The War Chest (11 page)

‘What he says is true,' murmured Horne. ‘Le Clerc writes in his entries about spending evenings with the helmsman. His name is Claude Dupres.'

Moving towards the bullshide map hanging behind the desk, Horne ordered, ‘Tell Ury to come here and show us where the rendezvous is to take place.'

Muttering an oath against Captain Le Clerc, Ury came and stood beside Horne in front of the map.

A meeting to pass the mysterious cargo to another French ship was to take place at Oporto, a small island in the Mascarene Islands to the southeast of Madagascar,
southwest
of the French headquarters on Mauritius.

Horne explained his theory to Babcock and Groot after he had sent Ury from the cabin. Studying the small indigo speck on the bullshide map, he said, ‘If Ury's telling the truth—and I believe he is—the French have been passing a valuable piece of cargo from ship to ship, ever since Le Havre. The cargo moved down the Atlantic, around the tip of Africa, and up the Indian Ocean toward Mauritius, being transferred from ship to ship to ship.'

‘Like a child's game,' said Groot excitedly. ‘Like a game of passing a pebble or a handkerchief.'

‘Precisely,' Horne agreed. ‘In England we call it “Pass the Parcel”.'

Babcock pulled his right ear. ‘That way it doesn't stay on one ship long enough for anyone else to get suspicious about something valuable being there.'

‘Which is why I suspect the cargo is highly valuable.' Horne was growing more confident of his theory. ‘Such as the war chest despatched from France aboard the
Royaume.'

Turning to the desk, he tapped the ship's log. ‘Le Clerc doesn't mention the
Royaume
because he never saw her. By the time the war chest reached Africa, it had long ago left the
Royaume.
Le Clerc took possession of it from the
Elise
Sante.'

Groot supplied, ‘And passed it on to the
Calliope.'

‘Precisely.'

Babcock asked, ‘So does Le Clerc know it's the war chest he's taken from one ship and is going to pass to another?'

‘If not the war chest, then something equally valuable.' Horne reminded both men, ‘Le Clerc abandoned his command—this brig—to sail with the mysterious cargo to the next rendezvous point at Oporto.'

Babcock mulled over the theory. ‘Horne, do you think Oporto might be the last drop point?'

‘Before reaching Mauritius, yes.'

‘If it is the bloody war chest,' Babcock went on, ‘and Oporto's the last dropping point, the escort coming from Mauritius to pick it up could be more than one bloody ship.'

‘Quite possibly.' Horne looked back to the map. ‘We shall only find out if we get there in time for the transfer.'

Groot asked, ‘What if Babcock's right? What if we get to Oporto and see the entire French fleet? What do we do then,
schipper
?'

‘Let's get there first.'

The clip-clop of horses' hooves echoed through the night along London's fashionable Pall Mall. Towards the end of the cobbled thoroughfare, two lanterns flanked the
doorway
of a private gaming house known not by its owner's name but, instead, by the name of the manager, a gentleman of society who had lost his fortune and had been forced to earn his livelihood as a professional host—Mr Boodle.

Apart from cards, dice and other games of chance, Mr Boodle's house—or, as it was becoming known in society, Boodle's—offered food and a fine selection of wines and liquors. The establishment also provided private parlours for patrons who wished to enjoy an evening in seclusion with their guests.

The late November evening was chilly and a fire had been laid in the hearth of the first floor parlour reserved for Sir Henry Maddox, a frequent visitor to Boodle's and a member of the Honourable East India Company's Board of Directors, the influential group of businessmen known as the Company's Secret Committee.

Dining with Sir Henry Maddox was Sir Basil Rothingham, also a member of the East India Company's Secret Committee, together with two gentlemen from the British Navy Board, Messrs John Todd and Timothy Weldon.

Roast fowl, a joint of beef and game pies had been devoured, pickles, beets and other condiments cleared from their pots; the four gentlemen passed from champagne to port as they began discussing their reason for gathering
on this cold autumn evening in a private upstairs
dining-room
at Boodle's.

Sir Henry Maddox, a round-bellied man, his hair tied in a queue and powered in the old-fashioned manner, sat back in his armed-chair. ‘The Company's done its part,' he began. ‘Now it's time for the Navy Board to do theirs, eh?'

The two guests from the Navy Board, Todd and Weldon, sitting side by side on a padded leather bench on the opposite side of the oaken table from Sir Henry and Sir Basil, exchanged cautious glances.

John Todd, the taller of the two, replied, ‘You've been to the Deptford shipyards, Sir Henry. You've seen the vessels. You may have gathered from what you've seen that we're planning to keep our side of the, ah, arrangement.'

Sir Henry Maddox leaned back in his chair, a bumper of port resting on his protuberant belly. ‘Aye, Sir Basil and I, we've been down to Deptford. We're damned pleased, too, with what we saw. But there's papers to endorse.
Provisions
to impress. We don't want to part with a shilling till we know the bottoms are ours, clear and dry.'

Folding both hands in front of him on the table, John Todd assumed the detached tone of a scrivener. ‘Sir Henry, when the Navy Board receives word from Leadenhall Street that the Honourable East India Company's Bombay Marines have launched their attack and have been …' he looked at his colleague from the Navy Board, ‘…
successfully
annihilated—'

His cold grey eyes returned to Sir Henry Maddox. ‘Then and only then shall the East India Company have full deed to the six ships the Navy Board has commissioned from the Deptford shipyards.'

Plain, simple facts reduced to cold words were more chilling than the November night. The four men were all
privy to confidential arrangements made between the Honourable East India Company and the Navy Board; they did not mention the details at the dining-table but the background was foremost in all their minds:

After France had surrendered Pondicherry, the French outpost on the Coromandel Coast, to the British in January of this same year—1761—the war had moved into a stalemate. England could not yet claim victory; France would not budge from India. The British began looking for an excuse to deliver a final blow to drive the French from India once and for all and make it impossible for France ever to re-establish a foothold in the Orient, so leaving all eastern colonies to Britain, all territorial trade there to the Honourable East India Company. But Britain could not appear as the obvious aggressor, not when treaties were yet to be signed, not with war also raging in Canada. The answer came from Le Havre, in the form of a clandestine report that France was dispatching a war chest to pay her mutinous troops on Mauritius. Looking to the Honourable East India Company to perform its share of the work in return for enjoying a trade monopoly, the Navy Board and the East India Company reached an agreement which would lead France into direct conflict, by tricking the French into attacking a private British vessel. The Company's private fighting unit, the Bombay Marine, would be given an order to seize—to
try
to seize—the French war chest, a mission which was a hopeless military cause but politically volatile. The command would come from high in Company ranks, but would later be flatly denied. Who would believe it? Little David had more hope against Goliath than the Company's shabby Bombay Marine had against a French treasure ship. When word came to London that the French had destroyed the Marine ship for no apparent reason, the Navy Board would be applauded for issuing orders to pound the French out of India. The price which the East India Company asked for sacrificing the lives of their
Bombay Marines was the replacement of the Company ships which the Royal Navy had pressed into service and lost in battle. Arguments between the Navy Board and the East India Company had been extended for two additional weeks, until the Navy Board recognised that the term ‘lost in battle' also included ships destroyed by storms while in service to His Majesty's Royal Navy.

Sir Basil Rothingham, a short, meekly mannered man with steel-framed glasses, spoke for the first time since the discussion had begun after the meal. ‘This entire
conversation
could have been avoided if Lloyd's did not demand impossible rates to protect ships in war time.'

Heads nodded on both sides of the oaken table, the gentlemen agreeing that the insurance agents acting out of Lloyd's Coffee House were becoming avaricious.

The hour was late; all four gentleman wanted nothing more now than to return to their homes.

John Todd who, living in the distant village of Chelsea, had the farthest to travel, moved restlessly on the padded bench. ‘So when shall we know if the Marines have been duly eliminated according to our agreement?'

Sir Henry remained the spokesman. ‘Governor Spencer sails from Bombay as soon as he can verify that the French have slaughtered the Company's Marines and there's solid reason for England to strike back, and strike back hard.'

‘A long journey, Bombay to Gravesend.'

‘Not at this time of year, Mr Todd. The typhoon season's over. If Spencer leaves Bombay in December, he can have word with us in four months.'

John Todd persisted. ‘So the earliest the Navy Board will know is Springtime?'

‘I would say so. That gives you time to get word to
Pocock's fleet in Calcutta. Colonel Coote's out there, too, with the Army There will be no problem.'

Timothy Weldon, the youngest man in the room, a secretary in the Navy Board and rumoured to be a favourite of Sir William Pitt, sat forward on the bench, asking, ‘Nobody outside the privileged groups knows of this? Not even the Commodore of the Company's Marine?'

‘Commodore Watson?' Sir Henry shook his head,
remembering
Watson from the West Indies, when he had been Rear Admiral of the Blue. ‘Watson's looking after his own interest. Retiring soon. Pension, you know.'

‘Ah!' Young Weldon nodded knowingly. ‘Pension.'

Sir Henry confirmed, ‘Governor Spencer is giving orders
personally
to the Marine officer. You can rest assured, gentlemen, all will be done very neatly. No leaks to committees or politicians.'

‘Good. Capital.' Weldon rose from the bench; his colleague, Todd, followed him, saying more lightly, ‘As they say, Sir Henry, it's good doing business with the Honourable East India Company—where the emphasis is on “Company” rather than “Honourable”!'

Guffaws and chuckles greeted the popular expression from the commercial world as the four men left the
crumb-strewn
, port-stained table.

The island of Oporto rose like a mountain of grey stone from the Indian Ocean, the morning sun glistening beyond the jagged southern rim as the
Huma
approached on a northwestern course, followed by the
Tigre.

Adam Horne stood with Jingee and Jud on the
Huma’
s quarterdeck, looking ashore through his spyglass,
remembering
details from the map.

A small inlet lay on Oporto’s southwestern coast; a deeper, wider-mouthed harbour was located on the opposite side of the island. Suspecting that the French would be meeting in the larger cove, Horne planned to anchor his ships on the southern side and send a foot party overland to learn if the
Calliope
—or any other French vessels—lay at anchor.

As hands shortened sails on the frigate, Horne surveyed the grey rocks through the spyglass, following a green trail of vegetation leading down from the island’s barren plateau.

‘Any sign of life, Captain sahib?’ asked Jingee. ‘Do you see the
Calliope’
s
sails?’

‘If the
Calliope’
s
nearby, Jingee, she’s most likely anchored on the far side of the island,’ explained Horne. ‘The inlet there is wider and probably provides better shelter from sea traffic.’

As he traced the line of vegetation down from the cliff’s face, he added, ‘We must not forget that we might be too late for the rendezvous. The war chest may already have been transferred to the ship from Mauritius. It may now be on its way to pay the French troops.’

Jingee’s turban glistened snowy white in the morning sun, as he asked, ‘Which way do you plan to sail around the island, Captain sahib?’

Jingee’s enthusiasm for details would normally have pleased Horne, but having lain awake most of the night considering possible confrontations with the
Calliope,
he had risen in a testy mood. The hail of landfall from the masthead had prevented him from shaving, and he stood on the quarterdeck feeling scruffy and irritable.

Lowering the spyglass, he forced himself to be civil. ‘We shan’t make any plans to round the island until a scouting party crosses on foot and brings back details of the far cove.’

He handed the spyglass to Jud and studied the island with his naked eye as he explained, ‘Jingee, you and Groot will be that scouting party. The rest of us will remain aboard ship while you two reconnoitre.’

The assignment thrilled Jingee. ‘Do you think the island’s inhabited, Captain sahib?’

‘I doubt it. But if settlers or natives do live here, you and Groot know enough languages between you to speak to almost anyone you may encounter. That’s why I’m sending you.’

His brown eyes wide and alert, Jingee asked, ‘What should we say if we meet natives, Captain sahib?’

‘You both have your wits about you. I am sure you can make up a fanciful story about being traders or fishermen from the mainland, but you must not take any unnecessary chances. The French have allies throughout all the Mascarene islands. You must be constantly on the
lookout
, too, for a patrol from a French ship.’

‘Shall we arm ourselves, Captain sahib?’

‘Yes. But with no more than a brace of flintlocks and daggers. Don’t use the pistols except in extreme danger. A gun shot could alert other ships that we’re anchored on this side of the island.’

Horne looked at Jud holding the spyglass to his
ebony-black
face. ‘Do you see anything?’

‘Not a sign of life, sir. Hardly even a tree on the plateau.’

‘I suspect, Jud, that the island’s two harbours are the only reason it appears on a chart.’

Studying the stony island through the lens, Jud asked, ‘Who named it Oporto, sir?’

‘The names’s Portuguese. They most likely claimed it a hundred and fifty or two hundred years ago, when they first came to India, as a way-station for merchant ships.

‘Does your map show how large it is, sir?’

‘According to the chart I found aboard ship, it’s three miles wide and five miles long.’

Jingee stepped forward. ‘Three miles will be no problem to cross quickly on foot, Captain sahib.’

Horne rejoined, ‘But such a narrow width creates problems for any attack by sea.’

Jingee, not understanding, wrinkled his dark brow.

Horne pointed. ‘Look. See how the island slopes down on the western side. Our masts and rigging might be visible from an enemy look-out as we circled north.

Jud lowered the spyglass, ‘Aye, sir. You’d have to sail with the gunports open, prepared to fight.’

Jingee assured Horne, ‘I’ll keep my eyes open for
lookouts
as well as the lie of the shoreline, Captain sahib.’

Anxious to get his plans worked out before morning had passed, Horne explained the first step to Jud. ‘Jingee and I will row over to the
Tigre.
Jingee will go ashore with Groot and I’ll stay with Babcock to discuss details of the attack. While I’m away, Jud, you’re in charge of the
Huma.’

Proud to be honoured in such a way, Jud raised his right arm, saluting, ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

The African giant was one of the few of Horne’s Marines to follow Royal Navy conventions. Horne returned the salute, ordering, ‘Lower the rowing-boat for departure.’

Jud descended the companion ladder and moved towards the port entry.

Standing beside Jingee on the quarterdeck, Horne pointed to the green line of vegetation on the island’s stony face, explaining that he suspected a creek was there which Jingee could use as a path to follow in climbing to the plateau.

The sun inched its way up the Indian sky, promising a hot day, as the
Huma
and
Tigre
creaked at anchor in Oporto’s southern cove. The morning watch had finished by the time Horne and Jingee ascended a rope ladder to the port entry of the
Tigre.
Horne carried a parchment chart tucked into his waistband.

In readiness for the meeting, Babcock had stretched an awning across the brig’s quarterdeck as protection against the sun. Locking the monkey in his cabin, he had brought up two chairs to the quarterdeck so that he and Horne could enjoy the cool breeze blowing off the sea.

Before joining Babcock, Horne stood with Jingee and Groot by the port entry, emphasising what landmarks they should look for on the island, reminding them not to fire their pistols unless they were in extreme danger.

Watching the snub-nosed boat move silently from the brig to the rocky shoreline, he waited until he had seen the two men hide the boat behind some boulders and find a route up the craggy face of the island. Satisfied that they were on their ascent to the plateau, he turned to join Babcock.

As the breeze flapped the blue awning, he sat down facing Babcock. There was one thing he wanted Babcock to understand immediately. ‘We can’t make a definite plan until we know if the
Calliope
—or any other French ship—is on the other side of the island.’

Babcock added, ‘Or no ships at all.’

Babcock’s carefree attitude relaxed Horne’s gruff mood. ‘I think we can safely act on the premise that the French will keep to the pattern of passing the war chest from ship to ship … that is, if it
is
the war chest they’re passing.’

‘What you’re saying, Horne, is that we don’t know a damn’ thing.’

‘Correct. But if we don’t take a few chances and try to make a few deductions, we won’t achieve anything.’

Leaning forward in his chair, he studied the chart which he had spread out on the deck, weighting the four corners with stones. ‘The
Huma
’s more heavily armed than the
Tigre.
Therefore, I’ll take the northern route whilst you …’ he pointed at the island’s lower boundary, ‘… sail the southern coast.’

Babcock followed Horne’s finger. ‘The southern route’s shorter.’

‘In distance, yes. But don’t forget the reefs. They’re going to slow down your progress considerably.’

Babcock wore no shirt and had cut off his
dungri
trousers at the thigh. Sitting sideways in his chair, one bare leg slung over the arm, he looked more closely at the chart. ‘The chart I’ve got down in the cabin gives better details of the reefs than this one. Shall I get it?’

‘No. This map has a larger sketch of the other harbour. That’s what we must concentrate on now. You and Groot study your chart in your own time to learn your way through the reefs.’

Pointing at the northern cove, Horne continued. ‘After you clear the last reef, make for the southern promontory of the harbour mouth. If you see more than one ship, lure it away so that I can sweep down from … here.’ He pointed to the upper half of the harbour’s wide entrance.

‘What if there are two ships and they both give chase?’ asked Babcock.

‘Head out to sea. I’ll see you leaving and will know what’s
the matter. We might be able to trap them between us, or we might have to take flight, but I doubt whether the ship carrying the war chest will go in pursuit if there’s a second or third ship to give chase for her.’

‘What if there’s more? Like the whole fleet?’

Horne took the question seriously. ‘We can tackle two. Three at the most. But if you see four or more ships, make north and we’ll rendezvous near Réunion.’ He pointed at the island located to the northwest.

Babcock turned back to Oporto, studying its northern harbour. ‘Too bad there’s no way we can move guns overland from here and fire down on top of the buggers.’ He looked at the rocky cliffs surrounding the cove, adding, ‘Especially if the shore’s high like this one.’

Horne considered the suggestion. ‘That’s good, Babcock. Extremely good. The only problem is time. It’s too late to dismantle cannon and pull them across the island. Until Groot and Jingee return, we don’t even know what it looks like.’

Babcock pulled his ear. ‘Isn’t there something we could use to bombard the bastards? Rocks? Fire balls? Some little exploding surprises?’

Horne repeated, ‘Let’s wait to hear what the island looks like and take it into consideration with our available time.’

Babcock leaned back in his chair, locking both fingers behind his neck. ‘Horne, answer me a question,’ he drawled. ‘How likely do you think it is that Ury may not be telling the truth? That he may be lying about the French passing cargo from ship to ship?’

Horne did not hesitate. ‘My intuition says Ury isn’t lying.’

‘Let me ask you another question.’ A smile played on Babcock’s lips. ‘What does your intuition tell you about the East India Company sending the Marines on this wild goose chase in the first place?’

Horne was pleased that Babcock had asked such a
question. He was putting a great deal of trust in the American colonial and felt glad that he was not accepting duty blindly.

By nature, though, Horne disliked being questioned. It made him uncomfortable to be asked to divulge his thoughts and opinions, especially if they concerned a Company assignment. He had spent most of the previous night wondering why Governor Spencer—and not
Commodore
Watson—had given him the orders to commandeer the French war chest, and it still puzzled him that the Marines should have had to sail to Madagascar to receive orders from the Governor of Bombay.

The blue awning flapped gently in the breeze. Horne answered, ‘I’ve learned that when a man tries to
understand
the ways of the East India Company, he only becomes more confused. I try to obey commands and not ask questions.’

‘Duty means everything to you, doesn’t it, Horne?’

Horne looked back at the chart. ‘Almost everything, Babcock. And in pursuit of present duty, we can only make provisional plans and keep our men ready and alert. So let’s get on with it.’

His voice hardening, he ordered, ‘Now to discuss crew.’

Horne’s meeting with Babcock concluded with an
assignment
of watch duties aboard both ships. Horne reminded Babcock not to allow the men to venture from ship, not even to go swimming or to cool themselves in the cove.

Descending the ladder from the quarterdeck, he paused when he saw a lanky seaman with a sunburnt nose approaching.

In French, the man asked, ‘May I speak to you, sir?’

Horne recognised Gerard Ury.

Ury’s manner to Horne was respectful, his French slow
and clearly enunciated, so that Horne could understand him. ‘My friends are worried, sir, that Captain Le Clerc has written false charges against them in the log, as he did against me.’

Horne flinched. Was his fabrication coming home to roost?

Drawing on the little French he knew, he replied, ‘Tell your friends, Ury, they have no reason to worry if they remain loyal to me.’

Ury raised his eyes to the rock cliffs rising around the two ships in the cove. ‘This is Oporto, isn’t it, sir? Where Le Clerc is meeting the ship from Mauritius and the cargo is being passed for the last time?’

Horne thought quickly. ‘If the French come to this cove, Ury, you will know as soon as the rest of us.’

He dismissed the lanky seaman with a curt nod.

Watching Ury slouch back to his friends near the mizzenmast, Horne knew he must be extremely wary of the French seamen. They could easily mutiny or abandon ship. If they suspected that French support was close at hand on the other side of the island, they might raise a hue and cry, betraying the Marines’ presence on Oporto.