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.