He took off his glasses and polished them, regarding me benignly.
"Rash, sir, very rash — if you'll forgive me for saying so. However, it's done. Now Captain Spring was incensed at what he considered — justifiably, I think — to be a disloyalty on your part. Yes, indeed, and it was his first instinct to denounce you the moment you took the stand. However, sir, it occurred to me — it's what I'm paid for — that there might even be advantage to my client in having Lieutenant —" he paused — "Beauchamp Millward Comber as a witness for the plaintiff. If his evidence was — oh, shall we say, inconclusive, it might do the defendant more good than harm. Do you take me, sir?"
I took him all right, but without giving me a chance to reply he went on.
"It amounts to this, sir. If my client is cleared, as I feel bound to tell you I believe he will be — for we have more shots in our locker than friend Clitheroe dreams of — then we have no interest in directing attention to the antecedents of Lieutenant Comber. If Captain Spring is not cleared —" he shook his head solemnly "— then when the crew of the Balliol College are arrainged for slave-trading and so forth, their number will be greater by one than it is at present."
He stood up quickly. "Now, sir, Mr Dunne will be impatient to speak to you again. When we meet again, at the hearing, it will be as strangers. Until then, I have the honour to bid you a very good day."
"Wait … wait, for God's sake!" I was on my feet, my mind in a turmoil. "Sir … what am I to do?"
"Do, sir?" says he, pausing at the door. "Why, it is not for me to tell a witness how he shall give evidence. I leave that to your own judgment, Mr … er … Comber." He beamed at me again. "Your servant, sir."
And then he was away, and two shakes later Dunne was back, aloof and business-like, describing to me the form and procedure of an adjudication court, all of which went straight by me. Well, I've been in some fearful dilemmas, but this beat everything. The Navy expected my evidence to follow the lines of the statements I'd made in Washington, months back. If it did, Spring would cut me down in open court and I'd be for the dock myself. If it didn't — if I lied myself hoarse-Spring would keep his mouth shut, but the Navy … my God, what would they do to me? What could they do? They couldn't arrest me, surely … no, but they could investigate and question, and God alone knew what might come of that. The tangle was so terrible that I couldn't think straight at all — there was nothing for it but to be carried along on the tide, and do what seemed safest at the time. I wondered if I should confess to Bailey, telling him who I really was and admitting my imposture, but I daren't; I'd have been putting a rope round my own neck for certain.
There aren't many blank periods in my memory, but the rest of that terrible day is one; I cannot remember the night that followed, but I recall that on the next morning, the day of the adjudication, a strange recklessness had come over me. I was beyond caring, I suppose, but I remember I stood muttering to myself before a mirror as I brushed my hair: "Come on, Flashy, my boy, they haven't got you yet. Remember Gui Shah's dungeon; remember Rudi's point at your throat in the Jotunberg cellar; remember the Ghazis coming at you on the road above Jugdulluk; remember the slave cart in Mississippi; remember de Gautet drawing a bead on you. Well, you're still here, ain't you? Your backside is better enough for you to run again, if need be — bristle up the courage of the cornered rat, put on a bold front, and to hell with them. Bluff, my boy — bluff, shift and lie for the sake of your neck and the honour of Old England."
And with these thoughts in my head and a freezing void in my bowels I was escorted to the adjudication court.
14
It was held in a great white room with brown panelling, like a lecture theatre, with tiers of crescentshaped benches to one end for the spectators, a little rostrum and desk for the adjudicator and his two assessors at the other, and in between, right beneath the rostrum, were three great tables. At one sat Clitheroe and Dunne, and on a bench behind were just myself and — to my astonishment — two of the prettiest yellow girls you ever saw, all in New Orleans finery, with an old female in charge of them. They were giggling to each other under the broad brims of their bonnets, and when I sat down they looked slantendicular and giggled more than ever, whispering in each other's ears until the old biddy told them to leave off. My escort left me and went to sit on the first of the public benches, beside Captain Bailey, who was in full fig; he nodded to me and smiled confidently, and I gave him back a terrified grin.
At the centre table were a few clerks, but the far table was empty until just before the proceedings began. By that time the public benches were crowded with folk — nearly all men, and consequential people at that, talking and taking snuff and calling out to each other; I felt plenty of eyes on me, although most were directed at the two yellow girls, who preened and simpered and played with their gloves and parasols. Who the blazes they might be, I couldn't imagine, or what they were doing here.
And then a door behind the far table opened, in rolls Anderson, and to a rising buzz of chatter and comment, John Charity Spring entered and took his seat, with Anderson pulling at his elbow. The last time I had seen him he had been rolling on his own deck with Looney's bullet in his back; he looked a trifle paler now, but the beard and tight-buttoned jacket were as trim as ever, and when the pale eyes looked across directly into my own, I saw his lips twitch and the scar on his forehead began to darken. He stared at me fixedly for a full minute, with his hands clenched on the table before him, and then Anderson whispered in his ear, and he sat back, looking slowly about the court. He didn't look like a prisoner, I'll say that for him; if anyone looked guilty you may have three guesses who it was.
Then the adjudicator came in and we all stood up; he was a little, sharp-faced man, who smiled briefly to Clitheroe and Anderson, shot quick, accusing glances at everyone else, and told the nigger boy behind his chair to mind what he was about, and fetch some lime juice directly. Everyone fell silent, the two assessors sat either side of the adjudicator, and the clerk called out the case for hearing of the barque Balliol College, reputedly owned and registered in Mexico, master John Charity Spring, a British citizen; the said barque taken by U.S. brig Cormorant, in latitude 85 west 22.30 north or thereabouts, on such and such a day, and then carrying aboard her certain slaves and slaving equipment, in contravention of United States law —
Anderson was on his feet at once. "May the adjudicator take note that the Balliol College was not and is not an American vessel, and that her master is not an American citizen."
"Nevertheless," says Clitheroe, rising, "may the adjudicator note that the ownership is disputed, and recall the case of the ship Butterfly, condemned in similar circumstances.42 Further, it will appear that the Balliol College was carrying slaves intended for trans-shipment to the United States, which is a clear violation of American law, and that when challenged by a United States ship of war, such challenge being proper and lawful, the Balliol College fired upon her challenger, which is piracy under American law."
"If these things are proved, sir," says Anderson, beaming.
"As they will be manifestly proved," says Clitheroe.
"Proceed," says the, adjudicator.
The clerk read on that the Balliol College had resisted arrest, that an attempt had been made to dispose of the slaves aboard her by drowning them, and that the plaintiff, Abraham Fairbrother, U.S. Navy — it was news to me that the case was undertaken in his name — sought the confiscation and condemnation of the Balliol College as a slave-trading vessel.