“That one, too—with the nice whiskers. He was awful kind to us.”
“I’ll bet he was,” says the voice again, and the adjudicator got so angry he swore, and said that was the last warning. Clitheroe gave me a look, and said:
“I see—these two men. Captain Spring and Mr Comber. They and others took you on a ship—where to, do you know?”
“Oh, to Havana, ev’yone said. An’ then we was goin’ on to here, by ’nother ship, to Awlins, right here.”
“I see. Did you know where you were going to, in New Orleans?”
They giggled and conferred. “Miz Rivers’ who’-house, so ev’yone reckon.”
“I see, first to Havana, and then to Mrs Rivers’ … er, establishment, in New Orleans.” Clitheroe paused. “There is, I am told, such an establishment.”
There was some haw-hawing from the public, and a cry of “He ain’t foolin’,” but the adjudicator let it go.
“Now, girls,” says Clitheroe, “when you were in Roatan, what were you?”
“Please, suh, we wuz whores,” giggled Drusilla.
“Yes, yes, but what else? Were you free?”
“Oh, no, suh, we wuz slaves. Warn’t we, Drusie? Yassuh, we’z slaves a’right.”
“Thank you. And as slaves you were sent aboard the ship, to be taken to Havana, and thence sold to Mrs Rivers’ … ah … whore-house in New Orleans. But by the favour and mercy of God, the ship was captured by the United States Navy and—” Clitheroe leaned forward impressively “—you were brought to New Orleans and there set free. Is this not so?”
“Oh, yassuh. We’s set free, sho’ nuff.” Messalina smiled winningly at him.
“Fine. Splendid. You were liberated from that unspeakable servitude, and you are now free women.” Clitheroe was enjoying himself. “Since when I don’t doubt you have been happy in your new-found land of adoption and blessed free estate. You are both safe in New Orleans?”
“Oh, yassuh. We’s fine, at Miz’ Rivers’ who’-house.”
Even the adjudicator didn’t try to stop the peal of laughter and applause that this provoked, and Drusilla and Messalina smiled around happily and preened themselves under all this male attention. But Clitheroe just sat down, red in the face, and Anderson got up and waited for the noise to subside.
“A very moving story,” says he, and everyone roared again. “Tell me, Drusilla and Messalina—I don’t doubt for a moment that every word you have told us is true, and I accept it as true—but tell me, you first, Messalina dear: where were you born?”
“Why … Baton Rouge, suh.”
“And you, Drusilla?”
“N’Awlins, suh.”
“Indeed. Very interesting. And how did you come to be at Roatan?”
Messalina had been taken by a wealthy planter visiting Cuba; she had been his mistress, but he had tired of her and sold her. (“Silly bastard,” says the unseen voice). Drusilla had been one of a party taken on a cruise by wealthy degenerates, who had sold their doxies at various places in the Caribbean.
“So you are both American-born? I see—and both born slaves?”
“Yassuh.”
“The other girls on the ship with you—were they also American-born? You don’t know—of course not. And they have not been cited as witnesses in this case, and can’t be called now, accordingly.” Anderson glanced knowingly across the court at Clitheroe, who was looking like a man who sees a ghost. “May I refresh the court’s memory by referring to the enactment of 1820”—he rattled off a string of numbers while he leafed through a large tome. “Here we have it. Briefly it defines as piracy and illegal slave-trading—” he paused impressively “—the transportation for enslavement of any coloured person who is not already a slave under American law.”
In the hush that followed Anderson closed the book with a snap like a pistol shot.
“There we have it, sir. Captain Spring, as he has admitted, freely and openly, was carrying slaves—American slaves, born slaves, and in so doing he was in no way contravening any United States law. No more than a man breaks the law when he carries a slave across the Mississippi River. He was not running slaves, or slave-trading in the illicit sense, or—”
Clitheroe was on his feet, raging. “This is an outrageous twisting of the truth—why, just because these two happen to be American-born—why, they were only chosen to testify because they spoke English well—half of their fellow-captives on the Balliol College, I am certain, were not American-born, and were therefore—”
“Then it’s a pity you didn’t bring them here today,” says Anderson. “You should choose your witnesses more carefully.”
“Sir, this is monstrous!” cries Clitheroe. “In the name of justice, I demand to be allowed to call another—”
“In the name of justice you’ll keep us here till kingdom come!” cries Anderson. “Really, sir, are we to be detained while this distinguished counsel rakes the whole of Louisiana for some witness who will suit his book? He has entered his witnesses before this court—let him abide by what they say. If they let him down, so much the worse for him, and so much the better for justice!”
There was no doubt whose side the spectators were on. They cheered and stamped and drowned out everyone until the little adjudicator had to shout for silence. And after several minutes, when all was quiet, he remarked:
“You had ample time to consider who you should call, sir. I’ll hear the witnesses you have named.”
“I protest!” cries Clitheroe, his white hair flung back. “I protest—but very well, sir—you shall hear my last witness, who will prove my case for me!” And as my heart shot into my mouth he turned and boomed:
“Beauchamp Millward Comber, Royal Navy!”
I suppose I took the oath, but I don’t remember it. Then Clitheroe was taking me through my antecedents, my commissioning by the Board of Trade, my shipping aboard the Balliol College—all of which I had to invent, on the spur of the moment, and it wasn’t made any easier by the unseen voice growling: “Goddam’ limey spy!”—and so to the business he wanted to get his teeth into.
“You can, I think, testify, that when the Balliol College reached Dahomey, she took aboard not palm oil, as the defendant claims—but a human cargo. Slaves! Is this not so?”
But Anderson, bless his honest fat face, was on his feet. “This is quite improper, sir! I demand that the witness be instructed to ignore the question. We are not here concerned with what the British master of a Mexican ship was doing many thousands of miles from our shore. Such a case, if any there were, would be for a British or Mexican court, or a mixed commission of the type to which the United States does not subscribe. I demand—nay, insist—that no irrelevant observations, such as might prejudice my client’s position, be permitted. We are here to determine the status of the Balliol College at the time of her seizure—” and he went bounding on to cite a great string of precedents—Bright Despatch, Rosalinda, Ladies’ Delight, heaven knows what.
It sounded a near thing to me; I stood there with my palms sweating, and if that adjudicator had been an honest man I’d have been sunk. But someone had been to work, I’ve no doubt, for he shook his head, and snapped:
“I take the point of defendant’s counsel. We are not concerned with the Captain’s past history—”
“Or his ship’s?” bawls Clitheroe. “What about Mendon, Uncas, any number I could name, sir—why, slavers have been condemned before ever they had taken a black on board, simply on a question of intent! This—”
“May I make a point, sir?” says Anderson. “I respectfully suggest that it would ill become an American court to deny to a British master the very rights which we insist upon for our own captains where British justice is concerned. We demand that our captains be not interfered with unless they expressly break British law; it cannot be argued that what Captain Spring was doing thousands of miles away, in a Mexican ship, is any concern of ours.”
“Humbug—” Clitheroe was beginning, but Anderson added quick
ly:
“The court would hardly wish to set a precedent of which foreign governments, particularly the British, might take note.”
That clinched it. The adjudicator glanced at me: “You will ignore that question, sir. Mr Clitheroe, I must ask you to confine yourself to the matter in hand. Proceed, sir.”
“I protest again, most emphatically,” says Clitheroe. “Very well, then—Mr Comber, were these negroes who were carried from Roatan for Havana—were they chained, sir?”
“Most of the time, not,” says I, which was true.
“But chains were placed upon them when the American brig challenged the Balliol College?”
“Yes.” I tried not to catch Spring’s eye.
“Why were they chained, sir?”
“To prevent their possible escape, I imagine. I was below decks at the time.”
He gave me an odd look. “Was there not another reason? Was it not so that a length of anchor chain could be rove through their shackles, so that they could be brutally hurled into the deep and drowned?” He looked at his papers. “I quote from your own statement to the Navy Department.”
Up came Anderson. “May I point out that this … statement, supposedly made by the witness, is not in itself evidence. We are concerned with what he says now, not what he said then.”
I could feel the sweat starting out on my brow. How to balance the tightrope? Talk for your life, Flash, thinks I, so I looked perplexed, and said, addressing the adjudicator:
“Sir, I have reflected much on this matter in the past few months. That the slaves were shackled, and the anchor chain passed between those shackles, is true—I myself released them later. But in strict justice I must add that the shackling was performed by the late Mr Sullivan, mate of the Balliol College, and it was followed by a most violent altercation between Sullivan and Captain Spring.”
Clitheroe’s eyes narrowed, and I saw Bailey, who was behind him, sit up suddenly.
“Are you saying,” says Clitheroe, “that Spring was objecting to this shackling?”
“I can’t say, sir.” God, I was treading warily. “What was the cause of their altercation, I do not know.” I took a deep breath. “But I do know that Mr Sullivan had served aboard slave ships in the past—and I don’t believe he was quite right in the head, sir.”
Clitheroe was staring at me in frank disbelief. “But this is totally out of accord with your earlier statement, sir. What?—” he scrabbled over a page “—here we have you referring to Spring as ‘an unhuman beast’, a ‘callous murderer’, a—”
“This is infamous!” roars Anderson. “I have protested already—sir!” He swung on Clitheroe. “Is that statement, that rubbish you hold in your hand, and read out to vilify my client—is it signed, sir?”
“It is not signed, sir, but—”
“Then take it away, sir! Remove it! It is a scandal, a disgrace! I appeal to the adjudicator!”
“We will hear the witness,” says the adjudicator. “Not what you say he once said, Mr Clitheroe. You must not lead the witness, sir—as you should know.” Someone had greased his palm, right enough.
Clitheroe was in a quandary; Bailey, I could tell from his face, was in a fury. Clitheroe turned back to me, and his face was ugly.
“Very well,” says he. “I now put the matter to you in different terms. Can you say, from your own knowledge, that there were slaves being carried on board the Balliol College in contravention of American law—that is to say, non-American slaves, and that an attempt was made to dispose of them by casting them overside—whoever gave the order.”
I was ready enough for that. “Two hours ago, sir, I would have been able positively to answer your question as to the slaves. However, you must see, in the light of what we have heard from the last two witnesses, that I cannot in conscience answer positively now. The distinction about American-born slaves is new to me, sir; I cannot say whether the others were also American or not.”
He gave a snort of impatience. “Was there not, on the Balliol College, an African woman—brought from Africa, sir, and carried to Baltimore with the others by Captain Fairbrother? A woman named—” he looked at his paper “—Lady Caroline Lamb, who spoke no English, and had been carried from Dahomey as a slave? Who could not possibly have been American, whatever the others were.”
“I remember the woman perfectly,” says I. “As to her status, I confess I am reluctant—now—to be too definite, since she was certainly not among those shackled by Mr Sullivan.” (That was true, too; how had he overlooked her? She must have been in my cabin. Ah well, it’s an ill wind.)
“Reluctant?” Clitheroe threw down his papers in disgust. Behind him I could see Bailey muttering with rage. “Reluctant? On my word, Mr Comber—I find this most extraordinary. Are you here, sir, to testify against that man—” and he flung out a hand at Spring “—or are you not? Damme, sir—I beg the adjudicator’s pardon—what does this mean? Your whole tone, your attitude, the burden of your evidence, is so far from what you led us to believe it would be, that I could almost wonder—” His glance flickered to Anderson, but he thought better of it. Before he could go on, I plucked up my courage and got in first.
“I have answered your questions to the best of my ability, sir,” says I. “If I am scrupulous, I must say I find it hard that I should be blamed for that.”
He looked as though he would burst. “Scrupulous, by all that’s holy! I don’t ask you to be scrupulous—I ask for the truth! What did you sail aboard this damned slaver for, if not to bring him to justice, eh? Answer me that, sir?”
When in difficulty, bluster; it was the only weapon I had left, and I seized it, now that his loss of composure had given me the chance.
“I sailed in the performance of my duty to my chiefs, sir, as you well know. That duty I have done—or will do, as soon as I am permitted. If you look in my statement, sir, you will see that I was reluctant from the first to appear in this case, and that I appeared only because your Navy Department assured me it was necessary. I had assumed, wrongly, I fear—” and I took my whole courage in my hands, and tried to sound furious “—that such a simple case would be easily concluded without my intervention being called for.”
He went white, and then red, and his breath came out in a great shudder. He looked at me with pure hate, and when he spoke, it was with great care.
“Indeed, sir? Very high-minded, and high-handed, are we not? Very well, Mr Comber, let us examine this, if you please. Your duty, sir, you have told us, is to your chiefs—you are an agent against the slave trade—although one would hardly suspect it from your conduct today. As such, I understand you obtained possession, during this voyage, of papers belonging to the master of the Balliol College—” out of the tail of my eye I saw Spring stiffen in his seat. “Will you tell us, sir, whether or not there was evidence in those papers—as to the ownership of the vessel, for example—to prove that she was engaged illegally in the slave trade, in contravention of American law? You are on oath, sir—remember that!”
My heart lurched, because I had seen the way out. I held my breath a moment, to make my face red, and let it out slowly. I drew myself up, and glared at him with all the venom I could muster.
“This, sir,” says I, “is intolerable. It is precisely why I did not wish to appear. You are well aware, sir, that there are facts which I am in duty bound not to disclose—facts of the highest import—it is all explained in that statement, sir—which I cannot in honour convey to anyone except to my chiefs at home. I was promised immunity from this—” brazening it for all I was worth, I rounded on Bailey. “Captain Bailey, I appeal to you. This is entirely unworthy—I am badgered, sir, on the very grounds which it was promised to me would be inviolate. I will not endure it, sir! The counsel’s questions must lead inevitably to the point which I was assured would not be touched. I … I …” There’s nothing like a good stammer for conviction. “I was a fool to be coerced into this! I should have known … incompetence! … harm done!”
> There was tumult in the court; even Bailey was looking bewildered now; the adjudicator was at a loss. Anderson, clever man, had the good sense to look amazed; Spring was looking worried. Clitheroe, stuck between rage and astonishment, looked to Bailey, and then to me.
“On my word!” This was the adjudicator, darting his nose at me. “What is this, sir? This outburst is quite—”
“Sir,” says I, “I most humbly beg your pardon. I intended no disrespect to you, or to this august court.” I hesitated. “I found myself placed in an intolerable position, sir—if an explanation is necessary, I beg that you will ask counsel for the plaintiff.”
There was a moment’s silence, in which the adjudicator looked at Clitheroe, and Clitheroe stood with his face white and his mouth set. Then he shook his head.
“I see no advantage to the court in … examining this witness further,” says he, and he sat down.
Anderson jumped up, and began to address the adjudicator, but I was too bemused by my own eloquence to listen. The next thing I knew there was an adjournment, and I was hustled off to Bailey’s office, with Clitheroe and Dunne, and the first two rounded on me like bears. But I snatched the ball from their hands, and laced into them for all I was worth—it was my only chance, I knew, to play the mystery as I had done in the Washington Navy Department, and play it as furiously as I could.
“If you so mishandle your case, sir, that you can’t get a condemnation order that a child could obtain, is that my fault? The wrong slaves called as witnesses—this fellow Anderson permitted to shut me up on the very point where I could have given conclusive testimony! And then—the impudence to break the solemn assurance I was given in Washington, by questioning me in a way which, if I’d been fool enough to answer, must have elicited the names I am duty bound to conceal! And you dare to raise your voice to me, sir? Do you think I’ll see my work ruined—two years of it—” Well, why not lay it on hard? “—simply because some fool of a lawyer can’t win a case which in itself is nothing—nothing, sir, I tell you—compared with what I and my people are trying to do? Oh, this is too much!”
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