by H. G. Parry
Wilberforce was silent for a long moment. “I’m going to tell Pitt,” he said finally.
“Don’t forget to ask him about Guiana,” Hannah More reminded him.
Wilberforce knocked on the door to the cabinet room of Number 10 with some hesitation. He was looking forward to apprising Pitt of Stephen’s plan; he was sure that it would excite him as much as it had the society. He did not, however, look forward to censuring Pitt yet again for failing to deliver something he had promised, and he was not certain how to make sure that he would be doing so for the last time.
Nonetheless, when a distracted voice called for him to come in, he opened it and stuck his head into the room. He was relieved, at least, to see his friend was alone at his desk: he had timed his visit for when that was most likely to be the case, but that meant little these days, when Downing Street spilled over with politicians and military men alike.
“Everyone seemed busy, so I told them I’d just breeze in here unasked for and unannounced. Forgive me?”
“With all my heart,” Pitt said, sincerely. “Please come in and clear a space amongst this ocean of paper for yourself.”
“Dear God. It’s almost as bad as my office.” Wilberforce shut the door behind him and examined the letters and documents covering the office with something like awe. “Do you remember the first time I stayed here, when I brought about fifty letters with me to answer and your maid threw them away?”
“I remember. You can’t blame her; I’d only been living here a few months. Obviously, my predecessor had trained her to lessen his workload and save firewood at the same time. I prefer to use them as furniture covers.”
“This is why I never reply to your letters. I see no point in wasting my prose on your armchair upholstery.”
“Is that so? I thought it was because you were an even worse correspondent than myself.”
“You’ll never know, will you? Am I interrupting something?”
“I certainly hope so.” He put down his quill and stretched in his chair. “I’ve been writing for three solid hours, in between far less welcome interruptions, and that pile of letters is no smaller. Please sit down.”
Wilberforce snatched a closer look at his friend as he did so. There were deep shadows under his eyes, but that was not unusual lately. The new government was generously acknowledged to be weak, and the French Army was increasingly strong now the dead had returned from Haiti.
“How are you?” he asked belatedly. He was concerned, but also uncomfortably aware he was stalling. “You don’t look very well.”
“I wasn’t, last week,” Pitt conceded. “I’m fully recovered now, thank you. And whatever it may appear or what others may tell you, I am absolutely not getting sick again. I’ve decided very firmly against it, so please don’t suggest it.”
“I didn’t, as a matter of fact—and I certainly didn’t recommend it, as you make it sound. But I will say that if you can indeed make that decision so easily, I’d very much appreciate it if you could teach me the trick of it.”
“There are a good many people to whom I’ll teach the trick of it, if I ever do work it out. There aren’t many I can trust in this patchwork of a government, and the few that I can are all suffering from overwork and exhaustion. I don’t quite know what to do about it, other than to take on some of their duties myself. More important, how are you? I meant to give my condolences after the abolition bill on Wednesday, but I ended up being swept off somewhere to talk war strategies until three in the morning.”
“I’m well. Overworked and exhausted, of course, and bitterly disappointed about the last abolition debate. Actually,” he said quickly, before Pitt said something kind and concerned and made it harder for Wilberforce to reproach him, “it’s on a matter concerning abolition that I need to talk to you.”
“Of course. What can I do?” He looked closer at Wilberforce’s face. “Or is it: what have I done?”
“It’s more something you haven’t done. Again.”
Pitt frowned; then his face cleared. “The Guiana ban?”
“Exactly.”
He winced. “Again. I am sorry. I truly will organize that soon.”
“You’ve been saying that for months.”
“And I’ve been meaning to organize it soon for months. It’s on a pile somewhere.”
“Which pile? The pile of unimportant things that you never really mean to look at?”
For just an instant, Pitt withdrew back into himself. “That’s rather unfair.”
“It may be,” Wilberforce conceded. “But if so, I’m only being unfair to you. You’re being unfair to thousands of people who are having their minds and lives taken from them against their will. Pitt, it’s one piece of paper you need to get ready and put in front of the king for him to sign—the work of half an hour. Please don’t make me raise the issue in the House of Commoners.”
“The process is a little more involved than that,” Pitt started to say, then caught himself. “But I take your point. I’m completely in the wrong, and I’ll put it right.”
“When?” Wilberforce said, knowing better than to be satisfied with that.
“Tomorrow at the latest.”
“Promise?”
“Word of honor.” He smiled faintly, looking more like himself. “If I don’t have it done by the end of the week, you have my permission to shoot me. Though you might have to get in line.”
“May I have that in writing?”
“Absolutely not. But you may have my apologies in writing, if you like.”
“Not necessary. Thank you.” He felt a surge of relief and hoped fervently it wasn’t misplaced. “I know you have a good deal on your mind.”
“No more than I’ve had for most of my adult life, despite what I was just complaining about. My mind should be very capable of supporting it all, so please don’t make polite excuses.” He glanced quickly at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Do you want to talk about Guiana now? I can spare a quarter of an hour or so.”
“Please,” Wilberforce said. “And I have something very important to put to you.”
Pitt deliberately pushed what he had been writing aside and gave him his full attention.
Wilberforce launched straight into Stephen’s proposal and had the satisfaction of seeing his friend’s obvious tiredness dissolve as his mind latched onto the possibilities.
“Stephen is brilliant,” he said, almost before Wilberforce had finished. “Why is he not in politics, remind me?”
“He may be yet. He’s only young. And he would certainly not be the first to start out in law.”
Pitt smiled, but briefly. His thoughts were already running at lightning speed. “Of course, you would have to be careful not to introduce the motion yourself. People would see right through it.”
“Even if they did, they’d find it difficult to argue against such an obviously patriotic step,” Wilberforce pointed out. “But no. We’ve agreed that none of us will even speak on the issue. When Stephen’s book comes out—and he’s writing as fast as he can—somebody will certainly raise it on their own. With luck, it will be a firm anti-abolitionist.”
“If nobody does, I should be able to have a quiet word with someone,” Pitt said. “This might be able to solve more than one problem, you know. If we diminish the strength of the slave trade, we considerably diminish the strength of the opposition to spellbinding. We might yet be able to disentangle Jamaica from the enemy.”
“I hope so,” Wilberforce said. “It’s been too long. You know it has. Fina came to us because her people are in danger. We haven’t been able to help them. I haven’t been able to help them in sixteen years.”
At that moment, a knock came on the door, and one of the footmen entered bringing a letter.
“Special dispatch, sir,” the bearer announced. “Admiralty House.”
Instantly, Pitt transformed. He had been warm and engaged a moment ago; now his face went as still as stone, and he snatched the paper off the tray, barely remem
bering to thank and dismiss the servant in question.
“Is that war business?” Wilberforce asked.
Pitt took a second to realize he’d been spoken to; he was already unfolding the letter. “Oh… I don’t think so,” he said absently. “I’m sorry, Wilberforce, just a moment…”
Wilberforce waited with growing concern as Pitt read the contents hastily, then again more thoroughly. A good deal of the color drained from him as he did so, though his expression didn’t change.
Finally, he put it down with a sigh. “Well,” he said grimly. “That’s that.”
“What’s wrong?” Wilberforce asked. “What’s in the letter?”
“If I’m fortunate,” Pitt said slowly, “an unwelcome distraction from the business of fighting a war. If I’m unfortunate… my government may just be about to collapse from within.”
Wilberforce felt a chill. “Why? What’s happened?”
“Apparently,” Pitt said, “Henry Dundas has happened.”
The sun was rising in the sky as Wilberforce finally reached his own bedroom, but when he did, Barbara was sitting on the couch waiting for him. The light was burning, and there was a book open on her lap, but he suspected she hadn’t been reading it.
“You should be in bed,” he said to his wife, but he couldn’t sound convincing. He was too glad to see her.
“So should you, if there was any justice in the world,” Barbara replied. She put her book aside. “I thought you might come home out of spirits.”
Henry Dundas, now officially Lord Melville and First Lord of the Admiralty, had been caught looking the other way as members of the admiralty diverted navy funds into their own bank accounts. Some of the money had even found its way into his own account. This would have been bad enough under normal circumstances: in a time of war it was unforgivable. That night, the House of Commoners had met to decide whether or not he should be forgiven.
This sounded a relatively small matter, to all except Dundas (Wilberforce had never quite been able to make the switch to “Melville” in his own mind). What it really was, of course, was an opportunity for the House of Commoners to rip a hole in the increasingly fragile government. Dundas was Pitt’s closest political ally, and had been since Pitt’s appointment as a very young prime minister decades before. The accusation of corruption made the entire administration look rotten. It was also of no little importance that if Dundas was censured publicly, he would almost certainly be forced to resign. Dundas was one of the few upon whom Pitt relied utterly. He was struggling to hold things together already; his workload would increase and his support decrease exponentially without him. The opposition had all the anticipation and all the bloodlust of hounds poised and trembling before a hunt.
On the other hand, if Dundas was acquitted of blame, the precedence for corruption would be set. And that was of no little importance either.
The difficulty was, Dundas was no real friend to the Claphamites, and not only because he had opposed immediate abolition. Wilberforce was friendly with him but wary of him, and deep down he had always disliked his influence on Pitt. It made Wilberforce distrust his own objectivity still further.
Politics on the one hand, ideals on the other. Wilberforce was used to such dilemmas, but this one made him miserable.
“They found him guilty, didn’t they?” Barbara said.
“Exactly 216 votes each side. The Speaker ruled against him. One vote on the other side would have saved him.”
“And you think that your speech against him swayed those votes,” Barbara said. “And you feel terribly guilty about it.”
“You didn’t doubt that I would speak against him, did you?” he said with a wan smile. “I didn’t even know which way I would go—or I thought I didn’t.”
“I knew you thought what had happened was wrong,” she said.
“I hoped Pitt would convince me that it wasn’t,” Wilberforce sighed. “But I don’t think he was very convinced himself, although he stayed loyal to Dundas.”
“Was that right of him, do you think?” Barbara asked. “When Dundas was wrong?”
“Oh, of course not. And politically it was a losing battle from the start. But they’ve been close friends for years—decades. Of course he was going to stand by him.”
“You’ve been friends with Mr. Pitt for decades too,” Barbara pointed out. “And you did the right thing.”
“Please don’t remind me,” Wilberforce said miserably. He dropped down on the couch next to her and winced as his old wound throbbed. “Ouch. I think he was quite broken by it.”
“Dearest,” she said, a term she used only when she thought he was being exceptionally foolish, “I don’t know Mr. Pitt as well as you do, but he strikes me as someone who is very hard to break.”
“He is,” Wilberforce agreed. “That makes it all the more terrible that I might have managed it, even temporarily.”
“If he was indeed broken,” Barbara said dryly, “I don’t think you can take full credit for it. From what I read in the papers, there appear to be quite a number of things pressing on him.”
“I know,” he said, leaning his head back wearily against the couch. “But this one came from me. I did hope we would never publicly differ again.”
As he had stood, Pitt had looked directly at him, and for a moment the full force of his gaze was on him as it had been on him when Pitt had wordlessly requested he not speak against the war so many years ago. A second later, he felt the familiar hold of mesmerism creep over his mind, paralyzing his tongue, and then Pitt looked quickly away and it had broken. Wilberforce had ignored both appeal and mesmerism, but both had shaken him to his heart.
It wasn’t the first time they had voiced differing opinions since their great argument, of course. When Britain had resumed war with France the year before last, Pitt had argued in favor of the conflict with such force he’d practically broken the walls of the House, while Wilberforce had voiced his opinion firmly against. But Pitt had been out of office then. It hadn’t been a political betrayal.
“Do you wish you hadn’t spoken against Dundas?”
“No,” Wilberforce said. He’d been asking himself the question all the way home, and he was satisfied his answer was honest. It was his one scrap of comfort in all this. “I couldn’t in good conscience have done anything differently. I’m not even sorry I did so in such strong terms. I’m just sorry it had to happen at all. And I hope Pitt will forgive me.”
Barbara rubbed his arm comfortingly; normally that would soothe him, but tonight he was too restless and troubled. “You’ll feel better after you’ve slept.”
“Is that a hint for me to stop talking and let you sleep?” he asked, with a small smile.
“I was the one telling you to talk in the first place. But it is nearly six o’clock.”
He kissed her and disentangled himself gently from her arms. “I’ll try to sleep, if it means you’ll succeed. But in truth, I think I’m more likely to become prime minister myself than get any rest this morning.”
Barbara was asleep almost immediately, drowsy from her vigil, but true to form Wilberforce lay beside her for a very long time, fighting to keep his body still while his mind buzzed unhappily. The sun was creeping across the ceiling in squares of gray light when he finally felt his nerves begin to cool.
The next thing he knew, he was being shaken gently but persistently awake.
“Wilber?”
“Mm?” he said, forcing his eyes open. He felt drugged with the heavy sleep of late morning. “What time is it?”
“A little after ten. I’m sorry to wake you, dearest,” she said with all her usual tenderness. “But the prime minister you broke last night is downstairs in our drawing room. I must say he’s looking very composed.”
Pitt was indeed looking very composed, Wilberforce noted as he hurried into the drawing room still pulling on his dressing gown. Only someone who knew him well would recognize his composure as more fragile than usual. Since Wilberforce knew him v
ery well indeed, he also recognized that there were shadows under his eyes that spoke of both worry and lack of sleep, and that he was clearly feeling self-conscious about being in their drawing room.
“Good morning!” Wilberforce greeted him. He was uneasy about the meeting also, but if anyone was going to dispel the awkwardness it was more likely to be him. “I’m glad you came. I wanted to tell you— How are you, first of all?”
“Well enough,” Pitt said, with a brief but genuine smile. Apparently Wilberforce trying to say two things at once had somehow worked. “I’m sorry to disturb you; I hope you get back to sleep after I leave. But I needed to speak to you as soon as I could.”
“It’s no disturbance—though don’t take it personally if I yawn rather a lot while my mind catches up to the fact I’m awake. I’m glad you came. I wanted to tell you how sorry I was about speaking against you—and Dundas. I wanted to speak for him, but I just couldn’t.”
“I do understand,” Pitt said. He seemed relieved. “I could barely speak for him myself, and I know I didn’t do it very well. It was unfair of me to put pressure on you. I think I slipped briefly into mesmerism too—was that the case?”
“Only for a moment,” Wilberforce said, with some wariness. He’d seriously considered denying it if the subject came up: the situation was already precariously close to their first major disagreement, without adding that as well. But they had never been actually dishonest with each other, even at the height of their disagreements. “It passed very quickly.”
Pitt nodded. “Still, I apologize.”
“You have no need to,” Wilberforce said. “The situation was very grave.”
He felt a great surge of satisfaction that, this time, their friendship was not going to be shaken at all.
“I’m afraid it may have been more grave than either of us knew,” Pitt said. “Dundas spoke to me afterward. It’s why I’ve come. May I sit down?”
“Of course,” Wilberforce said, shaking himself. The drawing room chairs were covered in books and papers; he rushed to clear the two nearest the fire. The fire itself was pale and didn’t offer much warmth. He hoped Pitt didn’t mind. They both felt the cold, and although it was summer, it was very gray out there. “I didn’t even think… Have you had breakfast yet?”