shipping and, more particularly, slaving and the sugar trade, although how Izzard knew them was beyond his ken.
Dalrymple was handsome enough, but clearly not a real gentleman. There was something slightly studied in his mannerisms, thought Sir Theodisius. Each one of his gestures appeared to be a flourish rather than a mere practicality. The way he brandished his club, or waved his kerchief, rankled, as if he had learned the affectations rather than been born to them. His manner with his slave was also overbearing and harsh. The Oxfordshire coroner took an instant dislike to him.
“London’s great wealth is built on those ships,” butted in Dalrymple.
“Or more particularly on their cargo!” corrected Mr. Carfax, raising a stubby finger in the air. He was squat and pigeon-chested and his short neck caused his large head to disappear between the humps of his broad shoulders. Word had it that he had his eye on a rotten borough in next year’s elections and was in town to garner support. His manner was bluff, but jolly, no doubt helped by the regular swigs of rum he took from a hip flask.
“Yes, those slaves are black gold to London,” he said, letting out a hearty laugh.
Dalrymple shot a sideways glance to Izzard. “How true,” he agreed.
Izzard snorted. “Be careful, sir. Your slave has a club in his hand.” He nodded at Jeremiah, who was supplying his master with the appropriate irons for the shot. “I certainly would not trust one. Bludgeon you to death as soon as look at you!” he quipped.
The round was enjoyable enough. None of the players produced great shots and Sir Theodisius, coming the latest to the game, was not made to feel woefully inept. His willingness to share his sausage rolls seemed to more than compensate for his awkward swing and slow gait in his companions’ eyes.
The casual talk centred on the price of sugar and tobacco and the recent slave revolts in Jamaica, where the men owned plantations.
“Dreadful business over at Melrose’s estate,” commented Carfax, shaking his head. He paused thoughtfully before adding: “What those savages did to the overseer!”
Sir Theodisius was aware of the incident, one of a growing number, where slaves were rising up against their masters on the island.
Dalrymple smirked. “Trouble is Melrose was too soft. He started treating them too well. Regular floggings, that’s what they understand. What, Jeremiah?!” He let out a contemptuous laugh as the slave remained impassive at his master’s side, then swung at the ball and hit it hard into the distance. “No mercy!” he said, smiling, as he watched the ball drop just a few feet away from the intended hole.
Sir Theodisius raised a brow and Carfax caught his look of approbation.
“We must not bore our guests with merchants’ small talk,” he upbraided his friend. He took another swig of rum from his hip flask, but Dalrymple would not be put off.
“The next thing you know, the do-gooders will be calling for abolition and then where would we be, gentlemen?” he asked, shaking his head. His conjecture was met with laughter from both Carfax and Izzard.
“Just wait until I get my seat in Parliament, old chap!” chuckled Carfax. “I’ll see their sort get no quarter!”
The banter continued, although Sir Theodisius began to tire a little of the men’s talk and thought instead of the mutton pie Cook would have waiting for him on his return home.
At last they reached the fifteenth and final tee. Just after he had taken his shot, however, the coroner noticed that Samuel Carfax seemed to be experiencing pain of some sort. He had lately spied him wincing as he took aim. Could his resort to the rum be designed to ease his discomfort? he wondered. He waited until the other fellows were occupied before broaching the subject.
“My dear sir, forgive me for the intrusion, but I have noticed you seem to be having difficulty with your arm.” He pointed at Carfax’s coat.
“Ah, nothing
Dalrymple was handsome enough, but clearly not a real gentleman. There was something slightly studied in his mannerisms, thought Sir Theodisius. Each one of his gestures appeared to be a flourish rather than a mere practicality. The way he brandished his club, or waved his kerchief, rankled, as if he had learned the affectations rather than been born to them. His manner with his slave was also overbearing and harsh. The Oxfordshire coroner took an instant dislike to him.
“London’s great wealth is built on those ships,” butted in Dalrymple.
“Or more particularly on their cargo!” corrected Mr. Carfax, raising a stubby finger in the air. He was squat and pigeon-chested and his short neck caused his large head to disappear between the humps of his broad shoulders. Word had it that he had his eye on a rotten borough in next year’s elections and was in town to garner support. His manner was bluff, but jolly, no doubt helped by the regular swigs of rum he took from a hip flask.
“Yes, those slaves are black gold to London,” he said, letting out a hearty laugh.
Dalrymple shot a sideways glance to Izzard. “How true,” he agreed.
Izzard snorted. “Be careful, sir. Your slave has a club in his hand.” He nodded at Jeremiah, who was supplying his master with the appropriate irons for the shot. “I certainly would not trust one. Bludgeon you to death as soon as look at you!” he quipped.
The round was enjoyable enough. None of the players produced great shots and Sir Theodisius, coming the latest to the game, was not made to feel woefully inept. His willingness to share his sausage rolls seemed to more than compensate for his awkward swing and slow gait in his companions’ eyes.
The casual talk centred on the price of sugar and tobacco and the recent slave revolts in Jamaica, where the men owned plantations.
“Dreadful business over at Melrose’s estate,” commented Carfax, shaking his head. He paused thoughtfully before adding: “What those savages did to the overseer!”
Sir Theodisius was aware of the incident, one of a growing number, where slaves were rising up against their masters on the island.
Dalrymple smirked. “Trouble is Melrose was too soft. He started treating them too well. Regular floggings, that’s what they understand. What, Jeremiah?!” He let out a contemptuous laugh as the slave remained impassive at his master’s side, then swung at the ball and hit it hard into the distance. “No mercy!” he said, smiling, as he watched the ball drop just a few feet away from the intended hole.
Sir Theodisius raised a brow and Carfax caught his look of approbation.
“We must not bore our guests with merchants’ small talk,” he upbraided his friend. He took another swig of rum from his hip flask, but Dalrymple would not be put off.
“The next thing you know, the do-gooders will be calling for abolition and then where would we be, gentlemen?” he asked, shaking his head. His conjecture was met with laughter from both Carfax and Izzard.
“Just wait until I get my seat in Parliament, old chap!” chuckled Carfax. “I’ll see their sort get no quarter!”
The banter continued, although Sir Theodisius began to tire a little of the men’s talk and thought instead of the mutton pie Cook would have waiting for him on his return home.
At last they reached the fifteenth and final tee. Just after he had taken his shot, however, the coroner noticed that Samuel Carfax seemed to be experiencing pain of some sort. He had lately spied him wincing as he took aim. Could his resort to the rum be designed to ease his discomfort? he wondered. He waited until the other fellows were occupied before broaching the subject.
“My dear sir, forgive me for the intrusion, but I have noticed you seem to be having difficulty with your arm.” He pointed at Carfax’s coat.
“Ah, nothing
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