The War Chest (9 page)

The
Huma
swept south on the larboard tack, sails cut to storm jib, the rain driving at Horne like small, silver darts as he paced his beloved realm of the quarterdeck. He knew that somewhere beyond the storm wall lay two brigs‚ one quite possibly the
Royaume
carrying the French war chest, but the cursed storm held him in thrall.

Rollers crashed; foam swept over the bulwarks; the rigging creaked and timbers groaned; Horne was consoled, however, by Jud’s topmen—assisted by Babcock’s alternative watch—ready to lunge into action at any sudden change of sail.

Lifelines had been stretched for the men to grip as they inched along the thrashing deck, making their way across the wave-swept gangway. Jingee’s crew had secured anything loose; Kiro’s men had placed blocks under the trucks, a safeguard to stop the guns from breaking loose and careering across deck. Below deck, Mustafa’s gang had secured the water casks and stowed all movables.

At the frigate’s wheel, Groot stood as helmsman with a flat-faced mate whom Horne had assigned to him from the
Huma
’s
former raiding crew, one of the so-called ‘pirates’. Within easy reach were ropes with which to lash
themselves
to the wheel should the storm begin to dash them in its turbulence.

Horne’s spyglass was useless against the cloud bank. The only thing for which he could be thankful was that the wind was warm and did not chill him. Trusting his bare feet
more than leather soles, he had rid himself of his boots, thinking that if men accused Bombay Marines of being buccaneers, why not look and survive like them?

With the rain soaking his breeches and coarsely woven shirt, he considered his alternative course of action. If the storm worsened, he could abandon his plan to lurch his way towards the two ships. Instead, he could bring the
Huma
to the wind. The frigate would make no progress hove-to, but, at least, she might escape storm damage and men’s lives would be spared.

Frustrated by being so close to the two brigs, yet unable to close in on them or at least learn their identity, Horne felt blind and crippled on his own quarterdeck. He must find some way to see—if only a short distance. Glancing overhead at the brailed sails and furled canvas, he leapt, barefooted, to the mizzen shroud and climbed towards the mast.

The wind pasted the clothes to his body like a second skin; the rain felt as if it were driving tiny holes into his face; but he clung to the wet hemp, waiting for a break in the storm. If the
Huma
were a bird that never alighted then, in the name of the good Lord Almighty, he would be a willing rider on the tireless creature’s back.

The flat-faced, wiry young ‘pirate’ whom Horne had assigned to Groot as a mate spoke no English. Neither did he speak the other language which Groot knew—French. As the storm gale worsened, Groot felt a nervous impulse to talk to someone, but having nobody nearby who could understand him, he began speaking his native Dutch to the pirate, unworried that the latter did not know what he was saying.

He first described the house in Bombay where he, Babcock, and Mustafa had lived before the press gang had
found them, and how Babcock had accused him of poisoning them with his stew of sausages, potatoes and lentils.

‘Oh, life there was boring‚’ he said, ‘waiting for Horne to bring us new orders. But it was not the
schipper
’s
fault. He takes his orders from Commodore Watson. What was he to do?’

The pirate’s black shoe-button eyes shone in his brown face as he stared at Groot in bewilderment.

‘The Dutch name for Bombay is “good harbour”‚’ Groot continued, ‘but to me it was a bad place, a prison. I was so bored there I never stopped talking and worrying and talking more. I don’t look like a talkative person, I know. Talkative people are fat and have jolly faces. Me, I am lean and look quiet.

‘Babcock, he threatens to pull out my tongue if I don’t stop talking. Mustafa, he gets that blank look in his eyes when I talk and he never answers me. Sometimes I think Mustafa has nothing to say. Sometimes I think that inside his head there is nothing but air.

‘In prison I talked to myself. I was put into prison for stealing Hyderabad silk. I am not a thief, but I saw a chance to make some money so I took it. If it wasn’t for Horne, I’d still be in prison.

‘I did not think I was going to like Horne when I first saw him. He’s an aristocrat and I knew that fine English aristocrats look down their long noses at the Dutch. They call us cheeseheads. But Horne is not like that. No, the
schipper
is a quiet man. A kind man. A serious man. But a man who likes a good fight. On land, he fights with his hands and his elbows and his feet—anything he can use. And on sea, he fights with muskets and
cannon-fire
and swords—and anything else he can fight with too.

‘Our ship before this was called the
Eclipse.
It was a very fine ship. A frigate, very much like this ship and …’

A noise sounded in the distance.

Pausing, Groot held the wheel and looked around him, realising the sound was a hail in English.

Listening more closely, he said, ‘That was the
schipper
calling. I wonder if he saw the ships?’

At his side, the brown-skinned mate said,
‘Als
je
tijd
hebt,
Groot,
moet
je
je
verhaal
nog
eens
afmaken
over
je
laatste
schip.’

Groot stared at him.
‘Spreek
je
Hollands
?
’

The man answered,
‘Ik
ben
opgegroeid
op
Java.
Het
is
m’n
moerstaal.’

Groot blushed. The pirate had understood everything he had been saying. Having been raised on the island of Java, his mother-tongue was Dutch.

Horne’s first thought was that the outline of the ship was a figment of his imagination, that his eyes were playing tricks on him and he was only seeing what he
wanted
to see. But staring across the starboard bow from his perch in the shrouds, he realised that a break had come in the storm, that the gale had veered the storm clouds from the
Huma
’s path, and he was seeing one of the two mystery brigs making way. But where was the second ship? Had it escaped? Already?

Excitedly, he called as he scrambled down the shroud, ‘Groot! Prepare to go about!’

‘Aye, aye,
schipper
!’
came the reply. ‘Aye, aye.’

Back on the quarterdeck, Horne looked aloft, at the sails brailed and furled with double gaskets. Work would have to be fast to put speed into the bird.

‘Top ho!’ shouted Horne, noticing for the first time that the rainfall had slackened.

Jud appeared on the ratline, a spider across a wet web, quickly putting Horne’s commands into actions, bellowing men onto the bulky yards.

Groot, helped by his Javanese mate, both babbling Dutch to one another, held the
Huma
on her new course, waves lapping across deck; the lull in the storm had given the
Huma
the wind gauge and was sweeping her down towards the brig.

Clearly seeing the shape of the brig across the expanse of choppy waves, Horne watched her try to catch the wind for a quick flight. Raising both hands to his mouth, he shouted, ‘Run out the guns, Kiro!’

As the
Huma
became alive, Kiro’s crew rumbled out the guns; Horne held his eye on the sea, searching for the other brig, hoping she was not in some fine position to blast away at the
Huma.
Wouldn’t the joke be on him if he sailed into a French trap? A grim, heavy toll such a joke could demand, too!

But, no! There she was! The second brig! She had caught the wind, cutting to the northwest and leaving her sister ship behind.

As the
Huma
’s
nose pressed southwest toward the laggard, Horne called, ‘Prepare larboard guns!’

Having run out the guns, Kiro called for grape shot in the harsh, brittle voice he had used on his
Samurai
students in Bombay. Behind the gun crew men scattered sand, precautions for the gunners on the rain-wet deck.

Snapping open his spyglass, Horne was pleased to see the brig was not catching her stays.

He called to the wheel, ‘Groot, the helm to larboard!’

A few moments later, Jud’s yell came from aloft, ‘She’s not the
Royaume,
sir!’

‘Can you see colours?’

‘French!’

Lifting the spyglass to his eye, Horne caught the brig’s stern and saw the gilt name,
Tigre.
He jabbed the spyglass into his sodden waistband. ‘Prepare to fire across her bow!’ he called.

Treasure ship or not, she would get a warning shot and
perhaps worse. Damn it! Where was the
Royaume
?
Was she the brig escaping?

As his hand chopped down, the gun flared, a volley shaking the
Huma
; Horne saw the ball’s splash in the
wind-tossed
sea.

Pulling out his spyglass, he studied the brig, now able to see her new tack as well as a view of open gunports.

Not waiting to hear their first roar, he bellowed, ‘Larboard … fire!’

The
Huma
was close enough to the
Tigre
for him to see the fore bulwark explode, splinters flying with the striking volley. A cloud of smoke rose from the
Tigre
’s
gunports
, but her retaliation was as ineffectual as her escape attempt.

Horne felt renewed puzzlement. Was the brig
undermanned
? Had most of the crew been evacuated to the other brig? Was the ship he was attacking in trouble? Was that the reason for the rendezvous, a distress meeting?

The
Huma
bore down on the brig, moving so snugly that Horne knew a full force from his larboard might more than cripple the
Tigre.
He did not want to capture smouldering timbers.

Looking amidships, he saw Babcock—monkey on shoulder—waiting with his men to participate in any attack that might be ordered.

‘Babcock, prepare boarding party!’

Babcock, excited by the prospect of action, returned Horne’s wave, answering, ‘Aye, aye, aye,
aye
!’

Why, Horne wondered, when Babcock
did
address an officer properly, did he do it so annoyingly?

To Groot, he called, ‘Put helm alee. We’re going alongside the enemy.’

Excitement rose aboard the
Huma
; in feverish anticipation the men began running for weapons to carry or fire or use as bludgeons.

Horne called, ‘Boarders, prepare grappling hooks!’

Apart from grapnel, men carried pikes, flintlocks,
hammers
, axes and lengths of rope to grip as garrottes.

The two ships were nearing, their hulls would soon scrape; pandemonium was spreading across the enemy deck as the
Huma
edged closer, the men waiting to jump from the hammock nettings, to stab across boarding planks.

‘Boarders … ready …’

Horne counted to himself: ‘One—two—three—’ He trumpeted, ‘Away … boarders!’

Shrieking, crying, bellowing, Babcock’s men poured aboard the
Tigre.

A French officer, his blue-and-gold uniform ripped and stained, shouted to a line of Marines aboard the
Tigre
to raise their muskets and repel the boarders pouring over the rails. The troops fumbled with their weapons, crouching in an uneven row to blast Babcock’s men.

Babcock, expecting armed defence from the Marines, threw a grappling hook amidships, its rope catching the line of armed men; the surprise of its touch toppled them backwards, sending their muskets clattering to the deck.

Horne was watching from the
Huma’
s
quarterdeck, and noticed that the enemy barely outnumbered Babcock’s boarding party. Not wanting to strip the
Huma
of more men, he decided to withhold reinforcements unless it became absolutely necessary to lead a support party. The second brig might reappear and find the
Huma
completely defenceless.

Shouts of confrontation rose from the brig’s waist, the clank of sabres, the pop of pistols. Through his spyglass, Horne followed Babcock as he sliced his blade, used the butt of his flintlock, cutting a path toward the poopdeck, the monkey clinging to his neck the entire time.

There was no sign of any officers aboard the French brig except for the ragged young lieutenant. The French Marine unit was small and badly armed, and the seamen raised little or no resistance to the
Huma’
s
energetic party of boarders. Horne understood now why the
Tigre
’s
gun reply had been so feeble. It was consoling for him to see a minimum of bloodshed.

Catching a flutter of bright colour through the spyglass, he lowered the glass and saw Babcock haul down the French flag, the monkey riding his shoulder.

In a victory whoop which ricocheted between the two ships, Babcock shouted, ‘Bombay …
buccaneers
!
’

So the long storm watch had culminated in victory. A partial one, regretted Horne, perhaps even an
inconsequential
one, for the other brig had escaped and, with it, possibly all trace of the war chest. Had the
Tigre
been tossed to the
Huma
as a diversion? Horne suspected so.

Fred Babcock had acted bravely and loyally. Horne had to admit, however, that the big American colonial was loud, brash when he gave buccaneer war cries, sometimes very obnoxious. Yet Babcock was the obvious choice to
command
the captured brig which the Marines would keep as a war prize.

With his flintlock stuck into his waistband, his sabre dangling at his side, Horne decided to join the men aboard the
Tigre.
The thought occurred to him that by appointing Babcock to the brig he would be ridding the
Huma
of that wretched monkey.

Leaving Jud in temporary command of the
Huma,
Horne jumped across the grappling lines holding the frigate to the
Tigre
and joined Babcock by the brig’s port entry.

Shaking Babcock’s hand, he complimented, ‘Good man. Fine show.’

‘We did it, eh?’

Horne looked over Babcock’s shoulder at the French officer, a thin young man with a straggly brown moustache and sunburnt nose, obviously with no idea who had seized control of his ship.

Babcock nodded at the Lieutenant. ‘Big shot there don’t speak English. Least, he pretends not to.’

Horne’s knowledge of French was minimal but good enough to make himself understood. Approaching the young man, he decided to identify neither himself nor the unit in any way. The
Huma
purposely flew no flag; he realised, too, that he must caution Babcock about his ‘buccaneer’ cries, that the Bombay Marine should not be connected in any way, not even by slang, with the taking of the French war chest.

In French, Horne began, ‘Lieutenant, what was the name of your companion ship?’

The Lieutenant held himself upright, more out of fear than protocol, his mouth open, his lower lip quivering.

Horne decided to bluff. ‘Has the
Royaume
proceeded to Mauritius, Lieutenant?’

The Lieutenant’s eyes remained sharp with fear but showed no flicker of recognition at the mention of
‘Royaume’.

Horne repeated. ‘What was the name of the other ship, Lieutenant?’

Receiving no answer from the trembling young man, Horne turned to Babcock. ‘He’s too frightened to speak. Confine him to quarters.’

‘Why not in bilboes? That’d get some sense from the frog soon enough.’

‘No. He’s an officer, Babcock. Apparently the only one aboard ship.’

Babcock cocked his head towards midship, at the motley assembly of African, European, and Oriental faces. ‘What about the rest of them sea rats?’

‘Have you made a count?’

‘Twenty-three. I reckon the others got away on that first tub.’

Horne was pleased that Babcock shared his opinion about what had happened to the rest of the crew.

Babcock added, ‘Unless there’s disease and they died.’

Horne had not considered the possibility of sickness
aboard the
Tigre.
But the ship did not reek of death or decay; there was no permeating odour of sulphur or some other surgeon’s smudgepot and lavations.

Pleased by Babcock’s constructive speculation, however, he chose the moment to add, ‘Babcock, I’d like to take the ship’s log to study. That is, if you don’t mind.’

‘Don’t mind? Me?’

‘I’m placing you in command of the
Tigre.
You’ve led the attack. You’re the obvious man to take charge here.’

Babcock lowered his head and pulled one ear, embarrassed and surprised by the sudden appointment.

‘Thank you … sir.’

Horne forced back his smile; it would be unfair to mock Babcock at one of the few moments when he showed a modicum of respect for a commanding officer. Who knew? Perhaps this appointment might be the turning point in his life, might give him respect for propriety. Sometimes a man needed responsibility to pull himself together.

‘When we make way, Babcock, we’ll follow a southeasterly course.’

Babcock brightened. ‘On the arse of that other ship!’

‘Hmmm.’

‘In this wind, we’ll put around easy.’

Horne had planned on catching the breeze building.

Babcock lowered his voice. ‘If I’m going to be captain here for the time being, sir, who’s going to be at my wheel? Act as my helmsman?’

Horne had considered this and other details when he had decided to give command to Babcock.

‘Groot. He speaks French. His new Javanese mate can come over with him, too. Between the two of them, you should not have any language problem. At least from the wheel.’

‘Who does that leave you with?’

‘I can depend on Jud,’ answered Horne, impressed with
the considerate question. Perhaps Babcock was finally becoming a responsible Marine.

‘Fun’s fun, monkey,’ Babcock said to his pet as he stood, head bent, in the cabin of the
Tigre,
the sea slapping against the hull, ‘but there comes a time when a man’s got to give it a rest. The same goes for monkeys.’

Crossing to the bunk, he tested the mattress. ‘Not bad. Feathers.’

Rising, he knocked his head on a beam.

‘Got to remember that beam, monkey,’ he mumbled.

He looked around the cabin, rubbing his head and appraising the mullioned stern windows, the brass-cornered lockers, a desk, a glass-fronted book and chart case. ‘Not bad, monkey,’ he said, ‘not bad at all. But we mustn’t get used to these comforts, they’re not going to last for ever. It could be back to the hammock with us soon enough.’

Jumping from Babcock’s shoulder, the monkey scrambled toward a mahogany shaving stand, scaled it to the round marble top and, grabbing the shaving brush, put the bristles between his bared teeth.

‘Hey! Don’t eat that, you stupid monkey! That’s a shaving brush! It’s mine now!’

Grabbing for the brush, Babcock hit his head on another low beam.

‘I’m warning you, monkey,’ he grumbled, holding his aching head. ‘If you can’t move up in the world, then you—’ he thumbed the stern window. ‘—start swimming.’

Etienne Gallet listened to the familiar fall of footsteps overhead on deck. He knew, though, that the men aboard
the
Tigre
were strangers, some rough band which had seized control of the French brig.

Sitting alone in his cabin, confined to quarters by the enemy leader, he wondered what he was doing so faraway from his family’s home in Grasse, away from his mother, his father, and from Oncle Philippe who never came out of his bedroom, but scribbled away until the late hours of the night, writing his memoirs of the War of the Austrian Succession. Was it because of Oncle Philippe that young Etienne had decided to go to sea? Had Oncle Philippe instilled into him an early hunger for adventure with those interminable stories about war and life in faraway countries?

Faraway countries were different once you got there. They had languages you couldn’t understand. They were deep in filth which you never seemed to be able to wash off your body. They fed you food which did not stay down in your stomach.

Etienne sighed deeply and ran both hands through his hair. Oh, he would like nothing better at this very moment than to wash his hair. To shave. To put on fresh linen. And to eat some proper food.

What would it be like to sit down in the dining room at home for supper with the family? Delicious roast lamb. Tender potatoes. Freshly baked bread. Hmmm. His mouth watered.

Home was not as distant in miles to Etienne as it was in years. Time. He felt trapped in something called the ‘present’ but which had nothing to do with any of his earlier plans for the future. Since being commissioned in the French Navy, he had come to realise that nothing in life was as you had imagined it would be. Today had been the last straw. He felt depleted. Empty. Absolutely spent.

Captain Le Clerc had abandoned the
Tigre,
sailing away on the
Calliope.
Le Clerc had departed with the valuable iron-banded chest marked for Mauritius. He had clearly
left the
Tigre
for the enemy to capture, a crumb to toss to them as he took flight with the precious cargo.

But who were these men who had come aboard the
Tigre
? Were they British? They did not look like British. Not Royal Navy. They wore no uniforms. They flew no flag. Were they pirates? Misfits from every dank corner of the world?

Sitting on the edge of his berth, holding his head in his hands, Etienne Gallet wondered what he would have thought as a young boy back in Grasse if he had known that his fate as the King’s Officer would be
this
:
to be abandoned by his commanding officer, left as a sacrificial lamb for a band of misfits, together with a small part of the crew aboard the
Tigre.
Le Clerc, the scoundrel, had left in a hurry, too, thinking up his ruse just as the storm had been lifting. Etienne realised that only one thing happened to sacrificial lambs: they were led to slaughter.

But why should Le Clerc have the last word? Or the enemy? Was not this his life? His destiny?

The cabin was dark. The water swirled around the brig in complete blackness. But Etienne Gallet needed no light inside his quarters to find the object he was looking for. He knew exactly where he had left the scent bottle. It had been a farewell gift from his dear mother. Papa had given him a crucifix, and Oncle Philippe a leather-bound diary for making daily entries during his travels. But Maman, dear, sweet Maman, knowing that her rosy-cheeked little Etienne enjoyed the nicer things in life, had given him a crystal bottle of scent. Lilas.

The shatter of the bottle sounded like the tolling of a village bell. The slice of the long crystal shard across Etienne’s wrist felt like the cold bite of a Christmas icicle. The blood flowing from his veins felt like water, lovely warm bath water flowing into a zinc tub. And, slowly, a smile on his face, twenty-two-year-old Etienne Gallet died.