China Flyer (16 page)

Mrs Watson cornered her husband at their Saturday evening party for her niece and warned, ‘Don’t you dare speak to Captain Horne tonight about Company matters. Allow him time to talk to Emily.’

Commodore Watson seemed uncomfortable with the guests milling through Rose Cottage’s small parlour and out onto the verandah overlooking the garden. Mopping his damp forehead with a linen handkerchief, he answered, ‘A man like Adam Horne has little to talk about but duty, my dear.’

‘You mean you’re the one who prefers talking Company business,’ disagreed Mrs Watson. The diminutive woman worried that the social gathering might unduly tax her husband’s strength. Four months had passed since his worrying illness, but he still had not totally recovered from his faintness and palpitations.

Gulping a cup of fruit punch, Watson smacked his lips, assuring his wife, ‘Company matters must take some precedence. I’ve yet to hear details about Horne’s mission to China. I know only that Governor Pigot awarded him and his crew the prize money for bringing the
China
Flyer
back to Madras. Pigot writes that Horne’s quite a hero now around Fort St George. The Company’s finally starting to recognise him as something other than a down-at-the-heel buccaneer.’

‘I’m certain Captain Horne deserves all the approbation he receives. You can hear everything from him tomorrow at Bombay Castle. Tonight let the good captain and his men
enjoy themselves. I was fearful I might have to postpone the party yet another week.’ She glanced approvingly across the room at Horne talking to Emily Harkness in a far corner. ‘I did so want those two young people to meet.’

Watson looked from Horne and his wife’s niece to the other guests crowding the parlour, mostly East India Company employees and their wives, with a few military and church figures intermixed in the Saturday soirée.

‘Too many people in this room,’ he complained, taking a longer sip of the brightly coloured fruit cup.

The sight of her husband enjoying the pink punch made Mrs Watson wonder if he had laced her family recipe with gin. Seeing the perspiration beading his forehead, she suggested, ‘Why don’t you go outside into the fresh air, my dear? Talk to the nice young men Captain Horne brought with him to the party.’

‘A sorry lot those five men are.’

‘Don’t scold. When Captain Horne said he didn’t want to abandon his men on their first night in Bombay I insisted he bring them with him this evening.’

She lowered her voice. ‘There are more than five men. Captain Horne brought
seven
guests with him. There’s that tall German gentleman, Mr Schiller, and that short,
roly-poly
Chinese interpreter, Mr Gilbert.’

Raising her fan, she explained
sotto
voce,
‘I understand, too, from your secretary, dear, that one of those two men is a candidate for the Bombay Marine—’

Mrs Watson stopped. She snapped shut her lace fan, her liquid blue eyes dancing with sudden amusement. ‘How dreadful I am!’ she exclaimed. ‘Listen to me! I scold you about discussing Company affairs at Emily’s party and here I am talking about—’ She popped open the fan. ‘—the Bombay Marine.’

‘Why not? You’re bound to have a little salt water in your veins after all these years.’

‘And perfectly lovely years they’ve been, too,’ she replied
affectionately. ‘I wouldn’t trade them for any others.’

Watson pretended not to notice his wife’s sentimental remark. Instead, he raised his big head, eyelids half-lowered, and surveyed the crowded parlour, taking a longer, more fortifying gulp of the rose-red cup.

The air was cooler on the verandah but Groot and Babcock were as uncomfortable there as they had been inside the parlour of Rose Cottage.

‘I should have said no to this party,’ Babcock complained.

‘It’s good to mix with people,’ disagreed Groot. ‘A man too much at sea starts forgetting he belongs to the human race.’

‘These fancy people have nothing to do with me.’ Babcock glanced sideways at a short woman hanging on the arm of a vicar, listening solicitously to his every word. ‘I have more fun talking to Monkey.’

The mention of Babcock’s pet monkey reminded Groot of a matter he had yet to resolve with the American. ‘There’s something I wanted to mention to you, Babcock. Don’t get angry … but … well …’

‘Stop beating about the bush. What is it?’

‘Sleeping. Every night you … well … your monkey…’

Babcock turned, his eyes narrowing as he demanded, ‘What about Monkey?’

‘He keeps me awake and—’

‘Hell, Groot, we’ve been away for four months. You haven’t been near Monkey.’

‘That’s the other problem,’ Groot hedged.

‘What other problem?’

‘You … you talk in your sleep, Babcock.’

‘I do?’ He pulled his red ear. ‘What do I say?’

‘It’s not so much “say” as … shout … or yell …’

Babcock’s aggression continued to wane. ‘I … do?’

‘You do. I was wondering if there’s something troubling you.’

Lowering his voice, Babcock looked guardedly around him, asking, ‘What do I yell, Groot? Is it, you know, very … personal?’

‘It’s about your Pa.’

‘I talk about my old man?’

Groot nodded. ‘Yah. You tell him not to hit you. Every night you shout out, “Don’t hit me, Pa … Don’t hit me”.’

Babcock’s face blanched. He remembered his nightmares about fighting with his father, how his father turned into Horne in the dreams, how he was unable to hit Horne, calling him ‘Pa’.

His head down, he mumbled, ‘Don’t mention this to nobody, Groot. I’d appreciate that.’

‘No, of course not,’ Groot quickly assured him.

Pulling on his ear, Babcock drawled, ‘As for Monkey keeping you awake, well, I’ve been thinking about making a little outside cage for him anyway … at least for nights … the pesky devil’s been bothering me, too …’

He looked beseechingly at Groot, ‘Please don’t mention nothing to nobody? About me calling out to Pa.’

Jud and Kiro were standing at the other end of the verandah, cowering in the shadows made by the paper lanterns strung along the overhanging eaves. Jud noticed the blank smile on Kiro’s face and asked, ‘What are you thinking about, my friend? You look as if you are a thousand miles away from here.’

‘Friends. Families.’ Kiro’s shrug was lifeless, unlike his usual aggressiveness on the gun-deck.

‘Are you missing yours?’

‘I never had a family.’

‘Do you think you ever will?’ asked Jud, remembering how he took his own wife and son everywhere with him—in the breeze, in his songs, inside his head.

Kiro considered the question. ‘The friends I have take the place of family. Horne and all you.’

Jud grinned. ‘I think we’re going to get one more brother, and very soon.’

Kiro’s attentiveness returned. ‘Do you really think Horne’s going to make him a Marine?’

They turned and looked at the new candidate through the parlour window.

Jingee moved impatiently from one foot to the other beside Cheng-So Gilbert who was talking to the small group gathered around him. Gilbert was explaining that the eleven languages he spoke did not include the
seventy-eight
Chinese dialects he also had at his command.

Jingee groaned inwardly. Did he have to hear this story again?

A tall woman in a grey silk gown asked, ‘How do you plan your future with such extensive gifts, Mr Gilbert?’

Jingee held his breath as he waited for Cheng-So Gilbert’s reply. It had been no secret aboard the
Huma
that Horne was considering recruiting a new Marine into his special squadron. Granted, Cheng-So Gilbert had been helpful in the escape from Whampoa, but was being able to imitate the warble of Chinese waterfowl qualification enough to become a Bombay Marine?

A half-smile lighting his moon face, Cheng-So Gilbert answered, ‘Captain Horne is helping me to achieve my lifelong ambition. You see, I recently had the privilege of serving Captain Horne and his Marines …’

Jingee felt the earth begin to open beneath his feet.

‘… and Captain Horne has generously promised to help
me secure passage on the first Indiaman sailing for England,’ went on Gilbert, ‘as well as to provide me with introductions to find employment in London. To work in England has always been my dream.’

Jingee’s devotion to Horne increased a hundredfold.

Lothar Schiller escaped from a clutch of English clerks and their wives. Wiping the perspiration from his forehead, he looked round the parlour for an escape route. He wanted to leave Rose Cottage and go back to the
Huma
where he was sleeping at present. Tomorrow promised to be a big day for Schiller. He was due to give a report to Commodore Watson at Bombay Castle.

Horne had assured Schiller that he should not be nervous about the coming meeting. The report Schiller had given to Governor Pigot at Fort St George had been the important one, and the Governor had praised him for surrendering the
China
Flyer
to the Bombay Marine at
Kam-Sing
-Moon. In recognition of his written testimony against George Fanshaw, Pigot had cleared Schiller of any criminal charges for his part in the commandeering of the Company frigate. As far as Fanshaw’s future was concerned, nobody expected the Chinese to release him in the near future from Canton’s Dragon Prison. Pigot had received
notification
from the Manchu that they were detaining Fanshaw in connection with illegal trading in China.

What
is
my
future?
Schiller wondered as he stood lost in the crowd of guests.
Will
Horne
persuade
Commodore
Watson
to
accept
me
as
a
Bombay
Marine?

The excitement he felt about the prospect of joining Horne’s unit was only matched by the exhilaration he had felt twelve years ago when, at the age of thirteen, he signed to fight with Maurice de Saxe.

Maybe his career would prosper more as a Bombay
Marine than it had on the battlefields of Europe. He hoped so. Horne was a decent man. Schiller looked across the parlour, smiling to himself when he saw that Horne was also a man with more than duty in his mind.

‘I do not intend to bore you with my history, Miss Harkness.’

‘Would you rather hear about the piano recitals I have attended in Bombay during the last two months, Captain Horne? My teas with the Catchpole sisters? The
marketplace
where Elvira Schoenbrauer suggested I might find artist’s charcoal?’

‘Your voyage out must have been adventurous.’

‘My only adventure was trying to avoid the
companionship
of a perfectly dreadful young officer, Lieutenant Tree.’

‘Tree?’ The name was familiar to Horne. ‘Do you know if his name was Simon Tree?’

‘Oh, dear!’ Emily Harkness blushed prettily. ‘Lieutenant Tree’s a friend of yours, Captain Horne.’

Horne laughed. ‘I wouldn’t call him a friend, Miss Harkness. We both sailed aboard the merchantman, the
Unity,
last year. The captain had been wounded and his first lieutenant taken ill. Tree was responsible for—’

Horne stopped, realising that the attractive young lady had relaxed him enough to do something he seldom did, divulge details of past voyages.

Bending his head, he said, ‘It was nothing, Miss Harkness. Your marketplace stories are far more interesting, I’m sure.’

‘No, don’t stop, Captain Horne. Pray continue your story.’

Horne regretted he had divulged as much as he had. ‘It was nothing, Miss Harkness.’

Emily Harkness angled her head, asking with a twinkle in her pale blue eyes, ‘Why do men’s secrets seem darker than women’s?’

‘If such a thing is true, it is not necessarily an asset.’

Emily Harkness smiled, dimples forming on her
sun-bronzed
complexion. ‘Excuse any boldness, Captain Horne, but for a military men you are refreshingly … modest.’

‘Perhaps modesty is no more than a form of boldness, Miss Harkness.’

‘Is the reverse true, Captain Horne? Can boldness be interpreted as disguised modesty?’

‘Forgive me, Miss Harkness. My mind’s gone slow in the company of men at sea. You’re too sharp for me.’

‘I think I should like a life at sea, Captain Horne. But certainly not in His Majesty’s Navy or the Company’s Maritime Service. No, I’m certain I would suffocate in all those heavy uniforms, not to mention being obedient to endless regulations and rules.’

Horne smiled, thinking of accusations levelled at the Bombay Marine.

Emily Harkness appraised Horne’s gold-encrusted
frock-coat
. ‘Your uniform is indeed splendid, Captain Horne, but must you wear it every day?’

‘Seldom ever, Miss Harkness. Only in Bombay and on official calls of duty. There’s a rumour that a Bombay Marine looks no better than a wild buccaneer.’

‘How wonderful! I approve!’ Her laugh was crystalline. ‘I shall have to speak to my uncle. Inquire if he can enlist me as a Bombay … Buccaneer.’

The pejorative term did not sound offensive coming from her pretty lips. Horne laughed at himself for being forgiving with someone so attractive as this spirited young lady standing in front of him.

She asked, ‘Do you ever recruit new Marines to this exciting life you lead, Captain Horne?’

Deciding to let her interpret his answer however she
chose, he replied, ‘I’m seriously considering someone at this very moment, Miss Harkness.’

The instant blush encouraged Horne to believe that Emily Harkness understood his feelings for her.