Troubled Waters

'Peel provided me with the entire list, sir,' MacDougall preened a bit more, tapping his noggin sagaciously, 'and, their backgrounds and connexions to the Beaumans. While I did not bring it with me, and cannot cite you chapter and verse from memory, I can relate a few of the most suspicious.

'Your jury consisted of a dozen local gentlemen… though what constitutes a gentleman on Jamaica is rather a broader definition than that which obtains in the British Isles,' MacDougall half-whispered as he leaned a bit closer. 'One, for instance, was a captain of a slaving ship… a ship 'husbanded' by several rich planters, the Beaumans and their close kin, principally. One gentleman was editor and part owner of a Kingston newspaper… the other owner being-'

'Hugh Beauman, aye,' Lewrie grimly interrupted, for he and his friend Christopher Cashman had both suffered that paper's attentions, both before and after the duel. 'A damned lyin' rag!'

'The jury even included tradesmen… an importer and chandler who sells 'shoddy' and cast-offs with which to feed and clothe slaves,' MacDougall grimly intoned, 'and, an overseer, a slave driver from one of the Sellers family's plantations, hey?'

'The Sellers!' Lewrie spat. 'More Beauman kin, and a Captain Sellers was the one I and the judges at that duel had to shoot down!'

'More reason for the overseer, and another from that family to be disqualified,' MacDougall said in an outraged huff. 'The rest of the panel consisted of slave-owning planters, all of whom Mister Peel pointed out to me in his affidavit most suspiciously selected from the immediate neighbourhood of the Beaumans' main plantings, and supplied us with their bonds of long affinity, direct or indirect kinship, and ties to business interests or indebtedness, most carefully delineated.'

'A sham from start to finish, sir,' Sadler stuck in.

'I would not have thought such a travesty of justice possible in our more enlightened times,' Mr. MacDougall gravelled with a derisive snort, 'without the active collusion of the court itself! But, quite happily for your cause, Captain Lewrie, your friend Peel's attestations were all done on paper bearing the letterhead of Lord Balcarres, the island's Governor-General, lending the imprimatur, the 'Guinea Stamp,' of official interest, and disapproval, by the local representative of H.M. Government… and his own affidavit was witnessed by the secretary to Lord Balcarres, to boot, ha ha!'

'Nothing from Lord Balcarres, though,' Mr. Sadler was quick to add, taking the edge off Lewrie's joy, 'but, the Reverend Wilberforce and his patrons in the House of Lords have written him, requesting he delve into the matter, and, hopefully, return a denouncement of…'

The doors to their private dining room opened, and in came the rolls, three bowls of 'cock-a-leekie' soup (the chop-house must have had MacDougall's Scottish tastes graven in stone, by then), and a round ball of butter the size of a man's fist. And it was a close-run thing as to who scored the first roll, Sadler or MacDougall, with another contest to see who could usurp the fresh-sweating butter!

The soup deserved a glass of Rhenish, each, no need for a full bottle, really; a second glass to accompany the salad of fresh greens drizzled with oil and vinegar, and, hang it… fetch a whole bottle of Rhenish to accompany the pair of squabs that each of them ended up ordering. And, when the plates of oysters arrived-a dozen for each-why, they were so succulent that to forego a bottle of Portuguese sparkling wine to sluice them down, and cut the edge of the horseradish sauce, would be a mortal sin!

And, of course, the roast veal, the seasoned fried potato quarters and asparagus, demanded that rare Chateau Lafite, laid down long before the war supposedly (and not smuggled from the south of revolutionary France last month!), so delightful on the palate that two more bottles were necessary!

Dessert was apple dowdy and ginger snaps, and MacDougall swore that the very best thing with hot, sweet apple dowdy would be a light, sweet Canary-a single glass, no more, thankee Jesus.

'Coffee for three?' MacDougall asked, once all that repast had finally disappeared. 'Clear heads for the afternoon's doings, what?' he jovially suggested, swiping hair from his shiny forehead, dabbing a fine sheen from his cheeks, and a last flick of apple dowdy from his lips. 'It is my custom to save the nuts, fruit, and port for supper.'

'Worse things happen at sea,' Lewrie commented, feeling a bit glassy-eyed by that point, and his belly constricted like a vise by the waistband of his breeches.

The doors closed as a waiter went for cups, new spoons, and a coffee service. Once gone, MacDougall leaned over, all chummy-like and more than a bit pie-eyed himself, to simper at Lewrie for a moment, and snicker whilst he stared holes in Lewrie's direction.

'Aye, sir?' Lewrie at last had to ask, believing that if the man kept eying him so intently, he'd fall out of his chair.

'Saved the very best for last, Captain Lewrie,' MacDougall said, touching a finger to his lips as if to shush everyone. 'Your former Leftenant-Colonel Christopher Cashman… the fellow who, as you say, instigated the plan for your dozen slaves to flee their masters, and volunteer 'board your frigate… your Mister Peel has found himl'

' 'Kit'?' Lewrie whooped (rather loud for conspiratoral whispers but, given the circumstances, and the load he'd 'taken aboard,' could be forgiven this once) in utter astonishment. 'Found him, d'ye say! I've been tryin' the most of two years. Where'd he light, sir?'

'The reason none of your letters ever caught up with him was due to his peripatetic rambles, Captain Lewrie.' MacDougall chuckled. 'From what Mister Peel wrote, Colonel Cashman first tried Charleston, South Carolina, wandered down to Savannah, Georgia, looked over commercial prospects as far north as the Chesapeake Bay, before settling in Wilmington, North Carolina. Requests to various British consuls finally found a mention of a business firm in Wilmington by the name of Seabright amp; Cashman. A further request determined that the fellow partnered in that firm was, indeed, one Christopher Cashman, English as roast beef, and formerly of Jamaica, ha ha!'

'The old rascal!' Lewrie chortled with glee, wondering if his old friend had gotten at least one of his letters, begging 'Kit' to hunt down Guillaume Choundas, then in American custody after capture by a monstrous Yankee frigate in the West Indies, and murder him, by fair means or foul, to save Britain future troubles should the man get free of his parole and return to French service… that, and to save his bastard half- Lewrie, half-Cherokee son, Desmond McGilliveray, from murder, should Choundas ever discover that the promising lad was his!

Must write the boy, Lewrie blearily reminded himself; see what he's up to. First thing tomorrow. A promise he'd made and re-made, monthly, since departing the Caribbean.

'Saw-mills, pitch, tar, and turpentine…,' MacDougall related, pausing to belch, then quickly excuse himself, 'import and export, and rice-mills, iron forging… land speculation, that sort of thing.'

'I must write him at once,' Lewrie vowed, cringing to admit that young Desmond would be taking 'long straws' for a bit longer, but at the moment, saving his own neck by getting corroboration from 'Kit' was more important. 'Do you have the address? But, of course, just send it care of Seabright amp; Cash-man. Wilmington can't have grown so big as when I was there during the Revolution!'

'Peel's written him,' MacDougall countered, leaning back into his chair with an ominous creaking noise of tortured joinings. 'Just two months ago, as he said in his last letter to me, and 'twill take two months more, or better, to get a first reply, then another period of time for either Peel or Cashman to contact me. Do I have a certified declaration from your old friend to present in court, I may prove beyond all question that you are most definitely not guilty of theft.

'Though…,' he added after a deep breath, and taking a second to run his tongue round the inside of his mouth, most-like looking for a last crumb or morsel, 'you could still face the risk of new charges of unlawful Conversion, but not theft or robbery.'

'Conversion…?' Lewrie frowned, never having heard the term.

'Of being the person who received the stolen goods, then used them for his own purposes,' Mr. Sadler softly supplied from the other side of the table.

'Might as well say that King George 'converted' 'em, then,' Lewrie sneered, 'for he's the one who's gotten service from 'em!'