Hunting the Skipper: The Cruise of the «Seafowl» Sloop

It was a busy time for the Seafowls, as they called themselves, but they had the prisoners to deal with, for those left alive of the crews of the two schooners had managed to reach the familiar shelter of the dense shores, from which they did not wait to be hunted out, but utilised some of the light boats of whose existence they were well aware, and sickened by the terrible lesson they had received, made sail for one of the neighbouring bays.

It was, as has been said, a busy time for the Seafowls, for there were the two captured schooners to get afloat and the fired rigging to restore before they were fit to take to a destined port as prizes. There were vile barracks to burn, and plenty of other arrangements to make as to the destination of certain newly-arrived prisoners who had to be saved from their terrible fate.

Briefly, although the sailors called it a good holiday, it was a period of the hardest work, but what with prize money and tasks that paid mentally every lad and man who thought, it was a time of pleasure; and it was not till towards the end of the Seafowl’s stay that Caesar came on board the sloop of war one evening with his face flushing with excitement and showing all his teeth.

“Caesar find um at last, massa,” he cried.

“Find? Find? Not Mr Allen?” said Murray.

“Yes, massa. Find good ole Massa Allen.”

“Then he is not dead?”

“Yes, massa. No massa. Huggins no kill um. Shut um up. Tell um, massa, dat um poor crack looney.”

“What! Lunatick!”

“Yes, massa, looney, mad. Shut um up.”

“Where? And have you seen him?”

“Yes, massa. Tullus find um in niggah hut shut up, and take me dah.”

“Then that Huggins has not killed him?”

“No, massa; shut um up. Say um mad man. Berry bad. Get more bad ebbery day till Tullus find um. Black slabe woman ’top wiv him. Massa Huggins say kill her if she let um go.”

“Poor creature!” said Murray, wrinkling up his brow.

“Yes, sah; berry poor creature, sah. Caesar berry sorry. Massa Allen good massa, and Caesar lub um.”

“But where is he now? Not dead?”

“Yes, massa been die berry much all um time. Couldn’t quite go die till poor Caesar come, and den he shake hand. Say ‘Good-bye, Caesar, lad. Tell Massa Murray Frank. Tell um t’ink de bes’ ob a poor weak man.’”

“Mr Allen said that, Caesar?” said Murray.

“Yes, sah. Caesar cry bofe eyes. Tullus cry and slabe woman cry when we put um in de groun’ fas’ asleep. Everybody lub poor Massa Allen, sah. Gone dead. Say go to sleep happy now. No more slabe trade now. No more poor niggah leap overboard now Massa Murray Frank and Bri’sh sailor come.”

“Well, Mr Murray,” said the captain, about an hour later, “I hope you are ready to return to your duties.”

“Yes, sir, certainly,” said the lad, staring.

“I’m glad of it. And, by the way, this is a very favourable opportunity for saying a few words in season to you. Let me tell you that I am not at all satisfied with the way in which your duties have been carried out, any more, I may say, than I have been with the way in which I have been served by your brother officers. I look for something better in the future, sir, something decidedly better in the future, I may say;” and he stalked aft and went below.

“Did you hear what Captain Kingsberry said, sir?” said Murray to the chief officer, who just then came limping up with his spy-glass beneath his feeble arm.

“Yes, Murray, every word. My dear boy, it is a way he has. There, there, my lad, I think amongst us we’ve given the slave-trade its heaviest blow.”

The End