by Seth Hunter
Despite his poor start in life, Wellesley had been educated at Eton and Cambridge and was generally reputed to be a great scholar, though this had not prevented him from entering the world of politics. Before accepting the office of Governor-General of Bengal, he had been on the Board of Control appointed by Parliament to oversee the affairs of the East India Company.
His Excellency was presently accommodated in the Garden House, the residence of the Governor of Madras some several miles south of the city, having arrived from Calcutta in August – bringing half the Bengal Army with him to reinforce the local garrison. Through the expansive windows of the governor’s mansion Nathan could see their tents receding into the middle distance in long, straight lines, with the regimental colours drooping in the humid air and squadrons of cavalry drilling on the governor’s lawns. It was widely reported that some 22,000 native troops of the East India Company and 4,000 British regulars were currently stationed in and around Madras, and that as soon as the rains ended they would advance on Mysore. The news that a hundred French volunteers had landed on the western coast had given the governor-general every justification, in his view, for declaring a state of war. However, the loss of the Pearl and her precious cargo had clearly robbed him of any satisfaction he might have felt in this pretext, and as was usual in such circumstances, it was the messengers who were likely to bear the brunt of the blame.
‘Are you counting them, sir?’ Wellesley had remarked Nathan’s interest in the view from the window. ‘Have you calculated their value in pounds, shillings and pence? Do you know what it costs to maintain an army of twenty-six thousand men in the field? Or to pay their wages, which, I am informed, are some three months in arrears? And now they are expected to march through two-hundred-and-fifty miles of jungle to fight their own people. My God.’ His thin lips twisted in disgust.
Nathan was well aware that the great majority of the forces at the governor-general’s disposal were mercenaries – native troops of Hindu or Mohammedan persuasion. Their reasons for fighting were even more of a mystery to him than the sentiments which drove his own ship’s company to fight and die for King George. He imagined that a great many things came into it – pride, politics, racial and religious prejudice, a passion for soldiering – but like any mercenary army their principle objective was money – pay and the promise of plunder. And if for one moment they suspected the Honourable East India Company lacked the means of providing one or the other, it would be extremely foolish to rely upon any more quixotic sense of loyalty. In fact, they were as likely to vent their disappointment upon their tardy paymasters and exact a bloody retribution for being so ill-used. But if the governor-general did not know this already, Nathan was not going to be the one to inform him.
‘One million pounds sterling,’ Wellesley reflected. ‘Vanished into the wastes of the Indian Ocean. Unless one of you gentleman has some idea of where we should start looking for it.’
He gazed around the subdued faces of his audience: the two naval officers; his two younger brothers who apparently served him in the roles of private secretary and military adviser; the commander-in-chief, General Harris; and the Governor of Madras, Lord Clive, son of the great Robert Clive, whose glorious victories Wellesley wished to emulate, it was said, and in whose shadow he appeared destined to remain. But none of these worthies appeared willing to hazard even a wild guess as to the whereabouts of the governor-general’s treasure, let alone incur his wrath by pointing out that it was very likely on its way to the Île de France and so lost to him for ever. The silence lengthened. Nathan stared resolutely at the toes of his gleaming Hessian boots, determined to keep his mouth shut and his powder dry. He was to some extent protected by the bandage around his head, though this was unlikely to carry much weight with an old Etonian. Floreat Etona. What was it? Never kick a man unless he is down, and then make sure he never gets up. Something of that sort, anyway; Mr Vivian would know. Nathan had been to Charterhouse, where they preferred kicking a ball to heads. Doubtless Mr Vivian and my lord Wellesley would consider this effeminate. He had nothing useful to contribute in any case. He had no idea where the money had gone, or even if its loss was as disastrous as the governor-general had indicated. The East India Company could ill afford to lose one million pounds, but it was still only a fraction of their annual profits. And doubtless they were insured with Lloyds.
If it was meant to pay for a war against Tipu Sultan, then it was a different matter, of course. But then they should have taken better care of it. The whole plan had been flawed from start to finish. Why had they not spread the load between a dozen East Indiamen instead of loading it onto one ship? Why did they not provide a decent escort? Or better still, why not pay the money to the Rothschilds and let them move it about the globe in their own wonderful way, which seemed to be independent of winds and wars and whatever else mere humans were obliged to take into consideration?
Of course Nathan had no intention of saying any of these things. To do so would in all probability bring the governor-general’s rage down upon his head, broken or not. It was said that Wellesley had set his heart on this war; that it was the only reason he had come out to India in the first place, forsaking a position in government; and that he and Billy Pitt had planned it between them, as a decisive step in creating a new empire in the East, which would replace the one Britain had so carelessly lost in the Americas.
‘What did the prisoners have to say for themselves?’
Every face in the room turned in the direction of the speaker. He was one of the governor-general’s two younger brothers who, though he could hardly have been more than thirty, wore the uniform of a full colonel in the 33rd Regiment of Foot. There was a close family resemblance – especially about the nose, which was even longer and bonier than the governor-general’s – but his features were far more youthful and he had a devil-may-care look about him: the look of a rather bumptious schoolboy with an impatient air of showing his elders the right way of going about things. His lips were not so thin as his brother’s, and his hair, which was unpowdered, hung in brown, glossy curls almost to his shoulders, but there was nothing of the fop about him. He looked lean and hard and fit, and extremely sure of himself. His name was Arthur, Nathan recalled – the Honourable Arthur Wellesley – and his role was to advise his brother on military affairs. Nathan wondered what General Harris, and his fellow officers, felt about that. Harris had remained a silent presence in the corner of the room but he kept glancing out of the window as if he had rather be in one of the tents.
‘What prisoners?’ demanded the governor-general with something very like a snarl.
‘The prisoners that were taken with the Shiva,’ the prodigy replied with composure. He looked as if it would take a very great deal to discompose him, even a rocket from his elder brother. ‘Particularly the officers – those who survived the encounter. I suppose they have been questioned?’ he demanded of the commodore.
‘Indeed,’ Picket replied, ‘but there were only two officers in any shape to be questioned. They maintained that they were French naval officers from the Forte, transferred to the Shiva when she was taken at Devil’s Point, but they would be aware that they would be condemned as pirates else and hanged for it.’
‘And the rest of the crew?’
‘Oh, they are from the Shiva, but they are all Lascars or Malays and claim they had no choice.’
‘Is this not the most likely explanation?’ Lord Clive demanded.
Picket gave no answer. He was reluctant, Nathan had noted, to challenge the opinion of his superiors, the Governor of Madras in particular.
‘What of this Italian woman you rescued off Mangalore,’ the colonel continued, having clearly taken on the role of judge advocate, ‘do you believe her story?’
‘Why should she lie?’ Nathan felt all eyes turn to him and cursed himself for being provoked into speech, especially as he had his own doubts about Caterina’s respect for the truth. ‘I can think of no reason why she should make up su
ch a story.’
‘Save that she be in the service of the French,’ Lord Clive sneered, with a look about the room as if to share his astonishment that anyone should be fool enough to think otherwise.
‘Then she would have even less reason to disclose their plans,’ Nathan retorted evenly.
‘Perhaps we should speak with her,’ the colonel suggested. ‘Where is she at present?’
‘She has taken lodgings in Fort Saint George, awaiting passage to England,’ Nathan replied, a little uneasily. He was not at all anxious to have Caterina exposed to an interrogation, least of all by Colonel Wellesley.
‘Did she have a name for this mysterious Frenchman she claimed to have overheard?’ the governor-general enquired in a voice that suggested he was more of Lord Clive’s opinion than not.
‘Only that he was referred to as Monsieur le Marquis,’ Nathan replied, ‘and Captain Leloup once called him Fabien.’
‘No one we know, I suppose?’ Wellesley drawled in the same sardonic tone, his eyes lazily sweeping the room. He clearly did not expect a positive reply and nor was any forthcoming, but Nathan happened to be looking in Lord Clive’s direction, and he saw a look of startled concern, almost of horror, cross the governor’s face. It certainly wiped the smirk off it. The colonel had observed it, too. Nathan saw him shoot a glance at his brother, but if the governor-general had noticed, he chose not to pursue the matter. Instead, he addressed another question to Picket.
‘You took some papers, I believe, from the Shiva after the battle …’
‘That is right, my lord, but they did not appear to contain anything of significance.’
He had told Nathan much the same thing and Nathan had lacked the energy, or the authority, to press him on the matter. Wellesley lacked neither.
‘Perhaps we should be the judge of that,’ he informed Picket coldly.
‘Well, there was the French signal book,’ the commodore conceded with a flush, ‘as to the rest –’ he glanced towards Lord Clive – ‘I had hoped to discuss this in private with His Excellency.’
‘Really?’ Wellesley’s raised his elegant brows. ‘You would prefer us to leave the room.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ Picket looked as if he wished he could. ‘It is just that – the only other document of interest was His Excellency’s order to the commander of the Shiva, despatching the vessel to Devil’s Point.’
‘You are implying there is something improper in that?’ Clive bridled, but Wellesley raised a restraining hand.
‘Not at all. On the contrary.’ Picket’s flush had deep ened. ‘But as it was marked “Most Secret and Confidential” …’
‘I assume this was to prevent the location of the rendezvous from being revealed to the French,’ Wellesley suggested, ‘which would no longer appear to be an issue. Anything else?’ He addressed Picket as he might a junior subaltern who had singularly failed to impress.
‘There were a few charts – but nothing out of the ordinary.’
‘Nothing that might indicate where the French were going next?’ the colonel drawled sardonically.
‘Of course not. Would I not have said?’ Picket was beginning to look like a broiled lobster and it was not just the heat in the room. ‘If you wish for a full itinerary …’ The company waited expectantly – ‘Well, if I recall correctly, there was a general map of the Indian Ocean, a few more detailed charts of the Malabar Coast and the Bay of Bengal. And some charts of the various atolls thereabouts.’
‘What atolls?’ Lord Clive demanded sharply.
Picket ticked them off on his fingers. ‘The Laccadives, the Andamans, the Maldives …’ It was clear that he did not consider any of this important.
‘The Maldives?’ Wellesley’s voice was entirely lacking in its customary languor.
‘They are some three hundred miles to the west of Ceylon, Your Excellency, but—’
‘I know where they are, damn it. It did not occur to you that the French squadron might have made their base there?’
‘I – I had no reason to suppose it, my lord.’ Picket threw another wild glance at Nathan but Nathan was saying nothing. He had been unconscious when Picket had decided to set a course for Madras. Let him take the consequence of that decision. ‘I cannot think—’
‘They must have had some rendezvous in the area besides Devil’s Point, I would have thought.’ Wellesley looked about the room for support. ‘Surely the Shiva would not have gone off in pursuit of the Falcon without some arrangement of that nature. And God knows I am no seaman, but are they not likely to seek a safe haven until the monsoons are over? Commodore?’ he appealed to Nathan. ‘Would you risk a journey across seven thousand miles of open sea in the stormy season with a fortune in silver rattling round in the hold?’
‘Probably not,’ Nathan conceded. It was not a problem he was ever likely to encounter, he thought.
‘But, my lord, there are over a thousand islands in the Maldives …’ Picket objected reasonably enough.
‘But only one port, I believe. On the island of Malé.’ Wellesley clearly took satisfaction from knowing every small detail of his dominions. ‘The people are Mohammedans, quite possibly in sympathy with Tipu Sultan and the French. The more I think on it, the more I am inclined to think that Malé is the ideal haven for them.’
Any port in a storm, thought Nathan, for it seemed a desperate notion to him. But he left it to Picket to tell him so.
‘Possibly one of the Shiva’s officers might be able to help us,’ Colonel Wellesley suggested. ‘If a greater degree of persuasion were to be exerted.’
‘You mean string ’em up by the thumbs …’ General Harris frowned as if trying to recall if there was anything in the King’s Regulations to prevent it.
‘I was not thinking of anything quite so medieval. However, if it turns out that they are not in the French service, then they are guilty of piracy and may be hanged for it. If it were indicated that a degree of co-operation might incline the governor-general to clemency …’
His brother nodded. ‘Excellent notion. Where are they now?’ he snapped at the unfortunate Picket.
‘Aboard the Bombay, Your Excellency, awaiting transfer to Fort Saint George.’ Picket wiped a hand across his brow to stop the sweat from blinding him.
‘Then might I propose they be accommodated there as soon as possible,’ the colonel put to him, ‘and the situation clearly explained to them, in words they cannot fail to understand.’
‘You do that, Arthur, you are good at making yourself clear,’ the governor-general instructed his brother. He seemed more cheerful now he had decided on a course of action. ‘And in the meantime, we must prepare for every eventuality. How soon can the squadron be made ready for sea?’ he asked Nathan.
Nathan thought quickly, though it was not a decision he cared to make in a hurry. The region was notoriously prone to cyclones during the north-east monsoons and there was the problem of the islands themselves. If the French had chosen to make their base at Malé it was reasonable to assume that they had taken the trouble to defend it. He wished he had seen this chart Picket had finally seen fit to tell him about.
‘We could be ready for sea within a few hours,’ he declared, ‘but, with respect, there is little point if we do not have sufficient force to achieve a result. If we assume the Bridport and the Pearl were taken at Devil’s Point, the French have seven ships at their disposal, including three heavy frigates …’
‘So what force do you require, sir? I regret we have no ships of the line to hand, and it would be a while before they could be sent out from England.’
Nathan ignored the sarcasm. ‘The Shiva would be some help,’ he replied. ‘But she has been badly knocked about and—’
‘How badly? Is she seaworthy? She must be, or you could not have brought her here from Ceylon.’
‘Yes, but we were lucky there was not a storm.’ He glanced at Picket, but he was no help, sitting there in his pool of misery. ‘And she is hardly in shape to fight a b
attle. If we could put her in a dockyard, make some rudimentary repairs to her stern, and her steering, then—’
‘How long?’
How long was a piece of string? They were dealing with a dockyard. ‘Three, four days, maybe, if they know what they are about.’ As many months if they did not, and a considerable amount in bribes, either way.
‘Harry – write to the supervisor at the dockyard,’ Wellesley instructed the younger of his two brothers who served as his secretary. ‘Tell him he is to make it the most urgent priority. I want that ship ready in three days maximum. Three days,’ he said to Nathan. ‘Then you must take her as she is, or go without her. Anything else?’
‘I cannot rightly say until I have seen the position, but if the place is defended …’
‘You will need soldiers. We have plenty of them, doing nothing in particular at the moment. How many do you want?’
General Harris opened his mouth, but the governor-general raised a hand to still any protest he may have uttered.
‘We could scarcely accommodate more than two or three hundred in the ships we have at present,’ Nathan began.
‘Commandeer any merchant ships you please,’ Wellesley informed him blithely. ‘You have my authority. My God, we have just brought half the Bengal Army down from Calcutta. Just state your needs, sir, I beg of you.’
‘Perhaps the Falcon –’
‘You have it. And the men? A thousand? Two thousand?’
‘I think a thousand would be more than adequate,’ the colonel assured his brother with a lazy smile. ‘Light companies and grenadiers. I will discuss the details with General Harris, and if I might have the honour of leading them …’
