Dewey Lambdin - A King`s Trade

"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 loved ones, someday, somewhere.

"I'm sorry, but I've never met anyone even close to saintly in the Navy, and very few might earn such an appellation ashore, either, ladies and gentlemen," Lewrie told them in measured tones. "Negroes or Swedes, or British, it doesn't signify. They aren't saintly, nor are they child-like; they fit no playwright's cast of sympathetic characters, for each one's different, an individual. Aboard my frigate, they're… Proteuses. All of a piece, but each one a unique piece of the whole. When this war ends, and they're turned loose on their own devices, who knows what they'll make of themselves, but, for the meantime, they're… my crew."

"And quite right, too!" Miss Theodora piped up, ready to clap her hands, again. "Full equality!"

"Even if enforced," the Rev. Wilberforce commented, musing on all that Lewrie had said. "Well, I think… and I believe I am safe in saying for all of us, Captain Lewrie, that what you have related to us this morning has been enlightening… as to your motives, and what sort of man you are." He arose, leading the others to their feet.

It sounded very much like the interview was over and he had not won enough of them over. Well, there was the girl, but…

"There is the grave matter that what you did officially might be termed theft of chattel property," Wilberforce went on, "and property is the heart of Common Law, but… could it be intimated that you intend to offer the Jamaica Beaumans perhaps a modest recompence to assuage their rancour…"

"The Jamaica Beaumans hold too hot a grudge against Lewrie for even a princely sum to soothe them, sir," Mr. Twigg countered. "That would be for a court to determine, and, as I said when I first placed the matter to you, a court is the absolute last resort for Lewrie's cause, the very first for the Beaumans."

"Because you duelled," Mrs. More sniffed with disgust.

"Because I seconded Colonel Cashman, ma'am, and they cheated," Lewrie corrected her. "It was that, or allow my best friend get shot in the back. I'd not have that stain on my honour."

He could see another vicarious thrill cross their features at the image of Lewrie as a duelling man, a "killing gentleman," even if they did profess to abhor the deadly practice. At least it was done among the "better sorts," not the scurrilous poor and the riff-raff! And, if one intended to be Respectable in this new England these Reformers wished to make, honour went with Respectability.

"Whether you intend to aid Captain Lewrie," Mr. Twigg told them as they began to drift towards the double doors, "or not, his presence in Great Britain will be a hindrance to both his cause… and yours, sirs, madames. I have spoken to people I know at Admiralty, whichever way things fall out, d'ye see. HMS Proteus will soon be departing for foreign waters…"

Thank bloody Christ, and it's about time, too! Lewrie thought.

"… support in the Commons, assisting Sir Malcolm Shockley and his allies," Twigg suggested, "depicting the Beaumans as the epitome of cruelty, greed, and… crude rusticity. Sordid 'Country-Puts' of a brutal and spiteful nature, hmm? Speaking of saints, here's Lewrie and his magnificent list of achievements as a naval hero. Details of which I and my associates may supply you, as we also drop a few hints here and there… in the public press, if absolutely necessary," Mr. Twigg said, with an obvious dislike for newspapers.

Here now, just a tick, you said we'd not become a public spectacle! Lewrie cringed, wishing he could openly disagree to the idea of being… celebrated. And right vehemently, too!

"Else, sirs, else, ladies," Twigg ominously told their assembly, with a stern forefinger raised, " 'tis the Beaumans who will prosper in this affair, and the cause of emancipation in the Empire will suffer a grievous backwards step. Hang property, I say! For this touches more on Morality, and ultimate Justice… not Man's niggling laws. Well, then… we thank you for receiving us so kindly and attentively, and, no matter your final decision, are both most grateful that you allowed us our say."

"D'ye think we did my… 'cause' a damned bit o' good, Twigg?" Lewrie fretfully asked, once they'd been hatted, sworded, caned, and cloaked, ready to re-board their hired carriage, outside. "Damme, we didn't even touch on my involvement with the Saint-Domingue uprisings, respect for Toussaint L'Ouverture's slave rebellion, like we planned to, and…"

"Oh, I think we did, Lewrie," Twigg rather distractedly replied as he clambered into the coach and took seat upon the rear bench, hands crooked over the top of his cane, fingers flexing as his acute mind also churned odds and probabilities, going over what had been presented, as well as what had not been said, for lack of time or the right opening. Lewrie settled in across from him and felt like gnawing on one of his thumbnails as the coach lurched into motion, for Twigg was quite ignoring his presence.

Finally, Twigg's fingers did a last little dance on the handle of his cane, and a sly smile spread across his harsh, ruthless face.

"What?" Lewrie simply had to ask; that smile was just too odd.

"Bless me, Lewrie, but 'til now I never knew just how convincing you can be. Damme, but I am impressed by your seeming sincerity!" Mr. Twigg said with a simper.

"Wasn't a total sham, Mister Twigg!" Lewrie groused. "Mine arse on a band-box, but I do despise slavery. No person with the slightest bit of feeling could do else. The idea of court-martial and cashiering, a criminal trial and hanging, might've made me urgent and… glibber…"

"I don't think that's actually a word, sir," Twigg snickered.

"Damn dictionaries!" Lewrie griped. "With my name and neck on the line, maybe I did do a stellar stage performance to convince those people to aid me, but 'twas not a conversion by indictment, like your common criminal! Slavery makes me queasy, aye, but 'tis not a thing I thought to do anything active about, 'til… it just is, and…"

"What is the saying?" Twigg amusedly said. "That the threat of hanging concentrates the mind most wondrously, hmm? Well, of course most people in England despise slavery, Lewrie, whether they have ever been exposed to its evils, or not. They think, most patriotically, in Arne's song, 'Rule, Britannia'… 'Britons, never, never, neh-ver shall be slaves.' Now, how that squares with suspicion, xenophobia, and the Mobocracy's general hostility towards 'Samboes,' Cuffies, Hindoos, and Lascars if they turn up in this country, well… that's rather hard to say. Englishmen like the idea of emancipation… just so long as they don't have to rub elbows with the results, ha ha! Free as many as you like… just keep them out of England , what?"