There aren’t many blank periods in my memory, but the rest of that terrible day is one; I cannot remember the night that followed, but I recall that on the next morning, the day of the adjudication, a strange recklessness had come over me. I was beyond caring, I suppose, but I remember I stood muttering to myself before a mirror as I brushed my hair: “Come on, Flashy, my boy, they haven’t got you yet. Remember Gul Shah’s dungeon; remember Rudi’s point at your throat in the Jotunberg cellar; remember the Ghazis coming at you on the road above Jugdulluk; remember the slave cart in Mississippi; remember de Gautet drawing a bead on you. Well, you’re still here, ain’t you? Your backside is better enough for you to run again, if need be—bristle up the courage of the cornered rat, put on a bold front, and to hell with them. Bluff, my boy—bluff, shift and lie for the sake of your neck and the honour of Old England.”
And with these thoughts in my head and a freezing void in my bowels I was escorted to the adjudication court.
Chapter 14
It was held in a great white room with brown panelling, like a lecture theatre, with tiers of crescent-shaped benches to one end for the spectators, a little rostrum and desk for the adjudicator and his two assessors at the other, and in between, right beneath the rostrum, were three great tables. At one sat Clitheroe and Dunne, and on a bench behind were just myself and—to my astonishment—two of the prettiest yellow girls you ever saw, all in New Orleans finery, with an old female in charge of them. They were giggling to each other under the broad brims of their bonnets, and when I sat down they looked slantendicular and giggled more than ever, whispering in each other’s ears until the old biddy told them to leave off. My escort left me and went to sit on the first of the public benches, beside Captain Bailey, who was in full fig; he nodded to me and smiled confidently, and I gave him back a terrified grin.
At the centre table were a few clerks, but the far table was empty until just before the proceedings began. By that time the public benches were crowded with folk—nearly all men, and consequential people at that, talking and taking snuff and calling out to each other; I felt plenty of eyes on me, although most were directed at the two yellow girls, who preened and simpered and played with their gloves and parasols. Who the blazes they might be, I couldn’t imagine, or what they were doing here.
And then a door behind the far table opened, in rolls Anderson, and to a rising buzz of chatter and comment, John Charity Spring entered and took his seat, with Anderson puffing at his elbow. The last time I had seen him he had been rolling on his own deck with Looney’s bullet in his back; he looked a trifle paler now, but the beard and tight-buttoned jacket were as trim as ever, and when the pale eyes looked across directly into my own, I saw his lips twitch and the scar on his forehead began to darken. He stared at me fixedly for a full minute, with his hands clenched on the table before him, and then Anderson whispered in his ear, and he sat back, looking slowly about the court. He didn’t look like a prisoner, I’ll say that for him; if anyone looked guilty you may have three guesses who it was.
Then the adjudicator came in and we all stood up; he was a little, sharp-faced man, who smiled briefly to Clitheroe and Anderson, shot quick, accusing glances at everyone else, and told the nigger boy behind his chair to mind what he was about, and fetch some lime juice directly. Everyone fell silent, the two assessors sat either side of the adjudicator, and the clerk called out the case for hearing of the barque Balliol College, reputedly owned and registered in Mexico, master John Charity Spring, a British citizen; the said barque taken by U.S. brig Cormorant, in latitude 85 west 22.30 north or thereabouts, on such and such a day, and then carrying aboard her certain slaves and slaving equipment, in contravention of United States law—
Anderson was on his feet at once. “May the adjudicator take note that the Balliol College was not and is not an American vessel, and that her master is not an American citizen.”
“Nevertheless,” says Clitheroe, rising, “may the adjudicator note that the ownership is disputed, and recall the case of the ship Butterfly, condemned in similar circumstances.42 Further, it will appear that the Balliol College was carrying slaves intended for trans-shipment to the United States, which is a clear violation of American law, and that when challenged by a United States ship of war, such challenge being proper and lawful, the Balliol College fired upon her challenger, which is piracy under American law.”
“If these things are proved, sir,” says Anderson, beaming.
“As they will be manifestly proved,” says Clitheroe.
“Proceed,” says the adjudicator.
The clerk read on that the Balliol College had resisted arrest, that an attempt had been made to dispose of the slaves aboard her by drowning them, and that the plaintiff, Abraham Fairbrother, U.S. Navy—it was news to me that the case was undertaken in his name—sought the confiscation and condemnation of the Balliol College as a slave-trading vessel.
That done, Clitheroe and Anderson and the adjudicator went into a great wrangle about procedure which lasted most of the morning, and had everyone yawning and trooping out and in, and fidgeting, until they had it settled. It was beyond me, but the result was that the business was conducted in a most informal way—more like a discussion than a court. But this, apparently, was the case with these adjudications; they had evolved a strange procedure that was all their own.43
For example, when they were at last ready to begin, it was Anderson who got up and addressed the adjudicator, not Clitheroe. I didn’t know that it was common for the defendant to show his innocence, rather than the other way about. And for the life of me I couldn’t see that Spring had a leg to stand on, but Anderson went ahead, quite unruffled.
The plaintiff’s case, he said, such as it was, rested on the hope that he might show the Balliol College to be, de facto, American-owned, or part American-owned. Secondly, that it was carrying slaves for America in contravention of American law. Thirdly, that in such illicit carriage, it resisted arrest by an American ship of war, such resistance amounting to piracy.
“Unless I mistake the plaintiff’s case,” says he, easily, “everything rests on the second point. If the Balliol College was not carrying slaves for the United States, and so breaching American law, it is immaterial whether she is American-owned or no: further, if she was not carrying slaves, her arrest was illegal, and such resistance as she showed cannot be held against her master or crew. The plaintiff must show that she was a slave-trading ship, carrying slaves illegally.” He beamed across the court. “May I hear counsel on the point?”
Clitheroe rose, frowning slightly, very austere. “That is the essence of the plaintiff’s case, sir,” says he. “We shall so demonstrate.” He picked up a paper. “I have here the sworn deposition of Captain Abraham Fairbrother, U.S. Navy, commander of the brig Cormorant, who effected the capture.”
“Deposition?” cries Anderson. “Where is the gentleman himself?”
“He is at sea, sir, as you well know. I have already had a word to say—” and he looked hard at Anderson “—on the point of delays engineered, in my opinion, by the defendant’s counsel, in the knowledge that the witness would be compelled to resume his duties afloat, and would therefore be unable to appear in person.”
Anderson was up like a shot, protesting innocence to heaven, with Clitheroe sneering across at him, until the adjudicator banged his desk and told them sharply to mind their manners. When the hubbub and laughter on the public benches had subsided, Clitheroe went ahead with Fairbrother’s statement.
It was a fair, truthful tale, so far as I could see. He had challenged the Balliol College, which had been flying no flag, she had sheered off, he had fired a warning shot, which had been replied to, an action had been fought, and he had boarded. A dozen or so slaves had been found aboard, recently released from their shackles—as he understood it this had been done by Lieutenant Comber, R.N., who was aboard the ship ostensibly as one of the crew, although in fact he was a British naval officer. Lieutenant Comber wou
ld testify that it had been the intention of the master of the Balliol College to drown these slaves, and so remove all evidence.
There was a great humming in the court at this, and many glances in my direction, including a genial smile from Anderson and a glare from Spring. The adjudicator banged his desk for quiet, and Clitheroe went on to describe how the Balliol College crew had been arrested, and the ship brought into New Orleans for adjudication. He sat down, and Anderson got up.
“An interesting statement,” says he. “A pity that we cannot cross-examine the deponent, since he isn’t here. However, may I point out that the statement takes us no further so far as the status of the coloured people on board the Balliol College is concerned. Negroes were found—”
“And slave shackles, sir,” says Clitheroe.
“Granted, sir, but the precise relation of one to the other is not determined by the statement. No doubt my friend, having delivered the statement which is the basis of his case, will call witnesses in due course. May I now enter my client’s answer to the statement?”
Clitheroe nodded, the adjudicator snapped: “Proceed,” and at Anderson’s request one of the clerks swore Spring in to testify. Then Anderson said:
“Tell us, Captain Spring, of your voyage in the Balliol College prior to and including the events in question.”
Spring glanced at the adjudicator, came to his feet, and leaned his hands on the table. The harsh grating voice took me back at once—I could smell the Balliol College again, and feel the hot sun beating down on my head.
“I sailed from Brest, in France, with a cargo of trade goods for the Dahomey coast,” says he. “There we exchanged them for a general cargo of native produce, largely palm oil, which I conveyed to Roatan, in the Bay Islands. Thence I was proceeding in ballast for Havana, when I was intercepted by an American brig and sloop, who without justification that I could see, ordered me to heave to and fired upon me. I resisted, and my ship was presently boarded by these Navy pirates, who seized my ship, my person and my crew!” His voice was rising, and the red scar burning. “We were carried in chains to New Orleans—I myself had been grievously wounded in defence of my ship, and I have since been held here, my ship confined, and myself and my owners deprived of its use, with subsequent loss to ourselves. I have protested in the strongest terms at this illegal detention, for which an accounting will be demanded not only of the person involved, but of his government.” And in true Spring fashion he growled: “Qui facit per alium facit per sea holds as good in American law as in any other, I dare say. That I was carrying slaves in contravention of this country’s enactments I emphatically deny—”
“My dear sir, my dear captain.” This was Anderson. “May I anticipate my friend’s question: if this is so, why did you not heave to when required, and permit a search of your vessel? Then all might have been easily resolved.”
Spring made noises in his throat. “Do I have to tell an American court, of all places? I responded to a signal to heave to, from an American vessel, in precisely the manner in which an American captain would have replied to a similar demand from a British naval ship. In short, sir, I defied it.”
There was a great shout of laughter from the public benches, and feet drummed on the floor in applause. The little adjudicator hammered his desk, and when all was fairly quiet Anderson asked:
“As the British captain of a Mexican vessel you saw no reason to heave to—quite so. You know, Captain Spring, it has been suggested that your vessel is not Mexican owned. I believe my friend may wish to pursue the matter?” And he invited Clitheroe with a cocked eyebrow.
So Clitheroe set about Spring—he threw names at him, American, British and French; he pointed out that the Balliol College was Baltimore-built and originally Yankee-owned; he put it to Spring that the papers now set before the adjudicator, showing Mexican ownership, were forgeries and makeshift. Why, he demanded, if Spring were an honest merchantman, had his wife thrown the ship’s papers overboard?
“When I am attacked by pirates, sir,” says Spring, “I do not permit my papers to fall into their hands. How do I know that they might not be falsified and tampered with to be used against me? Here is a whole trumped-up business anyway—to suggest that I am a slaver, without a rag of proof, and to badger me with nonsense about my papers!” He pointed to the adjudicator’s desk. “My papers are there, sir—certified, vouched copies! Look at them, sir, litera scripta manet,b and get on to the point of your inquisition, if it has one!”
It seemed to me he was playing the bulldog British skipper a thought too hard for safety, but the public were with him, crying, “hear, hear” until the adjudicator had to call them to order. Clitheroe shrugged and smiled.
“By all means, captain, since you desire it. I pass from the matter of ownership, which is secondary, to the heart of the matter. Since you are fond of tags, let’s see if you remain quite so rectus in curiaec when I ask—”
The adjudicator hammered his desk again. “I’ll be obliged if you’ll both speak English,” cries he. “Most of us are familiar with the classics, but not on that account will I permit this adjudication to be conducted in Latin. Proceed.”
Clitheroe bowed. “Captain Spring, you say you brought palm oil from Dahomey to Roatan—an unusual cargo. Why then was your ship rigged with slave shelves?”
“Slave shelves, as you call them, are a convenient way of stowing palm oil panniers,” says Spring. “Ask any merchant skipper.”
“And they’re also convenient for stowing slaves?”
“Are they?” says Spring. “May I point out that the shelves were not rigged when my ship was seized—when you say I was running slaves.”
“I shall come to those same slaves, if you please,” says Clitheroe. “There were, according to the affidavit we have heard, negroes aboard your ship—about a dozen women. They were found on deck, with slave shackles beside them. Evidence will be given that they had been chained, and that you had been preparing to cast them overboard, to destroy the evidence of your crime.” He paused, and there wasn’t a sound in court. “You are on oath, Captain Spring. Who were those women?”
Spring stuck out his jaw, considering. Then he answered, and the words hit the court like a thunderclap.
“Those women,” says he deliberately, “were slaves.”
Clitheroe gaped at him. There was a gasp from the public benches and then a great tumult, hushed at last by the adjudicator, who now turned to Spring.
“You admit you were carrying slaves?”
“I’ve never denied it.” Spring was quite composed.
“Well—” The adjudicator looked about him. “Permit me, sir, but I have been in error. I thought that was what your counsel had been vigorously denying on your behalf.”
Anderson got to his feet. “Not precisely, sir. May I suggest that my client be allowed to stand down for the moment, while the court digests his statement and reflects upon it? In the meantime, perhaps my friend will continue with his case.”
“Frankly, sir,” says Clitheroe, “it seems my case is made. I move for an order of confiscation and condemnation against the Balliol College, proved to be a slave-trader on her own master’s word.”
“Not quite proved,” says Anderson. “If I may invite my friend to provide the corroboration which he doubtless has at command?”
Clitheroe looked at the adjudicator, and the adjudicator shrugged, and Clitheroe shuffled his papers and muttered to Dunne. For the life of me I couldn’t fathom it; Spring appeared to have thrown away, with those words, his case, his ship, his liberty—perhaps even his neck. It made no sense—not to the public or the adjudicator or to me. The one thing I prayed for now was that my evidence wouldn’t be needed.
Clitheroe didn’t like it; you could see, by the way he shot looks across at Anderson, that he smelled a rat. But Anderson sat smug and smiling, and presently Clitheroe shrugged ill-humouredly and picked up his papers.
“If the adjudicator wishes, I shall continue,” says he. “But
I confess I don’t see the point of it.”
The adjudicator peered at Anderson, thoughtfully. “Perhaps it would be as well, Mr Clitheroe.”
“Very well.” Clitheroe looked at his papers. “I shall call and examine the former slaves Drusilla and Messalina.”
At this the yellow girls popped up, with little squeaks of surprise—and I realised that these tarts must be two of the women we had been shipping to Havana. Well, here were the two final nails for Spring’s coffin, but he never batted an eyelid as they were brought forward, fluttering nervously, to the table, and sworn in by the clerk. The fellows on the public benches were showing great interest now, nudging and muttering as the little beauties took their stand, like two butterflies, one pink and one yellow, and Clitheroe turned to the adjudicator.
“With permission I shall examine them together, and so save the court’s valuable time,” says he. “As I understand it, both you young ladies speak English?”
The young ladies giggled, and the pink one says: “Yassuh, we both speak English, Drusilla’n’me.”
“Very good. Now, if you will answer for both, Messalina. I believe you were in a place called Roatan—the Bay Islands, you might call it, a few months ago. What were you doing there?”
Messalina simpered. “We wuz in a who’-house, suh.”
“A what?”
“A who’-house—a knockin’-shop, suh.” She put her gloved hand up to her mouth, and tittered, and the public slapped their thighs and guffawed. The adjudicator snapped for silence, and Clitheroe, looking uncomfortable, went on:
“You were both—employed in a … whore-house. I see. Now then, you were taken on a ship, were you not?” They both nodded, suppressing their giggles. “Do you see here any of the men who were on that ship?”
They looked round, nervously, at the adjudicator, and then farther afield. A voice near the back of the public benches called out: “Not me, honey. I was at home,” and a great hoot of mirth broke out and had to be quieted, the adjudicator threatening to clear the room if there was unseemly behaviour. Then Messalina timidly pointed to Spring, and then they both looked round at me, and giggled, and whispered, and Messalina finally said:
Flashman Papers Omnibus Page 167
