Killigrew of the Royal Navy

by Jonathan Lunn

  ‘You mean he…’

  ‘Died? Good Lord, no. Nothing like that. No, while he was on the steam packet he met some gypsy girl who was travelling to Spain with a circus and fell in love with her. Extraordinary behaviour. His wife was most upset. No, the last I heard of him, he was taming lions somewhere in central Europe.’

  ‘The leopard people, Professor,’ prompted Killigrew.

  ‘Hm? Oh, yes. Let me see now, the Mende. Here we are: Gimson’s Encyclopaedia of the Peoples of Africa, Volume Two. When in doubt, turn to Gimson, that’s what I always say.’ He riffled through the pages until he came to the entry he sought. ‘Here we are: “the Mende is a large tribe which lives in the interior of Africa near the Guinea Coast. They are a handsome, negroid people” – have you ever noticed how these books never described a people as being ugly? – “who exist in a quasi-feudal society at a primitive stage of development. One interesting feature of their culture is the prevalence of secret societies…’

  Killigrew had never heard of a culture which did not have some kind of secret society. In China they had the Triads, in India they had the Cult of Thuggee, and in Europe and America there was Freemasonry. ‘What sort of “secret societies”?’ he asked.

  ‘It doesn’t say. Presumably because they’re secret, hm? Ah, here we are: “Another interesting facet of Mende culture is the belief that certain people have the power to transform themselves into leopards through witchcraft. These leopard people are said to use parts of their victims to make borfima, magic potions which render the users rich and powerful. There exist in Mende societies witch doctors known as Tongo Players. These men claim the power to identify leopard people in their human form, using primitive and ornate rituals. It is believed that deaths caused by real leopards are ascribed to the handiwork of the leopard people and that the Tongo Players take advantage of this superstition to dispose of unpopular members of the community. When an individual is identified as a human leopard, he is beaten severely and then burned to death.” That’s all it says, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Sounds like the witchfinder general of Jacobean times,’ said Killigrew.

  ‘Yes, they’re a primitive people, aren’t they?’

  ‘Civilisation is relative in my experience, Professor. What must they think of the white men who come in ships to kidnap their people and carry them away by force across the great ocean to a life of eternal slavery?’

  ‘Yes, but they’re just ignorant. Where did you hear of the leopard people?’

  ‘From one of the recaptives on a slaver I was bringing in as a prize. The master’s mistress bit me in a fight, and when one of the slaves heard about it she started talking about leopard people, and how the woman must be destroyed. The next thing I knew, the woman who bit me hard had had her skull smashed in and her bed set on fire.’

  ‘Good heavens. She wasn’t a negro, this captain’s mistress, was she?’

  ‘Yes, as it happens she was.’

  ‘How extraordinary.’

  ‘Not really. It was a pretty savage fight. Life and death, that kind of thing.’

  ‘No, I mean the master of this slave vessel taking a negress as his mistress.’

  ‘African women are no different from European women, in my experience, barring the colour of their skin.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t go that far. You’re aware, of course, that in the bush these people often go around…’ Llewelyn looked about surreptitiously, as if worried that someone might overhear him, although as far as Killigrew could tell they were the only two people in the room. ‘…completely unclothed. Including the women. The negro may be similar to the Caucasian anatomically, Mr Killigrew, but up here?’ He tapped his forehead. ‘They must exist in a state of permanent – if you’ll forgive the expression – physiological arousal.’

  ‘You’ve never been to Africa, have you, Professor?’

  ‘No. But I’ve read all about it. In books.’

  ‘If you had, you might find it so humid that you’d feel more comfortable wearing fewer clothes than we are accustomed to wearing in our more temperate climes. It’s the Garden of Eden, Professor, where man lived in healthy innocence, taking no shame in the human form until he partook of the fruit of knowledge.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s one fruit I’ve eaten too much of ever to get back to Eden, Mr Killigrew,’ Llewelyn said wistfully.

  ‘I fear you may be right, Professor. Thank you for your assistance. It’s certainly been an… educating experience.’

  ‘Not at all. Glad to be of service. You’re not going back there, are you?’

  ‘To Africa? Well, I don’t have any plans as such yet…’

  ‘If you did learn anything more about these beliefs, I should be grateful if you could let us know about them if you return.’

  ‘If l return?’

  ‘Well, you might decide you’re so happy living in primitive bliss in the Garden of Eden that you never want to leave,’ said Llewelyn. ‘On the other hand, you might die of yellow fever. They don’t call Africa the white man’s grave for nothing, you know.’

  Chapter 8

  A Game at Billiards

  Killigrew quit the offices of the Ethnological Society and returned to where he had left his hired horse in the care of the crossing-sweeper at the junction of Queen Anne Street and Harley Street, tipping the sweeper every bit as generously as he had promised. When he was going to be sued by Videira’s lawyers for every penny he had, a few extra crowns here and there did not seem to matter: better to give it to an honest crossing-sweeper than a slave captain and his pettifoggers.

  It was a bright, crisp day in mid April and he enjoyed the ride through Mayfair’s elegant streets to Hyde Park Corner. He reached the statue of Achilles on the dot of half past ten. There was no sign of Eulalia, but it would have been unladylike for her to arrive on time; that would have smacked of over-eagerness. She kept him waiting no more than ten minutes, arriving in the company of a groom acting as chaperone, both of them mounted. She looked even more lovely by day than she had done the other evening, the sunlight picking out the golden tresses pinned beneath a high-crowned riding hat perched at a rakish angle. Seeing him, she smiled.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Killigrew. Your appointment at the Ethnological Society went well, I trust?’

  He touched the brim of his top hat with his riding crop. ‘Not as well as I’d hoped, ma’am,’ he said, a little disappointed by her reversion to a more formal form of address than that which they had enjoyed the other night. He supposed it was due to the presence of the groom.

  They at once set off at a slow, steady pace along Rotten Row, mingling with the other genteel riders, while the groom followed behind them at a discreet distance. The London Season was getting into its stride and the sandy track was busy with aristocratic young swells trying to catch the eyes of genteel ladies, and officers of the Household Cavalry showing off their latest mistresses.

  ‘You were not able to learn anything more about those primitive native superstitions, then?’ asked Eulalia.

  ‘Nothing I didn’t already know. Would you believe that their foremost expert on Africa had never ever been there?’

  ‘Forget about Africa, Kit. It’s behind you now.’

  ‘I know. But it is still there.’

  ‘Is it a beautiful country?’

  ‘The parts of it I saw were – once you get out of Freetown, of course. But those were only on the coast. It’s such a vast continent. I’ve not even scratched the surface…’ He frowned. It was not the continent whose surface he wished to scratch, it was the slave trade. And he would do a damned sight more than just scratch it, if only he had the chance.

  ‘You seem troubled.’

  ‘I was just thinking.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘The slave trade.’

  ‘Fie on you, Christopher Killigrew. You come out riding with me, and all you can think of is the slave trade?’

  ‘If you had seen some of the atrocities I have…’ He shook his he
ad. She did not want to hear of such things.

  ‘It’s not your problem any longer, Kit. Forget about it. Let someone else worry about it. Or do you think you’re the only man in the whole world who can do that?’

  ‘There are very few men who even seem to have the inclination.’

  ‘You need something to take your mind off it,’ she told him. ‘Some vigorous exercise will do the trick, I think.’

  ‘Oh?’ he said, arching an eyebrow, but before he could come up with any suggestions she had turned her horse off the path and goaded it into a gallop, dashing off across the grass. He cursed under his breath and urged his own horse after her. The strollers of the lower orders cheered to see a fine woman galloping along so bravely, and laughed at the young gentleman who was hard pushed to keep up with her, using one hand to hold his top hat in place. If he was able to keep level with her it was only because she rode side-saddle. The groom was left far behind.

  They passed along the bank of the Serpentine and crossed over the bridge, where pedestrians forced her to slow down, enabling him to catch up with her at last. She turned to smile at him, her cheeks flushed with exhilaration.

  ‘So you can ride,’ she acknowledged, and laughed merrily. ‘You know, Kit, you haven’t changed one bit. You always did have to excel at everything you attempted.’

  He frowned. ‘Do you think so? I’ve never thought of myself as competitive.’

  ‘But that’s what’s so infuriating about you. It isn’t a question of being better than anyone else. It’s as if you already know that you’re the best at everything you do, accept it without arrogance, and compete against yourself because there’s no other competition.’

  He shrugged. ‘I’ve always felt that if a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well, if that’s what you mean. If it makes you feel any better, there are plenty of things I’m hopeless at.’

  ‘Such as?’

  He thought for a moment. ‘Gardening.’

  She laughed.

  ‘No, truly. Every kind of vegetation I touch withers and dies.’

  ‘I don’t believe you’ve ever tried your hand at horticulture in your life. If you did, I’m sure you would have a garden which would make the gardens at Kew look like a costermonger’s vegetable patch.’

  Red-faced and dripping with sweat, the groom caught up with them, which stifled the conversation from then on, but it was pleasant enough to amble through the park on horseback beside Eulalia. It seemed that scarcely a few minutes had passed before the bells of St Paul’s in Kensington were tolling half-past eleven and Killigrew took out his watch.

  ‘Am I boring you?’ asked Eulalia.

  ‘Not at all. I wish I could stay longer,’ he said, with genuine regret. He could not remember the last time he had enjoyed a young woman’s company so much. ‘But I have an appointment at twelve. Perhaps I may be allowed to enjoy the pleasure of your company again some time?’

  ‘When did you have in mind?’

  ‘How about this afternoon?’ he found himself saying.

  She laughed. ‘All right. Your appointment is for dinner, I take it? Shall we say two o’clock at Gunter’s Tea Shop?’

  ‘Better make it three,’ he told her. ‘I’m dining with Rear-Admiral Napier.’

  He left Hyde Park at the same place he had entered, by the statue of Achilles, and rode up Piccadilly to St James’s Street, where he had an arrangement with the landlord of the White Horse Cellar Coaching Inn for the stabling of his hired horse. It was only a temporary arrangement, for he had no idea how much longer he would be staying in London. He had only been in the city for a few days but already he was growing bored, and if it had not been for the possibility of a closer acquaintance with Eulalia Fairbody then he might have had a hankering to get back to sea.

  There was not time for him to return to his own club to get changed, so he made his way directly to the United Service Club on Pall Mall. He was about to present himself to the porter in the hallway when he saw Napier coming down the stairs from above, deep in conversation with another gentleman who was smoking a cigar. The rear-admiral walked with his feet turned out, limping from one old war wound, and stoop-necked from another. He was too involved in his conversation with his companion to notice Killigrew.

  ‘Can I be of assistance, sir?’ asked the porter.

  ‘It’s all right, I’m here to see Sir Charles,’ Killigrew told him, nodding up the stairs.

  ‘And you are…?’

  ‘Christopher Killigrew.’

  ‘Very good, sir. Sir Charles is expecting you.’

  At the foot of the stairs Napier and his companion took their leave of one another, shaking hands warmly, and then Napier hailed Killigrew. ‘Hullo, Killigrew. Come on up.’

  Killigrew followed Napier up the stairs. ‘That was Mr Brunel, the celebrated engineer,’ Napier told him. ‘Do you know him? Very clever chap, young Brunel. He’s helping me with the designs for a new steamship I’m working on.’ More than a quarter of a century ago, when steamships had seemed nothing more than a novelty, Napier had designed and built a small fleet of steamers for the River Seine at his own expense to prove how practical they could be; and only the previous year another vessel of his design, the first-class steam frigate HMS Sidon, had been launched and completed.

  ‘Another steam frigate, sir?’ asked Killigrew.

  ‘No, no. She’s not so big as the Sidon. A sloop. Well, a surveying ship.’

  ‘Steam powered?’ Killigrew asked in some surprise.

  Napier nodded. ‘Most of the navy’s exploring ships are still sail-powered only; and all our charts are drawn up with sailing ships in mind. Steam vessels have completely different requirements, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate. When steam supplants sailing ships altogether, as I have no doubt it will, then all the old Admiralty charts will be out of date. My new ship will be just the thing to update them; and being steam-powered, she’ll have no difficulty navigating narrow creeks and inlets.’

  They entered the reading room and sat down at a table, Napier ordering drinks for them both from a waiter. ‘Yes, I’ve got big plans for my little surveying ship. I’m trying to design her to be something of a jack of all trades, you see. The danger is that if you try to compromise too much you end up serving no useful purpose at all. I don’t want her to be a jack of all trades and master of none. And I’ll need a crew of energetic officers to run her,’ he added with a wink. ‘Mind you, I can’t see her being ready for at least another three years, so you’ve got time to get another posting under your belt before then. Who knows? By then you may have been promoted to post-rank.’

  Killigrew smiled. ‘That would be too much to dream of.’

  ‘Why not? You’re a capable and energetic young man. You’ll be how old three years from now? Twenty-six, twenty-seven? Worse men than you have been promoted to postcaptain at a younger age.’

  Killigrew was pleased to think that Napier thought him worthy of the command of a vessel which was obviously a pet project of his. But just because Napier had designed another ship, there was no guarantee that the Admiralty would approve its construction, or that if they did they would approve Killigrew’s appointment to the crew when it was ready. Besides which, all of that seemed a long time in the future and Killigrew knew he had no chance whatsoever of obtaining post-rank within three years if he spent them all ashore.

  They dined heartily – Killigrew had a young man’s appetite, and that Napier was a good trencherman was testified to by his stout girth – and talked of the navy, the problems with manning and the slowness of promotion, and of steam engines and the relative merits of paddle-wheels and propeller screws. While all these subjects were close to the hearts of the two naval officers, Killigrew sensed that none of this was why Napier had asked him to dinner; a hunch which was confirmed when Napier told the waiter they would take coffee in the billiards room.

  ‘D’you play billiards? Splendid game. Very scientific, d’ye see? It’s all about angles.’

 
‘I’m afraid I never was much good at trigonometry, although I have played billiards on occasion,’ admitted Killigrew.

  ‘Splendid! We shall play a game or two, and talk while we do so.’

  The billiards room was empty at that time of day. Killigrew took two cues from the rack and offered Napier his choice. Then the two of them stood side by side at the baulk and each strung a ball up the table, bouncing them off the top cushion so that they rolled back towards the lower cushion.

  ‘Ha! I win,’ said Napier, when his ball came to rest nearest the bottom cushion. ‘Although I suspect you let me, out of deference to seniority. Well, no matter. I shall break the balls, and you’ll soon see I’ve no need of a handicap. I must warn you, Killigrew, I’ve been playing this game a good deal of late, and though I say so myself I’ve become rather a dab hand at it. First to score one hundred? I’ll take spot white,’ he added, placing that ball in the baulk and lining up a shot. He at once knocked Killigrew’s ball into one of the pockets. ‘First hazard to me, I think,’ he said smugly, lining up his next shot. ‘By the way, you do realise that Captain Standish thinks you murdered Captain da Silva in cold blood?’

  ‘Oh?’ Killigrew said cautiously. When Lieutenant Jardine had entered the day room on board the São João to see da Silva’s corpse stretched out on the deck and Killigrew with a smoking pepperbox in his hand, Killigrew had merely indicated the pistol in the open drawer of the desk and allowed Jardine to draw his own conclusions. ‘Has he said anything?’

  ‘Good heavens, no! Not as such. Standish is no fool; at least, not that much of a fool. He knows perfectly well that it could never be proved that you murdered da Silva – which you didn’t, of course – and that if he said so publicly you’d be well within your rights to call him out. And we both know how that would turn out. No, he’s just made some… shall we say insinuations. Oh, damn and blast!’ he added as he missed a shot.

  Killigrew stepped up to the table and took a shot.

  ‘Oh, well played! Now, if it was up to me, I’d shoot every last slaver and be done with it. But you know what these damned Whigs are like: can’t kill a man without a fair trial, and all that. As if there were such thing as a fair trial! Which reminds me, I read your report to the Slave Trade Department at the Foreign Office. Interesting reading. You’re not the first naval officer on the West Africa Squadron to hear of this Owodunni Barracoon, either; although the information you found on the São João has helped to narrow down its location to within two hundred miles.’