I sat down on the cargo with my head in my hands, and wept, and raged inwardly against that little Scotch scoundrel. G-d, if ever I had the chance to pay him back—but what was the use of thinking that way in my present plight? In the end, as usual, one thought came uppermost in my mind—survive, Flashy, and let the rest wait. But I resolved to keep my spite warm in the meantime.
In the circumstances it was as well that I had work to do; going through that cargo, as I did when a couple of hands and the ship's clerk came down presently, at least occupied part of my thoughts, and kept me from working myself into a terror about the future. After all, thinks I, men like these didn't sign on in the expectation of dying; they seemed handy, sober fellows who knew their business—very different from the usual tarry-john. One of them, an oldish man named Kirk, had been a slaver all his days, and had served on the notorious Black Joke;[12] he wouldn't have shipped on any other kind of vessel.
“What,” says he, “at 15 a month? I'd be a fool. D'ye know, I've four thousand quid put by, in Liverpool and Charleston banks—how many sailormen have the tenth of that? Risk? I've been impounded once, on the Joke, shipwrecked once, and seen two cargoes of black ivory slung overside—which meant a dead loss for the owners, but I drew me pay, didn't I? Oh, aye, I've been chased a score o' times, and been yard-arm to yard-arm in running fights wi' Limey an' Yankee patter-rollers, but no harm done. An' for sickness, ye've more chance of that from some poxed-up yellow tart in Havana than on the coast these days. You've been east—well, you know to keep yourself clean an' boil your water, then.”
He made it sound not half bad, apart from the stuff about fighting the patrols, but I understood that this was a rare event—the Balliol College had never been touched in five trips that he knew of, although she had been sighted and chased times without number.
“She's built light, see, like all the Baltimore brigs an' clippers,” says Kirk. “Save a patch o' calm, she'll show her heels to anything, even steam-ships. West o' Saint Tommy, even wi' a full load o' black cattle, she could snap her fingers at the whole Navy, and wi' the fair winds coming south, like we are now, she's gone before they see her. Only risky time is on the coast itself, afore we load up. If they was to catch us there, wi' the Government wind pinning us on the coast, they could impound us, empty an' all, 'cos o' the law as lays down that if you're rigged and fitted for slavin', like we are, they can pinch you even wi'out a black aboard. Used to be that even then they couldn't touch ye, if ye had the right papers—Greek, say, or Braziliano.” He laughed. “Why, I've sailed on a ship that had Yankee, Gyppo, Portugee, an' even Rooshian papers aU ready for inspection, as might serve. But it's different now—ye don't talk, ye run.”[13]
He and the clerk and the other man—I think he was a Norwegian—harked back a good deal to the old days, when the slaveships had waited in turn at the great African barracoons to ship their cargoes, and how the Navy had spoiled the trade by bribing the native chiefs not to deal with slavers, so that all the best stretches of coast nowadays were out of court, and no niggers to be had.
“Mind you,” says Kirk, winking, “show 'em the kind o' goods we got here, an' they'll spring you a likely cargo o' Yorubas or Mandingos, treaty or not—an' if sometimes you have to fight for 'em, as we did two trips back, well, it comes cheaper, don't it? An' Cap'n Spring, he's got a grand nose for a tribal war, or a chief that's got too many young bucks of his own people on his hands. He's a caution, he is, an' worth every penny the owners pay him. Like to guess 'ow much?”
I said I had no idea.
“Twenty thousand pound a trip,” says Kirk. “There now! An' you wonder I ship on a slaver!”
I knew slavers made huge profits, of course, but this staggered me. No wonder old Morrison had an interest in the trade-and no doubt paid a subscription to the Anti-Slavery Society and thought it well worthwhile. And he wasn't laying out overmuch in trade goods, by the look of this cargo—you never saw so much junk, although just the kind of stuff to make a nigger chief happy, no doubt. There were old Brown Bess muskets that probably hadn't been fired in fifty years, sackfuls of condemned powder and shot, rusty bayonets and cheap cutlasses and knives, mirrors and looking glasses by the dozen, feathered hats and check trousers, iron pots and plates and cauldrons, and most amazing of all, a gross of Army red coats, 34th Foot; one of 'em had a bullet-hole and a rusty stain on the right breast, and I remember thinking, bad luck for someone. There was a packet of letters in the pocket, which I meant to keep, but didn't.
And there was case after case of liquor, in brown glass bottles; gin, I suppose you'ld call it, but even to sniff the stuff shrivelled the hairs off your arse. The blacks wouldn't know the difference, of course.
We were searching through all this trash, I counting and calling out to the clerk, who ticked the manifest, and Kirk and his fellow stowing back, when Looney, the idiot steward, came down to gape at us. He squatted down, dribbling out of the corner of his mouth, making stupid observations, till Kirk, who was bundling the red coats, sings out to him to come over. Kirk had taken two of the brass gorgets off the officers' coats—they must have been d-d old uniforms—and winking at us he laid the gorgets on the deck, and says:
“Now, Looney, you're a sharp 'un. Which is the biggest? lf you can tell, I'll give you my spirits tomorrow. If you can't, you give me yours, see?”
I saw what he was after: the gorgets were shaped like half-moons, and whichever was laid uppermost looked bigger—children amuse themselves with such things, cut out of paper. Looney squinted at them, giggling, and pointing to the top gorget, says:
“That 'un.”
“Ye're sure?” says Kirk, and taking the gorget which Looney had indicated, placed it beneath the other one—which now looked bigger, of course. Looney stared at it, and then said:
“That un's bigger now.”
Kirk changed them again, while his mates laughed, and Looney was bewildered. He gaped round helplessly, and then kicking the gorgets aside, he shouted:
“You make 'em bigger an'—an' littler!”
And he started to cry, calling Kirk a dirty b d, which made us laugh all the more, so he shouted obscenities at us and stamped, and then ran over to a pile of bags stowed beyond the cargo and began to urinate on them, still swearing at us over his shoulder.
“Hold on!” cries Kirk, when he could contain his mirth. “That's the niggers' gruel you're p g on!”
I was holding my sides, guffawing, and the clerk cries out:
“That'll make the dish all the tastier for 'em! Oh, my stars!”
Looney, seeing us amused, began to laugh himself, as such idiots will, and p—d all the harder, and then suddenly I heard the others' laughter cut off, and there was a step on the ladder, and there stood John Charity Spring, staring at us with a face like the demon king. Those pale eyes were blazing, and Looney gave a little whimper and fumbled with his britches, while the piddle ran across the tilting deck towards Spring's feet.
Spring stood there in a silence you could feel, while we scrambled up. His hands clenched and unclenched, and the scar on his head was blazing crimson. His mouth worked, and then he leaped at Looney and knocked the cowering wretch down with one smashing blow. For a moment I thought he would set about the half-wit with his boots, but he mastered himself, and wheeled on us.
“Bring that—that vermin on deck!” he bawled, and stamped up the ladder, and I was well ahead of the seamen in rushing to Looney and dragging him to the scuttle. He yelled and struggled, but we forced him up on deck, where Spring was stamping about in a spitting rage, and the hands were doubling aft in response to the roars of the Yankee first mate.
“Seize him up there,” orders Spring, and with me holding Looney's thrashing legs, Kirk very deftly tied his wrists up to the port shrouds and ripped his shirt off. Spring was calling for the cat, but someone says there wasn't one.
“Then make one, d-n you!” he shouted, and paced up and down, casting dreadful glances at the imploring Looney, who was babbling
in his bonds.
“Don't hit us, cap'n! Please don't hit us! It was them other b-ds, changin' things!”
“Silence!” says Spring, and Looney's cries subsided to a whisper, while the crew crowded about to see the sport. I kept back, but made sure I had a good view.
They gave Spring a hastily made cat, and he buttoned his jacket tight and pulled his hat down.
“Now, you b—r, I'll make you dance!” cries he, and laid in for all he was worth. Looney screamed and struggled; each time the lashes hit him he shrieked, and between each stroke Spring cursed him for all he was worth.
“Foul my ship, will you?” Whack! “Ruin the food for my cargo, by G-d!” Whack! “Spread pestilence with your filth, will you?” Whack! “Yes, pray, you wharfside son-of-a-b—h, I'm listening!” Whack! “I'll cut your b—y soul out, if you have one!” Whack! If it had been a regulation Army cat, I think he'd have killed him; as it was, the hastily spliced yarn cut the idiot's back to bits and the blood ran over his ragged trousers. His screams became moans, and then silence, and then Spring flung the cat overboard.
“Souse him and let him hang there to dry!” says he, and then he addressed the unconscious victim. “And let me catch you at your filthy tricks again, you scum, so help me G-d I'll hang you—d'ye hear!”
He glared at us with his madman's eyes, and my heart was in my mouth for a moment. Then his scar faded, and he said in his normal bark:
“Dismiss the hands, Mr Comber. Mr Sullivan, and you, supercargo, come aft. Mrs Spring is serving tea.”
There were a few curious glances at me as I followed Spring and the Yankee mate—I was new to the crew, of course-and as we went down the ladder to his cabin, Spring looked me over. “Go and put on a jacket,” he growled. “G-d d-n you, don't you know anything?” so I scudded off smartly, and when I came back they were still waiting. He examined me—and in a flash of memory I thought of waiting with Wellington to see the Queen, and being fussed over by flunkeys—and then he threw open the door.
“I trust we don't intrude, my dear,” says he. “I have brought Mr Sullivan to tea, and our new supercargo, Mr Flashman.”
I don't know what I expected—the Queen of Sheba wouldn't have surprised me, aboard the Balliol College—but it wasn't the mild-looking, middle-aged woman sitting behind a table, picking at a sampler, who turned to beam at us pleasantly, murmured something in greeting, and then set to pouring tea. Presently Comber came in, smoothing his hair, and the grizzled old second mate, Kinnie, who ducked his head to me when Spring made us known to each other. Mrs Spring handed over cups, and we stood round sipping, and nibbling at her biscuits, while she beamed and Spring talked—she had little to say for herself, but he paid her as much respect as though it had been a London drawing-room. I had to pinch myself to believe it was real: a tea-party aboard a slaver, with this comfortable woman adding hot water to the pot while a flogged man was bleeding all over the deck above our heads, and Spring, his cuff specked with the victim's gore, was laying it off about Thucydides and Horace.
“Mr Flashman has had the beginning of an education, my dear,” says he. “He was with Dr Arnold at Rugby School.”
She turned a placid face in my direction. “Mr Spring is a classical scholar,” says she. “His father was a Senior Fellow.”
“Senior Tutor, if you please, my dear,” says Spring. “And it's my belief he achieved that position by stealing the work of better men. Scholarship is merely a means to an end these days, and paucis carior est fides quam pecunia. [Few do not set a higher value on money than on good faith.] You remember Sallust, Mr Comber? No? There seems to be little to choose between the ignorance of Rugby and that of Winchester College.” (Oho, thinks I, Winchester, that accounts for a lot.) “However, if we have some leisure on this voyage, we may repair these things, may we not, Mr Flashman?”
I mumbled something about being always eager to learn.
“Aye,” says he, “pars sanitatis velle sanari fuit, [The wish to be cured is itself a step towards health.] we may hope. But I imagine Seneca is yet another among the many authors with whom you are not acquainted.” He munched on a biscuit, the pale blue eyes considering me. “Tell me, sir, what do you know?”
I stole a glance at the others; Kinnie had his head down over his cup, and Sullivan, the big, raw-boned Yankee, was gazing bleakly before him. Comber was looking nervous.
“Well, sir,” says I, “not very much. . .” And then, like a fool, I added, toady-like: “Not as much as a Fellow of Oriel College, I'm sure.”
Comber's cup clattered suddenly. Spring says, very soft: “I am not a Fellow, Mr Flashman. I was dismissed.”
Well, it didn't surprise me. “I'm very sorry, sir,” says I.
“You well may be,” says he. “You well may be. You may come to wish that I was in my rightful place, sir, instead of here!” His voice was rising, and his scar going crimson. He set his cup down with a force that rattled the table. “Herding with the carrion of the sea, sir, instead of. . . of. . . d-n your eyes, man, look at me! You think it a matter for contempt, don't you, that a man of my intellect should be brought to this! You think it a jest that I was flung into the gutter by jealous liars! You do! I see it in your. . .”
“No, no indeed, sir!” cries I, quaking. “I was expelled myself. . . I don't. . .”
“Hold your confounded tongue!” he bawled. “You can't do right for doing wrong, can you? No, by G-d! Well, I warn you, Mister Flashman—I'll remind you of another text from Seneca, whom you don't b—y well read, d-n your ignorance! Gravis ira regum sem per [The anger of kings is always severe.] Mr Comber will construe it for you—he's heard it before, and digested it! He'll tell you that a captain is to be feared as much as a king!” He thumped the table. “Mrs Spring, you'll excuse me!” And he burst past me, slamming the door behind him.
He left me shaking, and then we heard his voice on deck, bawling at the man at the wheel, and his feet stamping overhead. I felt the sweat starting on my forehead.
“May I give you some more tea, Mr Sullivan?” says Mrs Spring. “Mr Comber, a little more?” She poured for them in silence. “Have you been to sea before, Mr Flashman?”
God knows what I said; it was too much for me, and it's quite likely I answered nothing at all. I know we stood about a little longer, and then Sullivan said we must be about our duties, and we thanked Mrs Spring, and she inclined her head gravely, and we filed out.
Outside, Sullivan turned to me, glanced up the ladder, sighed, and rubbed his jaw. He was a youngish, hard-case sailor, this one, with a New England figurehead and a slantendicular way of looking at you. At last he says:
“He's mad. So's she.” He thought for a moment. “It don't matter, though. Much. Sane or silly, drunk or dry, he's the best d-d skipper on this coast, or any other. You follow me?”
I stood there, nodding.
“Well and good,” says he. “You'll be in Mr Comber's watch—just tail on to the rope and keep your eyes open. And when the skipper starts talkin' Latin, or whatever it is, just shut up, d'ye hear?”
That was one piece of advice which I didn't need. If I'd learned one thing about the Balliol College, it was that I had no wish to bandy scholarship with John Charity Spring—or anything else, for that matter.
3
By now you will have some idea of what life at sea was like when Uncle Harry was a boy. I don't claim that it was typical—I've sailed on many ships since the Balliol College, and never struck one like it, thank G-d—but although it was often like cruising in an asylum, I'll say one thing: that ship and crew were d-d good at their work, which was kidnapping niggers and selling them in the Americas.
I can say this now, looking back; I was hardly in a position to appreciate their qualities after that first day of flogging and tea parties. All I could think of then was that I was at the mercy of a dangerous maniac who was h—l bent on a dangerous criminal expedition, and I didn't know which to be more scared of—him and his Latin lectures or the business ahead. But as usua
l, after a day or two I settled down, and if I didn't enjoy the first weeks of that voyage, well, I've known worse.
At least I had an idea of what I was in for—or thought I had—and could hope to see the end of it. For the moment I must take care, and so I studied to do my duties well—which was easy enough—and to avoid awakening the wrath of Captain J. C. Spring. This last wasn't too difficult, as it proved: all I had to do in his presence was listen to his interminable prosing about Thucydides and Lucan, and Seneca, whom he particularly admired, for he dearly loved to display his learning. (In fact, I heard later that he had been a considerable scholar in his youth, and would have gone far had he not assaulted some dignitary at Oxford and been kicked out. Who knows? he might have become something like Head at Rugby—which prompts the thought that Arnold would have made a handy skipper for an Ivory Coast pirate.)
At any rate, he lost no opportunity of airing his Latinity to Comber and me, usually at tea in his cabin, with the placid Mrs Spring sitting by, nodding. Sullivan was right, of course; they were both mad. You had only to see them at the divine service which Spring insisted on holding on Sundays, with the whole ship's company drawn up, and Mrs Spring pumping away at her German accordion while we sang “Hark! the wild billow”, and afterwards Spring would blast up prayers to the Almighty, demanding his blessing on our voyage, and guidance in the tasks which our hands should find to do, world without end, amen. I don't know what Wilberforce would have made of that, or my old friend John Brown, but the ship's company took it straight-faced—mind you, they knew better than to do anything else.
Flash For Freedom! Page 6
