The War Chest Read Free Page A

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 bentforward 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