The War Chest (15 page)

Oporto.

Jingee divided the seven Asian seamen of his land patrol into two groups. Danji took three men towards the top of a hill while Jingee led the remaining men further down the same incline. Jingee had chosen the section of the island’s slope where he suspected the four French Marines off the
Calliope
would climb to the island’s plateau. He was more convinced than ever that they had come in search of the two men he had killed.

Hiding behind the boulders with his men, he waited for the French troops to trudge nearer, wondering if Danji and the other Asians were trustworthy. Would they give away their positions when the French troops drew closer? Did they have more loyalty to France than to England? So many East Indians hated the growing might of the British.

Looking up the slope, Jingee saw no sign of Danji or his four men. He could only see the long narrow mound of earth covering the rope which Danji had laid across the path of the Frenchmen. The rope had been Danji’s idea. Jingee had only thought of ambushing from behind boulders. So perhaps Danji was trustworthy. What about the others?

Looking back to the four French troops, he saw that they were climbing steadily closer; he could hear their voices but was unable to understand what they were saying.

The day was hot, and one of the four troops had taken off his tall blue hat; he was little more than a boy. The other
three all had moustaches, but none was older than Jingee himself; their white teeth flashed against their sunburnt skin as they laughed.

Jingee forced down a rush of guilt, trying not to think of the young men having families at home, sweethearts waiting for them to return, dreams for the future.

He kept reminding himself: It’s their life or mine. They’ll find their friends dead and won’t leave the island until they learn who killed them.

Glancing back at his own men, Jingee saw that they were well hidden behind the boulders. So far nobody was betraying him.

As the French troops began passing directly in front of him, sabres and muskets clanking, Jingee held his breath.

The rancid smell from their bodies travelled on the breeze. Jingee wrinkled his nose, raising his head to watch the four young men climb towards Danji’s hideout. As they approached the rope hidden across their path, his hand tightened on the handle of his dagger. Rising from his knees, he beckoned his men to follow.

He gave the dove call, the gentle coo … coo … coo.

The four Frenchmen kept on climbing, laughing,
unsuspecting
.

Up the hill, Danji and his three men sprang from their hiding places—two men pulling opposite ends of the rope—and ran down the incline, the rope stretched between them, acting as a scythe to cut down the Frenchmen.

The young troops fell backwards, muskets and sabres clattering to the ground, and Jingee whistled his men to attack from behind their rocks.

Wielding knives and stones, the Asians sprang to their feet and fell upon the toppled Frenchmen, stabbing with their knife blades and aiming sharp blows with the stones they clutched in their hands.

Danji’s men joined in the massacre, the four Asians
gripping a stone in each hand, pummelling the young soldiers on their heads, chests and backs.

When the four Frenchmen were silenced, their
blood-covered
bodies motionless in the sun, Danji organised their burial while Jingee hurried to look over the ridge.

To seaward, he saw Babcock’s
Tigre
leading the Mauritius frigate to sea, leaving the
Calliope
unprotected in the cove.

Looking northward, he smiled as he saw Horne
sweeping
down in the
Huma,
sailing toward the cove’s mouth.

Everything was going to plan

Looking around him for the trees and dried stumps he had noticed earlier, he knew that it was time for him and his seamen to move on to the next stage of their land manoeuvre.

The
Huma.

Adam Horne stood to windward on the quarterdeck of the
Huma,
spyglass directed south, studying the gunfire from the
Tigre
booming towards the frigate which flew the French colours. He was relieved to see the
Tigre
tack after venturing perilously close to the finger of the third reef. Had Babcock and Groot forgotten the last obstacle? The rocks were not visible through Horne’s spyglass but he remembered enough of the destroyed chart to know that Babcock had reached that perilous position.

A roar from the French frigate’s guns told Horne a fight was underway, that Babcock’s challenge had been accepted by the enemy. Judging from the size of the three-masted vessel, he feared that Babcock might be out-matched.

Telling himself he must concentrate on the challenge waiting for the
Huma,
he turned his spyglass to the cove, where the
Calliope
was anchored off the sandy shore. Jingee’s information had been correct. Horne only hoped that the transfer had not yet taken place, that the war chest was still aboard the small brig.

His mind on Jingee, he raised his glass up the tall cliffs backing the shoreline. The barren plateau showed no sign of life, the skyline broken only by a few shapes of trees—certainly not suspicious from the enemy’s vantage point.

Horne turned his attention back to his own plan of attack.

As the
Huma
passed through the north cove’s wide mouth, Horne studied the trim lines of the
Calliope,
remembering that stormy morning when she had escaped him,
abandoning
a skeleton crew on the
Tigre
to fend for themselves.

Stuffing the spyglass into his waistband, he held both hands to his mouth, ordering, ‘Set course northwest.’

Jud stood tall at the wheel, his mahogany-brown face a blend of determination and amusement, moving his lips as if he were talking to some invisible companion.

Horne turned his head, calling, ‘Mind the jib.’

A map showed the north cove to be a deep-water harbour, but Horne saw from the cliffs and snug shoreline that manoeuvrability would be tight if the
Calliope
gave him a battle. He must not fool himself about the available sea room which would be further reduced by the wind force cutting down from the surrounding plateau.

‘Jud, firm towards the southern shore; those cliffs there.’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

As the frigate slid windward of the brig, Kiro reminded him, ‘Sir, larboard guns ready.’

Horne gauged the approach; as the brig drew closer, he decided to begin the peppering of grapeshot, foregoing the usual ranging shot.

Hands cupped to his mouth, he ordered, ‘Prepare larboard guns to fire …’

Horne studied the brig through the spyglass; he was close enough to see the pandemonium aboard the enemy ship, the French crew frenzied by the sudden appearance of the
Huma
in the cove. Their surprise, he hoped, would be incapacitating.

Did the
Calliope
recognise the
Huma
from their last encounter? Was Captain Le Clerc aboard with the crew members he had taken from the
Tigre?
If so, what identity was he assigning to Horne’s ragged band of men in the pirate ship? Did Le Clerc have any clue that they were after the war chest? Had he guessed by now that this attack had been
carefull
y
orchestrated to catch him unawares, unprotected?

Another question which preoccupied Horne was whether or not Captain Le Clerc had spotted that it was his former ship, the
Tigre,
leading the French frigate from the cove’s mouth. Le Clerc would enjoy a clear view across the natural harbour to where Babcock was at work.

The
Calliope
had weighed anchor and was opening her gunports as she caught the wind. Horne abandoned his musing to gauge his position before calling orders to fire. Through his spyglass he saw the French topsails blossom like a flower.

Another pattern of whiteness attracted his attention: a puff of smoke from the gunports. Then came a splash between him and the brig. Had Le Clerc fired a ranging shot? Or had he lost his composure and fired too soon?

Reminding himself that waiting was the most important element of battle, Horne felt the
Huma
tilt on her course across the cove, lining to give a clear range for the cannon.

The moment to fire was coming closer and, his heart beating faster, Horne shouted, ‘Prepare to fire and …’

The moment must be right or all was wasted. Each second was an hour. But each wasted shot was an invitation to defeat.

‘… Fire!’

The
Huma
trembled from the explosion.

‘Stand by to go about,’ shouted Horne through the smoke cloud.

He called to Jud, ‘Head to the wind.’

‘Aye, aye, sir,’ answered the bass voice through the scattering cloud.

Kiro reported from larboard, ‘Gun crew prepared for orders, sir.’

Horne risked, ‘Men to starboard.’

Pleased, he listened to the rush of bare feet across deck; he knew Kiro had had no time to have the deck sanded to avoid slipping.

Had he ever conducted a battle so makeshift? Horne forgot about his improvisations as the
Huma
caught the wind, lying over no more than a few degrees. With an exhilarating lurch, the shrouds sighed, yards shivered from the quick tug and stress.

As the topsails bellied against the plateau wind, Horne saw the French brig catching the breeze, tacking southeast, bringing her head to the wind as she set a course straight for the
Huma.

‘Set course for northeast,’ he called to Jud.

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

‘The wind’s more powerful than you think,’ cautioned Horne, eyes on the cove’s northern perimeter.

‘Aye, aye, Captain.’

Horne gauged the point inside the cove at which the two ships would pass. ‘Tops’ll short.’

The enemy brig, closing the gap between herself and Horne, fired another ball.

The enemy was as out of range on the new tack as they had been from the anchorage. Horne wondered how nervous Captain Le Clerc was.

‘Steer firm, Jud.’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

Two cables distant, Horne studied the French ship on her course to pass abeam the
Huma.
The space between the two ships was shortening as they continued on a parallel course, their prows closing.

Raising his hand to Kiro, Horne shouted, ‘Prepare guns to fire and …’ He waited. ‘… Fire.’

Kiro’s cannons belched flames, blue clouds of smoke rising in thick puffs.

Feeling the deck tremble, Horne heard timbers crash, sails rip, the screams of men pierce the air.

The two ships continued past one another, timbers groaning, smoke spreading in their wake.

Realising for the first time that sweat was pouring from
his brow, that he was burning with body heat, Horne pulled off his shirt. Towelling his face with the garment, he shouted, ‘Stand by to go about.’

The men needed no urging.

The spokes of the wheel spun through Jud’s hands; the topmen were ready to head into the wind, sails thundering, canvas snapping. The activity aloft was matched by Kiro stampeding his crew back to the larboard guns.

The
Huma,
catching her stays, did not move quickly enough for Horne’s liking, and he bellowed, ‘Hang her up in that wind, men.’

Listening to the ropes scream, blocks groan, water creaming in the frigate’s wake, Horne realised how lucky he was to have the few good men he had. But he knew he could not push them so hard for long.

Kiro reported, ‘Larboard guns sponged and loaded, sir.’

‘Canister on round shot?’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

Horne saw Le Clerc’s brig tacking, preparing to return for the
Huma.

At the moment when an idea began forming in his mind, Jud shouted, ‘Captain, look ashore. Above the brig’s position.’

Horne raised his eyes and, there on the cove’s southern plateau, he saw a cloud of dust rise along the rim, the cloud becoming stronger as—yes, it looked like an army storming down the incline to the harbour.

Jingee was doing his job. Was it making Le Clerc hesitate?

Snapping open his spyglass, Horne looked to see how Babcock was faring with the enemy frigate outside the cove. Before proceeding with his strategy for the
Huma,
he must know the exact progress of all the Marines—inside the cove, outside it and above on the ridge.

Oporto.

There had been an unforeseen problem among the men of Jingee’s land patrol before they began pushing the boulders and logs down the cliff.

After burying the four young French Marines, Jingee had ordered his patrol to begin the next step of their manoeuvre. But the seamen hesitated near the scene of the carnage, a few men sinking to their haunches, unable to walk. Two held their stomachs, bodies doubled over, spewing sickness onto the ground, while one lay face down on the ground.

Jingee’s deputy, Danji, shook his head resignedly and raised both hands to the sun, blaming the heat for the men’s suddenly unco-operative conduct.

Jingee knew better. It was not the heat. All the men were seamen; all were used to sun beating down on them. No, they were squeamish from the bloody atrocity they had committed, and from the sight of the dead bodies of the French Marines.

Running to the first man, Jingee grabbed him by the ear, shouting, ‘There’s more work to do.’

The man stared at him, shaking his head.

Jingee turned and looked out beyond the edge of the plateau. Below him, he could see two battles progressing: one confrontation inside the cove, between Horne and the
Calliope
; the other outside the cove, cannon fire booming between Babcock’s brig and the frigate from Mauritius.

Knowing that the Captain sahib was depending on him
to create a diversion, Jingee turned back to the reluctant seaman and slapped him across the face; he slapped him a second time, harder than the first, and shoved him towards the precipice.

Grabbing another man, he saw his mouth gaping with horror and, pulling back his hand, slapped him smartly across the face.

The man held his cheek in astonishment, staring disbelievingly at Jingee.

Jingee hissed, ‘If you don’t start pushing those rocks as I told you to, I’ll shove
you
down the cliff.’

The man hesitated, shaking his head.

Jingee gripped him firmly by the neck and pulled him kicking and screaming to the edge of the cliff.

‘No, no,’ pleaded the young man. ‘I obey you. I do what you say.’

Jingee boxed him sharply on the ear, gave him a kick in the
dhoti
and shoved him after the first man.

Turning, he looked challengingly at the others.

Quickly, the men lowered their eyes and hurried to the plateau’s edge, taking their places obediently behind logs and boulders.

Taking up his position at the cliff’s edge, Jingee chopped down his arm through the air, ordering,
‘Heave
…
heave
…’ He believed the problem had been settled.