China Flyer (4 page)

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 them; 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.

Horne’s eyes darted from the flapping white flag to the two burning pattimars. Somewhere beyond were the other two native craft. Revenge from them was unlikely but possible. If not now, perhaps later. His only insurance for peace would be to incapacitate the sloop when the opportunity was at hand.

The flag of truce failed to convince Horne that the Malagasy’s surrender was genuine. Suspicious of treachery, he explained the next stage of action to the crew. ‘We board in three parties. Keep alert for any traps. Defeat will be bitter for those men.’

The babble of excitement spread among Kiro’s gun crew as Horne cautioned, ‘I don’t want a blood bath. We’re going aboard to muzzle the enemy, keep them from pursuit.’

‘Babcock,’ he said, ‘board men from the prow.’

Babcock jumped from the quarter-deck with a whoop.

‘Kiro, lead your men from midship.’

‘Both crews, sir?’ Kiro gestured to the men crowded on opposite gun decks.

‘Both crews,’ affirmed Horne.

He looked aloft. ‘You men up top. I’ll lead you from the stern.’

A cheer rose from the hands sitting with their bare legs wrapped around spars, clinging to canvas.

‘Now, arm yourselves,’ Horne called.

As the men swung from the rigging, the scramble began on deck for knives, swords and clubs; Kiro’s crew seized the long ropes attached to spiked grappling irons. The growing fervour worried Horne. Hand-to-hand combat fuelled a man’s appetite for blood lust. Was he wrong to be ordering a boarding party?

Looking astern, he saw the Malagasy crews abandoning both pattimars, crowding into open boats and clinging to planks serving as makeshift rafts. His first instinct was to
offer assistance but he dismissed it. What Malagasy would accept succour from an enemy? Certainly not those proud tribesmen. Especially not from
topiwallahs
who had caused their loss of self-respect.

A sword in one hand and a dirk tucked into his waistband, Horne clung to the ratlines as the
Huma
drew closer to the pirate sloop. Seeing preparations to repel boarders, he realised he had been correct not to believe their white flag of surrender. But he also saw pandemonium spreading among their men, more figures jumping feet first into the sea, clawing through the choppy waves towards the other evacuees.

Did any of those men now realise how senseless this battle had been? A stupid loss of ships, not to mention a senseless waste of lives?

As the gap lessened between the two ships, excitement mounted aboard the
Huma.
Kiro’s crew became increasingly anxious for the call to hurl their grappling irons; Babcock’s men stood ready with long planks to bridge the sloop’s rail.

Clear-voiced, Horne reminded them, ‘Fight to disable the ship. Not to spill blood.’

A silence fell over the crew, the babble giving way to the sound of lapping waves and creaking timber. For the final time, Horne looked aboard the sloop to see if the enemy might succeed in a defensive manoeuvre. Thankfully, they were not returning to their guns, not preparing to greet the
Huma
with a sudden broadside.

At last the moment came.

‘Throw grappling irons.’

As the spiked iron stars crossed the gap, a flood of brown men swung from the shrouds; the second crew rushed their plank bridges, pouring over the rail, the sound of clanking steel and the pop of flintlocks filling the air.

Sword in hand, Horne leaped aboard the sloop and was instantly greeted by a dagger’s thrust. Dodging to one side,
he swung his sword at the attacker, slashing a line of blood across the man’s wrist.

Moving amidship, he stopped when he saw a man lunge toward him; he caught the attacker on his dagger and, summoning his strength, hurled the body overboard into the water.

Bent upon finding the leader, he paused to peer through the smoky confusion, searching for some figure of
authority
. Certainly the captain had not already abandoned ship.

Turning towards the stern, Horne faced a wild-eyed giant who rushed at him with a scimitar. Jumping aside, he pulled back his own sword but, at the same moment, he caught sight of another man raising a club high in the air. That was the last he remembered.

Kiro took his crew across amidships with a blood-curdling cry. In the prow, Babcock’s men already waged battle as Horne led the stern attack.

Kiro had learned the Japanese fighting art of
Karate
in his homeland. Chopping down his hand, he sent a pistol flying. A kick disabled a swordsmen. Quick fingers blinded two more attackers.

Kiro and Horne made a good fighting team, Kiro using
Karate,
Horne practising the ancient Greek technique of fighting,
Pankration,
which he had learnt from an old soldier in England.

Before becoming a Bombay Marine, Kiro had known nothing about Adam Horne or the East India Company. Having been a gunner aboard an island raiding boat out of Nagasaki, he had been captured by a Company
merchantman
and gaoled for piracy in Bombay Castle.

The rootless day-to-day existence of a Bombay Marine was little different from the life of a pirate—homeless; no
family; a life of feast or famine. Constant danger, too, taught a Marine to depend on his physical strength and quick wits. But Horne also instilled a sense of honour into his men. There must be no senseless killings, no plundering, no savage attacks on the defenceless.

Horne showed each man, too, how to get the most out of himself; to evaluate his mental as well as his physical capabilities; to plumb hidden talents; to exercise brain as well as brawn.

On their last assignment, two of Horne’s seven Marines had been killed by cannon fire. Kiro had realised that missions ashore were as deadly as sea fighting. There were now only five Marines left; who would be killed next?

Kiro had learnt not to let worry eat away at him. He had no wife, no children, no known ancestors. The only time in his life when he remembered ever being truly frightened was on Bull Island during his training with Horne. He still recalled how his stomach had knotted with nerves when he feared that Horne was eliminating him from the final choices for his Marine unit.

Now, bamboo pole in hand, he rushed a ragged Malagasy, then spun halfway across deck, clipping two other men with either end of the pole, his foot surprising a fourth on the chin.

Righting himself, his eye fell on Horne. A man was attacking him with a cudgel.

Diving for the attacker, Kiro saw in a flash that the man was Chinese, that Horne had been caught unprepared, and that the attack could easily be fatal.

For the first time Kiro thought: What would happen to the Bombay Marines if Horne himself was killed?