A strong wind off the Malabar Coast laid the Huma over as her trimmed sails caught the gust. From the quarter-deck Horne studied the distant mountains of the mainland and wondered if a morning mist was making the jagged range hazy. Or were his eyes tired after three sleepless days and nights preparing to leave Bombay? Having reasoned that he could sleep once the frigate was under way, he had pushed himself during the final provisioning.
He took one last look at the watch scrambling overhead through the jungle of rigging, spars, and sails before going below for the meeting he had called with his Marines. Although most of the crew were new to the Huma, they were a familiar mixture of Lascar sailors, island fishermen and nutbrown villagers terrified of the sea. Jud and Groot had drilled the new men arduously in harbour and Horne believed that, without a storm, they could survive the voyage around Ceylon and up the Coromandel Coast to Madras. The difficulty would be to stop them from scattering upon arrival at Fort St George. Desertion was a greater problem than recruitment, particularly in the larger Indian settlements where many of the crew had relatives or friends.
Horne’s cabin was spartan but adequate for his needs. A trestle table; two rough chairs; a canvas hammock; a brass-bound sea chest packed with clothes and his few other possessions, its flat top serving as a wash-stand. Cases dotted the cabin’s deck—provisions provided by the East India Company for a captain’s use on the voyage.
The trestle table doubled as Horne’s desk; he sat behind it, boots crossed in front of him, facing his five Marines as waves crashed against the pitching hull, the sound blending with the creaking of timbers and the harping of taut rigging.
On the desk before him lay a parchment sheet giving him his formal command of the Huma for the voyage to Madras. Beside it lay the canvas envelope in which the document had been enclosed, complete with official wax seals. Signed by Bombay’s Governor Spencer, the command threw no light on their destination, but Horne now explained as much as he knew to the men lined up in front of him.
‘We are to find a company agent who’s gone missing from Fort St George,’ he began.
The name ‘Madras’ alerted the men.
Fred Babcock spoke first. ‘The damned Company’s not trying to catch us in a trap, is it, Horne? Sending us back into Fort George?’
‘That was my first suspicion,’ admitted Horne. ‘Nobody but the Governors knows we were inside the fort last April, and why.’
Babcock shook his head. ‘Send us after one missing man? I don’t know, Horne. It smells like a trap.’
Horne hated to begin every reunion by barking at Babcock about lack of discipline. His demands on the squadron were few, and critics often accused him of lax control. One of the few things he insisted upon, however, was being addressed respectfully by his men, for disrespect led to insubordination; moreover, they were sailing with a new crew for whom an example must be set.
Appraising Babcock’s slouched stance, sloppy clothes, tousled hair and unshaven face, Horne asked, ‘How long have you been a Marine, Babcock?’
Babcock pulled at a big red ear. ‘Hasn’t a year passed, Horne, since you took us out of prison and trained us on Bull Island?’
‘I obviously didn’t do my job.’
The lumbering American colonial grinned. ‘I’m alive, aren’t I?’
‘My efforts reflect poorly on me if you don’t even know how to address an officer, Babcock.’
Babcock stuck out his bare chest, snapping a salute. ‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Horne sprang from his chair. ‘Damn it, Babcock. Nothing’s a joke except you.’
The American held the ramrod-stiff posture, mocking, ‘But, sir, I’m a Bombay … Buccaneer!’
The East India Company’s Bombay Marines had no more than six frigates and ten galliots patrolling the Company’s trading routes and drawing charts for their merchantmen. The Marines, often slipshod in dress, were looked down upon by the Company’s Maritime Service, the men who served aboard the merchantmen, and had been dubbed by them, and the men of the Royal Navy, the ‘Bombay Buccaneers’.
Groot interrupted, ‘Question, please, schipper.’
Ignoring the Dutchman’s request to speak, Horne was still glaring at Babcock. Was there only one way to teach respect to this man? Had the time come to break the rule about not using the lash?
Groot tried again from the other end of the line. ‘Schipper, what job does the missing man do for the Company in Madras?’ As usual, Groot made an attempt at showing Horne respect, using the Dutch word for captain. It was Groot, too, who always tried to divert attention from Babcock’s mistakes or misdemeanours. On shore between missions, they shared rooms in Bombay.
‘A purchasing agent, Groot,’ answered Horne and turned back to Babcock. ‘The man’s name is Fanshaw. He buys goods for merchants back in England.’
Horne looked at the other three men, noticing the Tamil, Jingee, glancing around the cabin at the work to be done, planning where to stow supplies, move bulkheads, serve meals when Horne was using his one table as a desk.
Groot asked, ‘Schipper, do they have any suspicion where the man’s gone?’
Horne gestured at the letter. ‘If so, Governor Spencer doesn’t say.’
Kiro saluted, touching the red band knotted around his shiny black hair. ‘Captain Horne, sir, if the Company’s called the Marine for assistance, does that not mean they suspect the man’s escaped on a ship?’
Horne nodded his approval at the Japanese. ‘I agree, Kiro. If they believed Fanshaw had fled, say, across the Chingleputt Hills, Governor Pigot could have called on the troops garrisoned at Madras to pursue him. Not the Marine.’
He looked from Kiro to Jud, to Jingee, to Groot. ‘Although Governor Spencer doesn’t allude to the possibility in his letter, I believe we must also be prepared to deal with kidnappers.’
‘Kidnappers, schipper?’ Groot kneaded the blue cap he held in his hands. ‘Men demanding big rewards from the Company?’
‘Possibly.’ Horne liked firing the men’s imaginations but he hated suspicions running wild. ‘I mention the point merely for you to consider.’
Jingee stepped forward, touching his white turban. ‘Captain sahib, might not the man, Fanshaw, already be dead? Had his throat cut? His head sliced from his neck. His heart ripped out. His arms and legs hacked from his body. His …’
Horne repressed a grin. Wasn’t it like Jingee to suspect murder, and a brutal murder at that? Horne had found Jingee jailed for stabbing to death an English factor.
‘True, that’s another possibility to consider, Jingee,’ he agreed. ‘The man might already be dead.’
Rising from his chair, he said, ‘We’ll meet again tomorrow. Between now and then there are other things to think about, such as our new men. Study them. See if there are possible recruits for the Marine.’
Stopping in front of Babcock, he said, ‘I expect better conduct from you on this voyage, Babcock.’
Babcock repeated his mock salute. ‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Damn it. Doesn’t the man ever stop playing the fool?
A hail cut through the sounds of water sluicing against the ship’s hull.
‘Ahoy … ship … ahoy … ship …’
Horne looked to Jud. ‘Who’s up top?’
‘The Ceylonese, sir.’
‘Join him,’ ordered Horne. ‘Check what he sees.’
Grabbing his spyglass he dismissed all the men, calling after Babcock, ‘Don’t think I’m forgetting about you.’ He moved toward the door, ordering, ‘For the moment, get your arse up on the quarter-deck.’