Free The Bombay Marines by Porter Hill Page A

brown fingers together and beat them against both cheeks, explaining, ‘Mr Tin Hammer. The man with oh so many little red dots all over his face.’
    ‘ Tan dimmer.’
    Jingee nodded. ‘Him.’
    Horne moved back under the sheet, momentarily reassured by the mention of familiar, trustworthy people.
    ‘Those dots are called freckles, Jingee and …’
    Horne paused. What was he doing lying here in bed, taking another man’s word for the safety of his ship?
    Jingee picked up the food tray from the chest and placed it on Horne’s lap. ‘Eat while it’s hot, Captain sahib. You need food.’
    Horne’s first instinct was to push aside the tray and go up on deck. But the food smells were tempting and, telling himself that the Eclipse did not seem to be in peril, he broke off a chunk from the warm wheel of cake.
    He gobbled it down and broke off a second piece. It was like a pancake – bread – and he realised fleetingly how narrow-minded he had been in not eating Indian food when he was ashore.
    He reached for the steaming cup. ‘Hmmm. Orange tea. Delicious.’
    Jingee beamed with pride, steepling the flats of both hands together and bowing. ‘Thank you, Captain sahib. I hope this is better than the food from the galley.’
    Horne chose to ignore this prim little convict’s criticism of the ship’s provisions. He broke off another piece of warm cake as he looked around his cabin.
    The leather envelopes and the ship’s bound ledgers were neatly arranged on his desk. The wooden boxes and wicker hampers were stacked in orderly fashion under the stern window. The carpet had been brushed and lay neatly on a gleaming deck.
    Jingee stood quietly alongside the bed as Horne evaluated the condition of the cabin. ‘I cleaned for you, Captain sahib. But I opened no lockers or chests without your permission.’
    Horne was suspicious of people trying to organize his living habits. He had only considered allowing one person to become so close to him and that had been Isabel.
    ‘Quite right, Jingee.’
    ‘I found these, Captain sahib. I tried to dry them but …’
    Jingee produced two shapeless objects. One was large, the other small, and he held them with the tips of his fingers as if he were frightened of them.
    Horne studied the two objects before recognizing his new frock coat and hat – sodden, limp, ruined. Cursing his stupidity for wearing the new uniform in a storm, he broke off another chunk of bread and, as he began chewing, asked, ‘Can you try drying them again, Jingee?’
    ‘Yes, Captain sahib.’
    Like the dutiful dubash Jingee had been trained to be, he continued his report. ‘Captain sahib, the man called MrFlannery says he’s a surgeon and comes often to examine you in the cabin. But I tell him you need sleep more than him poking at your head. I do not let Mr Flannery disturb you, Captain sahib.’
    ‘Quite right.’ Horne had smelled liquor on Flannery’s breath when he had last spoken to him.
    The cabin – the ship – seemed to be in good order. The sounds of footsteps creaked overhead as the officer of the watch paced the quarterdeck. The call of men’s voices rose with the singing of the shrouds and the creak of timber. A familiar sound of pumps rose from the bilges.
    Horne started the second bread wheel. ‘Tell me, Jingee, what are you doing out of the bilges and here taking care of me?’
    Jingee bowed, palms together. ‘The African man who goes up the masts. He brought you down to the bilges after your fall, Captain sahib.’
    ‘Jud carried me?’
    ‘Yes, Captain sahib. You were unconscious.’
    ‘Jud carried me all the way down to the bilges?’
    ‘That was the only place aboard ship, Captain sahib, you allowed us prisoners to go.’
    Horne realised that Jud had returned the favour, and had ended up by saving his life.
    Jingee continued. ‘I am no sailor, Captain sahib, but I know something about ships and the wise men who sail them. So I told everybody in the bilges that Captain sahib