Oporto.
Jingee divided the seven Asian seamen of his land patrol into two groups. Danji took three men towards the top of a hill while Jingee led the remaining men further down the same incline. Jingee had chosen the section of the island’s slope where he suspected the four French Marines off the Calliope would climb to the island’s plateau. He was more convinced than ever that they had come in search of the two men he had killed.
Hiding behind the boulders with his men, he waited for the French troops to trudge nearer, wondering if Danji and the other Asians were trustworthy. Would they give away their positions when the French troops drew closer? Did they have more loyalty to France than to England? So many East Indians hated the growing might of the British.
Looking up the slope, Jingee saw no sign of Danji or his four men. He could only see the long narrow mound of earth covering the rope which Danji had laid across the path of the Frenchmen. The rope had been Danji’s idea. Jingee had only thought of ambushing from behind boulders. So perhaps Danji was trustworthy. What about the others?
Looking back to the four French troops, he saw that they were climbing steadily closer; he could hear their voices but was unable to understand what they were saying.
The day was hot, and one of the four troops had taken off his tall blue hat; he was little more than a boy. The other three all had moustaches, but none was older than Jingee himself; their white teeth flashed against their sunburnt skin as they laughed.
Jingee forced down a rush of guilt, trying not to think of the young men having families at home, sweethearts waiting for them to return, dreams for the future.
He kept reminding himself: It’s their life or mine. They’ll find their friends dead and won’t leave the island until they learn who killed them.
Glancing back at his own men, Jingee saw that they were well hidden behind the boulders. So far nobody was betraying him.
As the French troops began passing directly in front of him, sabres and muskets clanking, Jingee held his breath.
The rancid smell from their bodies travelled on the breeze. Jingee wrinkled his nose, raising his head to watch the four young men climb towards Danji’s hideout. As they approached the rope hidden across their path, his hand tightened on the handle of his dagger. Rising from his knees, he beckoned his men to follow.
He gave the dove call, the gentle coo … coo … coo.
The four Frenchmen kept on climbing, laughing, unsuspecting.
Up the hill, Danji and his three men sprang from their hiding places—two men pulling opposite ends of the rope—and ran down the incline, the rope stretched between them, acting as a scythe to cut down the Frenchmen.
The young troops fell backwards, muskets and sabres clattering to the ground, and Jingee whistled his men to attack from behind their rocks.
Wielding knives and stones, the Asians sprang to their feet and fell upon the toppled Frenchmen, stabbing with their knife blades and aiming sharp blows with the stones they clutched in their hands.
Danji’s men joined in the massacre, the four Asians gripping a stone in each hand, pummelling the young soldiers on their heads, chests and backs.
When the four Frenchmen were silenced, their blood-covered bodies motionless in the sun, Danji organised their burial while Jingee hurried to look over the ridge.
To seaward, he saw Babcock’s Tigre leading the Mauritius frigate to sea, leaving the Calliope unprotected in the cove.
Looking northward, he smiled as he saw Horne sweeping down in the Huma, sailing toward the cove’s mouth.
Everything was going to plan
Looking around him for the trees and dried stumps he had noticed earlier, he knew that it was time for him and his seamen to move on to the next stage of their land manoeuvre.