China Flyer

by Porter Hill

  Horne began his interpretation of the situation. ‘The man didn’t finish the fight with you and worse than dishonouring himself, he disgraced his friends. To fight and lose is better than not fighting to the bitter end.’

  ‘You stopped us,’ Babcock reminded Horne.

  ‘I’d do the same again. But that doesn’t change these people’s customs and superstitions. Don’t forget, Babcock, they’re Malagasy. Proud and steeped in folklore. When such a man is challenged to fight, he is expected to kill or be killed. A fight is fought to the finish. But yours wasn’t. Therefore his friends are taking up where he left off. Now. Here.’

  ‘Is that … law?’

  ‘More like tradition.’

  ‘Hell, Horne. I didn’t ask to get involved in no tradition.’

  ‘If I remember correctly, Babcock, you told the man you could beat him in a fight. Any way he chose.’

  ‘True …’

  ‘The man chose an old Indian way of fighting. It was to be a fight to the death. But he was denied both victory and defeat so his friends are finishing it for him. With us.’

  ‘A dead body? That’s a hat in the ring?’ Babcock shook his head. ‘I don’t understand any of it.’

  ‘The body’s their gage. Their challenge to us.’ Horne added, ‘They’ll be back to see if we accept it.’

  Against the hazy coastline the sloop glimmered small and white, waiting, while the four native craft dotted the horizon like pearls loosely strung on black wire.

  Babcock glanced over his shoulder. ‘All five of them are coming after us?’

  ‘They want to make certain they finish the fight this time.’

  ‘They’ll slaughter us.’

  ‘That’s what they hope to do.’

  Pulling his ear, Babcock admitted, ‘It’s my fault. It’s me they want.’

  Kiro emerged from the men crowding the port entry. Scrambling up the ladder, he reported to Horne, ‘Sir, the body’s been stabbed many times.’

  Jingee followed Kiro.’ Captain sahib, the man’s throat has been slit like a chicken.’

  Babcock asked miserably, ‘Why would they slit his throat and then stab him? Why not just throw him overboard in the boat and be done with it?’

  Jingee’s dark eyes twinkled as he waited to speak. ‘Captain sahib?’

  Horne nodded permission.

  Jingee explained in his precisely-spoken English, ‘The Malagasy detest cowardice, Captain sahib. I suspect they used the man to absorb any unmanliness aboard their ship.’

  ‘Like a scapegoat,’ Horne said.

  ‘Yes, Captain sahib. Such behaviour is difficult for many Europeans to understand. First, the Malagasies slit the man’s throat, then probably knifed him in a ritual killing before setting the body adrift.’

  Jingee’s explanation concurred with Horne’s own theory. ‘They put the body to sea for us to find it and haul it aboard. The corpse is our challenge.’

  Jingee bowed from the waist, complimenting, ‘I should not be surprised, Captain sahib, that a man like you understands such things.’

  ‘Damned savages,’ mumbled Babcock.

  Horne ordered Jingee, ‘Have the body sewn in a bag.’

  ‘Shall I also say prayers over the body, Captain sahib?’ asked Jingee.

  Horne waved his hand dismissively. His thoughts were on the Huma and the fate of his men, not the reincarnation of a pirate into some higher caste in his next life-cycle.

  Sending Kiro and Jingee to dispose of the body as quickly and respectfully as possible, he raised his spyglass to see if his hunch was proving correct.

  The sloop was changing tack, he saw, and the native craft spreading in formation, two pattimars widening to the north, the other pair gliding south.

  Babcock asked, ‘The buggers coming back?’

  Horne was busily formulating an idea, believing that the pirates were creating what might prove to be a claw to close around the lone frigate.

  Hove-to, the furling of the fore topsails had quieted the Huma, bringing her into the wind. Starboard to the open sea, she rose and dropped on the choppy water, steadied by the staysails.

  Giving orders to loose all sail to the wind, Horne kept checking the pirate flotilla’s steady progress towards the Huma.

  At his side Babcock moved uneasily. ‘We’re going to make a run for it?’

  Horne scoured the horizon for further sail as he answered. ‘If they don’t get a fight from us, they’ll make trouble for some innocent party later.’

  Babcock frowned at the raider’s flotilla. ‘We’re going to take on all … five?’

  Horne ignored the question, calling to the helm, ‘Steady as you go, Groot. Steady.’

  As the mainsails caught the wind, the Huma charged forward, the gust heeling her over, waves bursting across the prow.

  The tilting deck, the breeze, the shuddering canvas overhead, reminded Horne that he was where he wanted to be. He momentarily forgot about Babcock beside him, even about the threatening enemy, and reflected that he had been too long on land, too long without a command. In Bombay he became short-tempered, pessimistic; he lived aimlessly from day to day.

  Looking at the spread sails, he saw the new crew scurrying like flies across the yards. This was not the first time he had seen such a transformation of farmers and herdsmen into sea hands. It would probably not be the last.

  Shortage of manpower was becoming too common. Horne seldom enjoyed a full complement of men to divide into four-hour watches with dog watches. He had learned, too, to do without officers, inventing a makeshift rating to adapt to his crew. But, then, if he truly wanted a tightly run ship, could he not always join the Royal Navy?

  A touch on his shoulder brought Horne back to the present.

  ‘Horne, I guess I should say I’m sorry.’

  Did Babcock’s indiscipline truly bother him? Why hadn’t he taken drastic steps with him before? Did the lack of manpower make him suffer such laxness?

  Babcock went on, ‘Like I said, this is my making.’

  ‘Babcock, there’s a time and place for apologies. This is not one of them.’

  ‘But—’

  Over the crash of the waves, Horne shouted, ‘At the moment we have a battle to fight, Babcock.’

  ‘Aye, aye, Captain,’ answered Babcock cheekily.

  Friendship was the problem, Horne realised. He had become too close to his Marines. How do you tie a friend to a grating and lash him for not addressing you properly?

  * * *

  As the Huma set a course straight for the pirate flotilla, Babcock remained near Horne on the quarter-deck.

  As a boy, Babcock had never dreamt of going to sea. Born on a farm in America’s lush Ohio Valley, he had been raised to work the land, destined to marry the neighbour’s golden-haired daughter and become part of the pioneer community hewn from the wilderness. When he was nineteen, he quarrelled with his father and ran away from home, working in blacksmiths’ forges and on freight lines, doing any odd job he could find as he made his way eastwards, travelling through Pennsylvania, New York, Connecticut, Massachusetts.

  His solid muscle and light-hearted disposition helped him readily find work; in Boston, he was signed aboard a trading ship bound for the Orient. But his size also proved to be a disadvantage. Two weeks out of port, an officer picked an argument with him. Babcock fought to defend himself but it was his bad luck to knock the officer’s head against a capstan. When the merchant ship called in Bombay, Babcock was sent ashore in shackles and locked in a cell honey-combed deep beneath Bombay Castle. It was fromthe subterranean prison that Adam Horne had chosen him to become a candidate for the Bombay Marine. Training with Horne on Bull Island had convinced Babcock that he had at last found a niche for himself in the world.

  But belonging to Horne’s unit also had its drawbacks. The spells between missions were too long; weeks and months spent ashore. Babcock easily become bored, and when he was bored he drank too much. When he drank, he always got into trouble.

>   He had been drinking when he had met a group of leather-faced Asians in a Bombay beer shop. They had argued in pidgin English that all topiwallahs should get out of India. He had challenged any of the men to fight him in any manner they chose.

  The ocean misted against Babcock’s bare chest as he gazed out to sea. He knew that Horne had a right to be angry with him; the knife-and-fist fight had been stupid, had put the Huma and all the men aboard in jeopardy.

  Babcock also had another problem apart from drinking. An older problem.

  Why couldn’t he address another man as a superior? He tried hard to remember to call Horne ‘sir’ and ‘Captain’; but he either forgot or the words stuck in his throat. Why? Didn’t he like submitting to authority? Couldn’t he admit that another man was better than himself, more superior in some way? Why couldn’t he pull his forelock and grovel? Did it have to do with the fight he had had with his father years ago in Ohio? In his dreams he often confused the faces of his father and Horne. In his dreams, he often called Horne ‘pa’.

  Chapter Six

  FLOTILLA

  The distance was shortening rapidly between the Huma and the five-pointed claw of the enemy flotilla: the four pattimars lagged north and south of the sloop in the lead of the wedged attack.

  ‘Run out starboard guns,’ Horne shouted to Kiro.

  Over the rumble of cannon being manned into firing position, he called to the helm, ‘Lay to larboard tack.’

  ‘Aye, aye, schipper.’

  As the bowsprit swung on the steel-blue waves, Horne remembered that the crew was new and preparing the first time for battle at sea. Looking aloft, he saw small figures grabbing the braces, swinging like monkeys against the yards; the sails thundered as the Huma changed onto her new tack.

  Satisfied with their performance, Horne raised the spyglass back to his eye to study the approaching enemy. The sloop still maintained her course towards the Huma but the southerly two pattimars were attempting to bear round to enclose him. Good. He had anticipated such an action and was planning how to divide the flotilla.

  As the Huma’s jib boom swept towards the distant coastline, he trained the glass back on the sloop, looking for any flutter of flags or pennants, some call-signals being hoisted on the sloop to send the leader’s commands to the four native vessels.

  A distant pop caught his attention. He held the glass on the sloop, seeing a wisp of blue smoke rise from the gunports. The enemy had fired on the Huma. But why so soon? Had the blast been a ranging shot or was the commander over-anxious?

  ‘Wait fire,’ Horne cautioned Kiro.

  A second blue puff rose across the waves.

  It was often impossible to know anything about an enemy at sea, particularly an enemy in an unmarked ship. Every little movement or action must be studied for information: guns fired too quickly; an impatient turn of the prow. And as Horne looked for clues to his opponents, he likewise tried to prevent them from understanding him. He changed tactics as soon as his intentions might be recognised.

  The sloop’s commander must be the leader of the Malagasy fleet, he reasoned. The pirate lord had obviously ordered the dead man to be cast overboard in the boat. If so, what would such a blood-thirsty leader do to prisoners taken alive? Was Horne risking his men to cruel torture? Should he try to make flight while he still had a chance?

  On a course to angle between the sloop and two southern pattimars, he tried to gauge their intentions.

  ‘Deck ho,’ hailed Jud from the main mast.

  What the devil? Were more ships joining the flotilla? Horne swung the spyglass in the opposite direction and saw that the northerly two ships were also changing course.

  He had little time to ponder their movement. He had to deal with the enemy nearer to hand.

  Satisfied with the Huma’s position relative to the pair of southern native vessels, he ordered, ‘Starboard guns—’

  Kiro held his head high, listening for the final order. His gunners’ ears were already bound with bandanas to protect their eardrums from the explosion.

  ‘—fire!’

  The deck shuddered under the cannons’ recoil.

  Watching the hit with his naked eye, Horne nodded as the mast of one pattimar collapsed from a strike. The explosion was like a spark in a tinder-box, the wood and sail bursting into instant flame. Why would such an inflammable ship carry cannon, let alone take part in action? Horne watched black smoke rise as the crew began diving overboard.

  Kiro’s strike on the second southern vessel had a less dramatic impact but nonetheless the ship’s crew were beginning to dive into the lapping waves.

  Horne held his glass on the smoke-laden scene to study the evacuation from the southern two pattimars; he could also see men still on board, trying to wave back the deserters. He had heard of Hindus abandoning leaders losing in battle but he had never before seen it. The native seamen were not afraid of drowning. No, honour came first. Honour prepared them for their next reincarnation.

  Aboard the Huma, Kiro goaded the starboard crew to reload grape on top of roundshot.

  Horne seized the moment to begin the second stage of his plan.

  Babcock moved alongside him. ‘Chasing the big one?’

  Horne was concentrating on the helm. ‘Steady as you go,’ he called to Groot, eyes now trained on the northern pattimars closing their position toward the sloop as the two burning pattimars fell farther away to the south.

  Babcock laughed. Pointing to the north, he said, ‘The Lord’s on your side as usual, Horne. Sending you not a minute too late—or too soon—to meet that sloop and those two other pattimars.’

  ‘The Lord or the devil,’ corrected Horne. The Huma was lagging in her change of tack, but her timing would now be near-perfect to confront the remaining three enemy ships.

  * * *

  The two northern pattimars greeted the Huma with cannon fire. Their aim struck short of the target, peppering the surrounding sea with ball and grape.

  Seeing that the northern pattimars would be closer to the Huma than the sloop, Horne was determined to persevere in his offensive to divide them; the sloop’s present tack could only work to his advantage.

  Wanting Kiro’s eyes as well as his ears, he crossed the quarter-deck and shouted, ‘Kiro, ho!’

  Kiro raised his head.

  Horne jabbed a finger towards the larboard gundeck, soon to face the northern pattimars as the frigate swung round; the cannons were already run out and gunners waiting for action. At the same moment, he raised his other hand palm upwards to the starboard guns. Hold their fire.

  Understanding the command, Kiro raced across to the larboard guns.

  When Horne was satisfied with the Huma’s new course, he decided it was time to put the chancy plan into action.

  He began, ‘Larboard guns—’

  Kiro crouched near the second crew, ready to shout them into action.

  Nerves alive, Horne gauged the range to the pattimars to the north, cautiously proceeding, ‘Prepare to fire and—’

  He looked toward the sloop, its jib boom fighting for new bearing.

  Satisfied that the Huma had the advantage of a few valuable minutes, he chopped down his hand.

  ‘—fire!’

  A broadside raked both northern pattimars. But at the same moment, the deck trembled beneath Horne’s feet. Damn! The sloop had made her stays and, risking another long shot, scored a strike somewhere below the waterline.

  It was futile at the moment to worry about unknown damage. Horne concentrated instead on his plans to isolate the two pattimars from their commander.

  Looking towards the helm, he saw Groot grinning at him, cap pushed back on his sun-bleached curls, ready for the next command. A nod from Horne was all it took to set the wheel spinning through his hands.

  As the Huma heeled in the wind, Horne steeled himself to risk being trapped by the enemy ships and to exploit his position.

  Aloft in the shrouds, the watch followed the orders Babcock relayed to the
m; on the gun decks, the crews waited anxiously for Kiro’s next command.

  Holding Kiro’s eye, Horne pointed to both gun decks.

  Stern, voice unwavering, he commenced: ‘Larboard guns—’

  ‘Larboard guns ready, sir—’

  Certain he was not firing too soon, Horne proceeded: ‘Starboard guns—’

  ‘Starboard guns ready, sir—’

  Sluicing water, accompanied by the snap of sails, filled the tense moments as the Huma hovered between the two pattimars off larboard, the sloop off starboard.

  ‘—fire!’

  At the command, both sides of the frigate belched flame. A cloud of smoke engulfed the sea’s shimmering face; screams of men filled the air, timber splintering in the acrid explosion.

  As the wind slowly began dispersing the smoke, Horne was pleased to see flames licking from both pattimars, and men diving into the waves. Retaliation was now impossible from either ship. The smoke drifting over the water told him that they had also scored damage on the sloop.

  Aboard the Huma, victorious cheers rose from the crew as the gunners pulled the bandanas off their ears and waved them like pennants.

  Deaf to the jubilation, Horne’s first thought was of any losses aboard ship. What men had been killed or injured in the strikes? What damage had been done to the ship? What about the enemy? Were all their ships incapacitated?

  Looking towards the sloop and studying the chaos beneath her ripped sail, he considered the last part of his plan. This was the moment to move into action.

  Reassured that the first two pattimars had receded far to the south, he called over the din of cheers and huzzahs, ‘Seize arms!’

  Babcock laughed alongside him. ‘Go get them, Horne, yes?’

  ‘Prepare men to board ship,’ Horne shouted more loudly.

  Aboard the pirate sloop, a white flag of truce rose from the smoke, fluttering from the damaged mast.