‘and had hair—’ He pointed at the tavern’s low ceiling. ‘—bright like the sun.’
‘It’s not much of a clue,’ said Horne. He held up his tankard, adding, ‘But it’s a start.’
* * *
The coconut oil lamps of Fort St George twinkled in the night as Babcock stood aboard the Huma in her anchorage in the Madras Roads.
Despite the majestic sight of the turreted fortress stretching along the moonlit shoreline, Babcock was feeling dejected. The sensation was unusual for him, but he knew it was serious because he did not even miss his pet monkey. When Monkey couldn’t make him laugh, something was seriously wrong.
Horne no longer reproached Babcock for fighting the Malagasy pirate in Bombay. Babcock thanked the Lord that nobody had been killed in the sea encounter. He would have blamed himself for any casualties suffered aboard the Huma. When would he ever learn to keep his big mouth shut and avoid getting into brawls?
Was that what was bothering him? Fighting with the Malagasy? Being responsible for the poor devil getting his throat slit and being thrown overboard in the open boat?
Perhaps his recent nightmares were at the root of his problem.
For the past fortnight, Babcock had been dreaming aboutbrawling with his father. Halfway through the fisticuffs, his father would turn into Adam Horne and Babcock would stop fighting, always refusing to strike his Captain. Covering himself with both arms, he would beg Horne not to hit him. But in the dream Babcock called him ‘Pa’ rather than ‘Horne’—‘ Don’t hit me, Pa. Don’t hit me.’
Asign of cowardice? Was that what those dreams meant? Was he frightened of fighting Horne?
Looking across the crashing Madras surf, Babcock’s mind went back to the days when Horne had first brought his Marines to Fort St George. Babcock had travelled overland with Bapu, Mustafa, and Groot in a dung cart. Bapu, an Indian, had subsequently been killed at sea—the first of Horne’s Marines to die. The next casualty had been Mustafa the Turk.
Only Groot and Babcock himself were left from that overland party. Babcock turned his back on the fortress. Leaning against the railing, he looked at the stars twinkling in the east and wondered where Horne would next take his Marines. Which one of them, this time, would not return to Bombay?
Chapter Eleven
LOTHAR SCHILLER
The winds off the Philippines raised waves around the China Flyer, tossing the deck and yawing the masts in wild circles. A storm must be brewing, Lothar Schiller predicted. But, worse, he worried about the anger growing inside him at the Englishman, George Fanshaw.
‘Reduce sail,’ he ordered his Indonesian lieutenant, Looi. ‘Topsail and spanker—double reefs.’
In these waters of the South China Sea a wind could fall as quickly as it rose, but Schiller decided not to take a gamble. The precaution of having the sails clewed and furled also gave him time to cool his temper. He did not want to spend another day quarrelling with Fanshaw. In the two months since they had left Madras, it seemed they had done nothing but argue. The disagreements had begun a few days out of Madras when Fanshaw had ordered Schiller to divert from the course to Canton. Determined to find opium to present as a cumshaw in Canton, he had directed Schiller on a meandering course around Borneo, through the Sulu Sea, north to the Philippines and back to the south, risking attack from Sulu pirates. After six weeks of search, they had located a storehouse of opium on the Sulu island of Cherang. Fanshaw had persuaded the natives to sell but, when the last chest had been stowed aboard the frigate, he had ordered Schiller’s men to fire on the village.
Hearing footsteps behind him on the quarterdeck, Schiller turned and saw Fanshaw approaching him.
Speak of the devil, he told himself.
‘A storm brewing?’ asked Fanshaw, face upturned to the clear blue sky. ‘Or merely a lively gust to help us on the last leg of our journey to
‘It’s not much of a clue,’ said Horne. He held up his tankard, adding, ‘But it’s a start.’
* * *
The coconut oil lamps of Fort St George twinkled in the night as Babcock stood aboard the Huma in her anchorage in the Madras Roads.
Despite the majestic sight of the turreted fortress stretching along the moonlit shoreline, Babcock was feeling dejected. The sensation was unusual for him, but he knew it was serious because he did not even miss his pet monkey. When Monkey couldn’t make him laugh, something was seriously wrong.
Horne no longer reproached Babcock for fighting the Malagasy pirate in Bombay. Babcock thanked the Lord that nobody had been killed in the sea encounter. He would have blamed himself for any casualties suffered aboard the Huma. When would he ever learn to keep his big mouth shut and avoid getting into brawls?
Was that what was bothering him? Fighting with the Malagasy? Being responsible for the poor devil getting his throat slit and being thrown overboard in the open boat?
Perhaps his recent nightmares were at the root of his problem.
For the past fortnight, Babcock had been dreaming aboutbrawling with his father. Halfway through the fisticuffs, his father would turn into Adam Horne and Babcock would stop fighting, always refusing to strike his Captain. Covering himself with both arms, he would beg Horne not to hit him. But in the dream Babcock called him ‘Pa’ rather than ‘Horne’—‘ Don’t hit me, Pa. Don’t hit me.’
Asign of cowardice? Was that what those dreams meant? Was he frightened of fighting Horne?
Looking across the crashing Madras surf, Babcock’s mind went back to the days when Horne had first brought his Marines to Fort St George. Babcock had travelled overland with Bapu, Mustafa, and Groot in a dung cart. Bapu, an Indian, had subsequently been killed at sea—the first of Horne’s Marines to die. The next casualty had been Mustafa the Turk.
Only Groot and Babcock himself were left from that overland party. Babcock turned his back on the fortress. Leaning against the railing, he looked at the stars twinkling in the east and wondered where Horne would next take his Marines. Which one of them, this time, would not return to Bombay?
Chapter Eleven
LOTHAR SCHILLER
The winds off the Philippines raised waves around the China Flyer, tossing the deck and yawing the masts in wild circles. A storm must be brewing, Lothar Schiller predicted. But, worse, he worried about the anger growing inside him at the Englishman, George Fanshaw.
‘Reduce sail,’ he ordered his Indonesian lieutenant, Looi. ‘Topsail and spanker—double reefs.’
In these waters of the South China Sea a wind could fall as quickly as it rose, but Schiller decided not to take a gamble. The precaution of having the sails clewed and furled also gave him time to cool his temper. He did not want to spend another day quarrelling with Fanshaw. In the two months since they had left Madras, it seemed they had done nothing but argue. The disagreements had begun a few days out of Madras when Fanshaw had ordered Schiller to divert from the course to Canton. Determined to find opium to present as a cumshaw in Canton, he had directed Schiller on a meandering course around Borneo, through the Sulu Sea, north to the Philippines and back to the south, risking attack from Sulu pirates. After six weeks of search, they had located a storehouse of opium on the Sulu island of Cherang. Fanshaw had persuaded the natives to sell but, when the last chest had been stowed aboard the frigate, he had ordered Schiller’s men to fire on the village.
Hearing footsteps behind him on the quarterdeck, Schiller turned and saw Fanshaw approaching him.
Speak of the devil, he told himself.
‘A storm brewing?’ asked Fanshaw, face upturned to the clear blue sky. ‘Or merely a lively gust to help us on the last leg of our journey to
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