Free The War Chest by Porter Hill Page A

made him sea-sick. Groot had prepared a Dutch hot-pot on the day when the Press Gang had surprised them and Mustafa, who had refused to eat Groot’s stew, had not fallen ill. Babcock decided it would be safer eating local dishes than anything the Dutch Marine concocted. As he left the main square, he was dreaming of a bowl of rice, some thick sauces, fresh pastries stuffed with lamb, cheese, dates, nuts, or a combination of some of them, if not all.
    The day was hot, but a sea breeze cooled the hillside. Babcock walked between the rows of low houses topped with thatched roofs, emerging into a small opening—more of a triangle than a square. A cluster of familiar faces from the Unity had gathered in front of a clay building, each man holding a large bamboo cup.
    ‘Babcock, my boyo! Come and join us!’ shouted the gunner’s mate.
    A red-haired man held up his cup. ‘Try the local poison, Cockers!’
    A bewhiskered Scotsman invited, ‘Aye, take a swill with us, laddie.’
    The Unity must wait here at Port Diego-Suarez for the merchant convoy to arrive from the China Sea. Babcock knew that seamen often became restless in port, drinking too much, usually ending up quarrelling or worse. Knowing he was likely to find himself in the middle of a fist-fight, he decided to keep trudging up the hill.
    Company House sat on the crest, a sprawling white building which commanded a sweeping view over the deep-water harbour and the turquoise sea beyond. As Babcock passed the ornately wrought gates guarding the drive, he thought of Horne who was inside the large house at that very moment, probably receiving orders which could affect the next few months, possibly even years.
    Thinking about Horne, Babcock remembered how upset he had been by Bapu’s death. Babcock did not know much about the Indian caste system, only that there were fourmain castes, and that Bapu had supposedly been born into one of the highest, the caste of warriors. But Babcock thought that Bapu had been very like himself, a man who did not follow the life set out for him. Instead of being a valiant warrior serving some maharajah or even the Grand Moghul, Bapu had been a thief, the leader of a mountain band which had attacked Company supply wagons in Rajasthan.
    Babcock himself should have been a farmer. Back in Ohio, he would almost have been gentry by now—upright, respectable, a husband and father, probably even an elder in the church. But Babcock had quarrelled with his father and run away to sea. Aboard a ship out of Boston, an officer had goaded him about his hulking size; he was forever pushing Babcock, finally forcing him into a fight. Babcock had defended himself but, unfortunately, the officer had struck his head on a capstan and died, and Babcock had been imprisoned in Bombay Castle.
    When Horne had chosen his men from the underground prisons at Bombay Castle, Babcock had suspected he was taking them to another prison, or to form some kind of work gang. They had gone to a penal colony, certainly, but Horne had taken them there—to Bull Island—only to separate the wheat from the chaff, to school his recruits to be a squadron of highly-trained saboteurs.
    During the few short weeks that Babcock had spent with Horne on Bull Island and, later, at Madras, he had felt as if he were being set back on the right path in life; Horne believed in him, and in his abilities. Babcock suspected, too, that the other men respected Horne as much as he did, and were as grateful to him.
    As for the new mission, what would it be like? Would it last longer than the foray into Fort St George at Madras? Would they remain together afterwards like a true unit? Babcock and Horne’s other men were Bombay Marines, yes, but they avoided conscription aboard Marine ships,voyages that would take them on chart-making expeditions , locking them into a life of drudgery.
    A chattering sound disturbed Babcock’s reflections.
    To the left of the stone path he saw a pile of bamboo cages