The War Chest (5 page)

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.

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 remember 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.

The morning’s changing winds had restored the weather gauge to the
Huma,
giving her superiority over the
Unity
in wind as well as gun power. But the rising gusts left both ships with less time to prepare for their deciding encounter.

A breeze against his cheek, Horne looked amidship for his own men, seeing Bapu with his red headband tied securely around his ears. The Indian warrior looked more like a weathered British seaman than someone who had been living in a Bombay elephant shed little more than seventy-two hours ago. Near him stood Babcock, who had ignored the gunners’ advice, leaving his big ears unprotected against the gun blast.

Mustafa and Kiro remained attached to the starboard battery, and Jingee still hurried on water brigade. Telling himself he had no need to concern himself with his men, Horne turned to concentrate instead on Tree, to ensure that the Second Mate passed correct orders at the correct moment.

The enemy—whoever commanded the
Huma
—grew
closer, threateningly beyond the
Unity’
s
larboard beam. Horne dropped the spyglass to watch her with his naked eye, waiting for the ship’s close-hauled sails to approach the foremast of the merchantman.

Aware only of the sound of sluicing water, he ordered calmly, ‘It is time to commence, Mr Tree.’

His first success had firmed Tree’s grip on the speaking trumpet and given a resounding confidence to his voice:

‘Prepare …
guns
!’

Horne, his eye on the
Huma’
s
bow, knew the strike must come sooner this time than the last broadside. He hoped he was not acting prematurely as he murmured, ‘Now, Mr Tree.’

‘FIRE!’

Guns exploded; the
Unity
trembled; but the quake came from more than gun recoil. The enemy had fired at the same moment, Horne realised, pounding a devastating broadside against the
Unity.

As thick, dense smoke rose from the bulwark, Horne looked for a sign of their own success and, yes, the
Huma’
s main topsail had altered, its yard gone completely, and the foresail had disappeared, the yard swinging from the rigging.

Remembering that the gunners had not been ordered to fire at will, Horne knew that Tree had to give the next command quickly and loudly. He shouted, ‘Mr Tree, repeat!’

‘Fire!’ bellowed Tree.

The second round roared louder than the first, belching grape across the waves, raising smoke and soot, causing the deck to rumble. But a louder crash came from the broadside the
Huma
struck against the merchantman.

Hearing screams and painful cries rise around him, Horne feared the worst, but the air was too thick with smoke to see any carnage.

The deck canted beneath Horne’s feet; battle continued
around him, the fury between the two ships casting a black cloud across the sky. His eyes watered from the pungent smoke, and he was still unable to gauge any damage done to either vessel.

Tree’s voice cut through the tumult. ‘Horne! Can you hear me, Horne? They’re surrendering! They’re
surrendering
to us, Horne!’

Surrendering
?
Horne’s first instinct was one of distrust. False surrender was an old pirate trick.

Flailing his hands through the smoke, Tree shouted, ‘Look, sir! See! It’s a flag! A white flag!’

Better than a white flag, Horne saw men diving into the water from the
Huma.
Still suspicious, fearing the enemy might try to assemble a boarding party for hand-to-hand combat, he looked toward the frigate’s officers’ deck.

He was surprised to see two turbaned men waving a flag, a length of cloth as white as new dawn and—all around them—their crew diving from the ship, clawing to swim towards the pattimar.

It was true. The enemy was surrendering, not fleeing. Their crew was abandoning ship. Why? Had the
Huma
been damaged? Was she sinking? Or were the crew deserting their leader like many Oriental troops did in defeat? Was that why the ship was not hurriedly taking flight?

Whatever the reason, Horne decided the
Unity
should make the most of the situation.

‘Mr Tree,’ he suggested. ‘What do you think about sending a shot across the prow of that pattimar?’

Tree’s smile beamed through the soot caking his face. ‘Yes-s-s-s, sir!’

Horne turned to leave the quarterdeck, so that Tree could claim victory over both ships in full triumphal glory. He stopped abruptly when he saw Babcock at the foot of the companion ladder, looking up at him. The American was holding a mutilated body in his arms.

Horne lowered his eyes from Babcock’s sooty face to the
bleeding body in his arms. Despite gaping wounds in the man’s chest, he recognised him by the bandanna tied around his ears. It was Bapu.

Horne asked, ‘Is he … dead?’

‘Not yet.’

Babcock moved towards the companionway, Bapu in his arms.

The battle over, candles were relit aboard the
Unity.
Horne adjusted his eyes to the near darkness as he followed Babcock, carrying Bapu, into the wardroom dotted with candles and serving as a sick bay. The odour of camphor, rum, and sulphur cut through the sickening reek of the battle’s worst scourge—burnt flesh.

The ginger-haired surgeon, Ronald Shanks, came towards Babcock, carrying a pot of linseed oil and lime water in one hand, an anodyne for the burn victims. He motioned Babcock to lower Bapu onto a table.

A low hum of moans filled the wardroom, a pathetic chorus punctuated by piercing screams from men with broken arms, legs or ribs, and by the delirious cries of those victims who had been driven out of their minds by pain.

As Babcock eased Bapu down onto the table, Horne moved to raise the straps to fasten around Bapu’s lower legs, still thankfully intact, to prepare him for immediate surgery.

Shanks looked at the scarlet wetness of Bapu’s gaping chest and shook his head.

Horne tightened, ready to force the surgeon to tend Bapu.

He demanded, ‘What the hell’s the matter with you, Shanks?’

Shanks, tired and strained, began, ‘Sir, I can see now that your man is—’ He glanced down at Bapu’s smeared face.

Bapu’s eyelids fluttered. He looked from the surgeon to Horne. In a voice no louder than a whisper, he gasped, ‘Captain … Horne …’