by Porter Hill
Babcock was the only man who had asked Horne why the assignment was to kidnap a French general from the British Army. Horne had answered that a Marine’s job was to obey orders, not to ask for reasons, and in the last few days Thomas Lally’s name had become as familiar to the seven men as their own, without anybody asking for further explanations.
Looking around the cabin, Horne asked, ‘More questions about the fort? Garrison details? Army barracks? Company Barracks?’
Silence filled the cabin, broken only by the sound of the Eclipse sailing under full canvas, the toss and fall of the frigate enjoying the strong winds.
‘No questions about the Guard House? Portuguese Square? The Stable?’
Outside the cabin, the call of Lieutenant Bruce’s voice marked the change of the second watch.
‘You think you know everything?’
Bapu raised his hand. ‘I’ve got a question about the Bazaar, Captain.’
Horne was surprised how well the broad-shouldered Indian, Bapu, obeyed his orders. He had prepared himself for serious insubordination from a man who had once led a gang of hill bandits. But since the early days of the voyage when Bapu had shot the two swimmers escaping from the Eclipse, he had been one of Horne’s best disciplined men. Bapu’s only fault was that he was a slow learner.
‘Sir, what if the Bazaar’s closed when Land Group reaches the Black Town? What’s our cover then?’
‘Bapu, do you remember the name of the gate on the North Wall?’
Bapu scratched the prickly burr of his head. ‘On the North Wall?’
‘Yes, Bapu, the North Wall,’ Horne answered patiently. He had learnt that it was best to speak to Bapu as if he were a child, albeit a big one.
‘Is it the Main Gate?’
‘Correct, Bapu. The Main Gate. And like the Sea Gate on the opposite wall, guard outside the Main Gate is posted twenty-four hours a day.’
‘Sir, are there street lamps at the Main Gate?’
‘Two. And don’t forget, Bapu, the Main Gate is also the busiest entry into Fort St George. There’s activity night as well as day. Land Group shouldn’t make anybody suspicious even if the Bazaar is closed – providing that you wear the disguises you’ll be carrying and remember to follow your instructions.’
Horne repositioned himself on the edge of the desk. ‘If you need cover, Bapu, always create a diversion.’
Horne looked from Bapu sitting on the mattress to Mustafa, Babcock and Dirk Groot squatting in front of him on deck. Studying the four men of Land Group, he said, ‘Before we review our plans for inside the walls, are there any more questions about the approach?’
Silence.
He looked at the men facing the desk. ‘Sea Group?’
Confidence.
Moving his eyes back to the berth, Horne considered a hypothetical situation for Land Group. ‘What if you’re nearing the fortress and a British Patrol stops you at Elambore. First of all, where’s Elambore?’
Groot raised his hand. ‘The settlement of Elambore, schupper, is southwest of Madras. Up on the plain by the old Muslim Tollgate.’
‘Correct. Now how do you identify yourself to the British Patrol?’
Babcock raised his hand and Horne nodded.
‘Didn’t you tell us that the French surrendered Pondicherry last month?’
Horne nodded again, having given the men the details which Watson had told him.
Babcock sat with his arms crossing his bent knees. ‘And isn’t Pondicherry only a couple of days south of Madras?’
‘About three days.’
‘So if we meet a patrol, Groot here keeps his “aye, aye, schupper” mouth shut and lets me do the talking. I say to the patrol that we’re stragglers from the fighting down at that Pondicherry place.’
Horne decided that this was not the time to reprimand Babcock for failing again to address an officer correctly. Instead, he asked, ‘What do you say to the patrol, Babcock, if they ask you the name of your company?’
‘79th Foot.’
‘Who’s your commanding officer?’
Babcock pulled on his ear. ‘If they ask me too many details like that, I suddenly get heat stroke or belly cramps.’
‘Good but not good enough.’
Horne reached behind him on the desk for the list of regiments he had received from Watson. Apart from schedules, names and details about Fort St George, he had also been supplied with a wide assortment of uniforms and clothes for the men to pack with their equipment.
Dropping the list back onto the desk, he said, ‘If you belong to the 79th Foot, Babcock, your commanding officer is Pilfer. Can you remember that?’
‘Pilfer? Who could forget it? It’s like “pilchards”. I hate ‘em.’
‘It also means “to steal”, Babcock.’
‘Then I’ve got two good reasons to remember.’
Laughter filled the cabin. But Horne called for order, knowing there were many facts to review between now and the time when the Eclipse would drop them in an open boat off the inlet on the Chingleput coastline.
‘Now, men, let’s suppose we’re inside the fortress. But before we move onto details about General Lally, let’s run through a few local facts.’
He looked at Jingee who had become his model Marine, as well as the chief informant on the ways of Tamil Indians living along the Coromandel Coast. The only problem Horne had with Jingee was keeping him from spending his time cooking, cleaning and pressing clothes.
‘Who’s in charge of Fort St George when Governor Pigot’s away?’
‘The Town Major, Captain sahib.’
‘Is the Town Major a military or Company officer?’
‘Company, sahib. The post of Town Major was created two years ago by Governor Pigot.’
Horne looked at Jud squatting next to Jingee on deck, an ebony giant beside a chocolate gremlin.
‘Jud, if you go to the Portuguese Church, what religion are you?’
Jud blessed himself with the sign of the cross.
‘But are services held there?’
‘No, sir. The Company’s redesigning the Portuguese Church. Catholics now go to services in the Armenian Church outside the walls.’
Horne looked over to Land Group. ‘Mustafa, what if you’re standing outside the Main Gate and you hear a church bell. Where’s it coming from?’
‘The English Church, Captain. Church bells begin ringing at six in the morning. We listen to them for our escape signals.’
Horne had more to worry about at the moment than why Mustafa seldom talked and never smiled. He pressed on with the questions.
* * *
The wind held strong, warming with the Bengalese Current as the convoy moved up the western perimeter of the Bay of Bengal. Commodore Watson stood on the quarterdeck of the Ferocious in the light of the new day, the low hills of the Chingleput Range rising above the rocky coastline beyond the larboard. Adam Horne would be taking his men ashore in less than an hour.
Lifting a silver flask to his mouth, Watson felt the liquor burn his throat, reminding him of Tim Flannery. Adam Horne was displeased that he had to take Flannery ashore with his squadron.
Flannery was an old friend of Watson’s, a drinking companion from Spithead and Gravesend and Deptford. Watson had assigned Flannery to the Eclipse after the British Navy had discharged him in Bombay. Sending him ashore with Horne’s squadron was a precaution Watson was taking in case Lally were injured in the escape and needed medical attention. Lally was Irish himself – at least, half-Irish – and Watson hoped that Flannery might also amuse the temperamental prisoner with a bit of dry Celtic wit.
Looking through his spyglass, Watson studied the bellying topsails of the Eclipse. After the frigate had landed Horne’s team, she would follow the Ferocious and La Favourite to sea, the three ships beginning their wait for Horne to return to the same spot with Lally. The wait would last anywhere from one to two days. If Horne did not return in forty-eight hours, the convoy would weigh anchor and Horne’s missi
on would be counted as lost.
Watson had decided against telling Horne that the Company’s three Governors were threatening to disband the Bombay Marine if the mission failed. Horne had enough to worry about with the French – as well as the English – as his enemy.
Admiral Pocock was prowling the Bay with the Navy, and Watson had also cautioned Horne to be prepared for d’Ache‘s fleet. But Pocock’s presence off Madras should keep the French at a safe distance. The only threat from the French was likely to be from their land troops.
Hoisting the flask to his mouth, Watson took another long swig but did not enjoy it. The liquor’s potency no longer affected him, barely numbing his nerves. He reflected how bitterly disappointed Emma would be by his breaking of his abstinence, but it was drink, he recalled, that had helped him set out from Bombay Castle. It was damned hard for an officer to be true both to his wife and to a tough command.
Feeling the seaspray against his face, he stared blankly across the choppy waves at the Eclipse, wondering if Adam Horne had reached that state of life, where he could be true only to his mission and his orders. Such dedication took some officers many years to reach. Some called it an achievement. Others, selfishness. Had Horne come that far yet, or did he still believe that a man could hope to have home, family life and happiness on shore?
People had been saying for hundreds of years that the sea was a lonely place. It was true. The damned sea took its toll on a man. Especially when you sailed for a Company concerned only with profits.
Adam Horne had changed in some ways, though. Watson had noticed it on Bull Island. Overworked. Undermanned. Pressed for time. Nevertheless Horne seemed more exhilarated, less nervous than he had in Bombay Castle. Was it because he was coming closer to action? About to embark on an adventure that would turn most men’s bowels to water? Watson considered how he himself now felt dulled, made blunt by alcohol. He could not help but feel jealous.
Stuffy chambers. Long meetings. Disappointments. It was hell getting old, using gin to cope with pressures.
Chapter Nineteen
THE COROMANDEL COAST
The water was brilliant and translucent off the Coromandel Coast, more green than blue, with meandering shapes of jagged coral reefs visible through a gently rippling tide. Long weed trailed down to the great depths of the inlet, and oddly shaped fish swam close to the surface, unafraid of the small boat with its eight oars rising and dipping in unison.
Adam Horne crouched in the snub prow of the boat, listening to the creak of the oars in the rowlocks as the boat moved away from the Eclipse. The terrain ahead appeared exactly as Jingee had described – low mountains covered with brambles, scrub brush, small copses of pine, a few stunted palms.
The keel touched sand. Horne and Mustafa jumped into the lapping surf and pulled the boat onto the beach as the other six men left the oars to gather their weapons and packs of equipment.
Tim Flannery, a wide-brimmed straw hat pulled down over his head, rose from the stern bench. ‘Look, a hut!’
The shout echoed in the cove’s silence, broken only by the chirrup of crickets and the gentle lap of the surf onto the crescent of golden sand.
The hut’s presence told Horne that they had come ashore at the correct spot. He hoped Jingee had been equally accurate in describing the roads and distances they would travel from here.
The men worked quickly, heaping a pile of equipment on the sand, beaching the boat, carrying the oars to the hut where Flannery would be lodging while he waited for them to return with Lally.
Horne pointed towards a small peninsula separating the sandy inlet from a lagoon. ‘There’s a good spot to weather the boat.’
Jud and Kiro grabbed the boat between them and walked towards the escarpment, their bare heels sinking into the soggy yellow sand.
Horne scrambled up the black rocks. He saw that the lagoon darkened to a deeper blue beyond the shore. The Eclipse could safely take refuge there when they returned for the rendezvous. The thought of Bruce and Mercer being in command of the frigate troubled him. He turned, blanking it from his mind.
As the men worked to cover the boat with dried brush and reeds, Horne moved back to the beach and selected a flintlock, a musket and a bag of shot from the pile. Then he continued towards the hut where Flannery was collecting dried palms for the roofless shelter. ‘No more than a garden shed, now is it?’ commented the Irishman.
‘Hmmm.’ Horne noticed two large bottles of spirits and wondered how Watson hoped that Flannery would remain sober enough to help Lally if there were an accident during the escape.
Setting down the weapons and ammunition by the rattan-covered bottles, he said brusquely, ‘You’re to use these to protect the boat if necessary, Mr Flannery.’
Flannery placed another palm frond on the shelter. ‘And not to guard myself, Captain?’
‘If need be, Mr Flannery.’
‘How about using them for a bit of hunting? This land’s got some fat little turtledoves.’
‘We’ll be back in two days. You have more than enough food to last you until then. It won’t be necessary to hunt or to build fires, Mr Flannery.’
Flannery studied Horne. ‘You’re a hard man, aren’t you, Adam Horne. Hard on your men as well as hard on yourself.’
‘I have a job to do, Mr Flannery, as you have.’
Flannery’s eyes twinkled. ‘Aye, Captain.’
Horne disliked the Irishman’s mocking stare. ‘Mr Flannery, the custom of saying two “ayes” when answering a Captain has a definite purpose. It informs him that you understand orders. Do you understand your orders, Mr Flannery?’
Flannery’s thin lips twisted into a smile. ‘Aye, aye, Captain Horne.’
‘Good. I expect them to be obeyed.’ Horne turned back to his men.
* * *
Tim Flannery finished the repairs to the hut, unpacked his food supply and damned a small pool for cooling his water jug, not forgetting to make a cache for his rum. The work occupied him until Horne and the men departed in two groups, each party going in opposite directions.
Alone on the beach, Flannery hunted in vain for his straw hat, so knotting a cloth on his head as the Marines had done on Bull Island, he settled himself against a rotting log, his bare feet buried in the sand and a rum bottle nestling between his thighs.
Enjoying the sun glittering on the slightly ruffled surf, he said aloud, ‘Oh, this is a grand life, old Flannery.’
His words sounded empty in the abandoned cove.
‘A grand life for an old codger like you.’
He remembered Commodore Watson’s promise to secure him a position as surgeon on shore as repayment for taking part in this operation. Such a plum assignment would give Flannery a retirement pension, a rosy old age paid for by the Honourable East India Company. He took a swig from the rattan-covered bottle, picturing to himself the thatched cottage he would buy back home in Kilkelly. He could retire comfortably to County Mayo on a surgeon’s pension.
But a surgeon’s post in Bombay or Madras, or even Calcutta, might mean forsaking the oath Flannery had sworn sixteen years ago, the pledge to avenge his brother’s murder. Was a pension worth forgetting that promise? He took another drink from the bottle, telling himself not to rush a decision; liquor dripped down his chin and onto his chest. Flannery began to warble a stanza of The White Cockade, the anthem sung by the Irishmen serving in France under Thomas Lally back in ‘44–45. Flannery’s brother had belonged to that infantry of mercenaries known as the Wild Geese. Padraic Flannery had been killed serving under Lally on the fields of Fontenoy on 11 May, 1745.
Chapter Twenty
THE DONKEY CART
Land Group
Two miles inland from the Chingleput coastline lay the small village of Sharuna, a cluster of straw-roofed huts, a walled Hindu temple and a reservoir with stone steps descending into its murky green water. The land looked like the rest of the District of Arcot: desolate, sun-baked, dotted with leafless trees making grotesque shape
s against a cloudless blue sky.
The dirt track leading to Sharuna was bordered on one side by a deep ditch and a thicket of thorns dense enough to give cover to Babcock, Groot and Mustafa, as they waited for Bapu to return from the village with transport for the rest of the journey to Fort St George. Horne had given orders for the squadron’s two Indians, Bapu and Jingee, to act as spokesmen for Land Group and Sea Group when necessary.
Groot lay on his belly in the ditch, his eyes fixed on the rise in the road. ‘What’s taking him so long?’ he kept asking anxiously.
Babcock lounged on the incline, his head propped on his canvas pack, the straw hat he had stolen from Flannery pulled down over his eyes. Mustafa sat a short distance away, his back against a pine-tree, a glum expression on his broad chiselled face as he idly pulled on the wing of a brown grasshopper.
Of Land Group, Groot appeared to be the most enthusiastic about the mission, his enthusiasm approaching nervousness. But even he had not been able to offer an explanation for the assignment.
He had raised the matter again as Land Group had hiked from the inlet. ‘If General Lally surrendered to the British, the French are probably frightened he’s going to give away all their war secrets.’
Trudging in front of Groot up the dusty track, Babcock had disagreed. ‘That’s no reason why the Company’s Marine has to kidnap him from a British prison.’
‘Yah. You’re right.’ Groot had kept on hiking.
Two hours later, Groot still had not thought of a satisfactory answer and meanwhile Bapu had gone to the village to find an animal for travelling.
‘Do you think he’s run into trouble?’ he asked nervously, looking down the road.
Babcock flicked his hand at a fly as he lay on the slope. ‘You worry too much, Groot.’
