Flash For Freedom!

by George MacDonald Fraser

  I could make little of this, but one thing seemed clear.

  “But if she was carrying slaves when they took her—and had slave gear aboard—”

  “Slave gear doesn't matter—the equipment treaty doesn't hold up in New Orleans, sir. Mixed commission trials, yes, but not here. The slaves, sir—they're the thing!”

  “Well, then—”

  “Precisely. That's where we've got them. There were slaves aboard, and for all the treasure and effort that will be poured in on their side, I don't see how they can get round it. Mind you, sir, the shifting and lying and trickery that goes on at a slave ship adjudication is something you must see to believe. It wouldn't surprise me if Spring claimed they were all his sons and daughters, wearing chains because they're perverted creatures. I've seen excuses just as wild. And in New Orleans—well, you can't tell. I would to God,” he added, “that Fairbrother had had the sense to take the Balliol College to Havana—she'd have been nailed there, fast enough, and we'd have been spared all this. But with your evidence, Mr Comber, I don't see how we can go wrong. Oh, they'll fight; they've got Anderson, who's as sharp a mind as ever took a brief—or bribed a witness. He'll try every trick and dodge going, and the adjudicator will be leaning his way, remember. But when you take the stand—well, sir, where will they be then?”

  Where they would be was of small interest to me; where was Flashy going to be? I gulped and asked:

  “Do they. . . er. . . do they know about. . . that I'll be giving evidence?”

  “Not yet,” says he, smiling happily. “You see, an adjudication isn't a trial—we don't have to come and go with the other side much beforehand, officially, although I can tell you that the politicking that's been done in this case—offers of settlement, God knows what—has been amazing. Whoever is behind Spring, they're people who matter. They want him and his ship clear—probably frightened of what he'll divulge if he's ever brought to trial. Oh, it's a fine, dirty business, Mr Comber—the slime and corruption doesn't end on the slave deck, I can tell you. No, they don't know about you, yet—but I'll be surprised if a little bird doesn't tell 'em pretty soon. Lucky, in a way, that you didn't turn up until now—court sits the day after tomorrow, and if you hadn't been here we'd have had to go in without our best witness.”

  Lucky, I thought—just another few days lost up north and they might have started and got it over, and I'd have been spared my appearance and inevitable unmasking. I couldn't see anything for it, now—unless I got the chance to run again, but Bailey, for all his amiability, was no less watchful than the marshal had been. Even at the Navy office there was a damned little American snotty keeping me company wherever I went, and on the following day, when I was taken down to the building where the adjudication court sat, and was introduced to the counsel representing the U.S. Navy, the snotty and a petty officer were trailing at my heels.

  The counsel was a lordly man from Washington with a fine aristocratic beak and silver hair falling to his shoulders. His name was Clitheroe, and he talked to the air a yard above my head; to hear him, the business would be over in a couple of hours at most, and then he would be able to get back to Washington and direct his talents to something worth while. He talked briskly for a moment or two about my part in the proceedings—“decisive corroboration” was the expression he used—and then consigned me to the care of his junior, a quiet, dark little fellow called Dunne, who had said very little, and now took me apart into a side room, instructing my escort to wait while he had a private word with me.

  Now what followed is gospel true, and you will just have to believe me. If it runs counter to your notions of how justice is done in the civilised world, I can't help it; nothing in my experience leads me to believe that things are any different in England or France, even today. This is what happened.

  Dunne talked to me for about five minutes, around and about the case, but all very vague, and then begged to be excused for a moment. He went out, leaving me alone, and then the door opened and in comes a prodigious fat man, with a round face and spectacles, for all the world like some Friar Tuck in a high collar. He closed the door carefully, beamed at me, and says:

  “Mr Comber? Delighted to meet you, sir. My name is Anderson—Marcellus Anderson, sir, very much at your service. You may have heard of me—I represent the defendants in the case in which you are to be a distinguished witness.”

  My jaw dropped, and I must have glanced at the door through which I had come from Clitheroe's office, for he gave a fat man's chuckle and slid into a chair, observing:

  “Have no fears, sir; I shall not detain you above a moment. The admirable Clitheroe, and your, ha-ha, watchdog, Captain Bailey, would grudge me even that long, no doubt, but Mr Dunne is a safe man, sir—he and I understand each other.” He regarded me happily over his spectacles; Mr Pickwick as ever was.

  “Now, very briefly, Mr—er—Comber, when we heard that you were to testify, my client, Captain Spring, was mystified. Indeed, sir—do you know, he even seemed to doubt your existence? However, you will know why, I dare say. I made rapid inquiry, obtained a description of you, and when this was conveyed to my client—why, sir, a great light dawned upon him. Oh, he was thunderstruck, and I needn't go into distressing detail about what he said—but he understood your, ha-ha, position, and the steps you had taken to safeguard yourself when the Balliol College was arrested some months ago.”

  He took off his glasses and polished them, regarding me benignly.

  “Rash, sir, very rash—if you'll forgive me for saying so. However, it's done. Now Captain Spring was incensed at what he considered—justifiably, I think—to be a disloyalty on your part. Yes, indeed, and it was his first instinct to denounce you the moment you took the stand. However, sir, it occurred to me—it's what I'm paid for—that there might even be advantage to my client in having Lieutenant—” he paused—“Beauchamp Millward Comber as a witness for the plaintiff. If his evidence was—oh, shall we say, inconclusive, it might do the defendant more good than harm. Do you take me, sir?”

  I took him all right, but without giving me a chance to reply he went on.

  “It amounts to this, sir. If my client is cleared, as I feel bound to tell you I believe he will be—for we have more shots in our locker than friend Clitheroe dreams of—then we have no interest in directing attention to the antecedents of Lieutenant Comber. If Captain Spring is not cleared—” he shook his head solemnly “—then when the crew of the Balliol College are arrainged for slave-trading and so forth, their number will be greater by one than it is at present.”

  He stood up quickly. “Now, sir, Mr Dunne will be impatient to speak to you again. When we meet again, at the hearing, it will be as strangers. Until then, I have the honour to bid you a very good day.”

  “Wait. . . wait, for God's sake!” I was on my feet, my mind in a turmoil. “Sir. . . what am I to do?”

  “Do, sir?” says he, pausing at the door. “Why, it is not for me to tell a witness how he shall give evidence. I leave that to your own judgment, Mr. . . er. . . Comber.” He beamed at me again. “Your servant, sir.”

  And then he was away, and two shakes later Dunne was back, aloof and business-like, describing to me the form and procedure of an adjudication court, all of which went straight by me. Well, I've been in some fearful dilemmas, but this beat everything. The Navy expected my evidence to follow the lines of the statements I'd made in Washington, months back. If it did, Spring would cut me down in open court and I'd be for the dock myself. If it didn't—if I lied myself hoarse-Spring would keep his mouth shut, but the Navy. . . my God, what would they do to me? What could they do? They couldn't arrest me, surely. . . no, but they could investigate and question, and God alone knew what might come of that. The tangle was so terrible that I couldn't think straight at all—there was nothing for it but to be carried along on the tide, and do what seemed safest at the time. I wondered if I should confess to Bailey, telling him who I really was and admitting my imposture, but I daren't; I'd have bee
n putting a rope round my own neck for certain.

  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 Gui 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.

  14

  It was held in a great white room with brown panelling, like a lecture theatre, with tiers of crescentshaped 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 pulling 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 fidgetting, 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, Americanowned, 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 Com
ber would 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 se [What a man does through another, he does himself.] 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—”