‘With all the creeks and inlets on that stretch of coastline, it should only take the entire squadron a couple of years to find it – if they dedicated all their energies to surveying that stretch of the coast, that is.’
‘Which they won’t, of course. The only thing we know about the Owodunni Barracoon is that it lies somewhere between Sierra Leone and Monrovia, it’s run by a man called Francisco Salazar – Portuguese or Brazilian, no one knows for sure – and it seems to have picked up most of the slave trade which was lost when Denman and his colleagues destroyed the barracoons on the Gallinas, Sherbar, and Pongas rivers. In fact the department estimates that over twenty thousand slaves are shipped from this one barracoon to the Americas every year. Can you imagine that? Twenty thousand men, women and children, every year? Why, at an estimate of one-third dying en route, that’s nearly seven thousand killed on the middle passage alone; and the rest condemned to a life of misery and degradation. Oh, capital shot, Mr Killigrew! I gather from the support you gave me in our rather heated debate with that pompous ass Sir George the other night that you feel rather passionately about the slave trade?’
‘I’d give anything to see it stopped,’ said Killigrew, concentrating on his next shot.
‘Anything?’ Napier chuckled. ‘I wonder…’
‘If you’d seen some of the atrocities I witnessed last month alone, you’d understand why I feel so strongly about it.’
‘I dare say. But there are plenty of other men in the squadron who’ve seen sights every bit as atrocious as the ones you’ve witnessed, yet precious few of them seem to have your zeal for crushing the slavers. Well played! You’re better at this game than you let on, Mr Killigrew. It is as well you’re not a member of this club; I do believe you are what they call a “shark”. Tell me, if you had the power, how would you go about stopping the slave trade?’
‘There are a number of ways…’ said Killigrew, taking another shot and potting Napier’s ball once again. ‘And I’d use all of them.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, the most important thing is to abolish slavery in the Americas.’
‘True. But given that this is beyond our powers?’
‘Discourage the African princes from selling the slaves to Europeans; make other forms of trade more profitable. Like that palm oil Sir Joshua is so keen on. I’d use carrot and stick techniques. The carrot is the vast profits they could realise from palm oil; the stick is stepping up the activities of the West Africa Squadron. We should smash the barracoons as they did a few years ago, before Captain Denman was taken to court. Damn the law! If a merchant has goods at a barracoon, then he’s aiding and abetting the blackbirders at the very least. His goods should be forfeit. I say we smash their barracoons and smash their goods and smash their ships until we’ve forced them out of business.’ He struck the cue ball savagely and managed to sink all three balls.
‘An eight stroke, by God! But will putting the barracoons out of business be enough, do you think?’
Killigrew stared at the green baize while he considered the question. ‘No,’ he decided. ‘To tell the truth, the trade is just too damned profitable. It’s the men who make the real money out of it we have to hit. The investors.’
‘Very good!’ Napier beamed like a teacher listening to a favourite pupil.
‘But they’re all foreigners so they’re beyond the reach of the British law.’
‘Supposing I were to tell you that one of the biggest investors in the slave trade today was an Englishman; and not only an Englishman at that, but a leading member of the Establishment?’
Killigrew almost dropped his cue. ‘Who?’
Napier chuckled. ‘My dear boy, if we knew his name you could rest assured the whole world would know about it by now. No, all we know are a few hints we’ve picked up here and there from reports such as yours handed in to the Slave Trade Department. But a definite picture is beginning to emerge. We even have a scrap of a letter of instructions to a slaver captain written on the House of Commons own headed notepaper!’
‘A member of parliament?’
‘Makes one think, does it not?’
‘You don’t suppose it could be…?’
‘I know what you’re going to say; don’t say it. We need proof before we go making any accusations, otherwise we’ll just ruin both our careers. And that’s where you come in, Mr Killigrew.’
‘I?’
‘I want you to become a blackbirder.’
Killigrew miscued. Unmindful of the balls clinking on the baize, he looked up at the rear-admiral in astonishment.
‘Yes, you heard me correctly,’ Napier told him. ‘The tighter we clamp down on the slavers, the more organised they become. The only way we’re going to get the proof we need is to infiltrate their ranks.’
‘You mean join the crew of a slaver under an assumed name?’ Killigrew shook his head. ‘It’s a nice idea, but it will never work. The blackbirders are as thick as thieves, and I’ve crossed swords with so many there’s too great a risk that one of them will recognise me as a naval officer.’
Napier nodded. ‘I suspect that’s the mistake I made with the last naval officer I sent on this mission.’
‘You mean… you’ve tried this before?’
‘Yes. You remember Lieutenant Comber, don’t you?’
‘Comber? Yes, he’s a good man.’
‘Ah… was a good man.’
‘Please tell me he’s working as a lion-tamer somewhere in central Europe.’
‘Eh? No, no. I fear it more likely that Lieutenant Comber is currently somewhere at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. But I won’t make the same mistake with you as I made with him.’
‘No?’
‘No. I intend for you to join a slaver under your real name.’
‘I know you well enough by now to know there’s method in your madness, sir, but I fear you’ll have to explain it to me.’
‘We’ll make it look as if you’ve been dismissed from the service in disgrace; guilty of something so vile that you’ll never be able to get honest work on any ship again, navy or merchant. What more natural than for you, embittered and twisted, to seek revenge by signing on with the kind of crew which the navy works so hard to foil?’
‘What more natural than the aforementioned crew should take the opportunity to thrash the living daylights out of me as soon as we’re at sea, just for devilment?’
‘Not if we pick the right captain, Mr Killigrew. One clever enough to realise the distinct advantages he’ll enjoy from employing an ex-naval officer – one with a grudge towards the navy – on board his vessel. A man who is completely familiar with all the tactics the navy employs.’
‘It might work,’ Killigrew allowed. ‘You have such a captain in mind?’
‘There’s an American, a man named Caleb Madison. He’s the master of the Madge Howlett, a Baltimore-built brig out of New York. She lands at Liverpool two or three times a year and loads with manufactured goods ostensibly destined for Havana. Cotton textiles, gunpowder and muskets, looking glasses, copper wire, kitchen utensils…’
‘All the usual goods in the slave trade.’
‘Precisely so. A brig plying between Liverpool and Havana could make the crossing more than four or five times a year. Furthermore, our consul in Havana keeps a close watch on shipping which might be involved in the slave trade and sends regular reports to the Slave Trade Department. He’s never seen any ship named the Madge Howlett land there.’
‘So she’s changing her name between Liverpool and Havana.’
‘Or sailing directly to the Guinea Coast. But the Madge Howlett belongs to the Bay Cay Trading Company, the same company which owned several other ships which have been condemned as slavers; one of which contained the fragment of the letter with the House of Commons heading. There’s a mass of paperwork and red tape between the Bay Cay Trading Company and its real owners, but I’m willing to stake my life that if you berth on board the Madge Howlett for a voyage, you’ll le
arn something which will lead us to our high-placed slaving investor.’
‘That’s easy for you to say, sir,’ said Killigrew, lining up his next shot. ‘It’s not your life that will be at stake.’
‘I know I’m asking you to undertake a perilous enterprise, Mr Killigrew, and believe you me, I’ll not think any the less of you if you decline my offer.’
‘And if – when – the voyage is ended and I return to England? I’ll have my naval rank reinstated and my honour restored?’
‘A hundred fold. You’re going for a ten stroke? You’ll never make that shot, Mr Killigrew. A guinea on it.’
‘What odds will you give me?’
‘A hundred to one.’
‘And what odds would you give on my even surviving a voyage on a slaver, never mind finding out the information you require?’
‘I’ll not beat about the bush, Killigrew. About the same.’
Killigrew took his shot, striking first the red ball and then the spot white, pocketing both before his own ball slipped slyly down the top pocket.
‘’Pon my soul! Done it, by Jove!’ exclaimed Napier. ‘Which takes your score up to…’
‘A hundred and one. My game, I believe.’
They replaced their cues in the rack and went downstairs and outside, waiting on the steps while the porter stepped out into the street to flag down a passing hansom for the rear-admiral.
A young girl – no more than eleven or twelve, gauged Killigrew – approached them with a bundle of heather. Her face was scrubbed, but there was grime around her neck and behind her ears, and her out-sized clothes were grubby and patched. ‘Buy some lucky heather, kind sirs?’ she asked.
‘Oi! I’ve told you before!’ growled the porter. ‘We don’t want your sort round here. Hop it!’
Killigrew waved him away. ‘I think I’m going to need all the good luck I can get if I’m going to undertake this enterprise.’
Napier was delighted. ‘You accept, then?’
‘Did you ever doubt I would?’
‘Capital fellow!’ Napier clapped him on the back. ‘I know you won’t let me down.’
Killigrew handed the girl a sovereign in return for a sprig of heather.
‘I can’t change this, mister!’ she protested.
‘That’s all right,’ said Killigrew, smiling benignly. ‘Keep the change.’
‘Coo! For this much change I’ll suck your sugar stick,’ she offered.
Killigrew’s smile grew thin. ‘That won’t be necessary. Why don’t you buy some food for your family?’ She nodded and ran off up the street.
‘You realise, of course, she’ll probably spend it on gin?’ said Napier.
‘If I had to live by selling heather and performing lewd acts on strangers, I’d probably spend all my money on gin, too,’ said Killigrew.
‘To return to your enterprise,’ said Napier. ‘If, as I suspect, the man we’re after is high up in London Society, then there’s a good chance he may have spies in all manner of unexpected places; such men usually do. For your own safety, I suggest that the fewer people know of this, the better.’
‘How many people did you have in mind?’
‘Ideally, just the two of us—’
He broke off at the sound of horse’s hoofs clopping on the cobbles and they both turned to see a gig come racing down Pall Mall, a young swell standing with the reins in one hand while he lashed the horse’s flanks with a whip held in the other. As the gig careered down the thoroughfare the man swayed on his feet, and it was only a drunkard’s luck which kept him from being pitched into the road. The porter, standing halfway into the road to flag down a hackney, had to leap aside to avoid being knocked down.
Further up the road, the flower-girl was not so lucky. She heard the horse’s hoofs and the rattle of the wheels on the cobbles, turned to see the gig bearing down on her, and froze. Killigrew launched himself towards her, but it was a purely instinctive reaction and he was too far away to do anything.
The driver of the gig did not even see the girl. She squeaked briefly before falling under the horse’s hoofs, and then one of the gig’s wheels bounced over her chest. The man in the gig fell back into the seat, giggling drunkenly, unaware that anything untoward had occurred, and the gig veered off Pall Mall on to Cockspur Street.
Killigrew reached the girl’s body. Plenty of other people walked past, but none troubled to stop. She was barely conscious, and the blood which bubbled past her lips indicated that at least one broken rib had pierced a lung. Killigrew cradled her head in his lap and looked up at the passersby. ‘Someone fetch a doctor, for God’s sake!’
A fit of coughing racked the girl’s body, and she lay still. Napier stood over Killigrew and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘It’s too late, Killigrew,’ he said softly. ‘There’s nothing anyone can do.’
Feeling shaken, Killigrew pushed himself to his feet. He was not unaccustomed to the sight of violent death, but it was not something he associated with the genteel streets of St James’s. ‘We’d better fetch a constable,’ he told Napier. ‘Someone has to give that fellow’s description, though I doubt they’ll catch him.’
Napier nodded. ‘No need for us both to wait. You must have things to do.’
‘So must you, surely? And more important than what I’d had planned for this afternoon.’ Killigrew glanced at his watch: it was nearly three o’clock.
Napier smiled. ‘You had plans? Concerning a young lady, perhaps? No need to keep her waiting. You run along.’
‘All right. When the police get here, give them my name. If they do catch that swine, I’ll be happy to stand against him in the witness box. I’m staying at the Army and Navy.’
Napier nodded, and after one last regretful glance at the dead girl, Killigrew headed up Regent’s Street. As he made his way towards Piccadilly Circus, he thought about her. There were those who would have said the death of one reduced to such circumstances was probably for the best, but Killigrew would have dismissed them as self-righteous asses. He felt sick. He had been so close to the incident, perhaps if he had been a little more vigilant he could somehow have prevented it. But there had been nothing he could do – how he hated to be an impotent bystander! – and it was done now anyway.
As he turned off Piccadilly and headed up Berkeley Street, he forced himself to put the girl’s death from his mind and tried to think about the mission he had agreed to undertake for Napier. He wondered how he could inveigle Captain Madison into taking him on board the Madge Howlett. Killigrew had little taste for the duplicity which would be required of him to maintain his imposture, although he had confidence in his ability to carry it off, and it would be well worth it if it would enable him to bring some of the men foremost in the slave trade to justice. And it would be exciting; more exciting than cruising off the Guinea Coast on the Tisiphone, and certainly more exciting than mooching around in London. Yes, the more he thought about it, the more he realised he was looking forward to the adventure.
He reached Berkeley Square with a couple of minutes to spare, although Eulalia was already there, seated in a calash parked with the top folded down a short distance from Gunter’s Tea Shop. There were several other carriages parked nearby, and waiters moved back and forth between the tea shop and the carriages delivering ice creams and sorbets. There was no sign of the calash’s driver; Killigrew guessed that Eulalia had sent him off on some errand. Gunter’s was popular with the younger members of Society, and the only place Killigrew knew of where a gentleman could talk to an unescorted lady without giving rise to scandal.
‘Are you all right, Kit?’ she asked as he approached. ‘You look pale.’
‘I saw a nasty accident just now,’ he explained. ‘A young girl knocked down by a gig.’
‘Good heavens, how awful! Was she all right?’
‘No. She died.’
Eulalia looked shocked. ‘It’s more genteel to say she “passed on”, Mr Killigrew.’
‘And not referring to her death dir
ectly makes it all right, does it?’ he asked heatedly, removing his top hat to run his fingers through his hair in agitation.
‘I’m sorry. You are right, of course. It will not bring her back. I forgot I was dealing with a plain-speaking navy man.’
‘No, I’m the one who should apologise. It was not my intention to address you so intemperately, ma’am. I was angered by what I saw, and improperly expressed my anger towards you.’
‘It is not improper to be angry, if the anger is justified,’ she allowed, and smiled. ‘But we are becoming formal once more, are we not? I think two people who played together as children might be permitted to address one another by their Christian names.’
He smiled and waved across a waiter, ordering them both a sorbet. ‘So, are you going to tell me what all these mysterious appointments you keep having to leave for are?’ she asked, when they had finished eating and the waiter had taken away the bowls once more.
‘Oh, I’m just doing some work with the Slave Trade Department at the Foreign Office,’ he told her absently, mindful of Napier’s injunction not to discuss their plan.
‘Still trying to suppress the slavers, Kit?’
‘I have to. I’m sorry if I seem obsessive about them, but if you’d seen what I saw…’ Even there, in the leafy surroundings of Berkeley Square, the mental image of the slaves being thrown off the São João had lost none of its impact.
‘You had a bad time with the West Africa Squadron, didn’t you?’
‘I? No, I can think of no place better for a young naval officer wishing to see some adventure, both for its own sake and with an eye to getting noticed by his superiors. Nor can I think of any cause more just to fight for.’
Killigrew of the Royal Navy Page 15