Mr Furman nodded. “Folk open their mouth and lies fall out. But this is different, this trial. Oh, it’s not simply about whether some rich white folk get richer, this is about whether we are human beings or blocks of wood.”
He sighed. I didn’t say anything. Truth was, I couldn’t imagine those folk that owned slaves, that forced us to work for nothing, wanted to see us as more than something they could buy or sell – or throw overboard.
After a mug of tea, we walked to Westminster. I had never seen such buildings! The Abbey was bigger than anything I could have imagined, with its pointy spires and towers. I could not believe mere men had built it. Mr Furman laughed and said I should see St Paul’s Cathedral. Then we reached Westminster Hall, an old square building black with dirt, and Mr Furman told me that once the English had tried their own king here, a long time ago. And cut his head off! I thought if they could do that to their own king, then perhaps anything was possible.
And there were so many people! Mr Furman said all the black and brown folk of London would be here to see what happened, and it looked like he was right. Footmen and chairmen in their masters’ fine livery. Women in colourful silk and satins, with hats that must have cost the same as a maid’s annual earnings. Working men and women in aprons and boots. Folk off the street in no boots at all. Then I saw one man, white and heavy-built, head and shoulders above most of the crowd, big as a mountain. I thought I was imagining it at first but he was staring right at me. I felt a flicker of fear and pulled my cap down over my eyes, drawing close to Mr Furman.
We followed the crowd and went inside, past stalls selling oranges and nuts, and up some wooden stairs to a kind of gallery above the open space of the court. Mr Furman seemed to know everyone, and I thought it would take all day to find our seats as he stopped to talk to so many folk. I recognized some of the fellows from last night, sober-suited men with grey hair. Mr Furman pulled me over.
“Nathaniel! Meet Mr Equiano. His name, mark my words, will be known across the world in time.”
Equiano shook his head and took my hand.
Mr Furman went on. “He is writing his life story, Nat.”
Mr Equiano smiled. “I doubt a soul will read it.”
“Capture and freedom? What better story is there, man?” Mr Furman said and I thought I agreed.
I was astonished – a black man, writing his own story! I thought books were for white people. Maybe it would be worth learning my letters if only to be able to read Mr Equiano’s book. Or perhaps, one day, to have the chance to tell my own story, to write it up and have folk read it.
“He bought and paid for his own freedom,” Mr Furman said. I would have liked to have asked how much it had cost, but Mr Furman was already introducing me to another man.
“And this here is Mr Granville Sharp.”
He was a white man, sharp by name and by features, I thought.
“Good morning, Mr Sharp,” I said. The gentleman took my hand and shook it, ordinary as anything. His smile was warm. I looked for Mr Kelsall but there was no sign. I crossed my fingers behind my back. He had to be here! I tried to listen to the gentleman’s conversation but the general noise of the crowd made it hard. Mr Sharp had written to all the newspapers, he said.
“This is an offence against God. We have the Lord Mansfield making the judgement, the foremost legal mind in all of England.”
“Aye,” answered Equiano, “and the slave owners have the Solicitor General to argue for their side.”
“We should be able to speak for ourselves!” Mr Furman said and I have to say I agreed with him.
Mr Equiano put an arm on Mr Furman’s shoulder. “We have to follow the rules.”
“Their rules, man…”
Mr Equiano sighed. “One day, Shadrack, one day we will all be as free as they are.”
“I hope to heaven I live long enough to see that…”
Granville Sharp nodded. “As long as we English exploit our fellow men then none of us is free.”
I looked at Mr Sharp. I thought he had a clever face.
“And Mr Kelsall?” Mr Furman asked. Mr Equiano looked down into the court below. I looked too and saw the first mate of The Brave Venture waiting to play his part. I almost waved but thought he would not see me up here. Mr Kelsall seemed nervous, tugging at his collar, eyes darting around the court.
Suddenly a call came from the court “All Rise!” The crowd stood up. A white man came in, wearing a bright red robe – I thought it was a dress at first – and a long powdered wig. I spotted Frances Sancho waving us over. The man in the robe and wig sat down. Mr Equiano, Mr Sharp, Mr Furman and I all settled down on the bench next to Frances.
“That’s Lord Mansfield himself,” she whispered, and passed round a bag full of oranges. I took one and slipped it into my pocket for later.
Even though we were high up I could hear almost every word that was said in court. It seemed to carry up into the roof clear as a bell. The crowd around us in the gallery gasped as the details of the case were set out by yet another man in a wig, although his was not so long as Lord Mansfield’s. He spoke with his chest puffed out, and his voice was silky. Mr Furman whispered that he was the Solicitor General, the man arguing that the ship’s crew did the right thing in throwing all those people overboard.
He said how the Zong carried far too many slaves for its size, but that Captain Collingwood had only ever tried to save as much of his cargo as he could. He threw some of the cargo overboard because there had not been enough water for everyone.
“Cargo!” Mr Furman cursed under his breath.
The Solicitor General went on. “On November the twenty-ninth, fifty-four slaves, women and children, were thrown overboard, and then, on December the first forty-two men. Over the following few days another thirty-six men were thrown into the sea alive. It was not an attempt to claim insurance,” the Solicitor General looked around the court. Watching in the gallery, the crowd hissed until we were told to quiet.
“Remember, gentlemen, this is not a murder trial!” the Solicitor General said. “This is merely about property, about the disposal of goods and the proper payment of insurance.”
The Solicitor General went on. “These slaves, they were all property, not humans. We are not talking about matters of cruelty!”
I would have thrown something at him if I could. But down on the floor of the court the men seemed to think there was nothing at all wrong with what he had said.
“How can he say that?” Frances Sancho said. Mr Furman looked just as furious.
Then Lord Mansfield, our man, got up and reminded the court that the captain’s log – his diary – was missing.
“When the ship docked at Black River, Jamaica, it was found that over four hundred gallons of fresh drinking water was on board. Enough for every member of the crew and cargo,” he said. I wanted to cheer. Here at last was someone fighting for us. But then he went on. “Whether this is a case of right or wrong is not at stake here.”
I could not believe it! How could anybody think that this wasn’t about right and wrong! Everyone in the gallery sat up, stiff and silent.
“This is merely a case of goods and chattels, as the Solicitor General says,” said Lord Mansfield. “This is merely to discover whether the insurance company should pay out to the Zong’s owners.”
I looked at Frances. Her eyes blazed and I saw Mr Furman squeeze her hand to try and calm her even though I thought he was fit to explode with fury too, as his teeth were set hard. Mr Equiano sighed. I heard him try to explain: “This is a long game we are playing here.” But I had stopped listening.
One grey wig droned on after another, and another. Mr Kelsall said his piece, his voice was just as sad as I remembered. He took off his hat and ran the brim through his hands. I hoped the judge would feel as sorry for him as I did. He did not speak well and the Solicitor General made him out to be a fool who had been dismissed by the captain and so sought to make out that Collingwood was in the wrong.
&
nbsp; Then Lord Mansfield summed up. Mr Furman took Frances’s hand and the whole gallery strained to listen. I barely heard the verdict. I was concentrating so hard on watching Mr Kelsall, to keep an eye on where he went. But when the cheer went up from the gallery, I knew that Lord Mansfield had made the decision against the ship owners. No insurance would be paid. But there was to be no punishment either. I didn’t see why this was such a great cause for celebration, but Mr Sharp was thrilled.
“The way is open now! I will bring a murder case against those ship owners, you wait and see!” he said, clapping Equiano on the back. “There will be justice.”
“And I hope I see the day,” Mr Equiano said, “when black men and women will no longer be property!”
Then the men started talking about liberty and freedom. Mr Furman and Miss Sancho were conversing, heads close together. I thought of Henry and my own liberty – I had to get out of the city.
Quietly, I made my way down the wooden stairs to find Mr Kelsall. Down in the court, it was a crush. Men and women streamed out of the hall. I was swept up in the crowd, struggling against the tide of people as I was pushed into the square to Westminster Bridge. Finally, I managed to weave out of the chaos, and caught my breath. By the time I had got back to the hall, the crowd had thinned. I saw Lord Mansfield, without his red robe, step into a waiting Sedan Chair, and the two chairmen carry him off.
By the door of the court a boy my own age, but lighter skinned, was singing a song about never working again. He wore a suit of clothes made of silver brocade, slightly less showy than the one Missis Palmer would have made me wear. He also had a silver collar around his neck, like that of a dog only bigger. I tried not to stare.
He stopped. “You on the lam?”
I shrugged. I had no idea what he meant.
The boy went on. “I am Mr Percy’s pageboy at Hanover Square, well the Mistress Percy’s, in all fact.”
I did not know what to say. Was he proud of his enslavement? I ignored him and looked around for Mr Kelsall. I was beginning to worry I might have missed him already. Then a note of fear crept into my thoughts. What if I couldn’t even find Mr Furman? Or the Sanchos? What if I was lost again?
“The Percys aren’t so bad,” the silver-suited boy went on. “I wait at tables and walk in front of my lady’s chair.”
I was still looking around and he tugged at my sleeve. “Hey! Who owns you, or are you free as the air?”
“Me? Mr Barratt, only I do not know the address,” I said without thinking. I looked at him and swallowed. I should have kept my mouth shut. Could I trust him just because we shared the same skin colour?
“Are you lost then? If you need anything, just ask. I am always ready –” he bowed a little – “to help a brother.”
I hesitated. He smiled a friendly smile.
“Do you know Shadwell?” I began, but then relief flooded me because I spotted the face I was looking for, standing in the street a few metres away.
“Mr Kelsall!” I shouted out. I mumbled an ‘excuse me’ to the silver boy and ran towards Mr Kelsall waving. I shouted again. “Mr Kelsall! It’s me, Nathaniel. Nathaniel Barratt!”
The man turned, he met my eye, and as he did so someone grabbed me from behind. It was the man I’d seen inside the hall, the massive mountain-sized man who’d been staring at me. He gathered me up as easily as if I were a piece of cloth. My arms were pinned to my sides and the force of the grip was so strong that I thought my bones would snap in two.
“Let go, sir!” My legs were off the ground. The man threw me into the back of a wagon and before I could jump out, he tied my hands behind my back.
“That’s the one.” The boy in the silver suit nodded. “He belongs to the Barratts, Mr Gemson, like you thought. He told me himself.”
The silver-clothed boy put out his hand. “I’ll take my finder’s fee now, thank you.”
The man mountain dropped some coins into his hand. The boy turned and walked away before I could curse him. I looked around wildly for Mr Furman or anyone I knew, but the wagon jolted forward and I fell face down into the bottom of the cart. I was free no longer.
CHAPTER
9
The cart rolled to a stop outside the Barratts’ house. Mr Gemson rang the bell and one of the footmen thanked him as he heaved me out of the cart and set me down on the pavement. The footman told Mr Gemson to wait for his reward.
“You’re in for it now!” the footman said to me, his hand gripping my shoulder hard.
Suddenly there was a sharp shout. “You’re to bring him with me. Master Barratt will see him in the library!”
Missis Palmer stood on the front steps. Her expression was closed up and stony, like always. The footman marched me over, and as soon as I came close she slapped me hard around the face.
“You ungrateful wretch, Nathaniel Barratt!”
My face stung like it was on fire. I heard the door in the front area open and saw Mary had come out of the kitchen. She was standing in the lower doorway watching. She looked furious. I shook my head. There was nothing she could do.
The footman held my arm with a grip of iron and fair hauled me up the grand staircase behind Missis Palmer. I tried to tell myself to keep my chin up, but my knees felt weak. Missis Palmer opened the door to the library – it was the room she had found me in with Mary. I thought that was not a good omen.
I looked around. It was quiet, apart form the clock ticking and the fire crackling, and first of all I thought the room was empty. But as Missis Palmer shut the door behind her, I saw the young master at the window holding a glass of wine. He was smiling, but I knew he would not be sympathetic. It was a very unpleasant smile.
“Nathaniel, isn’t it?” he said and took a drink. “You have been a great disappointment.” My shoulders ached from having my hands tied together behind my back and I longed to shake them free. But I kept as still as possible, while he watched me like a cat eyeing up its next meal. He drained his wine glass. “Have you nothing to say?” He crossed the room and stood in front of me. I could smell his breath: wine and tobacco.
I opened my mouth to say sorry, but before I realised what was happening he threw me on to the floor and kicked me. I saw his shiny boot coming towards me and the pain shot through my body. I could not shield my face with my hands so I curled into a ball as the blows rained down. Then the door opened. I turned my head to see the old mistress with Mr Bird sitting on her shoulder. Missis Palmer stood behind her. The young master’s boot stopped, mid swing. The old mistress curled her lip and stood over me.
“Get up, ungrateful child. Or I might tell Mr Bird to take your eye out. After all, where you’re going one eye is just as good as two.”
It was hard to get up with my hands still tied. I knew Mr Bird’s beak would rip my eyelids open and pluck out my eyeball easy as slicing a grape.
“There’s a ship at the start of next week. We are sending you back,” the old mistress said. “You are old enough for the field – and certainly not suitable as a gift for a duke and duchess.”
Even though my ribs still hurt from the kicking I could not help a small smile. I would be closer to Mamma and Martha. And even through they would have me break my back in the field I would see Thomas again…
“The idiot smiles,” the young master said, and I remembered to make my face blank again. “He will not smile with half a foot and only one eye.”
I swallowed again. How would I make it over the mountains to the free towns of the Maroons with half a foot? What about Martha? How would Mamma carry her with me to help too? My eyes were prickling. I blinked.
The old mistress smiled, and I bit back the tears. They would not make me cry. She and Missis Palmer swished away and the young master poured himself another glass of wine. I swallowed, my heart sinking. He hadn’t finished with me. I stood as tall as I could given my bruising.
“Ungrateful devil,” the young master said. He drew back his hand and knocked me to the ground. My head hit the floor with a
loud smack and the world went dark.
I remembered nothing until I woke up the next morning. My ribs hurt something rotten. But at least I still had my two eyes and feet. I could hear the church bells ringing and thought it must be Sunday. I could see I was in an attic room, with a low sloping roof. I was lying on the floor with my face against the bare boards. Every part of my body ached. How long had I been here? I wondered what Mr Furman was doing. Was he worrying about me, or had he forgotten me already? Would he be out in the square this afternoon, dancing, like Mary said, the ship on his hat rolling over pretend seas? I should have asked him to show me when I had the chance. I could be free in my head, couldn’t I? What did Mamma say? Walk tall, they cannot hurt us. They have hurt us so hard and for so long. What more can one blow do?
I blinked away the tears and rubbed my eyes. Outside the church bells kept on ringing. My mouth was dry and my lips were cracked. I reached up to touch them and felt a tiny flash of joy as I realized someone had untied my hands. I stretched my arms out, hearing the bones in my shoulders pop, and looked around. The room was full of old furniture, boxes and paintings propped up against each other. A small window was set into the roof and on the sill – my heart leapt again – was a bowl of water and some grapes. I sat up, even though it hurt to do so. I would gulp that water down then plan my escape. By the look of it the window was unlocked, perhaps my luck had changed.
But then a horrible screech cut through the air. There was a flapping of wings, and Mr Bird flew down from the pile of broken furniture. He settled on the windowsill, and I realised with dismay that the water was his, the bowl splattered with his mess. Mr Bird skittered sideways on its horrible claws and claimed the grapes too. It pulled the bunch apart with its scaly claws and stabbed the point of its beak hard into the grape. All the while looking straight at me with its shiny black-button eyes.
“Horrid boy! Horrid boy!” It laughed and stretched out its wings. No wonder they’d untied me. That creature would watch me better than any guard dog. The minute I opened that window, or tried to escape, Mr Bird would raise the alarm.
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