‘Are you all right, Killigrew?’ asked Tremaine.
Killigrew nodded, and banged a fist against the side of the courthouse. ‘Damn those scum! Da Silva was right, damn his eyes. He’s going to go straight back on board the São João and pick up a cargo of slaves further down the coast, and it’s as if there’s nothing we can do to stop him!’ He sighed. ‘Oh, well. Standing here grumbling isn’t going to help matters.’
Strachan nodded. ‘Gentlemen, as a fully qualified apothecary, it is my recommendation that we repair at once to the nearest hostelry, partake of intoxicating liquors, and indulge in the company of the lowest sort of females that Freetown can boast of.’
‘Capital notion,’ said Killigrew. ‘Let’s go.’
* * *
When Killigrew had finished dressing he left a guinea on the bedside table and glanced back to where the prostitute, a freed slave, sat at her dresser, touching up her hair in preparation for her next client. Most of his sexual liaisons were with prostitutes – striking up a relationship with any other kind of woman in a port could only end in heartbreak for one or both parties, and possible ruin for the lady if it resulted in pregnancy – but that night he went downstairs feeling uncharacteristically ashamed. Aguardiente, copper wire, cotton goods, gunpowder, iron pots, looking glasses, muskets, rum, tobacco: it was all the same. The rape of a continent.
A brawl between the Tisiphones – it was traditional for sailors from a ship to be known by its name – and the crew of an American frigate had been in full swing in the saloon below when Killigrew had headed upstairs, but it was over by the time he returned. Here and there a few unconscious bodies snored amidst the wreckage of tables and chairs, while a slave swept up the broken glass. ‘Goodnight, Mas’er Killigrew.’
‘G’night, George.’
Just another night at Maggie’s Place, he thought to himself.
George suddenly remembered something. ‘Oh, Mas’er Killigrew? Wait there a minute, mas’er. I have something for you.’ He scurried into the back room. Killigrew was curious enough to wait until he returned; it did not take long. George re-emerged carrying a tall black beaver hat. ‘Mas’er Standish, him done left this in Missy Molly’s room last night.’
‘Did he, by God? Don’t worry, I’ll see that he gets it back. Thank you, George.’ Killigrew tipped him a shilling and went outside.
He paused on the veranda and leaned on the rail, watching the people coming and going for a while until he had finished his cheroot: Krumen as naked as the day they were born, Muslim traders in elegant long blue robes of fine country cloth, and Creoles dressed in European clothes wholly unsuited to the tropical climate. It was barely eight o’clock, but already things were winding down in the town. Freetown was so shameless it practised its debauchery during daylight hours; it had to get up to go to chapel early the next morning.
Freetown was a city of contradictions: a young settlement with an air of tumble-down decrepitude about it. None of the whites who came to this fever-stricken coast expected to live more than a few years, so no one bothered to invest much time or money in building to last or even repairing that which collapsed. To landward, green-carpeted mountains, slashed here and there with scars of red earth, and dotted with the homes of the colony’s wealthier whites, provided a backdrop to the port, rising up until they disappeared into the low-lying clouds which wreathed them. Houses of wood or stone, washed white or yellow, with green-painted jalousies beneath their verandas and wide-caved shingle roofs, crowded towards the sea. The dusty streets, which turned into rivers of mud during the wet season, were broad, and prolific gardens provided microcosmic reflections of the jungles which crowded around the edges of the settlement. St George’s Cathedral dominated the town – not that the town needed much to dominate it – with turkey-buzzards perched on the roof during daylight hours, and chapels of every conceivable Protestant sect jostled for space with countless rum-houses.
Freetown had been set up on the coast of Sierra Leone as a colony for freed slaves nearly sixty years ago. In those days its population had consisted of four hundred negroes and sixty prostitutes, and while its population had expanded considerably since then – particularly with the arrival of black settlers from Nova Scotia, of all places, in 1797, and of Cimaroons from Jamaica in 1800 – the general tenor of the place had changed little. Most of the town’s permanent inhabitants were, as its name suggested, freed slaves. They were maintained at the British government’s expense for a year and then left to fend for themselves. Some opted to go to the West Indies as apprenticed labourers or to serve in a black regiment; for those who stayed behind in Sierra Leone there was little choice but to become a labourer, and despite Freetown’s steady growth there were always more labourers than there was labour for them to perform.
The white population of the town was no more than five hundred, although that number was bolstered by a constantly fluctuating tide of seamen: sailors from the vessels of the various navies which patrolled the coast for slavers, and to make sure the flags of their countries were known throughout the world; and the crews of captured slavers. The combination of men from rival navies, freed slaves and disgruntled slavers made for a volatile mix, and it was not unknown for African tribesmen to raid across the river and kidnap freed slaves to sell them on to the white man once more.
Yes, Killigrew was going to miss Freetown when he got back to England in a few weeks’ time. But there was something else that saddened him about his imminent departure from the West Africa Squadron: the feeling that he was only just beginning to find his feet and the sense that the squadron’s work in suppressing the slave trade, far from being over, was only just begun.
He took a final drag on his cheroot and headed back for the wharf. He had not gone a hundred yards when he heard someone groaning down an alleyway between two shacks. He went to investigate. ‘Hullo? Are you all right? Who’s there?’
A man was sprawled amongst the fetid rubbish, pawing feebly at the ground.
‘What’s up? One too many to drink? I know the feeling. Come on, let’s have you…’
As he tried to turn the man over he saw the glint of moonlight on a blade and jumped back, but slowly, too slowly, his reactions dulled by alcohol. He felt no pain, but when he glanced down at himself he saw that the fabric of his shirt was sliced through and blood was seeping from a long, thin line scored across his chest.
The man came at him again. Killigrew knew no better cure for drunkenness than danger. He dodged back from the man’s next lunge and caught him by the wrist. Spinning the man away from him, he slammed him against the side of a shack and twisted his arm up into the small of his back until he dropped the knife. He punched him in the kidneys to make sure, and the man sank into the rubbish with a groan.
He turned to the mouth of the alley and saw three shadowy figures blocking his path.
‘You know something, my friends?’ asked Barroso. ‘If I could have just one wish fulfilled, it would be to catch Senhor Killigrew alone down a darkened alley. And it looks as if it has just come true.’
Chapter 5
Pursuit
Killigrew reached for his pepperbox only to remember that he had left it on board the Tisiphone. He glanced back down the alley for an escape route at the other end, but there were three more burly figures blocking off his only escape route. He cursed himself for his carelessness in leaving ship unarmed; and for walking right into Barroso’s trap.
‘Get him!’ snapped Barroso.
The six men charged down the alley from either end. Killigrew weighed up the odds and charged to meet Barroso and his friends. As Barroso pulled out in front, he swung some kind of club at Killigrew’s head. Killigrew ducked beneath it and drove a fist into Barroso’s side. The slaver doubled up. Killigrew span him around and used his back as a stepping stone to launch himself up towards the roof of one of the houses adjoining the alley. He caught hold of the eaves and swung himself up just as the other slavers converged beneath him, grasping for his ankles a
nd bumping into one another. Killigrew’s feet scrabbled against the wall for a moment and he trod on a head to push himself up. He ran up one side of the shingles and then down the other, leaping across the narrow alley on the far side of the building.
He landed easily on the next roof. Behind him, Barroso and his friends were coming round the first house, shouting to one another. Killigrew surmounted the next apex and began to run down the slope on the other side. The next alley was a good ten feet wide. He measured the steps of his pell-mell descent, putting his right foot on the edge of the roof and launching himself into space, his hands clawing at the air as he sailed through the darkness. He was aware of the alley yawning beneath him, and then the other roof rose up to meet him.
Made it.
His feet landed squarely on the shingles, and then they collapsed under the impact. He fell through with a splintering crash, landed on a counter and fell forward. He hit the floor, rolled over and rose quickly but unsteadily to his feet, bruised, scratched and dazed.
He could hear the shouts of the slavers outside growing louder, their footsteps soft on the compacted earth of the street. He looked around for something he could use as a weapon.
He was in a millinery shop.
He unbolted the back door and rushed out. A moment later something slammed across his stomach and knocked the breath out of him. He doubled up and fell down in winded agony, and his assailant brought the plank of wood down on him again. He rolled on to his hands and knees so that it hit him across the back, knocking him flat on his stomach, and then a foot connected with his ribs.
‘I’ve got him! He came out the back!’
Killigrew rolled on his back and kicked the man in the crotch. The man gave a high-pitched scream and dropped the plank. Killigrew scrambled to his feet and ran down an alley just in time to meet Barroso and three more men coming to meet him. He knocked down one with a right cross, and then they were on him, raining blow after blow. His felt his legs crumple and slid to the ground. The slavers gathered in a circle, kicking at him savagely. He heard more footsteps running up – how many of them were there? – and a cry of ‘Remember the Alamo!’
Remember the Alamo?
A shot rang out. Killigrew felt something smash into his head and then…
Someone was slapping him gently on the cheek. After the beating he had been taking only seconds earlier it was a distinct improvement. Was he still alive, then?
‘It’s a Limey navy officer, Loot!’ exclaimed an American accent.
‘I think you must be mistaken, Charlie,’ said another voice, the rich and melodious tones of the Deep South with a hint of Creole thrown in to spice it up. ‘British naval officers are always far too dignified to be found brawling in back alleys,’ it continued mockingly. ‘No, this must be some fellow who stole the uniform of a British navy officer. Maybe we should hand him over to the authorities. What do you say, Charlie?’
Killigrew reached up and grabbed the first thing that came to hand: Charlie’s throat. ‘Hey, take it easy, amigo!’ gasped Charlie.
‘Who are you and what do you want?’ rasped Killigrew, still woozy from his beating.
‘Lieutenant Jean-Pierre Lanier, of the United States’ frigate Narwhal at your service, sir,’ said ‘Loot’. ‘My companions and I are merely acting in our capacity of good Samaritans, so if you would be so kind as to release my bosun’s throat I should be much obliged to you.’
Killigrew let go of Charlie’s throat and the American sailors helped him up. ‘My apologies. I wasn’t sure whose side you were on. Mate Christopher Killigrew, of Her Majesty’s paddle- sloop Tisiphone. Sorry about half strangling you there,’ he added to Charlie.
‘That’s oh-kay, amigo. It’d take more than one Limey to half strangle me.’ Charlie shook him by the hand, and from the strength of his grip Killigrew knew he spoke the truth.
‘I’m sure you could easily have sent off those bully-boys without our assistance, but I know how you Lime-Juicers think we Americans are always holding back when it comes to suppressing the slave trade,’ Lanier said with a hint of amusement in his voice.
‘You came along in the nick of time, and there’s no denying it,’ Killigrew told him. ‘I’m indebted to you.’
‘Not at all, sir, not at all. It was our pleasure.’
Killigrew tried to take a step but his knees gave way and he would have fallen to the floor if Charlie had not caught him. ‘Hey, take it easy, amigo. You sure you’re oh-kay?’
‘I’ll be all right in a minute,’ said Killigrew. ‘I just need to…’
‘Nonsense, nonsense,’ said Lanier. ‘You need to sit down and get a good stiff drink inside you. Mr Killigrew, I should be honoured if you would be a guest in the wardroom of the Narwhal tonight. In fact, I must insist upon it.’
‘In which case, it would be churlish of me to refuse,’ Killigrew said cheerfully, although he was still a little suspicious. There was no love lost between British and American seamen – assuming these were American seamen, for it was so dark Killigrew could not make out what Lanier was wearing. Crimping was still a common practice in some of the world’s less salubrious seaports, and it would be too embarrassing if he woke up the next morning and found himself pressed into service as a common seaman on an American vessel. But there were four of them, and he was in no condition to resist.
It was only a few hundred yards to the wharf overlooking St George’s Bay where the USS Narwhal rode at anchor. Further out, Killigrew could see the Tisiphone. Two American seamen waited by the Narwhal’s launch, tied up at the wharf’s single wooden jetty. As soon as he saw them he felt reassured: he had seen the American frigate enter the bay earlier that day, and knew then that these men were genuinely US Navy, and unlikely to provoke a diplomatic incident by kidnapping an officer of the Royal Navy.
Once on board the frigate Lanier took Killigrew to the wardroom where he struck a match and applied it to an oil lamp which he hung from an overhead beam. He was in his mid-twenties, tall and rake-thin, with a lean jaw and high cheekbones which gave his face an angular, wedge-shaped look. The wardroom was not unlike that of the Tisiphone, except that there was slightly less head-room, and a daguerreotype of President Tyler hung on the bulkhead in place of a portrait of Queen Victoria. Killigrew was helped into a chair and a black servant took his hat while the ratings made their way back to their own quarters.
‘Two whiskeys, Skip,’ said Lanier. ‘Then be so good as to rouse Mr DeForest from his bunk and have him attend to Mr Killigrew here.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The black poured out two glasses of rye whiskey and put them on the table before silently slipping out of the wardroom.
‘Mr DeForest?’ asked Killigrew.
‘Our ship’s surgeon,’ said Lanier, and raised his glass. ‘To Her Britannic Majesty Queen Victoria.’
Killigrew raised his own glass. ‘To President Tyler.’
‘I’ll overlook the fact that you did not rise to salute our president, sir, and ascribe it to your current condition,’ Lanier said coldly.
‘My apologies,’ Killigrew said quickly. ‘In the Royal Navy it’s the custom to give the loyal toast seated. Ever since the last King rose too quickly to accept it on board ship once, and banged his head on a beam.’ Lanier smiled, and Killigrew rose to his feet. ‘To President Tyler and the United States of America. Your health.’
‘And yours.’
They downed their drinks. Killigrew gasped as the liquor churned a fiery wake down his throat. ‘Good God, what is that?’
Lanier grinned. ‘Kentucky rye whiskey, Mr Killigrew. It’s an acquired taste.’
‘Pass me that bottle. I think I may just have acquired it.’
The black returned with a middle-aged man dressed in a nightshirt and nightcap. ‘Well! If someone had told me there was a celebration in progress, I might not have cursed poor Skip here quite so heartily for rousing me from my beauty sleep which, the good Lord knows, I’m in need of.’
‘Mr Killigrew, may I int
roduce you to our surgeon, Mr DeForest? ’Bones, this is Mate Christopher Killigrew, of the Tisiphone.'
‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir,’ said DeForest. ‘Sweet Jesus! You look like you’ve gone twenty rounds with Ben Caunt.’
Killigrew smiled at the reference to the boxing champion, and then winced as his split lip split again. ‘Twenty-one, actually.’
‘What you need is a good stiff drink,’ said DeForest, and the black refilled Killigrew’s and Lanier’s glasses while pouring out a fresh one for the surgeon. ‘What are we celebrating, anyway?’
Lanier glanced at Killigrew, and then raised his glass in a fresh toast. ‘The end of the slave trade.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ said DeForest.
Killigrew glanced at the black servant and left his glass on the table.
Lanier grinned. ‘Yes, Mr Killigrew, Scipio’s a slave. I said death to the slave trade, not slavery.’ He turned to the servant. ‘Hey, Skip. You realise, of course, that Sierra Leone is a British colony and there’s no slavery here? All you have to do is step off this ship, and you’ll be a free man. I won’t stop you.’
Scipio beamed. ‘Why, thank you, sir. But I’ve already been ashore today and I didn’t think much of what I saw. No, sir, I’m quite happy where I am, thank you all the same.’
‘Then again, Scipio’s a domestic slave,’ said Lanier. ‘And since Sierra Leone’s one of the few colonies where the British allow people to keep domestic slaves he wouldn’t be free anyway, as I understand it.’
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