The War Chest

by Porter Hill

  Resuming his restless pacing, he looked at Jingee and Groot. ‘While you two were away, Babcock suggested using a land attack. From what you tell me about the cliffs on the other side of the island, they’re tall and rocky enough for a patrol to create a useful diversion. Jingee, I want you to lead such an attack.’

  ‘What kind of diversion, Captain sahib?’

  ‘I’ll explain in due course,’ he snapped. ‘In the meantime, I want you to think which men you can recruit for your patrol. Choose men with no particular skills aboard ship and make certain none of them are French. We cannot risk anyone betraying your position on shore. Also, choose no more than eight men for the patrol. Manpower remains at a premium.’

  ‘Yes, Captain sahib.’ Jingee bowed from the waist, hoping to break Horne’s crusty mood with his attentive manners.

  Horne looked at Groot. ‘How well do you remember the reefs?’

  Groot’s head was held as if he were in a formal naval inspection. Stiffly, he replied, ‘Schipper, I looked at the Tigre’s charts last night when I came off watch duty. But I must study them again before we depart, so that I can refresh my memory.’

  ‘That’s impossible.’

  ‘Schipper?’

  ‘The charts have been destroyed, Groot.’

  ‘Destroyed?’ Groot looked at Babcock.

  Horne paced back and forth. ‘Although my chart does not detail the southern reefs, you can study it, Groot, before you return to the Tigre, if that will help you in any way.’

  Still confused, Groot asked, ‘How was the Tigre’s chart destroyed, schipper?’

  Babcock stepped forward from his starboard position. ‘With all due respect, Horne, it was my fault, so I think I should explain.’

  Horne waved a hand for Babcock to proceed.

  Turning to Groot, Babcock said, ‘I locked my monkey in the cabin while Horne and I had a meeting this morning on the Tigre. Like a fool, I left the chart on the desk and that pesky monkey … ate it.’

  Jingee gasped.

  Lowering his head, Babcock proceeded, ‘That’s what I’m doing here. I swam over to tell Horne the bad news. Also, I came to say that I remember the reefs fairly well, so—’

  Horne interrupted. ‘“Fairly well” isn’t well enough, Babcock.’

  Babcock hung his head. ‘I realise that—’ adding uncharacteristically, ‘—sir. But I remember how the reefs divided into three fingers, like—’ He held up his right hand, pronging his thumb, index and middle finger.

  Horne’s ill-humour was not tempered. ‘Babcock, I’d rather change our plans now if you’re not one hundred per cent certain about the reefs. The Tigre doesn’t have the gun power of the Huma. Nevertheless, you could sail the northern route and let me trust my memory with the reefs.’

  Groot stepped forward. ‘Schipper, I remember the reef’s three fingers. Between Babcock and me, we can cross them.’

  Horne’s tone was severe, threatening. ‘I’m taking you two men at your word.’

  ‘Aye, schipper.’ Groot glanced nervously back at Babcock.

  ‘Very well.’ Horne turned to Jingee. ‘Begin selecting the men from the Huma you want to take in your patrol, before you return to the Tigre.’

  To ingratiate himself with Horne, Jingee salaamed as he bowed. ‘Yes, Captain sahib.’

  Horne said, ‘Babcock’s named the East Indian, Dangi, as a subordinate in your absence, Jingee. The man knows nothing about ships but he seems trustworthy. I suggest you take him.’

  Jingee was not pleased with the suggestion but, not wanting to cross Horne, he salaamed, answering, ‘As you wish, Captain sahib.’

  Looking astern at two rowing-boats circling the Huma and Tigre, Horne said, ‘Both ships will maintain the same division of Marines. Groot and Babcock, you sail with Mustafa. I keep Jud and Kiro.’

  Babcock nodded; Groot touched his cap, replying, ‘Aye, aye, schipper.’

  Horne pointed to the open boats as the men inside them tied tow lines to both vessels, and ordered, ‘Now make those men put muscle into their oars. This is it. So let’s catch that damned wind.’

  The hour was approaching noon; the day was 30 November, 1761.

  Chapter Nineteen

  BOMBAY CASTLE

  In the harbour city of Bombay, on 2 November, Commodore Watson visited Governor Spencer in Bombay Castle.

  Puffing, dabbing his jowls in the heat as he climbed the stone stairway to Governor Spencer’s office two storeys above his own, Watson was ostensibly welcoming Spencer back to Bombay from his voyage to Madagascar. The true purpose of the morning call was to hear details of Spencer’s dispatching Adam Horne to capture the French war chest.

  Watson did not consider Spencer a close friend. The two men did not meet socially; their wives did not exchange invitations. The Spencers associated with the aristocracy; the Watsons were homely people who preferred talking about kitchen gardens and grandchildren rather than court gossip.

  Governor Spencer sat behind a gold-cornered table in his vaulted office, looking dignified, even imperious, in a high-backed chair; the intricately carved lozenge of the Honourable East India Company’s crest, ‘HEIC’, was visible over the top of his softly marcelled grey hair.

  Thanking Watson for calling upon him, Spencer proceeded. ‘I’m pleased to say that your man, Horne, arrived safely in Madagascar.’

  Watson was relieved that Spencer was wasting no time in addressing the main concern. ‘I sent Horne and his men on the Indiaman as you instructed, Your Excellency.’

  Spencer kept his prosaic tone. ‘I’m afraid, Watson, there was a spot of trouble on the voyage to Diego-Suarez.’

  ‘Trouble?’ Watson stiffened.

  ‘The Unity was attacked by pirates,’ explained Spencer. ‘Captain Goodair was wounded and one of Horne’s men killed.’

  ‘Killed? Good God, who?’ Watson knew how close Horne had become to the band of men he had recruited from prison.

  ‘I can’t remember the man’s name. I think it was one of the Indian chaps.’ Spencer waved his hand dismissively. ‘The point of my story is that Captain Goodair was wounded and, because his First Mate had been taken ill at the journey’s outset, there was no competent man to take command during battle.’

  Watson sat forward, fearing the worst. ‘Don’t tell me that Horne overstepped his bounds and assumed command of a … merchant ship?’

  ‘Quite the contrary. Command fell upon the shoulders of the Second Mate, a young man named Tree. Thanks to Horne’s careful and, I understand, unassuming advice, Tree captured the two pirate ships, claiming a major victory for the Unity.’

  Watson relaxed back into his chair, beaming like a proud father.

  ‘Hearing of the victory,’ Spencer continued, ‘I assigned the larger of the two prizes to Horne. As the Navy will be giving him no support in his assignment, I thought he should at least have a decent ship.’

  Watson gripped his handkerchief, asking apprehensively, ‘The Navy’s not supporting Horne at … any point?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Surprised at the question, Spencer knitted his brow. ‘You know the assignment’s solely for the Bombay Marine.’

  Watson dabbed beads of nervous perspiration from his bald plate. ‘But, Your Excellency, I presumed … I presumed …’ He faltered. He no longer knew what he presumed. His mind had been bogged down with guilt since he had sent Horne and his men off on the merchant ship to Madagascar. He was ashamed that he had not demanded that Governor Spencer tell him more about the war chest assignment. He chastised himself for not having put his commission on the line when the Company had failed to give him details. Why should Horne be in jeopardy and he himself be sitting safely in Bombay Castle?

  At the risk of being paid off, Watson resumed where he felt he should have begun six weeks ago.

  ‘Why did you give orders to Horne, Your Excellency?’ he asked. ‘The responsibility was mine.’

  The blunt question startled Spencer. ‘Because my orders came directly from Company headquarte
rs. From Leadenhall Street.’

  ‘But Bombay Marines are under my control.’

  Governor Spencer kept his voice calm. ‘Commodore Watson, must I school you in Company organisation? The Bombay Marine comes under the direct authority of the Company’s three Governors—Governor Pigot of Madras, Governor Vansittart of Bengal, and myself here in Bombay. We three Governors can even disband the Marines if we so desire.’

  Watson ignored Spencer’s thinly veiled threat. ‘But men’s lives are at stake, Your Excellency.’

  Spencer held his head aloft. ‘As is peace between England and France.’

  ‘Don’t you understand, Your Excellency? Dispatching Horne and handful of ragged boys to commandeer a French treasure ship could be sending them on a suicide mission?’

  Spencer shifted uneasily in the carved chair. ‘First of all, Commodore Watson, Adam Horne’s men are hardly a band of “ragged boys”.’

  Watson became more heated. ‘Good God, sir. They’re certainly not tried and true soldiers. They’re brigands with little more than one foot out of gaol.’

  ‘A fact you yourself, Watson, convinced me was an asset when I agreed to Horne’s recruiting that scum from prison earlier this year.’

  ‘For a completely different assignment,’ Watson reminded him.

  ‘Which they performed most efficiently.’

  ‘If you have so much faith in them, sir, why all the secrecy now? Why keep details from me as you have been doing? Why isolate me from my men? Why give Horne orders in Madagascar when I’m back here in Bombay?’

  ‘Need I remind you, Commodore, that we’re at war? That certain precautions must be taken?’

  ‘Who’s at war?’ snapped Watson, impatient with Spencer’s lofty attitude. ‘The East India Company? Or England?’

  Spencer’s lips thinned with his voice. ‘The East India Company is England.’

  ‘That’s reassuring to hear. I was beginning to think that England was nothing more than the Company—with the Company too often playing God.’

  Spencer’s slight frame stiffened in his chair. Reaching for a quill on the table, he began toying with it nervously. ‘Watson, may I caution you about saying something you might later regret.’

  Watson rose. ‘Your Excellency, the only thing I could ever possibly regret would be the senseless loss of men. Too often I’ve seen the Company treat human life as if it were nothing but more noughts on their accounts sheet.’

  Spencer rose too, his face red. ‘I suggest we resume this conversation later. When you have better control of yourself, Watson.’

  ‘I have perfect control of myself.’

  ‘Commodore, good day. I have work to do.’

  ‘As I do. I bid you good day, Your Excellency.’

  Turning, Watson stormed out of the Governor’s chamber.

  * * *

  ‘The old fool.’ Left alone, Governor Spencer sat nervously chewing his fingernails.

  Why should Watson start causing trouble at this late date? The last thing the East India Company’s Secret Committee wanted now was for someone of Watson’s rank to arouse the public’s suspicions. Horne and his men had been sent to their slaughter, and nothing could, or should, be done to revoke the order.

  Spencer had been back in Bombay from Port Diego-Suarez for less than twenty-four hours, but already he was anxiously waiting for a report that Horne’s ship had been sunk, that the French warships had destroyed the small band of scruffy Company soldiers for trying to steal their war chest. The men’s backgrounds—thieves, cut-throats, villains—provided the Company with a perfect excuse if France accused the English of sending them after the war chest. Spencer need only point to their backgrounds and say that they had obviously been doing some looting for their own personal gain. They all had villainous backgrounds—except Horne, of course.

  Spencer was convinced, however, that he would have no need to make excuses to the French government. Instead, his finger would be pointed accusingly at Mauritius, condemning the French for murdering innocent Company employees who had merely been doing their job of protecting Company trading routes.

  Spencer did not expect Horne’s body to be washed up on shore beneath his window, but he and his fellow Governors were certain that the French would destroy any ship trying to commandeer their precious cargo. The Bombay Marines would be no match for warships; Horne and his men had no hope of survival.

  Spencer had set himself a deadline. He planned to wait two months, until the middle of January, and then, when Horne had not returned to Bombay Castle, he would depart for London with the good news—or bad news, as he would report it to the world—of the bloody catastrophe.

  Forgetting about Watson and Horne, he thought instead about the way in which he would report the Marines’ disappearance—he would call it butchery—in London.

  Sitting at his gilt-trimmed table high in Bombay Castle, Spencer imagined himself addressing Parliament, bringing word to the British people about France’s merciless slaughter of the Company’s little-known, unsung band of work-a-day Marines.

  He thought of the prizes he, personally, would receive for his role in this delicate subterfuge to ensure the continuance of war between England and France. A percentage of Company profits? A share of Bombay exports? Would a peerage be too much for him to hope for?

  What about Commodore Watson? How would the Company keep Watson’s mouth shut? A few bottles of gin should quiet that old blunderbuss.

  * * *

  Commodore Watson arrived back in his own office out of breath and fuming with anger.

  Brushing past his secretary, Lieutenant Todwell, he stormed through to the door of the inner chamber.

  Lieutenant Todwell followed, gripping a sheaf of papers in his bony white hand. ‘Sir, I must have a few moments of your time, sir—’

  Watson did not pause. ‘Dash it, not now, Todwell.’ Slamming the door behind him, he crossed to his desk and collapsed into the chair.

  Catching his breath, he dabbed perspiration from his jowls, cursing himself for having accepted this position in the East India Company.

  Watson’s career in His Majesty’s Royal Navy had been distinguished, but he had not shared in rich prize money as had other officers. Consequently, facing retirement with little financial cushioning, he had been lured to India by a fat salary.

  The East India Company was rich, and Watson knew that its coffers increased yearly with voyages from England to the Orient and back, bringing home silk, spices, indigo, and saltpetre. With profits of three hundred per cent, the East India Company easily won new investors for each outward voyage.

  England’s East India Company had not been the first European traders to sail to the Orient. The Dutch and Portuguese had led the way, and England, covetously seeing the vast riches transported from India and the East Indian Islands, had quickly begun interfering in the trade routes.

  Chartered by Queen Elizabeth in 1600, the Honourable East India Company now—in 1761—surpassed all other European traders. The war with France, over the past five years, had destroyed the French trading company, Compagnie des Indes Orientales.

  Watson had seen at first hand how important warfare was becoming as part of British trade expansion. Profits were greater with the help of cannons.

  Being a military man, he knew that the East India Company had taken an important step forward four years ago, when at Plassey, the former Governor of Bengal, Robert Clive, had led the British Army against Indian troops; in defeating the Nawab of Bengal, he had secured that territory as a monopoly for the Company, and ensured its loyalty by putting a puppet ruler on the throne.

  Watson knew, too, that since Plassey, the Company was working more closely with England’s War Office and with her Navy Board.

  To his frustration, however, the Company did not consider its Bombay Marine a military force—not enough to increase its fighting power. The Marine’s small fleet of ships was assigned to safeguard coastlines and draw charts for the captains of Company merchant shi
ps; the Marine’s fiercest fighting was against pirates and warring chiefs who threatened trading routes.

  In view of this, Watson wondered why Governor Spencer had sent Horne’s Marines on such an important and dangerous mission against the French. Was it, as Spencer had said, because Horne had performed so well at Madras? If so, why not secure support for them from the Royal Navy? Or was this new mission like the one to Madras, in that the Navy must not know of it? Weighing the situation, Watson became more frustrated. He realised the limitations of his own power.

  What did he have to his credit? Four stone walls of an office; a handsome salary; the prospect of a good pension. There were naval ornaments, too, like his title and his flagship, the Ferocious, forty-four guns.

  Thinking of the Ferocious, he wondered what Spencer would think if he, Watson, sailed to give Horne support at sea. Could he weigh anchor before Spencer was able to stop him?

  An idea forming in his brain, Watson pushed back his chair and moved across the room to the map case.

  Pulling out maps of the south Indian Ocean, he felt his excitement growing. What was the good of having brave men like Horne if he didn’t support them? He should be ready to risk his own life—career and comforts—as Horne did.

  His pudgy finger moved down the map from Bombay as he considered where Horne might have sailed from Madagascar in his search for the French treasure ship. Difficult as it was, Watson tried to think like Adam Horne.

  Chapter Twenty

  THE HUMA, THE TIGRE, AND OPORTO

  The Huma.

  The morning sun was at its zenith when Horne’s two ships left Oporto’s south cove to sail in opposite directions around the small island. Less than an hour earlier, Jingee’s foot party had departed on its land manoeuvre.

  With Jud as sailing master and Kiro as gun captain aboard the Huma, Horne was satisfied that his frigate would be in good command. It was the Tigre which worried him.