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 darting 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.
‘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.
As the two vessels approached prow to prow, Goodair slowly, confidently raised his trumpet to his mouth, calling, ‘Starboard … fire!’
The Indiaman shook as the guns belched flames in the darkness.
Seeing the aim fall short of target, Horne was surprised to observe that no smoke arose from the pirate’s guns. They had not fired—why? Had they judged the distance too great? They had been right. Horne wondered if they were better seamen than Goodair.
As the Unity’s gunner called the guns to be run in, Goodair began orders to put the ship around, commencing, ‘Put the wheel hard over!’
Horne, intrigued with the merchant captain’s manoeuvre, waited for the bow to begin slowly turning.
After the headsail sheets and bowlines were placed, tacks and sheets hauled, Goodair called for the wheel to come hard over, and as the Indiaman turned in the wind, Horne thought how effortless the gesture seemed, and how calmly, almost with detachment, the captain was conducting himself in the operation. Was it so easy for him? Or was he always so disinterested and detached?
Realising he had been holding his breath, Horne glanced towards the frigate and saw her bow cutting the waves, changing tack to parallel the Unity yet again. He remembered the eagle’s companion, the kingfisher, and looked over his shoulder; the pattimar had also tacked and was moving directly towards the Unity’s stern.
Goodair had also spotted the pattimar’s raked sail filled with wind and called, ‘Prepare larboard guns.’
As the gunner’s men laboured the guns into position, Horne began to suspect the pirates’ intentions: the frigate had been used to bait the Unity, to lead her into the tack: when the Indiaman had responded and tacked, the pattimar moved in for what was to appear as a surprise attack from another angle. But during the fleeting minutes in which the Unity was preparing to divert that aggression from the pattimar, the frigate would give the true death blow.
As the grim realisation dawned that the frigate was double-guessing them, Horne turned to see how far she was abeam. At the same moment, a blast filled the air, timbers crashed nearby, and he was thrown off his feet.
* * *
Captain Goodair knew that his history in service to the Honourable East India Company was sound but not heroic, that he was more of a merchant than a fighting man. Fifty-three years old, he was proud that his ship had never spent idle years in port like many other Indiamen. The majority of the Company’s eighty-eight ships stayed one year in three in England.
Franklin Goodair had begun service as Second Mate aboard the Duke of Harrow. By his third voyage to India, he had risen to First Mate aboard the Unity. On a voyage freighted from Bantam, the Unity’s Captain had died from fever and Goodair brought ship and cargo safely home. The ship’s husband—along with the Captain’s widow—agreed that young Franklin Goodair should be rewarded both for delivering the Unity and for bringing a handsome profit home from the voyage. Offering him command of the ship, they made provisions for him to pay for the privilege from his profits over future trips to the Orient.
Having command of an Indiaman was like owning highly valuable property; a captain could buy it, sell it, settle it on heirs, but, above all, share in a voyage’s profits.
Rich from his seventeen years as Captain and Commander of HEIC Unity, Goodair had also secured a social position for himself and his family. In Bath, they associated with the aristocracy, enjoyed a houseful of servants, a walled garden, carriages and frequent trips to London. It was in India, however, that Goodair enjoyed the full benefit of his status as Captain and Commander. Whenever the Unity entered port, there was a salute of guns. Guards turned out when Goodair entered—and departed from—Bombay Castle, or any of the other Company’s foreign fortresses. His name was always included on the invitation lists at Government House.
Goodair took a quick inventory of all these worldly achievements as he stood on the Unity’s quarterdeck, seeing smoke rise from the pirate guns trained on his ship and knowing there was nothing he could do to escape the bombardment.
* * *
‘Captain Goodair? Captain Horne? Are you hit?’
Tree’s frantic calls came from beyond the quarterdeck ladder as Horne hurriedly lifted planks and pulled rigging from Goodair’s mangled body, hoping to find him alive.
The enemy had struck the poopdeck, bombarding Goodair with a hail of flying splinters, piercing his chest, arms and legs. Kneeling beside his blood-covered body, Horne saw his chest moving and realised with relief that he was still breathing, he was not dead.
Sending Tree for the surgeon and his mate, he pulled away shreds of the spanker sail from Goodair’s boots, cut the rope dangling across his gaping red wounds, and stepped back as Tree returned with the other two men.
As Shanks the surgeon eased Goodair onto a stretcher, Horne looked at Tree, seeing that his face was ashen, guessing his shock came not only from Goodair’s blood-covered body but also from the realisation that he was now in command of the Unity. Or had the fact not yet occurred to the young man?
It was important to make Tree aware of his position. Horne turned to the surgeon. ‘Captain Goodair should be taken to his quarters unless—’ he looked at Tree, ‘—unless Mr Tree has different orders.’
Horne turned back to the ruddy-faced surgeon. ‘I understand the ship’s First Mate is suffering from a serious illness, Mr Shanks.’
‘Aye, sir. Mr Ames is in no shape to walk, let alone take command of this ship.’
Horne watched Tree, waiting for him to realise that, after the First Mate, he was next in command.
Tree’s forehead beaded with perspiration; he pressed his lips tightly together; taking a deep breath, he said shakily, ‘Mr Shanks, take Captain Goodair below to his … quarters.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
The situation was delicate. Horne guessed that Tree was not qualified to assume command of the merchantman in its present situation. Not many officers in the Maritime Service were equipped to deal with a ship in battle.
Tree waited until Shanks and his mate had eased the stretcher down the companionway towards the roundhouse, then asked, ‘Captain Horne, what can I do?’
Horne looked astern, seeing the frigate changing tack. The only thing in the Unity’s favour at the moment was that the frigate had not yet made her stays.
He began, ‘Mr Tree, the enemy’s obviously changing tack to give us another pounding.’
Tree repeated, ‘What can I … do?’
‘Tack, Mr Tree. You know the procedure, I presume.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Horne raised one hand to Tree’s shoulder. ‘And stop saying “Aye, aye, sir”, Tree. You’re in command. Not me. Remember that.’
Tree’s brown eyes were big, round, filled with apprehension. ‘Will you stay to help me … sir?’
Horne nodded. ‘Captain Goodair kindly allowed me on his quarterdeck. I’d be honoured to remain here, Mr Tree.’
Tree sighed with relief.
* * *
Mustafa sat beneath the teak overhang of the forecastle, feeling the deck reverberate from gun fire. He remembered Horne’s orders that the Marines were to stay out of action’s way aboard the Indiaman, that the Unity was manned by the Maritime Service, men who resented the presence of Bombay Marines aboard their ship. Near Mustafa beneath the forecastle crouched Babcock, Bapu, Groot, Kiro, Jingee and Jud. Their different coloured faces formed a line of anxiety and glumness.
Trying to control his nerves, Mustafa sat playing with a rope, pulling it tight between his large hirsute fists, letting it slacken, tightening it again with a snap.
The rope Mustafa held—played with nervously—was no ordinary length of hemp. It was a garrotte, one of Mustafa’s garrottes. He had possessed many in his life, garrottes made from hemp, cotton, wire, leather, even silk.
He had strangled his brother in Alanya, his home on Turkey’s southern coast, with a cowhide garrotte. Having run away to Izmir to join the Sultan’s Navy, he had served on an Ottoman ship until he had strangled a fellow seaman with a rattan garrotte. Jumping ship, he had joined an East India Company merchant vessel.
Having used a tightly-woven cotton garrotte on a Greek sailor aboard the Company ship, he had been convicted and sent to Bombay Castle where Horne had found him in an underground prison. For the first time in his life, Mustafa had been praised for his expertise with a garrotte.
Horne had taught Mustafa to use other weapons: sabres, knives, flintlocks, his head. Life as a Bombay Marine proved to be a life of fighting.
So why didn’t Horne let him fight now? In this sea battle?
Mustafa realised there were rules—Navy rules, Company rules. But why did the East India Company have different rules for men who served aboard merchant ships and for men who served aboard the Marine ships? To Mustafa, that did not make sense.
From what he had seen of the Unity and its Maritime Service, he was glad to be a Bombay Marine. Men aboard this ship only wanted to collect their pay and return home to their families; they sat around like girls dreading a fight. They were not born to fight, they were born to hide inside houses like women.
A sharp elbow disturbed Mustafa’s brooding.
It was Babcock. He and Groot had recovered from their sickness. He asked, ‘What do you say, you ugly Turk?’
Babcock was always asking Mustafa to ‘say’ something. He claimed that Mustafa did not talk enough and that Groot talked too much. But why should a man talk? Mustafa feared that he would say the wrong thing if he talked too much and would be sent back to gaol. Not to the prisons beneath Bombay Castle—Horne had arranged a pardon for Mustafa’s last crime, as he had arranged an amnesty for all the Bombay Marines whom he had recruited from prison. But there were crimes which Mustafa had committed before Bombay Castle—men he had murdered, necks he had garrotted—all the way back to his brother.
Babcock asked, ‘Do you want to fight or not?’
‘Fight?’ Mustafa snapped the garrotte between his two ham-sized fists.
Babcock slugged the Turk on the shoulder. ‘I mean join the gun crew. You can’t go out there and … choke the bloody enemy to death, man!’
Mustafa nodded towards the quarterdeck. ‘What about orders?’
‘From Horne?’ Babcock frowned. ‘Can Horne invite us all nice and politely to help save this ship’s tired arse? Hell no! Horne’s busy himself trying to save it!’
Mustafa considered what Babcock had said. It did make sense. Horne had given the order in peace time, before the enemy attacked. So maybe Babcock was right.
Looking at Babcock, Mustafa nodded. ‘I want to fight.’
Babcock pulled Mustafa up to his feet. The other Marines were already disappearing through the smoke spreading like ground fog from the roaring cannons.