The War Chest Page 4

  ‘Aye, we’ll be fourteen strong for England.’

  Satisfied with the tasty meal and pleasant conversation, Horne pursued a subject he guessed Goodair might enjoy with his bumper of port.

  ‘Who do you consider to be an Indiaman’s most formidable enemy at sea, Captain?’

  Goodair considered the question as he fingered crumbs on the table’s damask cloth. ‘In these waters, the chieftains from the Malabar Coast are our biggest worry, Horne, those successors to that old pirate, Angria, whom the Bombay Marines chased from his lair.’

  Horne had sailed with the previous Bombay Marine Commander-in-Chief, Commodore James, aboard James’s flagship, the Protector, forty-four guns, on the raid of Angria’s stronghold. It had been Commodore James who had raised Horne to the rank of Captain after that victory.

  He asked, ‘And who, sir, is your most dangerous foe the closer you sail to Madagascar? Passing from the Arabian down into the Indian Ocean?’

  Goodair answered without hesitation. ‘Those damned raiders from Dar es Salaam. Worse than privateers from Oman, in my estimation.’

  Horne repeated another popular opinion. ‘But many privateers are intimidated by the size of an Indiaman, by her close resemblance to one of His Majesty’s warships.’

  ‘True, true. But you know yourself, Horne, that all pirates are bully boys, ready to tackle anything.’ Resettling himself in his chair, he confided, ‘The sad fact is that pirates in the Arabian Sea have grown rich off Company pickings. The devils are able now to buy frigates from the same dockyards in Bombay that are building merchant ships for the Company.’

  From the subject of pirates, Goodair moved onto discussing crew, mentioning the illness of his First Mate, Charles Ames, whom he had confined to quarters with a fever, hoping to prevent panic spreading about possible contagion. He also questioned Horne about himself, showing particular interest in the fact that Horne’s father was a banker, especially since the Horne Bank in London was located in Lombard Street, only five streets away from Leadenhall Street, the headquarters of the Honourable East India Company.

  ‘I shall call in at the bank and offer my respects to your father,’ he said, ‘when I go up to London to make my report to the Committee. Perhaps you have a letter I can deliver.’

  Horne seized on the offer. ‘I was planning a letter in Bombay and should be most grateful, sir, if you would carry it back to England.’

  Goodair’s offer also provided Horne with an excuse to take his leave from the roundhouse. Begging permission to retire to his cabin and write his letter, he bade Goodair goodnight, thanking him again for allowing the Bombay Marines to train aboard the Unity on their voyage to Madagascar.

  * * *

  Alone in the Great Cabin, Horne sat at his desk, listening to the slapping of the waves in the night.

  Watching the yellow light from the brass lamp dance across the blank writing sheet, he considered how he should start his father’s letter. Deciding to begin with an introductory note about Captain Goodair’s generous offer to deliver the communication, he reached for the inkwell.

  A knock sounded on the cabin door.

  Hoping that the late-night caller might be Babcock or Groot coming to report an improvement in health, Horne sprung from the chair and pulled back the bolt.

  In the companionway stood the Unity’s Second Mate, a buck-toothed young man named Simon Tree.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, Captain Horne, sir. But I saw a light under your door and thought I might have a few words with you.’

  Stepping back to allow the merchant ship’s young officer to enter the cabin, Horne, said, ‘Yes. Of course. Come in,’ adding quickly, ‘for a few moments, Mr Tree.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Tree entered the cabin, carrying his cocked hat, his sandy brown hair pulled into a queue, his weak chin descending to a prominent Adam’s apple.

  Horne pointed to the chair by the writing desk. ‘I can’t offer you any refreshment, Mr Tree. I boarded rather hurriedly and had no time to collect any provisions.’

  Tree’s laugh was loud, coarse, like a mule’s bray. ‘We saw you board, sir! Was somebody chasing you?’

  Horne chose to ignore both his visitor’s laughter and the questions. He wanted neither to hear nor to add to quarterdeck gossip about himself and his men. It was no secret that the Maritime Service held the Bombay Marine in contempt. Horne guessed that the Unity abounded with rumours about the reason he was sailing to Madagascar with his men, not to mention their unorthodox arrival.

  Tree said, ‘I’m sorry to hear about your two Marines being ill, Captain Horne. Are they feeling better?’

  Was the ship’s officer mocking Babcock and Groot for being sea-sick? Or had the Second Mate actually come here at this late hour to offer sympathy? Horne doubted it.

  ‘You probably know, sir,’ Tree continued, ‘that the First Mate is ill, too. Quite a bit more seriously than your men, sir.’

  ‘So I understand, Mr Tree.’ Horne was surprised that Tree should speak so freely about his superior officer.

  Tree’s lips lifted into a smile. ‘You don’t remember me, do you, sir?’

  The question caught Horne unawares. ‘Remember you, Mr Tree? From where?’

  ‘London, sir. My family moved to your neighbourhood the year you went to study in Wiltshire. I was only ten years old but I remember you clearly.’

  Horne studied the chinless officer more closely, suspecting that he was like many privileged young men he remembered from London—opinionated, none too tactful, relatively harmless if you ignored their abrasive manner.

  Moving to the edge of his chair, Simon Tree enthused, ‘Sir, you were everybody’s hero in the neighbourhood, especially when Elihu Cornhill accepted you into his school.’

  ‘You lived near Mount Street?’

  ‘Park Street.’

  Horne recalled no family by the name of Tree in Park Street, or any other street near his family’s Mayfair house.

  Tree added, ‘And this morning when I saw you training your men, I wondered if you’d learned all those hops and jumps and rope swings at Cornhill’s school. I’ve heard how that old man taught chaps to leap about with swords and muskets day and night.’

  Horne admired inquisitive people, but not when their questions were directed at him. Especially when the questions involved subjects which he closely guarded, such as his precious years studying with Elihu Cornhill.

  Oblivious of Horne’s failure to reply to his question, Tree continued, ‘You joined the Bombay Marine around that time, didn’t you, sir? When your fiancée was killed? Wasn’t your young lady stabbed to death in Covent Garden, sir?’

  The statement stunned Horne; the facts were true but, hearing a stranger blurt them out so unexpectedly, so callously, made Horne pull himself up ramrod stiff on his chair.

  Tree saw that he had offended Horne and lowered his eyes. ‘Sir, I’m sorry,’ he apologised. ‘Forgive me, sir. I’ve overstepped my bounds. I got excited by actually talking to you after all these years. I’ve always admired you, sir, and—’ He raised both large red hands, repeating, ‘I’m truly sorry, sir. The last thing I’d want to do is offend you, sir.’

  Touched by the raw sincerity in Tree’s voice, Horne considered that the spoiled young Londoner might have another facet to him, that apart from his offensive manner he possessed a pup-like devotion to superiors.

  Softening, he asked, ‘Did we actually know one another, Mr Tree?’

  ‘No, sir. Not as friends, sir. You were much older than me.’

  ‘Hmmm. Of course.’

  Horne decided to ask a few questions of his own. ‘Why did you join the Company’s Maritime service, Mr Tree?’ he began.

  Sitting on the edge of his chair, Tree regained his former enthusiasm. ‘There are five sons in our family, sir. My eldest brother—that’s Jonathan—he went into Father’s hostelry business. The next is Roderick; he entered the Ministry. I’m the third son. I decided I’d better join the Service before m
y younger brother—he’s Clarence—or else I’d have to join the Navy.’

  ‘And you wouldn’t want that.’

  ‘The Navy?’ Missing the note of sarcasm in Horne’s words, Tree blurted, ‘Sir, I’d rather join the Bombay Marine.’

  Horne’s voice remained calm. ‘Tell me, Mr Tree,’ he asked, ‘why you have such a … low opinion of the Bombay Marine?’

  Tree’s baby-smooth skin flushed a deep scarlet as he realised what he had said. ‘Sir, you must excuse me,’ he mumbled, fidgeting in his seat, ‘I didn’t intend offence to you, sir.’

  ‘Please, Mr Tree. Please. Speak. I’m a Marine. I want to hear why an ambitious young man like yourself chose the Maritime Service over the Bombay Marine.’

  ‘But, sir, you’re not like other Marines, sir.’

  ‘What makes you say that, Mr Tree?’

  ‘Why, you’re … you’re educated, sir. You’re intelligent. You’re …’

  Horne enjoyed watching the gangling young man squirm. ‘Are you saying, Tree, that most Marines are oafs? Ignorant, thick-head louts whom you wouldn’t want to be associated with?’

  ‘No, sir. Of course not, sir.’

  The shuffle of feet sounded outside the cabin.

  Horne raised one hand for silence.

  Tree whispered, ‘Sir, what is it?’

  Horne did not reply, listening instead to the waves crashing against the Indiaman’s hull, the sound of wind singing through the rigging ropes, and, finally, in the distance, the hail which he thought he had heard, a distant voice calling, ‘Sail ho! Sail ho!’

  Forgetting he was a passenger, not the captain, on the Unity, Horne grabbed for his sabre.

  * * *

  Captain Goodair stood on the windward side of the quarterdeck and, handing his spyglass to Horne, said, ‘The moon’s bright enough to see her topgallants.’

  Peering through the spyglass, Horne saw a small, glowing shape on the southern horizon, a white triangle brilliant against the night’s steely sky. Thinking she might be a merchant ship, he swept the sea with the spyglass to see if she was sailing in convoy.

  ‘Nothing there, Horne.’

  Captain Goodair’s abrupt words told Horne he had overstepped his mark. Returning the spyglass, he moved back, allowing Goodair to enjoy the prerogative of an Indiaman’s captain—of pacing the quarterdeck’s windward side.

  Goodair snapped shut the glass and called, ‘Mr Tree?’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir?’

  ‘We’re a good distance from the vessel, Tree, but we do not want to lose our advantage.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Pass orders to bear-up, Tree.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  ‘And get Ames up here,’ he called after him.

  Turning to execute Goodair’s command, Tree descended the steps to the main deck and soon men were running to the sheets, scurrying along the rigging in the glow of a full moon.

  From the mainmast came another hail. ‘Sail ahoy! Sail to larboard! Sail ahoy!’

  Goodair snapped open the spyglass and scanned the distant horizon, pausing to hold the glass on one spot a few minutes, before finally handing it to Horne.

  Horne moved to Goodair’s side; he sighted a second ship, smaller than the first, but judging from the way it was bearing down on the Indiaman, he guessed that both vessels were prowling together for rich prizes and had evidently decided their search had ended with the Unity.

  Chapter Four

  THE EAGLE AND THE KINGFISHER

  Captain Goodair trained his spyglass on the distant frigate. ‘She’s got the weather gauge.’

  Horne pulled his coat around him as a roller crashed against the Unity’s poop, its spray breaking across the quarterdeck, disintegrating into small, silver beads in the early morning darkness.

  Sweeping the spyglass to the smaller vessel, Goodair studied her for a few moments before saying, ‘The small one—by Jove, yes—she’s a pattimar!’

  Pattimars were India’s best sailing craft in Horne’s estimation, wooden vessels measuring over seventy feet in length, using nuts and bolts in the European manner rather than being sewn with coconut rope like so many Oriental boats. A large, raked foresail gave the sturdy ship an exotic, almost jaunty appearance—and excellent manoeuvrability.

  Despite his fascination with pattimars, Horne looked back to the frigate off the larboard beam, remembering Goodair’s remark at supper about Arab raiders buying frigates from Bombay shipbuilders. He knew there could be no better ship for hit and run attacks than a sleek, three-masted vessel. He wondered, though, if pirates from Africa’s west coast would wander so far up into the Arabian Sea. Or were raiders becoming more adventurous in their newly commissioned European-style ships? Also, might troublesome war chiefs from south of Bombay also be sailing in frigates, venturing out farther than the Malabar Coast?

  The fact that a frigate and pattimar were prowling together in search of booty also intrigued Horne. He smiled at the idea of such an unlikely paired team, predators large and small, like an eagle and a kingfisher.

  How long had they been following the Unity? Had they been circling, those two birds of prey, waiting for the clouds to clear from the full moon so that they could close in for the kill? Had the frigate and pattimar spotted the Unity by chance, or were they acting on some tip from port, from a spy who had spoken of the merchantman’s rich cargo? Or perhaps they were more interested in the ship’s munitions and hardware. They might also have a pact with France, be French allied privateers.

  Horne’s speculations were disturbed when he heard Tree mounting the quarterdeck ladder, taking three rungs at a time, apparently forgetting the Maritime Service’s pretensions to ape the protocol of His Majesty’s Navy.

  Goodair asked, ‘You found Mr Ames?’

  Touching his hat, Tree reported between quick gulps for air. ‘Sir … Mr Shanks regrets that … there’s no possibility that … Mr Ames can attend you, sir … because—’

  Tree glanced at Horne.

  ‘Because why, man?’

  Tree bit his lower lip, looking young, frightened, and—Horne was sorry to admit—oafish.

  ‘Speak up, man!’ ordered Goodair, a stern father speaking to an awkward son.

  ‘It’s fever, sir. The First Mate is—’ Tree’s voice lowered. ‘Mr Shanks has had to tie Ames in his hammock, sir. The First Mate is … delirious.’

  Goodair lowered his head, closing his eyes.

  Horne remained silent, oblivious of the sea spray as he thought about the ship’s lanky surgeon, Ronald Shanks. He had met Shanks for the first time yesterday when he had enquired after Babcock and Groot. Unlike many ship’s surgeons whom he had encountered, Shanks had not appeared to be a drunkard, but neither had he struck him as a notably efficient man.

  A blast sounded beyond the larboard beam. Horne jerked his head in time to see a puff of smoke rise from the frigate’s gun ports.

  Goodair did not lift the spyglass to study the approaching frigate. He stood with both hands gripped behind his back and, ignoring Tree, asked, ‘Captain Horne, would you judge that to be a ranging shot?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Most certainly, sir.’ Horne was amused by the wry way Captain Goodair referred to him for an opionion; the Merchant Commander included him in this encounter as casually as if it were merely an extension of the supper’s conversation.

  Goodair nodded. ‘One thing’s certain. Whoever those dogs are, they certainly can’t be intending that blast as a warning for us to—’ he snorted, ‘surrender ourselves to them.’

  ‘No, sir. I wouldn’t say they intend that, sir.’ Horne stopped himself from adding that the ranging shot was good reason to consider the unmarked ship an enemy and to begin making preparations for battle.

  Holding one hand behind his frock-coat, Goodair extended the other, palm upward, to Tree, requesting, ‘My speaking trumpet, Mr Tree.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  In a minute, Tree returned, handing Goodair his gleaming mouthpiece, eyes dar
ting to the frigate quickly closing the gap of choppy waves between herself and the Unity.

  Goodair accepted the trumpet from Tree like a gentleman receiving some trifling object from his major-domo in the hallway of his home, and ordered in a calm, assured voice, ‘Clear for action, Mr Tree.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Tree touched his hat.

  ‘Run out the guns.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  Tree turned, glancing nervously at Horne as he crossed to the companion ladder. The young man’s uneasy excitement contrasted sharply with Goodair’s calm, almost blasé preparations for battle.

  In a short time, the Unity’s deck was sanded, pails of water placed by the guns, the ginger-whiskered gunner, Ben Warner, and his men having wrapped bandannas around their ears as protection against the blast of the eighteen pounders.

  Listening to the snap of sails, Horne wondered where his men were at this moment. By custom, passengers should be confined to their quarters in battle. Trusting that they were prepared to be called for action if necessary, he turned his attention back to the enemy.

  Beyond the Unity’s larboard bow, the frigate was cutting across the silver-capped sea in the harsh moonlight, her wind-filled royals and topgallants in clear view as she bore down to deliver—Horne guessed—her first blast to the Indiaman. He could no help but admire the ship’s majesty, remembering the frigate of his own command, the Eclipse.

  Raising his eyes aloft, he saw that Goodair was keeping the Indiaman as near to the wind as she would lie, the rigging singing, the sails snapping, on a course to parallel the frigate.

  Horne wondered whether the pirate captain—if, indeed, that was what he was—had noticed yet that the Indiaman’s lower gun ports were not open. Or did he know—had been informed—that they had been caulked shut for cargo?

  Goodair appeared to be undaunted by his lack of gun power; continuing on the opposite tack to the frigate, the waves hissing around him, he was apparently waiting for his own moment to fire.