warning shot fired at the Eclipse. If the rumours were true he had heard about France being unable to pay her men wages, the French brig might be prowling among the islands for prizes.
Chapter Fifteen
TRUE COLOURS
The brisk wind tossed a silver-capped surf against the island’s uneven shoreline, making the water rise in swells around the Eclipse. Adam Horne rose and dipped with the swells as he swam towards the frigate, riding a crest to save energy, falling forward into a trough, plunging onwards through the whitecaps.
Swimming from the south, he spotted a jolly-boat bobbing in the surf below the frigate’s port entry. McFiddich must have come aboard with a handful of men. He saw, too, that the mutineers had not yet hoisted the anchor lines.
Gripping a tarred anchor line, Horne climbed to the taffrail. He paused before jumping on deck, listening for voices, for footsteps, any noise on the quarterdeck. He raised his head and saw in the moonlight that the main deck milled with men; he looked beyond the larboard bow and spied the white sails of the French brig glistening to the east of the cove’s mouth.
Scrambling over the railings, he spotted Pilkington face down on the quarterdeck, the Lieutenant’s right hand clenching his sabre, a dark pool of blood spreading from his chest.
Horne fell to the quarterdeck and pressed his ear to Pilkington’s back. There was no heart beat.
He wrenched the sabre from Pilkington’s grip and remained on his belly as he proceeded fore, straining to make sense of the hubbub of voices below him.
McFiddich was haranguing the crew: ‘Don’t be stupid! I’m your chance for a new life! Freedom!’
Horne raised his head cautiously above the carved dowling of the quarterdeck; the moonlight was strong enough for him to spot McFiddich clinging to a ratline, a flintlock in one hand.
‘We’ll make for Africa! Arabia! Oman! I’ll put the port up to a vote!’
A voice called, ‘How bloody far do you think we’ll get with you in command, McFiddich?’
Merlin the gunner pointed towards the cove. ‘What do you plan to do about them Frenchies out there, McFiddich?’
McFiddich shouted, ‘They’ll help us!’
Scornful laughter met McFiddich’s reply, and as further chaos broke out amongst the men, Horne identified faces in the crowd: Tandimmer, Groot, Bakerswell, Jud.
Warnke the purser shouted, ‘McFiddich, you’re going to get us all sent to the gallows!’
Bakerswell the topsman added, ‘We knew you prison rats would bring us nothing but trouble!’
Ned Wren stepped alongside McFiddich. ‘Give him a bloody chance, damn you! He wants to help all of us!’
‘Yeah! Help us straight back into prison!’
Tom Gibbons, knife in hand, rushed from the companionway. ‘Horne’s not in his cabin.’
McFiddich leapt down from the ratlines. ‘Look below deck where his pet’s locked. In fact, bring up that fancy little Indian –’
A boom from the French brig’s cannon roared across the cove; the brig was still out of striking distance but the shot sent the men into further confusion.
Horne knew he must seize the opportunity to act and, deciding to trust a trait he knew in his crew, he remembered an order which every seaman was always ready to obey.
Springing to his feet on the quarterdeck, he shouted, ‘Prepare to make way!’
* * *
Silence fell over the main deck. The men stared at Horne as if seeing an apparition.
Horne stabbed Pilkington’s sabre towards the mouth of the cove. ‘That’s a French prize crew out there!’
Horne’s appearance – his sodden breeches, his bare chest beaded with water, sword high in the moonlight – held the men in a trance.
He singled out Tandimmer. ‘Cash in on this westerly!’
Next he chose a topsman. ‘Bakeswell, loose tops’ls!’
He turned to Gibbons. ‘Heave anchor, bo’sun!’
Knife in hand, Gibbons looked in confusion from Horne to McFiddich. Captain Horne was trusting him again!
McFiddich raised his pistol, aiming at Horne on the quarterdeck.
Gibbons’ stab was fast and he repeated it, pulling out the stained blade from McFiddich’s chest as Groot sprung upon Ned Wren, thumbs poking for his jugular vein.
Dropping McFiddich’s corpse to deck, Gibbons faced the crew. ‘Captain Horne’s given his orders. So move your lazy arses and heave anchor!’
The bustle became general, men moving to their posts, scurrying up the shrouds, swinging from ratlines, as commands ran through the frigate.
His hands cupped to his mouth, Horne continued shouting orders for all hands on deck, for the anchor to be stowed, gun carriages run out for battle.
Chapter Sixteen
LA FAVOURITE
The Eclipse caught the wind, lying over no more than a few degrees, and with an exhilarating lurch, got underway in the moonlight, graceful despite the crew’s frenzied work – shrouds singing, fall and block creaking, yards shivering from quick tug and stress.
As the topsails bellied against the starry sky, Horne looked to the mouth of the cove and saw the French brig tacking southeast, bringing her head to the wind as she set a course straight for the Eclipse.
Using hands for his trumpet, Horne bellowed, ‘Set course for northeast!’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘Mind that jib, Groot. The wind’s more powerful than you think.’
‘Aye, aye, schupper.’
Horne gauged the point in the cove at which the two ships would pass. ‘Tops’ls short!’
Pilkington’s body had been carried below deck when Jingee was freed from his irons. No officer stood near Horne to repeat his orders so he shouted above the excited din of the frigate.
‘Steer firm, Tandimmer.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘There’s tail lag, Gibbons. Get that anchor stowed, blast it!’
Gibbons was thrilled to be once again trusted by his captain and he beat his knotted rope across the back of his tugging crew, exhorting them with a stream of profanities.
Horne tilted back his head. ‘Jud! Ahoy up there! Any sign of sails beyond?’
The big African waved from his perch high atop the main topgallant mast, signalling to Horne that – as far as moonlight and the surrounding islands allowed a view – there were no other vessels in the night.
The French brig, closing the gap between herself and the Eclipse, fired another ball.
The brig was still out of range and Horne interpreted the blast as a ranging shot, wondering if he had misread the enemy’s intent for a broadside. Might they start firing for the prow? Use their bow-chasers?
He raised his hands to his mouth again and shouted to the gun deck. ‘Is there time enough and men, Merlin, to position a cannon upwards from the waist battery?’
‘I’ll shoot you the moon, sir!’
‘Pack her grape tightly!’
If command aboard the Eclipse had previously been slipshod and short of Admiralty standards, the frigate’s present activities now defied all naval traditions. But Horne felt that the men’s high spirits compensated for lack of form, that the contact between them was as taut as a violin string, quick as any ship of the line.
‘Hoist that cannon to cripple their yards, Merlin!’
‘Aye, aye, Captain!’
Horne glanced back at the brig.
Two cables distant, the French ship was still silhouetted on her course to pass a’beam the Eclipse.
Checking Merlin’s progress with the cannon, Horne spied Jingee running along the gangway, scurrying with a succession of wooden buckets, alternating loads of sand and water – sand to give grip to the gunners’ feet, water for drenching sudden fires.
The sound of the French brig drew his attention back to battle. The distance between the two ships was shortening as they continued on a parallel course, their prows closing …
‘Prepare to –’
Horne waited another one, two, three seconds …
‘– fire!’
The cannons belched flames, blue clouds of smoke rising in the night. Both ships shook under the impact. The acrid odour of gunpowder filled the air.
Feeling the deck tremble beneath his bare feet, Horne heard timbers crash, sails rip, the screams of men rising from the gun deck.
The two ships continued past one another, their timbers groaning like two crippled leviathans, leaving wisps of smoke in their wake.
Craning his neck to inspect the damage done to the Eclipse’s yards or masts, Horne was pleased to see that the crashing sound had not come from the frigate. He turned to evaluate the damage done to the French brig and saw her topgallant and topsails crashing downwards, the canvas twisting like wings of a moth singed by a flame. Merlin had struck his target.
Lowering his eyes to the brig’s stern, he saw that the French ship followed the new naval fashion of wearing her name resplendent in gilt paint – La Favourite.
Another cannon explosion rent the air and Horne jerked his head, wondering if he had missed a manoeuvre. Across the portside stern, he saw the island’s stone pier explode in the moonlight.
La Favourite was firing on the settlement.
* * *
Headquarters was a powderkeg, the stone house filled with ammunition and explosives. Before Horne could think of a way to warn Rajit, Babcock, and Mercer’s watch to evacuate to the far side of the island, he heard another burst of fire and saw that a warning was too late – Headquarters exploded in a cloud of white smoke.
The bastards!
The crew’s anger matched Horne’s, and as their curses rose from deck, Horne trumpeted, ‘Stand by to go about!’
The men needed no urging.
Tandimmer let the spokes of the wheel spin through his hands.
‘Head to wind!’
‘Aye, aye, sir!’
Sails thundered; canvas snapped; the yards ran alive with the quick figures of the crew and prisoners doubling as seamen.
The Eclipse caught her stays. But the movements were not fast enough for Horne’s liking, and he bellowed, ‘Get it over, men! Hang her up in that wind!’
Ropes screamed, blocks groaned, and as the Eclipse spun in the night, water swelled, creaming from the frigate’s prow, bubbling in her wake.
‘Prepare to fire!’
‘Guns sponged and loaded, sir.’
‘Canister on round shot?’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
The Eclipse turned in the mouth of the cove, moving on the course blazed by La Favourite. Seeing the French brig presently tacking and preparing to come back for the Eclipse, Horne nodded to himself as he watched her bring ing her stern to the wind. He was pleased to see the ship move awkwardly in the manoeuvre.
As his next plan boiled in his brain, he again began gauging at what point the two ships would come a’beam one another. He only had a few minutes for preparations.
‘Seize grappling hooks!’
No more than a few men at first understood his plan.
‘Seize grappling hooks and form three boarding parties!’
A cheer spread through the decks as more and more men grabbed the spiked irons attached to long throwing ropes.
Horne commanded, ‘Board the enemy to capture, not to kill!’
Now everyone understood that Horne was ordering hand-to-hand battle.
‘I repeat – do not board to kill. Board to take the ship as a prize, not the enemy as corpses!’
Horne pointed Pilkington’s sabre. ‘Lovett, board men from the prow.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Bapu, you lead from amidship.’
The Rajasthani bandit raised his fist in agreement. ‘Yes, sir!’
‘I will lead from the stern. But we wait for the brig to come astern.’
Horne raised the sabre above his head. ‘Now arm yourselves!’
Not knowing how many men he had aboard the Ec
lipse, he guessed that the French crew would easily outnumber them two to one. He could only depend on his men’s enthusiasm and the physical training they had received in the past few days.
‘Cannon ready?’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘Weapons to hand?’
His answer was a roar.
Horne thought of the nickname tagged to Bombay Marines. They did look like a shipful of buccaneers, himself included.
He smiled for the first time in – how long had it been since he had smiled so proudly?
* * *
Armed with Pilkington’s sabre, a dirk in his other hand and a flintlock stuck into his waistband, Horne felt the wind against his naked chest as he clung to the ratlines and watched the two ships drawing closer for their second encounter. He listened to timbers creaking, sails snapping, waves slapping against their hulls as he waited for the best moment to order – ‘Fire!’
Cannon smoke engulfed the two ships.
‘Throw grappling hooks!’
The spikes flew towards the brig like iron stars. The men began tugging the ropes as the topsmen descended the ratlines and shrouds, their whoops filling the night.
Horne waited for the two bulwarks to collide.
‘Board!’
Leaping over the railing, he led his men across the narrow gap, stabbing his dirk towards a swarthy sailor who greeted him with the swing of an axe.
A French officer, natty in gold braid, hurried to form a line of Marines to repulse the boarding party. But the soldiers were too excited, fumbling as they poured shot into their muzzles.
Horne dodged a strike from a spiked club and continued fore, stabbing to slice a pistol butt from an officer’s hand. All around him the deck was filled with the clank of steel and the pop, pop, pop of flintlocks.
Seeing that the French resistance was weakening quickly, no match for his men’s ferocity, Horne reached the brig’s most vital spot and swung his sabre with both hands, sinking the blade into the rope which held the French colours to the mast.
