The War Chest (12 page)

Acting on Horne’s orders, Babcock divided the
Tigre’
s watch into three groups for the ships’ wait in the south cove. Concentrating on separating the French seamen from one another as much as possible, he spread them throughout the brig. Standing by the coaming with Mustafa, studying a small group of white and brown-faced men holystoning the deck amidship, he repeated Horne’s warning, ‘Keep your eyes on the frogs.’

Mustafa rested one hand on the flintlock tucked into his waistband. ‘What’s the trouble?’

‘Horne says to be on guard.’

‘The Frenchies are threatening us?’ Mustafa’s other fist tightened on his rope garrotte.

‘They might give away our position if they thought their ships were on the other side of the island.’ Babcock looked astern to the second group of seamen. They were mostly Lascar sailors recruited for the
Huma
in Port Diego-Suarez. They were supervised by the Asian, Dangi, whom Babcock had appointed as a temporary leader.

Mustafa grunted. ‘I trust none of these pigs.’

Six months of living with Mustafa in Bombay had taught Babcock that the thick-chested Turk was suspicious by nature. He cautioned, ‘Don’t go looking for trouble, Ugly. Just be ready if it comes.’

Mustafa frowned. ‘What are Horne’s orders … Big Ears?’

Babcock raised his eyes to the men in the rigging. ‘To wait until Groot and Jingee get back with a report from the other side of the island, and then either to blast the
frogs to Kingdom Come or to high-tail it back to Bombay.’

Mustafa showed more curiosity. ‘We might have a fight soon? What does it depend on?’

Babcock looked at the surrounding cliffs. ‘How many ships might be on the other side of the island.’

Mustafa frowned. ‘Probably none.’

Babcock glanced over the brig’s larboard. Horne’s
rowing-boat
had reached the
Huma
and the Captain was beginning his climb to the port entry.

Turning to Mustafa, he explained, ‘Horne says we’ll take on three ships, but no more. In the meantime, there are reefs to worry about. I’m going below to study my chart before Groot gets back.’ With a last look at the brig’s three groups of men, he added, ‘If there’s trouble, give me a shout or whistle. Whatever you do, Ugly, don’t fire your bloody pistol unless you absolutely have to.’

Mustafa raised his garrotte. ‘I can take more men with this than you can with a gun.’

‘Be ready to prove it.’

Babcock ambled away from Mustafa, stooping as he climbed down the companionway towards his cabin.

Descending the narrow wooden rungs, he brooded again about Horne’s plan, wondering if Groot and himself could navigate the brig through the reefs in time to reach the other side of the island before Horne got there on the northern route.

Reaching for the door handle, he thought of Horne’s orders that he should lure away any escort vessel from the ship carrying the war chest.

He opened the cabin’s door and his mind went blank. His monkey was squatting on his desk, sitting amid a drift of torn paper. It was holding a shred of parchment to its mouth, a white scrap which Babcock instantly recognised as part of the chart plotting Oporto’s southern reefs.

Gerard Ury crawled slowly across the deck of the
Tigre,
scraping the abrasive holystone over the planking as he listened to four other Frenchmen speaking in low voices.

Below the nettings, a moon-faced seaman from
Marseilles
, Alain Folinguet, whispered, ‘Who do we stand a better chance with? The Englishman or Captain Le Clerc?’

Jean Polaire from Cherbourg answered, ‘I say we should stick with Le Clerc. Better the devil we know.’

‘But Le Clerc abandoned us to the enemy,’ protested Folinguet. ‘He also accused Ury here of treason. Do we want to trust ourselves to a madman like that?’

Polaire moved closer to Gerard Ury. ‘Did you read Le Clerc’s actual words in the log, Ury? Did the Englishman show you the entry that accuses you of treason?’

Gerard Ury was illiterate. But rather than remind the others that he could not read or write, he raised a matter which he believed to be more important than the log.

‘We must learn who these men are before we try to escape from them,’ he answered. ‘They might help us as they promised.’

The fourth Frenchman in the group agreed. ‘Ury is right. These men may not harm us. I spoke to one of the yellow sailors from Madagascar. He says none of these seven men belong to the British Navy. He says they fight for money, that they are soldiers for pay.’

‘Pirates,’ whispered Polaire. ‘What good can pirates do us? Do you want to sail under the black flag?’

‘They may at least takes us back to Mauritius as they promise,’ Folinguet argued. ‘Then we can state our side of the matter to a council without having Le Clerc or his log accusing us of crimes we didn’t commit.’

‘Shhh.’ Ury glanced at the approaching Mustafa. ‘Here comes the big bear.’

The Frenchmen fell silent as Mustafa stalked round them, slapping the rope garrotte against his trouser leg, flailing it like a whip as he passed the men’s naked backs.

As the morning sun blazed up the Indian sky, Horne paced the
Huma’
s
quarterdeck, impatient for Groot and Jingee to return with their report. They had been gone for no more than two hours.

He was troubled, too, by Ury asking him if Le Clerc had accused other men of treason in his log. Would they ask to read it? In all fairness, such a request would not be out of order, Horne thought, but of course, he could never consent to it.

Feeling the stubble on his face, he wished he had not lied to the French seaman about the mutiny charges. The prevarication had achieved the desired results, but lying was dangerous. It imperilled men’s loyalty. Responsible leaders, Horne had learned many years ago, never lied to their men.

He remembered the first lessons in leadership he had received from Elihu Cornhill. Cornhill’s schooling had come at a time when Horne had needed every shred of help he could get. The senseless murder of his fiancée had left him despondent, totally without hope or confidence, sceptical of all moral values.

Horne had been a few years older than most of the other young men studying with Cornhill on the derelict estate. The majority of the old retired soldier’s protégés had been in their teenage years, many from squalid city ghettoes and some little older than urchins. Cornhill preferred students who had had some brush with crime. His motto had been:
Grab
a
young
criminal
early
in
life
and
you
might
find
a
soldier.

Horne looked up at the morning breeze teasing the frigate’s furled sails, and remembered how Cornhill’s lessons had involved mental as well as physical training. Elihu Cornhill had gathered much of his philosophy of warfare from Canadian campaigns. Returning to England, he had brought back the unorthodox ways of North
American Indians, hoping to create a new breed of soldiers, using camouflage, scouting, dawn attacks.

He had taught his students that a soldier must know himself before he tried to understand the enemy. He would order a pupil to stand for hours in front of a looking-glass, listing aloud his best qualities, discussing with himself how he might improve his weaknesses. He had warned, however, that the student should close his eyes if the reflection became too intense and uncomfortable. A man could endanger his mind with too much self-questioning.

Horne remembered a night on which he had stood in front of a looking-glass in his room in the dilapidated manor house. He had blackened his face with soot for a midnight excursion through the forest and had been studying his reflection.

Gazing back at him, he had seen a total stranger. Feeling a new, unfamiliar strength inside him, he had understood for the first time why thieves and footpads wore masks. More than hiding identity, a mask gave power. Faceless men took greater risks.

Was that why, to this day, he resented people asking prying questions about his personal life? Was that why he guarded details about his past from inquisitive people? Because he had learned the value of secrecy? Or was he overly protective? Was he wrong to keep everyone at arm’s distance?

A splash distracted Horne’s introspection.

Looking toward the
Tigre,
he saw a figure surface from the waves. As the man began to swim strongly towards the
Huma,
Horne remembered that he had distinctly told Babcock not to allow his men in the water.

He stepped to the rail, wondering who it was. What had happened? Why was someone breaking his order?

Then he saw that the swimmer was Babcock.

The dull scratching of cicadas cut the morning’s stillness as Jingee and Groot lay flat-bellied in the dry grass above the north cove. Peering down over the rocky cliffs, the two Marines watched a rowing-boat glide from a two-masted ship to the sandy shore.

Through a spyglass, Jingee studied the brig’s name painted on the stern. He whispered, ‘The
Calliope
’s the French ship which escaped Captain sahib in the storm.’

Groot took the spyglass from Jingee and inspected the vessel. Moving the glass inshore, he could see men splashing in water, their voices unintelligible in the distance.

Focusing the glass back on the ship, he said, ‘There can’t be more than fifty men down there.’

‘Captain Le Clerc must be one of them,’ said Jingee, appraising the coastline to report to Horne.

‘Do you think they’re waiting for the rendezvous?’asked Groot. ‘Or do you think they’ve already passed the war chest—’

He stopped. He rose to his knees, looking through the spyglass.

‘It’s there. The war chest. I can see men with muskets standing around a big box on deck.’

Jingee snatched the spyglass from Groot’s hand.

Anxiously, Groot whispered, ‘Let’s creep down farther for a better look.’

Jingee shook his head, the spyglass to his eye. ‘No. We’re close enough to see.’

‘But we might hear something,’ Groot argued. ‘You can go in one direction. I can go in another.’

‘No,’ Jingee repeated more firmly. ‘We must do exactly as Captain sahib told us to do. We’ve looked. We’ve seen how many ships are here. We’ve studied the terrain. Now we must return to the
Huma
so that Captain sahib can make his plans.’

A loud blast shattered the morning’s stillness.

Groot jumped, his eyes darting all around him on the precipice. ‘What was that?’

Jingee lay in the tall grass, surveying the rocks through the spyglass. He stopped when he saw a puff of blue smoke rising from a stone promontory protruding like a finger out into the sea.

‘A cannon.’ Jingee handed the spyglass to Groot. ‘Le Clerc has moved a cannon ashore for a look-out station.’

Groot turned the glass to the sea. Spotting a white fleck on the horizon, he nodded. ‘You’re right. It’s a ship. The cannon’s signalled the arrival of a ship.’

Jingee saw the sails billowing from a three-masted vessel in the distance. ‘It’s come from the northeast. That’s where Mauritius lies. It’s come for the war chest.’

Groot did not reply.

Eager to get back to the
Huma
to report to Horne, Jingee urged, ‘We must not waste a moment. We must run back and tell Captain sahib he’s got time to surprise the Frenchmen’s rendezvous.’

When Groot still did not answer, Jingee turned his head and saw the tip of a bayonet jabbing at Groot’s throat: a French Marine stood behind them, a musket in his hands.

Jingee’s reaction was immediate.

Yanking the knife from his waistband, he rolled backwards and sprung like a cat for the soldier’s back. Locking both legs round his chest, he clung tightly as he sliced the blade across the French Marine’s throat.

The Marine’s musket clattered to the ground; he pulled at Jingee’s arm; he pushed at the bare legs locked around his chest; he struggled against Jingee’s crab-like hold until warm blood began flowing from his neck, a dark red river gushing from his throat, and he folded limply onto the ground.

Groot stared, mesmerised.

Jingee scrambled from the corpse, studying the
blue-and
-red uniform. In a whisper, he reported, ‘He can’t be alone. There must be a patrol about, exactly as Captain sahib warned us.’

Groot remained motionless, staring at the Frenchman. ‘He’s … dead.’

Jingee had spotted another armed Marine across the parched ridge. Ignoring Groot’s state of shock, he pushed him flat to the ground and raised himself to grass level, his small brown eyes alert for more men on guard patrol.

Seeing no one, he wiped his bloody knife across the grass and tucked it back into his waistband. ‘If they find this body,’ he whispered, ‘they’ll know we’re here. Cover him with grass and earth. Work quickly. I’ll go and get the other one.’

‘“Get” him?’ repeated Groot, aghast.

Jingee nodded, eyes surveying the terrain.

‘You’re going to …
kill
another man?’

Jingee nodded again. ‘Be ready to run back to ship. I’ll signal when it’s safe to stand. We’ll meet over there, by that old twisted black tree.’

Groot swallowed nervously, his throat dry.

‘Listen for a bird call and start running,’ Jingee instructed.

Groot shook his head.

Jingee was gone.

Alone with the dead soldier, Groot glanced from the corpse to the direction in which Jingee had disappeared through the dry, brown grass.

Raising his head, he looked at the second Marine, watching him turning now this way, now that, obviously searching for the other man in his patrol.

Hurrying with his work, Groot covered the corpse with handfuls of grass and earth. As he camouflaged the makeshift grave, he thought how quickly everything had happened. One minute, he and Jingee had been looking at the three-masted ship approaching in the distance; the next minute, he had felt the bayonet against him. Jingee had sprung upon the soldier as fast as lightning, totally unafraid of his weapons.

Groot remembered that the little Tamil had been condemned to the underground prison of Bombay Castle for murder. He had used a knife in killing an English employer.

Pausing in his work, he raised his head above the grass and looked in the direction of the other Marine. He was no longer there.

Had Jingee already struck?

Jingee bellied his way through the tall grass, mindless of the stones scratching his skin as he continued towards the French patrolman who was scanning the landscape for his companion.

His heart beating with excitement, Jingee gripped the dagger in his right hand, using his elbows to propel himself.

Stopping, he raised his head to see how far to the left or right the patrolman had moved. As he scooted to the next large boulder, he saw the patrolman turn towards him; the Frenchman was close enough for Jingee to see that he was young, a faint trace of a brown moustache on his upper lip.

For the first time Jingee considered what he was about to do, and what he had already done.

Murder. The word did not frighten him; not when the man he had killed—and the one he was about to kill—could easily murder him.

Hidden in the dry grass, he knew that if he thought too much about the heinousness of murder, he might hesitate and fail. He also knew that he could not risk merely tying and gagging the patrolman. Escape could jeopardise all of Captain sahib’s plans.

Jingee sprang like a cat. His bare legs gripped the patrolman’s arms as he clenched his arm around the young man’s neck, the knife deftly slicing the skin. He increased the pressure to cut the arteries and slice the jugular vein, releasing a warm gush of blood.