The Bombay Marines (18 page)

Adam Horne disliked running a horse to his limits, especially in the heat of the day. But not knowing if the cloud of dust behind him rose from somebody in pursuit, he kept pushing the stallion, continuing south across the Carnatic Plain towards the Chingleput Hills. Having untied Lally’s mouth gag he continued riding behind him, removing all temptation for Lally to attack him.

By mid-morning, the cloud of dust had disappeared in the north. Horne guessed that the rider had been Babcock – the last man to leave Fort St George – and that he had switched to an inland route.

Chancing a rest stop on a sandstone ridge protected by a blind of yellowing cedars, Horne dismounted and slit the leather thongs from Lally’s wrists. In silence they shared the waterskin which Bapu had tied to the saddle.

Thereafter they stopped at regular intervals. Horne guessed that the time was midday when he halted at the mouth of a shallow valley dotted with milk grass. Seeing no dust clouds to the north, he hoped that Babcock’s explosion in the Magazine had successfully diverted attention in the fortress from the fact that Lally was missing.

Two hours had passed since the escape. So far Lally had not spoken to Horne. His temper was legendary and Horne was surprised that he had not tried to deliver at least a harangue to him.

When Lally did finally speak, he didn’t look at Horne. His voice touched with contempt, he said, ‘You’re not in
the British Army, are you?’

Horne lowered the waterskin and eyed Lally, wary about answering any questions.

Tall and thick-chested, Lally looked distinguished despite the dust caking his face and the kerchief tied haphazardly over his head to protect him from the sun.

Lally turned his eyes to Horne. ‘Who are you? Where are you taking me?’

‘Your questions will all be answered in due course.’

Lally held his nose aloft. ‘You’re not in the British Army or the Navy but neither are you an agent for France.’

Horne stoppered the waterskin. ‘We must make time.’

Knotting the skin bag to the saddle, Horne gestured for General Lally to remount in front of him.

Continuing south over the parched, barren countryside, the horse tired more quickly in the afternoon heat. Horne rested the animal at shorter intervals and, by the time the sun began descending from its zenith, he was pleased with their progress. They had passed Sharuna’s murky blue reservoir at least an hour ago and should be arriving at their rendezvous with the
Eclipse
before sundown.

Certain that nobody was following them, Horne now looked for dust in front of them, some sign of the seven other horses. Seeing nothing, he reminded himself that the men had spread out across inland trails and were all riding solitary. A single mount made better time than two men astride the same horse.

Lally’s white shirt had become brown from dust, the kerchief soggy with perspiration. Complaining neither about the heat nor the dried meat and biscuits which Bapu had packed for sustenance, the General had neither attacked nor berated Horne. He seemed almost content as they rested on a precipice over the Bay of Bengal, a cool breeze sweeping inland from a cloud-streaked sky.

‘Did you fight with Wolfe in Canada?’

The question surprised Horne. ‘Why?’

Lally filled his lungs with fresh air as he stared out at the blue expanse. ‘Warfare is changing. Men are more concerned these days with survival than chivalry. Brute endurance. We learn these things from the colonies. Orientals teach us their wily ways. We glean lessons in camouflage and tracking and ambush from those Canadian savages, redskins, so wrongly called –’ he laughed, ‘– Indians.’

Lally’s English was untouched by Irish brogue or French accent. Speaking in a deep, resonant voice, he talked to Horne like a man speaking to – if not his peer – someone who could quite possibly understand him.

Gazing out at the eastern horizon, he announced, ‘I’ve been studying you. You don’t have the ways of so-called “gentleman” officers. That’s why I asked you about serving under Wolfe in Canada.’

The statement piqued Horne.

Lally held his gaze towards the sea, the blue mirrored by the pale colour of his eyes. ‘You obviously know who I am or you wouldn’t be going to all this trouble. You must therefore know something about my history. That I commanded many mercenaries in my day. I say this because you’re closer to a mercenary than any other soldier I know.’

Horne remained cautious, remembering that conversation with prisoners was dangerous, especially when a man was as crafty as Lally was reputed to be.

‘You’ve heard of the Wild Geese, haven’t you? The Irish mercenaries I led?’

‘Since I was a schoolboy.’

Lally turned to study Horne, looking more closely at him as if for the first time he realised that he was a very young man. ‘Who are you?’

Horne felt a sudden urge to talk and listen to Lally. To hear about the Wild Geese. To tell him about Elihu Cornhill, the man who had taught him the ways of North American
Indians – scouting, camouflage, the use of daybreak as a time for attack.

But remembering that he had allowed his personal impulses to overcome him once already today, Horne stood back for Lally to remount the horse. ‘We must keep riding’ – he added, ‘– sir.’

Lally gripped the saddle but hesitated. Looking at Horne, he asked, ‘You believe I had no choice but to surrender, don’t you? My men were without food, water. Morale was non-existent. Surrender was the only choice I had.’

Horne felt the same urge to confide, to tell Lally about a thought nagging him, that he had not intended to waste human life on this mission. But Oliver Giltspur had joked about the only person he had ever loved and he had had no choice but to kill him.

Holding out his hand towards the horse, Horne repeated, ‘Sir, we must keep riding.’

Approaching the rendezvous inlet on the Chingleput coast, Horne slowed the stallion as he spotted the masts of Commodore Watson’s flagship, the
Ferocious,
at anchor in the lagoon beyond the stone escarpment. Why had the
Eclipse
not come as they had planned? And where was
La
Favourite
? Had Watson left both ships at sea? Or had the
Eclipse
sailed to Bengal as an escort for the French prize?

Dismounting at the summit, Horne saw a rowing boat moving out from the sandy white shore, rowing around the tip of the rocky point of the escarpment towards the
Fero
cious.
He was too far away to count the number of men in the small boat. But they spotted him and their cheer carried up the hill.

Returning the wave, Horne checked his feeling of victory. He must first learn if all seven men had come back from Fort
St George – that no one had been injured in the escape – before he began to celebrate.

Keeping Lally in the saddle, he led the stallion down the incline to the beach, where Tim Flannery was carrying supplies from the hut.

Flannery turned at the sound of the horse’s nicker.

The heels of Horne’s boots sank in the sand. ‘Have all the men returned, Mr Flannery?’

Flannery looked from Horne to Lally sitting silently astride the big stallion. Holding his watery green eyes on Lally, Flannery answered, ‘Aye, they’ve been straggling back all afternoon.’

Helping Lally dismount, Horne ordered, ‘Mr Flannery, give this gentleman a place to rest whilst I unsaddle the horse. The boat will return to collect us soon.’

The sweet aroma of liquor wafted from Flannery as he led Lally across the beach towards the hut, and Horne was thankful that the General needed no medical attention.

The stallion had lathered in the heat. Home unsaddled the animal, patting the beast’s great neck, pleased to be setting him free with the seven other horses grazing peacefully on small clumps of brown grass. They could roam the nearby hills until some lucky farmer claimed them, hopefully giving them a good home.

Thinking about the future, Horne looked back to the
Ferocious,
wondering where Watson would take Lally from here? Deliver him to the ship sailing for England? What would Lally’s future be in England? Would the British use him as a pawn in their colonial battles? Or would the war soon come to an end?

A shot shattered the stillness.

The rowing boat’s six oars cut the rippling water in a neat dry row, moving from the shore to the
Ferocious.
Lally sat ashen-faced between the fore oarsmen, one hand clutching
a bloody cloth to his left shoulder where Flannery’s bullet had grazed him. In the stern of the boat Flannery sat cursing Home for preventing him from getting his revenge.

‘Lally sent my brother into the firing line at Fontenoy,’ he raged. ‘Those lads had no hope that day against the English cannons. But Lally drove them on and on and on. Straight into Cumberland’s volley. I heard the story from one of the few survivors. That was sixteen years ago and I swore then that I’d kill this devil for sending my brother to slaughter. And I’ll kill you too, Horne, for stopping me.’

Horne stood in the prow of the open boat, waiting to catch the rope ladder dangling from the
Ferocious.
He was at least thankful that Flannery had been too drunk to hit his target.

From the stern, Flannery ranted, ‘Horne, you’re no better than Lally. Your seven sea rats mean no more to you than Lally’s Wild Geese did to him. You both use innocent lads to serve your own glory. May you both swing at the end of a rope.’

The oars stilled as the boat moved alongside the
Ferocious.
Horne grabbed the ladder, standing back for Lally to try and grasp the rungs.

The shot from Flannery’s flintlock had only grazed Lally’s shoulder and he was able to climb the hemp ladder. Two of the flagship’s Marines waited at the port entry to lead him across deck.

Horne motioned Flannery to climb next from the rowing boat.

Pausing in front of Horne, Flannery cursed, ‘May you roam the world for the rest of your days. May you starve to death –’

The oarsmen behind Flannery shoved him towards the ladder. Grabbing it, Flannery spat in Horne’s face and began to climb upwards. The oarsmen reached to pull Flannery from the ladder, but Horne touched his shoulder and shook his head as he wiped the spittle from his face.

Horne boarded the flagship. He was pleased to find
Watson waiting to welcome him at the port entry, but surprised to see him looking so old and weary.

Gripping Horne’s hands, Watson rasped, ‘Today should be the proudest day of your life, Horne. Let’s be done with the bad news so that we can move on to congratulations.’

Bad news? Horne did not understand.

Watson put his hand on Horne’s shoulder. ‘We lost the
Eclipse
.’

Horne stiffened.

His arm around Horne, Watson explained, ‘Frenchie caught us the afternoon we left you in this very bay.’

‘Frenchie’? Horne’s mind flashed back to the English frigate which had stopped the
masulah
that night, to the English lieutenant who had told Jingee about French ships being sighted off the coast of Attur.

‘Horne, your men fought a good battle. Young Mercer and Bruce proved to be true heroes. Tandimmer was a master sailor. And game ankle or no, Rajit died a credit to the Bombay Marine.’

Horne realised what Watson was saying. All the men had been lost. He gazed at him, seeking confirmation.

Watson shook his head. ‘Not one survivor.’

Horne glanced over Watson’s shoulder at the line of seven Marines waiting for him. ‘Do my other men know?’

‘I told them.’ Watson patted Horne’s shoulder. ‘Go and rest. My cabin is yours. We’ll discuss this later.’

Horne felt numb. ‘Thank you, sir, but I still have my duty.’

‘Duty? Duty be hanged? Go and rest. You need it!’

‘Thank you, sir, but I must speak to my men.’

Not waiting for Watson’s consent, Horne moved towards the seven men waiting in the waist of the ship.

Caked with dust, soaked with perspiration, the seven men
looked anxiously at Horne moving towards them from the port entry.

Bapu still wore the turban and
dhoti,
his skin filthy from riding through the Indian countryside; Kiro’s face was masked with dirt, only his white teeth and dark oriental eyes gleaming beneath the grime; Mustafa smiled broadly through his coating of dust – the first smile Horne had seen cross his face; Jud’s smile was familiar and friendly, seeming as big as Africa itself; Groot beamed with a lift of his eyebrows; Jingee bowed from the waist delivering a courtly
salaam
; Babcock snapped a mock salute but quickly relaxed, grinning as he pulled one of his ears.

Horne stood in front of the seven men, his eyes moving down the line of dirty, oddly matched faces. ‘We should be celebrating, but that’s impossible with the bad news that was waiting for us.’

His voice had become faint, his sunburnt face beginning to show lines of fatigue. ‘I don’t want to keep you from eating or getting some rest. I just want to thank you for doing a fine job. For proving to the Company that you’re the men I knew you were – or that I knew you wanted to be.’

He paused, considering a thought, then took a deep breath and continued, ‘I should also say that you’ve helped me become more of the man
I
want to be. You showed me that a man should have friends. Thank you for that too.’

Glancing one last time at the line of seven dirty faces, Horne saluted and turned towards the companionway. A loud cheer rose behind him.

It is historical fact that Thomas Lally was delivered to England aboard a merchant ship, the
Onslow,
in April, 1761. The British War Office allowed him to return to France a few months later to clear his name of ‘Treason, incompetence, correspondence with the English, speculation, and tyrannical administration’. The French imprisoned Lally in the Bastille, stripped him of his fortune, rank and title, and guillotined him in 1766. A detailed sketch of Lally’s life is available in the remarkably helpful book,
Men
Whom
India
Has
Known
by J J. Higginbotham, Madras, 1874. Another unique and valuable source for this period is
Vestiges
of
Old
Madras
1640-1800
by Henry Love, John Murray, 1913. There are countless memoirs, sketches, gazeteers available on India, the East India Company, and the Seven Years War. But information is scant on history’s earliest commando-style squadron, the Bombay Marine. The best source is Low’s
History
of
the
Indian
Navy,
London, 1877. Except for Commodore James and Commodore Watson, the names and characters of the Bombay Marines I portray are fictitious. The story is based on fact with fictional elaboration and twists which will become apparent to those readers who wish to delve deeper into this rich, adventurous period of Indian history.

Porter Hill