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too common. Horne seldom enjoyed a full complement of men to divideinto four-hour watches with dog watches. He had learned, too, to do without officers, inventing a makeshift rating to adapt to his crew. But, then, if he truly wanted a tightly run ship, could he not always join the Royal Navy?
    A touch on his shoulder brought Horne back to the present.
    ‘Horne, I guess I should say I’m sorry.’
    Did Babcock’s indiscipline truly bother him? Why hadn’t he taken drastic steps with him before? Did the lack of manpower make him suffer such laxness?
    Babcock went on, ‘Like I said, this is my making.’
    ‘Babcock, there’s a time and place for apologies. This is not one of them.’
    ‘But—’
    Over the crash of the waves, Horne shouted, ‘At the moment we have a battle to fight, Babcock.’
    ‘Aye, aye, Captain,’ answered Babcock cheekily.
    Friendship was the problem, Horne realised. He had become too close to his Marines. How do you tie a friend to a grating and lash him for not addressing you properly ?
    * * *
    As the Huma set a course straight for the pirate flotilla, Babcock remained near Horne on the quarter-deck.
    As a boy, Babcock had never dreamt of going to sea. Born on a farm in America’s lush Ohio Valley, he had been raised to work the land, destined to marry the neighbour’s golden-haired daughter and become part of the pioneer community hewn from the wilderness. When he was nineteen, he quarrelled with his father and ran away from home, working in blacksmiths’ forges and on freight lines, doing any odd job he could find as he made his way eastwards, travelling through Pennsylvania, New York, Connecticut, Massachusetts.
    His solid muscle and light-hearted disposition helped him readily find work; in Boston, he was signed aboard a trading ship bound for the Orient. But his size also proved to be a disadvantage. Two weeks out of port, an officer picked an argument with him. Babcock fought to defend himself but it was his bad luck to knock the officer’s head against a capstan. When the merchant ship called in Bombay, Babcock was sent ashore in shackles and locked in a cell honey-combed deep beneath Bombay Castle. It was fromthe subterranean prison that Adam Horne had chosen him to become a candidate for the Bombay Marine. Training with Horne on Bull Island had convinced Babcock that he had at last found a niche for himself in the world.
    But belonging to Horne’s unit also had its drawbacks. The spells between missions were too long; weeks and months spent ashore. Babcock easily become bored, and when he was bored he drank too much. When he drank, he always got into trouble.
    He had been drinking when he had met a group of leather-faced Asians in a Bombay beer shop. They had argued in pidgin English that all topiwallahs should get out of India. He had challenged any of the men to fight him in any manner they chose.
    The ocean misted against Babcock’s bare chest as he gazed out to sea. He knew that Horne had a right to be angry with him; the knife-and-fist fight had been stupid, had put the Huma and all the men aboard in jeopardy.
    Babcock also had another problem apart from drinking. An older problem.
    Why couldn’t he address another man as a superior? He tried hard to remember to call Horne ‘sir’ and ‘Captain’; but he either forgot or the words stuck in his throat. Why? Didn’t he like submitting to authority? Couldn’t he admit that another man was better than himself, more superior in some way? Why couldn’t he pull his forelock andgrovel? Did it have to do with the fight he had had with his father years ago in Ohio? In his dreams he often confused the faces of his father and Horne. In his dreams, he often called Horne ‘pa’.

Chapter Six
FLOTILLA
    The distance was shortening rapidly between the Huma and the five-pointed claw of the enemy flotilla: the four pattimars lagged north and south of the sloop in the lead of the wedged attack.
    ‘Run out starboard guns,’ Horne