by Porter Hill
The one serious problem aboard the captured brig was the suicide of its only remaining officer, Lieutenant Etienne Gallet. The brig’s crew gave him a sea burial, reading a Papist prayer for his soul.
Horne, thinking of how the young man in the ragged uniform had been too frightened to speak when the Marines had boarded the Tigre, closed his eyes and offered the closest thing he could say to a prayer. The death of a weak and innocent man was always sadder than that of a strong one. Why? He didn’t know.
* * *
Horne was faced once again with the problem of languages, but he hoped he was going to be able to solve it by juggling the crew.
Originally, when he had chosen the men from the cells of Bombay Castle, he had looked for a knowledge of English. Little had he known, those long months ago, that their other languages would serve him on a subsequent voyage. His two crews were a mixture of many nationalities, sharing a wide variety of languages and dialects. Fortunately, however, Groot spoke French and Dutch; Jingee, Kiro, and Jud had a knowledge of most Oriental and African tongues; Babcock spoke nothing but English, but Mustafa could understand—and make himself understood—in many of the island dialects offshore from the Ottoman’s extensive empire. So far no problems had arisen from language, and Horne told himself that a plethora of tongues could prevent a mutiny taking root and spreading.
Relying on his scant knowledge of French, Horne sat behind his desk in the cabin of the Huma, poring over the Tigre’s log book, understanding enough to grasp that the captain of the brig, Pierre Le Clerc, had set sail from Mauritius in October for Cape Agulhas.
Le Clerc wrote that his crew complained about not getting enough fish and meat; the helmsman’s mate had been flogged for stealing beer; the ship’s surgeon had officiated in the capacity of chaplain. Horne learned those things but found no mention of a treasure ship, no details about any rendezvous with the Royaume from Le Havre. Le Clerc’s voyage appeared to be a simple exploration, making notes of shore lines, observing islands—duties little different from those humdrum activities generally assigned to the Bombay Marine.
Beginning to wonder if the Huma might have happened on an innocuous meeting between two French ships at sea, Horne considered the possibility that he had attacked an innocent vessel. Wartime or not, he did not want to travel the Indian Ocean, broadsiding French ships at random.
‘10 Novembre,’ he read next. On that day, the Tigre, passing Cape Agulhas, proceeded towards the Cape of Good Hope, sighting a French ship, the Elise Sante, off Cape Town. Captain Le Clerc went aboard to dine with her captain, the Comte de Benoit.
Finding no details of the conversation which had passed between Le Clerc and Benoit during dinner, Horne studied the next entry.
Back aboard the Tigre, Le Clerc returned to Cape Agulhas, wishing he could visit Port Elizabeth, wanting fresh fruit and vegetables, but still making no mention of the Elise Sante or Benoit.
Jingee, knocking on the cabin door, entered with Horne’s midday meal, his brow wrinkled with concern under his turban as he looked for a place to lay a fresh cloth on the cluttered desk.
Horne pushed the French log towards him. ‘Jingee, you read French. Translate these last few entries for me.’
Jingee shook his head regretfully. ‘Ah, Captain sahib. I speak French. But, no, I do not read French!’
Horne thought of his other Gallic linguist, Dirk Groot.
‘Jingee, run up a flag signal to the Tigre. Tell Babcock that after I have eaten—that moong dal smells delicious today—I am coming aboard the Tigre.’
Jingee’s face brightened. Sending signals up the halyard delighted him. He enjoyed watching the small balls of colour explode into the wind. He could not believe that sixteen small flags had a variation of one hundred and forty-four messages. And Captain sahib had told him that King George’s Royal Navy might soon authorise even more for use around the world!
* * *
Dirk Groot, blue cap pushed back on his sun-whitened hair, sat at the teakwood desk in the Tigre’s cabin and studied the brig’s log book. Horne stood anxiously behind him while Babcock slouched against the cabin’s low door.
Groot’s eyes moved across Captain Le Clerc’s intricately written entries, translating as he read, ‘The ship was rounding Cape Agulhas for Cape Town …’
Horne peered over Groot’s shoulder. ‘My French is good enough to understand that much. But I can’t find the reason Le Clerc made the journey.’
Groot moved to the next line of copperplate script. ‘He met the Elise Sante …’
‘I understand that part, too,’ said Horne. ‘Le Clerc goes aboard the Elise Sante. He dines with the Comte de Benoit. But can you find any mention of what they talked about? The reason for their rendezvous?’
Groot flipped the page. Reading, he shook his head, replying, ‘It doesn’t say.’
From across the cabin, Babcock called, ‘Horne, I know somebody who might give you a few answers.’
Horne and Groot raised their eyes from the log.
Babcock recrossed his arms. ‘This morning I thought it might be a good idea to search the men aboard this tub to see if they had any hidden weapons. I ordered everybody to line up on the gangway and strip off their togs.’
Horne smiled inwardly, pleased with Babcock’s performance as the Tigre’s new captain. Temporary command of the French brig was giving him confidence, making him less boisterous, proving him a responsible leader.
Babcock continued. ‘So there they were, bare arses to the wind, when I noticed a man with a backful of whip marks. Now if I know my sailors, Horne, a flogged man talks quicker than a man with a clean back.’
Horne became alert. ‘Was his name Ury?’
From his seat at the desk, Groot answered, ‘Aye, schipper. Gerard Ury. I took down the name for Babcock.’
Horne explained, ‘Ury’s the helmsman’s mate.’
Groot glanced back across the cabin to Babcock at the door. ‘Aye. That’s what he told Babcock and me.’
Babcock, intrigued with Horne’s knowledge, angled his head to one side, asking, ‘Now how in hell, Horne, do you know that?’
Horne gestured to the brig’s log in Groot’s hands. ‘Le Clerc mentions Ury in his journal. He ordered him to be flogged for stealing beer.’
Babcock grinned. ‘You get the facts, don’t you, Horne?’
Horne frowned. ‘Not enough, it seems.’
Babcock returned to his original suggestion. ‘So why not bring in Ury? Hear his side of the story?’
Groot reminded Babcock, ‘The Frenchman doesn’t speak English.’
‘So what?’ Babcock leaned back against the teak panelling. ‘You talked French to him, Groot, didn’t you? You can translate for Horne.’
Horne liked the idea. ‘Groot, is your French good enough to carry on a conversation? To ask Ury all the questions I’d want to put to him?’
Groot’s blue eyes widened with excitement. ‘He understood me this morning, schipper.’
Horne leaned over the desk. ‘I want you to translate everything I tell you. Even if you know it’s untrue.’
‘Like a trap?’
‘More like bait, Groot. I hope that Ury will provide his own trap.’
A few minutes later, a lanky seaman with a high forehead and a sunburnt nose stood nervously in the brig’s cabin, his back to the bulky desk.
Horne paced in front of the Frenchman, hands gripped behind his back. ‘Groot,’ he began, ‘tell Ury that I’ve decided to remove all charges made against him by Captain Le Clerc in the ship’s log.’
Groot translated Horne’s words into French; Ury understood and began to protest his innocence.
Listening patiently to the passionate, long-winded reply, Groot finally raised one hand for him to stop.
Turning to Horne, he reported, ‘Schipper, he says he didn’t steal the beer. He says he won it from a topsman in a dice game. But he says the topsman is a Corsican pig who lied to Le Clerc and accused Ury of stealing the beer. Ury says h
e was punished unfairly for a crime he didn’t commit.’
Horne resumed his pacing. ‘Tell Ury that I’m forgetting the charges of thievery against him. Tell him I’m wiping the slate clean. Tell him that I’m also dropping the second charge Captain Le Clerc made against him in the log.’
Groot turned to the helmsman’s mate, translating Horne’s words into French.
Ury began shaking his head and protesting as he listened to Groot.
Groot explained to Horne in English, ‘He says there are no other charges against him, schipper. He says he was punished for one crime and no more.’
Horne stepped closer to Ury and began the first part of his fabrication, speaking directly to Ury in English. ‘Apart from stealing, Captain Le Clerc also charges you with treason in his log, Ury. He writes that you attempted to incite mutiny aboard the Tigre after you were flogged. He intends you to be tried by a court of inquiry when the Tigre returns to Mauritius.’
Groot stood between Horne and Ury, translating Horne’s English into French; Ury shook his head, beads of perspiration forming on his leathery brow, insisting on his innocence.
Horne developed the story. ‘I’m not responsible for what Captain Le Clerc has written, Ury. I only know what I read. The court of inquiry on Mauritius will read the same accusation.’ Horne reached for the captain’s log, holding the bound volume in front of Ury’s eyes.
Groot resumed translating, but Horne interrupted, ‘I shall see Ury gets a fair hearing.’
Groot continued as Ury perspired more profusely, shaking his head, repeating he was not guilty of treason.
Horne remained unmoved. He held the log aloft, informing Groot, ‘Tell him that Le Clerc was obviously under great stress when he wrote these charges in this book. Tell him that Le Clerc was under pressure from his meetings at sea. From the first meeting with the Elise Sante off Cape Town, to the rendezvous with the second ship during the storm when we sighted them.’ Horne opened the book, leafing for the correct page to show the words to Ury.
Groot repeated Horne’s statement in French, listening carefully to Ury’s impassioned reply, interrupting the Frenchman to repeat certain words and phrases. At the same time, Horne held out the log for Ury to inspect. But Ury ignored the written entry, convincing Horne that he could not read to check the story’s veracity.
Turning to Horne, Groot reported, ‘Ury says that Captain Le Clerc suffered from no pressures. He says that Le Clerc was in good humour whilst the brig’s crew did all the work during the meetings at sea. Le Clerc came from his cabin to supervise a case being transferred from the Elise Sante to this brig. Later, during the storm, he supervised the transfer of the same case from this brig to the second ship.’
Horne listened carefully to Groot’s translation, wondering whether he was finally beginning to understand what had happened between the two French ships at sea.
Setting the log back on the desk, he asked, ‘Groot, what was the name of the second ship? The vessel we lost in the storm?’
Groot questioned Ury and turned back to Horne. ‘The ship we saw with the Tigre was called the Calliope.’
‘Ask him what was the cargo Le Clerc got from the Elise Sante and passed on to the Calliope.’
Groot put the question to Ury.
The French seaman answered more quickly and freely than Horne had expected, addressing his flow of words directly to Horne.
Groot explained, ‘Schipper, he says many men aboard ship claim there was gold in the case. Money to pay the mutinous French troops on Mauritius. But Ury thinks the cargo had weapons. Pistols and long guns and ammunition.’
‘Ask him why Le Clerc abandoned this ship to sail off on the Calliope with the mysterious cargo?’
Groot already had the answer to Horne’s question. ‘Ury’s said that the Calliope is scheduled to meet another ship. A ship from Mauritius.’
Horne became more excited. ‘Where is that next rendezvous to be, Groot?’
Groot turned to Ury; the French seaman’s words were low, and as he said them there was a glint of vengeance in his eye.
Looking back at Horne, Groot said, ‘He wants to know if you are English and plan to fight Le Clerc if you overtake him?’
Horne fixed his eyes on the helmsman’s mate. ‘If Ury believes we are English and an enemy, why should we not think he is lying to us?’
Groot repeated Horne’s question to Ury; after listening, he translated for Horne. ‘Ury says he’s the right arm of the brig’s helmsman. He says that the helmsman’s a good friend of Captain Le Clerc. Le Clerc and the helmsman drink wine together. He says that Le Clerc tells the helmsman many things which the helmsman passes on to him.’
‘What he says is true,’ murmured Horne. ‘Le Clerc writes in his entries about spending evenings with the helmsman. His name is Claude Dupres.’
Moving towards the bullshide map hanging behind the desk, Horne ordered, ‘Tell Ury to come here and show us where the rendezvous is to take place.’
Muttering an oath against Captain Le Clerc, Ury came and stood beside Horne in front of the map.
* * *
A meeting to pass the mysterious cargo to another French ship was to take place at Oporto, a small island in the Mascarene Islands to the southeast of Madagascar, southwest of the French headquarters on Mauritius.
Horne explained his theory to Babcock and Groot after he had sent Ury from the cabin. Studying the small indigo speck on the bullshide map, he said, ‘If Ury’s telling the truth—and I believe he is—the French have been passing a valuable piece of cargo from ship to ship, ever since Le Havre. The cargo moved down the Atlantic, around the tip of Africa, and up the Indian Ocean toward Mauritius, being transferred from ship to ship to ship.’
‘Like a child’s game,’ said Groot excitedly. ‘Like a game of passing a pebble or a handkerchief.’
‘Precisely,’ Horne agreed. ‘In England we call it “Pass the Parcel”.’
Babcock pulled his right ear. ‘That way it doesn’t stay on one ship long enough for anyone else to get suspicious about something valuable being there.’
‘Which is why I suspect the cargo is highly valuable.’ Horne was growing more confident of his theory. ‘Such as the war chest despatched from France aboard the Royaume.’
Turning to the desk, he tapped the ship’s log. ‘Le Clerc doesn’t mention the Royaume because he never saw her. By the time the war chest reached Africa, it had long ago left the Royaume. Le Clerc took possession of it from the Elise Sante.’
Groot supplied, ‘And passed it on to the Calliope.’
‘Precisely.’
Babcock asked, ‘So does Le Clerc know it’s the war chest he’s taken from one ship and is going to pass to another?’
‘If not the war chest, then something equally valuable.’ Horne reminded both men, ‘Le Clerc abandoned his command—this brig—to sail with the mysterious cargo to the next rendezvous point at Oporto.’
Babcock mulled over the theory. ‘Horne, do you think Oporto might be the last drop point?’
‘Before reaching Mauritius, yes.’
‘If it is the bloody war chest,’ Babcock went on, ‘and Oporto’s the last dropping point, the escort coming from Mauritius to pick it up could be more than one bloody ship.’
‘Quite possibly.’ Horne looked back to the map. ‘We shall only find out if we get there in time for the transfer.’
Groot asked, ‘What if Babcock’s right? What if we get to Oporto and see the entire French fleet? What do we do then, schipper?’
‘Let’s get there first.’
Chapter Fourteen
BOODLE’S
The clip-clop of horses’ hooves echoed through the night along London’s fashionable Pall Mall. Towards the end of the cobbled thoroughfare, two lanterns flanked the doorway of a private gaming house known not by its owner’s name but, instead, by the name of the manager, a gentleman of society who had lost his fortune and had been forced to earn his livelihood as a professional host—Mr Bood
le.
Apart from cards, dice and other games of chance, Mr Boodle’s house—or, as it was becoming known in society, Boodle’s—offered food and a fine selection of wines and liquors. The establishment also provided private parlours for patrons who wished to enjoy an evening in seclusion with their guests.
The late November evening was chilly and a fire had been laid in the hearth of the first floor parlour reserved for Sir Henry Maddox, a frequent visitor to Boodle’s and a member of the Honourable East India Company’s Board of Directors, the influential group of businessmen known as the Company’s Secret Committee.
Dining with Sir Henry Maddox was Sir Basil Rothingham, also a member of the East India Company’s Secret Committee, together with two gentlemen from the British Navy Board, Messrs John Todd and Timothy Weldon.
Roast fowl, a joint of beef and game pies had been devoured, pickles, beets and other condiments cleared from their pots; the four gentlemen passed from champagne to port as they began discussing their reason for gathering on this cold autumn evening in a private upstairs dining-room at Boodle’s.
Sir Henry Maddox, a round-bellied man, his hair tied in a queue and powered in the old-fashioned manner, sat back in his armed-chair. ‘The Company’s done its part,’ he began. ‘Now it’s time for the Navy Board to do theirs, eh?’
The two guests from the Navy Board, Todd and Weldon, sitting side by side on a padded leather bench on the opposite side of the oaken table from Sir Henry and Sir Basil, exchanged cautious glances.
John Todd, the taller of the two, replied, ‘You’ve been to the Deptford shipyards, Sir Henry. You’ve seen the vessels. You may have gathered from what you’ve seen that we’re planning to keep our side of the, ah, arrangement.’
Sir Henry Maddox leaned back in his chair, a bumper of port resting on his protuberant belly. ‘Aye, Sir Basil and I, we’ve been down to Deptford. We’re damned pleased, too, with what we saw. But there’s papers to endorse. Provisions to impress. We don’t want to part with a shilling till we know the bottoms are ours, clear and dry.’