‘All Davie is saying,’ said John, ‘is we should take more care of them. That’s Christian if nothing else.’
‘Oh man, dinna let them near Christ!’ Kinloch exploded. ‘Christ and kindness are troublemakers on a plantation. If ye gie them a sniff at Christ, they’ll say they’re saved and that makes them as good as ony white man. Treat them wi kindness and they’ll repay ye wi idleness, complaints, grievances. It’s but a step frae there to resentment and plotting.’
‘Kindness doesn’t enter into it,’ said James Wedderburn. ‘And I’m not interested in saving their souls either. I want as much work out of my slaves as you. I want as much money out of the crop. The best way to get that is healthy slaves. How much does a slave cost? A good one, a young, fit, Africa-born Coromantee?’
‘Fifty pound,’ said Kinloch.
‘Sixty,’ said James.
‘Ye’re being robbed.’
‘Well, give or leave the ten pounds, it’s a high price. I want that slave to last ten years at least. Perhaps twenty.’
‘Away!’
‘I have to season him for a year –’
‘Six months.’
‘– feed him and clothe him while he lives. I want him free of worms, yellow fever, the flux, poxes, consumption, the yaws – anything that stops him working. If I whip him every time he is ill, that is more time lost while he mends. Whip a slave for theft, or insolence, or running away, or refusing to work – of course. But let’s be sure we whip them for the right things. Oh, and I want him to make me a lot more slave bairns too. I don’t practise kindness, George. I practise economy.’
Except when it comes to your own slave bairns, John thought, but he said nothing.
‘I prefer common sense. If ye treat a black soft, ye soften yoursel. Then ye think ye’ll ease their labour a bit, gie them better hooses. The next thing ye’re beginning to doubt the haill institution.’
‘You’re over-harsh, George,’ said John. ‘We are not tyrants.’
‘Aye we are,’ said Kinloch. ‘We maist certainly are. We hae to be. It’s the only honest way. If ye look at the thing true, ye’ll agree.’
Later, long after Hodge had been put to bed with a bucket beside his head, and Kinloch and Fyfe, blazing drunk and barely able to stand, had somehow mounted their horses and trotted off homeward, the four Wedderburns played a few rather listless hands of rummy. They were all staying the night at Glen Isla. In the darkness the singing and drumming from the slave huts rose and faded on a light breeze.
James kept lifting his head, as if trying to catch something of the songs, almost as if he were envious of a better party. Peter pulled out his dirty book and, between turns, studied the pages for salacious passages, silently mouthing the French as he read. Alexander yawned constantly. Only John was concentrating much on the cards.
At last James flung down his hand. ‘Damn it, John, Peter was right. I could devour that Peach just now. Or any of them. Let’s go down for them.’
John shook his head. ‘That, I think, even George Kinloch would think unwise at this time of night.’
‘Well, can we not send for them?’
‘No one to send. Unless you want to ask the formidable Phoebe. No? You’ll just have to suffer alone then. Drink some more wine.’
Sandy stood up. ‘I’m for my bed,’ he said. He sidled out, clutching the other French book.
‘Don’t be up all night now,’ Peter called after him, but this drew no response.
‘He’s writing a novelle himself, I think,’ Peter told the others.
‘What?’ James frowned at him.
‘He’s writing something anyway. He’s been scribbling away in a book since Christmas. But he keeps it hidden and he denies it if you ask.’
‘Between that and his sketches, he’s becoming quite an artist,’ James said derisively.
‘Leave him alone,’ said John. ‘We’ve all little enough privacy here as it is. Let him be.’
James yawned. ‘I’m for my bed, too. By the way, Geordie Kinloch was right about one thing.’
‘What?’ John asked.
‘About us being tyrants. Benevolent we may be, but tyrants is what we are.’
‘James, you’re not surely feeling guilty?’
‘Not a bit of it. And it’s not madness either. It’s a natural state of affairs. It has to be. God’s providence. What other reason for such a distinction between the races? So we may as well make the best of it.’
‘But,’ John said, ‘it behooves us to behave like civilised men. A lass like Peach – whip her if she’s troublesome, but why mistreat her if she is a good girl? That is my view, and will continue to be.’
‘No shitting in the hall for you, then,’ James said. It was hard to tell if he was mocking John again. There was a trace of laughter in his voice, in the brightness of his eyes, but his mouth was unsmiling. He stood up, drank off the last of his wine.
‘By God, though, a night like this, does it not make you yearn for a wife?’
‘There’s Mrs Hodge in Savanna unoccupied,’ said Peter, glancing up. ‘You should have ridden off with the others.’
This did finally produce a laugh from James. ‘You are trespassing on the bounds of propriety, Peter. Be sensible. Why would I want all the trouble of seducing a white woman? In a country like this? And as for a wife, well, I was jesting. I don’t have the patience for that. Not yet, at least.’
Dundee, May 1802
The weather had finally turned, it was warm and sunny, and the four younger Wedderburn girls were in town. They were in high spirits at the prospect of a day in Dundee. Their half-sister Margaret had avoided having to chaperone them by pointing out that there was not room inside the carriage for them all, and that she had no desire to go. So Aeneas MacRoy was accompanying them, sitting up with the stableman, William Wicks, who was at the reins. At the old West Port the girls decanted, and MacRoy, after telling Wicks to drive to the shore where the horses could feed and rest before the return journey, got down stiff-legged from his seat and followed them at a discreet distance. He had been instructed by Lady Wedderburn, who was in bed with a cold, to keep an eye on her girls: Dundee could be rough, even in daylight, and MacRoy’s task was to make sure the lassies did not wander away from the main streets and into trouble.
MacRoy reckoned they were safe enough, with or without his assistance. Generally speaking, the poor and desperate robbed and bludgeoned one another, not their social betters. There was less risk involved. The fact that it was he – a man of sixty-eight, and hirpling somewhat these days – who had been entrusted with the girls’ protection, suggested that not even their mother anticipated any difficulty. What could she be expecting? A band of brigands to carry them off to Araby? And what, in such an eventuality, could an aged dominie do to stop them? Then again, it would be a bold brigand who would cross Aeneas MacRoy. Small and ancient he might be, but he was still a force to be reckoned with when roused. Tough as knotted wood and fierce as a wildcat, especially if the Wedderburn honour was at stake. Lady Alicia had known him twenty years. She did not really understand him, but because her husband trusted him, so did she.
The sisters intended to visit Madame Bouchonne’s in the Overgait, as she had recently advertised a large consignment of materials and designs newly arrived from London and the Continent. They wanted – or at least three of them wanted – to promenade up and down the Nethergait and High Street, to see what else might be new, and of course to be seen: the Wedderburn name was embedded in Dundee history – merchants, ministers, landowners, lawyers, burgesses, soldiers – and everybody knew who they were. Perhaps they would run into other ladies in from the country. They would almost certainly meet a cousin or two. They would, take tea at the New Inn, where who knew what interesting persons might also be passing the afternoon? A gallant young captain from the Forfar Militia perhaps, or better still a major in the Perthshire Regiment. And after all else, there would be the elephant. Fourteen-year-old Annie very badly wanted to see the elep
hant.
Aeneas MacRoy planned to watch them for a few minutes, then slip off to one of a number of dram shops he knew, and while away an hour before meeting them at the inn.
Susan, lingering in the wake of her sisters, had come to town in a mood of ambivalence. It was not that she did not want to be here – there was, after all, so much to see compared with the fine but too peaceful surroundings of Ballindean. Dundee was thriving, noisy, its narrow central area a constant mêlée of vehicles and hurrying people. It had a population approaching twenty-five thousand, which made it bigger than Perth and almost as big as Paisley. Dundee’s spinners and weavers had something of a reputation for radicalism, which appealed to Susan as much as it appalled her mother. There were, apparently, some truly dreadful backstreets and wynds, inhabited by characters who would, according to Aeneas MacRoy, stab you with a look. The thought of these dangerous places and people sent a thrill through her.
The huge new steam-driven flax mills built on the burns running down from Lochee might seem monstrous, but she could not help but be impressed by their power. Likewise the bustling harbour – with its intoxicating mix of foreign-looking sailors and merchants, and its hubbub of strange tongues; its ships carrying grain and linen to England and Holland; barrels of salted herring to the Indies (herring, she’d read, was a staple of the slaves’ diet), to Danzig and Riga, and bringing in iron, copper, tar and pine boards from Sweden and Norway – the harbour both intimidated and exhilarated her. And Dundee’s main streets and fine location below the Law, overlooking the gleaming firth, were gracious and charming. All this Susan saw and understood – much more so, she felt certain, than her sisters; and that was the source of her ambivalence. She would rather be here on her own, in disguise perhaps, able to walk the streets unnoticed and in her own time, not as part of a Wedderburn parade.
She was looking forward to fussy Madame Bouchonne only for the opportunity to laugh secretly at her and her claims of aristocratic blood and narrow escape from Madame Guillotine. Her outrageous accent could not possibly be Parisian, as she maintained, but was surely grafted on to something closer to home – Ayrshire, perhaps, or Dumfries – and her name bore an uncanny resemblance to Buchan or Buchanan. Madame Bouchonne might be a rare and exotic flower which her sisters would be loath to see wither, but Susan would rather have browsed for hours in the booksellers’ at the Cross, without Annie tugging at her sleeve. She wanted to go into the mills, see the men and women working there in their strange new crowded way, like a nest of ants. She wanted to talk to the weavers at their looms. She wanted to wander without sisters or chaperone, to sit by the harbour and drink in its sights and smells. But she could not do these things: she was hemmed in by her skirts and stays and family name. She wanted to be – for a day, or a week, or a year – a boy of seventeen.
She was beginning to feel that she had put enough yards between herself and her sisters almost to be not counted as one of them, when a man suddenly stepped from a close in front of her. She put out her hand in fright, but disappointingly he did not try to stab her with a look or any other implement. He stopped abruptly to avoid bumping into her, and made a short bow of apology.
‘Mr Jamieson!’ she said.
The plumpish man in his crumpled black clothes looked startled, then broke into a smile, friendly yet slightly awkward, even humble. It was enough to renew in Susan the confidence that came with being a Wedderburn. What she most disliked about herself was also one of her strongest attributes.
‘Miss Wedderburn. Ye’ve come tae shed licht on oor dark toun.’
She looked up at the blue sky, then at the busy street. ‘That’s hardly necessary.’ Then, peering into the close from which he had emerged: ‘Although down there, perhaps … Is that where you stay?’
‘Na, na,’ he said. ‘I was, em, looking for someone.’
‘Not Joseph Knight still?’ she asked. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh. Glancing ahead she saw her sisters slowing, becoming aware of her absence. She stepped quickly into the close mouth, cleeking Jamieson by the elbow and taking him with her.
‘Miss, I dinna think …’
‘I’m no awa tae kiss ye!’ she said, turning the accent on, and loud enough to make him start and even put a finger towards her lips.
‘Guidsakes, ye’ll hae me apprehended!’
‘Apprehended? That’s a word much used in your trade, I suppose. And did you find this someone you were looking for?’
‘No, I – he’s oot. I’ll get him again.’
‘What a strange life you lead. Always hunting folk. You never explained –’
Maria, Louisa and Anne passed on the street, Anne calling her name.
‘Ye’d better go, miss.’
‘But what about Mr Knight? Have you found him yet?’
‘I’ve no been looking. No since your faither –’ He broke off: this was ridiculous, being interrogated by a child. Why did he find himself so tongue-tied? ‘No, I’ve no found him.’
‘Oh,’ she said, turning to go. ‘That’s a shame, because I have. Goodbye, Mr Jamieson.’
Now it was he who pulled her in from the street. ‘What d’ye mean? Where?’
‘Unhand me, sir!’ she said, straight out of a novelle, and laughed because Jamieson seemed so astounded at the violence of his own reaction. But then, realising there was not much time left, she hurried on. ‘Perhaps you need my help.’
‘Your faither disna want me tae … Whit is it ye ken?’
‘It’s information … from my uncle. I’m not sure whether I should give it to you.’ She saw how eager he looked. ‘Where may I reach you?’
‘Here,’ he said. There was a tremor of excitement in his voice. ‘I mean, no here. In the toun. An address tae Archibald Jamieson at St Clement’s Lane will find me.’
‘St Clement’s Lane,’ she said. ‘Well, I may write.’ She started to go.
‘Miss Wedderburn – I dinna ken – I wouldna want ye tae cross your faither. Ye’ve a clever heid on ye, but ye’re jist a lassie.’
‘Leave my faither to me,’ she said. ‘You’re not him. Au revoir.’
She darted off again, back into the light. Jamieson followed her to the close entry, stopped on seeing her sisters flocking round her, heard a snatch of her excuse: ‘– thought it might be picturesque. It is not.’ Momentarily Anne peered in, and shrunk away at sight of him scowling in the shadows. Then they were gone, along the Nethergait in a flurry of skirts and chatter, leaving Jamieson not quite sure what had happened, what kind of conversation he had had. All he knew was that he felt the same tingle of excitement he had when tracking down radicals, or being within reach of a vital piece of information.
He was made very certain of what happened next, though. As he made to leave the close for the third time, he was met with a rock-hard fist that grabbed a handful of his shirt front and a good clump of chest hairs beneath it. It bore him back into the mirk and slammed him against the stonework. Jamieson grunted, tried to work himself free, but the other man’s grip was unshakeable. The arm that pinioned him was quivering with the exertion but solid as an iron bar. Without relaxing his hold, Aeneas MacRoy made a suggestion: ‘I think you and me should hae a wee conversation.’
Jamieson nodded, tried to speak, found when he did that all the breath had been punched from his lungs. He nodded more vigorously. Slowly, MacRoy eased off, let go of him, stepped away. ‘For God’s sake,’ Jamieson said, massaging his chest. ‘Ye’re a schoolmaister. And this is a guid shirt.’
‘Be glad I dinna mak ye eat it,’ MacRoy growled. It was an absurd threat but his voice and rage-darkened face gave it an unnerving force. Jamieson, who mixed with villains of various hues in the course of business, wondered if he was losing his touch. First he had got out of his depth in his interview with the laird, then the laird’s lassie had unsettled him, and now the laird’s dominie had caught him off-guard. MacRoy said, ‘I ken a place where we’ll no be disturbed.’
They continued on down the close, away
from the Nethergait, towards the shore. Jamieson knew where he was being taken. Just before they reached the end of the close, MacRoy stooped at a low entrance to one side, and pushed open a door. It led into a dingy drinking shop, damp-smelling even on such a warm, breezy spring day. Two sailors were slumped insensible across a table, one on either side, heads touching as they snored. A few other battered, scraped and uneven tables and benches were the only items of furniture, and MacRoy and Jamieson the only conscious customers. A couple of guttering candles fixed on makeshift shelves by their own wax gave off a greasy half-glow that only made the room gloomier. From behind a high counter in an even darker recess of the room, a thin, slurring voice piped out: ‘Aye, sirs. Whit’ll it be?’
‘D’ye ken this place?’ MacRoy asked.
‘I’ve been here,’ said Jamieson. ‘Aye, Nannie,’ he said to the counter. Then, to MacRoy, ‘But I dinna frequent it unless I hae tae.’
MacRoy spat on the floor. ‘I dae,’ he said. ‘I frequent it.’ He made it sound like a word only an Edinburgh fop would use. ‘No because I hae tae. I like it.’
Jamieson looked at him. Outside, the older man’s head had barely reached his shoulder. In this putrid hole there seemed to be more of MacRoy, as if occupying preferred territory hardened and thickened his bones; made him, not fleshier, but somehow more cadaverous. Regaining his composure as they approached the counter, Jamieson decided that MacRoy did not so much frighten as repulse him.
The landlady revealed herself: a spindle of a woman, skinny as her voice, wearing a filthy apron over a coarse dress of indeterminate colour and material. An equally colourless lace cap sat on a nest of hair so tangled and matted that it seemed a comb, if applied to it, would either snap or vanish for ever. The woman leant heavily on her hands, swaying slightly. ‘Whit’ll it be?’ she said again. She was clearly very drunk.
‘Whisky,’ said MacRoy.
‘Cask or bottle? Cask’s cheaper, bottle’s better.’
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