The War Chest

by Porter Hill

  Babcock suspected, too, that Jingee had begun the land diversion from the cliffs. Would Jingee’s patrol seriously disturb the enemy as Horne had predicted? Babcock didn’t know.

  Looking at the French frigate beyond the brig’s prow, he told himself, ‘That frog captain out there can hear the cannon fire from inside the cove, too. He wants to move in to give assistance to that little ship with all that gold on it. The only thing standing in his way is me.

  ‘So what would I do if I was that frog captain from Mauritius and I wanted to save that bloody war chest from being captured by some strangers?’

  He stood for a moment, studying the three-masted enemy ship. ‘That frog is coming back to try to smash me to kindling wood,’ he told himself. ‘That’s what he’s going to try to do. He can probably do it, too. Then, with me out of the way, he’s going into the cove to help pound Horne down to the bottom of the sea.’

  What was he to do?

  Babcock knew his own gunpower. Mustafa’s seven cannon run out could provide little more than a nuisance. So how could he continue stalling the enemy outside the cove while Horne moved in on the war chest? He could bluff. He could dally. But the few men he had were tired and becoming weak.

  And what about the French seamen down in the bilges? Would they rally in support of their fellow countrymen when they heard cannon fire?

  Babcock looked back to the jagged perimeter of the cove. Remembering how he had almost struck the last hidden reef, he had an inspiration. There was one way he could smash the enemy frigate to bits.

  It would be risky. It would require Groot’s full co-operation. The Dutchman would have to understand fully what sailing manoeuvres Babcock intended and there must be no confusion between them about nautical and land talk—starboard and larboard, this way and that.

  An explosion shook the Tigre.

  Hitting the deck, Babcock felt the timbers shudder beneath his spreadeagled body; splinters and smoke flew around him; a wave swept over the bulwark, water crashing through the smoke from the broadside.

  Time was running out. Babcock knew he had to take that crazy chance or they would all end up on the bottom of the Indian Ocean.

  * * *

  Raising himself to his hands and knees in the dense smoke, Babcock looked around him to gauge the broadside’s destruction. Through the slap of waves and agonised groans, he heard Mustafa’s gruff voice bellowing at the crew to charge the cannon.

  Babcock rose unsteadily to his feet and stumbled forward. Tripping over a bundle of rags, he looked down at his feet and saw that it was a dead body. It was Ury, the French helmsman’s mate. What had Ury been doing out of the bilges? Poor wretch. Well, he was dead, and now Babcock saw other bodies in the black smoke.

  Having no medicine for the wounded, no time to move the dead, he shouted through the smoke drift, ‘Give ’em hell, boys! Give ’em hell!’

  Dark shapes moved along the gunports; Babcock saw Mustafa bent over the cannon butt; he heard him shouting to the two remaining gunmen as a fuse glittered in the dusty light.

  Babcock urged, ‘Blow ’em to Kingdom Come, you ugly old Turk. Blow ’em to—’

  Another strike bombarded the little brig. Babcock fell backwards, hitting his shoulder on the coaming; the deck lurched beneath his sprawled body and, for a fleeting moment, he could not see through a cloud of black smoke.

  Cursing to himself, he grabbed the gangway, his eyes burning from the smoke as he heard a new wave of cries rising from the gunport.

  Another lashing like that, he told himself, and this little tub will be gone for good.

  Groping his way through the confusion towards the helm, Babcock repeated to himself, ‘Get to Groot … Get to Groot … Convince the old cheesehead that your plan’s not all that crazy … Convince him that it’s the only way we can keep those French bastards from turning us into frog soup.’

  Another blast sent him flying, his head striking the mast.

  * * *

  Mustafa’s memories were of a sunbaked house. There were goats pegged to the earth floor and grandparents sitting on the flat roof drying tomatoes in the sun. The vision was of Alanya, the Turkish village where young girls weaved cloth with their mothers, young boys mended fishnets with the old men, and where Mustafa had always been unhappy, always fighting with his brothers.

  His next vision was of a dark, crowded prison. The cells were honeycombed beneath Bombay Castle. He had been a prisoner there less than a year ago.

  Lying face down on the deck of the Tigre, Mustafa remembered how Captain Horne had chosen him from that prison to be a Bombay Marine, how Horne had taken him to Bull Island to train him to fight like a man, not like an animal.

  Death and confusion surrounded him on deck. He knew that the Marines were losing their battle, but he could not gather the strength to continue fighting, to help Horne, to help Groot and Kiro and Jingee and Jud and … yes … even to help Babcock.

  Tasting the blood that filled his mouth, Mustafa became angry with himself. For the first time in his life he wanted to help someone, and he couldn’t.

  His eyesight was dimming. Mustafa smiled. It was a good feeling to want to help someone. Despite the pain cutting through his chest, the total numbness in both legs, he felt a strange inner glow.

  It was funny, wasn’t it, he thought, that he should be happy only now, when he was dying?

  So maybe his wandering life hadn’t been totally wasted. He was knowing this little bit of happiness; he had had these few months as one of Horne’s Marines; he at last had some friends.

  Mustafa died, smiling.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  INSIDE THE COVE

  The Huma.

  Through his spyglass Horne saw Le Clerc’s brig catching the wind at the back of the cove, approaching the Huma again, as a large dust cloud rose from the cliffs behind the French vessel.

  What did Le Clerc make of Jingee’s landslide? Had it disconcerted him as Horne hoped? Did Le Clerc think it could be an armed patrol? Land reinforcement?

  Watching the French brig bear down on him, he proceeded with his own plan of attack.

  Le Clerc was obviously going to sweep alongside the Huma and fire a close-range broadside to wreak the maximum destruction.

  Instead of widening the distance between the two ships, Horne decided to decrease it to give the French captain a surprise.

  To Kiro he called, ‘Seize grappling hooks.’

  Kiro pulled the red kerchief from around his head and, using it to wipe the soot from his face, smiled at Horne’s order.

  Horne approached Kiro’s soiled, tattered crew. ‘Men, we’re going to board the enemy ship.’

  Enough of the Malagasy fishermen and Indian pirates understood Horne’s English to explain it to the others, and excitement spread through the odd assortment of men.

  Horne’s voice was stern. ‘You will arm yourselves with pistols from amidship. Use anything at hand if there aren’t enough pistols—knives, axes, clubs.’

  Enthusiastically, the men turned to begin a weapon search.

  ‘Stop.’ Horne raised his hands. ‘I’m not ordering a blood bath. Remember that. I’m sending you to capture an enemy ship, not to lay waste. You are to fight to protect yourselves, but any man I see killing without reason will hang from the yard till he’s dead.’

  He singled out from the crew a turbaned man whom he had observed translating his speech to the others. ‘Explain to each man exactly what I said.’

  To Kiro, he ordered, ‘Station your men along the larboard rail with their grappling lines.’

  The Japanese gunman’s grin vanished.

  ‘When you secure us to the enemy ship,’ explained Horne, ‘I’ll board the rest of the men from midship.’

  Kiro raised his eyes to the rigging.

  Horne pointed. ‘You board your men fore.’

  There were less than fifty men aboard the Huma; Horne had their whole attention as the ship progressed towards the Calliope, sailing under shortened topsai
l from the back of the cove. The plateau wind cracked the canvas in loud snaps but the cove’s waves were low, little more than neat rows of whitecaps.

  To the helm, Horne shouted, ‘Jud, you and ten men shall remain aboard ship.’

  The African’s voice boomed, ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  ‘You are to protect the Huma as the rest of us go to take the Calliope.’

  Glancing over his shoulder at the enemy’s approaching sails, Horned ordered, ‘Now seize those grappling lines, Kiro, and make your men put their muscle into their throw.’

  As the band of seamen ran into action, Horne leaped to the railing and pulled the spyglass from his waistband to observe any change in the enemy’s activity.

  Looking through the lens, he smiled as he saw Le Clerc’s crew abandoning their gun ports. The French had spotted the Huma’s crew forming boarding parties; they were responding in turmoil.

  Anxious to board the Calliope before Le Clerc had time to organise his crew to repel boarders, Horne made a quick check of his subordinates.

  Jud stood at the wheel; Kiro and his crew crowded the railings, armed with a variety of weapons and holding the grappling lines ready to hurl; the top hands were rapidly descending ratlines and shrouds to join Horne’s boarding party, some men already arming themselves with knives, or any makeshift weapons they could find—iron, wood, rope.

  Looking beyond the French brig to the island’s shore, Horne sighted his spyglass on Jingee’s patrol climbing onto logs, some of the patrol men already paddling towards the two ships. Horne had discussed a boarding party with Jingee this morning, planning how the land patrol could join the men from the frigate in hand-to-hand combat. He looked around for a tarred rope to drop for Jingee to climb from the water.

  Spyglass stowed in the companionway, tarred rope in hand, Horne felt the wind against his cheek as he studied the prows of the two ships approaching one another.

  At last he heard the collision of timber, felt the Huma shake, and called, ‘Throw grappling hooks.’

  Six spiked iron hooks flew from the Huma; four caught onto the Calliope and Kiro shouted to the men to pull the fastened lines as the other hooks were rethrown.

  Horne waved his men forward; Kiro’s crew followed from the bow.

  Amid whoops and cries, Horne boarded the Calliope, pausing only to tie one end of his tarred rope to the starboard rail, dropping the other end overboard for Jingee’s patrol to climb from their makeshift boats.

  As he stood up, he spotted a swarthy man lunging towards him, levelling a sword at his chest.

  Dodging the stab, Horne pulled the knife from his waistband and slashed for the man’s weapon arm, grabbing the sword as it fell. He swung the brass and silver hilt against the attacker’s chin, knocking him over the rail. Then he leaped down onto the deck, looking for someone who might be Le Clerc. He was determined to make the French captain surrender and save unnecessary bloodshed.

  Seeing three men rushing toward him, he dodged towards the mast, raising the sword to stab at the first, a man gripping a flintlock.

  Kiro jumped from the forecastle, landing on the other two men. Kicking one man in the chest, he chopped his hand against the other’s head.

  As Kiro used his ancient Karate to fell the two seamen, Horne stabbed the third attacker’s pistol hand. The weapon clattered to deck and Horne kicked it towards the scuppers, raising his eyes in time to see a fourth man running towards Kiro with a blade.

  Kiro also saw the knifeman; he bent forward, flinging the man over his shoulder and sending him down onto the deck with a loud crack.

  Horne brought his boot down on the man’s hand; the blade fell from his grasp.

  Scooping up the knife from deck, Horne tossed it to Kiro and turned towards the fighting raging behind him.

  Metal clanked; fists flew; flintlocks popped here and there in the clash. In the midst of the fighting, Horne saw that Jingee and his men had boarded the ship and joined in the combat, wielding rocks, flailing ropes knotted with iron spikes.

  Horne could still see no officer in uniform, no man distinctly different from the fighting Lascars and other Asian seamen. He hoped Le Clerc had not taken the war chest and abandoned ship as he had done once before; perhaps he had escaped on the frigate which Babcock was battling outside the cove.

  At that moment, he heard a crashing sound to seaward. As he turned, his first thought was that Babcock had again forgotten the reef and had gone aground on the third rocky finger which pronged out into the Indian Ocean.

  * * *

  The sight that greeted Horne beyond the cove was shocking but, at the same time, strangely awe-inspiring.

  For no reason which was immediately apparent, he saw the French frigate’s mainmast crash fore, knocking her foremast towards her prow, tearing her mizzenmast in its wake, jerking riggings, ripping sails, making yards twist and fly and shatter in sudden confusion. It took Horne a few moments to realise that the French ship from Mauritius had struck the hidden reef.

  The terrible destruction went on, holding him transfixed.

  The wind off the sea flipped the hull aft to fore, smashing it with a mighty force down against the rocks, scattering cannon and spars and men’s bodies—everything—in all directions like weightless specks of sand.

  A chill of horror crept up Horne’s spine as he watched the surf roll the tangled ship toward the shoreline, revolving its hull, dragging booms, water creaming in the snarled confusion.

  Regaining his senses, Horne remembered the Tigre. Were his men also in danger?

  He sighed with relief as the Marine brig sailed northeast from the reef; the little ship looked ragged from cannon fire but she was safe.

  Turning back to the disaster at the mouth of the cove, Horne saw the surf thrash the wrecked frigate against the rocky shoreline, the wind and waves hammering destruction.

  Was it an accident, this horror?

  Horne answered the question for himself.

  No.

  He knew intuitively that Babcock and Groot had lured the French ship onto the hidden rocks; it had probably been the one way they had had to overcome such a heavily-armed ship.

  Feeling himself break into a victorious smile, Horne was suddenly ashamed of his pleasure.

  But what a victory it was.

  The cannon had quieted on his own ship as well as aboard Le Clerc’s Calliope. The wrecked frigate continued to hold every man’s rapt attention, bringing battle to a shocking end, both outside—and inside—the cove.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  ALL THAT GLITTERS

  Commodore Watson stood beside Adam Horne at the foot of Mustafa’s freshly dug grave. Horne’s five Marines waited, heads reverently bowed, a few yards down the slope—Babcock, Groot, Jingee, Jud, Kiro.

  Watson held his gold-braided cocked hat in one hand, mopping a handkerchief around his fleshy neck with the other hand, perspiring profusely in Oporto’s morning heat.

  He asked, ‘How many men did you bury, Horne?’

  ‘We dug fourteen graves, sir.’

  Watson glanced at the rocky earth. ‘No easy work in this soil.’

  ‘I put it to the men’s vote, sir. They felt that graves would be more fitting than sea burials. Many of the dead, sir, had been pressed into service against their will.’

  ‘I don’t know if I would have been so considerate as to let my men vote on such a matter.’ Watson fanned his hat, glancing at the neat line of burial plots above him on the slope. ‘It’s hard work burying fourteen men in this terrain.’

  ‘There were more than fourteen casualties, sir. But we only dug fourteen graves.’

  Surprised, Watson turned to him. ‘What did you do with the others?’

  Horne nodded at the waves gently lapping the remains of the French frigate wrecked on the reef. ‘Many casualties were scattered along the shoreline, sir. Arms. Legs. Bodies dismembered in the wreck. We dug one common grave for them, sir.’

  Watson fanned himself faster. ‘Hmmm. I see.’
/>   ‘At the common grave, sir, we read prayers for Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Buddhists.’

  ‘You’ve been considerate, Horne.’ Watson squinted in the sun. ‘In the midst of loss and suffering.’

  Horne remembered his Marines in attendance close by at the graveside. ‘We’ve all suffered, sir.’

  Watson decided to brighten the conversation, at least to bring the subject back to business.

  ‘Horne, you still haven’t asked me why I arrived on this God-forsaken little island.’

  ‘No, sir.’ The sails of Watson’s flagship, the Ferocious, had appeared on the horizon at that morning’s first dawn.

  ‘Aren’t you curious, Horne, why I’m here?’

  ‘I’m curious, sir, as to how you found us.’

  ‘I discovered you by thinking exactly like you do, Horne. By putting myself inside your head.’ He frowned. ‘No easy task. No easy task at all.’

  Horne tensed. Was Watson going to become one more man trying to understand him, looking for hidden secrets, acting as if he were a puzzle to be deciphered?

  Watson continued. ‘When I decided to come and find you, I studied my maps and suspected that, after leaving Diego-Suarez, you would have sailed down the Madagascar Channel looking for the French treasure ship. When you found nothing—and I had no report that you had—a man like you would head northeast. Towards Mauritius. That’s what I decided. The nearness of the French headquarters there would not have troubled a man like you. Oh, no.’

  Horne listened, relieved that Watson was not trying to pry into his innermost thoughts. He was even amused by Watson’s smug report of his deduction. He also noted that the Marine Commander-in-Chief had not told him the reason why he had decided to set out in search of him.

  The grin on Horne’s thin lips irritated Watson. ‘Damn it, Horne,’ he ranted, ‘when a man jeopardises his position, risks the security of his retirement, the last thing in the world he wants is to see someone laughing at him.’