Hornblower Fic: The Slave Ship
Written for the Age of Sail Paintings Challenge.
TITLE: The Slave Ship
RATING: General
PROMPT: The Slave Ship by JMW Turner
CHARACTERS: Hornblower, Bush and crew/officers of the Lydia
DISCLAIMERS: Hornblower does not belong to me and I don't derived any profit from this.
SPOILERS:The Happy Return/Beat to Quarters
NOTES: Takes place after the events of The Happy Return/Beat to Quarters as the Lydia is making its way back to England following a stop over at St Helena's where they dropped off Lady Barbara. No beta.
****************
Having gone over the last of the Lydia’s accounts with his first lieutenant, Hornblower was in cheerful mood as he put on his shabby jacket and made his way to the quarterdeck. The Lydia was flying over the waves now, making way beautifully thanks to the new spars and sails they’d acquired on St Helena’s. By his calculations, they would see Scilly in a month, and then onto home and an uncertain future.
There was no question of expecting anything more than a nod of approval from the Admiralty over his actions in the Pacific. He would consider himself fortunate if he wasn't reprimanded over his reckless, blundered handling of El Supremo. He was just grateful that he’d managed to recapture and sink the Natividad and so avoid the embarrassment of having to explain to the Admiralty and the Government why he had handed the ship over to a maniac.
And then there was the matter of Barbara. The very thought of her brought a flush to his cheek. He was still mindful of their cold parting, his refusal bitter in his tongue. There was times during the trip around the Horn when he’d been tempted… but no. There was never going to be anything between them, not while she was a Wellesley and he a lowly post captain, one who could barely pay for the clothes on his back. No, he had Maria and should be, must be, content with her adoration.
Strangely, these thoughts, which would have normally sent Hornblower into one of his foul moods, did nothing to burst that bubble of happiness that grew from his meeting with Bush. Even the whipping wind and gathering clouds that promised a dirty evening could not dislodge him from this ledge of contentment he’d found himself perched on. Hornblower only hoped it didn’t show - it wasn’t fitting for any officer to be walking around the ship with a silly grin plastered upon his face.
The bell echoed down the length of the Lydia. Once. Twice. Four times. With a start, Hornblower remembered his invitation to dine in the wardroom that afternoon. Noting the strain on the sails and with a final glance at the horizon, he passed some instructions to the quartermaster before wandering to his cabin to change.
***
“I have no doubt that Wellington will soon make another foray into Spain, if he hasn’t done so already.”
Hornblower groaned silently into his glass as Gerard brought up the topic of Arthur Wellesley’s retreat from Spain for what seemed like the hundredth time that afternoon. The younger Wellesley brother’s recent success had dominated conversations ever since they’d left St Helena’s with several months of newspapers and dispatches. Hornblower glanced at Bush who was sitting on his left, and was pleased to see that his first lieutenant was also looking slightly bored. Bush, aware of his captain’s gaze, turned his head slightly and they shared a rare smile.
“I am sure of it, Mr Gerald,” said Hornblower smoothly in reply to his lieutenant’s questioning glance. “After all, he’s already demonstrated several times that Bonaparte’s army can be beat.”
“And beat quite decisively too,” laughed Crystal. “Even Nelson would’ve approved.”
The conversation drifted away to Wellington’s battles in India and Captain Simmonds, who had served in India, was called upon to describe the Battle of Assaye. Wellington’s army’s ability to hold its own against the French had astounded everyone - himself included. He had always scorned - no that was too strong a word - he had always viewed army officers with disdain, a sentiment no doubt shared by many of his peers. The fact that rank could be brought and was expected to be brought rather than earned through merit rankled his sensibilities. Hornblower knew that there were gentlemen of ability in the Army despite its tendency towards upper class bias- Edrington for one and Wellington was evidently another. But they were the minority and that probably explained the Army’s previous string of failures on mainland Europe. A point, Hornblower grinned inwardly, often bandied by everyone in the navy from the common sailor to the politicians over at Westminster.
There was a knock on the cabin door and Galbraith scurried in with a look of excitement lighting up his thin face. The drunken chatter died away as he made his way to Hornblower’s side.
“Sir, Mr Gray sent me down to tell you that a strange sail has been spotted off our bow fifteen or twenty miles distant, heading north-west.”
“Any indication of nationality or type?”
“Too distant to tell, sir.”
“Very well. Tell Mr Gray to carry on our present course and send for me when some indication of their purpose can be discerned.”
“Aye, aye sir! But...” a flash of confusion flickered across Galbraith’s face as he absorbed the information. Hornblower raised an eyebrow.
“Yes, Mr Galbraith?”
“Nothing, sir. By your leave, sir?”
Hornblower indicated the door with an incline of his head and turned to the table. Expectant faces stared back at him as he fought back a bark of laughter. There was every possibility that it might be a French privateer or frigate, but seeing that they were on a common trade route, it was more than likely to be a merchant ship or another English man-of-war. He raised his glass and drained its contents.
“How about a game of whist, gentlemen?”
***
Half an hour later, after Hornblower had won the first rubber, Galbraith came running back into the room, flushed and out of breath.
“Sir, Mr Gray says that the ship appears to be a barque, and not flying any flags.”
Beside him, a sigh of disappointment escaped from Bush’s lips. Hornblower grinned smugly. As he thought, only a merchant ship. Nevertheless, it might be carrying letters and the most recent news from England.
“Very well, tell Mr Gray I will be on deck presently.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Hornblower took the next three tricks and won the second rubber. Gerard threw down his cards with an amused grin. “The game’s yours, sir.”
Hornblower ducked his head to avoid seeing the glances he knew his officers would be exchanging.
“Ha-h’m, it does appear to be that way, Mr Gerard.”
He stood and reached for his hat. Chairs scraped as Gerard and Crystal followed suit, leaving Bush to tidy the cards on the table.
“Very well gentlemen, let’s see what news our barque has for us, shall we?”
Without another word he strolled out of cabin and onto the quarterdeck. The wind had veered and picked up several knots so he ordered for the sails to be trimmed. A glance at the horizon showed him the barque not seven miles distant and seemingly unaware of their proximity. He pulled up his telescope and noted its distinctive fore-and-aft rigged aft-most mast and the shape of its hull. From the way it lumbered across the waves, it was probably short-handed. However, it didn’t seem to be wallowing in a way that indicated it carried significant cargo. At their present course, they would probably intersect it in less than two or three hours, well before the sun sets.
Bush joined him on the quarterdeck and Hornblower silently handed him the glass, watching his face as he scanned the horizon. “Do you reckon she’s one of ours, sir?” he asked suspiciously.
“It would appear so,” Hornblower replied shortly.
“It’s just strange, sir, that she would be travelling alone without a convey, especially in these waters.”
Hornblower did not answer. The same question had arisen in his mind the moment Galbraith had informed him of its nature back in the cabin. Despite the Royal Navy’s blockade of the enemy fleets back home, frigates and privateers have been able to slip out and play havoc on Britain’s trade, hence the need for escorted convoys. This ship’s captain was either very, very stupid or very, very confident. The other option, the one that Bush was entertaining, was less likely but still viable nonetheless.
Bush had lowered his glass and was looking at him questioningly.
“We’ll unreef the fore-tops’ls, Mr Bush.”
“Aye, aye sir.”
Bush returned the telescope with a slight smile. Hornblower stood for a moment and watched him give his orders in that familiar, clear, strong voice of his. He shivered and turned to watch the ship through his glasses once more.
Strange.
Hornblower frowned as he saw more sails being bent on the barque. Something was wrong. Surely they must have noticed the Lydia by now?
“Mr Bush - our flag, if you please.”
A few minutes later, the Union Jack was flapping in the strong evening breeze. Hornblower looked at the barque for a reaction. The quarterdeck was almost silent with tension and anticipation as minutes ticked by. Finally, the response came. The barque set all sail possible in this wind and picked up speed, visibly pulling away from the Lydia.
“Looks like it’s trying to avoid us, sir,” remarked Bush as he rejoined him with his own telescope in hand. “Shall I set more sail, sir?”
Hornblower nodded. “Mr Galbraith, the log, if you please.”
The sails were set and a few minutes later Galbraith reported that the Lydia was making a good 12 knots. Not her best but it will be enough to reach the barque before nightfall. Hornblower doubted even the stupidest man would risk setting more sail in this weather - especially if the barque was loaded with cargo.
And what was it loaded with? Hornblower immediately dismissed troop transport as it was too small and a man of war usually accompanied them. And given the latest news suggesting that Bonaparte was amassing his forces for some major campaign in Europe, it was highly unlikely that he would send a major invasion force to England’s colonies.
There was every possibility that the barque was an enemy or neutral merchant ship, but somehow the idea didn’t sit right with Hornblower. The design was British and every instinct in his body told him that she was British. And there was really only one reason that a British ship would run from a man of war flying the Union Jack.
It was the only possibility that made sense, and the implications sent a chill through Hornblower’s blood.
It had only been three years since the Slave Trade Act was passed through parliament and two years since the Royal Navy had started to enforce it. But enforcement was lax. Quite a few of Hornblower’s fellow captains had interests in the slave trade and its associated industries - cotton mainly. On occasions like this a suspect ship would be ‘lost in the dark’ or somehow find a way to outsail a man of war. Hornblower had seen a slave auction when he was in Port Royal a decade back and its memory left a bitter taste in his mouth.
“She’s not a trooper, sir, that’s for sure,” commented Bush, breaking Hornblower’s stream of thought. He glared at his first lieutenant who, as usual, was unperturbed and continued to chatter. “Most likely a merchant, sir, given we’re on a rather busy area of sea.”
Hornblower decided to humour him - given that there was nothing else to be amused about.
“What kind of cargo do you think she’s carrying, Mr Bush?”
Bush looked mildly surprised. “From the way she is riding in the water, I would assume something light, sir. Cotton, maybe?”
If the situation were not so serious, Hornblower would have laughed out loud at the irony. Instead he only replied, “We shall soon find out.”
***
An hour later, the Lydia had gained enough distance for Hornblower to identify the slave ship as the Charlotte and discern the features of his crew through his spyglass. They looked as normal as any one might find on an East Indiaman and even the captain wouldn’t look out of place on a man-of-war. He was a shallow faced man in his late forties with pepper grey hair. Clean-shaven. Neat.
Hornblower noted that he was surprisingly calm, given that he was about to be captured. The Charlotte's water barrels and spare spars had already been thrown overboard. The captain himself had stayed on deck for most of the time and only went below once - probably to check on the ‘cargo’. Hornblower had heard stories about the conditions slaves were made to suffer on their voyage to the Americas and he did not doubt their veracity.
Bush tapped his arm. “Sir, I believe something is happening on the Charlotte.”
Hornblower trained his glasses on the quarterdeck. The captain was arguing with someone - his first mate perhaps? All the seamen had stopped their exertions to watch the scene unfold. There were wild gestures and what looked like an exchange of blows. The first mate stormed away and the captain immediately ordered a handful of men to descend into the lower decks of the ship. After another look at the approaching Lydia, he followed them.
“I wonder what they were arguing about,” murmured Bush beside him.
Hornblower wondered too, but he was not going to let Bush know that. They trained their glasses on the opening and waited for the captain to return on deck.
A few minutes later he returned, followed by a straggling line of black-skinned slaves, who were chained to each other by their hands and feet. Mostly men, though there were a few women and children amongst them - one who did not look a day over 10. Hornblower felt the bile rise in his throat and could hear Bush and Gerard swear softly beside him. The slaves were clothed in rags and many were so thin that Hornblower could see the bones sticking out of their skin. They were led shuffling to the side of the ship and the chain binding them to each other was unlocked. Most of the slaves collapsed onto the deck, too weak to stand without support.
“Poor bastards,” muttered Bush. “I count about sixty-five in total, sir.”
Hornblower nodded. There would have been many more when the Charlotte had weighed anchor at whatever goddamn port she had set sail from, but starvation, disease and despair would’ve killed them off, one by one. And their bodies would’ve been dumped overboard like livestock...
Suddenly, Hornblower realised why the slaves were being brought onto deck and he swore; so vehemently that Bush and Gerard turned to stare at him in alarm.
“Sir?” asked Bush hesitantly.
Hornblower shook his head. His fingers clenched around the telescope in anger as he watched the captain of the Charlotte pace up and down her length. Indecision? For a moment, Hornblower thought the captain had seen sense in the face of inevitability and decided not go ahead with…with it. That moment passed, and Hornblower’s hopes crumbled into ash.
There was barely any resistance - the slaves were too weak to resist after being chained to one place for several weeks with little food and water. Those lying prone on the deck were removed first, their hands still chained together. Hitting the cold water shocked them enough to wake them from their stupor and they lashed out frantically, trying to keep their head above the angry sea. It was to no avail and one by one they sunk below the surface like dead weights, dragged down by the weight of their chains.
The remaining few who were still standing saw their fate and shrank away from the sides. One or two had the strength to run, but with no place to escape to on board a ship in the middle of the ocean they were soon dragged back and forced over the side. Hornblower watched with despair as the few strong slaves held their chained hands above their heads and struggled to stay afloat despite the waves that crushed down on them and tossed them around like ragged dolls.
Beside him Bush was swearing loudly. Hornblower turned his head and saw that his first lieutenant’s face had gone completely red with pent up fury, his eyes wide with disbelief. On his other side, Gerard mouth’s was wide open and his face pale with shock. Nothing that they’d seen during their decades in the Navy had prepared them for the savagery and cruelty on display here. All the blood and slaughter they had been witness to in the past were in defence of their country and their king. But what was before them now was murder, cold heartless murder. Hornblower’s hands shook.
“Mr Bush,” he murmured in an undertone, trying and failing to keep his voice steady. “Take the launch and see if you can pick up any survivors.”
Bush was glaring at the Charlotte with a murderous look in his eye. With an effort he gained control of his emotions and growled his understanding.
“What about the others, sir?”
Hornblower blinked. The others? Oh yes.
“Bring them onboard, Mr Bush...they least the deserve is a proper funeral, the best that we can give them.”
Hornblower watched him leave to choose men for manning the launch before turning to Gerard.
“Bring the ship about to intersect the place where the slaves were thrown overboard, Mr Gerard, and set the stays’ls.”
Gerard nodded and stared at the clouded horizon with narrowed eyes. “We are not going after the bastards, sir?”
Hornblower looked away and closed his eyes for a moment. In his minds eye he could see those dark figures thrashing about widely as the sunk, their ebony hands held above the sea’s surface as if in supplication, praying to a God who had abandoned them. There was no question of going after the Charlotte now- the captain had gambled on his purser’s compassion and moral obligation to try and save the slaves, and had won. And now that Charlotte’s load had lightened somewhat she had picked up a few knots and will soon be lost in the darkness of the night.
No, he will have to let the Charlotte escape for now.
“Do you have any objections to your orders, Mr Gerard?”
“No, of course not sir.”
“Then carry on.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Hornblower stomped away to the other side of his quarterdeck and tried to get his thoughts in order. He heard angry mutterings behind him and knew his men were as angry and upset as himself and probably even more so. He pressed his eyes together and grimaced. In many respects, they were the luckier one. They go about their daily lives with only a passing awareness of the larger world around them. They would hardly know about Wilberforce’s crusade to abolish slavery. They could hardly know about the act passed in parliament banning the slave trade in Britain’s colonies. Hardly know that it was common practice for slave traders to throw dead and dying slaves overboard to claim insurance, to claim compensation, like a piece of property. Or to escape capture…
He shook his head and watched as the launch was lowered with Bush at the helm. Strong, dependable Bush. He would try his hardest to find survivors in that mess before them, would search until the last shard of daylight or until the sea became too violent, to unstable for any rescue operation to continue. But Hornblower was a whist player, and he knew the odds when he saw them. There would be no living soul left for Bush to save.
Hornblower raised his head and stared blindly at the horizon. He blinked and felt a drop of moisture that left a furrow on his cheek. It had begun to rain.
Increasing still the Terrors of these Storms,
His Jaws horrific arm'd with threefold Fate,
Here dwells the direful Shark. Lur'd by the Scent
Of steaming Crowds, of rank Disease, and Death,
Behold! He rushing cuts the briny Flood,
Swift as the Gale can bear the Ship along;
And, from the Partners of the cruel Trade,
Which spoils unhappy Guinea of her Sons,
Demands his share of Prey, demands themselves.
The stormy Fate descends: one Death involves
Tyrants and Slaves; when strait, their mangled Limbs
Crashing at once, he dyes the purple Seas
With Gore, and riots in the vengeful Meal.
- James Thomson, The Seasons “Summer”
TITLE: The Slave Ship
RATING: General
PROMPT: The Slave Ship by JMW Turner
CHARACTERS: Hornblower, Bush and crew/officers of the Lydia
DISCLAIMERS: Hornblower does not belong to me and I don't derived any profit from this.
SPOILERS:The Happy Return/Beat to Quarters
NOTES: Takes place after the events of The Happy Return/Beat to Quarters as the Lydia is making its way back to England following a stop over at St Helena's where they dropped off Lady Barbara. No beta.
****************
Having gone over the last of the Lydia’s accounts with his first lieutenant, Hornblower was in cheerful mood as he put on his shabby jacket and made his way to the quarterdeck. The Lydia was flying over the waves now, making way beautifully thanks to the new spars and sails they’d acquired on St Helena’s. By his calculations, they would see Scilly in a month, and then onto home and an uncertain future.
There was no question of expecting anything more than a nod of approval from the Admiralty over his actions in the Pacific. He would consider himself fortunate if he wasn't reprimanded over his reckless, blundered handling of El Supremo. He was just grateful that he’d managed to recapture and sink the Natividad and so avoid the embarrassment of having to explain to the Admiralty and the Government why he had handed the ship over to a maniac.
And then there was the matter of Barbara. The very thought of her brought a flush to his cheek. He was still mindful of their cold parting, his refusal bitter in his tongue. There was times during the trip around the Horn when he’d been tempted… but no. There was never going to be anything between them, not while she was a Wellesley and he a lowly post captain, one who could barely pay for the clothes on his back. No, he had Maria and should be, must be, content with her adoration.
Strangely, these thoughts, which would have normally sent Hornblower into one of his foul moods, did nothing to burst that bubble of happiness that grew from his meeting with Bush. Even the whipping wind and gathering clouds that promised a dirty evening could not dislodge him from this ledge of contentment he’d found himself perched on. Hornblower only hoped it didn’t show - it wasn’t fitting for any officer to be walking around the ship with a silly grin plastered upon his face.
The bell echoed down the length of the Lydia. Once. Twice. Four times. With a start, Hornblower remembered his invitation to dine in the wardroom that afternoon. Noting the strain on the sails and with a final glance at the horizon, he passed some instructions to the quartermaster before wandering to his cabin to change.
***
“I have no doubt that Wellington will soon make another foray into Spain, if he hasn’t done so already.”
Hornblower groaned silently into his glass as Gerard brought up the topic of Arthur Wellesley’s retreat from Spain for what seemed like the hundredth time that afternoon. The younger Wellesley brother’s recent success had dominated conversations ever since they’d left St Helena’s with several months of newspapers and dispatches. Hornblower glanced at Bush who was sitting on his left, and was pleased to see that his first lieutenant was also looking slightly bored. Bush, aware of his captain’s gaze, turned his head slightly and they shared a rare smile.
“I am sure of it, Mr Gerald,” said Hornblower smoothly in reply to his lieutenant’s questioning glance. “After all, he’s already demonstrated several times that Bonaparte’s army can be beat.”
“And beat quite decisively too,” laughed Crystal. “Even Nelson would’ve approved.”
The conversation drifted away to Wellington’s battles in India and Captain Simmonds, who had served in India, was called upon to describe the Battle of Assaye. Wellington’s army’s ability to hold its own against the French had astounded everyone - himself included. He had always scorned - no that was too strong a word - he had always viewed army officers with disdain, a sentiment no doubt shared by many of his peers. The fact that rank could be brought and was expected to be brought rather than earned through merit rankled his sensibilities. Hornblower knew that there were gentlemen of ability in the Army despite its tendency towards upper class bias- Edrington for one and Wellington was evidently another. But they were the minority and that probably explained the Army’s previous string of failures on mainland Europe. A point, Hornblower grinned inwardly, often bandied by everyone in the navy from the common sailor to the politicians over at Westminster.
There was a knock on the cabin door and Galbraith scurried in with a look of excitement lighting up his thin face. The drunken chatter died away as he made his way to Hornblower’s side.
“Sir, Mr Gray sent me down to tell you that a strange sail has been spotted off our bow fifteen or twenty miles distant, heading north-west.”
“Any indication of nationality or type?”
“Too distant to tell, sir.”
“Very well. Tell Mr Gray to carry on our present course and send for me when some indication of their purpose can be discerned.”
“Aye, aye sir! But...” a flash of confusion flickered across Galbraith’s face as he absorbed the information. Hornblower raised an eyebrow.
“Yes, Mr Galbraith?”
“Nothing, sir. By your leave, sir?”
Hornblower indicated the door with an incline of his head and turned to the table. Expectant faces stared back at him as he fought back a bark of laughter. There was every possibility that it might be a French privateer or frigate, but seeing that they were on a common trade route, it was more than likely to be a merchant ship or another English man-of-war. He raised his glass and drained its contents.
“How about a game of whist, gentlemen?”
***
Half an hour later, after Hornblower had won the first rubber, Galbraith came running back into the room, flushed and out of breath.
“Sir, Mr Gray says that the ship appears to be a barque, and not flying any flags.”
Beside him, a sigh of disappointment escaped from Bush’s lips. Hornblower grinned smugly. As he thought, only a merchant ship. Nevertheless, it might be carrying letters and the most recent news from England.
“Very well, tell Mr Gray I will be on deck presently.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Hornblower took the next three tricks and won the second rubber. Gerard threw down his cards with an amused grin. “The game’s yours, sir.”
Hornblower ducked his head to avoid seeing the glances he knew his officers would be exchanging.
“Ha-h’m, it does appear to be that way, Mr Gerard.”
He stood and reached for his hat. Chairs scraped as Gerard and Crystal followed suit, leaving Bush to tidy the cards on the table.
“Very well gentlemen, let’s see what news our barque has for us, shall we?”
Without another word he strolled out of cabin and onto the quarterdeck. The wind had veered and picked up several knots so he ordered for the sails to be trimmed. A glance at the horizon showed him the barque not seven miles distant and seemingly unaware of their proximity. He pulled up his telescope and noted its distinctive fore-and-aft rigged aft-most mast and the shape of its hull. From the way it lumbered across the waves, it was probably short-handed. However, it didn’t seem to be wallowing in a way that indicated it carried significant cargo. At their present course, they would probably intersect it in less than two or three hours, well before the sun sets.
Bush joined him on the quarterdeck and Hornblower silently handed him the glass, watching his face as he scanned the horizon. “Do you reckon she’s one of ours, sir?” he asked suspiciously.
“It would appear so,” Hornblower replied shortly.
“It’s just strange, sir, that she would be travelling alone without a convey, especially in these waters.”
Hornblower did not answer. The same question had arisen in his mind the moment Galbraith had informed him of its nature back in the cabin. Despite the Royal Navy’s blockade of the enemy fleets back home, frigates and privateers have been able to slip out and play havoc on Britain’s trade, hence the need for escorted convoys. This ship’s captain was either very, very stupid or very, very confident. The other option, the one that Bush was entertaining, was less likely but still viable nonetheless.
Bush had lowered his glass and was looking at him questioningly.
“We’ll unreef the fore-tops’ls, Mr Bush.”
“Aye, aye sir.”
Bush returned the telescope with a slight smile. Hornblower stood for a moment and watched him give his orders in that familiar, clear, strong voice of his. He shivered and turned to watch the ship through his glasses once more.
Strange.
Hornblower frowned as he saw more sails being bent on the barque. Something was wrong. Surely they must have noticed the Lydia by now?
“Mr Bush - our flag, if you please.”
A few minutes later, the Union Jack was flapping in the strong evening breeze. Hornblower looked at the barque for a reaction. The quarterdeck was almost silent with tension and anticipation as minutes ticked by. Finally, the response came. The barque set all sail possible in this wind and picked up speed, visibly pulling away from the Lydia.
“Looks like it’s trying to avoid us, sir,” remarked Bush as he rejoined him with his own telescope in hand. “Shall I set more sail, sir?”
Hornblower nodded. “Mr Galbraith, the log, if you please.”
The sails were set and a few minutes later Galbraith reported that the Lydia was making a good 12 knots. Not her best but it will be enough to reach the barque before nightfall. Hornblower doubted even the stupidest man would risk setting more sail in this weather - especially if the barque was loaded with cargo.
And what was it loaded with? Hornblower immediately dismissed troop transport as it was too small and a man of war usually accompanied them. And given the latest news suggesting that Bonaparte was amassing his forces for some major campaign in Europe, it was highly unlikely that he would send a major invasion force to England’s colonies.
There was every possibility that the barque was an enemy or neutral merchant ship, but somehow the idea didn’t sit right with Hornblower. The design was British and every instinct in his body told him that she was British. And there was really only one reason that a British ship would run from a man of war flying the Union Jack.
It was the only possibility that made sense, and the implications sent a chill through Hornblower’s blood.
It had only been three years since the Slave Trade Act was passed through parliament and two years since the Royal Navy had started to enforce it. But enforcement was lax. Quite a few of Hornblower’s fellow captains had interests in the slave trade and its associated industries - cotton mainly. On occasions like this a suspect ship would be ‘lost in the dark’ or somehow find a way to outsail a man of war. Hornblower had seen a slave auction when he was in Port Royal a decade back and its memory left a bitter taste in his mouth.
“She’s not a trooper, sir, that’s for sure,” commented Bush, breaking Hornblower’s stream of thought. He glared at his first lieutenant who, as usual, was unperturbed and continued to chatter. “Most likely a merchant, sir, given we’re on a rather busy area of sea.”
Hornblower decided to humour him - given that there was nothing else to be amused about.
“What kind of cargo do you think she’s carrying, Mr Bush?”
Bush looked mildly surprised. “From the way she is riding in the water, I would assume something light, sir. Cotton, maybe?”
If the situation were not so serious, Hornblower would have laughed out loud at the irony. Instead he only replied, “We shall soon find out.”
***
An hour later, the Lydia had gained enough distance for Hornblower to identify the slave ship as the Charlotte and discern the features of his crew through his spyglass. They looked as normal as any one might find on an East Indiaman and even the captain wouldn’t look out of place on a man-of-war. He was a shallow faced man in his late forties with pepper grey hair. Clean-shaven. Neat.
Hornblower noted that he was surprisingly calm, given that he was about to be captured. The Charlotte's water barrels and spare spars had already been thrown overboard. The captain himself had stayed on deck for most of the time and only went below once - probably to check on the ‘cargo’. Hornblower had heard stories about the conditions slaves were made to suffer on their voyage to the Americas and he did not doubt their veracity.
Bush tapped his arm. “Sir, I believe something is happening on the Charlotte.”
Hornblower trained his glasses on the quarterdeck. The captain was arguing with someone - his first mate perhaps? All the seamen had stopped their exertions to watch the scene unfold. There were wild gestures and what looked like an exchange of blows. The first mate stormed away and the captain immediately ordered a handful of men to descend into the lower decks of the ship. After another look at the approaching Lydia, he followed them.
“I wonder what they were arguing about,” murmured Bush beside him.
Hornblower wondered too, but he was not going to let Bush know that. They trained their glasses on the opening and waited for the captain to return on deck.
A few minutes later he returned, followed by a straggling line of black-skinned slaves, who were chained to each other by their hands and feet. Mostly men, though there were a few women and children amongst them - one who did not look a day over 10. Hornblower felt the bile rise in his throat and could hear Bush and Gerard swear softly beside him. The slaves were clothed in rags and many were so thin that Hornblower could see the bones sticking out of their skin. They were led shuffling to the side of the ship and the chain binding them to each other was unlocked. Most of the slaves collapsed onto the deck, too weak to stand without support.
“Poor bastards,” muttered Bush. “I count about sixty-five in total, sir.”
Hornblower nodded. There would have been many more when the Charlotte had weighed anchor at whatever goddamn port she had set sail from, but starvation, disease and despair would’ve killed them off, one by one. And their bodies would’ve been dumped overboard like livestock...
Suddenly, Hornblower realised why the slaves were being brought onto deck and he swore; so vehemently that Bush and Gerard turned to stare at him in alarm.
“Sir?” asked Bush hesitantly.
Hornblower shook his head. His fingers clenched around the telescope in anger as he watched the captain of the Charlotte pace up and down her length. Indecision? For a moment, Hornblower thought the captain had seen sense in the face of inevitability and decided not go ahead with…with it. That moment passed, and Hornblower’s hopes crumbled into ash.
There was barely any resistance - the slaves were too weak to resist after being chained to one place for several weeks with little food and water. Those lying prone on the deck were removed first, their hands still chained together. Hitting the cold water shocked them enough to wake them from their stupor and they lashed out frantically, trying to keep their head above the angry sea. It was to no avail and one by one they sunk below the surface like dead weights, dragged down by the weight of their chains.
The remaining few who were still standing saw their fate and shrank away from the sides. One or two had the strength to run, but with no place to escape to on board a ship in the middle of the ocean they were soon dragged back and forced over the side. Hornblower watched with despair as the few strong slaves held their chained hands above their heads and struggled to stay afloat despite the waves that crushed down on them and tossed them around like ragged dolls.
Beside him Bush was swearing loudly. Hornblower turned his head and saw that his first lieutenant’s face had gone completely red with pent up fury, his eyes wide with disbelief. On his other side, Gerard mouth’s was wide open and his face pale with shock. Nothing that they’d seen during their decades in the Navy had prepared them for the savagery and cruelty on display here. All the blood and slaughter they had been witness to in the past were in defence of their country and their king. But what was before them now was murder, cold heartless murder. Hornblower’s hands shook.
“Mr Bush,” he murmured in an undertone, trying and failing to keep his voice steady. “Take the launch and see if you can pick up any survivors.”
Bush was glaring at the Charlotte with a murderous look in his eye. With an effort he gained control of his emotions and growled his understanding.
“What about the others, sir?”
Hornblower blinked. The others? Oh yes.
“Bring them onboard, Mr Bush...they least the deserve is a proper funeral, the best that we can give them.”
Hornblower watched him leave to choose men for manning the launch before turning to Gerard.
“Bring the ship about to intersect the place where the slaves were thrown overboard, Mr Gerard, and set the stays’ls.”
Gerard nodded and stared at the clouded horizon with narrowed eyes. “We are not going after the bastards, sir?”
Hornblower looked away and closed his eyes for a moment. In his minds eye he could see those dark figures thrashing about widely as the sunk, their ebony hands held above the sea’s surface as if in supplication, praying to a God who had abandoned them. There was no question of going after the Charlotte now- the captain had gambled on his purser’s compassion and moral obligation to try and save the slaves, and had won. And now that Charlotte’s load had lightened somewhat she had picked up a few knots and will soon be lost in the darkness of the night.
No, he will have to let the Charlotte escape for now.
“Do you have any objections to your orders, Mr Gerard?”
“No, of course not sir.”
“Then carry on.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Hornblower stomped away to the other side of his quarterdeck and tried to get his thoughts in order. He heard angry mutterings behind him and knew his men were as angry and upset as himself and probably even more so. He pressed his eyes together and grimaced. In many respects, they were the luckier one. They go about their daily lives with only a passing awareness of the larger world around them. They would hardly know about Wilberforce’s crusade to abolish slavery. They could hardly know about the act passed in parliament banning the slave trade in Britain’s colonies. Hardly know that it was common practice for slave traders to throw dead and dying slaves overboard to claim insurance, to claim compensation, like a piece of property. Or to escape capture…
He shook his head and watched as the launch was lowered with Bush at the helm. Strong, dependable Bush. He would try his hardest to find survivors in that mess before them, would search until the last shard of daylight or until the sea became too violent, to unstable for any rescue operation to continue. But Hornblower was a whist player, and he knew the odds when he saw them. There would be no living soul left for Bush to save.
Hornblower raised his head and stared blindly at the horizon. He blinked and felt a drop of moisture that left a furrow on his cheek. It had begun to rain.
Increasing still the Terrors of these Storms,
His Jaws horrific arm'd with threefold Fate,
Here dwells the direful Shark. Lur'd by the Scent
Of steaming Crowds, of rank Disease, and Death,
Behold! He rushing cuts the briny Flood,
Swift as the Gale can bear the Ship along;
And, from the Partners of the cruel Trade,
Which spoils unhappy Guinea of her Sons,
Demands his share of Prey, demands themselves.
The stormy Fate descends: one Death involves
Tyrants and Slaves; when strait, their mangled Limbs
Crashing at once, he dyes the purple Seas
With Gore, and riots in the vengeful Meal.
- James Thomson, The Seasons “Summer”