Killigrew drew his pepperbox from its holster and touched da Silva beneath the jaw with the muzzles. In the same instant he felt the cold touch of a pistol muzzle behind his ear.
‘I believe this is what is known as an impasse,’ da Silva said coolly. ‘You shoot me, and Figueroa shoots you.’
‘I think not,’ Strachan said somewhere behind Figueroa, and Killigrew felt the gun taken away from his ear. Ågård, Dando and O’Connor also drew their pistols and covered the slavers close by.
Da Silva’s face turned grey. ‘Royal Navy?’ he spat.
‘In the best traditions of the service,’ agreed Killigrew.
With da Silva and his first mate at pistol point, they waited until all the recaptives and the rest of the prize crew had been transhipped from the Maria Magdalena to the São João, only moments before the former floundered and keeled over, turning turtle.
As the slavers were herded down to the slave deck, Killigrew marched da Silva back into the day room. The ship’s papers were made out in French, Spanish, Portuguese, Danish and English – both British and United States. Killigrew did not doubt there was a different flag in the bow locker for each of the different nationalities represented amongst the forged papers. There was also a cargo manifest: even now the slavers still carried out their trade by the book, as if it were all still perfectly legal and above board.
He cast his eyes over the manifest. The cargo consisted of aguardiente, copper wire, cotton goods, gunpowder, iron pots, looking glasses, muskets, rum and tobacco; all of them typical goods of exchange for the slave trade. According to the owner’s instructions they were supposed to take them to the Owodunni Barracoon to exchange them for a cargo of slaves to be transported to Bahia.
‘Where’s the Owodunni Barracoon?’ Killigrew asked da Silva.
‘I have never heard of it.’
‘Really? You were supposed to be sailing there.’
Da Silva took out a cigar and struck a match to light it. Before he could apply the flame to the cigar’s end, Killigrew had snatched the cigar from his mouth, crushed it in his hand and tossed it out through the window.
‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ da Silva said with an infuriating mildness. ‘That really was a waste of a fine Havana cigar. I suppose you think you are very clever, eh, young man?’
‘Clever enough to defeat you, if that counts for anything,’ retorted Killigrew.
Da Silva chuckled. ‘Defeat me?’ He shook his head. ‘Oh, no, my friend. Perhaps you have won this battle, but you can never win the war. You know as well as I do that once we get to Freetown you will have to let us go. You have no power over foreign nationals. Why you persist in stopping our ships is a mystery to me.’
‘Because it’s our duty?’ suggested Killigrew. ‘Both as officers of the Royal Navy and as decent human beings.’
‘Humanity is a relative concept, my young friend.’ Da Silva crossed to the open door and gestured at the recaptives being brought back on board the São João’s deck from the boats. ‘To you these cattle are human beings. To me they are no more than apes. Apes that can be trained to take their rightful place in the service of a higher form of life.’
‘That counts you out, then. Compared to you, even a slug is a higher form of life.’
Da Silva was unperturbed. ‘You English make me laugh. Always so arrogant, so convinced that you are in the right. What gives you the prerogative to interfere in the trade of other nations, to act as the self-appointed watchmen of the seas?’
‘What gives you the right to trade in human flesh?’
Da Silva sighed mockingly. ‘Such passion and idealism in one so young. One day, when you are my age perhaps, you will come to understand that nothing in life is as clear cut as you seem to think it is…’
‘Oh, I think that when it comes to issues you’ll find the inhumanity of the slave trade is as clear cut as they come.’
‘Perhaps. Perhaps you are right. But being right makes no difference. You know what is important?’ He reached into his pocket.
Killigrew put a hand on the grip of his pepperbox. Da Silva smiled, and slowly drew out a fistful of gold coins. ‘This. This is what is truly important. This is why you will never end the slave trade. Because men will always love this more than they love justice. You could take this – share it with your men, if it makes you feel better – and let us go.’
Killigrew stared at the coins as they glittered in the sunlight. With the money that da Silva had in the palm of his hand, Killigrew could buy himself out of the navy and set himself up for life in a comfortable town house in London. He licked his lips, and then took the money from the slaver’s hand.
The smile that started to spread across da Silva’s face froze as Killigrew tossed the money out of the window. ‘You shouldn’t judge other people by your own standards, da Silva.’
‘You’re a fool. You should have taken the money. I will still be free within days of our landing at Freetown.’
Da Silva’s self-assured smugness was so irritating that Killigrew struggled to suppress the urge to smash his face in. ‘We’ll see,’ he said tightly.
‘It is the ruling of this court that since the Maria Magdalena and the São João were separate ships with separate owners, the two cases must be dealt with separately.’ Of the three admirals who sat on the panel of the court of mixed commissions, it was the Dutch one – the neutral one, the others being British and Portuguese – who read out the summation and verdict. He at least had the decency to look regretful at the verdict that he and his colleagues had reached.
The courthouse in Freetown was a dry, dusty place with pretensions to civilisation. It was a long way from civilisation, but it was even further from the blood-soaked deck of a slaver.
‘Firstly, the Maria Magdalena. The captain of the arresting vessel, Commander Standish of Her Majesty’s paddle-sloop Tisiphone, has presented no conclusive evidence that the crew of the Maria Magdalena were at any time engaged in the trading of slaves…’
Killigrew kept his face impassive, merely closing his eyes for a moment. He refused to give da Silva and Videira the satisfaction of seeing that to him the verdict was like a dagger being twisted in his guts. But the Tisiphone’s other mate, Eustace Tremaine, leaped to his feet. ‘No evidence!’ he protested. ‘What about the slaves, damn it?’
‘Sit down, young man, or I’ll have you in contempt of court,’ snarled the British admiral, a fat, red-faced, gouty old man.
‘I am in contempt of a court which takes the word of a gang of murderous slavers over and above that of four officers of the Royal Navy!’
The British admiral banged his gavel. ‘Sit down! I shall have order in this court! You will conduct yourself with the decorum becoming an officer of the Royal Navy.’
Killigrew reached up and took his friend by the arm, gently pulling him back into his seat.
The Dutch admiral continued. ‘Since there is no concrete evidence to convict the crew of the Maria Magdalena, it is the verdict of this court that Captain Videira and his men are to be released at once. As to Captain da Silva and his crew, we likewise find that since the only evidence that he and his men were engaged in the slave trade other than the slaves which Mate Killigrew himself shipped aboard from the Maria Magdalena—’
Tremaine banged a fist against the table. ‘But this is farcical! You can’t deny the existence of those slaves in one case, and then use them as evidence in another! If you’d only get some of them in here to testify—’
The British admiral banged his gavel again. ‘Silence! If you had been here earlier, young man, you would understand that the testimony of natives is inadmissible evidence. As indeed were the papers which Mate Killigrew claims to have found on board the São João, papers which Captain da Silva claims were planted in his cabin by the aforementioned Mate Killigrew. The court therefore finds the captain and crew of the São João innocent. They are to be released at once, and the Portuguese vessel São João to be surrendered back to them by the Royal Navy at the earliest convenience.’
Videira and da Silva shook one another’s hands, and then the hands of their plump and over-paid lawyers. Videira’s lawyer rose to his feet. ‘Your lordships, I would like the record to state that not only will my client be suing Mate Killigrew for the loss of the Maria Magdalena, but he will also be pressing the families of the honest mariners so callously slain by Mr Killigrew to sue him for excessive brutality in the execution of his duties.’
At the back of the court, the seamen of the Tisiphone present groaned.
‘That is a private matter between yourself, the families of the dead seamen, and Mate Killigrew,’ the Dutch admiral remarked drily. ‘It is no concern of this court. We will now adjourn.’
Killigrew went outside and leaned back against the wall of the courthouse. He looked at his hand and saw that it was shaking. He clenched it into a fist, and then lit a cheroot to calm his nerves.
Tremaine followed him out. The same age as one another, Killigrew and Tremaine were good friends. They both resided in the gun room, but since they were in opposite watches they rarely saw one another, like the eponymous heroes of Mr Morton’s new farce, Box and Cox. They had grown up together in Falmouth and shared the same dream of becoming captains in the Royal Navy like their fathers. But when they had reached the age of twelve their ways had parted, Tremaine attending the Royal Naval College at Portsmouth while Killigrew had gone straight to sea as a first class volunteer.
There was a self-mocking rivalry between the two of them – college graduates were often derided for their more theoretical approach to seamanship – and they played up to it, but each was secretly jealous of the other. Tremaine envied the kudos Killigrew enjoyed amongst his superiors for being an officer raised in the old tradition of hands-on experience; while Killigrew knew that times were changing and that one day the college graduates would run the navy. Already the navy was becoming more and more scientific. Steamships might lack the romance of sail, but there could be no doubt that one day they would supplant them altogether.
‘Damn it, what a travesty!’ huffed Tremaine, outwardly more upset by the verdict than his friend. ‘That wasn’t justice, that was a farce!’
Killigrew shook his head. ‘It’s not a question of justice, it’s a question of law. The two are rarely the same thing. Forget it, ’Stace. It’s not important. What’s important is that most of the negroes we found on board the Maria Magdalena are saved from a life of slavery. That’s what counts.’
‘Yes, but you’d think you’d get some gratitude out of it, instead of being treated as though you’re the criminal.’
Strachan came out next. ‘Damnably sorry, Killigrew. Outrageous verdict. Listen, about that private action Videira’s lawyer was talking about. My Uncle Andrew is a QC, I’m sure I could persuade him to accept your case.’
‘Thank you, Mr Strachan. I may just take you up on that offer—’
Standish steamed out of the court, red in the face. Seeing Killigrew, he rounded on him angrily. ‘Well, I hope you’re satisfied, young man. One midshipman and six of my best hands killed; a slaver I went to a considerable amount of trouble to catch only for you to sink it, cheating me and the rest of the crew of our share of prize money; and for what? So I could stand up in that court and be made a fool of, a laughing stock! All I can say is, I hope Videira’s land-shark does bring that personal action against you. I won’t defend you, for one. Perhaps it will teach you not to be so damned zealous in future.’ As Standish had repeatedly informed Killigrew, if there was one thing he could not abide it was a zealous officer. ‘I mean, what in the name of all that’s holy did you think you were playing at?’
‘My duty, sir?’
‘None of your jaw now, laddie! I shan’t have it, d’ye hear? I shan’t! You’re a disgrace, Killigrew! A damned disgrace! Carrying on like some kind of latter-day buccaneer. Well, let me tell you there’s no place for buccaneers like you in today’s Royal Navy. If you’d followed proper naval procedure and brought the Maria Magdalena straight back here, instead of rushing off trying to catch another slaver, then Parsons and the others might still be alive…’
As much as Killigrew wanted to smash Standish’s face in, there was part of him which could not help wondering if the commander was right about him being responsible for the death of the seven men who had been under his command as part of the Maria Magdalena’s prize crew.
The two slaver captains emerged from the court with their lawyers, laughing and joking. Seeing the four naval officers, they smirked. ‘See you in the civil courts, Mr Killigrew,’ called Videira.
‘How are those high-minded ideals of yours now, Mr Killigrew?’ asked da Silva. ‘A little dented, perhaps?’
Killigrew’s temper finally snapped. He lunged for da Silva’s throat, but Strachan and Tremaine both caught him and hauled him back before he reached the slaver. ‘Easy, Killigrew, easy,’ said Strachan.
‘I’m not finished with you,’ Killigrew snarled at them. ‘I’m coming after you, and all your kind.’
‘I hope that’s not a threat, Mr Killigrew,’ said da Silva’s lawyer. ‘The courts here take a very dim view of threatening language.’
‘There’ll be a reckoning yet.’
Da Silva smiled. ‘I shall await that day with interest.’
Killigrew watched the two lawyers hurry their clients on into the hustle and bustle of the streets of Freetown, and sighed. He wished he could learn to control his temper, widely supposed to be a legacy from his Greek mother. She had been a fighter in the Greek War of Independence, and quite a firebrand by all accounts. That had been where she had met his father, of course. Captain John Killigrew had served as an officer in the Royal Navy during the war against Napoleon and afterwards became a sailor of fortune, serving with his old patron Admiral Lord Cochrane in the Chilean, Brazilian and Greek navies in turn.
‘Are you all right, Killigrew?’ asked Tremaine.
Killigrew nodded, and banged a fist against the side of the courthouse. ‘Damn those scum! Da Silva was right, damn his eyes. He’s going to go straight back on board the São João and pick up a cargo of slaves further down the coast, and it’s as if there’s nothing we can do to stop him!’ He sighed. ‘Oh, well. Standing here grumbling isn’t going to help matters.’
Strachan nodded. ‘Gentlemen, as a fully qualified apothecary, it is my recommendation that we repair at once to the nearest hostelry, partake of intoxicating liquors, and indulge in the company of the lowest sort of females that Freetown can boast of.’
‘Capital notion,’ said Killigrew. ‘Let’s go.’
When Killigrew had finished dressing he left a guinea on the bedside table and glanced back to where the prostitute, a freed slave, sat at her dresser, touching up her hair in preparation for her next client. Most of his sexual liaisons were with prostitutes – striking up a relationship with any other kind of woman in a port could only end in heartbreak for one or both parties, and possible ruin for the lady if it resulted in pregnancy – but that night he went downstairs feeling uncharacteristically ashamed. Aguardiente, copper wire, cotton goods, gunpowder, iron pots, looking glasses, muskets, rum, tobacco: it was all the same. The rape of a continent.
A brawl between the Tisiphones – it was traditional for sailors from a ship to be known by its name – and the crew of an American frigate had been in full swing in the saloon below when Killigrew had headed upstairs, but it was over by the time he returned. Here and there a few unconscious bodies snored amidst the wreckage of tables and chairs, while a slave swept up the broken glass. ‘Goodnight, Mas’er Killigrew.’
‘G’night, George.’
Just another night at Maggie’s Place, he thought to himself.
George suddenly remembered something. ‘Oh, Mas’er Killigrew? Wait there a minute, mas’er. I have something for you.’ He scurried into the back room. Killigrew was curious enough to wait until he returned; it did not take long. George re-emerged carrying a tall black beaver hat. ‘Mas’er Standish, him done left this in Missy Molly’s room last night.’
‘Did he, by God? Don’t worry, I’ll see that he gets it back. Thank you, George.’ Killigrew tipped him a shilling and went outside.
He paused on the veranda and leaned on the rail, watching the people coming and going for a while until he had finished his cheroot: Krumen as naked as the day they were born, Muslim traders in elegant long blue robes of fine country cloth, and Creoles dressed in European clothes wholly unsuited to the tropical climate. It was barely eight o’clock, but already things were winding down in the town. Freetown was so shameless it practised its debauchery during daylight hours; it had to get up to go to chapel early the next morning.
Freetown was a city of contradictions: a young settlement with an air of tumble-down decrepitude about it. None of the whites who came to this fever-stricken coast expected to live more than a few years, so no one bothered to invest much time or money in building to last or even repairing that which collapsed. To landward, green-carpeted mountains, slashed here and there with scars of red earth, and dotted with the homes of the colony’s wealthier whites, provided a backdrop to the port, rising up until they disappeared into the low-lying clouds which wreathed them. Houses of wood or stone, washed white or yellow, with green-painted jalousies beneath their verandas and wide-caved shingle roofs, crowded towards the sea. The dusty streets, which turned into rivers of mud during the wet season, were broad, and prolific gardens provided microcosmic reflections of the jungles which crowded around the edges of the settlement. St George’s Cathedral dominated the town – not that the town needed much to dominate it – with turkey-buzzards perched on the roof during daylight hours, and chapels of every conceivable Protestant sect jostled for space with countless rum-houses.
Freetown had been set up on the coast of Sierra Leone as a colony for freed slaves nearly sixty years ago. In those days its population had consisted of four hundred negroes and sixty prostitutes, and while its population had expanded considerably since then – particularly with the arrival of black settlers from Nova Scotia, of all places, in 1797, and of Cimaroons from Jamaica in 1800 – the general tenor of the place had changed little. Most of the town’s permanent inhabitants were, as its name suggested, freed slaves. They were maintained at the British government’s expense for a year and then left to fend for themselves. Some opted to go to the West Indies as apprenticed labourers or to serve in a black regiment; for those who stayed behind in Sierra Leone there was little choice but to become a labourer, and despite Freetown’s steady growth there were always more labourers than there was labour for them to perform.
The white population of the town was no more than five hundred, although that number was bolstered by a constantly fluctuating tide of seamen: sailors from the vessels of the various navies which patrolled the coast for slavers, and to make sure the flags of their countries were known throughout the world; and the crews of captured slavers. The combination of men from rival navies, freed slaves and disgruntled slavers made for a volatile mix, and it was not unknown for African tribesmen to raid across the river and kidnap freed slaves to sell them on to the white man once more.
Yes, Killigrew was going to miss Freetown when he got back to England in a few weeks’ time. But there was something else that saddened him about his imminent departure from the West Africa Squadron: the feeling that he was only just beginning to find his feet and the sense that the squadron’s work in suppressing the slave trade, far from being over, was only just begun.
He took a final drag on his cheroot and headed back for the wharf. He had not gone a hundred yards when he heard someone groaning down an alleyway between two shacks. He went to investigate. ‘Hullo? Are you all right? Who’s there?’
A man was sprawled amongst the fetid rubbish, pawing feebly at the ground.
‘What’s up? One too many to drink? I know the feeling. Come on, let’s have you…’
As he tried to turn the man over he saw the glint of moonlight on a blade and jumped back, but slowly, too slowly, his reactions dulled by alcohol. He felt no pain, but when he glanced down at himself he saw that the fabric of his shirt was sliced through and blood was seeping from a long, thin line scored across his chest.
The man came at him again. Killigrew knew no better cure for drunkenness than danger. He dodged back from the man’s next lunge and caught him by the wrist. Spinning the man away from him, he slammed him against the side of a shack and twisted his arm up into the small of his back until he dropped the knife. He punched him in the kidneys to make sure, and the man sank into the rubbish with a groan.
He turned to the mouth of the alley and saw three shadowy figures blocking his path.
‘You know something, my friends?’ asked Barroso. ‘If I could have just one wish fulfilled, it would be to catch Senhor Killigrew alone down a darkened alley. And it looks as if it has just come true.’