The War Chest

The surrender to the British in 1761 of France’s Commander-in-Chief in India, Thomas Lally, prepared the way for the end of the ‘Seven Years War’, but two more years of colonial battles and political intrigue were to pass before England and France reconciled their differences in the Treaty of Paris. This story occurs during the days of uncertain peace in 1761.

Porter Hill

Captain Adam Horne stood in a hallway within Bombay Castle, looking down through a narrow window at the jumble of pagodas, clay hovels and tented bazaars crowding the base of the stone fortress. Not daring to speculate on the reason why his Commander-in-Chief, Commodore Watson, had summoned him to headquarters this morning, he clasped his hands behind his blue frock coat and surveyed the activity below him, thinking instead about a letter he had received from his father in London. His eyes following a turbaned man pulling a cart of earthen jars towards a tent, he remembered how angry his father had been when he had first told him that he was joining the Bombay Marine.

Like many fathers whose sons unexpectedly announce that they are going to sea, Horne Senior had argued vehemently against the idea of his only son and heir pursuing a naval career, but finally accepting that Adam would not become a banker like himself, Horne’s father had advised him to join the Honourable East India Company’s Maritime Service and sail aboard one of the trading company’s merchant ships. His alternative
suggestion
had been to seek a patron in His Majesty’s Royal Navy.

Watching as the turbaned man began to unload the pots from his cart, Horne remembered how he had acted against his father’s advice and enlisted in the Bombay Marine, the Honourable East India Company’s private fighting unit whose job was to safeguard the Company’s trading routes.

He closed his eyes in the warm morning sun as he relived those early days. He had felt immediately at home with the small band of troubleshooters when he had joined them eight years ago; contentment had swelled to pride when he had been assigned command of the frigate, the
Eclipse,
thirty-four guns.

More recent memories, though, were not quite so pleasant. Six months ago, the
Eclipse
had been destroyed by the French off the Coromandel Coast, but a worse blow for Horne had been the loss of his crew, leaving him with only seven Marines in his command.

Framed by the castle window, Horne listened to the cacophony of morning noises drift up from the
marketplace
: the jangle of bells, the cries of fish vendors, the shriek of an elephant and brays of donkeys; his nose caught the intermingling aromas of raw spices, rotting fruits, fish decaying in the sun. The smells of India—accompanied by the ever-present din—reminded him how far away he was from London, both in miles and way of life.

To the right of the stone bastion beneath the window where Horne stood, he could see a crowd gathering around a storyteller sitting on a red carpet, and as he watched the crowd grow, he wondered of he could write to his father, explaining that he was content as a Bombay Marine, that he had been happy during the past eight years in India and had no plans for returning home; he knew he must not postpone that letter any longer, and he must compose more than a few pages. He considered whether he should include details about the last assignment, mention the men he had recruited from prison to form the special squadron he had led into Fort St George in Madras.

No. Mentioning the mission would be inadvisable. The manoeuvre into Fort St George had been confidential; the
Company’s Governors had forbidden Horne to talk about it to anyone, not even to submit a written report about his successful kidnapping of the French Commander-in-Chief, Thomas Lally.

Horne lowered his eyes to a line of tents directly beneath the castle window, where a woman with a jug tied to her back was selling water to passersby. He wondered if he should describe to his father how he had been spending the last six months in Bombay; how he had been landlocked in the city since the mission to Madras, how the rainy season had increased the anxiety of waiting for Commodore Watson to give him a new assignment.

Again, he decided, no. The mention of an uncertain future might sound like an admission of defeat. His father could misconstrue it as a confession that joining the Bombay Marine had been the wrong choice.

Should he try to tell his father how he was looking? Ageing? Sustaining the heat? Escaping the flux and yellow fever and the innumerable other diseases rampant in the Orient?

Wondering how he would appear in his father’s eyes, Horne turned from the window and glanced at the
gilt-framed
mirror hanging at the far end of the hallway. He remembered looking into the same mirror while waiting for his last interview with Commodore Watson, the
meeting
in which Watson had granted him permission to train prisoners for a special squadron to take into Fort St George.

The heels of Horne’s black boots rang firmly against the stone floor as he moved towards the end of the hallway. Approaching the mirror, he saw the reflection of his
gold-faced
frock-coat with its high-standing collar and gold epaulettes, the tied breeches, white silk shirt and long, winding stock, all details copied from the formal dress uniform of His Majesty’s Royal Navy in an attempt by the East India Company to spruce up its officers of the Bombay Marine.

Raising his eyes, he saw a lock of chestnut hair straying from beneath the front of his cocked hat. He used to worry about sea air and humidity curling his hair, making him look younger than his twenty-eight years. Aboard the
Eclipse,
however, he had learned that older, more seasoned men obeyed him despite his youthful appearance.

Standing a little over six feet, Horne was too tall to see his full reflection in the mirror. As he stooped to get a look at the top of his cocked hat, he heard a door open behind him and, turning, he saw Watson’s secretary, Lieutenant Todwell, step out into the hallway.

‘Commodore Watson will see you now, Captain Horne.’

Horne straightened himself. His heartbeat quickened as he finally allowed himself to speculate about the reason for this morning’s interview. After a six months’ wait, was Commodore Watson finally assigning him to a new mission?

Moving towards the open door, he said, ‘Thank you, Lieutenant,’ and as he passed Todwell, his mind fleetingly returned to the duty of writing home.

If Watson was indeed posting him on a mission, could he write about it to his father, giving him a scrap of consolation that a Marine’s life was not indolent and without event? Or was it going to be another closely guarded conspiracy?

Commodore Watson, a big man with bushy eyebrows and fat, drooping jowls, paced his sparsely furnished office. ‘You’ve been a good man these past months, Horne,’ he rasped. ‘You’ve not slept on my doorstep like a hound.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Horne sat on a straight-back chair in front of Watson’s desk, the cocked hat resting on his left knee, the gold and silver scabbard of his sabre slanting to the floor.

Watson’s deep, throaty voice went on, ‘Losing the
Eclipse
was a blow, Horne. Especially after you brought Lally out of Fort St George.’

Horne remembered how that day’s victory had been darkened by a tragedy that still, even now, affected his spirits.

‘You’ve been without a command since then. Six months seems a long time when you’re young. I remember myself how difficult it was living on half-pay …’

Many commanders might criticise Watson’s easy manner with his officers. Horne knew, too, that men of rank might find Watson’s administration too relaxed, even slipshod. Like Watson, Horne disagreed with stiff conduct, but he wished that the walrus-like Commodore was not so talkative, that he would not waste time commiserating with him.

Watson paused by his desk. ‘Charles the Second started paying a retaining fee to unemployed officers,’ he digressed. ‘Almost a hundred years ago, it was.’ He resumed his pacing of the stone floor, dabbing a handkerchief at the folds of his neck. ‘Half-pay saves a man from starvation, yes. But it’s still a damned shame to pull someone off a ship and make him sit around getting boils on his backside, drinking beer with men he doesn’t like.’

Horne forced himself to remain silent, restraining the impulse to move impatiently on his chair.

Watson raised his watery blue eyes to the rattan sweeps of the punkah fan moving slowly above his desk. ‘You’ve been eating well, Horne?’ he asked.

The question—its avuncular tone—surprised Horne.

‘Why … yes. Thank you, sir.’

‘More than a mountain of rice soaked in Indian hot sauces?’

‘I’ve developed a taste for native dishes, sir,’ Horne confessed. ‘A man on my last voyage was an exceedingly good cook. He started me eating Indian food.’

‘Good cook?’ Watson’s bushy eyebrows shot up his forehead. ‘One of those Indian chappies from the prison was a cook?’

‘Yes, sir. A very good cook, sir.’

‘Which one was that?’

‘Jingee, sir.’

‘Ah, Jingee! The one no taller than—’ Watson levelled out his right hand from his protuberant stomach, ‘—yea!’

‘Yes, sir. Jingee the Tamil, sir.’

Watson went back to pacing his chamber, mopping his bald pate. ‘You put a lot of time and energy into training those prisoners, Horne. It’s a pity not to be using their talents—knives … garrottes … that Japanese
hand-fighting
…’

‘
Karate,
sir.’

‘
Karate
!
Ah, yes! That’s the name.
Karate
!
And what’s the name of that Greek fighting? The one you do, Horne?’

‘
Pankration,
sir,’ answered Horne, adding quickly, ‘but there’s a difference between
Pankration
and
Karate,
sir. For one thing, the Greek form is older. It’s said that Greeks travelled to Japan and taught the art of open-hand fighting to the Japanese in exchange for the secret of silk-making.’

Watson, standing by the window, was no longer listening to Horne. Gazing down at the harbour spreading beyond the stone wharf, he asked, ‘Horne, you still see those seven men?’

‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir.’

‘None have signed up with a ship?’

‘No, sir. Not yet, sir.’ The men had been free to join other Company ships, but Horne was pleased they had not. Deciding it would do no harm to guide Watson to the subject of a new mission, he added, ‘With all due respect, sir, my men have been dodging the press gangs, waiting like myself to hear some word from you about a possible assignment. For a reunion of … my squadron, sir.’

Watson pointed to the west of Bombay Castle. ‘A Navy
brig’s in port this morning. I can smell a press gang a
hundred
miles away. And there’s one right outside my window.’

Horne had noticed the Navy brig on his way to Bombay Castle. He had guessed, too, that the weathered ship might be a press gang, thugs from the Royal Navy looking for men to put into service aboard the King’s fleet. Admiral Pocock’s ships of the line waited across India in the Bay of Bengal.

‘Horne, how soon can you produce your men?’

The suddenness of the question jolted Horne. ‘Excuse me, sir?’

‘Your men? How soon can you muster them to embark on a new mission?’

Horne sat on the edge of the chair. ‘Immediately, sir.’

‘By tomorrow morning?’

‘By this evening, sir.’

Watson turned from the window, his eyes trained on the floor. ‘Horne, I wish I could give you a few details about your new assignment but—damn it, Horne—they’ve muzzled me again!’

‘“Muzzled”, sir?’

Watson waved his hand, gesturing that it didn’t matter, that Horne should forget what he had just said. ‘I can only tell you,’ he said, ‘that you and your men will sail from Bombay aboard the
Unity.
’

In his idle days around Bombay, Horne had spent much of his time sitting in the harbour. He remembered the name of every ship he had seen and said now with surprise, ‘Sir, the
Unity
’s a Company Indiaman.’

‘Aye. That’s right, Horne. The
Unity’
s
loaded with silk, saltpetre and indigo. She’s sailing to Madagascar to join a China convoy bound for England.’

Horne looked at the bull’s hide map behind Watson’s desk, seeing the shoe-shaped island of Madagascar
positioned
off the sloping east coast of Africa, southwest across the Indian Ocean from Bombay.

Watson said, ‘With that press gang out there, she’ll probably want to be weighing anchor soon. Not even a Company ship is safe from those bastards.’ He turned to Horne. ‘You and your men will travel as passengers as far as Madagascar. In Port Diego-Suarez, you go to
Company
House. Somebody there will give you your
instructions
.’

‘May I ask who, sir?’

‘You’ll find out soon enough.’ Watson turned back to the window.

‘Yes, sir.’

Watson was acting under orders from the Company’s three Governors, Horne suspected, the men who directly controlled the Bombay Marine in the East India Company’s hierarchy of power.

Moving behind his desk, the Commodore stood in front of his chair and looked down at the papers spread across the desk top. ‘So that’s all I can tell you, Horne. Not why. Not when. Not where. Only that you’re to sail to Madagascar. I’m sorry.’

Realising he was being dismissed, Horne rose from his chair.

Watson began shuffling through the papers, head bent, saying in a lighter voice, ‘This war with France drags on, eh, doesn’t it, Horne? It’s been six months since the surrender of Pondicherry and still there’s no word of any peace treaty.’

‘No, sir.’

Watson shuffled more papers. ‘There’s quarterdeck gossip that the French are about to mutiny on Mauritius if the frogs don’t send them some wages.’

‘So I hear, sir.’

Horne had indeed heard word about rebellion brewing amongst the French forces at their headquarters on the island of Mauritius. They had not been paid for almost a year.

Watson raised his eyes to Horne. ‘So France better dispatch some gold here pretty quickly.’

‘Yes, sir.’

His gaze fixed on Horne, Watson asked, ‘But who knows, eh? Maybe a war chest’s already at sea?’

‘Very possibly, sir.’

‘That would be some prize to take, eh, Horne? A French war chest?’

‘Yes, sir. By all means, sir.’