The Midshipman Prince (30 page)

      
“I tell you, Saumarez, these are hard times. Hood’s ships look like something the cat wouldn’t have. The men are tired, most of his ships are rickety, and he’s short just about everything you can think of—food, water, rope, sail-cloth, spars—you name it.

      
“Hard times, Saumarez. Hard times and dangerous ones too.”

      
“Sir, do you know where the admiral might be right now?” Saumarez pressed.

      
“Last I heard he’s around St. Kitts, although what the devil he’s doing there I have no idea. Can you come tonight for dinner, Saumarez? You and your young gentlemen?”

      
The very last thing Saumarez wanted to do was to spend dinner with this bureaucratic boob, but he couldn’t think of a way to avoid it.

      
“Yes, sir, we’d be delighted,” he said with a smile.

      
“Jolly good. I’ll see you about 8:00 then. My residence.”

* * *

      
It was a long walk back down the hill. They followed what was once probably a goat track that had been expanded into a crude dirt road in order to build the fort.
 

      
“Captain, can I ask you a question about what I just saw?” Smith asked.

      
“Certainly.”

      
“Those slaves. It’s the first time I’ve seen any.”

      
“Well, if you get posted to the West Indies, it won’t be your last.”

      
“I know, sir, but… well… Sir Shirley was complaining because he had only five officers to handle over 300 slaves. 300 to 5? Why don’t the slaves just revolt and take over the place?”

      
Saumarez gave a quick laugh. “They do. There have been dozens of slave revolts in these islands. They always loose.”

      
“Why?”

      
“Mostly because of lack of leadership. And when a genuine leader does arise, he’s quickly dealt with.

      
“Take here in Antigua, for example. They had a revolt back in ‘36 lead by a black named ‘Prince Klaas.’ They caught him, broke him on the wheel, hung six others and burned 77 of his followers alive.”

      
“Broke him on the wheel?”

      
“Yes, and if you can avoid seeing that happen I’d recommend you do so.

      
“Basically the person is tied, spread eagled, on the ground with pieces of wood placed under his wrists, elbows, ankles, knees and hips. The executioner then slams a large hammer or iron bar down on the wood blocks smashing each limb in several places and all the major joints—including the shoulders and hips.

      
“At this point the victim has been transformed into a howling puppet with four tentacles instead of arms and legs. He is then lifted up, his arms and legs are threaded through the spokes of the wheel, and the wheel is lifted to the top of a pole where he is left both to the crows and to his maker.

      
“Now, after seeing that, how eager would YOU be to become the next black leader?”

      
Walker could contain himself no longer. “I am sorry, sir, but that’s simply revolting. I cannot understand how someone could do that, or countenance it, and still call himself civilized. I can’t understand how anyone can tolerate slavery. I mean stealing human beings—kidnapping them. Forcing them aboard ships where half of them die in transit. And then selling them, for God’s sake.”

      
“Are you a tea drinker, Mr. Walker?”

      
Walker was puzzled by the question. “Yes, sir. I prefer coffee, but I do have tea.”

      
“Do you take sugar in it?”

      
“Yes, but I fail to see how…” And suddenly Walker understood the relevance of the question and, more than that, his personal tie to slavery.

      
“Believe me, I understand and, personally, I sympathize with your feelings, but I am afraid you are lacking some understanding. For example: Where do you think those slaves come from, Mr. Walker?”

      
“Where do they come from? Why, they’re captured in Africa by whites and forced into slavery.”

      
Saumarez started laughing. “No, sir. Not in a thousand years. Did you ever hear the rhyme:

Beware beware, the Bight of Benin:

One comes out, where fifty went in!

      
A white man would not last an hour in those jungles. If you didn’t die from the bite of some hideous snake or insect; if you didn’t contract some deadly disease from the miasma; then the blacks would have a poison tipped arrow in your back faster than you can say: Jack Sprat.

      
“Those people are sold to the whites by other blacks. So, what do you think those people were they before they were sold?”

      
“Slaves?” Walker asked.

      
“Right you are, Mr. Walker. Mostly they are prisoners of war or political enemies of a chief who, instead of torturing them to death for amusement, sold them to the white men.

      
“I personally once saw two chieftains arrive at the same time at Whydah with strings of slaves in tow. They had just finished two months of warring with each other and each had many of the other chief’s warriors and women on his string. What do you think they did? Exchange prisoners so they could have tearful reunions with their families? Hell no. The two chiefs slapped each other on the back, threw a big feast, and sold every last one of them to the white men.

      
“Even if that were the case, captain, it still doesn’t justify the inhuman conditions aboard those slave ships.”

      
“I quite agree. Those ships are awful. They’re designed to transport as much human cargo as they will hold; and they certainly are not designed to maximize the comfort of that cargo. They need speed and they need carrying capacity. That’s all.”

      
“Yes, sir. That’s what I am saying. How can anyone justify those death ships?”

      
“Death ships? Let me ask you: Do you suppose the owners of those ships know, on any given trip, how many slaves were purchased in Africa?”

      
“Certainly. There would have to be an accounting of the money spent.”

      
“And do you suppose they know how many were gotten to the West Indies and America and sold?”

      
“Yes sir, they’d have to. Again, there would have to be an accounting.”

      
“Exactly. Every slave represents money that a slaver has invested in his or her purchase. Every slave that does not make it to market represents a loss of forty to sixty pounds just as sure as if you threw the money overboard. Given that, what do you think would happen to the captain who looses large numbers of slaves in transit?”

      
Walker said nothing.

      
“Exactly. Not only would the captain himself have a lesser share of the profits but he would probably find himself on the beach and unable to ever get another ship. Do you think that doesn’t cross their minds?”

      
Smith finally decided to re-enter the discussion. “But, sir. Those people are still slaves. They’ve lost their freedom.”

      
“Indeed. So let’s say you are commanding a ship some day, lieutenant, and you capture a slaver. What do you do with those slaves?”

      
“I believe the policy is to drop them off at the nearest point of habitable land.”

      
“That’s correct. And, do you ever wonder what happens to them after that?”

      
“No, sir. I’ve never thought about it.”

      
“I have.

      
“When I was a young third lieutenant on the
Topaz
… about your age, as a matter of fact… we captured a slaver off the Bight of Biafra. We put them ashore in Sierra Leone and told them to go till a plot of land and have a good life.

      
“Now keep in mind, these were all slaves from the interior. They spoke different languages, had different dietary needs, carried old tribal hatreds for each other, and had no idea how to till a plot of land. They didn’t even know what we were talking about.

      
“When we came back a month later every one of them was either dead—killed by each other’s hand—or run off into the jungle where they probably died.

      
“Did we do them a favor, lieutenant?”

      
Smith said nothing.

      
“Mr. Walker, you have slavery in the American south do you not?”

      
“Yes sir, we do”

      
“All right, let’s take two men. One is transported to the southern United States or England as a slave, the other remains in Africa. Now, you know and I know that slavery can’t last forever. So run the clock out, let’s say, 200 years or so. Which person’s ancestors will be most likely to be living well?”

      
Walker was silent for a moment. He had never thought about the matter in quite this way. He finally replied: “But, Mr. Smith is still right, sir. If they were returned to Africa, at least they would be free,” said Walker.

      
“Free? Free like whom, Mr. Walker? Free like the white man?

      
“Let’s clarify what we’re talking about here. I once saw a ship in which upwards of 600 men and women were confined below decks in heavy shackles, most of them double ironed. They lived in miserable filth, Mr. Walker, with vermin their constant companion; and no amount of moaning or pleading would help them one bit. They eagerly ate food that would make you or me sick just looking at it. Their keepers were of the lowest class of human beings, devoid of all feelings, ignorant, inherently brutal, and made tyrannical by the power they had. Is that what we are talking about?”

      
“Yes, sir. The slave ship.”

      
“No, Mr. Walker. What I just described was a prison hulk—there are about a dozen of them operating in England right now. It’s where we throw our
own
people, not just for weeks, but for years—even decades—and for as little as stealing a handkerchief.

      
“I invite you to take a walk around London someday and look at the beggars in the street—people who have no idea where their next meal is coming from. Are they free? What about the man who works at some odious job from dawn to dusk, six days a week, for his entire brief, miserable, life. Or, how about the country girl who is driven by starvation to the city; where she becomes the maid and sexual plaything of the master of some house? My word, sir, look at the men aboard our very own ship that have been pressed into duty as seamen. Some of them have not set foot ashore or seen their families for years. Are they free?

      
“No, sir. Slavery exists in every country in the world; it’s just you can’t always see the fetters.”

      
“I am not sure I understand, sir. Does that mean you support slavery or that you would not stop and board a slaver?”

      
“No, Mr. Smith. It means: I am an officer in His Majesty’s Royal Navy; and I would do my duty no matter what. My opinion is of absolutely no consequence.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

      
THE
Tisiphone
would be laid up in English Harbor for several days. There was no choice in the matter and none of Captain Saumarez’s pacing and swearing could change it.