University of Virginia Library

SCENE IV.

—The Camp of Demba Sego Jalla, Mandingo King of Kassan.
Enter Mug, and several Mandingo Warriors, L. U. E.
Mug.

Pray, black generals, brigadiers, majors, colonels,
and captains, keep your distance. I am secretary at war,
and it is not pretty to press so strongly upon cabinet
questions.

First W.

Our prisoners are lying upon our hands: we
only want to know when the European merchants will
come to purchase them.

Omnes.

Ay, ay, that's all.

Mug.

But his majesty has commanded me not to let you
know the time.

First W.

Why?

Mug.

Because you are all so greedy: you would run out
of the camp to meet them, and forestall the market;—besides,
nothing but a verbal message has been given.

Second W.

We don't believe it. Read the letter sent
by the factory, that states the day when they will arrive.

Mug.

Thus far I am free to reply to the gallant general
of the black countenance, who spoke last. The finances
of the country, from our late glorious victory, are in a situation
that may make us proud; but I assure the gallant
general, that on the subject now under discussion, no authenticated
papers (however loudly they may be called for)
have yet reached my office. But set your hearts at rest;
I dare say you'll all drive your infernal trade to your own
advantage, and your unfortunate black and copper cattle
will go at a good price. [A march is heard at a distance.]

Hark! [Looking off, R.]
By the Lord Harry, the merchants
are coming already! Run, and draw out your prisoners.
[Exeunt the Mandingo Warriors, hurriedly, L.]
There
they are, in full march! What a capital procession!—
Some on horseback—some on oxen—and a long lanky
jockey, that looks like their leader, is stuck upon a camel.
Lord Mayor's show, on the ninth of November, is nothing
to it.

[The music is heard stronger.
Enter the European Merchants in procession, R.—Fetterwell, the chief of the merchants, seated on a camel, attended by six Slaves—Captain Adamant, Marrowbone, Flayall, Grim, and four other Merchants.
Fet.
[To Mug.]

I say—who are you?

Mug.

Secretary at war to his Mandingo majesty Demba
Sego Jalla, king of Kassan.

Fet.

Are you? then help me off my camel, and I'll give
you a shilling. [Mug helps him off.]
Zounds! but he's a
bone-setter! [The Attendants lead off the camel, R.]
Are
you the person that sent the letter to the governor at the
factory?

Mug.

I was commanded by the king, my master, to
write the despatch.

Fet.

Well, then, you are Henry Augustus Mug; turner
in wood and ivory when you are in London.

Mug.

Yes, and secretary at war, while I'm in Africa.

Fet.

Well, master Mug, your two professions agree
nicely, as the world goes: you are not the first, by many,
who has wriggled himself into power, when he has been in
the habit of turning. My name is Fetterwell, long known
as a merchant in the slave trade. Here are other gentlemen
of my profession. Are we to see his majesty?

Mug.

Not to-day; he has got the belly-ache.

Fet.

A very odd court excuse for not seeing a sovereign!
But let me introduce my friends and brother traders.—
Here's Mr. Flayall, bound to Barbadoes—Mr. Grim, going
to Jamaica—young Mr. Marrowbone, once a carcass
butcher in Clare-Market, but an estate dropping to him
in the West India Islands, he now barters for blacks, instead
of bargaining for bullocks,—Captain Abraham Adamant,
who lost his left leg when the inhuman negroes
chucked him down the hatchway, for only stowing fifteen
in a hammock, in hot weather,—and sundry others. Pray,
gentlemen, be known to the secretary.

Mar.

Pray, Mr. Quisby, how do you think we shall find
the market?

Mug.
[Aside.]

Mr. Quisby!—Oh, this is the young
Jemmy butcher. [Aloud.]
What d'ye buy, sir? what
d'ye buy?

Mar.

Buy slaves, to be sure.

Mug.

I don't know what they may be a pound to-day;
markets vary—

Mar.

I can't see why they should, here.

Mug.

Can't you? Now, supposing you were put up to
sale.

Mar.

Me? [Laughing.]
Ha, ha! that droll;—but what
then?

Mug.

Why, then a calf's head might fetch more or less
to-day than it would to-morrow.

Fet.

Well, but where are the parties?

Mug.

The black generals are arranging their prisoners.

Fet.

We must make short work of this, as this will be
our last venture; for, when I left London, a bill was passing
that will kick our business to the devil.

Mug.

I am very glad to hear it. The work begins in
the natural quarter, and the stream of freedom flows from
the very fountain head of true natural liberty. Here come
the generals with their prisoners; and we shall have the
common marketers pouring in, on all sides, directly.

A March.—Enter the Mandingo Warriors with their Prisoners, L. U. E., and range themselves opposite the Merchants, L.
CHORUS OF WARRIORS.
First Party.
March, brave Mandingoes, march! in triumph shout!
And draw your well-won prisoners out.

SOLO.—Second Warrior.
When Afric conquerors tread the field,
Slaves are the harvest battles yield.

Chorus.
March, Warriors, march!

Mug.
[Aside.]

Rabbit me, if there isn't my darling
short bit of a love, Sutta, among the prisoners—and among
his majesty's own proper lot, too. If I could but buy her
off, for myself.

Fet.

A pretty decent show.

Mar.

Yes, the women are tricked out as gay as a porkshop
on Saturday night; and the men seem tolerably strong.

Mug.

Now, gentlemen, I must address you in my official
capacity—so listen. Hem!—Gentlemen auctioneers of
the two-legged repositories: I am commanded by the king
my master to inform you, that it is his majesty's humane
decree, that you may purchase—your fellow-creatures—
but if you steal, or smuggle, a single slave, he will, with
infinite regret, put you to death in the tenderest manner
imaginable.

Fet.

The devil he will! I wish we hadn't come here.

Mug.

The market will be open a whole week; at the
end of which, if any of you prove defaulters, so great will
be his lenity to you, as his customers, that he will give you
the choice of your execution—of which there are three
sorts in this country.—You may either be burnt, impaled,
or scalded, which ever you think the most agreeable.

Fet.

This is a confounded arbitrary government. Let's
look over the goods. Now take care, my honest, respectable
friends, neither to smuggle nor steal.

[The Merchants go up the camp, Mug accompanying them.
Enter Selico, Madiboo, and an English Merchant, R.
Mer.

He's of the Foulah tribe, I believe?

Mad.

Ay.

Mer.

I would not give three mickellies for a slave of his
breed; they are not reckoned so hardy as the black negroes.
You'll get little or nothing for him, now the market is so
well stocked.—Good day!

[Walks away.
Sel.
They all reject us. What did he offer?

Mad.
I can't tell—I forget.—My heart sickens!

Sel.
I fear, my project now may not succeed.
The pittance they offer us could not
Support my mother through the winter.

Mad.
No matter. Mahomet forgive me!
But I had rather we should all perish,
Than you should be the price of our living;
And I employed to carry home the dross.
[A bustle heard without, L.
Stand aside, Selico! stand aside!
Something extraordinary has happened.
Yonder is the white man; he mustn't see us,
Lest they at once discover who we are.

[They retire.
Enter a Crier, L., followed by Africans, who crowd round him.
Africans.
Hear him! hear him! hear him!

Crier.
[Reading.]

“Proclamation and reward!—Last
night, a man, with his head muffled in his garment, escaped
through the fire of soldiery, from the tent of the king's
favourite female prisoner. Whoever shall bring the offender
into his majesty's presence, so that he may be
punished with death, shall receive four hundred ounces
of gold.”

[Exit the Crier, R., followed by the mob.—Fetterwell and Mug come forward, C.
Fet.

That's a good lot.—I'll take the whole.

Mug.

You have picked the prime of the market; those
are the tit-bits of the prisoners, and reserved for his majesty's
own private pocket.

Fet.

There's a little short girl among 'em, though, that
I don't think worth a fathing.

Mug.
[Aside.]

Bless her! that's my Sutta. [Aloud.]

Hasn't she a sweet face?

Fet.

Well enough for a blackamoor; but faces do no
work in the West Indies.

Mug.

You have a devilish bad taste. I'd rather have
her than all the rest tied up in a bunch.

Fet.

Why, master Mug, it is my opinion you are fond
of that little black pony.

Mug.

Oh, love! You know not, Mr. Fetterwell, its
power—I do.

Fet.

Then let me off at a hundred for the whole lot,
and I'll chuck the girl to you as a bonus.

Mug.

Will you? I'm naturally honest in office, but
the tender passion makes me peculate.—Done!

Fet.

Then the lot's mine. [Going among the Slaves, and pushing Sutta out from the ranks.]

Trundle out, little
one, and get a new master.

[Exit with Slaves, R.
Sutta.

Oh, dear! who my massa now?

Mug.

Your own Mug. Sutta, don't you remember your
Henry Augustus?

Sutta.

Ah, massa Mug! you alive?

Mug.

Alive! why, I'm secretary to his Mandingo majesty.
Come this way, and I'll talk to you.

[Exit with Sutta, R.—Selico and Madiboo come forward.
Sel.
'Twas a large reward the crier offered.

Mad.
It was.

Sel.
'Twould make my mother rich for ever.

Mad.
Ay, but that's hopeless.

Sel.
No, not so.

Mad.
Not so?

Sel.
No, certainly; the merchants, you perceive,
Just offer that which would prolong existence
A few short days—

Mad.
To leave us as we were.
Come home, dear Selico—come to the woods,
And let us trust to fortune.

Sel.
Never!

Mad.
No!

Sel.
I never will return—no, never, brother,
Hapless as I am, while I have means
To save a parent, and the means are offered.

Mad.
What are the means?

Sel.
You heard the proclamation.
Four hundred ounces, paid at once, in gold,
Would be a treasure. Take me to the king;
Drag me before him as the criminal;
Do you receive the offer'd sum; depart,
Preserve my mother's life;—leave me to death.

Mad.
Oh, God! you drive me mad! [Kneeling.]
Brother—dear brother!
On my knees, I entreat you to hear me!

Sel.
I am wild, but fix'd!

Mad.
Think on the torture!

Sel.
That may be calculated. She who bore me,
Suffer'd with joy the throes that gave me being;
The pangs that I endure, to save her life,
Will be as short and grateful.

Mad.
Proceed not!

Sel.
I'll raise the camp—proclaim myself the culprit,
If you refuse!

Mad.
Where would you hurry me?

Sel.
To the king's camp!—Go on—I am resolved!

Mad.
No!—you will repent, Selico.

Sel.
Never!

Mad.
I scarce know what I'm doing.

Sel.
Go forward!

[Exit Selico, L., resolutely dragging off Madiboo.