The War Chest (14 page)

The
Huma.

The morning sun was at its zenith when Horne’s two ships left Oporto’s south cove to sail in opposite directions around the small island. Less than an hour earlier, Jingee’s foot party had departed on its land manoeuvre.

With Jud as sailing master and Kiro as gun captain aboard the
Huma,
Horne was satisfied that his frigate would be in good command. It was the
Tigre
which worried him.

Through his spyglass, he looked astern, watching Babcock’s brig edge the island’s southern coastline. The ragged threat of cliffs rose beyond the majestic white pyramid of sails.

Horne doubted if Babcock remembered the reefs as well as he claimed. Groot, too, had most likely overestimated his powers of memory. But what alternative had there been than to follow the provisional plans and allow the brig to take the southern course? Horne could not confidently exchange places with Babcock and Groot; he remembered fewer details about the reef pattern than they claimed to do. The only other choice would have been to round the island together, following the northern course as a team. But that would have robbed Horne of his one advantage over the French—a double-headed attack.

Watching Babcock disappear to the east, he cursed the fact that circumnavigating the island had become as crucial as seizing the war chest itself. But he had already lost one Marine in battle and could not afford to lose more, whether to gunfire or on reefs.

Kiro spoke behind him. ‘Larboard gun ports open, sir.’

Horne turned to the Japanese gunner. ‘Keep your men ready and alert, Kiro.’

Kiro wore cotton trousers, no shirt or boots, and a red kerchief knotted around his black hair. He did not appear to be troubled that his gun crew consisted of little more than a dozen men.

‘I’ll give the order to commence firing shortly after we sight the
Calliope
,’ Horne told him.

‘The gun crews prepared to cross ship, sir,’ Kiro replied, ‘and to fire starboard guns at your order.’

The
Huma
did not have enough men to fire all thirty-four guns at full strength. Horne depended on Kiro’s readiness to move men in shifts. He thought of the strategy as herd tactics, stampeding men rail-to-rail on call. It made the most of minimum manpower.

Dismissing Kiro to stand ready with his skeleton crew, Horne continued pacing the quarterdeck, glum that
command
of two ships in battle should rest in the hands of only seven men, himself and his six Marines. But hadn’t it always been that way? He never had enough officers or crew. But, then, he preferred a handful of clever, versatile men to a shipful of dolts.

Glancing back at Babcock’s brig now disappearing to the east, he felt the stubble on his chin and remembered he had not shaved all morning. He wore the same soiled breaches he had pulled on with his boots at the first dawn.

A smile widened his lips for the first time that day. He was going into battle no better than some … buccaneer.

The
Tigre

Like Horne aboard the
Huma,
Babcock strode the quarterdeck of the
Tigre.
Studying the brig’s braces, watching small, half-naked shapes swinging freely on the
yards, he felt white pinpoints of mist spray across the rail, cooling his face and naked chest.

Groot stood at the wheel, blue cap back on his
sun-bleached
hair, and his new Javanese friend, Raji, was up top on the main mast, the two men using their shared understanding of Dutch as communication between mast and helm.

Glancing amidship, Babcock saw that Mustafa had run out the brig’s guns, that the bullish Turk stood with his rope garrotte in hand, ready to bellow—or flog—his crew into action. As a precaution, Babcock had assigned Gerard Ury and the rest of the French seaman to the bilge pumps, safely away from the sight of French ships.

Skimming eastward with the wind, Babcock listened to the snap of canvas and felt the deck cant beneath his boots as he raised the spyglass to his eye, looking for some sign of the first reef, a jagged protrusion through the lightly ruffled water.

Seeing no trace of a hidden skerry, he thought back to the map his monkey had eaten.

The island’s southern shore had a course of three reefs, the first being a coral ridge lying half-in, half-out of the water.

He remembered that the map had charted a second reef totally immersed in waves, the rocks lying closer to shore than the first jagged peninsula.

The largest, most perilous reef was the third, a long promontory which formed a craggy extension of the island’s northern harbour, a stretch of rocks which itself divided into two further projections jutting east into the Indian Ocean.

Believing that the
Tigre
should soon be approaching the first reef, Babcock bellowed, ‘Groot, start moving right.’

Groot’s laughter travelled on the wind; he called, ‘Babcock, don’t you mean … starboard?’

Despite the many years Babcock had spent at sea, he
could not lose his use of land directions. He thought: The hell with Groot. Let the Dutch cheesehead laugh and call me a lubber. At the end of the day he’ll kill himself with his cooking and I’ll still be sniffing salt air—left or larboard.

He checked the island’s shoreline and saw the craggy coast tapering into a promontory which gradually pushed underwater.

‘Groot, first reef coming up—’ he thought of the nautical term, ‘—to larboard.’

In Dutch, Groot shouted to Raji; the Javanese sailor’s voice echoed high overhead, the command passing around the rigging, the sing-song of the East Indian seamen sounding like a cacophony of strange birds perched in a cage blowing in the wind.

As the
Tigre
slanted toward the sea, responding to Babcock’s command, Babcock felt a surge of
accomplishment
and power; the prow dividing the waves, the brig cutting obediently away from the first reef.

Cupping both hands to his mouth, he called to Groot, ‘Good going, cheesehead.’

Groot waved his cap.

Confident of tackling the next reef, Babcock shaded his eyes against the sun as he tried to remember the second rocky pattern. It was at that moment he heard a crash from the bows, a ripping which sounded as if the ship was being torn apart at the seams.

Oporto.

When Horne’s two ships weighed anchor to encircle Oporto’s shoreline from opposite directions, Jingee and the seven men assigned to him began crossing the island’s dusty plateau on foot. The gangly Asian, Danji, walked at the head of the column, while Jingee followed at the rear, shouting in Hindi for the men to trot in neat formation.

Seamen from the Malabar coast; Malagasy fishermen recruited from Port Diego-Suarez; pirates captured off the pattimar—Jingee’s group was an odd assortment of men, some wearing turbans wrapped around their heads, others having rags knotted at four corners for protection against the sun.

Nearing the centre of Oporto, Jingee shrilled for Danji to veer the men around the island’s rocky spine. Calling their first break, he allowed them one short gulp from the waterskin.

At a patch of scrub pine, he noticed that the men were becoming relaxed in their discipline, that they were beginning to laugh and talk among themselves.

He ordered, ‘A man who has wind enough to talk, has wing enough to … run.’

Jogging beside the bare-legged seamen, he ran them at a brisk pace, remembering his training on Bull Island earlier in the year to become one of Horne’s special Bombay Marines. Those days seemed years ago.

Reaching the ravine where he had hidden the Frenchman’s body, Jingee fell to the rear of the column. Noting the
unobtrusive
mound of earth and twigs, he returned satisfied to his place beside the puffing seamen, counting, ‘One, two, three, four … one, two, three, four …’

Tall brown grass appeared on the horizon, and Jingee knew they had already come to the island’s northern cliffs. He raised his hand to slow the men, not wanting them to stir the dust and betray their arrival to the French ships below in the cove.

Moving to the front of the column, he approached the precipice and glanced over the cliffs.

Below, he saw that the French crew no longer lounged on the sandy white shore. Instead, small boats were returning them to the
Calliope,
and the brig was making preparations to weigh anchor. He wondered if anyone had noticed yet that two Marines were missing.

Near the eastern edge of the cove’s mouth, a
rowing-boat
passed from the brig to the frigate which Jingee was certain had come from Mauritius. The small open boat was carrying officers’ credentials, he guessed, and messages from Captain Le Clerc for French headquarters. Studying both vessels, he saw no sign of the war chest but he was sure it was there.

Beckoning the men to move forward to the edge of the cliff, Jingee mimed with the palms of his hands for them to fall to the ground to avoid being spotted from below. Danji pushed down those who did not understand Jingee’s orders.

Jingee lay in the middle of the seven men, pointing down to the
Calliope.

He whispered, ‘Gold.’

Danji translated the word; whispers passed up and down the line.

Jingee picked up a rock and mimed throwing it over the cliff.

Turbans and knotted handkerchiefs nodded, knowing laughs running along the row of seamen.

Jingee asked Danji if any man had a question.

Danji pointed to himself. ‘There are so few of us, and so many of them. What good will it do throwing a rock or two at such big ships?’ Danji gestured to the French vessels.

Jingee pointed north; he pointed south; he explained, ‘Captain Horne and Babcock. They’re coming this way on their ships. We shall throw rocks when we see them firing at the French. We shall also roll trees to make landslides. We shall run back and forth to raise clouds of dust. The French down there will look up here and think an army has come to descend on them.’

‘Ahhh.’ Danji nodded and explained the plan to the men.

At the far end of the line, a flat-faced boy with a turban pulled down over his ears raised his hand.

Jingee called for him to speak; the boy went on wagging
his hand and Jingee soon saw that, instead of wanting to ask a question, he was pointing towards the cove’s shoreline.

Looking below the cliffs, Jingee saw four men from the
Calliope
climbing the incline, muskets slung over their shoulders. They were coming to look for the patrolmen he had killed. Jingee was certain of it.

The
Tigre

Babcock hurtled down the quarterdeck ladder, taking four rungs at a time. Crossing the gangway, he leaped over the forecastle, hurrying to the bows to inspect what had caused the crashing timber.

The ripping sound had ceased and the brig was sailing soundlessly through the slightly-lapping water, but Babcock feared they had entered the second reef before he and Groot had suspected they would. The
Tigre
had struck uncharted boulders and he was worried that they might encounter more.

He called to Mustafa, ‘Send a boy below to check for damage.’

Hearing Groot shouting, Babcock looked over his shoulder and saw the Dutchman frantically waving his blue cap, pointing across the bows.

Gripping tightly to avoid falling overboard, Babcock peered down into the water. He saw long strands of weed trailing into the translucent depths, with shapes of
oddly-striped
fish swimming unafraid near the surface. But there was no sign of underwater snares, no submerged ridges, no continuation of a reef pattern.

Looking back at Groot, Babcock was surprised to see him still pointing, bewildered to hear him shouting, ‘Reef …’

Confused, he turned back to the surf.

This time, he noticed that the sea bed was shoaling quickly. He looked farther out to sea and saw what Groot was pointing at.

Jagged shapes lay beneath the water’s ruffled surface.

They must be approaching shoals from the second reef sooner than he had anticipated; Babcock waved his hand, signalling Groot to steer to starboard.

Groot was already spinning the wheel and shouting to Raji overhead in the rigging; a chorus of voices spread through the masts and spars as canvas snapped and lines groaned.

Feeling the brig slope from the coastline, Babcock kept his eyes on the pattern of sharply-toothed reefs, waiting to hear a crack at any moment. He heard only the slap of the waves, the brig cutting forward on its eastward tack.

Leaning over the rails, he saw sharp boulders only a few feet away from the hull, the brig gliding between a range of submerged peaks.

He tried to remember the chart, recalling patterns in the shape of a ‘T’, a channel which ran perpendicularly between the first and second reef. Believing they were approaching the T’s crossarm, he waved for Groot to move in a straight line out to sea.

The
Tigre
remained angled to the coastline.

Frustrated, Babcock looked over his shoulder to see why Groot was disobeying the order. The Dutchman Groot stood stalwart at the wheel, stubbornly shaking his head.

Babcock boomed, ‘What the hell’s the matter, you cheesehead?’ He was angry. Wasn’t this ship under his command? Would he have to discipline Groot for
insubordination?

Groot nodded in the direction in which Babcock had pointed.

Babcock ran along the gangway, looking into the water. He finally saw what Groot had meant—an underwater rock formation like a tabletop, a shallow flatness extending at least twelve feet wide and probably thirty feet in length.

Wiping beads of perspiration from his forehead, he could
only feel relief at Groot’s stubbornness. The
Tigre
would have scraped bottom, wrecking her hull.

More cautious as he proceeded towards the third reef, Babcock remembered that Horne had given strict orders for the
Tigre
not to sail too far out to sea after clearing the third reef and so risk being spotted too soon by the French frigate which might be anchored at the cove’s mouth. Horne wanted Babcock’s brig in a clear position to lead the enemy frigate to sea, clearing the cove’s mouth so that Horne could sail into the cove and attack the
Calliope.

As they moved towards the third reef, he checked to see that Groot was gaining sea room.

Groot’s face still glowered from their near miss.

Uncaring that the Dutchman might be angry—or had even lost trust in him—Babcock leaned back over the railing and looked down into the ruffled water.

Seeing nothing, he guessed that if they kept to sea, they would escape the last reef.

‘Starboard,’ he waved, motioning Groot seaward.

The slant of the ship told Babcock that Groot was following orders. Good. He was pleased that they agreed on their recollection of the reef pattern, and glad that he would not have to kick Groot’s butt for insubordination.

Off the pocked shoreline, a saw-toothed range rose above the water, convincing Babcock that they were passing—escaping—the third reef.

His spirits lifted; the nightmare was coming to an end; he could concentrate now on the enemy.

Groot shouted from the wheel.

Wondering if Groot was becoming temperamental, perhaps even smug over his good performance, Babcock wearily raised his eyes to see what the trouble was this time.

A frigate lay directly in front of them.

‘Sail ho!’ called a voice from the mast.

Leaping to his feet, Babcock shouted, ‘Bloody hell. The frogs.’ He had been concentrating so hard on the reefs that he had forgotten about watching for the point when they would round the island’s southeastern tip.

‘Mustafa,’ he ordered, ‘prepare those bloody guns.’

The mainmast hailed, ‘Signal flag, ahoy.’

The French recognised the
Tigre
as one of their ships. Horne had prepared Babcock for such an event. He had also advised the American not to waste time by simulating fraudulent flag calls.

Turning, Babcock boomed, ‘I got a message for those frogs.’

To Mustafa, he shouted, ‘Grape on top of round shot.’

Mustafa, rope garrotte in hand, cursed the men into action.

Babcock called to the helm, ‘Swing around this bloody tub, Groot, and give me a good aim at that bleeding frigate.’

He felt himself gaining more confidence. There was nothing like a good fight to get a man’s blood up.

Behind him, a voice reported, ‘Water coming through the hull, sir.’

Babcock turned, remembering the Asian boy whom Mustafa had sent to check the damage caused by the rock scrape.

‘How serious is it?’ he asked.

The boy wore only a
dhoti,
and his face was smudged with soot. ‘The French sailors down there are keeping it out with the bilge pumps.’

‘Good.’ Babcock nodded. ‘That’ll keep them busy and out of trouble.’

He turned back to the frigate, feeling as if the situation was in his favour.

The
Tigre
tacked, parading her gunports to the French frigate; the guns boomed, shaking the deck, enveloping the brig with smoke.

As the black cloud lifted in the wind, Babcock looked toward the enemy and saw that Mustafa had scored a broadside without firing a ranging shot.

‘You did it, Ugly,’ he shouted. ‘You did it. You got ’em right in the belly.’

Mustafa grinned, snapping the rope between his clenched fists.

Determined to score a succession of three strikes
before
leading the frigate to sea, Babcock ordered, ‘Go for her a second time. Get her right in the guts like last time.’

The cords stood out on Mustafa’s neck as he shouted at his gunners, swinging his garrotte in the air; the cannons exploded, making the brig’s board chatter and the men fall back from the thunder.

Babcock was euphoric. ‘Look. Those frogs are smoking like a tuppenny pipe.’

With one last strike to score before heading seaward, Babcock looked to the wheel. He was surprised to see Groot labouring the spokes; glancing overhead, he saw the brig in a tack.

He muttered: What the hell? Why’s Groot moving so early?

‘You idiot,’ Babcock shouted at Groot. ‘You’re ruining our third broadside, you cheesehead.’

Groot’s eyes remained on the rigging, his hands spinning the wheel.

Ready to explode at Groot for such cavalier behaviour, Babcock looked back across the bows.

To landward, waves lapped a long, rocky spur.

Babcock felt his legs go limp. Damn it to hell. Groot was right again.

The third reef clawed into two formations, fingers which
thrust from the cove’s mouth into the Indian ocean. In his jubilation, Babcock had forgotten.

It was pitch-black down in the hold of the
Tigre,
the flames in all lamps aboard ship having been extinguished at the outset of battle.

Water rose from the reef snag in the hull, the bilge pumps no longer able to keep out the flood as the guns roared overhead.

Gerard Ury squatted on a bench, his calloused hands working a wooden pump as he listened to the other French seamen around him anxiously discussing the battle.

‘I say—let’s mutiny,’ one argued in French.

‘Don’t be stupid. We’re outnumbered five to one.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said a third voice in the darkness. ‘Who do you think this ship’s fighting? One of
our
ships, that’s who. French. I say mutiny and help put a quick end to it.’

A Marseilles accent cut through the clank of the pump in the darkness. ‘How do you know it’s French? If these men are pirates as I think they are, then they could be fighting a British ship. If we mutiny, we’ll be helping to put ourselves in the hands of King George.’

Ury liked the idea of mutiny, if for no other reason than to get out of the humid, wet darkness.

He volunteered, ‘I’ll go and see.’

The voice next to him said, ‘When you get on deck, Ury, the first thing you should do is look for the flag on the enemy ship.’

Another man offered, ‘Then look to see if we can attack these pirate scum.’

‘But beware,’ cautioned the voice from Marseilles. ‘There might be a guard on the hatch.’

‘If there is, I’ll say the flood’s worse,’ suggested Ury.
‘That water’s pouring in faster. That these old pumps can’t cope.’

‘Good. That should panic them.’

‘Good luck,’ whispered the men. ‘God be with you.’

Ury felt his way in the darkness, keeping his head low as his bare feet sloshed through the water.

Gripping the ladder, he climbed carefully up, up, up the slimy rungs. The ladder shuddered as another strike bombarded the brig; Ury paused, waiting for the ladder to steady.

An overhead glint of daylight caught his eye and he resumed climbing, his heart beating in excitement. What flag would he see flying across the waves—England or France?