A King's Trade (15 page)

“And, do you sense the same patience, gratitude, and, dare we say, budding saintliness in your own Negro sailors, Captain Lewrie?” Mrs. Trencher asked.

“They do sing better than most of my crew, ma'am,” Lewrie said. “Though…I fear that that French scribbler, Rousseau, had it wrong, when it came to the nobility of the simple savage. Whether still back in Africa, or dragged unwilling to Civilisation,
by
Civilisation, men, women and children are pretty-much the same, at bottom, the wide world over.”

Why, you damned heretical cynic!
Lewrie could imagine he could hear them all say; they certainly pruned up and sat back, at that.

“Some will drink too much, and try to smuggle rum aboard during a shore liberty, or when anchored in harbour,” he explained. “Some are clever, some are dull…the same as us. The younger ones will cock a snook and be playful imps, if they can get away with it, the same as my Midshipmen or powder monkeys. Some serve chearly, some will always be bitter they've traded one form of slavery for another, just like any Navy or merchant sailor aboard any ship, in peace or war, even if they are paid regular, and get some prize-money to hand.
All
get homesick and lonely, now and again…miss loved ones, wish to
have
loved ones, someday, somewhere.

“I'm sorry, but I've never met anyone even
close
to saintly in the Navy, and very few might earn such an appellation ashore, either, ladies and gentlemen,” Lewrie told them in measured tones. “Negroes or Swedes, or British, it doesn't signify. They aren't saintly, nor are they child-like; they fit no playwright's cast of sympathetic characters, for each one's different, an individual. Aboard my frigate, they're…Proteuses. All of a piece, but each one a unique piece of the whole. When this war ends, and they're turned loose on their own devices, who
knows
what they'll make of themselves, but, for the meantime, they're…my crew.”

“And quite right, too!” Miss Theodora piped up, ready to clap her hands, again. “Full equality!”

“Even if enforced,” the Rev. Wilberforce commented, musing on all that Lewrie had said. “Well, I think…and I believe I am safe in saying for all of us, Captain Lewrie, that what you have related to us this morning has been enlightening…as to your motives, and what sort of man you are.” He arose, leading the others to their feet.

It sounded very much like the interview was over and he had not won enough of them over. Well, there
was
the girl, but…

“There is the grave matter that what you did
officially
might be termed theft of chattel property,” Wilberforce went on, “and property is the heart of Common Law, but… could it be intimated that you intend to offer the Jamaica Beaumans perhaps a modest recompence to assuage their rancour…”

“The Jamaica Beaumans hold too hot a grudge against Lewrie for even a princely sum to soothe them, sir,” Mr. Twigg countered. “That would be for a court to determine, and, as I said when I first placed the matter to you, a court is the absolute last resort for Lewrie's cause, the very first for the Beaumans.”

“Because you duelled,” Mrs. More sniffed with disgust.

“Because I
seconded
Colonel Cashman, ma'am, and they cheated,” Lewrie corrected her. “It was that, or allow my best friend get shot in the back. I'd not have
that
stain on my honour.”

He could see another vicarious thrill cross their features at the image of Lewrie as a duelling man, a “killing gentleman,” even if they did profess to abhor the deadly practice. At least it was done among the “better sorts,” not the scurrilous poor and the riff-raff! And, if one intended to be Respectable in this new England these Reformers wished to make, honour went
with
Respectability.

“Whether you intend to aid Captain Lewrie,” Mr. Twigg told them as they began to drift towards the double doors, “or not, his presence in Great Britain
will be a hindrance to both his cause…and yours, sirs, madames. I have spoken to people I know at Admiralty, whichever way things fall out, d'ye see. HMS
Proteus
will soon be departing for foreign waters…”

Thank bloody Christ, and it's about time, too!
Lewrie thought.

“… support in the Commons, assisting Sir Malcolm Shockley and his allies,” Twigg suggested, “depicting the Beaumans as the
epitome
of cruelty, greed, and…crude rusticity. Sordid ‘Country-Puts' of a brutal and spiteful nature, hmm? Speaking of saints, here's Lewrie and his magnificent list of achievements as a naval hero. Details of which I and my associates may supply you, as we also drop a few hints here and there…in the public press, if absolutely necessary,” Mr. Twigg said, with an obvious dislike for newspapers.

Here now, just a tick, you said we'd
not
become a public spectacle!
Lewrie cringed, wishing he could openly disagree to the idea of being…
celebrated.
And right vehemently, too!

“Else, sirs,
else,
ladies,” Twigg ominously told their assembly, with a stern forefinger raised, “‘tis the Beaumans who will prosper in this affair, and the cause of emancipation in the Empire will suffer a grievous backwards step.
Hang
property, I say! For this touches more on Morality, and ultimate Justice…not Man's niggling laws. Well, then…we thank you for receiving us so kindly and attentively, and, no matter your final decision, are both most grateful that you allowed us our say.”

“D'ye think we did my… ‘cause' a damned bit o' good, Twigg?” Lewrie fretfully asked, once they'd been hatted, sworded, caned, and cloaked, ready to reboard their hired carriage, outside. “Damme, we didn't even
touch
on my involvement with the Saint-Domingue uprisings, respect for Toussaint L'Ouverture's slave rebellion, like we planned to, and…”

“Oh, I think we did, Lewrie,” Twigg rather distractedly replied as he clambered into the coach and took seat upon the rear bench, hands crooked over the top of his cane, fingers flexing as his acute mind also churned odds and probabilities, going over what had been presented, as well as what had
not
been said, for lack of time or the right opening. Lewrie settled in across from him and felt like gnawing on one of his thumbnails as the coach lurched into motion, for Twigg was quite ignoring his presence.

Finally, Twigg's fingers did a last little dance on the handle of his cane, and a sly smile spread across his harsh, ruthless face.

“What?” Lewrie simply had to ask; that smile was just
too
odd.

“Bless me, Lewrie, but ‘til now I never knew just how
convincing
you can be.
Damme, but I am impressed by your seeming sincerity!” Mr. Twigg said with a simper.

“Wasn't a
total
sham, Mister Twigg!” Lewrie groused. “Mine arse on a band-box, but I
do
despise slavery. No person with the slightest bit of feeling could do else. The idea of court-martial and cashiering, a criminal trial and hanging, might've made me
urgent
and…glibber….”

“I don't think that's actually a word, sir,” Twigg snickered.

“Damn dictionaries!” Lewrie griped. “With my name and neck on the line, maybe I
did
do a stellar stage performance to convince those people to aid me, but ‘twas
not
a conversion by indictment, like your common criminal! Slavery makes me queasy, aye, but ‘tis not a thing I thought to do anything
active
about, ‘til…it just
is,
and…”

“What is the saying?” Twigg amusedly said. “That the threat of hanging concentrates the mind most wondrously, hmm? Well, of
course
most people in England despise slavery, Lewrie, whether they have ever been exposed to its evils, or not. They think, most patriotically, in Arne's song, ‘Rule, Britannia' … ‘Britons, never, never,
neh-ver
shall be slaves.' Now, how that squares with suspicion, xenophobia, and the Mobocracy's general hostility towards ‘Samboes,' Cufffies, Hindoos, and Lascars if they turn up in this country, well…that's rather hard to say. Englishmen like the
idea
of emancipation…just so long as they don't have to rub elbows with the
results,
ha ha! Free as many as you like… just keep them out of
England,
what?”

“So …” Lewrie warily said, wondering just where Mr. Twigg was going with his prosing. “You're saying, then …?”

“That once this matter becomes public, almost everyone in the British Isles… minus those actively engaged in the slave trade and colonial trade, it goes without saying… will
adore
you for what you did, Lewrie. Do the Beaumans dare sail here to press their charges in court…as they simply must, if you are allowed to be faced by your accusers, as the law requires… I fully expect them to be greeted at the docks by
hordes
of the Outraged Righteous… with the further addition of the idle, drunken, and easily excited Mob, of course.”

“There'll
be
a trial, you're saying,” Lewrie responded, with a groan and a sigh. “I'd hoped…”

“I fear there must be, sooner or later,” Mr. Twigg said with a shrug, his eyes alight, making Lewrie feel as if he felt that it was no skin off
his
back if Lewrie got pilloried and dunged, or carted off to Tyburn. “But, only after such a public spectacle as to poison any jury empanelled, from Land's End to John o' Groats. Public sentiment will uphold you, and
spit
upon the Beaumans, and
slavery. I do imagine that, ‘twixt Wilberforce and his strident associates, and what covert efforts I and
my
associates may contribute, public sentiments may be played like a flute. But for one potentially harmful distraction…”

“Which is?” Lewrie asked, one eyebrow up in wariness.

“You,” Twigg replied, tilting back his head to gaze down that long nose of his, looking as if he was having difficulty stifling his chortle of glee. “You're a much easier man to extol at long-distance, Lewrie, with none of your warts and peccadiloes on public display! It is foreign waters for you, me lad. At sea, where I believe you once told me…or Peel… either of us, it don't signify, that you did not get in a
tenth
the trouble you did ashore. ‘Out of sight, out of mind,' whilst your allies at home strive mightily to put a gloss upon your valiant repute, hmm? Very far away, for an
extended
period of time, where, one may hope, you garner even more-glorious laurels with some laudable achievement ‘gainst England's foes. That'd go down nice, did you—”

“You said you'd already spoken to people at Admiralty?” Lewrie said. “So I s'pose that's in-hand, too?”

“I fear you've no time to dilly-dally, Lewrie,” Twigg assured him, still simpering in a most haughty manner. “No
recontre
with the little wife, no visiting your children. Not even time to drop in on Sir Hugo for a
brief
meal…”

“No loss, there,” Lewrie sarcastically said; it wasn't so much the
active
dislike of his sly sire that had dominated his early years—people who “press-ganged” one into the Navy in the middle of a war and stole one's inheritance had a
way
of fostering distrust!—but, more a leeriness that, no matter Sir Hugo St. George Willoughby's new repute, fortune, and “rehabilitation” in Society, one should keep one hand on one's coin-purse at all times, and reject any proposed investments!

“Twigg, you're smiling like you already know where I'm going,” Lewrie sullenly accused.

“Perhaps,” Twigg slowly and cagily drawled back. “I will allow that it will
not
be back to the Caribbean. And…
weeks
from summons to court,” he mystifyingly added. “Good God, sir…you should now be doing handsprings or Saint Catherine's wheels. Are you not grateful?”

“I
am,
but it's the
way
you…!”

“Were I you, I'd gather my traps from the Madeira Club at once, and book a seat on the ‘dilly' to Portsmouth, instanter,” Twigg went on quite blithely. “Make haste to return aboard your frigate, before your new orders beat you there, and the Port Admiral takes notice that you've been absent rather a bit too long for one still holding active commission and command. Well, perhaps I might run you down, myself, in my chariot.
Much
faster than a diligence-coach…”

“Ah, no… thank you!”

“Or, does Sir Hugo wish to have a brief bit of time with you,” Twigg drolly continued, “he could drive you to Portsmouth in
his.
He purchased a chariot and team, recently, d'ye know. We
race,
when we have the time to weekend at my country house. They're all the crack, haw haw!”

“I'd rather
walk,”
Lewrie bleakly replied, with a shudder.

BOOK II

“I, bone, quo virtus tua te vocat, i prede fausto, grandia laturus mrritorum praemia! Quid stas?”

“Go, sir, whither your valour calls you. Go, good luck to you!—to win big rewards for your merits. Why [do you] stand there [still]?

H
ORACE,
E
PISTLES
II, 11, 37–38