The War Chest by Porter Hill Page B

world.
    Suspicious of Governor Spencer’s real reasons—together with those of his two colleagues, Pigot of Madras and Vansittart of Bengal—for sending the Company’s Marines to seize the French war chest, Horne reached the bottom of the hill, wondering if the Governors were trying to fuel a mutiny within the French forces. A mutiny could rid the East Indies of the French once and for all.
    Or did the British Navy Board truly want the French war chest for their own coffers, needing the gold to finance other colonial campaigns in, say, Canada? Despite his pleasure at being given the Huma, Horne suspected that there was some sinister motive behind this sea venture.
    The sounds of a bare-knuckle fight made him pause at an opening between the sun-bleached houses and, looking through the gap, he saw a group of men shouting and laughing.
    * * *
    More than thirty men had formed a tight circle around the combatants and were calling out encouragement:
    ‘Give him a taste of your knuckles, Dave!’
    ‘Smash that monkey-face!’
    ‘Show the Bombay buccaneer who’s a man!’
    The mention of ‘Bombay buccaneer’ alerted Horne. Pushing his way through the circle, he saw the heads of two men, recognising one of them as Babcock, the other as Dave Linderman, the boatswain’s mate from the Unity, a bear of a man with a pug-nose and bushy side-whiskers.
    ‘Hit him harder, Dave!’
    ‘Bloody that American blow-hard!’
    ‘Black and blue the big lubber!’
    Babcock was fast on his feet for a man of his size; he was dancing around Linderman, throwing alternating blows of his fists in quick, hard-hitting succession—the left, the left, the right—knuckles cracking against Linderman’s face, breaking his skin, smashing his nose, pummelling his ears.
    Bobbing to the left and right, Linderman had failed to avoid most of Babcock’s punches; blood was streaming from his nose, and his lower lip was cut and swollen. The crew, however, continued to cheer Linderman and jeer at Babcock.
    Linderman struck a blow to Babcock’s ribs and repeated the strike, concentrating on this target with a burst of new energy. Doubling over, Babcock brought his elbows to his side as the cheers rose for Linderman.
    Bursting from the crouch, Babcock wrapped his left arm around Linderman’s neck, locking the seaman’s head under his upper arm like a wrestler, and began driving his fist against Linderman’s face.
    Horne saw that Babcock might seriously injure his opponent if he continued. Bolting forward, he grabbed Babcock by the shoulder, separating the two men.
    Babcock spun, ready to attack his new opponent, but seeing it was Horne, he hesitated, gasping, ‘What the hell—?’
    Horne moved between him and Linderman. ‘Get out of here, Babcock.’
    ‘Hell I will! They started it!’
    Horne wanted to collect his Marines and tell them the news about the Huma, perhaps help join the work being done on the frigate.
    As the seamen backed away, subdued by the sight of the gold-trimmed uniform, Horne repeated, ‘Babcock, get out of here.’
    A man called from the circle, ‘Go on, you big monkey! Go with him!’
    Babcock pointed at the man. ‘Hear that? Hear what they called me? Monkey!’
    ‘Monkey!’ shouted another seaman. ‘You look just like your kid!’
    Babcock lunged for the man.
    Grabbing Babcock by the shoulder, Horne raised a fist to his face. At the same moment, a small, nut-brown monkey wrapped its small furry arms around Horne’s leg and leaped, chattering, to swing from Horne’s bicep to Babcock’s shoulder, hugging Babcock’s neck and licking his blood-streaked face with a wide, wet tongue.
    Horne demanded, ‘Whose is that?’
    Babcock wiped perspiration mixed with blood from his brow. ‘Mine.’

Chapter Nine
THE HUMA
    Horne awoke to the absence of gulls mewing, the first time in five days that the scavenger birds had not awakened him with their tormenting chorus. Having cleared Madagascar, the Huma had emerged from the southern