‘If it were up to me it would be a very different story, I can assure you,’ said Killigrew.
Lanier shook his head. ‘It’s the cruelty I despise, Mr Killigrew, not the principle of slavery. There are no whips on my father’s plantation, I can assure you. We feed our slaves well, give them clean and adequate accommodation, and they’re grateful for it. They work all the harder knowing they’re well looked after.’
‘I don’t doubt it, but I’ll wager it’s a different story on some of your neighbours’ plantations.’
‘True, but then I’ll wager they’re no worse off than the negroes you British transport to the West Indies under your system of apprenticed labour. You ask Scipio here: slavery doesn’t have to be unpleasant.’
‘For myself, it’s the principle as well as the cruelty.’
Lanier shook his head again. ‘We’re all slaves to something, Mr Killigrew.’
‘And what is it that you are a slave to, Mr Lanier?’
Lanier’s face cracked into a grin. ‘Why, to duty, of course.’
‘I’ll bet being a slave to duty is a damned sight more comfortable than being a slave to a plantation owner with only a loose understanding of your noble but discriminating bill of rights.’
Lanier shrugged uncomfortably. ‘How about you, Mr Killigrew? What are you a slave to?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll have a think about that one.’
‘Say, I thought this was a celebration,’ protested DeForest. ‘Seems I was mistaken. Sounds more like I’ve walked into a debate on slavery. If I’d wanted that I could’ve gone to a meeting of the Society of Friends.’
‘Agreed,’ said Lanier. ‘But not at two bells in the first watch. Let’s at least put our differences behind us and drink to what we have in common: our contempt for the slavers.’
The three of them raised their glasses.
‘That’s what we need to do,’ said DeForest. ‘It’s high time our navies learned to put their differences behind them. The War of 1812 was a long time ago. We’ll never beat the blackbirders until we learn to work together.’
‘It’s a nice idea, but it’s been tried before,’ said Killigrew.
‘It has?’
Lanier nodded. ‘A few years ago the captain of the USS Grampus tried working with the captain of HMS Wolverine. The idea was that since only US Navy ships can stop American vessels, and only the Royal Navy’s ships can stop British vessels, they’d sail together. If a slaver hoisted a US ensign then the Grampus would stop her; and if they hoisted the Union Jack, then the Royal Navy did the honours.’
‘What went wrong?’
‘Oh, it worked just fine,’ said Lanier. ‘Until our government heard about the arrangement and declared it ultra vires. Those damned fools in Washington think that asserting the freedom of the seas for American vessels is more important than stopping the slavers. Personally, I don’t see what the problem is. I’d be happy for Royal Navy ships to stop and search American merchantmen when and where they pleased. If the merchantmen are engaged in an honest trade, then they’ve nothing to fear.’
‘It’s not only your politicians who are at fault,’ said Killigrew. ‘If statesmen like Lord Palmerston didn’t take such a high-handed attitude with the diplomats of other nations, then perhaps those other nations might be a little bit more cooperative.’
The Americans could not disagree with that. DeForest swabbed Killigrew’s cuts and bruises, cleaned and bandaged the cut across his chest – it was too shallow to justify stitches – and they drank several more toasts together before having the crew of the Narwhal’s jolly boat row Killigrew back to the Tisiphone, where the men of the anchor-watch carried him to his berth.
* * *
Killigrew was awoken at dawn by a squad of marines shuffling into the Tisiphone’s gun room and singing a rousing chorus of ‘Early in the Morning’. He fell out of his hammock and crouched on the floor, holding his head which throbbed agonisingly despite his not having banged it on the way down.
He glared up at them. ‘And to what do I owe this dubious pleasure, Corporal?’
‘Begging your pardon, sir, Commander Standish’s orders. He said it would teach you not to rouse him at little one bell by coming on board singing “The Star-Spangled Banner”.’
‘Did I do that?’ It was all coming back to him: not slowly, but memory after drunken memory crashing helter-skelter into a skull too numbed to cope with them all. ‘Did I remember to salute the quarter-deck as I came on board?’
‘Yes, sir. And you doffed your hats.’
‘Hats?’
The corporal pointed to where Standish’s beaver hat, now thoroughly battered, sat on Killigrew’s sea-chest. ‘You were wearing your cocked hat and had that in your hands, sir.’
Killigrew massaged his temples. ‘I must say, this is a revelation. I never knew Commander Standish had a sense of humour.’
‘I believe it was Mr Tremaine’s suggestion, sir.’
Killigrew glanced across to where Tremaine’s hammock was stowed. ‘Was it, by God? I shall bear that in mind.’
The corporal coughed into his fist. ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but Commander Standish presents his compliments and requests you present yourself in his day room at six bells.’
‘I don’t suppose he told you what it was about, did he?’
‘No, sir.’
‘What time is it now?’
‘Four bells, sir. In the morning watch.’
‘Thank you, Corporal. Dismissed. Oh, send the ship’s barber in here, would you?’ Killigrew’s hands were shaking too much for him to want to risk shaving himself. ‘And tell him he’d better have a mug of tea in his hand when he gets here. Two, if he wants one himself.’
‘Aye, aye, sir. Shall I have some food brought down to you?’
‘No thank you, Corporal. Just some tea.’
Shaved, dressed, and with some tea inside him, Killigrew began to feel human again. He made his way to the captain’s day room where another marine stood on guard. The marine knocked on the door.
‘Who is it?’ called Standish.
‘Mr Killigrew here to see you, sir.’
There was a pause, the sound of feet on the deck – Standish striking up a pose in front of the window, guessed Killigrew – and then: ‘Enter.’
The marine opened the door and ushered Killigrew inside. Predictably, Standish stood at the window gazing out. ‘I’ve had a complaint from one of Freetown’s saloon-keepers, Mr Killigrew. A demand for payment for damages, in fact. Something to do with a brawl?’
‘Yes, sir. There were some American sailors in there and when the Tisiphones met them I understand things got a little out of hand. They were just blowing off steam.’
‘To the tune of fifty pounds, Mr Killigrew. I thought I banned all shore leave for the ratings? Aside from the risk of contracting yellow fever, I will not have my men brawling…’ Standish turned away from the window and his face became grim when he saw the braises on Killigrew’s face.
‘I ran into some of the men from the São João on my way back to the ship last night, sir.’
‘I suppose you were at Maggie’s Place too, were you? What were you doing there?’
‘That’s not the sort of question a gentleman answers, sir.’
‘That’s not the sort of hostelry a gentleman frequents, Mr Killigrew. I don’t suppose you ordered any of the Tisiphones you saw at Maggie’s Place to return directly to the ship, did you?’ Standish frowned and tried to peer past Killigrew to see what he held behind his back in his left hand.
‘I felt it would have been hypocritical of me to tell them to leave when it must have been obvious I was there to have a good time myself.’
‘Damned right. You shouldn’t have been there at all. You’re a disgrace, man. Exceeding orders, brawling with common seamen, coming back on board roaring drank in the small hours of the morning. You needn’t think that I shall be asking you to join me on my next command when we get back to England, Killigrew… D
amn it, man, stand up straight! What the devil are you holding in your hand?’
Killigrew held out his empty palm. ‘Nothing, sir.’
‘Your other hand, damn it!’
‘Oh! I’d almost forgotten. Your hat, sir.’ Killigrew dusted the beaver hat off with his sleeve and proffered it to Standish.
‘My beaver! I’ve been looking all over for that. I thought perhaps that damned fool Gibbons had put it away somewhere. Where on earth did you find it?’
‘Maggie’s Place, sir.’
Standish turned puce. ‘Get out, Killigrew.’
‘Yes, sir.’
* * *
‘Sail ho!’
‘Where away?’
‘Two points on the port bow.’
Killigrew skipped up on to the Tisiphone’s port-side paddle-box, extended the telescope and raised it to his right eye, looking in the direction the lookout at the masthead had indicated. ‘Can you make her out at all?’ called Standish.
‘Two-masted, rakish, square-rigged… could be a Baltimore brig, sir.’ When a good breeze was blowing Baltimore brigs were amongst the fastest ships on the sea, including steamers, and as such were beloved of slavers.
‘Can you see an ensign?’
‘None flying, sir. I don’t believe she’s seen us. No, wait a moment: she’s altering course slightly; turning to loo’ard.’ Killigrew lowered the telescope and snapped it shut before descending to the deck once more.
‘Damned suspicious,’ said Standish. ‘She must be a slaver.’
‘Too suspicious, if you ask me,’ said Killigrew. ‘Sir.’
‘And what the devil is that supposed to mean?’
‘It’s as if she’s trying to provoke our interest by acting suspiciously, sir. She could be trying to draw us away from the African coast to give other vessels – the real slavers – a chance to slip past us. When I was on board the Dido—’
‘When you were on board the Dido, when you were on board the Dido,' Standish echoed pettishly. ‘I was serving on this station years before you were on board the Dido, Killigrew. Believe you me, merchant ships have better things to do than lead Her Majesty’s vessels on wild-goose chases, be they slavers or otherwise. Give chase, Mr Darrow. Make all plain sail.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ The boatswain relayed the orders, and the topmen in the rigging unfurled those sails which had previously been furled.
‘She looks like a trim vessel to me, sir,’ said Killigrew. ‘Hadn’t we better wet the sails?’
‘Damn you, Killigrew. How many times must I tell you not to instruct me in my duties?’
‘My apologies, sir.’
Standish turned back to the boatswain. ‘Dampen the sails, Mr Darrow.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
The Tisiphone was back in her old cruising grounds off the Guinea Coast, a few miles to the south of the Sierra Leone peninsula. Killigrew could see the low outline of the coast off to windward; a landsman might have mistaken it for a bank of low-lying cloud on the eastern horizon. Beneath an azure sky the sun glistened on the waves and shone dazzlingly on the paddle-sloop’s pale deck. There was a slight haze in the air, caused by the red dust blown out to sea by the Harmattan winds. The north-east trade wind blew a moderate breeze from the land, filling the Tisiphone’s sails from the port quarter.
Beneath their sponsons the paddle-wheels hung lifeless in the water, and no smoke issued from the funnel. Standish rarely used the engine, partly because it made sense to conserve coal for when it was really needed, but mostly because he had learned his trade on sailing ships and was not used to having the benefits of a steam engine at his command. In fact, he disdained to use the engines unless he really had to, and even then did so grudgingly. Besides, all that soot made a dreadful mess of his beautiful sails.
Killigrew continued to watch the suspect vessel through the telescope. When he had gauged the relative speeds of the two vessels, he would be able to calculate how long it would be before the other vessel came within range of the Tisiphone’s bow-chaser; assuming the paddle-sloop could out-run her prey, which was by no means a given. The Tisiphone had perhaps half a knot on her quarry, if they maintained their current course and the wind did not change; it would be about twelve hours before they came within range. A stern chase could be a long and tedious business, and by now even the most inexperienced midshipman on the paddle-sloop knew better than to rush down to the gun room to sharpen his dirk.
In the meantime the day-to-day running of the ship continued as normal. The crew still had to be mustered, the deck holystoned, the rigging maintained, the crew’s clothes washed, the log-board filled in, dinner eaten, marines paraded, seamen exercised with cutlasses and small arms, noon sights taken. All the while they drew closer and closer to their prey, and more and more men began to glance towards it more frequently. By the end of the forenoon watch it could be seen clearly from the deck with the naked eye.
The hands tried to give out an air of calm indifference but they fooled no one, not even themselves. The air of tension on board the Tisiphone was tangible; muted, at first, but increasing as the wearing of the hours brought the brig cable by cable closer to the paddle-sloop’s guns. There was fear there, for it was not unknown for a slaver to put up enough of a fight to kill or maim navy seamen, although on the West Africa Squadron there was a greater risk of death from yellow fever than there was from action. But mostly there was excitement: a long, drawn-out stern chase was a chase nonetheless, a break from the monotonous routine of cruising, the chance to do some fighting and break some slavers’ heads, and the possibility of prize money.
At midday Killigrew went below to dine in the gun room with Tremaine, Strachan, the captain’s clerk and the Tisiphone’s two surviving midshipmen. Even though all of them were thinking of the ship they were chasing – with the possible exception of the clerk – there was a tacit agreement between them not to speak of it. Since there was little else to discuss, conversation was stilted.
After dinner Tremaine and Midshipman Radmall went up on deck and Strachan went to the sick bay, refilled with a fresh batch of cases of yellow fever after their last run ashore. The clerk had paperwork to attend to in the captain’s day room, leaving Killigrew, off duty until the first dog watch, in the gun room with Midshipman Cavan. He knew he would not be able to sleep so he turned to his sea-chest for something to read. His bookmark was stuck between the pages of Gordon’s The Economy of the Marine Steam Engine, but he knew that in his present state of mind he would not be able to concentrate on the technical information. Virgil’s Aeneid seemed a better proposition, even on a second reading.
Cavan drew his dirk from his scabbard and began to sharpen it. The grating of the whetstone against the edge of the blade soon became irritating. ‘For heaven’s sake belay that scraping, Mr Cavan.’
‘Sorry, sir. I just wanted to be ready for when we board her.’
‘It’ll be a couple of hours before she’s in range, even. And I don’t see Standish choosing someone as young as you for the boarding party.’
‘But how am I ever to become experienced enough if I never get the opportunity because of my lack of experience? Can’t you speak to the captain for me?’
‘By God, Cavan, you’re a bloodthirsty young shaver, aren’t you? Are you really so keen to feel the edge of your sword biting through flesh, spilling blood and snapping bone?’
Cavan pulled a face. ‘I hadn’t thought about it like that, sir.’
‘Well, I suggest you do. Better to come to terms with it now rather than when you’re face to face with some slaver in the thick of a mêlée. Because if the idea of killing a man gives you pause for thought, then just remember that pause may be all the time your opponent needs to slice your head off.’
‘Oh! I wouldn’t have any qualms about killing a slaver.’
‘Well you should. They’ve got rights, the same as any other man.’
‘Even criminals?’
‘They’re not criminals until they’ve been p
roved criminals in a properly constituted court of law. Our job is to bring them before that court, not to inflict our own justice. D’you understand me?’ As he spoke the words he had believed in for so long, he found they had a hollow ring to them now.
Cavan hung his head. ‘Yes, sir.’ Then he perked up. ‘But it’s all right to kill them in self-defence, isn’t it?’
Killigrew smiled. ‘That it is, Mr Cavan.’
‘Please won’t you speak to Commander Standish, sir? I have to get some experience of fighting sooner or later.’
‘Later rather than sooner, believe me. Anyway, even if I did think you were ready, my talking to Standish wouldn’t do you any good. You know how he hates having to go along with anything I suggest.’
‘How old were you the first time you killed someone?’
‘Sixteen, as I recall. Two years older than you are now, so don’t worry, you’ve got plenty of time.’
‘How many men have you killed?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘You were in Syria, weren’t you, sir? And at the storming of Chingkiang-fu during the China War?’
Killigrew grunted but refused to be drawn. He was not ashamed of the battles he had fought against pirates and slavers, but the China campaign was not one he was proud of. At least in Syria the cause had been just, fighting alongside the Ottoman Turks against the rebel Viceroy of Egypt, Ibrahim Pasha. He remembered storming the Boharsef Heights with the combined force of the British Naval Brigade and the Turkish soldiers. He remembered marines and Turks falling dead on all sides around him as they dashed across the open ground to engage the Egyptian Musselmen. And then, with the smell of blood in his nostrils and the memory of the atrocities the Egyptians had inflicted on the Lebanese fresh in his mind, he had been amongst the enemy, his cutlass whirling as he avenged the murder and rapine. Sometimes the nightmare still came back to haunt him, and in his dream he was watching himself from a distance. For it had not been Midshipman Killigrew who had taken part in the assault – as an officer of the Royal Navy he had been far too civilised to engage in that kind of savage bloodletting – but someone else, caught in the grip of an uncontrollable rage. And of all the horrors that had terrified him in that campaign, the one fear that still came back to haunt him was the fear that that Killigrew might not be dead but still locked deep within him, ready to emerge given sufficient provocation and to inflict atrocities as grim as any he sought to avenge. It was sobering to think that for all he was a product of the most civilised nation on earth he was just as capable of savagery as the most primitive Patagonian cannibal or Borneo head-hunter.
Killigrew of the Royal Navy Page 9