“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, [The written letter remains (as evidence).] 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 curia [Upright in the court.] 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 further 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:
“That one, too—with the nice whiskers. He was awful kind to us.”
“I'll bet he was,” says the voice again, and the adjudicator got so angry he swore, and said that was the last warning. Clitheroe gave me a look, and said:
“I see—these two men. Captain Spring and Mr Comber. They and others took you on a ship—where to, do you know?”
“Oh, to Havana, ev'yone said. An' then we was goin' on to
here, by 'nother ship, to Awlins, right here.”
“I see. Did you know where you were going to, in New Orleans?”
They giggled and conferred. “Miz Rivers' who'-house, so ev'yone reckon.”
“I see, first to Havana, and then to Mrs Rivers'. . . er, establishment, in New Orleans.” Clitheroe paused. “There is, I am told, such an establishment.”
There was some haw-hawing from the public, and a cry of “He ain't foolin'”, but the adjudicator let it go.
“Now, girls,” says Clitheroe, “when you were in Roatan, what were you?”
“Please, suh, we wuz whores,” giggled Drusilla.
“Yes, yes, but what else? Were you free?”
“Oh, no, suh, we wuz slaves. Warn't we, Drusie? Yassuh, we'z slaves a'right.”
“Thank you. And as slaves you were sent aboard the ship, to be taken to Havana, and thence sold to Mrs Rivers'. . . ah. . . whorehouse in New Orleans. But by the favour and mercy of God, the ship was captured by the United States Navy and—” Clitheroe leaned forward impressively “—you were brought to New Orleans and there set free. Is this not so?”
“Oh, yassuh. We's set free, sho' nuff.” Messalina smiled winningly at hun.
“Fine. Splendid. You were liberated from that unspeakable servitude, and you are now free women.” Clitheroe was enjoying himself. “Since when I don't doubt you have been happy in your new-found land of adoption and blessed free estate. You are both safe in New Orleans?”
“Oh, yassuh. We's fine, at Miz' Rivers' who'-house.”
Even the adjudicator didn't try to stop the peal of laughter and applause that this provoked, and Drusilla and Messalina smiled around happily and preened themselves under all this male attention. But Clitheroe just sat down, red in the face, and Anderson got up and waited for the noise to subside.
“A very moving story,” says he, and everyone roared again. “Tell me, Drusilla and Messalina—I don't doubt for a moment that every word you have told us is true, and I accept it as true—but tell me, you first, Messalina dear: where were you born?”
“Why. . . Baton Rouge, suh.”
“And you, Drusila?”
“N'Awlins, suh.”
“Indeed. Very interesting. And how did you come to be at Roatan?”
Messalina had been taken by a wealthy planter visiting Cuba; she had been his mistress, but he had tired of her and sold her. (“Silly bastard,” says the unseen voice.) Drusilla had been one of a party taken on a cruise by wealthy degenerates, who had sold their doxies at various places in the Caribbean.
“So you are both American-born? I see—and both born slaves?”
“Yassuh.”
“The other girls on the ship with you—were they also American-born? You don't know-of course not. And they have not been cited as witnesses in this case, and can't be called now, accordingly.” Anderson glanced knowingly across the court at Clitheroe, who was looking like a man who sees a ghost. “May I refresh the court's memory by referring to the enactment of 1820”—he rattled off a string of numbers while he leafed through a large tome. “Here we have it. Briefly it defines as piracy and illegal slave-trading—” he paused impressively “—the transportation for enslavement of any coloured person who is not already a slave under American law.”
In the hush that followed Anderson closed the book with a snap like a pistol shot.
“There we have it, sir. Captain Spring, as he has admitted, freely and openly, was carrying slaves—American slaves, born slaves, and in so doing he was in no way contravening any United States law. No more than a man breaks the law when he carries a slave across the Mississippi River. He was not running slaves, or slave-trading in the illicit sense, or—”
Clitheroe was on his feet, raging. “This is an outrageous twisting of the truth—why, just because these two happen to be American-born—why, they were only chosen to testify because they spoke English well—half of their fellow-captives on the Balliol College, I am certain, were not American-born, and were therefore—”
“Then it's a pity you didn't bring them here today,” says Anderson. “You should choose your witnesses more carefully.”
“Sir, this is monstrous!” cries Clitheroe. “In the name of justice, I demand to be allowed to call another—”
“In the name of justice you'll keep us here till kingdom come!” cries Anderson. “Really, sir, are we to be detained while this distinguished counsel rakes the whole of Louisiana for some witness who will suit his book? He has entered his witnesses before this court—let him abide by what they say. If they let him down, so much the worse for him, and so much the better for justice!”
There was no doubt whose side the spectators were on. They cheered and stamped and drowned out everyone until the little adjudicator had to shout for silence. And after several minutes, when all was quiet, he remarked:
“You had ample time to consider who you should call, sir. I'll hear the witnesses you have named.”
“I protest!” cries Clitheroe, his white hair flung back. “I protest—but very well, sir—you shall hear my last witness, who will prove my case for me!” And as my heart shot into my mouth he turned and boomed:
“Beauchamp Millward Comber, Royal Navy!”
I suppose I took the oath, but I don't remember it. Then Clitheroe was taking me through my antecedents, my commissioning by the Board of Trade, my shipping aboard the Balliol College—all of which I had to invent, on the spur of the moment, and it wasn't made any easier by the unseen voice growling: “Goddam' limey spy!”—and so to the business he wanted to get his teeth into.
“You can, I think, testify, that when the Balliol College reached Dahomey, she took aboard not palm oil, as the defendant claims—but a human cargo. Slaves! Is this not so?”
But Anderson, bless his honest fat face, was on his feet. “This is quite improper, sir! I demand that the witness be instructed to ignore the question. We are not here concerned with what the British master of a Mexican ship was doing many thousands of miles from our shore. Such a case, if any there were, would be for a British or Mexican court, or a mixed commission of the type to which the United States does not subscribe. I demand—nay, insist—that no irrelevant observations, such as might prejudice my client's position, be permitted. We are here to determine the status of the Balliol College at the time of her seizure—” and he went bounding on to cite a great string of precedents—Bright Des patch, Rosalinda, Ladies' Delight, heaven knows what.
It sounded a near thing to me; I stood there with my palms sweating, and if that adjudicator had been an honest man I'd have been sunk. But someone had been to work, I've no doubt, for he shook his head, and snapped:
“I take the point of defendant's counsel. We are not concerned with the Captain's past history—”
“Or his ship's?” bawls Clitheroe. “What about Mendon, Uncas, any number I could name, sir—why, slavers have been condemned before ever they had taken a black on board, simply on a question of intent! This—”
“May I make a point, sir?” says Anderson. “I respectfully suggest that it would ill become an American court to deny to a British master the very rights which we insist upon for our own captains where British justice is concerned. We demand that our captains be not interfered with unless they expressly break British law; it cannot be argued that what Captain Spring was doing thousands of miles away, in a Mexican ship, is any concern of ours.”
“Humbug—” Clitheroe was beginning, but Anderson added quickly:
“The court would hardly wish to set a precedent of which foreign governments, particularly the British, might take note.”
That clinched it. The adjudicator glanced at me: “You will ignore that question, sir. Mr Clitheroe, I must ask you to confine yourself to the matter in hand. Proceed, sir.”
“I protest again, most emphatically,” says Clitheroe. “Very well, then—Mr Comber, were these negroes who were carried from Roatan for Havana—were they chained, sir?”
“Most o
f the time, not,” says I, which was true.
“But chains were placed upon them when the American brig challenged the Balliol College?”
“Yes.” I tried not to catch Spring's eye.
“Why were they chained, sir?”
“To prevent their possible escape, I imagine. I was below decks at the time.”
He gave me an odd look. “Was there not another reason? Was it not so that a length of anchor chain could be rove through their shackles, so that they could be brutally hurled into the deep and drowned?” He looked at his papers. “I quote from your own statement to the Navy Department.”
Up came Anderson. “May I point out that this. . . statement, supposedly made by the witness, is not in itself evidence. We are concerned with what he says now, not what he said then.”
I could feel the sweat starting out on my brow. How to balance the tightrope? Talk for your life, Flash, thinks I, so I looked perplexed, and said, addressing the adjudicator:
“Sir, I have reflected much on this matter in the past few months. That the slaves were shackled, and the anchor chain passed between those shackles, is true—I myself released them later. But in strict justice I must add that the shackling was performed by the late Mr Sullivan, mate of the Balliol College, and it was followed by a most violent altercation between Sullivan and Captain Spring.”
Flash For Freedom! Page 31
