by S. I. Martin
He made two circuits of the square as agreed, checking for watchmen, bailiffs, soldiers: any armed white males. But today the greater part of London was on the other side of town, at Newgate, depending on a hanging for their pleasures.
The coach pulled up at No. 9 on the north-east corner where a thirteen-starred, thirteen-striped flag flicked lazily in the afternoon breeze. It was the American Embassy in London.
A podgy, purple-faced footman fussed about in the immediate street, waiting for the arrivals to disembark.
Buckram remembered Georgie’s instructions: Posture, posture! You’re servant to a king. Eyes always forward, back straight, shoulders out. Never look back.
He felt Newton and Hercules dismount and open the carriage door. The coach rose and dipped twice as Georgie George and William Supple disembarked.
Buckram saw it in his mind’s eye; the American footman – probably some no-hoper ex-pimp impressed from Trenton, New Jersey – ushering the house guests, with contemptuous ceremony, to the front door. These four garishly clothed black men arriving with a chest, two of them muttering together in some outlandish tongue and oblivious to his presence, these four near savages who he’d show through the doors before him.
It all happened wordlessly. Buckram heard a door slam, he heard it being locked and bolted. He looked across at Hercules and met an equally raised pair of eyebrows.
There was one other person in the square, rounding the corner by the garden. An over-excited child, whipping his hoop back onto the yellowing grass.
Something was wrong, thought William. It was all wrong. He sensed this the moment the embassy’s large, polished door clicked shut behind him.
There were too many people in the house. A handful of serving maids, Georgie had said. Nothing had prepared him for the commotion about them in the foyer. House servants – he counted at least seven – shuttled from room to room. An argument raged in the kitchen below stairs. Somewhere above, in the three upper storeys, a girl was complaining loudly to her mother about her limited choice of clothes.
‘Oh mother, puh-lease, nobody wears a zona in London. Everyone’s always laughing at us. Why do we have to be so … démodé?’
‘Nabby, you will wear exactly what Catherine has laid out for you. It’s the latest fashion from Boston. The choice of all the quality young ladies.’
‘Mommmeee!’
Every few seconds a door on the right side of the foyer opened and a rude-featured man looked them up and down and scoffed openly. The man was plump, hot-cheeked and blue-eyed; if Georgie hadn’t given them a prior description of Minister Adams, William would have mistaken him for a typical ‘John Bull’ Englishman.
William began to sweat under his heavy, voluminous clothes. He quelled his mounting discomfort with thoughts of the two letters he carried in his briefs. The first letter was a missive from Mary. It had been hand-delivered two days earlier by a white clergyman recently arrived from the colonies. The good preacher – ordained in the Countess of Huntingdon’s Connection (Mary’s new church) – had spent a whole week tracking William down. His disapproval at finding him ensconced in the Charioteer was evident. William briefly recalled the shame he felt at inviting the man over the threshold and how his attempts at hospitality (offers of drink and a cot on his floor) were gently refused. The preacher was keen to be on his way, and William had struggled to hide his relief at his swift departure.
The news was good, despite Mary’s terse, remonstrative style. She had moved back to New York with the children and was living near to Wall Street where she was making a living as a seamstress. Their poverty was extreme, but with God’s help, they were able to make ends meet. Phillip and Nehemiah were receiving regular religious instruction and prayed for the day when they would be re-united with their father. She hoped that Buckram and Neville were in good health and prospering as much in their respective occupations as he was in his. (How was the London theatre these days?) Gullah was dead – killed by a bout of the ‘king’s evil’. Almost everyone she knew in the free black community in New York was planning to emigrate to Nova Scotia. She requested money and asked how the weather was in London. She hoped he would inform them of his plans at the earliest opportunity. And she sent him all their love.
William had locked himself in his room, all the better to indulge himself in an hour of weeping, after which he composed his reply:
Dearest wife,
Description would but beggar the joy felt on receipt of your good news. Good Mary, many was the night I passed in deepest gloom, beset by thoughts of your travails, and my heart is well pleased to learn of your untiring efforts to maintain our little ones in the ways of rectitude. Acquainted as you are with the ways of our former masters, I trust you do bend their young minds ever towards the written word. It will stand them in good stead in that land where ignorance is the best and only security for obedience. Send both my love and fondest regards.
I am greatly dismayed to hear of the passing away of my old companion Gullah. I fear we will never again see his like, but I pray that his spirit is now at peace with the God of the Mother Country. It now falls upon me to relate an equal misfortune. Our good friend, Neville Franklin, has also found final rest. Alas, murder is suspected. Black life is almost as cheap in London as in the colonies, Mary. But we struggle on nonetheless. Friend Buckram is the same as always and asks after you constantly.
As for myself, I am greatly changed, and all for the better. Dear Mary, I fear I must confess a change of heart. You will forgive my inconstancy when I inform you of my good fortune. My appearances on the London stage continue apace, and I have recently come to the end of another successful season on the boards of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane. (Were it not for the constant and unfathomable popularity of the ‘Moor of Venice’, I would surely starve!)
Now to the good news. A new production is afoot, and I have been chosen to play the lead role. The title of the piece is ‘The Incomparable World’. It is a radical new work, bound to revolutionize the stage. The author, a Mr George George (rum name, eh?), is a renowned wit and man about town. This venture will, I believe, for the first time, address the concerns of our benighted people, both here and in the Americas. It is theatre of the highest order, and considerable sums of money have been pledged towards its successful execution. On completion of said play, it is my firm intention to return to the American States and be once more by your side.
My darling, I regret to say that this city has changed, and I with it. Much ill-feeling has grown against the black folk who sojourn here, and as I write schemes are in motion to rid the Kingdom of us via some great ‘African Resettlement’. I know not where this will lead but, suffice to say, there can be no home for us here. Not for the first time (or, dare I say, the last), I bow to your judgement, and have decided that we shall go to Nova Scotia, there to seek our fortunes. Money shall be no problem, believe me.
I bid you farewell now, beseeching you to know that our separation and suffering is but temporary and that all too soon, God willing, we will be together as man and wife. Till then, with all my love.
Your husband and faithful servant
William Supple Esq.
This letter, still unposted, lay nestled with Mary’s correspondence where it steadily absorbed the perspiration from his thigh. He would now have to mail it from Plymouth, if all turned to the good in the next twenty-four hours. That would also, he realized, be the best time to inform Georgie of his change of plan. His ticket, however, was already booked for Recife, and the thought of making his way alone from Brazil to New York induced a fear almost as great as that of failing in this exploit only to dangle at the end of a hangman’s noose.
He took small comfort from the two loaded pistols bandaged to his chest and the poignard strapped to his calf. Georgie, Newton and Charles were similarly equipped. Nonetheless, he was scared for his life as never before.
It was the voices, he realized; American voices – that stream of mellifluous, bossy yelps calling fro
m floor to floor and seeming to increase in volume as the space between the speakers diminished. Voices from a land without frontiers.
His master’s voice.
He felt four years old again, back on the auction block in Charlestown, being examined by business-like eyes and callous hands.
He looked at Georgie George. The man was ashen-faced and expressionless. Impossible to read his mind.
News of their arrival had filtered through the building, and one by one members of the household, each on phoney errands, trooped past to gawp.
Presently, a black man came on the scene. He was a fat, bald butler. He directed them, without any acknowledgement whatsoever, through a pair of double doors to a large, high-ceilinged room which William knew to be the dining room of state.
‘Wait here,’ he said. He closed the doors, leaving them alone again.
A massive mahogany table, capable of seating fifteen people, occupied most of the room. Above it hung a huge, dusty crystal chandelier. The walls were decorated with framed paintings of pastoral licentiousness. A rear window gave onto a small, unkempt garden.
William made to speak but Georgie silenced him with a gesture. The King of the Beggars went to the front window to survey the square and to check on Buckram and Hercules.
‘Time,’ he commanded.
Charles whipped out a fob watch. ‘Twelve fourteen,’ he said.
Georgie cursed sharply. They were ten minutes behind schedule. William felt himself beginning to panic. Buckram was under orders to intervene physically if they didn’t reappear after twenty minutes. It would be just like him to do something rash at this stage.
Three pairs of footsteps sounded in the foyer, walking towards the dining room.
‘Let’s get this over quickly,’ whispered Georgie. His voice quavered. ‘No dramatics. Everyone to their posts.’
No dramatics, thought William. My God, the man’s a fool.
They faced the door in two ranks of two, Georgie beside William, behind them Charles and Newton with the small campaign chest.
The black butler opened the doors for two obviously rich but roughly dressed and unwigged white men.
‘Mr Hayden Irving,’ he announced. ‘And Mr Tom Palmer.’
As the doors were closing again, William noticed the footman and another fellow sidling up to stand guard, one on either side, in the foyer. He stiffened himself, trying to look more regal than petrified.
‘Chief Kwaku,’ said Irving, ‘an honour to make your acquaintance.’ The slaver inclined his head gracefully but did not move to take William’s hand. He was a burly man who looked as if he’d just stepped from behind a plough. He had extraordinarily large teeth over which his lips had difficulty closing: it was hard to tell if he was wincing with pain or beaming for joy. William let his eyes fall on the mouth again. The teeth were strong, white and shiny like new-ivory cuff-links. They were simply too large for his gums and it dawned on William that they were not his own – they’d once belonged to a black man.
‘I see you are admiring the Minister’s chandelier,’ said Irving.
William was trying not to stare at the teeth.
‘A fine example of French crystal, is it not? A souvenir from Mr Adams’s sojourn in Paris.’
William grunted in what he hoped was a convincingly royal African manner.
‘If you will permit,’ interjected Georgie, ‘Chief Kwaku is not conversant with the English tongue. I will officiate as his porte-parole and interpreter.’
‘No need, my friend, no need,’ gushed Irving. ‘In expectation of such a circumstance I have invited my associate, Mr Tom Palmer here, to act in such a capacity. He is a long-time resident of the Slave Coast and fluent in all the major languages and dialects of that area. Mr Palmer?’
The second American was a sallow-faced, poxy individual dressed in an old-fashioned, purple, pleated coat with deep cuffs. The tune ‘Yankee Doodle’ came to William’s mind. Mr Palmer cleared his throat and licked his lips.
‘Kwaku Iba, orongona ikeni boyo-se. Numuni awa-se ngbonye!’
William froze. Beside him, Georgie laughed gently.
‘It is our custom, Mr Palmer, that none but the appointed officials, in this case, my good self, may address his Highness directly. We are guests in this country and therefore wish to conduct our affairs in the corresponding tongue, if you please.’
‘As you wish,’ squeaked the linguist. He smiled weakly and furrowed his brows. He looked beaten and forlorn; if William had a bag of sweets he would have offered it to him.
Hayden Irving harrumphed and interjected, ‘Perhaps you gentlemen would like to get straight to business. Please be seated.’
William and Georgie pulled out chairs at the corner of the table. Charles and Newton remained standing, their eyes firmly on the campaign chest.
Irving went to the door and rapped on it thrice. The two footmen dragged in a large iron safe-box, placed it near the top of the room and retreated to their places out in the foyer.
‘This, I believe, will prove sufficient indication of our intent to a successful conclusion of our discussions.’ Irving worked a fat key in the lock while beckoning George and William to inspect the contents.
The lid creaked up. Refracted, flickering light sparkled up from the box onto their hungry, hovering faces. They looked down with mounting disbelief at a little girl’s treasure trove of baubles, gewgaws, coloured glass, redundant muskets, mirrors, beads and trinkets.
‘Fucksters!’ spat Georgie.
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Palmer.
‘Fucksters,’ Georgie repeated in an entirely American voice devoid of any emotion. He was erect and facing the two white men with a pistol in his hand. William stifled a yell. Newton and Charles had also drawn firearms. With some difficulty, William extricated his own weapon from beneath his robes.
‘You two,’ barked Georgie. ‘Step aside.’
They complied.
Georgie stepped backwards to the safe-box and ran his hands through the booby prizes. Shaking his head, he threw handful after handful to the floor. He cleared several layers of the rubbish away then looked into the box and grunted. He drew out a bar of solid gold.
‘How much of this d’you have?’ He directed the question to Irving.
The slave-trader was immobile. His nostrils quivered and a vein pulsed blue and angry above his neckerchief.
‘How much?’
Irving’s mouth worked desperately trying to shape words but no sound followed. Georgie nodded briskly at William.
Without pausing to think, William flipped his pistol, caught it by the barrel and bashed Irving’s dentures.
The man crumpled to his knees holding his face with both hands, his sobbing rising to a low howl. Georgie kicked him in his head. ‘No noise, understand?’ Using his whole body, Irving nodded.
Palmer was inching away from the scene towards the door.
‘Msekwe,’ he muttered, cupping his hands.
‘Msekwe Iba, fa bono.’
The two Africans tittered.
‘You. I’ll ask you the same question,’ said George. ‘What’s the gold worth?’
‘Korombenne wa fushoa, Iba.’
Georgie shook his head and said, ‘Boys, make him talk English.’
Charles flicked open a razor.
‘Msekwe …’ squealed Palmer. He lunged for the door and fell against the handle as a bullet splashed some of his brain against the woodwork.
For a few seconds the shot was the only sound in the house, in the square, and seemingly in the streets of the city beyond.
The door, pulled ajar by Tom Palmer’s collapse, creaked open. A startled footman stared through the widening gap at the smoking pistol in William’s fist. He looked down and saw Palmer’s hand, in its frilly cuff, twitching by the base of the door. And there was Mr Irving cowering in the corner, fingering his broken, bloody mouth. The footmen both drew pistols and ran to the centre of the foyer shouting out the alarm to the entire house.
&
nbsp; ‘The door,’ Georgie said calmly. ‘Secure it. Use the table.’
The Grenadier Guardsmen jumped into action, kicking chairs out of the way and walking the heavy table in short, awkward pivots to the door.
‘William, go and help them. Hurry!’
William tried to loosen his vice-like grip on the pistol but his hand and forearm were seized up with incredible cramps. Still holding the used, useless weapon, he helped haul the table to the door and jam it under the handles.
‘Listen to me, you in there!’ The voice from the foyer could only have come from a man who styled himself Minister Plenipotentiary.
‘Listen to me, I demand the immediate release of the American citizens, Hayden Irving and Tom Palmer. You are in illegal occupancy of these premises. You will surrender yourself to my marines at the count of ten. One … two …’
As the count began, Georgie seemed to compose himself all the more. ‘Hmmm,’ he said, ‘Newton, ready your lucifers. Charles, get out a couple of the big bangers. William, come carry the strong-box with me. We’re leaving by the window.’
‘What are you doing, mister?’
The boy with the hoop sat cross-legged by the embassy wall and watched Buckram and Hercules lug a fat little cannon, the size of a bull terrier, from the carriage onto the pavement at great speed. It had all started when something like a firework had gone off in the building. Secretly, he hoped that it was a gunshot he’d heard, and that it was nasty, ugly Nabby Adams who’d been murdered.
‘What are you doing?’
‘We’re playing a game,’ Buckram replied, breathlessly.
He crouched down, almost to the ground and took a sight along the length of the barrel. ‘Right a fraction.’
Hercules tapped the cannon round to the correct position.
‘Are you a chocolate-man?’ the boy asked.
‘Yes,’ said Buckram, angling the weapon with one hand while fishing for matches with the other.
‘Perfect. Front door lined up.’
Hercules tamped down the pre-loaded powder and dropped in a ball.