by Porter Hill
The flag fluttered downwards, cheers arising from Horne’s men as La Favourite became a prize for the Bombay Marine.
Chapter Seventeen
THE CEREMONY
Commodore Watson brushed the yellow dust from his frockcoat after inspecting the damage done to Bull Island. ‘You made yourself a compact little drill station here, Horne. Too bad old Frenchie had to come along and blast it to smithereens.’
Less than twenty-four hours had passed since La Favourite had begun firing on the Eclipse. Even less time had elapsed since Commodore Watson had arrived in his flagship, Ferocious, forty-two guns, announcing to Adam Horne that he had brought important news from Bombay Castle. So far Watson had not divulged the reason why he had appeared two weeks ahead of schedule.
Adam Horne had not changed clothes since Jud had spotted the Ferocious billowing against the purpling of the new dawn; the time since then had been spent dividing the French prisoners between the Eclipse, La Favourite, and the one shore Barracks which had been quickly transformed into a gaol. After interviewing the French captain, a shrewish man named Pierre Tolent, Horne had conducted burial services for his casualties, committing their death hammocks to the sea before heat hastened putrefaction.
Commodore Watson shaded his eyes in the glare of the midday sun as he faced Horne in the harbour yard. ‘Some officers have a genius for handling vast numbers of men, Horne. Your gift appears to be surviving with damned few.’
Horne had lost five men aboard the Eclipse during last night’s battle and two more from the land explosion. Among them had been two prisoners he had never come to know, Jim Pugh and Edward Quinte. He added the deaths of McFiddich and Wren to the toll, as well as their killing of Vega and the demise this morning of Martin Allen from his knife wound. He had lost a total of eleven men – prisoners, crew, Marines – nine of them having belonged to the special squad he had been training.
‘I make do, sir.’
Watson glanced towards the Eclipse anchored on the lee side of La Favourite. ‘Your crew must be near enough depleted, Horne.’
‘By many men’s standards, sir, yes.’
Unlike Horne, Watson felt strangely lighthearted. He was pleased to be away from the pressures of Bombay Castle. Also, he did not have to worry about his wife discovering that he had broken his abstinence from spirits.
‘I propose, Horne, that we reward the officer who evacuated the men from your Headquarters before Frenchie began gunning it.’
‘The man’s not an officer, sir. He’s one of the prisoners.’
Watson’s porcine eyes widened. ‘A prisoner?’
‘Yes, sir. His name’s Fred Babcock. He carried Marine Sergeant Rajit on his back to the top of that plateau.’
Watson looked from the plateau back to Horne.
‘So you only have two officers now?’
‘Correct, sir. Midshipman Bruce and Midshipman Mercer. We read Last Rites over Lieutenant Pilkington at dawn. I shall be writing to his family this evening.’
Watson considered the situation. ‘Horne, take time today to provide me with the names of men you’d like promoted at tonight’s ceremony.’
‘Ceremony, sir?’
‘The induction of your new Marines.’
Horne did not understand. ‘Sir, I thought you would induct the new men officially after the mission.’
‘I think they proved themselves worthy to be Marines, Horne.’
Horne felt his first moment of elation for the day. ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’
Studying Horne’s unshaven face, the stubble of which was only a fraction shorter than the dark bristles on his shaved head, Watson said, ‘Horne, I’m surprised you haven’t asked why I arrived a fortnight ahead of schedule.’
‘Sir, if seven years in service to the Honourable East India Company has taught me anything, it’s to prepare myself for the worst.’
‘And what, Horne, would be the worst at this moment?’
‘The Governors have advanced the mission, sir. We’re to leave immediately for Fort St George.’
Watson put his arm around Horne’s shoulders, then remembering that he was covered with perspiration and grime, he quickly pulled away, saying, ‘Horne, why not come aboard the Ferocious with me now? The awning will be stretched across the quarterdeck. We can sit in the shade. Have a gin. I can tell you the few things I’ve learnt about the assignment since I last saw you.’
Horne recognized the invitation as a command.
‘Yes, sir.’
Following Watson down to the jolly-boat, he glanced at the heap of rubble and stones which had once been Headquarters. Was his stay at Bull Island already over? Had his work here been profitable?
* * *
In the evening ceremony conducted aboard the Ferocious, Commodore Watson raised Midshipman Bruce and Midshipman Mercer to Second and Third Lieutenant respectively. Their age differences and lengths of service in the Honourable East India Company influenced their promotions in rank.
Adam Horne recommended three crew members to be raised to Midshipman – George Tandimmer, Corin Bramhall, Chris Bennett – a temporary step to make them higher commissioned officers. But Tandimmer declined the honour, saying he hoped to retire early to an uncle’s farm in Dorset. Horne doubted the existence of such an uncle or farm while admiring Tandimmer’s refusal to rise above a station he enjoyed aboard the Eclipse. Bramhall and Bennett both eagerly accepted the offer to swear their oaths to King and Company, as well as to be eligible to receive four pounds boost in pay per annum.
The shipboard ceremony also included the Marine induction. Seven men remained from the original sixteen prisoners from Bombay Castle – Babcock, Bapu, Groot, Kiro, Jingee, Jud and Mustafa.
All the men had been amongst Horne’s final contenders, except for Jingee who had been locked in the ship’s hold. The duel with McFiddich had proved that Jingee had the ability to fight. His actions during the battle with La Favourite had shown his loyalty. Instead of punishing him for fighting with McFiddich, Horne gave him the choice of becoming a Marine.
The squadron would consist only of prisoners from Bombay Castle. Had that been his hidden wish all along? Horne wondered.
* * *
The sinking sun painted the evening sky a lush spectrum of rose and purple, a slight breeze flapping the quarterdeck’s awning as Commodore Watson seized an opportunity after administering the Oaths of Allegiance to deliver a few words to the assembled men.
‘Despite the way Captain Horne has pampered you in the past weeks, the life of a Bombay Marine is not the party you’ve been enjoying on Bull Island.’
Polite laughter greeted Watson’s joke, the seven new Marines still uneasy in the broadcloth uniforms hurriedly provided for them from the flagship’s stores.
Cheeks red from an afternoon spent drinking gin and lemon juice, Watson expounded on the fame of his predecessor, Commodore William James, before airing his repertoire of humour about ‘the other Watson’, Rear Admiral of the Red Charles Watson, with whom people still confused him, despite the fact that Charles Watson had died four years ago.
Adam Horne’s mind wandered during Watson’s tipsy speech-making, remembering the facts he had been given that afternoon about the decision of the three Governors to send the Marine squadron earlier than scheduled into Fort St George. As he had guessed, the assignment to Madras was to abduct the French Commander-in-Chief, General Thomas Lally. But Watson had refused to expound this afternoon on the reasons for the action. He dwelled on the difficulties to expect inside the fortress, explaining that the Marines must treat the British Army and Navy as enemy.
Laughter jolted Horne back to the present.
Expansively, Watson was announcing, ‘We shall sail in convoy at tomorrow’s dawn for the Coromandel Coast. Captain Horne will disembark with you seven new men near Cuddalore. Horne’s planning a spot more shore training.’
The announcement surprised Horne. Should Watson be disclosing such a detail so publicly?
Watson
continued, ‘From Cuddalore, we’ll proceed north with La Favourite for Bengal where you can lay claim to your prize money. Ten per cent of that brig divided amongst you will buy a few bobs’ worth of pudding, eh?’
Cheers and whistles spread across deck.
‘Now I want every man to enjoy himself with the refreshments provided. But remember – we sail at dawn!’
As the seamen and Marines began to disperse, Horne looked for his escape from the flagship. Sergeant Rajit had been left in command of Barracks Prison Detail and Horne wanted to talk to him, to prepare him for his exclusion from the mission.
Feeling an arm on his shoulder, his heart sank. He expected to turn and find Watson pressing a gin into his hand.
Instead, he saw Babcock.
‘What’s this about “shore-training”?’
The brash question startled Horne. He had not planned to explain the mission to the squad until they were aboard the Eclipse and bound for the Coromandel Coast.
Babcock’s hair had grown long enough to part down the middle of his forehead, making his ears look more prominent.
‘That’s why you chose us from prison, isn’t it? For some secret mission?’
Horne’s first reaction was to discipline Babcock for insolence and for failing again to address an officer properly, but not wanting to alert the other men to the American’s astute guess, he checked the impulse and said, ‘Babcock, for someone so badly disciplined, you sometimes show surprising intelligence.’
Babcock pulled one ear. ‘Is that some kind of compliment … sir?’
‘Only for tonight, Babcock. And another thing.’
Babcock blinked.
‘Keep your suspicions to yourself.’
Turning, Horne moved quickly towards the port entry, realising that Elihu Cornhill had taught him how to escape from everything but a social gathering aboard a Commodore’s flagship.
* * *
Fort St George was a fortress within a fortress, the Honourable East India Company’s most important settlement on India’s eastern coast, in the Presidency of Madras. The Military Guardhouse and King’s Army Barracks formed the western wall of the outer fortress, stretching between the Nabob’s Bastion on the southwest to the Royal Bastion on the northeast.
Inside the Guardhouse a man was imprisoned in a small, humid room; he sat on the edge of a cot, his head bent forward, his hands clasped between the thighs of his white breeches. European, fifty-six years old, he was attired in a clean shirt, his white hair knotted at the nape of his sunburnt neck. He appeared to be agitated, constantly fidgeting with his hands.
Springing from the cot, he paced the room’s plank floor, glowering at the four cracked plaster walls of the prison.
A wooden crucifix hung above the cot; a deal table and rattan-bottomed chair were positioned against the opposite wall; the table held writing materials and three leather-bound volumes, one of the books being a Roman Catholic breviary inscribed by the man’s confessor and friend, Pére Lavour. To the man, this room was as desolate as Madras itself.
He had always thought poorly of Madras, even when he had besieged Fort St George two years ago, leading an army of three thousand European horse and foot soldiers, five hundred native cavalrymen and three thousand Sepoys.
Oh, the fickleness of fate!
Here he was back in Madras, a prisoner, and not even accommodated according to his rank.
What liars these English were! What had happened to the terms of the capitulation which the English officers had so greedily signed? The requirements for civilized treatment? A bountiful table and adequate drink and a garden for reflection? How long would he be kept in this cell – in bleak Fort St George – before being taken to England as his captors had agreed? He wondered now if Colonel Eyre Coote was trying to renegue on the terms of surrender as he had also been so ready to exclude Admiral Pocock from the victory at Pondicherry?
The man continued pacing the floor, planning how he might spring upon the next man who stepped through the door. Not a wretched servant but some man of consequence who must soon call upon him. He considered what weapon he would use: a leg from the table or chair; a string of rattan for a garrotte; any improvised weapon to show that he was still a man to be reckoned with – a soldier, a leader.
His eyes stopped on the wall crucifix. Pulling it from its peg, he gripped the small wooden cross by its base, cutting it down through the air, chopping with the cross-arms of the crucifix as if it were an axe.
Smiling, he resumed his pacing of the room, remembering words from his Jesuit education in Paris – Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam. The crucifix made a good, sharp little weapon. And if not for the Greater Glory of God, then at least for the glory – and survival – of Thomas Lally, Baron de Tolendahl.
Part Three
INTO THE FORTRESS
Chapter Eighteen
THE CONVOY
The Eclipse, the Ferocious and the captured La Favourite, manned by a prize crew from Watson’s flagship, weighed anchor at the light of the new day, sailing south from Bull Island, enjoying a strong westerly through the Laccadives, the Maldives, and on past Minicoy. Avoiding the Gulf of Mannar with its treacherous reefs, the convoy rode the sea winds around Ceylon, the southern tip of India, and climbed the Bay of Bengal towards the Coromandel Coast.
Aboard the Eclipse, Adam Horne continued preparing the seven newly-inducted Bombay Marines. He had divided the men, along with himself, into two groups, Land Group and Sea Group, and today he worked inside his cabin with them, reviewing the steps they were to follow after landing south of Madras.
Horne sat on the edge of his desk, one boot crossed over the other, arms folded across his chest. ‘Land Group is Babcock, Bapu, Groot and Mustafa. Sea Group consists of Kiro, Jingee, Jud and myself. After landing, Land Group heads for the village of Sharuna. Sea Group goes up the coast to Attur. We do not meet again until we are inside the fortress, so we must know each other’s movements thoroughly.’
The seven men squatted or lay around Horne’s cabin, the four men of Land Group ranged near the berth, the three men travelling with Horne in Sea Group sitting facing the desk.
Poorly disciplined; loud mouthed; quick tempered or sour faced. Each man had his fault, but each was also physically able, mentally alert, willing to take chances. If anybody could kidnap General Lally from the Army Guardhouse, Horne was certain his oddly matched squadron of ex-prisoners could do it.
Satisfied with the men, he did not begrudge them the long hours it took to review details about Fort St George and the surrounding land. Keen with excitement, his few nightly hours of sleep were frequently broken by new ideas – or refinements of old ones – for abducting the French Commander-in-Chief.
Despite the long hours of work, he was relaxed and content. Sitting on the edge of his desk, he continued, ‘I considered using local fishermen to support Sea Group in catamarans but decided against it. We must trust nobody outside our two groups.’
Jud – assigned to Sea Group – raised his arm, the skin darkened to a blue-blackness by the sun.
Horne nodded permission to speak.
‘Sir, you said that the boat we’ll get from Attur will be a sewn boat.’
‘Board sewn with rope, Jud. The local name is masulah.’
‘I should have told you before, sir, I sailed rope boats in Oman.’
‘There’s probably a difference, Jud. Madras boats are known to be top heavy. They capsize easily in the surf – but not as easily as most boats.’
Kiro raised his hand.
‘Kiro.’
‘They sound like Nagasaki fishing boats, Captain. Two men can keep them afloat.’
‘Let’s hope so, Kiro. Jingee tells me his cousins in Attur will give us a masulah. But we’ll take anything that can float if we get desperate.’
Horne resumed his briefing. ‘The main gate of Fort St George faces the sea. It’s called the Sea Gate. There’s a drawbridge, a moat, two dry ditches and a gate. The drawbridge is seldom hoisted and t
he gate’s manned twenty-four hours a day. Everyone who enters or leaves through the Sea Gate is logged into a ledger.’
Kiro again raised his hand. The Japanese had become easier and more relaxed since Horne had discovered the reason why he had been so hesitant about striking opponents in the drills. Horne had instructed the men not to take any lives during the mission but, not wanting Kiro to hesitate to use Karate in silencing anyone trying to hinder their success, he had included him in Sea Group, so that he could use Kiro’s Karate along with his own Pankration.
Kiro pointed at the lantern swinging from the cabin’s wooden beam. ‘Captain, if it’s night-time when we reach the fort, how do we see if there’s no moon?’
Horne recrossed his arms. ‘Street lamps were installed last year in Fort St George. They burn coconut oil and are covered with glass globes. The Sea Gate is equipped with three coconut oil lamps. That’s another reason for us to avoid entering there.’
A hand was raised from the cot.
‘Babcock.’
‘What if Land Group’s inside the fort and Sea Group don’t show up?’
Horne turned the question to test Babcock’s memory of past sessions. ‘Where does Land Group first look for Sea Group?’
‘Nabob’s Bastion.’
‘Locate it for me, Babcock.’
Babcock tried to picture the ground plan of Fort St George which Horne had made the men memorize the first morning after leaving Bull Island.
‘Nabob’s Bastion is at –’ Babcock’s memory cleared, ‘– the southwest corner of the Sea Wall.’
‘And if Sea Group is not below Nabob’s Bastion, Babcock, where do you look for us?’
‘St Thomas Bastion, southeast corner.’
‘So what’s your question, Babcock?’
‘If you don’t turn up?’
‘Just wait. Patiently. Without Sea Group, Land Group must not proceed. The same holds in reverse. You get us in. We all get Lally out. We can’t both go through the gates because, unfortunately, somebody might recognize me. There must be no possibility of tracing Lally’s disappearance to the Bombay Marine.’