by Porter Hill
As the two vessels approached prow to prow, Goodair slowly, confidently raised his trumpet to his mouth, calling, ‘Starboard … fire!’
The Indiaman shook as the guns belched flames in the darkness.
Seeing the aim fall short of target, Horne was surprised to observe that no smoke arose from the pirate’s guns. They had not fired—why? Had they judged the distance too great? They had been right. Horne wondered if they were better seamen than Goodair.
As the Unity’s gunner called the guns to be run in, Goodair began orders to put the ship around, commencing, ‘Put the wheel hard over!’
Horne, intrigued with the merchant captain’s manoeuvre, waited for the bow to begin slowly turning.
After the headsail sheets and bowlines were placed, tacks and sheets hauled, Goodair called for the wheel to come hard over, and as the Indiaman turned in the wind, Horne thought how effortless the gesture seemed, and how calmly, almost with detachment, the captain was conducting himself in the operation. Was it so easy for him? Or was he always so disinterested and detached?
Realising he had been holding his breath, Horne glanced towards the frigate and saw her bow cutting the waves, changing tack to parallel the Unity yet again. He remembered the eagle’s companion, the kingfisher, and looked over his shoulder; the pattimar had also tacked and was moving directly towards the Unity’s stern.
Goodair had also spotted the pattimar’s raked sail filled with wind and called, ‘Prepare larboard guns.’
As the gunner’s men laboured the guns into position, Horne began to suspect the pirates’ intentions: the frigate had been used to bait the Unity, to lead her into the tack: when the Indiaman had responded and tacked, the pattimar moved in for what was to appear as a surprise attack from another angle. But during the fleeting minutes in which the Unity was preparing to divert that aggression from the pattimar, the frigate would give the true death blow.
As the grim realisation dawned that the frigate was double-guessing them, Horne turned to see how far she was abeam. At the same moment, a blast filled the air, timbers crashed nearby, and he was thrown off his feet.
* * *
Captain Goodair knew that his history in service to the Honourable East India Company was sound but not heroic, that he was more of a merchant than a fighting man. Fifty-three years old, he was proud that his ship had never spent idle years in port like many other Indiamen. The majority of the Company’s eighty-eight ships stayed one year in three in England.
Franklin Goodair had begun service as Second Mate aboard the Duke of Harrow. By his third voyage to India, he had risen to First Mate aboard the Unity. On a voyage freighted from Bantam, the Unity’s Captain had died from fever and Goodair brought ship and cargo safely home. The ship’s husband—along with the Captain’s widow—agreed that young Franklin Goodair should be rewarded both for delivering the Unity and for bringing a handsome profit home from the voyage. Offering him command of the ship, they made provisions for him to pay for the privilege from his profits over future trips to the Orient.
Having command of an Indiaman was like owning highly valuable property; a captain could buy it, sell it, settle it on heirs, but, above all, share in a voyage’s profits.
Rich from his seventeen years as Captain and Commander of HEIC Unity, Goodair had also secured a social position for himself and his family. In Bath, they associated with the aristocracy, enjoyed a houseful of servants, a walled garden, carriages and frequent trips to London. It was in India, however, that Goodair enjoyed the full benefit of his status as Captain and Commander. Whenever the Unity entered port, there was a salute of guns. Guards turned out when Goodair entered—and departed from—Bombay Castle, or any of the other Company’s foreign fortresses. His name was always included on the invitation lists at Government House.
Goodair took a quick inventory of all these worldly achievements as he stood on the Unity’s quarterdeck, seeing smoke rise from the pirate guns trained on his ship and knowing there was nothing he could do to escape the bombardment.
* * *
‘Captain Goodair? Captain Horne? Are you hit?’
Tree’s frantic calls came from beyond the quarterdeck ladder as Horne hurriedly lifted planks and pulled rigging from Goodair’s mangled body, hoping to find him alive.
The enemy had struck the poopdeck, bombarding Goodair with a hail of flying splinters, piercing his chest, arms and legs. Kneeling beside his blood-covered body, Horne saw his chest moving and realised with relief that he was still breathing, he was not dead.
Sending Tree for the surgeon and his mate, he pulled away shreds of the spanker sail from Goodair’s boots, cut the rope dangling across his gaping red wounds, and stepped back as Tree returned with the other two men.
As Shanks the surgeon eased Goodair onto a stretcher, Horne looked at Tree, seeing that his face was ashen, guessing his shock came not only from Goodair’s blood-covered body but also from the realisation that he was now in command of the Unity. Or had the fact not yet occurred to the young man?
It was important to make Tree aware of his position. Horne turned to the surgeon. ‘Captain Goodair should be taken to his quarters unless—’ he looked at Tree, ‘—unless Mr Tree has different orders.’
‘Me?’ Tree’s eyes widened.
Horne turned back to the ruddy-faced surgeon. ‘I understand the ship’s First Mate is suffering from a serious illness, Mr Shanks.’
‘Aye, sir. Mr Ames is in no shape to walk, let alone take command of this ship.’
Horne watched Tree, waiting for him to realise that, after the First Mate, he was next in command.
Tree’s forehead beaded with perspiration; he pressed his lips tightly together; taking a deep breath, he said shakily, ‘Mr Shanks, take Captain Goodair below to his … quarters.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
The situation was delicate. Horne guessed that Tree was not qualified to assume command of the merchantman in its present situation. Not many officers in the Maritime Service were equipped to deal with a ship in battle.
Tree waited until Shanks and his mate had eased the stretcher down the companionway towards the roundhouse, then asked, ‘Captain Horne, what can I do?’
Horne looked astern, seeing the frigate changing tack. The only thing in the Unity’s favour at the moment was that the frigate had not yet made her stays.
He began, ‘Mr Tree, the enemy’s obviously changing tack to give us another pounding.’
Tree repeated, ‘What can I … do?’
‘Tack, Mr Tree. You know the procedure, I presume.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Horne raised one hand to Tree’s shoulder. ‘And stop saying “Aye, aye, sir”, Tree. You’re in command. Not me. Remember that.’
Tree’s brown eyes were big, round, filled with apprehension. ‘Will you stay to help me … sir?’
Horne nodded. ‘Captain Goodair kindly allowed me on his quarterdeck. I’d be honoured to remain here, Mr Tree.’
Tree sighed with relief.
* * *
Mustafa sat beneath the teak overhang of the forecastle, feeling the deck reverberate from gun fire. He remembered Horne’s orders that the Marines were to stay out of action’s way aboard the Indiaman, that the Unity was manned by the Maritime Service, men who resented the presence of Bombay Marines aboard their ship. Near Mustafa beneath the forecastle crouched Babcock, Bapu, Groot, Kiro, Jingee and Jud. Their different coloured faces formed a line of anxiety and glumness.
Trying to control his nerves, Mustafa sat playing with a rope, pulling it tight between his large hirsute fists, letting it slacken, tightening it again with a snap.
The rope Mustafa held—played with nervously—was no ordinary length of hemp. It was a garrotte, one of Mustafa’s garrottes. He had possessed many in his life, garrottes made from hemp, cotton, wire, leather, even silk.
He had strangled his brother in Alanya, his home on Turkey’s southern coast, with a cowhide garrotte. Having run away to Izmir to
join the Sultan’s Navy, he had served on an Ottoman ship until he had strangled a fellow seaman with a rattan garrotte. Jumping ship, he had joined an East India Company merchant vessel.
Having used a tightly-woven cotton garrotte on a Greek sailor aboard the Company ship, he had been convicted and sent to Bombay Castle where Horne had found him in an underground prison. For the first time in his life, Mustafa had been praised for his expertise with a garrotte.
Horne had taught Mustafa to use other weapons: sabres, knives, flintlocks, his head. Life as a Bombay Marine proved to be a life of fighting.
So why didn’t Horne let him fight now? In this sea battle?
Mustafa realised there were rules—Navy rules, Company rules. But why did the East India Company have different rules for men who served aboard merchant ships and for men who served aboard the Marine ships? To Mustafa, that did not make sense.
From what he had seen of the Unity and its Maritime Service, he was glad to be a Bombay Marine. Men aboard this ship only wanted to collect their pay and return home to their families; they sat around like girls dreading a fight. They were not born to fight, they were born to hide inside houses like women.
A sharp elbow disturbed Mustafa’s brooding.
It was Babcock. He and Groot had recovered from their sickness. He asked, ‘What do you say, you ugly Turk?’
Babcock was always asking Mustafa to ‘say’ something. He claimed that Mustafa did not talk enough and that Groot talked too much. But why should a man talk? Mustafa feared that he would say the wrong thing if he talked too much and would be sent back to gaol. Not to the prisons beneath Bombay Castle—Horne had arranged a pardon for Mustafa’s last crime, as he had arranged an amnesty for all the Bombay Marines whom he had recruited from prison. But there were crimes which Mustafa had committed before Bombay Castle—men he had murdered, necks he had garrotted—all the way back to his brother.
Babcock asked, ‘Do you want to fight or not?’
‘Fight?’ Mustafa snapped the garrotte between his two ham-sized fists.
Babcock slugged the Turk on the shoulder. ‘I mean join the gun crew. You can’t go out there and … choke the bloody enemy to death, man!’
Mustafa nodded towards the quarterdeck. ‘What about orders?’
‘From Horne?’ Babcock frowned. ‘Can Horne invite us all nice and politely to help save this ship’s tired arse? Hell no! Horne’s busy himself trying to save it!’
Mustafa considered what Babcock had said. It did make sense. Horne had given the order in peace time, before the enemy attacked. So maybe Babcock was right.
Looking at Babcock, Mustafa nodded. ‘I want to fight.’
Babcock pulled Mustafa up to his feet. The other Marines were already disappearing through the smoke spreading like ground fog from the roaring cannons.
Chapter Five
A DAWN FLAG
The wind strengthened from the northeast as dawn began bleaching the sky. Adam Horne had been awake for twenty-four hours but, troubled that Captain Goodair’s wounds had left an inept officer of the Maritime Service in command of the Unity, he knew this was no time to think about sleep.
Taking stock of the damage done to the Unity by the frigate’s attempted broadside, he saw that the aft bulwark had been shattered but not destroyed; the cro’jack and spanker sails were ripped, but the mast and all spars had mercifully escaped damage; so far, too, no reports of a strike had come from the lower decks.
Glancing aloft, he saw the morning’s hands silhouetted against the pewter-grey sky, men following Horne’s orders—passed through Tree—to bring the merchantman around to the wind. Amongst the seamen scrambling, swinging high above him, Horne saw a familiar shape, a black giant with both legs clenched around the mizzen topgallant yard. It was Jud! And next to him was Groot, tugging on gaskets, looking as healthy, as hearty as Horne remembered him from the days of the Eclipse.
Checking to see if more of his Marines had joined morning watch, Horne held the spyglass to his eye and searched the rigging.
Seeing no familiar faces, he looked to the larboard guns and, yes, there were Bapu and Mustafa ramming shot and charges into the guns, and at the starboard battery worked Babcock and Kiro, while Jingee ran water buckets.
Pleased that Babcock and Groot had obviously recovered from their sickness and that each of his men was contributing muscle to chores, Horne felt his spirits lift. The next stage of battle might not be as grim as he had anticipated. The addition of seven men might not alter a ship’s fighting power, but Horne felt better knowing that the Marines whom he had come to consider to be his only true friends were safe and near him. Thoughts entered his mind about their next assignment and the nature of the orders waiting at Madagascar, but he put them out of his mind. Had not he told himself: Why speculate?
With a lighter heart, he looked through the spyglass, studying the frigate making her stays, swinging onto the new tack on the southeast horizon. Against the blur of approaching dawn, he noted that the frigate was close-hauled in the rising wind, and beyond her lay the pattimar—the kingfisher leaving the two eagles to do battle.
Inching the spyglass back to the frigate, he studied her neat tumblehome, wondering who was the captain of this fine ship. Did the man have any idea of the chaos he’d caused aboard the Unity? That he had wounded the Company commander?
What was the enemy’s goal? To destroy the merchant ship or merely cripple her and take her as a prize? There were also, he knew, Muslim raiders from Africa who captured crews from European ships, selling them to Ottoman slaveports along the Indian Ocean.
As the frigate approached beyond the starboard bow, Tree paced the windward side of the quarterdeck, bouncing Goodair’s speaking trumpet behind his back and glancing nervously at Horne for instructions.
Horne had explained to Tree that the attack should come in two stages, two closely placed broadsides. His instructions had been simple but firm: Do not fire until you can successfully place the first of the two crippling blows.
As the vessels drew closer, an eerie stillness overtook the Unity, broken only by creaking timbers, sails snapping in the growing wind, waves crashing against the prow.
The moment was now imminent. Horne looked at Tree out of the corner of his eye before turning his attention back to the frigate’s prow drawing in line with the Unity’s foremast.
Horne suspected that the enemy was attempting a similar tactic and, hoping to gain the jump on them by a few vital seconds, he gave Tree a nod.
Tree, his shaking hand raising the trumpet, his voice quavering, ordered, ‘Prepare to fire …’
The Unity’s timing must be precise; a fraction of a second too soon or late could mean the difference between success and possible annihilation.
Horne growled, ‘Now!’
‘FIRE!’ bellowed Tree, his face pouring perspiration.
Thunder ripped the morning; smoke clouds rose, engulfing the deck, but before the wind cleared the smoke, Horne repeated, ‘Now!’ Tree repeated his bellow and another boom enveloped the deck, followed by a denser, deeper, higher cloud of pungent gun smoke.
The rumble from the two leviathans’ weapons was cut by the screech of timber, the cries of mutilated men, the ever-present churning of iron-black waves. It seemed an eternity to Horne before the two ships creaked past one another; he ignored the damage done to the Unity, looking instead to see if their own guns had made a mark on the enemy.
A large cavity gaped from the frigate’s starboard bulwark. Horne swept the spyglass astern to study the extending damage and it was then that he caught sight of the ship’s named painted on the stern—Huma.
Tree threw his arms around Horne, crying jubilantly, ‘We did it! We did it!’
Horne stepped back, correcting, ‘You did it, Mr Tree.’
Tree guffawed, ‘As you say, capitan! As you say! And what do I do next?’
Admiring the young man’s honesty, Horne nevertheless tried to be tactful. Despite wanting to assist Tree, he had to r
emember that this was a Company ship, and that the Company had insurance from Lloyd’s Coffee House. If it were ever discovered that a man outside the Maritime Service had commanded the Unity, Lloyd’s could refuse to pay for any damage done to the ship or cargo. In turn, the Company could ban Horne forever from the Bombay Marine or any other Company capacity, perhaps even keep him from ever finding a position again at sea.
Calmly, Horne answered, ‘Mr Tree, I should imagine that, in such circumstances, Captain Goodair would first inspect his ship for possible damage.’
‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir.’
Horne surveyed the main deck with a quick sweep of the eye. ‘Although damage doesn’t appear to be too extensive, Mr Tree.’
Tree drove the fist of one hand into the palm of the other. ‘No, but, by Gad, did we give them a taste of our guns!’
‘Which means, Mr Tree, they will be coming back for a powerful revenge.’
Both men looked astern, seeing the frigate preparing to tack. Watching her sails, Horne remembered how the ship had impressed him as some mighty bird of prey and, studying her sails, he had a sudden inspiration, an idea how he—Mr Tree—could clip that eagle’s mighty wings.
* * *
A taste of victory had boosted the crew’s spirits. If any of the men aboard the Unity had resented the presence of Bombay Marines on a Company merchantman, all ill feelings had disintegrated like the wisps of gun smoke. In their enthusiasm, they cheered the ship’s Second Mate, Simon Tree, shouting, ‘Hip, hip, hooray!’ while Tree blushed and bowed his head, accepting acclamation from men who usually sniggered at him behind his back for being a fool and lubber.
As dawn blotted the eastern sky, the Unity’s hands busily obeyed Tree’s orders for the next battle manoeuvre, a simple ruse which Horne had explained to Tree. They would fire to cripple the Huma by bombarding her masts and sails, figuratively clipping the eagle’s strong wings.
The enemy would be returning for a devastating reprisal, Horne was certain of that. He guessed, too, that they would try their damnedest to make a success of a broadside. The Huma was swinging a wide sweep in her new tack, telling Horne she was taking full advantage of her sea room to lay full aim at the Unity, to pound her from all gun decks.
