A Sloop of War

by Philip K Allan

  ‘I cannot claim Mr Robertson as an acquaintance of long standing,’ said Linfield. I only met him myself on the day that the Agrius first arrived at Bridgetown, but I know him to be a substantial planter with some rather unorthodox views of his labour force.’

  ‘Why, Mr Linfield,’ exclaimed Sutton. ‘You have not known Mr Robertson a week! Yet he is prepared to fund us in our cups and now host a dinner in our honour tonight. I do declare that you are wasted as a surgeon. Have you considered serving your country as a diplomat?’

  ‘Well, we shall soon see what fate has in store for us tonight,’ said Clay looking out of the carriage window, ‘for I believe this must be the place. It was very handsome of Mr Robertson to provide us with his carriage to collect us from the quayside, and bring us here to Melverton. We will doubtless spend an evening with a number of his rather dull neighbours, and then we can make our excuses and leave.’

  But Clay was wrong about the evening. To his surprise no other guests had come, and instead the three young men were in for a rather more intimate evening with their host and his two daughters. Both girls must have got their looks from their mother, for unlike their father they were fair. They had tresses of blond hair piled up on their heads, and both had hazel eyes which they lowered to the floor as they stepped forward to be presented to the officers. Miss Elizabeth Robertson was both the older and plainer of the two, and assumed the role of hostess from her long deceased mother. When they went through to dinner, she had placed herself in the position of honour, between her father and the principal guest. Mr Robertson had asked Clay for a full account of the Agrius’s battle with the Courageuse, but Clay was at root a shy man when he was with unfamiliar company, and his account needed diligent questioning from his host to tease out the details. As the account wound on, Miss Elizabeth found her attention wandering with a degree of envy towards her younger sibling’s end of the table.

  All of this had served to free her younger and prettier sister Emma to indulge in flirtation with the two other young gentlemen lured to the house by their father. Emma had a languid eye for the dark looks of John Sutton in particular, which was a shame. Had she given a little more of her attention to his lighter haired companion, she might have detected a flicker of interest in Jacob Linfield’s pale blue eyes.

  ‘Might that be a cannon ball tree I can see at the edge of the lawn?’ asked the young surgeon.

  ‘I daresay it might,’ replied Emma. ‘I am no great expert on flora.’

  ‘I must congratulate you on what charming grounds you have here, Miss Emma,’ said Linfield, indicating the waterfalls of pink hibiscus that cascaded down either side of the dining room’s large bay window. Emma glanced at the display with an indifferent eye.

  ‘They are tolerable this year, Mr Linfield,’ she conceded. ‘Last year they were better tended. Do you like flowers at all, Mr Sutton?’

  ‘I regret to have none of my colleague’s expertise, Miss Emma,’ replied Sutton with a smile. ‘The only cannon balls with which I am familiar do not grow on trees.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Sutton!’ smiled Emma. ‘How droll you are.’

  ‘Look, now there is a hummingbird in your flowers!’ enthused Linfield.

  ‘Were you long in the navy, Mr Sutton?’ Emma asked, turning towards her neighbour, her back to the window.

  ‘Why I should say about fourteen years, Miss Emma,’ he replied. ‘I was only a boy when I went to sea. My father is a lieutenant in the navy, and he got me a place in a friend’s ship. How about you, Mr Linfield?’

  ‘I am far from the veteran mariner that you are, Mr Sutton,’ Linfield replied, one eye still on the shimmering green bird. ‘I joined at the start of the war, directly I had finished my medical training. The Rush is only my second ship.’

  ‘You must have travelled very extensively in all those years, Mr Sutton,’ asked Emma. ‘Were you ever in the West Indies?’

  ‘Regrettably not,’ replied Sutton. ‘This is my first visit to Barbados, and after only a few days here we depart in the morning.’

  ‘What a shame,’ exclaimed Emma. ‘There is some very agreeable countryside around here, and I had wondered if you might care to ride over it?’

  ‘Alas I am no horseman, Miss Emma,’ said Sutton. ‘Although I believe Mr Linfield rides. With his enthusiasm for your native flora and fauna, I am sure he would make a much more diverting companion.’

  ‘Would he now,’ said Emma, appraising the surgeon through her almond-shaped eyes.

  As dinner proceeded, Mr Robertson perceived that things were not going as he had planned. For one thing Clay did not seem to be very interested in his older daughter. He was perfectly polite, but their talk had increasingly strayed towards the war and the politics of Barbados, subjects that did little to show Miss Elizabeth at her best. Looking down the table he could see that all was not going his younger daughter’s way either. Miss Emma was drumming the tip of her closed fan on the edge of the table in the hope of regaining Mr Sutton’s attention, while the object of her desires was in animated conversation with the young surgeon. He coughed into his napkin with just enough force to silence the room.

  ‘My youngest daughter has a considerable reputation on the island as a performer of attitudes,’ said Robertson.

  ‘Attitudes, sir?’ asked Clay. ‘I am not familiar with the concept, what pray might they be?’

  ‘Are you not aware of them?’ asked their host. ‘Well, perhaps we might persuade Miss Emma to a short performance. Emma, my angel, would you oblige these gentlemen with a wee demonstration?’

  Miss Emma, it transpired, could be persuaded. She stood up in front of the party, and adopted a curious stance. Legs a little apart, her back arched, she placed one hand on her forehead, and extended the other arm in front of her, while she simultaneously composed her face into a frown. Once in position her body froze into statue-like stillness, her eye fixed on a point somewhere close to the chandelier. The three officers exchanged glances. Clay and Sutton’s faces wore the glazed expression of persons determined not to laugh.

  ‘There, sir,’ breathed their host. ‘Have you seen anything to match it? Naturally you can tell what the attitude is?’

  ‘Eh, discomfort?’ speculated Clay.

  ‘No, sir! It is Perseverance!’ said Robertson. ‘Surely you can see it now? It is one of Miss Emma’s more celebrated attitudes. Elizabeth my dear, could you assist Mr Sutton. He seems to be choking on something.’

  *****

  ‘There was another matter of a certain delicacy I wanted to discuss with you, captain,’ said Mr Robertson when his daughters had retired, leaving the men to their rum and cigars.

  ‘I am of course at your disposal, although I should tell you that I am engaged to another lady,’ said Clay, hoping to pre-empt what he thought might be on his host’s mind.

  Robertson paused for a moment, the decanter motionless in his hand. He looked at Clay with surprise, before he continued.

  ‘No, that was not what I wanted to speak to you about, although you naturally have my felicitations for your engagement. I wanted to explain the reason why no other guests accepted my invitation to dinner tonight. Spring Hill Plantation has something of a notorious reputation on the island. Did Mr Linfield provide you with any detail as to how matters are arranged here?’

  ‘I have not had that opportunity, Mr Robertson,’ said Linfield.

  ‘No matter,’ continued Robertson. ‘I can leave Mr Linfield to apprise you of the particulars. Suffice it to say I took a decision some months back to free my slaves and re-employ them as labourers. As you can well imagine, this has made my neighbours somewhat furious with me, although the more charitable among them are prepared to consider me as simply mad.’

  ‘You amaze me, sir,’ said Clay, ‘and has your project delivered success?’

  ‘Well, it is early days,’ cautioned the planter, ‘but my former slaves are certainly more productive, and obviously happier than they were before. No my principal problem is that Spring Hill
is now considered to be a haven for every slave who has run on the island. They arrive here in hope that they too may become free, but of course I can only offer freedom to my own slaves. Under the law here in Barbados a slave is the property of their owner. I therefore have to hand them back to their masters, which my workers find very distressing, knowing how brutal will be their punishment.’

  ‘I sympathise with your predicament,’ said Clay. ‘That does sound most unfortunate, but I am not sure how I can help you, Mr Robertson. I make no claim to expertise of the law, whether Barbadian or otherwise.’

  ‘Nor would I expect it of you, sir. Perhaps I might offer you a summary of the position?’ continued his host.

  ‘By all means,’ said Clay.

  ‘Well, here in the islands of the West Indies we have laws passed by our own legislatures that permit the institution of slavery. In England, or indeed in my native Scotland, no such explicit legislation exists. Thus if a slave can get himself to a territory where English law applies, there is generally considered to be sufficient ambiguity for him to become a free man,’ explained Robertson.

  ‘Ah, I think I see where this trail may lead, sir,’ said Clay. ‘Would a location falling under English law include the deck of a Royal Navy ship?’

  ‘Precisely so, captain,’ beamed his host. ‘In consequence the navy have numerous black sailors in their ranks, many of whom are former slaves,’ concluded Robertson. Clay shook his head as he replied.

  ‘That may well be so, Mr Robertson, but the navy has also need to be careful. If we were thought to be encouraging slaves to run it would be seen as a mischievous interference in the running of this colony. I am sure you understand that after the American war that is not a path we can lightly take.’

  ‘I understand, captain,’ continued Robertson. ‘I do not propose a general flight of slaves to your ship. I have in mind a single exceptional individual. He is a person of considerable intelligence, having learnt to speak English to a level that far exceeds that which I have encountered in any other Negro. Haynes, his owner, was training him up to serve in his house, but found him to be too rebellious an individual, so returned him to work in the fields. He was a fisherman before he was enslaved so he has some knowledge of the sea, and wishes to volunteer to serve. I can confirm that he is a fine strong young man, and must have an uncommonly resourceful character to have evaded his pursuers and arrived here. I believe he would make an excellent hand, and knowing how the navy is often short of men I wondered if you might take him as an exception. He could ride back with you hidden in the trunk of my carriage, and it would be passing strange if he failed to get on board the Rush unobserved.’

  Clay exchanged glances with Sutton and Linfield. Linfield was leaning forward in his chair with a look of eagerness, while Sutton seemed more ambivalent.

  ‘It is true, we are a little short of compliment, sir,’ said Sutton. ‘If this hand is as good as Mr Robertson believes something might be made of him.’

  ‘That is as may be,’ said Clay, turning to their host. ‘Mr Robertson, I do understand your predicament. I am not an unkind man, but I am perplexed as to what this poor individual has to do with me. Unlike Mr Linfield here, I have no particular views on slavery. It is a matter that I have hardly given any consideration to. At best I regard it as an unpleasant necessity that happens far away, out of the general sight. I suppose I might regard it in the same way as I do hanging. I know that some criminals must hang, but I have never felt any desire to witness the actual execution.’

  ‘Sir, it is true, I make no secret of my abolitionist views,’ said Linfield. ‘For me it is an abomination that this man should have ever lost his freedom. But might I appeal to your natural sense of justice? In the little time I have spent with the officers who know you best, they say you are an honourable man. They speak of you standing up to your previous captain on several occasions when you believed you had been wronged. Might you not extend such moral fortitude to one who stands in dire need of your help?’

  ‘I am not sure that any notion of extending my moral fortitude will help me much if I get hauled up before Admiral Caldwell, Mr Linfield,’ said Clay, feeling a flush of annoyance. Damn Robertson, he thought, confronting him in this way. Until he had mentioned this man, Clay had been enjoying a pleasant evening, still warmed by the comfortable afterglow of pleasure from his recent promotion.

  ‘What will become of him if we refuse to take him, Mr Robertson?’ asked Linfield. Their host’s face grew grim.

  ‘I will have to return him to his owner, Mr Haynes. He is not a man to be trifled with. I believe he would seek to make an example of this individual as a warning to his other slaves. I will spare you the details so soon after we have eaten, but let me say that slaves who run from Mr Haynes are seldom able to work again.’

  ‘Sir, I appreciate that this is a matter of some delicacy,’ pleaded Linfield, ‘but I must urge you to assist this poor negro, if only from a motive of Christian charity.’ Clay shifted in his chair, steeling his heart to say no, but then he looked into Linfield’s eager face and felt a little ashamed. The young surgeon would offer this poor slave his freedom in an instant and damn the consequences, he thought.

  ‘Oh, very well, Mr Robertson,’ he said. ‘I will do what you ask, but only this once and only as a particular favour to you. Mr Linfield, not one further word from you if you please, or I shall change my mind again.’

  Chapter 3

  The Sloop of War Rush

  The following morning the Rush left Bridgetown with the first glimmer of dawn, and was out at sea when the sun climbed up from behind the lush hills of Barbados. Inside the little sloop, Robertson’s runaway slave was being read in by Taylor, the captain’s clerk. He slowly recited out loud the Articles of War that would now govern the new recruit’s life. Each article listed an offence, followed by the punishment that would follow if it was committed. The offences were to be punished with a savagery oddly reminiscent of that meted out to slaves, often death and never less than a flogging. The new recruit met each article with an ever wider grin of delight. At last he was free.

  ‘Now then, let us get you properly entered in due form,’ said Taylor, when he had reached the end of the list. He pulled the ship’s muster book towards him and dipped his pen into the ink well.

  ‘Name?’ he asked. It was a proud moment for the former slave. Five long years ago he had been forced to leave his name in the cages of Bridgetown market as part of the dehumanising process he had gone through. Today he would reclaim his true name once more.

  ‘Ablanjaye Senghore,’ he said, struggling a little to roll his tongue around the unfamiliar Ashanti syllables, now rusty with lack of use. Taylor’s pen stopped in mid-air, a droplet of ink forming on the nib.

  ‘Beg pardon?’ he queried. ‘What was the name again?’ Senghore repeated his name a little more slowly to the clerk.

  ‘I am sorry, but that will never do,’ said Taylor, laying down the pen.

  ‘But it is my name!’ protested Senghore. ‘It was taken from me when I was made a slave. I had to use the name the master gave me.’

  ‘Well, that is as may be, but it will never answer for the navy,’ insisted the clerk. ‘Can you imagine the boatswain or Lieutenant Sutton calling such a name? No, no, we will have to put down something more regular.’

  Taylor was a kind man, and he noticed the look of trembling disappointment in Senghore’s face.

  ‘I tell you what, I will try and set down a name as close to yours as I can find,’ he offered. ‘I can’t say fairer than that now, can I? Come on, let me hear it again.’ Ablanjaye Senghore repeated his name for a third, and as it turned out, final time. Taylor wrote down Able Sedgwick, landsman with care in the muster book.

  ‘All done, Sedgwick,’ he continued, once he had collected the recruit’s mark in the ledger, ‘Welcome to the navy. Now this here is Mr Croft. He is the midshipman in charge of your division. He will take you to the purser to be allocated a hammock and your clothes
, and will show you where you will mess.’ The newly christened seaman turned to the thin figure of the teenage midshipman.

  ‘Shall we go, Mr Croft,’ he suggested. Croft bristled at the familiarity in Sedgwick’s voice.

  ‘First let me acquaint you with the correct mode of address to an officer,’ he shouted up at the powerfully built man. ‘From now on you only speak to a superior officer when asked to do so and secondly you address me as “sir”. Is that clear, Sedgwick?’

  ‘Yes... sir,’ said Sedgwick.

  ‘The correct way of expressing your comprehension is to reply “aye aye, sir”,’ barked Croft.

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ replied the former slave, a little bewildered. As he followed his new officer he had much to ponder. He was not sure what he had been expecting from freedom, but so far it did seem to be turning out to be a bit of a disappointment.

  *****

  Free at last, thought Clay to himself, as he stood on the quarterdeck of the Rush. He had breakfasted that morning in the captain’s cabin of the sloop, and had thought it to be a room of infinite space and light. True, the deck was uncomfortably low, with at least four inches too little headroom for a man of his height, but the room spread across the whole twenty-six feet of the sloop’s beam. As captain he was allocated every pane of glass that the ship possessed - five sash lights in a sweep across the stern, and a further one on each side of the ship in the quarter galleys. Off the main cabin he had his own sleeping quarters and better still, for the first time in his life, he had a privy just for him. Compared to the dark seven foot square box that had been his cabin for so long on the Agrius, it was close to paradise.

  He felt free in other ways. His time was now his own, to do with as he would. He knew that in Sutton he had a competent officer who would ensure the Rush was a well organised and efficient ship, without too much input from him. Best of all, he had his own ship, and was setting out on his first independent mission, away from the watchful eye of any senior captains or admirals. Everything feels wonderful, he thought, as he stared over the stern rail of his sloop at the slowly retreating island of Barbados, now little more than a green line on the horizon.