A Sea Unto Itself (16 page)

Charles watched as three of the ships, all schooner rigged, hurriedly sent up the peculiar red and white striped flag of the new United States, with its blue square in the upper corner and white stars. The forth, a brigantine, flew the familiar union flag of Great Britain. One of the schooners, more alert than the others, immediately began to heave her anchor cable short. “Fire off a gun,” Charles ordered.

Bevan spoke to one of the gun captains. A single six-pounder cannon exploded inward on the quarterdeck, its smoke drifting lazily forward. The ball sent up a spout a hundred yards from the schooner’s bow. All movement on the schooner ceased.

As Cassandra came about and hove to a half-cable’s length from the slave ships, Lieutenants Bevan, Winchester, and Beechum collected on the quarterdeck. The marines had gathered in the waist under the watchful eyes of their officers. One by one, the launch, both cutters, and the jollyboat, were hoisted out and lowered into the water. “I’ll have eight seamen off of each of those ships,” Charles said firmly. “Mind you, I want prime seamen, no lubbers or ship’s boys.”

“What if they resist, sir?” asked Beechum, fingering the hilt of his sword. “Surely, some may not come willingly.”

“I doubt any will come willingly,” Charles answered. “You will each have a detachment of the marines to keep order. It shouldn’t be difficult. They’ll only have crews of twenty or so. Ask for volunteers first. You may offer the king’s guinea as an inducement. No one will accept it, of course, but make the offer anyway. You have my authority to take anyone you like who cannot produce a certificate of exemption from the Admiralty in London.”

“Even if they claim to be American citizens? None of them will have that.”

“Mr. Beechum, if they are older than sixteen years of age they were born as the king’s subjects, and the king’s subjects they remain. Besides, a goodly number are probably British deserters, no matter what they claim.”

“Yes, sir,” Beechum said. “I got it.”

“You have your assignments?” Charles said, looking at his officers one at a time. The boats’ crews, he saw, were settled at their oars and the marines preparing to climb down. The three men nodded. Winchester and Beechum started forward while Bevan hung momentarily behind.

“You do know that you’ll be leaving them with barely enough of a crew to make it home, don’t you?” he said.

Charles met his friend’s eyes. “Barely enough is still enough, Daniel. It’s more than they’ve a right to.”

Each lieutenant was to call on one of the American schooners. Charles had reserved the British flagged ship for himself. “You are in command until my return,” he said to Sykes, standing stiffly self-important by the wheel.

“Aye, aye, sir,” answered the midshipman.

“Keep them under your broadside. If I am needed back on board, you may fire off one gun. Don’t hit me with it.”

“Yes, sir. I mean, of course not.”

Charles made his way forward to the entry port, then down into the waiting jollyboat. The boat already held six red-coated marine privates and Lieutenant Ayres in addition to its regular crew. Augustus had taken up his usual place at his oar, seated rearmost to larboard.

“Shove off,” Charles said to Malvern as he settled himself in the sternsheets.

“Out oars,” the coxswain ordered. The jollyboat pushed off from Cassandra's side and started toward the brigantine. Approaching her stern, Charles saw that she was Amelia Jane, out of Bristol.

“You needn’t come aboard if you don’t want to,” he said to Augustus as they glided to a stop alongside. Charles assumed that being onboard the slaver would be unwelcome for his steward.

“I’ll just follow anyway,” Augustus said, his eyes narrowed. Charles nodded his assent. “As you wish.”

A man of middle age with long strands of wispy gray hair protruding from under his hat stood at Amelia Jane's entry port. “What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded as Charles gained the deck. His focus switched to Augustus as he came onboard and then the marines with their muskets much in evidence.

Charles did not answer until Ayres had his men lined up smartly on the deck. “May I know to whom I am speaking, sir?” he asked politely.

“Owen Harris,” the man answered. “I’m the master.” The sailing master on a merchant ship effectively served as her captain.

“Your certificates please, Mr. Harris,” Charles said, “registration, bill of lading, and muster book.”

Harris quickly produced several papers from his pocket and held them out. Charles unfolded the documents and saw that they were the brig’s registration and manifest, showing that she carried mostly rum and bolts of cloth from Liverpool and was bound for Lagos in the Bight of Benin, where the cargo would almost certainly be traded for newly captured slaves. These were the papers usually requested when stopped by a British naval vessel, and the master had them ready to hand.

“Your muster book, please,” Charles said.

“What do want me muster book for?” Harris said suspiciously, but Charles could tell from his eyes that he knew. In a last-minute attempt to stave off the inevitable, the man added, “Besides, in a barky this small we ain’t no need for such a record.”

“Augustus,” Charles said, “in the master’s cabin aft, you will find a desk. Bring me all the papers you find in its drawers. Do you have a knife?”

“Yes, Cap’n,” Augustus answered, touching the handle of a blade tucked into his belt.

“It’s possible you will find it necessary to force the drawers. There may even be an axe about somewhere. You needn’t worry if you have to break something.”

Amelia Jane's master looked around him in dismay. “All right,” he said. “I’ll send for it.” He turned toward a seaman standing beside the ship’s wheel. “Huggins, go below and fetch the roster, do you hear?” He produced a key from his pocket and held it out.

“But, sir, he means to. . .” the man began.

Charles noticed that the master nodded his head ever so slightly to the seaman in a conspiratorial kind of way. He would have none of that. “Augustus, you will please accompany Mr., er, Huggins. You may assist by carrying the muster book back in your own hands. Lieutenant Ayres, if you would be so good as to send one of your men along to keep them company.” As the men started toward the ladderway, Charles spoke to Harris. “You will be pleased to assemble the crew on deck.” The master shrugged and did as he was told. Charles watched as the odd assortment of Europeans, two Lascars, and even a number of blacks tumbled up from below. Some regarded the naval captain and the marines with curiosity, others with hostility; still others would not look at them at all. Charles counted their number at twenty-two. “Is this the entire company?” he asked.

Harris studied the group sullenly. “Aye, it’s all of ‘em. You have my word on it.”

Charles accepted the statement for the present. The party dispatched below soon returned. Augustus held out a slim ledger, “That be it, I’m told, Cap’n.”

Charles opened the book and soon found the correct page. He counted twenty-four names, which, including Harris and Huggins, matched the number on the deck. Four were entered as having American citizenship. He called out their names, then added, “You will collect your sea chests and go down into the boat alongside.”

“I ain’t going,” a man who had answered to the name of Peterson said defiantly. “I ain’t no British subject. You can’t . . .”

Charles put his finger on the ledger by the name. “It says here you were born in Alexandria, in Virginia, in 1775. At that time Virginia was a colony to the crown, was it not?”

“Yesser, it were, but today it ain’t. It’s part of the United States; everyone knows that.”

“I’ll grant you that it is,” Charles answered. “But you are a citizen of where you were born, and always will be. Everyone knows that. You were fortunate enough to be born English. Lieutenant Ayres,” he said, bringing the debate to an end, “this man is a duly pressed subject of the King. You will please see him over the side.” The American swore under his breath but went uneventfully, if unhappily.

Muster book in hand, Charles called out the names of the English seamen and demanded from each their certificates of exemption. Two lacked such protections entirely and a third presented such a crude forgery that it made him laugh. “Did you make this yourself?” Charles asked. When the man nodded, he said, “Next time use a pen and ink. Nobody at the Admiralty writes official documents in pencil.” Those three, the remaining Americans, and the larger of the two Lascars, a subject of colonial India, he allowed to collect their sea chests before going down into the jollyboat.

“I find your papers to be in perfect order, Mr. Harris,” Charles said, returning all of the documents to the m. “I thank you for your cooperation. You are free to go on your way.”

“You have ruined me,” Harris said plaintively. “I haven’t enough men left to manage a load of blacks. I shall have to go back direct.”

“You should have chosen a different cargo to trade in,” Charles said curtly, then swung out over the side and went down.

On board Cassandra, he watched with satisfaction as his boats returned from the American schooners. Generally, the seamen taken off scowled in anger as they came upon the deck, much to the delight of his own crew who gathered round cheerfully at the sight of the newly pressed men. It was an old adage that a British tar, pressed himself, loved nothing more than seeing another suffer his plight. That many were Yankees only sweetened the experience.

With Lieutenant Bevan returned, Charles ordered the newly pressed men taken below and read in. He decided that it would be preferable if they departed before the American ships’ masters decided on some course of action. “Heave the anchor short and weigh, if you please,” he said to Winchester, now at his station as officer of the watch. “I believe we may have already overstayed our welcome.”

“You’ve left it too long,” Winchester answered, nodding over the starboard beam.

Charles looked and saw a ship’s longboat pulling across from the nearest schooner. A black-coated man stood midships waving his arms at the frigate. He supposed it was unreasonable to expect that there would be no protest. “Prepare to weigh in any case,” he said. “We will sail as soon as this gentleman has his say.”

“I object to this foul act in the strongest possible terms,” shouted the red-faced American master as soon as his head showed above the level of the deck. “I have never experienced such bald thievery.” Seemingly without pausing to take a breath, he launched himself the three paces across the deck to stand toe-to-toe in front of Charles. “This is a most serious breach of the law, sir. Mine is an American ship. I have my cargo only half loaded, and you have enslaved a goodly part of my crew.”

“Enslaved?” Charles said, interrupting the flow. “That’s a hypocritical charge, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, sir, what is the nature of your own cargo?”

The man hesitated, then gathered himself. “That’s nothing to do with it. Trade in niggers is a legal enterprise. Impressing American citizens on the high seas is an act of piracy, pure and simple. I demand that you release all of my countrymen you have taken.” He added reluctantly, “The others you can keep.”

“I won’t release anyone,” Charles said, irked at the man and his manners. He noticed additional boats being lowered from the other schooners. “As much as I have enjoyed your company, I suggest you return to your ship.”

“There will be an official protest,” the man persisted, “a diplomatic protest at the highest levels. You may be assured of it. I am not unknown in Washington.”

“I see,” Charles answered. He turned toward Winchester who had been watching the exchange with an amused expression. “You may weigh the bower, Stephen, and sheet home.” Touching his hat to the schooner’s master, he said, “Good day to you, sir.”

“I ain’t yet finished.”

“Fine, I have all day,” Charles answered. He heard the anchor cable’s rasp as it was heaved up through the hawse and saw the topmen on the shrouds, for once smartly climbing aloft. “You’d better hurry though, or your boatmen alongside will have a long pull back.”

With the indignant American returned to his boat, Cassandra began to gain way, listing gently to seaward as the breeze off the land pushed against her sails. There was little that worried him with respect to any official protest. It was a common enough practice to press Americans off their own ships. To his knowledge, no British captain had ever been reprimanded for it. In any event, it would be a long time before the slave runner returned to his country, managed a hearing in its capital city, and any diplomatic exchange passed from Washington to London. He was also comfortable that, given the state of less than happy relations between the two nations, London would not bother to respond. He’d gained a score and a half prime of seamen; it was a bargain he would take any day.