Bruce Alexander - Death of a Colonial

“Oh, by no means,” said he as he fetched up his spectacles from his waistcoat pocket and fitted them over his ears. “Let me see where it is directed. . ah, the colony of Virginia, is it?”

“Yes, sir — as you see, Mr. Humber.”

“That’s another matter entirely.”

“Oh? How is that, sir?”

“Most of the ships headed for a port in Virginia are engaged in the triangle trade.”

At that I frowned. “I can’t say that I’m familiar with the term.”

“Well, it simply means that before ever they set sail for Virginia, they will first call at one of the trading ports in West Africa and take on a black cargo.”

“A black cargo? Do you mean slaves?”

“Well, of course that’s what they wilt be once they reach Virginia.” Mr. Humber peered at me for a moment; the lenses of his spectacles did magnify his eyes somewhat, giving to him a rather owlish appearance. “Now, your face is easily read, Jeremy, and I want you to know that I myself approve of such commerce as little as you obviously do. Nevertheless, the trade is quite lucrative, and one should not allow his personal feelings to influence him in such matters.” To punctuate that, he gave a nod of his head so emphatic that his spectacles jumped on the bridge of his nose.

“I understand, sir,” said I, which was not at all the same thing as to say that I agreed.

“Very well, then, you would be far better off if you sent your letter on a ship bound for one of the northern ports and made arrangements to have it posted from, say, Boston or New York to Virginia. “

“Do they move letters from colony to colony?” I asked. It was a matter I had never before considered.

“Oh, indeed. Things move quite well up and down the ocean coast, though not so well into the interior. From what I hear, they’re quite well organized. They like to pretend they could do quite well without our help.” He himself chuckled at that. “George?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Humber, sir?” His eyes left the big slate at last but with obvious reluctance.

“What is the next ship departing for one of the northern colonial ports — Boston? Philadelphia? New York?”

“That would be the Ocean Rover , sailing next week from St. Saviour’s Dock in Bermondsey for New York. “ He spoke from memory.

“What is the cargo this trip?”

“Bricks, books, and livestock.”

“And the captain is as before. .?”

“Uriah Harrison.”

“Ah, a good man, Jeremy — experienced, of sound judgment, altogether capable. I should be happy to provide a note to Captain Harrison requesting special handling for Sir John’s letter. So you see? If you content yourself with the delay of a week until the Ocean Rover sails, you will ultimately save at least a month. Would that not be preferable?”

“Oh, much,” said I. “By all means, write the note, sir, and I shall take it with the letter across to Bermondsey.”

That indeed is what I did, crossing over the Thames by London Bridge, following the guidance given me by Mr. Humber, continuing along Tooley Street off the bridge, which led into others and brought me at last to the timber yard that stood hard by the dock. I was as unfamiliar as most Londoners who lived north of the river with this rather disreputable district. There may well have been greater crime and villainy in and about Covent Garden, yet the Borough of Bermondsey had a worse name. This was due, for the most part, to the presence of a number of docks and a great many wharves along the south bank of the Thames. There ships put in, paid off their crews, and sent them out, whoring and drinking late into the night. Seamen ashore are, for some reason, believed to be the greatest sinners of all.

Having arrived at my destination, I made inquiries after the Ocean Rover and found it riding at anchor nearby. It was, by any measure, a good-sized merchant vessel, one built close to the dimensions and to my untrained eyes, approximating the shape of a Royal Navy frigate. Only one figure was visible on deck, and he a junior officer who idled above on the poop. I thought it best to hail him. “HALLOOO, the Ocean Rover! ”

The figure moved across the poop deck for a better look at me. He cupped his hands round his mouth and let forth a mighty bellow: “ What is it you want? ”

“ Captain Harrisson! ” I yelled back. “ Where is he? ”

He did a most curious thing: He pointed — though not to the left, nor to the right, but apparently directly at me. What did he mean? That I was Captain Harrison? Of course not.

“ Where is he? ” I repeated.

Then came a voice behind me — commanding and sharp, though not unkind. “He stands behind you, lad,” said the voice. “If you but turn about, you will see him plain.”

I did as directed and found a man of no more than forty years of age who wore a somewhat contradictory expression upon his face. He seemed to frown with his brow, yet had a smile on his lips.

“Oh,” said I, “forgive me, sir. Are you Captain Harrison? “

“I am your man. Now, what is it you wish? “

“I have a note for you from Mr. Alfred Humber, sir.” I delved into my coat pocket and brought up the note, which I handed over to him, and the letter, which I held back.

His eyes glided swiftly over the lines written in Lloyd’s Coffee House and then returned to me. “Let me see the letter,” said he.

“Certainly sir.”

And then, accepting it, he checked the address and the addressee and turned it over to the back side on which I had written Sir Johns name and, below it, Bow Street Court, City of Westminster. “Mr. Humber has insured ship and cargoes for us for years,” said he. “I would take this letter and give it my personal attention as a gesture toward him in any case. But as it happens, I had several years ago a brief acquaintance with Sir John Fielding, and he impressed me greatly, so you may assure the Magistrate of the Bow Street Court that I shall do all I can — short of delivering his letter myself-to see that it reaches the proper party in Williamsburg. You have my word on that.”

“Thank you, sir,” said I to him. “I shall tell him that.”

With a nod, he tucked the letter away, turned, and started toward the warehouse, whence indeed he may have come. Yet, as I watched him go, a maggot nagged away at my brain. I wondered if he would consent to answer a few questions. In hope that he might, I ran after him, covering in a trice the few steps that separated us.

“Sir. . uh. . Captain Harrison, I wonder if I might trouble you a bit about that occasion?”

“Occasion? What occasion?”

“When you became acquainted with Sir John.”

“Ah, well, that. It was in the course of one of his investigations. I was not, thank God, the subject of the inquiry. I was merely a witness from whom he wished to extract some information.”

“When was this, if I may ask?”

“Well, I said it was several years ago. Perhaps I can be more exact.” Rubbing his chin, he looked off into the distance in rather a dreamy manner. Then, of a sudden, he turned upon me. “Is this truly relevant, young man?”

“I believe so, sir. And if Sir John were here, I’m convinced that he would agree.”

“Hmmm, well, in that case, it was 1763.”

Perhaps the best way to persuade him to be forthcoming was to surprise him, I thought. But how to do that? A thought came to me then: “May I ask, Captain, do you know the name Elijah Elison?” Captain Harrison looked at me oddly, as if perhaps engaged in a reassessment. That took a moment or two, yet I prompted him not, nor did I add to the bait I had put before him. “Elijah Elison was the name of him Sir John pursued in his inquiry,” said he at last.