by S. I. Martin
‘All that remains is for you two gentlemen to combine your powers with ours and plan your futures accordingly. Any questions?’
Georgie seemed to be enveloped in a soft, shimmering glow, as if all the light and air in the room had drawn around him. No one spoke. It was a silence born of humility. Silence born of purest envy.
‘Dreams, dreams and dreams,’ he continued. ‘Let me tell you about your dreams. Friend Buckram, you are a born horseman, you rode the Long Chase with Tarleton’s Legion through the Carolinas. That was your happiest time, was it not? And what did you gain for your efforts but wounds and a whipping? For two thousand pounds, will you be our escort and ride with us but for one day?
‘William Supple, you remember our old sessions at the Golden Cross where for the price of a measure of ale, we’d play Princes of Araby for provincial fools? You have the soul of an actor, the royal role becomes you. For the price of two thousand pounds, will you be our king for a day?’
Buckram got to his feet and walked to the door.
‘Don’t even think about it, William. George, not this time, not me. It was a good speech, but not good enough. I’ve been here before, remember. I know what happens when your plans go awry. Someone always takes a fall, and it’s never Georgie George. It won’t be me either. The last time was the last time. Good night, sirs.’ He left, slamming the door behind him.
William suddenly looked small and terrified.
‘Don’t worry about Buckie, Will. He’ll be back. He’ll be back. Now, where were we? Any questions?’
‘There’ll be blood and rumbustion, won’t there?’ William asked timidly.
‘That shouldn’t be a problem,’ answered one of the triplets – William couldn’t tell which. ‘There’s only a couple of infantrymen who double up as footmen and gardeners. Unreliable types, drunk mostly. Then there’s a black butler, no problem there, we hope, and the Minister, his wife and daughter. That only leaves the house-girls. Again, no problem. Besides we’ll be going in well armed. So don’t worry about it. We’re men-at-arms. The King’s Own. The best. Easy in and easy out. See you in Nova Scotia.’
‘There’s something you haven’t told me, George. Where in the world would you go with two thousand pounds? As a black man, I mean?’
‘For my part, William, I have chosen Brazil, the north-east coast. The perfect place. As of tomorrow, I’ll be making arrangements to book a passage on the next packet brig out.’
‘BRAZIL!! But that’s the worst slave-state on God’s Earth!’
‘Not where I’ll be going. Anyway, it’s a hot country and it’ll give me the chance to get rid of this damn coat and finally feel some sun on my skin. You should come too.’
‘It’s not so easy for me, Georgie. I’m a man with responsibilities.’
‘Hmmm, the same responsibilities you’ve had for the past two years. What can you do here that can’t be better done in Brazil?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll have to think on it. What happens if we get caught? I don’t want to swing at Newgate.’
‘None of us will hang because we won’t get caught. This is a crime that will never be reported. A black gang robs the American Embassy of its secret slave bounty. Who would dare tell of it? The good citizen Irving of Virginia? Minister Adams? He’s an ambitious man. He’d never hold public office again if the tale was told. Besides, who’d believe it?’
‘So, Mr George, what role do you play in all this?’
‘Me? I’m your interpreter, of course.’
Georgie bowed before him, long and low. ‘Chief Kwaku, your people await your reply.’
London, 28 July 1786
Buckram sits frowning at Charlotte’s writing desk by an open window. In an effort to forget the spelling primer and the blank slate between his elbows, he stares wistfully at a lone seagull describing graceful arcs in the hazy, deep-blue sky. After a while his eyes fall back to the symbols in the child’s textbook. He locates the letter and tries again, remembering Charlotte’s lesson: c the right way over, c the wrong way. Clenching his teeth, he hisses the sound, then puckers his lips to blow through the os. The rest reads itself and three words now make sense: soon, sooner, soonest. He uses both hands to arrange the chalk stick in his ostler’s fingers, but the marks he makes, all save the os, are mirror-images of what’s on the page. He places the book face down on the slate and looks back to the sky, seeing the bird speed away over Hog Lane, to the Court End, out to Sussex, back to sea.
Still in his nightshirt, he frets round the woman’s room. It smells of mildew, bay rum and lust-charged nights on unchanged sheets. It is already noon, his day looms unlived. A pile of coins on the dresser reminds him of his chores: Clare Market for firewood and mutton, the Piazza for potatoes and eggs, the brass tongs and shovel to be burnished, a carpet to sweep, a news-sheet to buy.
Midday voices hollered down Long Acre: draymen, costermongers, nosegay girls, water-sellers, ballad-sellers, footmen, hackney coachmen, baker’s boys, clerks and coopers – working people on a working day. Soon Buckram would be out amongst them; he knew he’d look like a servant running errands and not a man very much in love. As usual, she’d left out the wicker basket for him, and as usual he’d take the muslin sack.
Sometimes he’d meet her at the schoolhouse gates and escort her home. A new gang of cutpurses had taken control of Conduit Court and had started making forays into Little Hart Street and the area around the Adelphi School. For all her sophistication, Buckram knew Charlotte was a country woman at heart. She often complained about the violence in the city and the amount of trouble she experienced as a solo woman going about her daily business. There was the time two months ago when she and Mrs Brookes had been invited to a reception at the Moroccan Embassy. A mob of river workers laid siege to the building and they had been trapped there all night, silently loading pistols in the dark with the Ambassador’s young family, and waiting for daylight or a detachment of guards, whichever arrived sooner.
His clothes lay anywhere around the room, and he set about collecting them, item by item. As he fished under the bed for his stockings his hand brushed a small linen bag. He pinched it and felt it was stuffed with fabric. Hooking the bag up into the light he loosened the dusty draw-string. A dense, metallic odour wafted out. There was a bag inside the bag, and inside that he found a bound wad of rectangular cloths, some red, some reddish-brown, some almost black, each one quite stiff from its stain. Charlotte had written dates and notes on them in black ink. Buckram recognized the year 1786 but that was all; he couldn’t follow cursive.
He passed a broomstick under the bed and discovered five more bags. They all contained similarly treated material, some with dates going back to 1781. He rifled through the bags feeling like a demon counting sheaves of underworld currency. What sort of woman? he wondered. What sort of woman? He sniffed his fingers, and just to make sure he stuck out the very, very tip of his ton …
As the key turned in the door his stomach turned too, as if he’d swallowed a live mouse.
Come murderer, come footpad, come cadger, come thief … but please, God, not my Charlotte, not now!
She let the door swing open and stood there looking in at the illiterate man in his nightshirt, on all fours amidst her secrets. Her eyes blazed fury, her head tipped and locked at the wrong angle. She looked like a madwoman and walked like one too: wide, swaying, clumsy steps jerked her closer, closer. Her right hand was raised above her head as if to call down fire from heaven.
‘I …’ he said. ‘I …’ he said.
He got up and straightened his nightshirt as if that would give him more authority. ‘What’s to tell? I was searching for clothes. I looked under the bed. I thought you were at school, so I peeked.’
She drew herself up before him. He heard a rush of air and half a shriek.
The left side of his face exploded. He saw stars. She closed in. He raised an arm to ward off the attack, but it was to no avail; within seconds her rapid, steady blows had numbed his forearm.
He was losing control of his limb and very soon she’d be coming under his guard to damage his face.
He edged slowly round her and walked backwards, luring her through the door, onto the landing. If she was going to get nasty he’d prefer she did it away from any kitchenware. He’d have to catch her wrist and pin her down. They lunged at each other simultaneously, but his heart wasn’t in it. Hers was, and as she pulled him forward by the shirt she rammed her right knee into his diaphragm.
‘Charlotte,’ he wheezed, clutching his belly, astonished by her violence. ‘What’s wrong with you? Have you taken leave of your …?’
She slashed at him again. He dodged the blow with a weary, almost bored, flick of his head.
‘How dare you!’ she rasped. Properly harnessed, that voice could have cut through steel. ‘How dare you!?’
‘By God, woman, I was searching for my clothes. What do I care for your blood-rags! What brings you back at this hour, anyway?’
As quickly as it had erupted, Charlotte’s fury vanished and her features regained their original composition. She snatched the bag from the floor, tied the draw-string and kicked it back under the bed. She went to look at her face.
‘Today is a Monday, sir.’ She spoke into the mirror. ‘I take but one morning class. I believe you’ve forgotten this?’
He had.
‘And besides,’ she continued, ‘I’ve planned a … treat for this afternoon.’
‘A treat, huh?’ Buckram sniffed. She might as well have suggested a kitten-stamping, so dour was she.
‘It’s a surprise.’ She began to fix her largest, whitest wig to her head. ‘A little excursion.’
Buckram’s spirits plummeted. Charlotte had taken to organizing all their recreations without consulting him. Her idea of a good time always involved the company of her hideous friends. An excursion. His opportunity to escape had passed him by. He should have stalked out of the house in the heat of the argument, when he had the chance. But he was stuck with her folly for the rest of the day now. Charlotte was full of surprises, and it was killing him.
‘Come now, Buckie. Get your clothes on.’
‘Do we have to leave now?’
‘Why, yes. Mrs Brookes should be calling for us shortly. And there are people waiting for us by the river.’ She smiled a secret smile. ‘Some very special people.’
He was sandwiched in a bouncing post-chaise between Charlotte and the ever-present Mrs Brookes. Buckram ignored the catcalls and oaths that their presence elicited from the poxy Westminster pedestrians and sat out the journey to the waterfront in rueful reflection. Very special people. He shuddered at the thought. It could mean one of many, terrible things. Was he doomed to spend the rest of his life enduring Charlotte’s ingenuous taste in people and places? It was as William had warned: she was not of their caste. She was happiest surrounded by the flotsam of the black beau monde; timidly proffering the lowest bids at Christie’s Auction Rooms, singing aloud in the Opera House (over-embellishing half-understood arias), or huddled with a knot of radicals in the draughty back room of some Fleet Street alehouse, firing up their seditious fantasies with genteel sips of bland liqueurs. Not his idea of fun. No.
‘Here we are. Thameside, my good friends!’ bawled the cabbie. They alighted near the cathedral by a long, high wall beside some stone steps which led to the river. Buckram paid the driver with the money Charlotte had forced on him before they left the house.
‘Oh, look,’ trilled Mrs Brookes. ‘There’s that grouchy egg-woman from Berwick Street Market. Remember her, Charlie?’
‘Oh yes,’ Charlotte stated flatly.
Buckram stared at the shifty, beetle-browed harridan on the steps. She was selling rotten vegetables, bad eggs and old bones at tuppence a bag. ‘All yer bad stuff, ladies ’n’ gents! All yer bad, ready for the river! Chuck it or shuck it! Two pennies a sack! Get all yer bad stuff here!’
Charlotte sighed, exasperated. ‘I suppose we should take some for the crossing. It is a custom, after all.’ She purchased a mixed bag of lamb’s skulls and greening potatoes.
‘You’ll need ’em ’n’ all out there, you lot,’ barked the muck-vendor, making the sign of the cross.
‘Dare say we will,’ retorted Mrs Brookes. ‘Dare say we will.’
The river was at low tide. Its brown water sparkled prettily where wavelets caught the sunlight. Buckram guided the two women past the teams of novice pickpockets working the slippery stairs.
Very special people. Buckram saw them now, an odd party of three women and two men gossiping on the riverbank by a small ferry. He kissed his teeth on noticing the tallest member of the group. It was Lizzie, Charlotte’s noisiest and nosiest friend. She sweltered in a pink riding costume. Her companions were a pair of middle-aged couples dressed in clean, unfashionable styles, and one of the women was white. Not Charlotte’s usual crowd at all.
‘Hellooo!’ screamed Charlotte. ‘Hellooo! Praise be, you’ve finally made it!’ She hitched up her skirts and scampered over the wet sand, leaving Buckram and Mrs Brookes behind her.
‘What’s all this now?’ grumbled Buckram, discomfited by his beloved’s hysteria.
Mrs Brookes flashed him a cruel grin. ‘On verra,’ she sang.
They batted their way through the curtains of flies buzzing about the waterfront. Like Charlotte, the others had bought bags of rubbish on their way down. Charlotte was wiping tears from her eyes and wallowing in the fussy embraces of the black couple. Dismissing Lizzie’s chortled greeting, Buckram strode up to the cuddling threesome.
‘Oh, Buckram,’ she said, catching his arm and dragging him to the centre of attention. ‘Buckram, I’d like you to meet my parents.’
His jaw dropped. His solar plexus see-sawed. Parents?
‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, young man.’ The kind-faced, grey-whiskered man offered Buckram his hand.
Buckram was paralysed. This was something he could never have imagined: seeing a black adult in the company of their parents. It was as much as he could do to gasp and take the older man’s hand.
‘Charlotte’s told us all about you.’
‘The pleasure’s all mine,’ blurted Buckram nonsensically. He wondered how any black man living in England could radiate such open warmth as Mr Tell.
‘And this is my lady wife, Anne.’
‘Ma’am.’ Buckram tipped his hat and bowed to the tiny woman with tired features. She emitted a squeak and returned the bow with more of a wince than a smile. Her eyes were like Charlotte’s, though harder and more contained: she was unable to cloud the caution and dismay swimming in them.
‘Oh, do hurry up!’ implored Lizzie. ‘The boatmen can’t wait all day.’ She flashed the pilot and oarsmen a toothy, apologetic smile.
The ferry was called Wheeler’s Right.
‘Are we to embark, or no, father?’ asked Charlotte. Sounding just like a five-year-old.
‘One moment, daughter.’ He was still beaming at Buckram. ‘Our introductions are unfinished. Mr Buckram, allow me to introduce our dear friends and neighbours, the Barbers, Francis and Betsy. They travelled down with us from Lichfield.’
‘Ah-hah, so you’re our Charlotte’s intended, are ye?’ asked Mr Barber.
Buckram stuttered.
‘I’m joshing you, lad. Take no notice. Francis Barber, you may’ve heard my name mentioned in these parts.’
Buckram shook his head, wondering why this man had adopted the mannerisms of a country squire. He slapped Buckram on the shoulder and wrung his hand too fiercely, as if to hide some private disappointment.
The Barbers were a short, good-looking couple in their late forties or early fifties. Mrs Barber curtsied and grimaced sweetly. She had the face of a white woman who has lived for two years in the heart of the English countryside with her outspoken black husband of ten years: she looked absolutely terrified.
‘Oi! You crossin’, or what?’ growled an oarsman. His fellow rower was lying asleep under the seats.
‘To the
Pleasure Gardens, then, my good man,’ shouted Francis. ‘Let’s to Vauxhall.’
As the ferry wobbled in the water, steadying itself for the first stroke, Charlotte blurted, ‘This is making me seasick!’ She meant it. ‘I’ve got to get off. Tell them to turn back!’ Crouching on all fours, she felt her way to the side of the boat.
‘Gentlemen, row on,’ ordered Francis. ‘Ladies, restrain your sister.’
Lizzie and Mrs Brookes immediately shifted apart to create a new place for Charlotte. They held her carefully, but warily, as if she was a leper with a fortune.
The ferry pulled out, rocking sharply as the oars cut against the current.
‘That’s not like her at all,’ said Mr Tell, watching his daughter gulp and convulse. ‘My girl has never been a soft one; I blame this bad air. How can a man live within it? Is this not an accursed city?’
His wife looked at him as if he was insane.
‘London,’ boomed Francis – Buckram thought he’d been too quiet for too long. ‘London, Queen of cities, all. Best place for a young man, let me tell you.’ He stood upright in the boat and (to his wife’s ill-concealed dismay) began to recite:
Assemblies, parks, coarse feasts in city-halls,
Lectures and trials, plays, committees, balls,
Wells, Bedlams, executions, Smithfield scenes,
And fortune-tellers’ caves and lions’ dens,
Taverns, Exchanges, Bridewells, drawing-rooms,
Instalments, pillories, coronations, tombs,
Tumblers and funerals, puppet-shows, reviews,
Sales, races, rabbits and (still stranger) pews.
There was tolerant applause. The boatmen cackled. Buckram had never heard anything like it. The only part of the verse he could relate to was ‘Bridewells’. Now that Francis had their attention he began to bore them with accounts of his perambulations and excesses in the company of ‘The Good Doctor Johnson’.
Buckram felt relaxed enough with Mr Tell to pose a quiet question: how did he and Francis Barber come to be friends?