Killigrew reached for his pepperbox only to remember that he had left it on board the Tisiphone. He glanced back down the alley for an escape route at the other end, but there were three more burly figures blocking off his only escape route. He cursed himself for his carelessness in leaving ship unarmed; and for walking right into Barroso’s trap.
‘Get him!’ snapped Barroso.
The six men charged down the alley from either end. Killigrew weighed up the odds and charged to meet Barroso and his friends. As Barroso pulled out in front, he swung some kind of club at Killigrew’s head. Killigrew ducked beneath it and drove a fist into Barroso’s side. The slaver doubled up. Killigrew span him around and used his back as a stepping stone to launch himself up towards the roof of one of the houses adjoining the alley. He caught hold of the eaves and swung himself up just as the other slavers converged beneath him, grasping for his ankles and bumping into one another. Killigrew’s feet scrabbled against the wall for a moment and he trod on a head to push himself up. He ran up one side of the shingles and then down the other, leaping across the narrow alley on the far side of the building.
He landed easily on the next roof. Behind him, Barroso and his friends were coming round the first house, shouting to one another. Killigrew surmounted the next apex and began to run down the slope on the other side. The next alley was a good ten feet wide. He measured the steps of his pell-mell descent, putting his right foot on the edge of the roof and launching himself into space, his hands clawing at the air as he sailed through the darkness. He was aware of the alley yawning beneath him, and then the other roof rose up to meet him.
Made it.
His feet landed squarely on the shingles, and then they collapsed under the impact. He fell through with a splintering crash, landed on a counter and fell forward. He hit the floor, rolled over and rose quickly but unsteadily to his feet, bruised, scratched and dazed.
He could hear the shouts of the slavers outside growing louder, their footsteps soft on the compacted earth of the street. He looked around for something he could use as a weapon.
He was in a millinery shop.
He unbolted the back door and rushed out. A moment later something slammed across his stomach and knocked the breath out of him. He doubled up and fell down in winded agony, and his assailant brought the plank of wood down on him again. He rolled on to his hands and knees so that it hit him across the back, knocking him flat on his stomach, and then a foot connected with his ribs.
‘I’ve got him! He came out the back!’
Killigrew rolled on his back and kicked the man in the crotch. The man gave a high-pitched scream and dropped the plank. Killigrew scrambled to his feet and ran down an alley just in time to meet Barroso and three more men coming to meet him. He knocked down one with a right cross, and then they were on him, raining blow after blow. His felt his legs crumple and slid to the ground. The slavers gathered in a circle, kicking at him savagely. He heard more footsteps running up – how many of them were there? – and a cry of ‘Remember the Alamo!’
Remember the Alamo?
A shot rang out. Killigrew felt something smash into his head and then…
Someone was slapping him gently on the cheek. After the beating he had been taking only seconds earlier it was a distinct improvement. Was he still alive, then?
‘It’s a Limey navy officer, Loot!’ exclaimed an American accent.
‘I think you must be mistaken, Charlie,’ said another voice, the rich and melodious tones of the Deep South with a hint of Creole thrown in to spice it up. ‘British naval officers are always far too dignified to be found brawling in back alleys,’ it continued mockingly. ‘No, this must be some fellow who stole the uniform of a British navy officer. Maybe we should hand him over to the authorities. What do you say, Charlie?’
Killigrew reached up and grabbed the first thing that came to hand: Charlie’s throat. ‘Hey, take it easy, amigo!’ gasped Charlie.
‘Who are you and what do you want?’ rasped Killigrew, still woozy from his beating.
‘Lieutenant Jean-Pierre Lanier, of the United States’ frigate Narwhal at your service, sir,’ said ‘Loot’. ‘My companions and I are merely acting in our capacity of good Samaritans, so if you would be so kind as to release my bosun’s throat I should be much obliged to you.’
Killigrew let go of Charlie’s throat and the American sailors helped him up. ‘My apologies. I wasn’t sure whose side you were on. Mate Christopher Killigrew, of Her Majesty’s paddle- sloop Tisiphone. Sorry about half strangling you there,’ he added to Charlie.
‘That’s oh-kay, amigo. It’d take more than one Limey to half strangle me.’ Charlie shook him by the hand, and from the strength of his grip Killigrew knew he spoke the truth.
‘I’m sure you could easily have sent off those bully-boys without our assistance, but I know how you Lime-Juicers think we Americans are always holding back when it comes to suppressing the slave trade,’ Lanier said with a hint of amusement in his voice.
‘You came along in the nick of time, and there’s no denying it,’ Killigrew told him. ‘I’m indebted to you.’
‘Not at all, sir, not at all. It was our pleasure.’
Killigrew tried to take a step but his knees gave way and he would have fallen to the floor if Charlie had not caught him. ‘Hey, take it easy, amigo. You sure you’re oh-kay?’
‘I’ll be all right in a minute,’ said Killigrew. ‘I just need to…’
‘Nonsense, nonsense,’ said Lanier. ‘You need to sit down and get a good stiff drink inside you. Mr Killigrew, I should be honoured if you would be a guest in the wardroom of the Narwhal tonight. In fact, I must insist upon it.’
‘In which case, it would be churlish of me to refuse,’ Killigrew said cheerfully, although he was still a little suspicious. There was no love lost between British and American seamen – assuming these were American seamen, for it was so dark Killigrew could not make out what Lanier was wearing. Crimping was still a common practice in some of the world’s less salubrious seaports, and it would be too embarrassing if he woke up the next morning and found himself pressed into service as a common seaman on an American vessel. But there were four of them, and he was in no condition to resist.
It was only a few hundred yards to the wharf overlooking St George’s Bay where the USS Narwhal rode at anchor. Further out, Killigrew could see the Tisiphone. Two American seamen waited by the Narwhal’s launch, tied up at the wharf’s single wooden jetty. As soon as he saw them he felt reassured: he had seen the American frigate enter the bay earlier that day, and knew then that these men were genuinely US Navy, and unlikely to provoke a diplomatic incident by kidnapping an officer of the Royal Navy.
Once on board the frigate Lanier took Killigrew to the wardroom where he struck a match and applied it to an oil lamp which he hung from an overhead beam. He was in his mid-twenties, tall and rake-thin, with a lean jaw and high cheekbones which gave his face an angular, wedge-shaped look. The wardroom was not unlike that of the Tisiphone, except that there was slightly less head-room, and a daguerreotype of President Tyler hung on the bulkhead in place of a portrait of Queen Victoria. Killigrew was helped into a chair and a black servant took his hat while the ratings made their way back to their own quarters.
‘Two whiskeys, Skip,’ said Lanier. ‘Then be so good as to rouse Mr DeForest from his bunk and have him attend to Mr Killigrew here.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The black poured out two glasses of rye whiskey and put them on the table before silently slipping out of the wardroom.
‘Mr DeForest?’ asked Killigrew.
‘Our ship’s surgeon,’ said Lanier, and raised his glass. ‘To Her Britannic Majesty Queen Victoria.’
Killigrew raised his own glass. ‘To President Tyler.’
‘I’ll overlook the fact that you did not rise to salute our president, sir, and ascribe it to your current condition,’ Lanier said coldly.
‘My apologies,’ Killigrew said quickly. ‘In the Royal Navy it’s the custom to give the loyal toast seated. Ever since the last King rose too quickly to accept it on board ship once, and banged his head on a beam.’ Lanier smiled, and Killigrew rose to his feet. ‘To President Tyler and the United States of America. Your health.’
‘And yours.’
They downed their drinks. Killigrew gasped as the liquor churned a fiery wake down his throat. ‘Good God, what is that?’
Lanier grinned. ‘Kentucky rye whiskey, Mr Killigrew. It’s an acquired taste.’
‘Pass me that bottle. I think I may just have acquired it.’
The black returned with a middle-aged man dressed in a nightshirt and nightcap. ‘Well! If someone had told me there was a celebration in progress, I might not have cursed poor Skip here quite so heartily for rousing me from my beauty sleep which, the good Lord knows, I’m in need of.’
‘Mr Killigrew, may I introduce you to our surgeon, Mr DeForest? ’Bones, this is Mate Christopher Killigrew, of the Tisiphone.'
‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir,’ said DeForest. ‘Sweet Jesus! You look like you’ve gone twenty rounds with Ben Caunt.’
Killigrew smiled at the reference to the boxing champion, and then winced as his split lip split again. ‘Twenty-one, actually.’
‘What you need is a good stiff drink,’ said DeForest, and the black refilled Killigrew’s and Lanier’s glasses while pouring out a fresh one for the surgeon. ‘What are we celebrating, anyway?’
Lanier glanced at Killigrew, and then raised his glass in a fresh toast. ‘The end of the slave trade.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ said DeForest.
Killigrew glanced at the black servant and left his glass on the table.
Lanier grinned. ‘Yes, Mr Killigrew, Scipio’s a slave. I said death to the slave trade, not slavery.’ He turned to the servant. ‘Hey, Skip. You realise, of course, that Sierra Leone is a British colony and there’s no slavery here? All you have to do is step off this ship, and you’ll be a free man. I won’t stop you.’
Scipio beamed. ‘Why, thank you, sir. But I’ve already been ashore today and I didn’t think much of what I saw. No, sir, I’m quite happy where I am, thank you all the same.’
‘Then again, Scipio’s a domestic slave,’ said Lanier. ‘And since Sierra Leone’s one of the few colonies where the British allow people to keep domestic slaves he wouldn’t be free anyway, as I understand it.’
‘If it were up to me it would be a very different story, I can assure you,’ said Killigrew.
Lanier shook his head. ‘It’s the cruelty I despise, Mr Killigrew, not the principle of slavery. There are no whips on my father’s plantation, I can assure you. We feed our slaves well, give them clean and adequate accommodation, and they’re grateful for it. They work all the harder knowing they’re well looked after.’
‘I don’t doubt it, but I’ll wager it’s a different story on some of your neighbours’ plantations.’
‘True, but then I’ll wager they’re no worse off than the negroes you British transport to the West Indies under your system of apprenticed labour. You ask Scipio here: slavery doesn’t have to be unpleasant.’
‘For myself, it’s the principle as well as the cruelty.’
Lanier shook his head again. ‘We’re all slaves to something, Mr Killigrew.’
‘And what is it that you are a slave to, Mr Lanier?’
Lanier’s face cracked into a grin. ‘Why, to duty, of course.’
‘I’ll bet being a slave to duty is a damned sight more comfortable than being a slave to a plantation owner with only a loose understanding of your noble but discriminating bill of rights.’
Lanier shrugged uncomfortably. ‘How about you, Mr Killigrew? What are you a slave to?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll have a think about that one.’
‘Say, I thought this was a celebration,’ protested DeForest. ‘Seems I was mistaken. Sounds more like I’ve walked into a debate on slavery. If I’d wanted that I could’ve gone to a meeting of the Society of Friends.’
‘Agreed,’ said Lanier. ‘But not at two bells in the first watch. Let’s at least put our differences behind us and drink to what we have in common: our contempt for the slavers.’
The three of them raised their glasses.
‘That’s what we need to do,’ said DeForest. ‘It’s high time our navies learned to put their differences behind them. The War of 1812 was a long time ago. We’ll never beat the blackbirders until we learn to work together.’
‘It’s a nice idea, but it’s been tried before,’ said Killigrew.
‘It has?’
Lanier nodded. ‘A few years ago the captain of the USS Grampus tried working with the captain of HMS Wolverine. The idea was that since only US Navy ships can stop American vessels, and only the Royal Navy’s ships can stop British vessels, they’d sail together. If a slaver hoisted a US ensign then the Grampus would stop her; and if they hoisted the Union Jack, then the Royal Navy did the honours.’
‘What went wrong?’
‘Oh, it worked just fine,’ said Lanier. ‘Until our government heard about the arrangement and declared it ultra vires. Those damned fools in Washington think that asserting the freedom of the seas for American vessels is more important than stopping the slavers. Personally, I don’t see what the problem is. I’d be happy for Royal Navy ships to stop and search American merchantmen when and where they pleased. If the merchantmen are engaged in an honest trade, then they’ve nothing to fear.’
‘It’s not only your politicians who are at fault,’ said Killigrew. ‘If statesmen like Lord Palmerston didn’t take such a high-handed attitude with the diplomats of other nations, then perhaps those other nations might be a little bit more cooperative.’
The Americans could not disagree with that. DeForest swabbed Killigrew’s cuts and bruises, cleaned and bandaged the cut across his chest – it was too shallow to justify stitches – and they drank several more toasts together before having the crew of the Narwhal’s jolly boat row Killigrew back to the Tisiphone, where the men of the anchor-watch carried him to his berth.
Killigrew was awoken at dawn by a squad of marines shuffling into the Tisiphone’s gun room and singing a rousing chorus of ‘Early in the Morning’. He fell out of his hammock and crouched on the floor, holding his head which throbbed agonisingly despite his not having banged it on the way down.
He glared up at them. ‘And to what do I owe this dubious pleasure, Corporal?’
‘Begging your pardon, sir, Commander Standish’s orders. He said it would teach you not to rouse him at little one bell by coming on board singing “The Star-Spangled Banner”.’
‘Did I do that?’ It was all coming back to him: not slowly, but memory after drunken memory crashing helter-skelter into a skull too numbed to cope with them all. ‘Did I remember to salute the quarter-deck as I came on board?’
‘Yes, sir. And you doffed your hats.’
‘Hats?’
The corporal pointed to where Standish’s beaver hat, now thoroughly battered, sat on Killigrew’s sea-chest. ‘You were wearing your cocked hat and had that in your hands, sir.’
Killigrew massaged his temples. ‘I must say, this is a revelation. I never knew Commander Standish had a sense of humour.’
‘I believe it was Mr Tremaine’s suggestion, sir.’
Killigrew glanced across to where Tremaine’s hammock was stowed. ‘Was it, by God? I shall bear that in mind.’
The corporal coughed into his fist. ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but Commander Standish presents his compliments and requests you present yourself in his day room at six bells.’
‘I don’t suppose he told you what it was about, did he?’
‘No, sir.’
‘What time is it now?’
‘Four bells, sir. In the morning watch.’
‘Thank you, Corporal. Dismissed. Oh, send the ship’s barber in here, would you?’ Killigrew’s hands were shaking too much for him to want to risk shaving himself. ‘And tell him he’d better have a mug of tea in his hand when he gets here. Two, if he wants one himself.’
‘Aye, aye, sir. Shall I have some food brought down to you?’
‘No thank you, Corporal. Just some tea.’
Shaved, dressed, and with some tea inside him, Killigrew began to feel human again. He made his way to the captain’s day room where another marine stood on guard. The marine knocked on the door.
‘Who is it?’ called Standish.
‘Mr Killigrew here to see you, sir.’
There was a pause, the sound of feet on the deck – Standish striking up a pose in front of the window, guessed Killigrew – and then: ‘Enter.’
The marine opened the door and ushered Killigrew inside. Predictably, Standish stood at the window gazing out. ‘I’ve had a complaint from one of Freetown’s saloon-keepers, Mr Killigrew. A demand for payment for damages, in fact. Something to do with a brawl?’
‘Yes, sir. There were some American sailors in there and when the Tisiphones met them I understand things got a little out of hand. They were just blowing off steam.’
‘To the tune of fifty pounds, Mr Killigrew. I thought I banned all shore leave for the ratings? Aside from the risk of contracting yellow fever, I will not have my men brawling…’ Standish turned away from the window and his face became grim when he saw the braises on Killigrew’s face.
‘I ran into some of the men from the São João on my way back to the ship last night, sir.’
‘I suppose you were at Maggie’s Place too, were you? What were you doing there?’
‘That’s not the sort of question a gentleman answers, sir.’
‘That’s not the sort of hostelry a gentleman frequents, Mr Killigrew. I don’t suppose you ordered any of the Tisiphones you saw at Maggie’s Place to return directly to the ship, did you?’ Standish frowned and tried to peer past Killigrew to see what he held behind his back in his left hand.
‘I felt it would have been hypocritical of me to tell them to leave when it must have been obvious I was there to have a good time myself.’
‘Damned right. You shouldn’t have been there at all. You’re a disgrace, man. Exceeding orders, brawling with common seamen, coming back on board roaring drank in the small hours of the morning. You needn’t think that I shall be asking you to join me on my next command when we get back to England, Killigrew… Damn it, man, stand up straight! What the devil are you holding in your hand?’
Killigrew held out his empty palm. ‘Nothing, sir.’
‘Your other hand, damn it!’
‘Oh! I’d almost forgotten. Your hat, sir.’ Killigrew dusted the beaver hat off with his sleeve and proffered it to Standish.
‘My beaver! I’ve been looking all over for that. I thought perhaps that damned fool Gibbons had put it away somewhere. Where on earth did you find it?’
‘Maggie’s Place, sir.’
Standish turned puce. ‘Get out, Killigrew.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Sail ho!’
‘Where away?’
‘Two points on the port bow.’
Killigrew skipped up on to the Tisiphone’s port-side paddle-box, extended the telescope and raised it to his right eye, looking in the direction the lookout at the masthead had indicated. ‘Can you make her out at all?’ called Standish.
‘Two-masted, rakish, square-rigged… could be a Baltimore brig, sir.’ When a good breeze was blowing Baltimore brigs were amongst the fastest ships on the sea, including steamers, and as such were beloved of slavers.
‘Can you see an ensign?’
‘None flying, sir. I don’t believe she’s seen us. No, wait a moment: she’s altering course slightly; turning to loo’ard.’ Killigrew lowered the telescope and snapped it shut before descending to the deck once more.
‘Damned suspicious,’ said Standish. ‘She must be a slaver.’
‘Too suspicious, if you ask me,’ said Killigrew. ‘Sir.’
‘And what the devil is that supposed to mean?’
‘It’s as if she’s trying to provoke our interest by acting suspiciously, sir. She could be trying to draw us away from the African coast to give other vessels – the real slavers – a chance to slip past us. When I was on board the Dido—’
‘When you were on board the Dido, when you were on board the Dido,' Standish echoed pettishly. ‘I was serving on this station years before you were on board the Dido, Killigrew. Believe you me, merchant ships have better things to do than lead Her Majesty’s vessels on wild-goose chases, be they slavers or otherwise. Give chase, Mr Darrow. Make all plain sail.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ The boatswain relayed the orders, and the topmen in the rigging unfurled those sails which had previously been furled.
‘She looks like a trim vessel to me, sir,’ said Killigrew. ‘Hadn’t we better wet the sails?’
‘Damn you, Killigrew. How many times must I tell you not to instruct me in my duties?’
‘My apologies, sir.’
Standish turned back to the boatswain. ‘Dampen the sails, Mr Darrow.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
The Tisiphone was back in her old cruising grounds off the Guinea Coast, a few miles to the south of the Sierra Leone peninsula. Killigrew could see the low outline of the coast off to windward; a landsman might have mistaken it for a bank of low-lying cloud on the eastern horizon. Beneath an azure sky the sun glistened on the waves and shone dazzlingly on the paddle-sloop’s pale deck. There was a slight haze in the air, caused by the red dust blown out to sea by the Harmattan winds. The north-east trade wind blew a moderate breeze from the land, filling the Tisiphone’s sails from the port quarter.
Beneath their sponsons the paddle-wheels hung lifeless in the water, and no smoke issued from the funnel. Standish rarely used the engine, partly because it made sense to conserve coal for when it was really needed, but mostly because he had learned his trade on sailing ships and was not used to having the benefits of a steam engine at his command. In fact, he disdained to use the engines unless he really had to, and even then did so grudgingly. Besides, all that soot made a dreadful mess of his beautiful sails.
Killigrew continued to watch the suspect vessel through the telescope. When he had gauged the relative speeds of the two vessels, he would be able to calculate how long it would be before the other vessel came within range of the Tisiphone’s bow-chaser; assuming the paddle-sloop could out-run her prey, which was by no means a given. The Tisiphone had perhaps half a knot on her quarry, if they maintained their current course and the wind did not change; it would be about twelve hours before they came within range. A stern chase could be a long and tedious business, and by now even the most inexperienced midshipman on the paddle-sloop knew better than to rush down to the gun room to sharpen his dirk.
In the meantime the day-to-day running of the ship continued as normal. The crew still had to be mustered, the deck holystoned, the rigging maintained, the crew’s clothes washed, the log-board filled in, dinner eaten, marines paraded, seamen exercised with cutlasses and small arms, noon sights taken. All the while they drew closer and closer to their prey, and more and more men began to glance towards it more frequently. By the end of the forenoon watch it could be seen clearly from the deck with the naked eye.
The hands tried to give out an air of calm indifference but they fooled no one, not even themselves. The air of tension on board the Tisiphone was tangible; muted, at first, but increasing as the wearing of the hours brought the brig cable by cable closer to the paddle-sloop’s guns. There was fear there, for it was not unknown for a slaver to put up enough of a fight to kill or maim navy seamen, although on the West Africa Squadron there was a greater risk of death from yellow fever than there was from action. But mostly there was excitement: a long, drawn-out stern chase was a chase nonetheless, a break from the monotonous routine of cruising, the chance to do some fighting and break some slavers’ heads, and the possibility of prize money.
At midday Killigrew went below to dine in the gun room with Tremaine, Strachan, the captain’s clerk and the Tisiphone’s two surviving midshipmen. Even though all of them were thinking of the ship they were chasing – with the possible exception of the clerk – there was a tacit agreement between them not to speak of it. Since there was little else to discuss, conversation was stilted.
After dinner Tremaine and Midshipman Radmall went up on deck and Strachan went to the sick bay, refilled with a fresh batch of cases of yellow fever after their last run ashore. The clerk had paperwork to attend to in the captain’s day room, leaving Killigrew, off duty until the first dog watch, in the gun room with Midshipman Cavan. He knew he would not be able to sleep so he turned to his sea-chest for something to read. His bookmark was stuck between the pages of Gordon’s The Economy of the Marine Steam Engine, but he knew that in his present state of mind he would not be able to concentrate on the technical information. Virgil’s Aeneid seemed a better proposition, even on a second reading.
Cavan drew his dirk from his scabbard and began to sharpen it. The grating of the whetstone against the edge of the blade soon became irritating. ‘For heaven’s sake belay that scraping, Mr Cavan.’
‘Sorry, sir. I just wanted to be ready for when we board her.’
‘It’ll be a couple of hours before she’s in range, even. And I don’t see Standish choosing someone as young as you for the boarding party.’
‘But how am I ever to become experienced enough if I never get the opportunity because of my lack of experience? Can’t you speak to the captain for me?’
‘By God, Cavan, you’re a bloodthirsty young shaver, aren’t you? Are you really so keen to feel the edge of your sword biting through flesh, spilling blood and snapping bone?’
Cavan pulled a face. ‘I hadn’t thought about it like that, sir.’
‘Well, I suggest you do. Better to come to terms with it now rather than when you’re face to face with some slaver in the thick of a mêlée. Because if the idea of killing a man gives you pause for thought, then just remember that pause may be all the time your opponent needs to slice your head off.’
‘Oh! I wouldn’t have any qualms about killing a slaver.’
‘Well you should. They’ve got rights, the same as any other man.’
‘Even criminals?’
‘They’re not criminals until they’ve been proved criminals in a properly constituted court of law. Our job is to bring them before that court, not to inflict our own justice. D’you understand me?’ As he spoke the words he had believed in for so long, he found they had a hollow ring to them now.
Cavan hung his head. ‘Yes, sir.’ Then he perked up. ‘But it’s all right to kill them in self-defence, isn’t it?’
Killigrew smiled. ‘That it is, Mr Cavan.’
‘Please won’t you speak to Commander Standish, sir? I have to get some experience of fighting sooner or later.’
‘Later rather than sooner, believe me. Anyway, even if I did think you were ready, my talking to Standish wouldn’t do you any good. You know how he hates having to go along with anything I suggest.’
‘How old were you the first time you killed someone?’
‘Sixteen, as I recall. Two years older than you are now, so don’t worry, you’ve got plenty of time.’
‘How many men have you killed?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘You were in Syria, weren’t you, sir? And at the storming of Chingkiang-fu during the China War?’
Killigrew grunted but refused to be drawn. He was not ashamed of the battles he had fought against pirates and slavers, but the China campaign was not one he was proud of. At least in Syria the cause had been just, fighting alongside the Ottoman Turks against the rebel Viceroy of Egypt, Ibrahim Pasha. He remembered storming the Boharsef Heights with the combined force of the British Naval Brigade and the Turkish soldiers. He remembered marines and Turks falling dead on all sides around him as they dashed across the open ground to engage the Egyptian Musselmen. And then, with the smell of blood in his nostrils and the memory of the atrocities the Egyptians had inflicted on the Lebanese fresh in his mind, he had been amongst the enemy, his cutlass whirling as he avenged the murder and rapine. Sometimes the nightmare still came back to haunt him, and in his dream he was watching himself from a distance. For it had not been Midshipman Killigrew who had taken part in the assault – as an officer of the Royal Navy he had been far too civilised to engage in that kind of savage bloodletting – but someone else, caught in the grip of an uncontrollable rage. And of all the horrors that had terrified him in that campaign, the one fear that still came back to haunt him was the fear that that Killigrew might not be dead but still locked deep within him, ready to emerge given sufficient provocation and to inflict atrocities as grim as any he sought to avenge. It was sobering to think that for all he was a product of the most civilised nation on earth he was just as capable of savagery as the most primitive Patagonian cannibal or Borneo head-hunter.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Cavan, snapping him out of his reverie.
Killigrew forced himself to smile. ‘Nothing. I was just thinking, that’s all.’
‘About what?’
‘Merely reflecting on human nature.’
‘Oh.’ Cavan shrugged.
The afternoon watch wore on. The ship’s bell tolled the half hours, marking the slow dragging of time, with a lifetime between each bell. Killigrew could see the tension etched in every line of Cavan’s young face, and at last he tapped him on the shoulder.
‘Relax. Put the slaver from your mind. A watched kettle never boils, and a watched slaver is never overhauled.’
‘That’s easy for you to say, sir. Dash it, how can you be so cool-headed at a time like this?’
‘A naval officer is cool-headed at all times, Mr Cavan. It’s a question of self-control. There’s an old Chinese proverb: Any man who would conquer the world must first conquer himself.’
The hands were clearing the deck for action by the time Killigrew emerged on to the quarter-deck just before four o’clock. The bedding stowed on deck was now draped over the rails to provide some protection against flying splinters in case the enemy opened fire on them.
The brig was less than a mile off the port bow and the Tisiphone continued to overhaul her. ‘Still no sign of any colours, sir,’ said Killigrew, eyeing the brig through the telescope.
‘All right,’ said Standish. ‘Let’s see if we can wake them up, eh? Fire a blank shot, Mr Jeal.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ The gunner made his way to the bow-chaser on the forecastle.
One of the disadvantages of paddle-steamers was that the paddle-boxes on the sides took up so much space it was impossible to fit them with a broadside. To counteract this, the navy equipped them with bigger guns. The Tisiphone had three guns in all, two thirty-two-pounders and the bow-chaser in the forecastle: a sixty-eight-pound pivot gun.
A silence fell over the decks of the Tisiphone, just as if they were about to engage in a gunnery exercise. The gunner and his crew loaded the sixty-eight-pounder with a blank cartridge and primed it with a friction tube. They then raised it to its maximum elevation. The gunner’s mate took the lanyard in his hands while the gunner glanced back to where Standish stood on the quarter-deck.
Standish nodded.
‘Fire!’ ordered the gunner. His mate jerked back the lanyard and the sixty-eight-pounder boomed, belching a great mushroom of pale-grey smoke from its muzzle.
The brig ran an ensign up her jackstaff. ‘She’s showing her colours, sir,’ called the lookout.
‘Can you make them out?’
Killigrew already had the telescope raised to his eye. ‘Claiming to be a Yankee, sir.’
‘Don’t they all?’ sighed Standish.
The brig showed no signs of stopping. Within half an hour they were within six cables – two-thirds of a mile, just within the extreme range of the sixty-eight-pounder – of their quarry. ‘Ask Mr Jeal to give them a warning shot,’ Standish ordered Cavan.
‘Yes, sir. I mean, aye, aye, sir.’ The midshipman saluted and scurried the length of the deck to the forecastle.
The gunner and his crew sponged out the gun, loaded her with a cartridge and a sixty-eight-pound round shot, over eight inches in diameter. The gunner’s mate inserted a fresh priming, the crew aimed it at a spot in the water alongside the brig: they were too far away and at the wrong angle to fire the traditional shot across the bows. ‘Ready.’
‘Fire!’
The pivot gun boomed and the shot screeched through the air towards the brig. It ploughed into the water on the starboard side of the vessel. The message to the crew of the brig was clear: You are within range of our guns.
‘Is she heaving to?’ called Standish.
The lookout was silent for a moment as he peered through his telescope, waiting for some indication of the brig’s next move. ‘No, sir. She’s bearing away.’
The brig’s bows went about; she turned four points to starboard so that she ran south-west with the wind right astern.
‘Stay with her,’ ordered Standish.
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ The quartermaster span the helm, mimicking the brig’s turn. But now the brig had the wind full abaft and the paddle-sloop began to fall astern.
‘That’s odd,’ remarked Killigrew.
Standish said nothing, refusing to give Killigrew the satisfaction of asking him what was odd and waiting for him to elaborate; but Killigrew knew how to play that game too, and it was Standish who broke first. ‘What is it?’ the commander asked with a sigh.
‘She must’ve known she could outpace us with the wind full abaft. Why not bear away the moment we gave chase?’
‘I really couldn’t say. Why don’t you ask her master when we catch her?’
‘Perhaps I shall.’ Killigrew snapped the telescope shut.
The gunner and his crew quickly reloaded the pivot gun and were ready to fire before the brig slipped out of range again. But there was no point in firing a warning shot – the brig already knew they were there – and a shot aimed at the vessel could only hit the hull at that range and risk killing any slaves on board.
‘We’re going to lose her, sir,’ prompted Killigrew, seeing Standish’s indecision.
‘I can see that! Tell Mr Muir to start up his engines. She can beat us with sails alone, but not with sails and steam.’
Killigrew crossed to the engine-room telegraph and signalled full speed ahead. If Standish had expected smoke to billow from the funnels and the paddle-wheels to start churning the water immediately, he was disappointed. After perhaps a minute, one of the greasy, grubby denizens of the engine room emerged on deck and tugged at his forelock. ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but we’ll have steam up just as soon as we can,’ he announced in a thick Geordie accent.
‘What the devil’s the delay? Start the engines at once!’
‘Can’t start the engines with cold boilers,’ said the engineer.
‘We’ve got to light the fires in the furnaces and boil the water until we’ve got enough steam pressure, like.’
‘How long will that take?’
‘Two hours maximum.’
‘Damned steam engines. More trouble than they’re worth. Just… just do your best, Mr Muir.’
They should have lost the brig then. But as soon as the vessel was two miles away, she changed back to a southerly course and the Tisiphone began to overhaul her once more. As soon as the paddle-sloop came within range, the brig ran before the wind and slipped away again. They went through this pantomime several times as the sun sank towards the horizon.
‘She’s leading us a merry dance,’ the Tisiphone’s second lieutenant remarked to Killigrew on one side of the quarterdeck, out of earshot of Commander Standish, in his aristocratic drawl. Lieutenant the Honourable Endymion Hartcliffe was the younger son of the Duke of Hartcliffe. A stout moonfaced man in his late twenties, he had a vague manner which belied the decisiveness and tenacity he could show when necessity demanded. ‘I’m inclined to think you were right, Killigrew: she is only a decoy.’
Killigrew nodded. ‘While the real slaver is getting further and further away, sir.’
‘We’d better catch them soon. It will be dark within an hour or two and they’ll easily give us the slip.’