He stood in the shadows beneath the eaves of a tavern near Liverpool docks and waited. The sound of raucous singing accompanied by an accordion came from another tavern further along the waterfront. He could not make out the words, but he knew the tune and did not doubt that they were singing one of the lewder versions of that classic sea shanty, ‘’Twas on the Good Ship Venus’. The sound of an accordion seemed strangely archaic: for some reason it always made him think of how the navy must have been in the days of his father’s youth, when Napoleon’s fleets threatened the shores of Britain.
It contrasted with the sound of an hydraulic crane lifting bales of cotton fabric on to a clipper in the harsh glare of limelight, for time was money and the sooner the cotton cloth produced in the mills of Lancashire could be returned across the Atlantic to the country from which the raw cotton had come, the sooner the credit could be transferred to the British banks, and whichever company delivered its goods first could corner the market while it waited for the others to catch up.
American cotton, produced by slave labour. Perhaps da Silva had been right: it was easy for the British to be holier than thou about the slave trade, but they still profited from it indirectly. And at least one Englishman – one very important and well-respected man – still profited from it directly. And that man was as responsible for the slaves thrown over the side of the São João as da Silva himself had been.
I don’t know who you are, Killigrew thought to himself, but I’m going to find out. And when I do, there’s going to be a reckoning.
The door to one of the taverns opened, spilling firelight across the cobbles with a hubbub of voices, and a man stood framed in the doorway, so tall he had to stoop to accommodate the tall, rather old-fashioned stovepipe hat he wore. Killigrew could only see the man’s silhouette, but he had spent so much time studying him through a telescope over the past two days it was enough to recognise him by.
As the man walked away from the tavern, two heavily-built shadows detached themselves from a pile of bales of cotton stacked on the quayside and quickly moved to block his path. ‘Can I help you gentlemen?’ asked the man in an American accent.
‘We were wondering if you could spare us the price of a drink,’ one of the shadows asked gruffly.
‘Sorry. The First Epistle of Paul and Apostle to Timothy: “For love of money is the root of all evil: which while some coveted after, they have erred from the faith, and pierced themselves through with many sorrows.”’
‘We asked for money, not a sermon. Give us some or we’ll break your head open.’
The American took a step forward, when anyone else would have backed away in fear. As he did so a light from a window fell across him, revealing a face which, though weather-beaten, was otherwise wholly unremarkable, except that he was smiling in a situation which offered him nothing to smile about. The smile crinkled the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, but there was no humour in those eyes: they were like hard chips of flint and managed to make even his smile seem menacing.
He chuckled ruefully. ‘Well, I guess that puts a whole different complexion on the matter, doesn’t it?’ he said, reaching into a pocket. ‘How much did you want?’
‘All of it.’
‘All of it? What are you planning to drink, champagne?’ He took out a fistful of sovereigns and threw them on the cobbles at the feet of the two men.
Clever, thought Killigrew. One of them bends down to pick up the coins, and the American kicks him in the head, leaving him with one opponent instead of two.
But the menacing men were wise to that trick and both ignored the coins. They attacked fast, one of them trying to grab the American. Instead of turning to flee, he suddenly moved in to meet them. He swung his fists and managed to land a couple of blows which would have decked an ordinary man.
But neither of these men were ordinary. They received his blows with little more than grunts, and then one of them pinioned the American in a full-nelson, holding him fast while the other twisted in front of him to pummel him. The American kicked savagely at his kneecaps, but the attacker was expecting it. He side-stepped easily and rammed a fist into the American’s stomach.
Killigrew decided it was time to intervene. He left the shadows and moved silently across the cobbles, stepping up behind the man who drove his fists repeatedly into the American’s stomach. He got one hand on the man’s shoulder and span him away from his victim, paying him in his own coin by driving a fist into his gut. The man gasped and swung at Killigrew’s head, but Killigrew ducked beneath the blow and hit him in the stomach again, before clipping him on the jaw with a fast uppercut. The man’s head snapped back and he went down.
The other man threw the American against a stack of barrels and charged towards Killigrew. The young man awaited his attack, adopting the classic pugilistic pose with both fists raised ready to strike. When the man reached him, Killigrew stepped aside at the last moment and tripped him up with an extended leg which sent him sprawling on the cobbles.
Something – probably the first man – slammed into Killigrew from behind and threw him against the wall of the tavern. Killigrew rammed his elbow into the man’s midriff and broke free. They faced one another, circling warily, and then Killigrew stepped in close and tapped the man twice on the chin with his left. The man was evidently something of an expert pugilist, for he glanced to his left, expecting Killigrew to follow up with a right, which was when Killigrew decked him with a left cross.
He turned to see the second man advancing on him again, when suddenly the American loomed out of the darkness, holding a cask above his head which he brought down sharply against the second man’s head.
‘Are you oh-kay?’ asked the American, once it was clear that neither of his attackers was in any hurry to get up and resume the combat.
Killigrew nodded, resting with his hands on his knees, breathing hard. ‘Thank you.’
‘No, thank you. I’m not entirely sure I could’ve handled them both if you hadn’t stepped in. Tough little sons of bitches, weren’t they?’
Killigrew crouched down to gather up the coins, and held them out to the American, who gestured dismissively. ‘Keep ’em.’
‘What I did I did out of Christian charity, not out of hope of a reward.’
‘I know. That’s why I’m giving you one.’
‘I thank you for your kindness, but I’m not in need of charity.’
The American looked him up and down, taking in his unshaven face and the threadbare clothes he had purchased from a second-hand shop in Monmouth Street. ‘Well, at least let me buy you a drink,’ he said, taking back his money and gesturing towards the tavern.
Killigrew licked his lips as if torn between pride and thirst. ‘All right,’ he said.
They went inside and crossed to the counter. ‘Back so soon, Cap’n?’ asked the tavern-keeper.
The American grinned. ‘You know me, Jake. I just can’t stay away.’
‘What can I get you?’
‘The usual, please, and whatever my friend here is having.’ He indicated Killigrew, whom the tavern-keeper looked up and down suspiciously.
‘Well? What’s it to be, young feller?’
‘I… I wonder if I could have a cup of tea?’ stammered Killigrew.
The American and the tavern-keeper laughed. ‘Where did you find him, Cap’n? At a temperance meeting?’
Killigrew shook his head. ‘No. I… I had an accident recently. I’d been drinking and… well, I’d rather not talk about it, if it’s all the same with you.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. If it’s tea you want then it’s tea you shall have. I’m sure Susie must have some tea in the kitchen?’ he asked the tavern-keeper, who nodded and poured out a glass of whisky for the American before disappearing into the back. ‘My name’s Madison, by the way. Caleb Madison.’ The American offered his hand. He had a surprisingly powerful grip.
‘Kit Killigrew.’
‘Killigrew, Killigrew,’ mused Madison. ‘I’m sure I’ve heard that name somewhere recently.’
Killigrew hung his head as if embarrassed. ‘It’s a common enough name in Cornwall.’
Madison’s smile did not falter, but there was suspicion in his eyes. ‘But we’re not in Cornwall. And you don’t have a Cornish accent.’
‘No, well, I came from a good family. The tavern-keeper called you “captain”. Am I to assume then that you are a fellow mariner, sir?’
‘United States merchant marine. I’m the master of the Madge Howlett.’
‘That fine Baltimore brig tied up in front of the Goree warehouses?’
Madison nodded. ‘You know your ships. You’re a sailor too? Which vessel are you with?’
‘I’m between ships at the moment,’ Killigrew responded with poorly-concealed circumspection. ‘I, er… I don’t suppose…?’
Madison shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve got a full complement right now.’
Killigrew nodded hurriedly, as if embarrassed that he had enquired.
‘You said “came”,’ said Madison.
‘What?’
‘You said you “came” from a good family. Most people would’ve said: “I come from a good family”, but you said you “came from a good family”. What happened? Did you disown them? Or did they disown you?’ Madison was grinning, as if to make light of the matter, but his eyes watched Killigrew’s face carefully, missing nothing.
Killigrew grimaced. ‘They disowned me. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’d really rather not discuss it.’
Madison held up his hands. ‘I’m sorry. You helped me out just now, and all I can do is ask impertinent questions. Please forgive me.’
The tavern-keeper returned with a mug of tea which he plonked on the counter before Killigrew. ‘Thanks, Jake. Put it on my slate.’
‘Right you are, Cap’n.’
Madison turned to stand with his back to the counter and cast his eyes across the gloomy tavern as he sipped his whisky. An expression of pain crossed his face. ‘Goddamn it!’
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Killigrew.
‘There’s one of my crew over there. He’s supposed to be on watch tonight. I’m sorry, will you excuse me for a moment?’
‘By all means.’ Killigrew turned back to the counter and sipped his tea while watching Madison in the etched-glass mirror behind the shelves there. Madison crossed to where a man sat at one of the tables, wedged between two buxom serving girls. The man – dark-haired, olive-complexioned – was if anything perhaps below average height, but everything about him suggested bulk. He had the kind of physique which gave the impression of being as wide as it was tall – an impression which in this instance was not too far from the truth – and as far as Killigrew could see very little of it was flab.
The man looked up and grinned as Madison approached. Killigrew could not hear what they said above the hubbub of voices in the tavern, but whatever Madison said prompted the man to glance to where Killigrew stood at the bar. Killigrew saw the words ‘Don’t look now, you fool’ form on Madison’s lips, and the man quickly turned his head back to face his captain. He pursed his lips, and then rubbed his jaw as if trying to think. Then he nodded confidently, and spoke at length, prompting Madison to glance surreptitiously at Killigrew.
Got you hooked, you bastard, thought Killigrew. Now to reel you in.
‘Get out of here, you idle dog!’ Madison said, unnecessarily loudly. ‘I don’t pay you to sit idling in a tavern, consorting with loose women! Get back to work!’
‘Sorry, Cap’n.’ The massively built man squeezed out from between the wenches, the very image of contrition. He took his leave of them and hurried out.
Madison returned to where Killigrew stood. ‘As a seaman yourself, you’ll understand the importance of keeping good discipline amongst the crew.’
Killigrew nodded. ‘Absolutely. In the navy we used to—’ he said, and then broke off sharply as if he had said too much.
‘You’re in the Royal Navy?’
‘Used to be. The bastards chucked me out,’ he added savagely, and then looked embarrassed, as if he had revealed too much.
‘Yes, your “accident”.’ Madison drained his glass, set it on the counter and turned to Killigrew. ‘Well, my thanks to you once again, Mr Killigrew. That was a right Christian thing you did, and I’m much obliged to you. You have a place to stay tonight?’
Killigrew nodded. ‘The Spotted Dog, up along the way.’
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t give you a berth on my ship, but as I say—’
‘Think nothing of it. There’s a steamer leaving for the Orient tomorrow, I understand they’re looking for hands.’
‘The SS Ophelia? I wouldn’t recommend a voyage on her.’
‘Why not?’
‘Captain Jacobs has one of the worst reputations for cruelty on the seas.’
‘I fear I’m not in a position where I can afford to be choosy about whom I work for.’
‘Wait a couple of days. Something better is bound to come along. Besides, a man with your experience could do better than a berth as an ordinary seaman on a steamer. With your background and training, I’d’ve thought that ship’s captains would be queuing up to have you in their crews.’
Killigrew grimaced. ‘Unfortunately I have what you might call a… a reputation.’
‘Your accident?’
Killigrew nodded.
‘It wasn’t at sea by any chance, was it?’
‘No. It had nothing to do with the sea. But as soon as I’d got a criminal conviction for what was only an accident those hypocritical swine at the Admiralty decided it was the perfect opportunity to get rid of me. I never was one of them, not really. My mother was Greek; the bastards never tired of reminding me of the fact.’
‘Maybe you should think about getting a berth on a foreign vessel. Countries like Brazil and Cuba are always happy to have European officers on board. It lends them… shall we say, an air of respectability?’
‘Slavers sailing under false colours, you mean.’
‘Ah. You disapprove of slaving, I take it?’
Killigrew pursed his lips. ‘It’s against the law in this country. Not that I have a high opinion of the English law. I never really thought about it. I spent two years sailing with the West Africa Squadron, but I can’t say I cared for the work. Sometimes I think we did more harm than good.’
Madison regarded Killigrew with a mixture of astonishment and amusement. ‘Are there many more in the navy like you?’
‘Unfortunately not. Pah, I’m better off out of it.’
‘You’ll certainly get better pay in the merchant service, once you find yourself a berth. And you strike me as a singularly intelligent young man. I’m sure you’ll be oh-kay.’
‘You’re probably right. Well, thanks for the drink. Perhaps I’ll see you around?’
‘Perhaps. I was supposed to sail three days ago, but the damned harbourmaster’s saying there’s some irregularity concerning my ship’s papers – which is a damned lie – and I can’t leave until I’ve been cleared. Each day my ship rots in this port is costing me a fortune, and not doing me any favours with my owners, either.’
‘Have you tried bribing him?’
Madison shook his head. ‘He’s one of those self-righteous ones, the kind who’d take great pleasure in throwing the money back in my face.’
Killigrew shook his head. ‘Try sending him a crate of fine wine. Just as a gift. Let the quid pro quo remain unspoken.’
‘You think that would work?’
Killigrew shrugged. ‘Compare the cost of each day you’re stuck in this harbour with the cost of a crate of fine wine. It’s got to be worth trying, hasn’t it? Who’s the harbourmaster here, Jack Tolliver? I think I knew him vaguely in the navy. I seem to recall he’s rather partial to a glass of Madeira.’
‘You know, I think I’ll give that a try. Thanks for the advice, Mr Killigrew. Once again, I’m in your debt.’
Killigrew watched him leave and sipped his tea to hide his smile.
He finished his mug of tea and left about five minutes later. As he made his way along the waterfront he heard his footsteps echo where there should have been no echo. He stopped abruptly and pretended to read a poster advertising a dinner-dance at the local assembly rooms. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of a shadow ducking out of sight behind him. He smiled to himself and went on his way until he reached the Spotted Dog, a tavern which was on the right side of respectable, but only just.
‘Evening, Mr Killigrew,’ said the pot-boy who, in his capacity as night-porter, let him in.
‘Evening.’ Killigrew touched the brim of his hat and went upstairs to his room. It was small but comfortably furnished. He lit the oil lamp and took off his hat, drew the curtains, and sat down at the table to write a letter and smoke a cheroot. When he had finished he dried the ink with blotting paper – afterwards burning the blotting paper over the ashtray so the ink could not be deciphered by means of holding it up to a mirror – folded the letter and put it inside his coat. He stubbed out the cheroot in an ashtray, put out the light and slipped out of the room.
He made his way to the water closet at the end of the dingy corridor. It was unoccupied, so he closed the door behind him without locking it and stood on the seat of the commode to open the window. There was no light in the water closet so he had no difficulty observing the alley below. It was deserted. He opened the window all the way and climbed out on to the ledge. Then he jumped into the night.
It was only one flight down. He hit the ground, rolled over and rose quickly to his feet. A couple of cats scavenging amongst the rubbish ran off with a hiss, startling him, but they were the only creatures to have observed his unusual mode of departure. He dusted himself off and went on his way, sticking to the shadows.
The Fouled Anchor was on the wrong side of respectable, but dressed in his second-hand clothes and grubby after rolling in the alley at the back of the Spotted Dog, Killigrew’s arrival excited no interest whatsoever. He made his way upstairs and tapped gently on one of the doors.
‘Who’s there?’ asked a voice.
‘Tom Bowling,’ said Killigrew.
The door opened and one of the men who had attacked Madison earlier stood there. The other sat before a mirror, wrapping a bandage about his own head. Killigrew slipped inside without waiting for an invitation. Corporal Summerbee of the Royal Marines quickly closed the door behind him.
‘Are you fellows all right?’ Killigrew asked them.
‘Nothing that won’t soon heal up,’ said Summerbee. ‘How did it go?’
‘Splendidly. You did very well. I was utterly convinced.’
‘So was I, sir. You didn’t tell us he was such a tough customer.’
‘I didn’t know it myself. Hope I didn’t hit you too hard there, Private Whitehead.’
Whitehead grinned. ‘Hardly felt a thing, sir. Unlike when that Yankee bastard brained me with a keg. Begging your pardon, sir.’
‘That’s all right.’ Killigrew took out the letter and handed it to Summerbee. ‘I want this delivered to Rear-Admiral Napier. There’s no reply necessary. I’ve got one more task for you. There’s a house of ill-repute in Leopold Lane, at number sixty-nine. There should be a package for you to pick up there.’
‘What sort of package, sir?’
‘The kind that has two arms and two legs. Don’t worry, he’ll have been drugged to the gunnels, so you won’t have any difficulty handling him. Take a wheelbarrow and a blanket to throw over him. Then take him to where the SS Ophelia is docked and deliver him to one of the boatswain’s mates. He’ll pay you a shilling. You might as well keep it between you. That should be all. Once again, thank you for all your help. When this is over I shall be writing a letter of commendation to your commanding officer.’
‘I just hope that when this is all over, a letter of commendation from you is worth having, sir. For your sake, as well as for our own.’
‘So do I, Summerbee. So do I.’
‘Sir? Rear-Admiral Napier didn’t tell us what any of this is about – although I think I can guess – but whatever it is, good luck with it anyway.’
‘Thank you, Summerbee. That’s much appreciated.’
Killigrew opened the door and was halfway across the threshold when he heard the corporal mutter under his breath, ‘God knows, you’re going to need it,’ and Whitehead sniggered.
Killigrew’s steps faltered only momentarily before he set his jaw and continued on his way.
The following day Killigrew sat down to luncheon and awaited his visitor. He dined alone, an impressive spread of roast mutton, potatoes and sprouts with lashings of gravy on the broad plate before him, a pot of tea steaming at his elbow.
Cheer up, Kit, he told himself. If you don’t succeed in pulling this off, you can always change your name and start a new career on the boards. But it was difficult to imagine Eulalia being happy married to anything so disreputable as an actor.
Even though he expected company, there was no sign of it at the table, which was set for one. He was just tucking in when the door opened and Madison entered with an agitated look on his face. He gazed about the room, saw Killigrew, and at once came across to speak to him, holding his hat before him.
‘Good day to you, Mr Killigrew. And how is my good Samaritan?’
‘Very well, thank you. And you?’
‘The same. May I join you?’
Killigrew gestured to the chair opposite him. ‘Pull up a berth. Tea?’
‘Thank you kindly.’
Killigrew twisted in his seat to address the landlady, who waited attentively by the dresser. She had not heard of the disgraced Christopher Killigrew, but despite his clothes she could tell that her guest was a gentleman. ‘Could you fetch another cup for my friend, Mrs Hines?’
‘Of course, sir.’ She took down a cup and saucer and laid them on the table before Madison. ‘Milk and sugar?’
‘Thank you.’ As soon as she had retreated to her earlier position, Madison turned back to Killigrew. ‘You seem to be dining well.’
‘Mm. As it happens, I’ve had a bit of good joss. A friend of mine is an acquaintance of Mr Brunel, the eminent engineer. It seems Mr Brunel will be looking for a new second officer for the Great Britain as soon as he can get her floated again.’ Brunel’s revolutionary transatlantic steamer the SS Great Britain had run aground in Dundrum Bay the previous year.
‘Assuming they can get her off,’ Madison pointed out. ‘They’ve been trying for months.’
‘This is Mr Brunel we’re talking about,’ said Killigrew.
‘That’s a good point.’
‘The pay is excellent, and… well, if one must serve in the merchant navy, then there can be few finer or more prestigious vessels to serve on than the Great Britain.’
Madison’s face fell.
‘Is something wrong?’ asked Killigrew.
Madison cleared his throat. ‘First of all I want to thank you again, Mr Killigrew. I took your advice and had a case of Madeira sent to the harbourmaster’s office first thing this morning. Now maybe it’s just coincidence, but come noon I get a message from one of his boys telling me that I’m cleared to leave harbour whenever I please.’
Killigrew smiled. ‘The British way of doing things, Captain Madison. It’s a very genteel form of corruption. So, when do you sail?’
Madison grimaced. ‘Well, that’s just the problem. You remember last night I told you I had a full complement?’ Killigrew nodded. ‘Well, this morning my second mate had disappeared.’
‘Does he drink? Take it from me, Captain, intoxicating liquor does terrible things to a man. Perhaps you should try having your men search all the waterfront taverns and gin palaces.’
‘I already tried that. I understand the crimps were busy last night shanghaiing hands for the Ophelia, and I fear Mr Cutler may have been caught in their net.’ Madison ran a finger through his thinning hair. ‘If it was just one of my hands it wouldn’t matter. But my second mate…? Men like that are difficult to replace.’
‘Oh, I say! What rotten bad timing. If you’d come to me a few hours earlier I could have volunteered my own services – if you’d’ve accepted them.’
‘Of course I would! That’s why I came here this afternoon. I’m in a pickle, Mr Killigrew. I’ve already been stuck in this port for four days; I can’t wait any longer.’ He leaned across the table and lowered his voice. ‘I’ll pay you twelve dollars a day.’
‘US dollars?’ asked Killigrew, and Madison nodded. Killigrew carefully put down his knife and fork and dabbed at his lips with his napkin. ‘Mrs Hines, it seems to me I’m being remiss. Unlike myself, Captain Madison here enjoys a glass of wine, in moderation. I wonder if you could fetch us a bottle? No, better still make it champagne, since I’m celebrating my new good fortune.’
‘I don’t think we have any champagne, Mr Killigrew.’
‘Couldn’t you send your son out to fetch some?’
‘I could if he were here, Mr Killigrew, but I’m afraid he’s run off for the day.’
‘Oh that is a shame…’
‘I could run out myself and get some, if you wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on the place while I’m gone. The wine merchant is just down the road, I wouldn’t be gone more than ten minutes.’
‘Not at all, Mrs Hines. That would be awfully decent of you.’
She hurried out. Killigrew leaned back in his chair and looked Madison straight in the eye. ‘Where are you bound?’
‘Cuba, by way of Africa.’
‘The Guinea Coast?’ Madison nodded. ‘You’re a blackbirder, aren’t you?’
‘I kind of gathered last night that you had no principled objections to the trade.’
‘In principle no. But in practice…? I’ve been humiliated by the Royal Navy enough as it is, Captain Madison. What if I should be on board your ship when it was stopped by a Royal Navy vessel? As a British citizen they could take me and put me on trial. We have the death penalty for slaving in this country now, you know.’
‘But it’s never been enforced. Besides, my ship’s clerk is a very skilled individual, Mr Killigrew. He can… shall we say “arrange” some US papers for you. Not that you’ll need them. The Madge Howlett is the fastest ship in the Atlantic. There’s not a vessel in the Royal Navy that can catch her, not even a steamer. And I’ll wager twelve dollars a day is a good deal more than you’re being offered for this job on the Great Britain.’
‘I couldn’t tell you until I’d checked the current exchange rate. But there’s also the prestige of working for such a well-respected company.’
Madison nodded sadly and for a moment Killigrew feared he might have overplayed it, but then the American looked up with determination in his eye.
‘Prestige? Tcha! I know your sort, Mr Killigrew. You’re a sailor. One of a long line of sailors, I’ll be bound. Which would you prefer? The stuffy, formal atmosphere of a transatlantic steamer with its starched collars, grubby engines, tedious, middle-class passengers with their foolish questions, and a life that’s regulated by a strict timetable, repeated again and again, voyage after voyage? Or the life of a fast merchant brig, with a free and easy attitude, no dress code, and the possibility of some excitement?’
‘It’s a tempting offer, Captain Madison. I can’t deny I’ve a hankering to put the stuffy world of civilised society behind me. But what about you? Are you sure you want an ex-naval officer on board? One who spent two years serving on the West Africa Squadron?’
‘That’s why I’m so keen to have you in my crew, Mr Killigrew. We’ve been blackbirding for many years now and we know most of the tricks. But you understand the naval mind. You know the navy’s tactics and her ships. You know who the captains are of each ship, and which ones will pursue a slaver to the ends of the earth and which ones will give up after the first couple of hours. And from talking to you last night I got the impression that you’d jump at the chance to use that kind of knowledge against them.
‘I’ll lay it on the square and on the level for you, Mr Killigrew, because I like to think of myself as a straight-dealing man and if we’re going to be working together – which I hope we are – I wouldn’t want us to get off on the wrong foot. I’ve been checking up on you. You had a promising career in the navy until you made one little, tragic mistake, and then they took it all away from you. Well, here’s your chance to pay them back. By proving that no matter how many steamers they put in their West Africa Squadron, they’ll never end the slave trade. What do you say?’
Killigrew sat back and lit a cheroot, shaking out his match and tossing it into the fireplace. He blew out a long stream of blue-tinged smoke and watched it curl lazily towards the oak beams overhead as if deep in contemplation. ‘Twelve dollars a day?’
Madison nodded. ‘Half in advance, the rest when we reach Havana. And if it works out oh-kay then you can stay in my crew for as long as I’m captain of the Madge Howlett.'
‘Are you sure you trust me that much?’
‘I’ll be honest with you, Mr Killigrew: no, I’m not. This is only the second time I’ve spoken to you; and while my instincts tell me I can trust you, I know a man’s a fool if he relies on his instincts alone. So I’ll tell you straight: you cross me once, boy, and I’ll kill you. It’s as simple as that.’ Madison’s eyes glittered as he leaned across the table once more. ‘You breathe so much as a single word of our activities to the authorities, then no matter where you run, where you hide, I’ll find you. No matter what it takes, I’ll track you down and kill you, and as God is my witness you’ll be a long time a-dying.’
Killigrew was in no doubt that Madison meant every word of it and was perfectly capable of carrying out his threat, but he managed a smile nonetheless. ‘Well! You’re certainly candid, I’ll say that much for you.’
Madison smiled. ‘I don’t mean to scare you… aw, heck, yes, I do mean to scare you. Because if I’m wrong about you, then that’s the only guarantee I’ve got that you’ll keep your mouth shut. But something tells me I can trust you.’
‘Well then, I hope I can prove myself worthy of your trust,’ said Killigrew as the front door opened and the landlady returned with the champagne. ‘And here’s Mrs Hines, right on cue. Let’s drink to our first voyage together, if you don’t mind raising your glass with a man drinking coffee.’
Madison only stayed for one small glass of champagne – Killigrew guessed the American was not much of a champagne drinker, but ordering the bottle had been a suitable ruse to get Mrs Hines out of the house so they could talk in private – before he left, promising to send one of his men to help Killigrew with his things. As soon as he had gone, Killigrew settled his account with Mrs Hines and went upstairs to pack his sea-chest. It was a small chest for an officer, being only large enough to contain his sextant, writing equipment, clothes, washing things, and a couple of novels by Dumas, and Virgil’s Aeneid.
Oh, yes. And his pepperbox, of course.
Finally he sat down, wrote a brief note, and laid it carefully on top of everything else in the chest. It was addressed ‘To whom it may concern’, inviting the finder to feel free to rifle the chest’s contents while assuring him he would not find anything of interest unless he was a fan of Mr Dumas. Then he locked it with the key he wore on a chain around his neck, although he did not doubt there would be someone on board skilled enough to pick the lock so they could examine its contents at the earliest opportunity. He did not expect the presence of the pepperbox to raise too many eyebrows amongst such men.
He was carrying the heavy chest downstairs in both hands when Mrs Hines appeared at the foot of the steps. ‘That gentleman’s come to help you with your things, Mr Killigrew.’
‘That gentleman’ was the same squat, muscular man Killigrew had seen Madison talk to in the waterfront tavern the previous night. ‘Meester Killigrew?’ he rumbled.
‘Yes.’ Killigrew held out his hand and almost had his fingers crushed to a pulp when the man shook it.
‘I am Manoel Duarte, the bosun of the Madge Howlett.’ He spoke with a thick accent that Killigrew guessed was Portuguese. ‘Capitão Madison send me to take you to the ship. You have you things?’
Killigrew indicated the chest he had put down to greet him. Duarte bent over, grasped one of the handles, and hefted it on to his shoulder as effortlessly as if it had been empty and made of paper. ‘We go.’
Killigrew tipped his hat to Mrs Hines. ‘Thank you for a thoroughly pleasant stay, Mrs Hines. I shall be sure to stay here next time I’m in Liverpool.’
She blushed and curtseyed. ‘If you don’t like us, tell us. If you do, tell your friends. That’s our motto, Mr Killigrew.’
‘And a fine one it is too. I shall be sure to recommend you.’
‘We go,’ insisted Duarte.
‘Uh… we go,’ Killigrew echoed to Mrs Hines, who giggled.
The waterfront was crowded at that time of day, but Killigrew had no difficulty following Duarte through the crush; he carved a path through the sea of bobbing heads like Moses parting the Red Sea.
Killigrew had not recognised the Madge Howlett when he had first laid eyes on her a couple of days earlier, which was unfortunate because that was the kind of mistake which might have cost him his life. But although he had a good eye for ships, one Baltimore brig looked pretty much the same as another built to the same specifications, while a simple readjustment of the sails and rigging could change the appearance of a ship entirely, unless one was looking for one ship in particular. Killigrew had been looking for the Madge Howlett, so when he had seen that name painted on the stern he’d assumed that was what he had found.
The Madge Howlett was a two-masted brig, about a hundred feet from stem to stern, the deck looking uncluttered without as many men or guns as a man-o’-war would have had. Killigrew had already studied her through his telescope, although this was the first time he had seen her close to and he noted with approval that she was in good condition, the brass fittings well polished, the decks holystoned until they shone palest yellow in the spring sunshine, the sails furled neatly under the yards, and the rigging neat and well maintained without any ‘dead men’ – untidy rope’s ends – dangling loose over the sides. It was clear that Madison ran a tight ship; not as tight as a navy vessel, perhaps, but tight nonetheless.
There were perhaps a dozen men at work on deck, preparing to set sail. All had dark, Latinate looks and Killigrew guessed that if there were any genuine ship’s papers on board they would prove that the Madge Howlett – if that were her real name, which he very much doubted – was in actuality a Cuban or Brazilian vessel.
Madison emerged on to the deck. ‘Ah, there you are, Mr Killigrew. Welcome aboard. Now that we have permission to sail we’ll be leaving just as soon as the chief mate returns.’
‘He’s not on board?’
Madison shook his head. ‘I sent him down to London on an errand for me. He was due to catch the three o’clock train back, so he should be here within the hour. As soon as we’re safely under way I’ll have him fill you in on the details of your duties, but basically I’ll expect you to take charge of navigation. The rules on board are fairly simple. There’s a strict hierarchy on board. It runs from God to me to the chief mate to you to Senhor Duarte here. I expect orders to be carried out promptly and efficiently, and so should you. Do you speak Portuguese?’
‘A little.’
‘Good. Most of the men speak some English, but they can be a little slow to understand in that language. They’re a good bunch on the whole. As far as punishment goes, I don’t want to have to undermine you by overruling any of your orders, so if you’re not sure of anything I suggest you clear it with me first. If that isn’t convenient, you could do a lot worse than allow yourself to be guided by Duarte here. We’ve been sailing together for over ten years and he has my complete confidence; I suggest you give him yours. You’ll get the hang of how I like things run soon enough.’ He turned to the boatswain. ‘Manoel, perhaps you’d like to show Mr Killigrew to his cabin and then give him a quick guided tour of the ship before we set sail?’
‘Sîm, senhor capitão,’ growled Duarte.
‘Thanks.’ Madison clapped Duarte on the shoulder and turned back to Killigrew. ‘Manoel here may not have much in the way of social graces, but I assure you he’s loyal and reliable, and that’s all I ask of my men. Supper will be in my stateroom at eight; I’ll introduce you to the other ship’s officers then. Dress is informal at all times, although I expect certain standards of hygiene from my men which I doubt you’ll have difficulty abiding by. Cleanliness is next to Godliness. As for the rest of the men, I dare say you’ll get to know them soon enough. Manoel, when you’ve shown Mr Killigrew around the ship take him to the chart room so he can familiarise himself with the course I’ve plotted.’
‘Sîm, senhor capitão.’
Killigrew followed Duarte below deck to his cabin. It was the first time he had ever had a cabin on board ship. He indicated the second cot. ‘I’m to share this cabin with the chief mate?’ he guessed.
‘Sîm, senhor.’
‘All right. Just put my dunnage down over there, I’ll unpack later. Shall we take a look-see at the rest of the ship?’
Killigrew followed Duarte out of the boatswain. ‘I might as well leave my hat in the cabin,’ he said. ‘Wait here, I shan’t be a moment.’
Killigrew went back inside the cabin, took off his top hat and placed it on top of his chest. Then he plucked a single hair from his head and stuck it over the catch of the chest so that any attempt to open it would dislodge the hair. Then he went outside and followed Duarte on a guided tour of the ship.
The Madge Howlett was little different from any slaver Killigrew had been aboard in terms of layout – officers’ quarters below the quarter-deck, stores in the bows, and a large hold running the whole length of the ship – but a good deal cleaner and less noisome. Killigrew doubted its current state would last long once they had slaves on board. The hold was piled high with bales of cotton cloth, rolls of copper wire, the long low shapes of crates of rifles, barrels with the word ‘GUNPOWDER’ stencilled on their sides, and various other boxes and crates. Killigrew wondered which boxes contained the shackles, handcuffs and padlocks. He also noted about three hundred empty barrels, enough to carry water for all the slaves for the duration of the middle passage, as well as a large stack of timber which could easily be used to make a slave deck.
There was an open hatch with a grating in the deck head, and Killigrew glanced up as a shadow from a man fell through.
‘Everything stowed securely?’ the man asked, another American. ‘Good. That you, Manoel? The cap’n tells me you’ve got our new second mate with you. Well, stand forward out of the shadows, mister. Let’s have a look at you.’
Killigrew took a pace forward and gazed up through the grating at the chief mate. Their eyes locked, and the man’s eyes widened as he recognised Killigrew.
‘You!’ exclaimed Eli Coffin.