Gareth’s rooms were on the second floor of a building on the far end of Church street. The sitting room John was shown into looked out over the bustling street below. Through a narrow gap between the houses across one could just make out a narrow stretch of the harbour with its silver reflections in constant motion.  On the far right a steep path led down to Tate Hill pier along the slum dwellings on that side of town. That unfortunate view alone probably decreased the value of the rooms, but for a reporter with a thirst for drama those rooms were practically a box seat.
 
Although the space was modest, great care had been taken in its furnishing, although its success was a matter for debate. The lower half of the room had been wainscoted with a dark frame and lighter panels. Above the wainscot the walls had been covered with a rather dizzying Morris wallpaper. The heavy, blue and straw coloured curtains, draped around the windows and doors were reminiscent of tapestries with yet another flowery Arts and Crafts design. The wooden floor was only partly covered by carpets, which offered some relief to the weary eye. There were small tables, a low sofa with only the seat and arms upholstered, so that the intricate woodwork of the backrest was visible, and two deep armchair with some of the similar woodwork showing in the feet and multiple rails under the armrests. There were flowers, ferns, oriental vases, oriental fans, and copies of famous paintings. On one side of the room stood a heavy bookcase, generously filled with bound volumes – novels in English and French, and one or two Latin and Greek works; dictionaries; books on grammar and literary analysis – to finish the parade.
 
“Have a seat,” Gareth offered. “I’ll be just a moment.” And he receded to his bedroom to wash his face and inspect his injuries. “Fuck you,” his voice came from behind the door when he inspected his jaw in the mirror.
 
He returned half a minute later. “Drink?”

John admired the decor and watched as Gareth disappeared into the other room. He smirked as he heard the curses coming from him from behind the door. John had clocked him a good one.

John raised an eye brow to the offer of a drink. It was considered bad manners to refuse hospitality north of the border "sure, what ever comes, aslong as its wet!"

Some of the furnishings had an oriental feel and John remarked "I saw some similar designs when I was out in India. It's amazing how different cultures over that side of the world have different designs but yet they are all so similar"

Gareth opened a cabinet and busied himself pouring two small glasses of madeira. He handed one to John and sat down. "I suppose they are," he said, looking at one of the fans. He had never really thought about it. He turned his attention back on his guest. "Were you in India for long?"

John sat down and leaned forward and spoke "6 years. The battalion were garrisoned over there for civil unrest but ill use the term garrisoned loosely. We were in a tented area we moved around to the different hostile areas" He sighed. "It's not a bad place India. Especially after you leave the streets of here. Sure it takes a bit of getting used to but you soon adapt. You would have gotten some interesting stories if you were over there. A man like you could do well with the papers if you were based over there. Not alot of reporters talk about it. My family never knew what I did till I came home Not so long ago"

He took a drink before speaking again. "And I know your wondering why I want to help you. It's simple really. You and I have both lost everything and we are now both to gain"

Gareth would rather join the Diamond Pony than move to India, but he smiled politely at the suggestion. The little treasure hunt adventure he had participated in a couple of month ago had been all the exploring he cared to engage in in his lifetime. The dirt he had gotten on his clothes! The strenuous walking! Having to obey orders!

On the flip side, said treasure hunt was the very reason he could now say he hadn't lost everything. He hadn't spent all of his share on fancy furniture and decorations. Most of it had been invested, some of it was in the bank as a buffer, and he could rely on it for the next few months. But he wasn't about to make this young man privy to that information. He sipped his drink. Then he said: "That's an interesting way of looking at it. Very well, then. Perhaps we can be of some use to one another. Now let's hear it. What's this story of a century?"

John took a drink once more and spoke. "Have you heard of Ashanti and A LT William St Clair?" He paused to wait on Gareths reply

"I believe I haven't..." Gareth said, twisting his glass in his hand. Neither name rang a bell.

John continued "Ashanti is a small African country. British colony for the most part. It's had multiple revolts over the last century over leadership. But Britain is mainly interested in keeping it out the hands of the French and German colonies which border it."

He took another drink and returned the glass to the table. "Lt. William St Claire is a whitby jewellery and also an officer in the British army. London Scottish to be exact. He has been given temporary promotion to captain and has been putting together a group. Solely of men of the army from whitby to be attached to the rifles" he rubbed his chin "he has been responsible for getting your article over looked and dropped to avoid me facing time in military prison. Sargeant Alasdair Maclellan aswell has been involved" he looked at Gareth "2,500 men are going over. With a small detachment of men from whitby whose sole job is to train natives"

Gareth stared at John. "That's it...?"

What an anticlimax. What did his readers care what happened in some God-forgotten dust-trap at the far end of the empire? He couldn't even see where the scandal in this piece of news was? Where the outrage? "Is he reintroducing pressgangs?" Gareth asked hopefully.

John looked at Gareth "problem is they don't want us there. This could lead to the 4th Anglo-Ashanti war. This may be us walking into a trap. 20 families could lose someone. The impact that could have on the village. I've had It signed off. You could be the only one with information to publish about it. First hand from me in correspondence every single week. Captain St Claire wants people he can trust with him as this could lead to the us fighting gorilla style warfare. The families could all look to you for hope, for information, for guidance. You could make a household name for yourself with this."

He sighed "in a way it is pressganging. He's picked people from the military from whitby and pushed us into one unit since the 1881 reform of the army. Alot of soldiers, experienced soldiers have been sat in recruitment depots with nothing to do but train fresh faced kids. He wants people who all speak the same dialect incase it all goes wrong. It's all cloak and dagger stuff. I feel there's more to it to come!"