‘That’s an awful lot of “roughlys”, and there’s no place for “roughly” in navigation.’
‘All right, I’ll admit that the chances of us finding her are slim. But what have we got to lose? Time? We’re as well cruising for slavers out here as we are a couple of miles off the coast.’
‘I suppose you’re right. But Standish will never go for it. Not if it’s your idea. Not even if I tell him it was mine.’
‘So don’t tell him. You know as well as I do he won’t be up again before the forenoon watch. He said you had the watch. He didn’t say where you should take it.’
Hartcliffe stared at him. ‘Rot it, Killigrew, you’re going to cost me my commission!’ he said with a grin. ‘Make all plain sail, bosun! Steer a course west-sou’-west, Mr Ågård. Order the engine room to give me full steam ahead.’
Killigrew smiled and went below with the sailing master to the chart room to plot a course for their quarry and a course to intercept. As twilight turned into dusk, the Tisiphone steamed off after the sun below the horizon.
* * *
The sun had gone all the way around the globe and risen abaft of the Tisiphone by the time Standish emerged on deck the following morning at the start of the forenoon watch. He gazed about, searching for the land, and doubtless noticed that the paddle-sloop was sailing westwards, further into the Atlantic. Hartcliffe and Killigrew had been searching the horizon in vain for a glimpse of their quarry ever since first light. Now they were ready to give up the chase and head back to the coast.
‘Where the devil are we?’ Standish demanded of Hartcliffe.
‘Er… fourteen degrees and ten minutes west, six degrees and twenty-nine minutes north, sir,’ Hartcliffe replied.
‘Where the devil’s that?’
‘About a hundred and ten miles off the Guinea coast, I think sir.’
‘A hundred and ten… We’re in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, damn your eyes! Are we lost?’
‘No, sir. We… I thought that since the Leopardo was obviously a decoy, we could perhaps try to calculate the course of the ship she was attempting to decoy us from and intercept her…’
‘Don’t lie to me, Hartcliffe. This hare-brained scheme smacks of Killigrew to me. Well, Killigrew? This is your doing, sir.’
‘Yes, sir. Your night orders weren’t specific, so I thought—’
‘You thought, did you? You do a damned sight too much thinking for my liking, Mr Killigrew. Perhaps you should have thought about the possibility that there was no other ship, and that even if there had been, the chances of us being able to find her in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean were so astronomical—’
‘Sail ho!’
‘Where away?’ Hartcliffe called up to the lookout.
‘Two points on the starboard quarter.’
‘Behind us?’ exclaimed Killigrew, climbing on to the starboard paddle-box. ‘She’s making poorer time than I anticipated.’
‘It’s probably not the same ship,’ muttered Standish. ‘The devil take it! That ship probably never even existed in the first place.’
‘Perhaps not, sir,’ admitted Killigrew, his telescope raised to his eye. ‘But this one has the look of a slaver all the same.’
‘Well, since she’s abaft of us… and since we have to go back that way anyway… I suppose there’s no harm in our going to investigate her, whatever ship she may be,’ Standish admitted grudgingly. ‘Put her about, Mr Watmough,’ he told the quartermaster, and turned to Midshipman Radmall. ‘Have the engineer start up the engines.’ With both the Tisiphone and the other ship sailing with the wind directly abaft, putting about meant turning head on into the wind.
The engine still had steam up, and within moments the paddle-wheels plashed into life. The Tisiphone turned in a tight circle, her bows coming around to meet the vessel coming up behind them.
A moment later the other ship likewise turned her head into the wind, and Killigrew got a good look at her sideways-on. He lowered his telescope and snapped it shut. ‘It’s the São João.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, man. You can’t possibly tell at this distance.’
‘It’s the São João,' insisted Killigrew, jumping back down to the deck.
The clipper turned her nose as close to the wind as she dared, trying to get away, but it was hopeless. Sailing on a port tack, with the wind coming in off the port bow, her speed was greatly reduced. The steam-powered Tisiphone was little troubled by such considerations and quickly gained on the other vessel.
The clipper continued to turn in a broad circle, trying to get the wind behind her once more so she could slip past the Tisiphone beyond the range of her guns. At Standish’s command the quartermaster at the helm adjusted the course and moved to intercept her. Within minutes they had closed to within three miles. The clipper completed its turn, running free before the wind, but even with its sails drawing well it could not outpace the steam-powered sloop.
‘We’ve got the blackguards!’ exclaimed Hartcliffe, forgetting himself in his excitement.
Standish scowled and nodded. ‘Clear the decks for action. Man the foremost quarters on the main deck.’
The hands scurried across the deck, bracing the sails, draping hammocks over the rails, and loaded the guns. It was another bright, cloudless day, the sun glittering on the sea. The wind had picked up during the morning, blowing a fresh force five, and the clipper had a bone in her teeth and cut a feather, as seamen referred to the foam at the stem and the wake respectively of a fast-moving ship.
Killigrew took up position in the bar, the wind whipping at his clothes. Spume bounced off the paddle-sloop’s stem. The glittering waves raced past, and he could see flying fish skipping over the surface, racing the Tisiphone, while porpoises swam before the bows, launching themselves exuberantly out of the water as if leading the paddle-sloop. Standing in the forecastle, Killigrew felt himself share in their exultation. The Tisiphone had a knot and a half, maybe two knots on the São João; with less than three miles between them and the Tisiphone closing fast from astern, the slaver would be in range of the bow-chaser within an hour and a half. He hoped da Silva was on board, and wished he could have seen his face when his lookout had sighted the Tisiphone lying ahead of him when he must have supposed her to be far behind.
He raised his telescope again. In grim contrast to the porpoises racing the Tisiphone, a dozen sharks’ fins cut through the clipper’s wake. She had slaves on board, of that there was no doubt.
The time passed quickly as the two ships raced across the ocean, but it could not pass quickly enough for Killigrew.
Excitement coursed through every vein in his body. Da Silva and his crew had already escaped him once; this time they would not be so lucky. Taken with slaves on board, they could not escape being condemned by the prize court.
The gunner fired a blank shot. The clipper hoisted the Stars and Stripes but showed no sign of stopping. Raising his telescope once more, Killigrew could make out the crew throwing casks, spars, timber and coils of rope overboard. They were trying to lighten the load in the hope that they might still outrun the Tisiphone.
The gunner’s crew reloaded the pivot gun, and waited for the São João to come within range. The Tisiphone’s bell marked off the half-hours. Killigrew made sure his pepperbox was fully loaded.
‘Tell the captain we’re in range now,’ the gunner ordered one of his men, just when Killigrew felt he could bear the tension no longer. ‘We can’t elevate high enough to hit their spars, but I reckon we can put a shot close enough to them to give the men on the poop a shower bath. Maybe that’ll persuade them to give up.’
The order came back within moments. ‘Commander Standish says to fire when ready.’
The gunner checked the aim and elevation of the bow- chaser one last time and then hauled on the lanyard. The gun boomed and a few seconds later the shot plunged into the water abaft of the São João’s stern, sending up a great plume of water which drenched the men on the poop. A great che
er went up from the men of the Tisiphone, and the gunner’s crew reloaded.
The clipper showed no signs of heaving to. The crew must have guessed the Tisiphone would not fire to hit at that range – a shot penetrating the hull would most likely kill many of the slaves tightly packed below decks, which rather defeated the object of the exercise – so they pressed on, still hoping the paddle-sloop would abandon the chase.
But the Tisiphone had the smell of blood in her nostrils and was not going to give up now. Within a quarter of an hour the paddle-sloop was close enough for the pivot gun to fire chain shot at the clipper’s masts. The gunner’s crew fired shot after shot, working with monotonous regularity. As the chain shot screeched through the air towards the clipper, the other crew retaliated with a pivot gun of their own, a twenty-four-pounder located on their poop deck. But their firing was as erratic as it was sporadic. Every now and then a plume of water would rise up in the Tisiphone’s vicinity; sometimes close enough to splash the deck, sometimes as much as a cable’s length away. They did not hit the Tisiphone until she had almost ranged alongside her, and then a round shot smashed through the Tisiphone’s wooden hull close to the bows.
Killigrew felt the deck shudder beneath his feet and a moment later word came up from below: the shot had smashed through the sick berth and killed three cases of yellow fever, as well as cutting off the attendant’s leg. A growl of anger ran through the Tisiphone’s crew. ‘Why don’t they give it up? They can see we’ve got the rate on them.’
The wind was freshening, increasing the São João’s pace. The two vessels were neck and neck for speed. ‘Cram on all sail!’ ordered Standish. From the tautness in the commander’s voice Killigrew could tell that even he was caught up in the excitement of the chase, and determined to avenge the deaths of the three men in the sick berth.
Then the crew of the clipper began to throw their cargo overboard.
Killigrew did not believe his eyes as the first pair of fettered Africans were thrown over the side, their screams echoing faintly back to the Tisiphone above the sound of her paddles in the water. He raised the telescope, pressing his eye hard against the eyepiece. He could see the men on the clipper’s deck clearly enough, marching the slaves up through the main hatch two at a time with whips and guns. As the slaves realised what their fate was to be they tried to put up a struggle, but they were either shot or clubbed to the deck. Dead or alive, their bodies were heaved unceremoniously over the side as the crew tried to lighten their load and dispose of the evidence at the same time.
The heavy iron fetters on the Africans’ ankles pulled them straight under the surface as soon as they hit the water. Killigrew could imagine them screaming as they were dragged down to the ocean floor, their lungs filling with water, struggling, drowning helplessly. He felt sickened. He knew there were few forms of life lower than a slaver, but they were human beings after all, and it astonished him that any man should be so bereft of humanity that he could so callously slay his fellow men – in such large numbers – to save his own hide for what would probably amount to no more than a loss of employment for a few weeks.
Not all the slaves thrown overboard drowned. The sharks quickly caught on to what was happening and they too raced forwards, snatching at the sinking bodies, ripping them to shreds in a feeding frenzy which left a scarlet slick in the São João’s wake. As one pair of Africans was thrown overboard, an especially large shark lunged out of the water to snap at them before they even hit the surface. On the clipper’s deck, the slavers saw this and laughed. They even tried to aim the next pair of slaves so that they fell into the gaping maw of the next shark which tried that trick. Ranks of vicious teeth snapped on limbs, tearing flesh and snapping bone. The screams of the slaves became more frenzied; even those still in the hold were screaming in terror now.
‘Jesus!’ said a seaman standing close to Killigrew, and the mate made no attempt to berate him for his blasphemy.
‘Bastards!’ agreed another.
Still the slaves were brought up, kicking, struggling, only to be beaten down and tossed overboard. Ten, twenty, thirty, forty… more and more, until it seemed the whole sea was red with blood. More sharks came from miles around, drawn by the smell. Killigrew clenched his trembling fists until his fingernails drew blood from his palms. Until the São João hove to there was nothing he could do but look on impotently. It was not even worth lowering any boats in an effort to pull the Africans from the water: they would either sink or be torn to shreds long before the boats could get to them; besides which, it would have necessitated stopping the paddle-sloop, allowing the clipper to get further away and giving the crew time to drop even more slaves over the side.
Finally a shot from the Tisiphone brought the São João’s mainmast crashing down in a tangle of sails, spars and rigging. Immediately the clipper lost way and the paddle-sloop overhauled it and hove to alongside less than a cable away. The slavers realised they were beaten and quickly hauled down their false colours.
There was so much confusion on the slaver’s deck there seemed little point in calling across with the speaking trumpet and ordering them to send a boat over. One of the Tisiphone’s cutters was lowered into the shark-infested waters. This time it was the turn of Lieutenant Jardine and Midshipman Radmall to go aboard the captured vessel with a crew of seamen and marines. Killigrew slipped into the boat behind Strachan without waiting to be invited.
As the cutter pushed off from the Tisiphone’s side, Standish appeared at the rail above them. ‘Killigrew? What the devil are you doing down there? I didn’t tell you to go aboard with the prize crew. Come back here at once!’
Killigrew sat in the stern sheets with his back to the Tisiphone. The rowers had already propelled the cutter halfway across the distance between the two ships. He pretended not to hear.
‘Do you want us to bring him back, sir?’ called Lieutenant Jardine.
‘No. But he comes back with the cutter, you understand me? I don’t want any more farces such as happened aboard the Maria Magdalena. Is that perfectly clear? I’m going to get my share of tonnage bounty out of this.’
The sharks paid no attention to the boat. There was already enough fresh meat in the water to satisfy every shark off the Guinea Coast. Moments later the cutter bumped against the side of the clipper and a rope ladder was thrown down to them.
Killigrew went up first. Whoever had dropped the ladder had returned to help the other crew try to cut free the men who were trapped beneath the tangle of spars and rigging on the deck. One of the slavers had his legs crushed underneath a spar, and a tide of blood spread around him on the pale deck. Killigrew looked at him and felt no pity whatsoever.
Jardine took control of the situation while Radmall went to hoist the colours and Strachan went below to the slave deck.
‘Hey, Killigrew! You gonna stand there looking like a dumb sonuvabitch or you gonna help me?’
It was Barroso, trapped beneath some rigging but otherwise unharmed. Killigrew crossed to where he lay and drew his cutlass, raising it above his head. Barroso flinched, but Killigrew only hacked through the rigging.
The slaver grinned as Killigrew sheathed his cutlass and helped him to his feet. ‘You can’t hurt me, right? You’ve arrested me, now you gotta deliver me to the prize court in Freetown, right?’
‘Wrong.’ Killigrew rammed his fist into Barroso’s stomach.
The slaver doubled up and sank to his knees with a gasp of agony.
‘Aw, come on! You’re not still angry about the other night in Freetown, are you?’
‘No, I’ve forgotten all about that. Now I’ve got a whole new list of scores to settle with you.’
Killigrew hauled Barroso to his feet and ran him across to the side. Caught off balance, the slaver realised Killigrew’s intention too late to do anything about it. He hit the rail and toppled over. He screamed, convinced he was going to fall into the shark-infested waters, but then he bumped against the side and found himself hanging upside down, a
rope fast around his ankle. He gazed down into the bloody water only a couple of feet below his head, and craned his neck to where Killigrew stood at the rail above him.
‘Jésus, Senhor Killigrew! You loco sonuvabitch!’
‘What’s the matter, Barroso? Lost your sense of humour? You seemed to find plenty to laugh about when you threw those slaves to the sharks earlier.’
‘What slaves? Ain’t no slaves on this ship. We’re engaged in honest trade.’
‘It’s true.’ Killigrew turned to see Strachan emerging from the hold, his face ashen. ‘There are no slaves on board. The swines must’ve thrown them all overboard. No slaves, no shackles, nothing. Not even enough extra water butts to convict them of slaving.’
‘You mean, they’re going to get away with it again?’ asked Radmall.
‘All right, that’s enough,’ said Jardine. ‘Let him up, Mr Killigrew. You’ve had your fun. Killigrew? Where are you going? Come back here. Come back here at once! You get back on that cutter now, mister…’
Killigrew ignored him and marched into the roundhouse. He found da Silva seated behind the desk in his day cabin, looking as calm and self-assured as ever. ‘Ah, Senhor Killigrew. Is it not the custom to knock before entering a room in England?’
‘You son of a bitch.’
Da Silva smiled. ‘So how are those high-minded ideals of yours, Mr Killigrew? Have they been dented at all yet?’
Killigrew kept his clenched fist at his side. ‘Get up. Stand up, you filthy son of a bitch.’
‘Are you threatening me, Senhor Killigrew? I think you are in enough trouble already. You’re wasting your time, you know. I have papers which prove I’m engaged in legitimate commerce – see for yourself…’ Da Silva opened the drawer at his right-hand side.
Killigrew’s pepperbox appeared in his hand. ‘Stop that. Move away from the desk.’
‘For God’s sake! You know as well as I do that you are not going to shoot me.’
Killigrew levelled his pepperbox at da Silva’s forehead. ‘Do it! Get back – right back. Against the window.’
Killigrew of the Royal Navy Page 11