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It seemed to me he was playing the bulldog British skipper a thought too hard for safety, but the public were with him, crying, "hear, hear" until the adjudicator had to call them to order. Clitheroe shrugged and smiled.

"By all means, captain, since you desire it. I pass from the matter of ownership, which is secondary, to the heart of the matter. Since you are fond of tags, let's see if you remain quite so rectus in curia*[* Upright in the court.] when I ask —"

The adjudicator hammered his desk again. "I'll be obliged if you'll both speak English," cries he. "Most of us are familiar with the classics, but not on that account will I permit this adjudication to be conducted in Latin. Proceed."

Clitheroe bowed. "Captain Spring, you say you brought palm oil from Dahomey to Roatan — an unusual cargo. Why then was your ship rigged with slave shelves?"

"Slave shelves, as you call them, are a convenient way of stowing palm oil panniers," says Spring. "Ask any merchant skipper."

"And they're also convenient for stowing slaves?"

"Are they?" says Spring. "May I point out that the shelves were not rigged when my ship was seized — when you say I was running slaves."

"I shall come to those same slaves, if you please," says Clitheroe. "There were, according to the affidavit we have heard, negroes aboard your ship — about a dozen women. They were found on deck, with slave shackles beside them. Evidence will be given that they had been chained, and that you had been preparing to cast them overboard, to destroy the evidence of your crime." He paused, and there wasn't a sound in court. "You are on oath, Captain Spring. Who were those women?"

Spring stuck out his jaw, considering. Then he answered, and the words hit the court like a thunderclap.

"Those women," says he deliberately, "were slaves."

Clitheroe gaped at him. There was a gasp from the public benches and then a great tumult, hushed at last by the adjudicator, who now turned to Spring.

"You admit you were carrying slaves?"

"I've never denied it." Spring was quite composed.

"Well —" The adjudicator looked about him. "Permit me, sir, but I have been in error. I thought that was what your counsel had been vigorously denying on your behalf."

Anderson got to his feet. "Not precisely, sir. May I suggest that my client be allowed to stand down for the moment, while the court digests his statement and reflects upon it? In the meantime, perhaps my friend will continue with his case."

"Frankly, sir," says Clitheroe, "it seems my case is made, I move for an order of confiscation and condemnation against the Balliol College, proved to be a slave-trader on her own master's word."

"Not quite proved," says Anderson. "If I may invite my friend to provide the corroboration which he doubtless has at command?"

Clitheroe looked at the adjudicator, and the adjudicator shrugged, and Clitheroe shuffled his papers and muttered to Dunne. For the life of me I couldn't fathom it; Spring appeared to have thrown away, with those words, his case, his ship, his liberty — perhaps even his neck. It made no sense — not to the public or the adjudicator or to me. The one thing I prayed for now was that my evidence wouldn't be needed.

Clitheroe didn't like it; you could see, by the way he shot looks across at Anderson, that he smelled a rat. But Anderson sat smug and smiling, and presently Clitheroe shrugged ill-humouredly and picked up his papers.

"If the adjudicator wishes, I shall continue," says he. "But I confess I don't see the point of it."

The adjudicator peered at Anderson, thoughtfully. "Perhaps it would be as well, Mr Clitheroe."

"Very well." Clitheroe looked at his papers. "I shall call and examine the former slaves Drusilla and Messalina."

At this the yellow girls popped up, with little squeaks of surprise-and I realised that these tarts must be two of the women we had been shipping to Havana. Well, here were the two final nails for Spring's coffin, but he never batted an eyelid as they were brought forward, fluttering nervously, to the table, and sworn in by the clerk. The fellows on the public benches were showing great interest now, nudging and muttering as the little beauties took their stand, like two butterflies, one pink and one yellow, and Clitheroe turned to the adjudicator.

"With permission I shall examine them together, and so save the court's valuable time," says he. "As I understand it, both you young ladies speak English?"

The young ladies giggled, and the pink one says: "Yassuh, we both speak English, Drusilla'n' me."

"Very good. Now, if you will answer for both, Messalina. I believe you were in a place called Roatan — the Bay Islands, you might call it, a few months ago. What were you doing there?"

Messalina simpered. "We wuz in a who'-house, suh."

"A what?"

"A who'-house — -a knockin'-shop, suh." She put her gloved hand up to her mouth, and tittered, and the public slapped their thighs and guffawed. The adjudicator snapped for silence, and Clitheroe, looking uncomfortable, went on:

"You were both — employed in a … whore-house. I see. Now then, you were taken on a ship, were you not?" They both nodded, suppressing their giggles. "Do you see here any of the men who were on that ship?"

They looked round, nervously, at the adjudicator, and then further afield. A voice near the back of the public benches called out: "Not me, honey. I was at home," and a great hoot of mirth broke out and had to be quieted, the adjudicator threatening to clear the room if there was unseemly behaviour. Then Messalina timidly pointed to Spring, and then they both looked round at me, and giggled, and whispered, and Messalina finally said:

"That one, too — with the nice whiskers. He was awful kind to us."

"I'll bet he was," says the voice again, and the adjudicator got so angry he swore, and said that was the last warning. Clitheroe gave me a look, and said:

"I see — these two men. Captain Spring and Mr Comber. They and others took you on a ship — where to, do you know?"

"Oh, to Havana, ev'yone said. An' then we was goin' on to here, by 'nother ship, to Awlins, right here."

"I see. Did you know where you were going to, in New Orleans?"

They giggled and conferred. "Miz Rivers' who'-house, so ev'yone reckon."

"I see, first to Havana, and then to Mrs Rivers' … er, establishment, in New Orleans." Clitheroe paused. "There is, I am told, such an establishment."

There was some haw-hawing from the public, and a cry of "He ain't foolin'", but the adjudicator let it go.

"Now, girls," says Clitheroe, "when you were in Roatan, what were you?"

"Please, suh, we wuz whores," giggled Drusilla.

"Yes, yes, but what else? Were you free?"

"Oh, no, suh, we wuz slaves. Warn't we, Drusie? Yassuh, we'z slaves a'right."

"Thank you. And as slaves you were sent aboard the ship, to be taken to Havana, and thence sold to Mrs Rivers'… ah … whorehouse in New Orleans. But by the favour and mercy of God, the ship was captured by the United States Navy and —" Clitheroe leaned forward impressively "— you were brought to New Orleans and there set free. Is this not so?"

"Oh, yassuh. We's set free, sho' nuff." Messalina smiled winningly at hun.

"Fine. Splendid. You were liberated from that unspeakable servitude, and you are now free women." Clitheroe was enjoying himself. "Since when I don't doubt you have been happy in your new-found land of adoption and blessed free estate. You are both safe in New Orleans?"