‘With regard to the colliers and salters, it is very clear that the pursuer’s counsel would not have drawn attention to this group had there not been the recent law relaxing their state of servitude. But what does this have to do with the matter in hand? The fact that a law has had to be passed to alter their status merely strengthens our argument – that it is not this court’s task to legislate, but only to interpret the law. Parliament alone can change laws, and, as we have shown, slavery exists by and in accordance with the laws of this country. In any case, despite the new legislation, servitude does still exist among the colliers and salters, and will do so unless or until a further law is made to do away with it all together. We respectfully dispute, in addition, the notion that to be bound to work at the dangerous physical toil of a collier throughout life is a milder form of servitude than that of being a gentleman’s personal servant. In short, we feel that the law freeing the colliers is doubly supportive of our cause.
‘It has been claimed that a Negro, by being baptised into the Christian faith, must thereby win his liberty, and although the pursuer does not much insist on this – which perhaps indicates how little was his sincerity in adopting our religion – still it is worth touching on. If this claim be true, what message does it send to the planters? It suggests that a good master such as Mr Wedderburn, who encouraged and enabled his servant to become a Christian, would have served his own interests better by keeping him in a state of savage ignorance – in other words, it suggests that Mr Wedderburn should act as an un-Christian to those in his employment and under his protection.
‘I am almost finished, my lords. I do not intend to detain you by engaging in a discussion about the supposed cruel manner in which it is alleged the Negroes are reduced to slavery in Africa and brought from thence to the West Indies, nor in a refutation of the greatly exaggerated accounts of the ill-treatment of the Negroes in the plantations. None of this is of any pertinence to the present question, but in any case, as I have repeatedly said, none of it can be laid at the door of the defender, who has always conducted himself with kindness, honesty and generosity.
‘I need now touch only on two issues, which are closely related. The first is the precedent of the case of James Somerset, decided in England. Without going back into this in detail, it is not true to say that that decision was made on a general point. On the contrary, the honourable Lord Chief Justice expressly said, that he “confined his opinion to the only question before him”, and that the intent of the master to sell his slave when abroad once more, was crucial. The second issue is this: a consequence of Mr Wedderburn’s right of property in the pursuer should and must be that he ought to be allowed to carry him back to Jamaica, or send him there, if he should choose it. We emphasise that in fact he has no intention of doing so, just as he has no intention of selling or disposing of him or in any way mistreating him. But the right of property cannot be limited by locality. Mr Wedderburn undoubtedly owned the pursuer in Jamaica; we maintain that he owns him in Scotland; and that therefore he may carry him back to Jamaica if he pleases.
‘My lords, that is all. After all that has been said today, and all that has been written and read by your lordships in these last three years, we are confident that the facts of this case are clear, and clearly in favour of the defender. We conclude that it cannot be agreeable to the principles of justice, to divest the master or owner of a Negro, of his right of property, by the mere accidental circumstance of his bringing that Negro into the island of Great Britain.’
There was something fatally conclusive in the way Cullen delivered all his points. There was no sense of passion, and every appeal that went beyond the letter of the law to the feelings of the Bench seemed dry-measured, precise, a reminder that the letter of the law was all they really had to be concerned with. He bowed and turned back to Wedderburn, who neither smiled nor made any movement. His eyes were fixed on the Lord President.
‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ Arniston said. ‘This is a significant cause, as we aw ken. In a minute I will ask for the opinions of their lordships, and their votes. But I may say, for mysel, I find Mr Cullen’s last remark is the maist important. The pursuer was the slave or bonded servant of Mr Wedderburn in the West Indies – naebody disputes that. The question is, whether this service be considered as ended by his coming intae this country. I see nae reason why this should be so. If the maister abides by the laws o this country – disna hurt or hairm the servant in ways that are unacceptable here – why should he no continue tae hae his service for life? If the maister submits tae this consequence of oor law, then it seems tae me the slave or servant must submit tae the consequence of Jamaican law. Mr Cullen is richt: the law as it exists is aw that should concern us. But that is only my opinion. The court, my lords, is anxious tae hear whether ye agree wi me or no.’
Archibald Jamieson had not, of course, been reproducing every syllable of these learned speeches to his wife as she lay silently in the fading light. Not having been present, he could not have known everything that had taken place in that crowded courtroom. Nevertheless, he had been speaking for a long time, explaining the complexities of the arguments and the clashes of the personalities, and, it must be said, letting his imagination fill in gaps with details of which he was none too certain or indeed entirely ignorant. Now, somewhat abashed at having gone on at such length, he said to Janet, ‘Ye must be tired. I’ve been deavin ye like a minister in a pulpit. Ye should try tae sleep.’
‘I am wide awake, I assure ye. Ye paint a guid picture.’
‘I wasna there of course. It’s jist hoo I hae biggit it in my mind frae the papers I hae read.’
‘I wonder if Knight’s wife was there. Whit would she hae made o it?’
‘I would think she must hae been there. Up in the gallery, nae dout. She’d no hae liked Cullen.’
‘I dinna like Cullen, frae whit ye’ve said. A bluidless kind o chiel.’
‘Lord Cullen noo, of course. Weel, my dear, it’s past eleiven. I should let ye be.’
‘The morn’s Sunday. Ye’ll no hae work – ye can tell me the rest o whit happened at the court then. I ken the ootcome onywey. But ye hinna read me the letter yet.’
Archie picked it up from the counterpane where it had lain all this time. ‘It’s gey lang, Janet. I’m feart aw this must be boring ye.’
‘How could it be boring? Whit could be mair interesting than a man seeking his liberty, gaining his liberty?’
‘A man gaining his life?’ Archie suggested tentatively.
‘But a life withoot freedom, whit is that? It’s like a life withoot health – a shadow o being alive. Imagine hoo wrang it is, the life o the Negroes in the colonies.’
‘I imagine it is not intolerable, or they wouldna tolerate it.’
‘Dinna be souple, Archie, it disna become ye. Look at me – d’ye think I tolerate this? I dinna hae a choice in it. Imagine the life of Joseph Knight if he had been sent back tae Jamaica.’
‘It seems that was never the intention.’
‘Aye, and dae ye believe in fairies? They micht no hae killt him, but it would hae been the cane fields for him until that wore him awa. Would that be tolerable? There is mair tae life than jist living.’
Archie bowed his head. ‘I hinna aften seen it like that, I fear.’
‘Oh, Archie, there is much ye hinna seen. But there are quiet millions o us everywhere that see whit’s richt and whit’s wrang.’
He did not answer, nodded thoughtfully, traced the diamond pattern of the counterpane with a finger.
‘I am sorry,’ Janet said into the silence, ‘that I hae been a disappointment tae ye.’
This was so unexpected, and yet so much what he had been thinking of saying himself, about himself, that he could not bear to look at her. He mumbled a reply, ‘No, no, Janet …’
‘Aye, it’s true. But ye can mairry again – a man is never ower auld – perhaps hae mair bairns, the anes I couldna gie ye …’
‘Please, this is ower sair.�
��
She went on as if she had not heard him. ‘But if ye dae, listen tae whit I hae tae say. Your present children are fine young people – even the laddies, I ken, in spite o their noise – but they are grown awready. If ye hae ony mair, dinna raise them up for the world as it is. Raise them for the world as it micht be. A better world. Then it micht come aboot.’ She stopped, sniffed. ‘Noo, read me thon letter, and efter that I promise I’ll try tae sleep.’
Archibald Jamieson blew his nose and wiped his eyes, astonished to find that he appeared to be married to a saint. After a minute, he began to read the letter to her. The handwriting was neat and regular, but the candles were flickering and he had to concentrate or lose his place. When he glanced up at the end of each page, he saw that Janet was staring into the shadows as if there were no shadows there. After three pages, she settled back against the pillows and closed her eyes, but he could tell from the slightest occasional press of her fingers on his wrist that she was still listening. It was not until he was more than halfway through the letter that the fingers relaxed and she seemed to fall asleep, and by then he was afraid to stop in case the silence should wake her again. And so he continued to the end, his quiet voice threading the words of Mr Peter Burnet into whatever dreams she might be having.
From Mr Peter Burnet of Paisley
8th January, 1803
Mr Archibald Jamieson, St Clement’s Lane, Dundee
Sir,
It is more than nine months since your letter addressed to me was sent, and near as long since it was put in my hand. You may have wondered if the want of a reply was owing to my not having received it – be assured that the direction Black Peter, Weaver, Paisley found me without the least trouble. I am a kenspeckle person in this town, and have been for many years. No, sir, there was no answer because, for long, I felt an unease about giving you one, since you did not specify a reason for your wishing information concerning the gentleman in question, other than it relating to his famous legal cause, and I have in the past been made painfully aware that a man of colour, howsoever respectable he be, may not always welcome the attendance of a lawyer’s agent such as you state yourself to be. I mean this not as an offence to you, sir, whom I have never met, but as a lesson hard learned by myself. But, on consideration, I am of the opinion that there’s no harm in telling you what I know of Mr Joseph Knight, since what you particularly wish to know, namely his whereabouts, I cannot tell you.
I will add that my good friend Mr Robert Tannahill, also of Paisley, has agreed with me on this matter, and offered to write this reply. This is not owing to a lack of letters on my part, but this will be a lengthy epistle, and Mr Tannahill, being a poet and writer of songs, has a speedier and neater hand than I, as well as being better acquaint with the finer points of the English language.
In relating to you the circumstances of my brief acquaintance with Mr Knight, it is first necessary that I mention some of the particulars of my own life, because our experiences both in Scotland and in the Americas have been so very different. I was born a free man, but in a land far from that of my race: he was born an African in Africa, but violently seized from his home and carried thence to be a slave. From an early age I have counted many white people, male and female, among my friends: he received from white people only enslavement, oppression and disdain until he reached these shores, whither, unlike me, he was brought against his will; and even when he found comfort in the arms of his wife, this itself brought fresh anger and despisal upon his head; whereas I have been twice married in Scotland, and neither I, nor my first dear wife, nor my second, have suffered more than slight grazes from the darts of narrow prejudice. When Mr Knight and I met, therefore, it was a meeting of two men who were alike and yet utterly unlike. We saw and recognised one another, but we were not at all the same.
Know then, sir, that I, Peter Burnet, was born about thirty-eight years since on the estate of Thomas Todd in Virginia. My grandfather, a gardener, had been brought there from Africa and on account of his loyal and faithful service he and my grandmother were made free by their master, and all their children, including my father, likewise were released from the yoke of slavery. This manifest blessing did not blind me to the travails of my fellow Africans, but it did impart in me from an early age a notion that is far less true in reality than it ought to be – namely, that loyalty, dignity and courage will ever be rewarded.
At the onset of the American war, it became plain even to me, a mere boy, that my freedom might not be assured in a country that in some parts held no obligations to these principles. I therefore enlisted as a cabin boy on a British privateer. At this time I was about eleven years of age. I was not long in discovering that my notions of fair play were sometimes as lacking among the British as among the Americans, as not once but twice I was nearly tricked by the very officers I served into being kidnapped and sold as a slave to the planters of Jamaica. In each case I narrowly avoided this cruel fate only through the timeous warnings of my friends in New York, where I then was. In that town, having discovered that the ocean life was fraught with worse dangers for a black boy than mere storms and piracy, I made my home, being employed by a Mr Torrance, who kept a store, and whose father was a merchant in the Saltmarket, Glasgow.
Here commenced my association with the Scottish people, which I will ever count among the chief pleasures of my life. Mr Torrance was a good and kindly master, who treated me with gentleness and honesty, and never took advantage of me. He was, however, sadly addicted to drink, to the detriment of his health, and I was often left in charge of the business when he, owing to his love of the bottle, was either unable to rise from his bed or unable to get to it. After some years, when I was about sixteen, Mr Torrance’s condition declined so much that he could no longer manage the store, and he desired to return to Glasgow to live out his days in his native land. He asked me to attend him as his servant, which request I joyfully accepted, as I had a great desire to see more of the world. At length we set sail and after stopping at Cork, safely reached Glasgow, whereupon my master retired to his bed and could scarcely be prevailed upon ever again to leave it. But he was not unaware of his responsibilities toward me, and set me on the road to Kilmarnock, where he knew of someone who would employ me.
I will not further trouble you with details of events which, though of singular interest to me, are doubtless of little to you, except insofar as they relate to Mr Knight. Suffice it to say that through Mr George Tannahill of Kilmarnock I came to Paisley, where he thought I would get on better, the weaving then being in a prosperous condition. Mr James Tannahill, a silk weaver of distinction, took me in and I became an apprentice. From this time dates my intimacy with the Tannahills, who from the first extended to me the hand of friendship as if I had been a son to them, and a brother to Robert who is writing this. I will not say it was as if they did not see my blackness, for I was certainly a curiosity, but in a little while it was no more remarked upon than if I had a set of large ears or red hair. I have never been ashamed of my black face, and have, when occasionally subjected to the derision of ignorant people, made a point of saying that I would not exchange it for their stupidity in any event.
Not long after the occasion which I am about to relate, I was falsely accused and imprisoned for a debt I did not owe, and I believe my skin did not help me to prove my innocence. Or rather, the way my skin was viewed did not help. But I refused to pay on a principle, and the Tannahills gave me every support and comfort at this time, until, completely vindicated, I was released. You may understand now, sir, why I am wary of affairs involving men such as yourself.
In about the year 1789, fourteen years ago, I had left the weaving during a period of slackness in that trade, and removed to Edinburgh in search of work. I was servant for a time to the Clerks of Eldin in Midlothian, who kept a town house, and of whom the now famed advocate Mr John Clerk was the son. Sometimes I went with the young Mr Clerk to the court at Parliament Close. He had one shortened leg from a childhood illness �
�� so much contracted that it swung in the air when he stood upright, and caused him to pitch like a ship at sea when he walked. To ease his progress he would have me accompany him, carrying documents, books and such. On one occasion, I remember well, a lady remarked within our hearing as we passed, ‘There goes Mr Clerk, the lame lawyer.’ Quick as a flash, he turned around and said, ‘Ma’am, I may be a lame man, but I am no lame lawyer!’
When not needed by him, I might spend an hour on the High Street, enjoying the crowds, the colourful stalls and shops, the constant fair, as it seemed, of conversation and bartering, the fine-dressed ladies and gallant soldiery, the many folk all going about their various businesses. Paisley is a thriving town, but it is as nothing to the commotion of Edinburgh.
One day, standing near the entrance to the courts, I saw strolling up the street towards me another black man. Though we were by no means the only two black men then in the capital, we were sufficiently rare to catch each other’s eye, and as he advanced he held my glance, as if searching in my face for recognition. He was wearing plain and not altogether new clothes, and therefore was a contrast to myself, for I have ever been proud to turn out in style, and on this day I was quite the macaroni in a brown brass-buttoned coat and a black velvet vest picked out in gold thread in the Paisley pattern. But whatever advantage I had over him in dress, he made up for with his proud, even fierce demeanour.
As we met, the first words he addressed to me were: ‘What are you looking at, man?’ I remember this distinctly, because he was staring at me at least as hard as I was staring at him, and I felt that he was in some way demanding the answer from himself.
I said I was looking at him, since he and I had one thing in common, if it was the only thing, and I put out my hand to him. He hesitated for a second, as if he would march on past me, but then he gave a very brief smile – more a stretching of the mouth, in fact, than a smile – and shook my hand. He was a fine, slender man, with a good crop of hair which was just beginning to whiten at the edges. I guessed him to be no more than thirty-eight or forty – about what I am now – which seemed a great age to one who was then only in his early twenties. He had not an inch of wasted flesh on him, and though he did not look excessively muscular, yet there was a strength in his way of standing, and in the grip of his hand, that a much greater man might have envied. I noticed also a peculiar graininess in the palm of his hand, which I could not identify.
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