the bones of nigh an hundred pirated slaves too old or sick to auction off… some still bound in coffles by their chains, after they were murdered. Some not,' he grimly said. 'Evidently, 'Calico Jack' and his cut-throats thought it a waste to let perfectly good chains and manacles be buried.'
'Broke up the pirate cartel,' Twigg stuck in, again, with even more (faint) praise, 'and pursued Finney right into Charleston harbour in South Carolina, recovered what the brute had looted from the most-prominent island bank, and captured the last of his minions for trial, and righteous hangings, at New Providence. Put a very permanent end to 'Calico Jack,' as well, didn't ye, Lewrie?'
What doesn't he know about my doings? Lewrie gawped to himself, half-turning on the settee to see Twigg's eyes all steel-glinted.
'Well, 'twas personal by then, Mister Twigg,' Lewrie admitted. 'After Finney'd tried to seduce or assault my wife while I was at sea.'
'And,' Twigg drawled, looking back at the others with a smile on his phyz that was almost beatific, 'made the man pay for his brute importunity by his own hand.' That made 'em gasp and shiver!
'By personal experience with Captain Lewrie, I may also relate to you that his own Coxswain, any captain's most trusted aide, is also a runaway Jamaican house slave by name of Matthew Andrews,' Mr. Twigg further informed them, once they got over their vicarious thrill. 'He has been with him for years, and most-like had a great influence upon Captain Lewrie's views on the despicable institution of slavery.'
'My word, sir,' that Mr. Clarkson exclaimed, 'I am certain we were unaware of the depth of your feelings upon this head.'
'A house slave, ladies and gentlemen,' Lewrie said for himself, 'better fed, clothed, and sheltered than field hands, one might even say pampered, to some extent, yet… Andrews risked three hundred or more lashes, or the noose, to flee it, and be a whole, free man.'
Hang on a bit, Lewrie suddenly thought; he might as well have, for his brow and face were already furrowed with some sort of intensity. Do I really despise slavery as much's I'm protesting? Well, mine arse on a band-box, but I really think I do!
'Don't rightly know what his name was before,' Lewrie admitted, suddenly of a much cleaner soul, relieved that he was not completely playing a role to save his neck, 'lest his old owners spot him and try to haul him back, I s'pose. Won't even tell me, just in case, but…'
'And your man Andrews, your newly rescued Negroes,' Wilberforce enquired, 'has any attempt been made to see to their souls, Captain?'
'Uhm… the night they came aboard, sir,' Lewrie said, with a feeling that his soul-washing had been very temporary, for he was now back to tip-toeing 'cross a fakir's bed of nails. 'I hope that no one thinks this a presumption, but… 'tis customary for new hands to doff their civilian clothes, go under the wash- deck pump, and get bathed, be rid of fleas and such, before being issued slop-clothing. Well… our Sailing Master, Mister Winwood, a most devout Christian, thought it much like baptism, d'ye see. At his suggestion, each chose a new name for ship's books, as if they had been baptised, or christened.'
They ate that fact up like plum duff, with many a pleased, prim simper or shared smile, and softly whispered 'Amens.'
'Proteus doesn't carry a chaplain, sorry t'say,' Lewrie added. 'Only line-of-battle ships, admirals' flagships, generally do, with the charge to minister to a squadron's, or a fleet's, spiritual needs, and are paid either by Admiralty for their services, or are supported by a devout senior officer, and, as I'm sure you're aware, the pay isn't all that grand… the same rate as an Ordinary Seaman, with so many groats per hand in the crew atop that. Hardly ever see a chaplain on a ship below the Third Rate. Mister Winwood, therefor, is my chiefest aid at Sunday Divisions. We hold a form of Divine Services… Morning rites with a Collect or two, as specified, a suitable Epistle, perhaps even a brief Homily, and, of course, rather a lot of hymns. No Sacraments, of course! Though,' Lewrie just had to add, feeling free enough for a bit of waggishness, 'right after the final hymn, we do issue the rum-ration at Seven Bells of the Forenoon. But, totally secular and Navy, you understand.'
'But, are your Negroes cabin-servants, waiters, and such, or do you employ them as sailors, Captain Lewrie?' Mr. Trencher asked him.
'Sailors, Mister Trencher,' Lewrie firmly stated. 'Most, rated Landsman, like volunteers or pressed men un- used to the sailors' trade. In gun crews, waisters at pulley-hauley, aye, the older ones. One is a dev… an outstanding cook, I must admit, but that was his plantation trade. Our five youngest, though, do go aloft, are rated Ordinary Seamen… spry topmen, sure t'be rated Able Seamen in a few years… oh, and one young fellow's a crack shot with a musket or Pennsylvania rifle. And, they're all drilled in musketry, cutlasses, pikes-'
'They have fought, under arms?' Mrs. Hannah More intruded, with a slit-lipped squeamish look at the image of armed Negroes, not merely freed Negroes. Was that too much equality for her, too soon?
'But, of course, ma'am!' Lewrie replied, surprised by her fret. 'They must, if they're to serve in the Royal Navy. They have, indeed, and hellish-well, too!' he boasted, though wishing he could un-say the 'hellish' part. 'Like any English tar must, to serve his King, and to uphold the honour and liberty of his ship… to aid their shipmates in time of peril, whether storm or battle, ma'am. 'Shipmates…' Lewrie prosed on, only thinking himself half of a fraud, 'paid the same, garbed the same, fed and doctored the same as each other, swing elbow-to-elbow in their hammocks belowdecks… you may see such for yourself aboard any ship in the Navy, for Free Black volunteers are everywhere. In the Pool of London this very morning in any merchantman you'd care to board…'
'Oh, we've seen them!' Mistress Theodora exclaimed, one hand on her mother's arm. 'Those poor souls dismissed their ships between one voyage and the next… those horrid captains who turn them ashore to save money 'til they're needed, again. They live as hand-to-mouth as the poorest unemployed Irish. What did that brute call them, Father, that disparaging…?'
'Ah, erm… 'Saint Giles Blackbirds,' dear,' Mr. Trencher managed to say, waving a hand to excuse getting even close to commonness, or Billingsgate slang. 'Where they gather, mostly… Saint Giles.'
'Indeed, they evince such heart-warming gratitude whenever some of us circulate among them with clothing,' Mrs. More piously said, in a righteous taking, 'or provide a hot-soup kitchen for sustenance once their few pence are lost to vice, to drink, to… the sort of debased women who… well,' she said with a grim roll of her eyes. 'They're, dare I say, avid to receive our improving tracts and penny Testaments. It is quite encouraging to witness the thirst they have for the Good News of the Gospels. Why, I could even conjure that in every glad eye, one may actually see the spark of uplifting enlightenment blossom! In point of fact, when we lead them at hymns, their simple, joyous expressions put the lie to the contention that Negroes are forever bound into darkness and savagery. I fancy them budding saints in their patience, their eagerness to please, and improve themselves… with God's help, of course… and ours,' Mrs. More primly, and firmly, concluded.
'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
