“John Clarkson volunteered to superintend the Nova Scotians’ journey. I’m bound to say he did the job well. He went over there and travelled hundreds of miles – at his own expense — to collect all the ex-slaves who wanted to go. He got about 1,200 altogether, not counting something like 120 white people. They arrived in Sierra Leone about six months ago. I’m told they’ve settled in pretty well, clearing the bush and putting up some shacks.”
“How are they getting on with the English?”
“Not badly, I believe. Well, you see, they’re almost all black people together, English or Nova Scotian. That’s why you’ll be such a help to me.”
“Are they represented?” I asked. “I mean, is there any system of representation that extends to everybody?”
“Yes, there is,” said Mr. Macaulay. “It’s known as ‘tithings’. Tithings are groups of ten families. They elect a leader annually, who’s known as a ‘tithingman’. Every ten tithingmen elect a ‘hundredor’, who has access to the Governor and the Council. The really important job of the hundredors is keeping law and order, and they’ve been given judicial power accordingly.”
“Does it work?”
“More or less, as far as I can gather. It’s not really been going long enough for anyone to be sure.”
“How about land? That’s what the trouble was about in Nova Scotia, you said.”
“Yes; well, Sharp’s idea is that land’s to be equally divided among everybody. Personally, I think that if we’re going to have any trouble, land’s what it’ll be about. ‘Stands to reason, don’t you think?”
The other passengers aboard were of interest both to Mr. Macaulay and to myself. Besides Mr. Gilbert, only one was white. This was Mr. Philip Watt, who was returning to Sierra Leone after a trip to England to buy agricultural tools – spades, rakes, shears and the like – with which he was returning to his property some miles inland. He told us that a few years before, he had been attracted to Sierra Leone with the idea of buying land cheap and using it partly for growing fruit and vegetables for sale and partly for farming livestock. He told us that after an initial period of trial and error, he was becoming successful. One of his assets was cheap labour although, as he said, it was “quite a job to train the natives”. He paid them partly in produce — both animal and vegetable – and partly in plots of land that they wanted to cultivate for themselves.
“Sheep and cattle are no good,” he said, “no good for my purposes, anyway; but goats do well and so do pigs. The black fellows are all right once you get to know their ways. You have to make them feel they’re a tribe and you’re the Chief. I’ll make out all right if I don’t get murdered first. That’s the excitement, of course. They like a drink, but you have to be sure to keep it locked up and dole it out in small tots.”
I made the acquaintance of two brothers — freed slaves — who had been on trial for robbery with violence; a capital crime. Their defence had been that they could get no work and were starving, and the judge had remitted the death penalty on condition that they immediately emigrated to Sierra Leone and never returned.
One group of black men and their wives said that they had been given free passage and a little money by “Massa Dornton”, secretary of the Company. They had also been provided with a letter (which, of course, they couldn’t read) of recommendation to the Governor, vouching for them as honest and industrious people.
The only single woman was a girl, aged about eighteen and plainly pregnant, who was accompanied by her brother. The father of her child, she told us, had emigrated to Sierra Leone, and the two of them were going out to join him. She did not say whether or not her lover was expecting them: I could only hope she wouldn’t be disappointed.
A number of those on board were trained craftsmen – or said they were; I counted two cobblers, three carpenters, a tailor, a blacksmith and a metal-worker. All felt sure of finding a demand for their skills in “Freedom Province”. The others hoped to find employers for their labour and also to be given land for themselves.
“They haven’t reckoned with the climate,” said Mr. Watt, while we were strolling on deck. “There’s always a few out of every new lot who get sick and die. What the place really needs is doctors, but I doubt we’ll ever get any.”
“No medical treatment at all?” asked Mr. Macaulay.
“Huh! Witch doctors and gri-gri. Well, that’s as much as they’ve ever known, most of ’em. They trust the witch doctors because they’ve got to trust something. A few get better simply because they believe they will.”
When we eventually sighted West Africa, it recalled all my experience of Hawkshot’s slave voyage and the coast of Nigeria. Jungle, matted, shaggy green, extended either way as far as the eye could see: far inland rose mountains, like another world, remote and inaccessible in the evening light. The sight brought me no pleasant memories and, as we approached, the heat from the land began to feel oppressive, just as at Lagos. In my wish for a change, I had somehow contrived to forget about the humid heat and the fatal illnesses among Hawkshot’s crew.
It was early evening when our ship came nearer inshore and began sailing parallel to the coast. Mr. Macaulay, Mr. Watt and I went forward and leant on the port bow rail, to avoid the crowd of other passengers further astern. Ahead lay an estuary dotted with islands. I asked Mr. Watt whether this was our destination.
“No,” he replied. “That’s the Searcies estuary – the Great and Small Searcies rivers. That’s Salatook Point we’re passing now and those islands ahead are the Searcies Islands, a slave depot.”
As we came closer to the islands, we could see groups of black men and women sitting or lying on the bare ground; the place was dotted with dilapidated wooden huts, several with muddy trenches along their sides.
“Those are to drain off the rain,” explained Mr. Watt. “Otherwise the whole place would flood in a matter of hours.”
A few of the slaves waved to the ship, but most seemed listless and apathetic. I remarked to Mr. Watt on their pitiful and dejected appearance.
“The African slave-merchants who bring them from inland leave them on the islands,” he said, “and then the slave-ships come and drag them on board to cross the Atlantic. A lot of them die either on the islands or else on the voyage.”
Mr, Macaulay said nothing, but I could guess what he was feeling.
“That’s Barlock Point ahead of us,” went on Mr. Watt. “It’s about another thirty miles to Freetown.”
As the sun began to set – it sets quickly in these low latitudes – we came to another estuary, but instead of entering made for its southern point, on which we saw a crowd, evidently awaiting our arrival. Country folk – I should know, should I not? – are excitable and usually noisy with it, and as we approached we saw and heard them capering and chanting. We drew in to the half-finished, makeshift moorings and as two of our sailors flung ropes ashore, any number of men rushed to grab them, falling over one another before they were made fast.
One white man, who stood out among the crowd, came forward to greet us as we tottered down the gangplank and came ashore. This I knew at once, from the family resemblance to Mr. Thomas, to be Mr. John Clarkson, the Governor. Mr. Macaulay, keeping me beside him, stepped forward to shake hands, and Mr. Clarkson bade us welcome, making himself heard as best he could in the surrounding hubbub. After a few words he turned and guided us out of the crowd towards a cluster of wooden huts standing back from the shore. The tangled grass was soft and spongy, and I could feel the water beneath my feet oozing up at every step.
We came to the only hut with a second storey and one by one clambered into the upper room. This was furnished with a wooden table, on which were lying various papers, five or six roughly-made stools and two solid blocks of wood bevelled at the top into shallow concavities to form seats. In one corner lay two or three mattresses, pillows and rolled-up bedding.
“Rough quarters,” said Mr. Clarkson, “but they’re all right once you get used to them. We’ve got two quit
e comfortable huts for you, Mr. Watt. Four of your fellows are here ready to paddle you up to your place, but of course it’s quite a way in the dark, and I expect you’d rather stay here tonight and go up tomorrow, wouldn’t you? They’re unloading your tools and implements now.”
“Thanks,” said Mr. Watt. “That’ll suit me very well.”
“Bill Dawes’ll be coming in a bit later,” went on Mr. Clarkson. “He’ll be here for the meal, anyway. Now let’s all have a drink and get comfortable.”
He called to the servants below, two of whom appeared with whisky, water and earthenware cups.
Mr. Clarkson enquired after Mr. Wilberforce and the rest of the Clapham Sect. When he was told of the lost debate in the Commons he said it was a great disappointment, but exactly what he had feared.
As soon as Mr. Dawes had joined us, the servants brought supper, which consisted of roast pork, bread and rice, followed by cheese and a variety of fresh fruit.
Mr. Clarkson told us how difficult he found it to live in proximity with masters of slave-holding depots and captains of slaving-ships, and to be obliged to keep up a pretence of being on good terms with them. “They could smash us to pieces if they wanted to,” he said. “But now there’s another threat as well. We’re at war with the French. I’m half-expecting an attack at any time; and we haven’t got much to hit back with.”
Later, as we set off for bed, Mr. Clarkson led the way to our huts. Each of us was given a candle, which burned steadily in the windless air, but we still found it awkward going on the sodden ground. Mr. Clarkson pointed me to an open door and I saw a light inside. Going in, I was met by a black girl who had evidently been waiting for me. She wore a cheap cotton frock and little else.
“Sir,” she said, “my name is Vasta. I your personal servant. I have bring your bags from ship and I make your bed here. Will you want else?”
She looked about fifteen, nervous and not sure of herself. I took her hand (which she had not offered), smiled and said, “My name’s Daniel. I’m glad to meet you. I don’t want anything else tonight, Vasta, thank you. Everything fine. You come tomorrow, wake me up?”
She managed a smile and said, “I bring you tea, coffee?”
“Coffee. And hot water, shave?” I gestured. “Good night now.”
I felt very tired. The grubby mattress and pillow looked positively inviting. I thought about mosquitoes and insects, dismissed them from mind, kept on my shirt and trousers, wrapped myself in the top sheet and slept.
Next morning, woken by Vasta with the coffee and hot water, I had a quick shave and found Mr. Clarkson, Mr. Dawes and Mr. Macaulay breakfasting on eggs and bacon. When I had finished mine, Mr. Clarkson said he wanted to talk to us about the present state of the Colony.
“This is a Council meeting,” he began. “Do you want Daniel to stay?”
“Well, he is one of the Clapham Sect,” replied Mr. Macaulay. He smiled, “It would be helpful to me, if you can put up with him. He’s had valuable experience, working with your brother Thomas, and he’s served on a slave ship, West Africa to Jamaica.”
Mr. Clarkson nodded. “Good. Well, the Council will co-opt him. We have the power to do that. The first thing I’ve got to emphasise to you is that we’ve come out of the rainy season in a bad way. The truth is that we’ve been overwhelmed with immigrants. We weren’t prepared for the last lot that arrived from England in February, and when I brought in more than a thousand black Nova Scotians — that was in April — preparations had only been made for about four hundred. The death of poor Peters has had a bad effect on the morale of the Nova Scotians and left them without any real leader. We all miss him very much.
“Mind you, they’re a good lot, the Nova Scotians, hardworking, decent people, most of them. As soon as they arrived they got down to work, clearing the bush and laying out the plan for their town. They’ve done very well, too, in starting on a wharf and a warehouse. And they’ve built themselves a religious meetinghouse as well as a school for their children. We have to give them credit for all that. Their women are good, too — spinning, weaving, laundering. And they’ve got two or three midwives – a real blessing. But the shacks they put up for themselves are mostly small – too flimsy — not really meant to last. A lot of them broke up in the rains and they’re working on better ones now,”
“Well,” said Mr. Dawes, “all that sounds creditable. What are the problems?”
“There are two, really,” said Mr. Clarkson. “First, they’re all deeply religious. In one way that’s all to the good, of course. But they’re split up into three non-conformist groups: Wesleyan, Baptist and Countess of Huntingdon’s Election. They don’t quarrel, but they meet separately and sometimes make contradictory decisions. Too many people setting out to be top dog.
They confer among themselves and I don’t get to hear what they say or think. Admittedly a lot of them are a better sort of person than the immigrants from England. The danger is of a separate body of the Nova Scotians, with a majority over everyone else, becoming a government within a government that calls all the shots. We don’t want them taking the place over.”
“What can we do about that?” asked Mr. Dawes,
“The answer’s ‘Not much’, I’m afraid. We must just go on working for a balanced society. At least if I say something as Governor, they listen conscientiously. I mean, they’re aware of the problem and honestly try to mix with the English. You might be the right one of us to gain their confidence, Daniel, don’t you think?”
“I’ll certainly be glad to help all I can, sir.”
“Fine. Go among them, get to know them and let us know how you get on.”
“And what’s the second problem?” asked Mr. Macaulay.
“I’ll give you three guesses. No, one guess. Land, of course. This is their greatest grievance – the delay in granting them farmland. They can’t really be blamed for feeling resentful. Before they went to Nova Scotia from America they were told that they’d be given twenty acres apiece. But they never received any land at all. They were impoverished. And then, when they came here, they were expecting to get land at the same rate. When I arrived with them in April, we found there weren’t even any houses ready for them. The administrative people the Company sent out from England had done nothing at all except put up their own houses. And they’ve behaved very badly to the Nova Scotians — you know, calling them ‘bloody niggers’ and all that, and not even trying to get to know them. The Company sent out a ship that was meant for a hospital, but the officials took it over for themselves. I managed to put a stop to that, but the Nova Scotians have only been given about four acres each — there simply isn’t any more to give them — cleared land, that is.
“It troubles me to see the Settlers – as they call themselves – in such a state. Most of their houses aren’t properly covered in and there’s far too much illness – a lot of it’s scurvy. I had a good relationship with them in Nova Scotia and on the voyage, but I’m afraid I’ve lost it now. Provisions are running short, too. The fact is that things are out of hand. Peters was first-class. He had the influence that was needed to make them exercise restraint and keep the peace. But now he’s gone I’m afraid they may decide to take matters into their own hands. And what’s at the bottom of it is their discontent about the land.”
“They regarded Peters as their real leader, did they?” asked Mr, Dawes.
“Most of them would have revolted against the Company to make him Governor of an independent settlement,” replied Mr. Clarkson. “But he wouldn’t go along with that. He stood out for the Company; for law and order, and they obeyed him because they thought so highly of him. But they were pretty sullen about it, most of them.”
There was a pause. At length Mr. Macaulay asked, “There’s another thing, isn’t there, you meant to tell us?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Mr. Clarkson. “About our relationship with the natives, the Temne. The chief’s known as King Jimmy, and he’s the man with whom it’s vital we keep on frie
ndly terms. It was he who made the trouble three years ago, when his people destroyed the Colony. He took a risk there, because he had an overlord, King Naimbanna, who’d always been friendly to us. It was Naimbanna who confirmed the original treaty, making over the land we’re on now. So what it really comes to is how much restraint Naimbanna can exercise over King Jimmy. Jimmy’s kept pretty quiet lately. I paid him a visit soon after I arrived and he received me quite civilly; but I could see he was rather uncomfortable. The truth is, I think, that he doesn’t really trust white men. We make him uneasy.
“After that visit, I took care to talk to King Nuimbannu too. I sent one of our ships to bring him clown from Robanna, and went aboard to meet him. We got on very well. He’d brought his queen and two of his daughters, and they had dinner with us. He speaks a little English and enjoyed airing it on me. I trust him more than I trust King Jimmy,
“So the situation’s a bit fraught, and we have to take care not to do anything that might upset the Temne,” said Mr. Dawes.
“That’s right.”
“But things have been getting better since the rain’s stopped for this year, haven’t they?” asked Mr. Macaulay.
“Well,” replied Mr. Clarkson, “looking on the bright side, there are a few things to feel cheerful about. The Settlers appreciate the difficulty of clearing the bush, and they’ve agreed to the grant of four acres a man, on the understanding that we go on doing all we can to increase it. And Freetown’s getting bigger and in better shape. They’ve dropped the name ‘Granville’, for some reason. There are quite a few good houses — substantial ones — and the gardens are producing a lot: rice, yams, bananas, cabbages and so on. Several Settlers are keeping pigs and poultry and I’ve persuaded the Company in London to award prizes for the best results.”
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