wondering if he'd attract the same sort of acclaim should he be found guilty and carted off to the gallows, a few days hence. And would he have to put on the same confident and affable show, to 'Go Game' as a convicted highwayman?
'God bless you, sir! Good on yer! Might you do me the honour of inscribing…? Best of luck t'ye this day, sir! Me son served wi' ye in th' old Jester sloop, Cap 'm, un'… The Devil take those horrid Beaumans, and God uphold the right, I say, Captain Lewrie!' came from dozens as he slowly made his way up the broad steps to the welcoming doors, now standing wide open despite the cold, and visibly blasting waves of warmth from the interior. Calls for 'Abolition of slavery, throughout the British Empire, now!' were followed by ' 'Ere, oo's 'at git?' with the faint cry of 'Thief, thief!' from the edge of the crowd, out by piles of shovelled-away snow, now gone grey from coal smoke grit and frozen half to ice. Thankfully, it was not directed at Lewrie, but at some clumsy pick-pocket, who was sprinting away as fast as his legs could carry him, with or without the object of his craft, pursued by a clutch of men.
Oh, there were some stout and prosperous-looking men, heavily and expensively overcoated against the chill, who stood far back at the edges of the crowd, round to either side of the top of the steps, who glowered at him; men engaged in the sugar trade, which utterly depended on slave labour for their crops… men in the tobacco, rice, rum, and cotton imports, and men in the West Indies and American shipping businesses, which maintained the infamous Triangle Trade of British gewgaws to Africa, slaves in exchange to the Americas and West Indies, then raw goods back to Great Britain. Any threat to slave economies would mean utter ruin to their fortunes. Sadly, among those silently jeering men were several senior officers of his own service; most-like muttering 'that bloody bastard, Lewrie'-there were more than a few who'd formed that opinion of him during his twenty-year naval career!
Closer to, though, was a shivering clutch of 'Saint Giles Blackbirds,' Negro sailors off merchant ships docked, or frozen in, in the Pool of London. Freemen, or slaves who had been successful in running away to sea, thousands of miles from the warmth of their islands in the Caribbean, half starved on bad victuals, cheated of their due pay by skinflint captains, 'crimped off' at the end of their voyages to the Impress Service without ha'pence of their wages by some captains even cleverer, they huddled in the slums of St. Giles a clan apart, waiting for an outbound vessel to sign them aboard once more; and, living hand to mouth and begrudging every meal at a two-penny ordinary, every pot of ale or beer in the meantime.
'You show 'em, sah! You whup dem slavah mens!' they dared cry out. 'Ya git anuddah ship, sah, ah'll take yah Joinin' Bounty, sah! De Good Lord bless ya, Cap'm Lewrie!'
Lewrie turned aside to go to them, the crowd parting before him like the Red Sea had for Moses, and shook hands with as many as were in reach; though he felt like snarling to hear the simpering and cooing of the 'Respectable,' and superior, sort among the Abolitionists, who kept the objects of their Cause at arm's length, and patted themselves on the back for their Doing of Good Works… of the Drawing Room variety, and would never even think of going down to St. Giles… or of deeming those 'Blackbirds' real people.
And what had led to this display of acclaim? A ship's crew in the West Indies ravaged by Yellow Jack in 1797; a disagreement between the Beauman family of Jamaica and his old friend Christopher Cashman, who had retired from the Army with his reaped wealth from hard field service in 'John Company's' army in India, and who had, for a time, thought the life of a slave-owning sugar planter on Jamaica would be the sweet life. The bloody slave revolt on the ultra-rich sugar colony on French St. Domingue, which butchered Whites no matter their class or station, and which had drawn a British Army with an eye to seizing the whole thing… thankee that damned scheming fool, Henry Dundas, the Secretary of State for War, who would trade ten thousand British soldiers' lives for an enemy colony in the West Indies, and a cheer in Commons… had led the 'patriotic' Beaumans to raise a regiment, and who better to lead it than former-Major Christopher Cashman, with that simpering twit Ledyard Beauman as Colonel of the Regiment over Leftenant-Colonel Cashman, with the rest of the officers' mess made up from Beauman kin and the younger sons of fellow planters. Most-like with an eye for new lands for themselves, and stout workers, once they were back in chains!
Outside Port-au-Prince, though, in the middle of a battle with the howling, fanatical army of the ex-slave general Toussaint L'Ouverture (no slouch, he, but damn' near a military genius!) Col. Ledyard Beauman, who'd gotten his martial experience from books and tabletop games with lead toy soldiers, had panicked, issued orders for retreat, and had galloped to the rear with his cousins and toadies, leaving Lewrie's friend Christopher Cashman to sort out the mess!
Back on Jamaica after the eventual evacuation of all British forces, the volunteer regiment shamed and dis- banded, the Beaumans had laid all the blame on Cashman, using their newspaper to vilify everyone but them, which had led to a duel of honour; which duel had turned to a farce, for Ledyard had been shivering drunk and fearful, and had turned and fired early, clipping the top of Cashman's shoulder. 'Kit' had winced, but turned, and had taken careful, implacable aim, and Ledyard's cousin, George Sellers, his second, had thrown Ledyard a spare pistol, aiming his own at Cashman, and naturally Lewrie, as Cashman's second, and the judges on the field, to boot, had shot down the cousin, whilst Christopher had carefully plumped his own ball into Ledyard Beauman's belly, the sort of wound that would take several excruciating days to prove mortal.
With such a feud, which now included Lewrie, and death threats from the Beaumans, Cashman had begun selling up his lands, livestock, furnishings, and slaves for a fresh start in the United States, just about the time that Lewrie's precious HMS Proteus frigate had been hit with the Yellow Jack. As a cruel joke on the Beaumans, 'Kit' Cashman had proposed a scheme for a dozen Beauman slaves off one of their plantations on Portland Bight (next to Cashman's) to run away and go aboard Proteus some dark night, which they had done, with HMS Proteus slipping close ashore like a thief in the night, and sailing back out as quietly as smoke went up a chimney.
Christopher Cashman landed in Wilmington, North Carolina, eventually, swearing he'd never own another slave (he'd manumitted almost all his house hold servants, and all the married couples, old'uns, and children), and Lewrie had gone on to cut a swath of destruction and mayhem through the King's enemies in the West Indies… 'til 1799, when the shoe finally dropped, and the Beaumans discovered just who had made away with their 'property'!
Hugh Beauman, the elder of their Jamaican clan, with his icily beautiful new young wife, his Jamaican solicitor, and witnesses in tow, had come to England last spring, toting a preordained, bought-and-paid-for verdict of guilty, and a sentence of death by hanging. For a time, it had appeared that King's Bench would uphold the verdict and Lewrie would be doing a 'Newgate Hornpipe,' but for the intercession of Rev. William Wilberforce and his Abolition Society, who had taken the case as a 'Holy Cause,' gotten him a wily young barrister to defend him, and paid for his legal fees; shouted Abolition to the rafters of the House of Commons daily, and had flooded all London, all the British Isles, with tracts to keep the pot boiling, and the Cause advanced… embarrassing as all that notoriety was to Lewrie.
Now, here he was, about to enter a court of law to hear what Lord Justice Oglethorpe of King's Bench thought of that trial in absentia, and the conflicting evidence that Lewrie's barrister had presented in reply. Free of well- wishers and glad-handers at last, at the doors to the Old Bailey at last, Lewrie turned to the crowd and waved his hat, plastering a broad grin on his phyz that he most definitely did not feel, and went inside. No matter what transpired in the next few hours-and most trials in England barely lasted more than four)-at least he might be warm again.
CHAPTER TWO
The outer halls of the building were just as thronged as those icy steps, though the 'ton' of the crowd inside was considerably higher, and better known to Lewrie. There was his brother-in-law, Major Burgess Chiswick, the beautiful young lady to whom he was but lately affianced, Mistress Theodora Trencher, and her wealthy Abolitionist parents. His fond supporter and patron since ' 96 in the Adriatic, Sir Malcolm Shockley, of the Midlands coal and iron fortune, was there with the earnest young Sir Samuel Whitbread, he of the beer fortune, and one of the new 'Progressives' in Commons with Sir Malcolm. There was his old schooldays chum, Lord Peter Rushton, and by his side stood 'too clever by half' Clotworthy Chute, a trimmer and 'Captain Sharp' who specialised in separating newcome heirs down to London from some of the wealth by playing guide to all things Fashionable. Despite that stern majesty of the Law, the both of them, and the lovely ladies by their side, hooted, huzzahed, and stuck their fingers in their mouths to make shrill whistling noises, cackling away like loons, and waving at him… which only encouraged even the haughtiest to follow suit.
