The War Chest Read Free

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.

Chapter Two
THE PRESS GANG
    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