The War Chest (2 page)

‘Whatever your mission, Horne, I know you’ll do the Marine proud.’ Watson raised his arm, but the salute was lifeless, unenthusiastic.

Commodore Watson remained glumly at his desk after Adam Horne had left the chamber, wondering if he was allowing his brightest young captain to embark on a fatal course, putting Bombay Marines in unnecessary danger? Sitting under the slowly moving punkah fan, he
reconsidered
matters for what seemed to be the hundredth time.

The East India Company’s three Governors—Spencer of Bombay, Pigot of Madras, Vansittart of Calcutta—had instructed Watson to dispatch Horne to Madagascar on the initial stage of a clandestine mission. The Governors had given Watson two brief details about the venture. The first was that the French government was sending a shipment of gold from France to Mauritius for the payment of
long-overdue
wages to their colonial troops. The second fact was that the British Navy Board had heard of the French treasure ship and wanted the East India Company to commandeer the vessel after she rounded the Cape of Good Hope.

The Governors had unanimously agreed that Adam Horne’s performance at Fort St George made him the most eligible of the Marine’s eleven captains to head the
expedition and Watson had concurred with the Governors in their selection. Steely-minded, seemingly unafraid of death, Horne was also discreet and had an uncanny way of eluding the enemy. Furthermore, he had assembled and trained an oddly-assorted but strong support team which had survived the destruction of his ship, the
Eclipse.

Watson’s problem stemmed from the actual assigning of Horne to the mission. Not only had word of it come only two days ago, but it oddly circumscribed Watson’s usual jurisdiction over his Marines. The Governors had
empowered
him to send Horne only as far as Port
Diego-Suarez
, the English post on Madagascar, insisting that they—or an agent of their choosing—would inform Horne about the nature of the mission upon his arrival.

Watson had argued that he should be the one to tell Horne. Apart from coming under his direct command, the dare-devil young Marine officer had a keen eye for strategy and could lend his knowledge to devising the plan of action in its early stages.

But the Governors had remained steadfast, refusing Watson’s request to confide in Horne, and the Commodore, bowing to their authority, had agreed to send Horne and his squadron—cold, uninformed, ignorant of danger—on the first leg of their duty.

Watson had had similar experiences with the Company’s Governors in the past, but they had always informed him on development, not totally excluded him as they were now doing.

How much was there to the mission that the Governors had not told him? Was commandeering the French war chest not its true objective? Was there some deeper plot which might tip the scales unfairly against Horne and his Marines? Some reason which, if known to Watson, might make him loudly, firmly and vehemently protest against the mission?

Watson had answers to none of these questions; worse,
he was ashamed of himself for not demanding answers. Why could he not have put himself—his job—on the line, insisting that the Governors tell him all they knew or terminate his own commission with the Honourable East India Company?

The answer was too shameful.

Before coming to Bombay, Watson had been Rear Admiral of the Blue in the West Indies. When the time for his retirement had arrived three years ago, the Honourable East India Company had invited him to become
Commander-in-Chief
of the Company’s Bombay Marine. Watson, dreading life on a Dorset farm, had gratefully accepted the post in Bombay.

Sitting in his chamber high in Bombay Castle, he cursed himself for risking men’s lives to protect his comforts and security. The attempt to warn Horne, to hint to him about the French war chest at the conclusion of the meeting, had been limp, weak, pathetic.

Oh, no, Watson thought miserably. This was no problem he could drown in his past panacea—gin. This would tear at his soul.

Adam Horne left Bombay Castle through a small postern in the south wall. Emerging to the left of a goat pen, he made for an opening between two warehouses to avoid the bedlam of the marketplace. The silver and gold scabbard of his sabre jangled against his left leg as he walked at a brisk pace through the cool shade of the buildings. Irritated at Watson for not being able to supply details of the mission, he wondered why the old Commodore had mentioned a shipment of French gold before dismissing him. Was Watson concerned about a French mutiny? Would it affect the Marine? Coming to a junction of three passageways and momentarily uncertain which turning to take, Horne told himself to stop speculating about Watson’s motives and concentrate on where he was going.

Eight years in Bombay had given Horne a reasonable knowledge of the city’s many winding streets and narrow passageways. He had discovered that the best method of finding his way through the maze was to remember that the central point was Bombay Castle, that the bazaars, shops, houses, pagodas and temples spread out from the fortress like a fan across the marshy peninsula on which the city had been built.

Despite Bombay’s cramped tenements and noisy streets, Horne preferred it to Madras or Calcutta. He liked the Moorish flavour created by red-tiled buildings crowding the bastions of Bombay Castle. He enjoyed living in a city which had no ‘Black Town’ or ‘White Town’ like Madras or Calcutta. The inhabitants here lived alongside one another—Indians,
Africans, Europeans, Chinese—a stew of many nationalities which British colonials often found
unappealing
.

Reaching the bottom of the passageway, Horne came out at the top of the harbour. Fish nets were drying in the late morning sun and, beyond the wharf’s edge, he could see native craft bobbing in the surf—Malabar sailing boats, snub-nosed fishing vessels, small rattan shells sewn with coir rope and tied at both ends like a child’s toy. In the far distance, three merchant ships tipped at anchor near the harbour’s wide mouth, their spars and rigging silhouetted against the hazy mountains on the mainland.

The
Unity
must be one of those Indiamen, he guessed. With the help of his spyglass he could study the ship on which he and his men would be sailing for Madagascar.

The thought that he would be a passenger and not captain dejected Horne. He pictured the
Eclipse,
imagining the excitement he would be feeling at this moment if he and his men were about to make way.

But no, it was indulgent to imagine what might have been. He had waited six months for an assignment. He now had one. He must be thankful for that fact and locate his men.

Climbing a steep incline of steps rising from the west end of the wharf, he paused near the top to look one last time towards the sea. The wind was rising from the east, no finer day for sailing.

A Union Jack flapping on a brig caught his attention. Studying the Navy vessel, he guessed she must have brought the press gang into harbour to recruit men for His Majesty’s Navy. Admiral Pocock’s fleet must be hungry for seamen. The ocean air had weathered the brig’s dark hull, giving her a sinister appearance, like a predator amongst the Indiamen in harbour, vessels which the press gang could board at any time of day or night and seize crew.

The Navy’s press gang had the King’s privilege to board any Company ship—as well as enter taverns, shops, even homes—to take men and boys to serve aboard Royal ships. It was no accident that members of a press gang were bullies, thugs, blackguards feared by everyone when they arrived in port.

The morning’s sun was nearing its zenith when Horne knocked firmly on a small blue wooden door set within a crumbling white wall running along one side of a
garbage-littered
alley. A tiny brass grille was set in the middle of the door and, when Horne crooked his forefinger to rap a second time, the grille opened and a brown eye appeared on the far side of the delicate brasswork.

Horne bent forward to introduce himself but the grille slammed shut; iron bolts sounded on the far side of the door which swung open, and a man servant, wearing a white turban and a long white jacket, bowed deeply, gesturing for Horne to step from the alley.

Moving forward, Horne began to speak, but the servant hurriedly closed the door, beckoning him to follow.

Horne was surprised by the sharp contrast between the filthy alley and the beauty inside the high wall. Following the servant, he crossed a large garden planted with shrubs, flowers, and fruit trees. Descending three flagstone steps, he came into a paved courtyard decorated with ornamental pools, bronze statues, and surrounded by arches of pink limestone.

A cry broke the garden’s stillness.

Horne turned and saw another turbaned man—younger and shorter than the servant—running towards him.

‘Captain sahib! Captain sahib!’

Horne grinned. It was Jingee.

Stopping a short distance from Horne, Jingee bent
forward from the waist, salaaming and saying, ‘Welcome to my cousins’ house, Captain sahib.’

Horne accepted the greeting with a courteous nod, arms to his side.

He began, ‘I’m sorry to come unannounced, Jingee.’

‘I was expecting you, Captain sahib!’

Horne did not understand.

Jingee explained, ‘The astrologer told me to be prepared to embark on a long journey aboard a ship. I guessed that Commodore Watson must be giving us new orders, Captain sahib.’

Indians of all castes visited astrologers for advice on health, travel, money or love. Horne was not surprised that Jingee, a member of the merchant class, the
Vaisya,
followed this popular Oriental habit.

He explained, ‘Commodore Watson has told us to be prepared to sail no later than tomorrow morning for Madagascar. We will be given further instructions there.’

Jingee stood little more than five feet tall. His eyes were brown and shaped like almonds. His skin was a mellow umber, his complexion showing only a trace of a beard. In a voice which was thin but not effeminate, he said, ‘I am honoured to sail with you again, Captain sahib, wherever you lead us. I took an oath of allegiance to the Honourable East India Company and I have been waiting patiently to be called back into service. But it is to you, Captain sahib, that I am bonded. You took me from prison. You gave me a chance to prove I was no criminal but—’ he held his small head high, ‘—a man of decency and honour.’

Over the past six months, Horne had tried to meet the seven men from his squadron on a regular basis. But it was difficult keeping track of their day-to-day whereabouts, and he asked, ‘Jingee, can you help me find the others by this evening?’

‘We can find them this afternoon, Captain sahib.’

‘Where should we start?’

‘Kiro and Jud live beyond the Spice Market where you last saw them. Bapu still works in the Street of the Lanterns. He will be able to tell us where to find Babcock, Groot, and Mustafa. They move around like nomads in the desert.’

‘Let’s hope they don’t move straight into the path of the press gang.’

Jingee’s eyes widened. ‘Yes, Captain sahib. My cousins told me about the press gang visiting the cattle yards. They are not starting in the waterfront as usual this trip. They are getting smarter.’ Jingee tapped the side of his turban.

‘That’s why we must hurry, Jingee.’

‘My cousins are not at home, Captain sahib. But they would be most displeased if I did not offer you hospitality before we left their house.’

‘Thank you, Jingee. But I’m certain your cousins would understand why we must not waste time sitting here drinking tea.’

Jingee bowed. ‘As you wish, Captain sahib.’

Horne glanced at the latticed arches behind Jingee. ‘As soon as you’re ready, we can leave.’

‘But I
am
ready, Captain sahib! I have no uniform. No weapon. What else do I need? Nothing! I have already bidden my cousins goodbye this morning. As I said,
Captain
sahib, I was expecting you. In fact, you are a little late.’

Jingee was one of Horne’s most organised, most
resourceful
men. Accomplished as a cook, tailor, translator and guide, he was also surprisingly strong for his slight build, and masterful with a knife. Horne was glad to have the service again of the young Tamil’s many diverse talents.

Jingee hurried to keep pace with Horne’s brisk stride, explaining, as they passed through a narrow street lined with wooden tenements, that the last time he had seen
Kiro and Jud was three days ago. Kiro was teaching the sons of rich families to duel like the ancient
Samurai
warriors of Japan, while Jud had found a job guarding treasures at a Hindu holy place, the Red Temple.

Emerging in a square where women in brightly dyed
saris
were gathered around a stone well, Jingee pointed to a narrow street which they must follow to find Kiro. Halfway across the square two dhooli-bearers rushed towards Horne, tugging at his coat sleeve and insisting that he ride on their palanquin, but Jingee waved his hand, scolding them in shrill Hindi as he led Horne to the far side of the square.

Dried palm fronds covered the street which climbed a low hill, the midday sun filtering through the loosely woven ceiling, giving a rich light to tradesmen standing or sitting cross-legged behind carpets spread on the ground.

This was the Spice Market, and a collection of seeds, pods, roots and fine powders were arranged in small piles or short rows in front of each pedlar, making the street aromatic with the pungent odours of cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, turmeric and saffron.

As Horne and Jingee went further into the Spice Market, Horne noticed a young boy of eight or nine years following them along the dusty street, sometimes pushing his way ahead of them in the crowd. Horne did not mention the boy’s presence to Jingee, wanting to see first if he might merely be a pedlar’s scout.

As the street levelled at the top of the hill, the stalls of the spice merchants became interspersed with those of gem and precious metal dealers, turbaned men whose
ground-cloths
were strewn with gold and silver jewellery hammered into a variety of designs, or a glittering array of garnets, pearls, rubies, sapphires and jade. Horne wondered how many of the stones were real and how many were sham, worth less than a nutmeg.

As they passed the last of the gem dealers, a pedlar fell in
step with them, whispering in English, ‘Captain, you want to buy rubies?’

Jingee waved his hand. ‘Go away.’

The pedlar was tall and broad-shouldered, and he persisted, ‘Captain, you want to buy the Grand Moghul’s rubies?’

‘Go away!’ hissed Jingee.

‘I give you my word,’ promised the pedlar. ‘These rubies come from the royal city of Agra. From the Grand Moghul’s
Diwan-i-am.
’

Horne looked at the pedlar, a tall, black-skinned man with a white cloth pulled across the lower half of his face from the back of his turban, a black-and-brown-striped kaftan falling over his towering body.

Keeping pace with Horne, the pedlar lowered the cloth from his face, a big grin flashing a line of white teeth.

‘Jud!’

Tall and thick-chested, Jud was an African from Oman with a face that looked as if it had been sculpted from ebony. He raised one arm in mock military salute, barking, ‘Captain Horne …
sir
!’

Horne replied with a quick snap of the arm.

All three men laughed.

Jingee, a midget alongside Jud, looked up at the African, explaining, ‘We were coming to find you in the Temple.’

Jud shook his head. ‘Oh, you would not have found me at the Temple today, little friend. The priests heard about a press gang and decided I’d attract too much attention. They gave me these clothes and told me to lose myself in the bazaar.’

Horne shook his head. ‘You’d be safer at sea, Jud.’

‘Say the word, Captain, and I’m ready.’

‘Tonight? Tomorrow?’

‘Sir, you
are
serious!’

‘Absolutely.’

‘The Company’s assigned you a ship, sir?’

‘Not yet, Jud. We sail as far as Madagascar on an Indiaman. We receive further instructions at Port
Diego-Suarez
.’

Seeing a crowd collecting around them in the
marketplace
, Horne suggested, ‘Let’s keep walking. I’ll explain as we go.’

The three men continued along the dusty street; the shops and stalls became fewer, being replaced by
warehouses
and sheds roofed with red tiles. The small native boy was still following them, Horne noticed, but he did not inform his companions about the tag-along child. Instead he proceeded to explain the plan to board the
Unity
between now and tomorrow morning’s daybreak.

‘Captain sahib, we are here.’ Jingee pointed at a pair of tall, iron-studded doors. ‘This is where Kiro meets his students.’

Moving up to the doors, Jingee opened one with a slight push and stepped back for Horne and Jud to pass in front of him.

Beyond lay a great hall with a high ceiling covered with rattan. In the middle of the earth floor, two young boys, wooden poles gripped in both hands, were battling with one another, their feet dancing across the floor, the hollow clank of the poles echoing in the cavernous room.

Beside the boys moved Kiro, a sinewy Japanese in his mid-twenties, his black hair clipped short to his head, wearing a pair of long, wide white pants and a red band twisted round his forehead. Stepping from one leg to the other, he shouted, clapped his hands, whistled and grunted at the boys.

When he spotted the three visitors at the door, he motioned for the two students to continue without him, then crossed the dirt floor and bowed low to Horne, rising with a crisp military salute.

Horne returned the salute. ‘Excuse us for disturbing your class, Kiro.’

Kiro looked quickly at the other two men and his tawny face broke into a smile. ‘Sir, you come about a voyage?’ he said.

Horne nodded. ‘We embark as soon as we find the others.’

‘Sir, I see Bapu every day.’ Kiro pointed to the street. ‘He still works at the elephant stables two streets away. And Babcock came here only this morning, to say that he, Groot, and Mustafa are going to hide in a little house they found until the Navy’s press gang leaves Bombay.’