Men had been howking coal out of the earth at Wemyss for hundreds of years; first scratching at it on the surface, then sinking bell pits and working them till the seam was exhausted or the pit flooded, then constructing deeper, more productive but more dangerous pits, with wooden walkways, ladders and stairs. Every year thousands of tons of coal were shipped from the little harbour across the Forth to Falkirk, to Germany and to England. There was enough coal down there, it was said, to fuel the Carron ironworks at Falkirk for a thousand years. At night the colliers could look far out into the firth and see the warning light flickering on the Isle of May. It was fuelled by coal they had howked. Night after night it burned, an emblem of their endless labour.
The women and bairns, who bore the coal up a wooden staircase that spiralled round the shaft, had finished a few minutes earlier and were already on their way home. The colliers, black and bent and exhausted, loaded with their picks and shovels and ropes, blinking at the bright, cloudless sky, must have looked like creatures emerging from another world, but nobody ever remarked on this because there was never anybody there who was not from that world.
They trudged up the hill in silence, towards the rows of cottages. At a certain point on the rough track, they became aware that there was someone unusual observing them: a fattish man none of them knew, sitting on the verge while his horse grazed the long grass in the sheuch. Some of the men were suspicious of the stranger. They glowered at him or turned their heads away and would not catch his eye. Others stared, resentful of a man who had the leisure to sit in sunshine while they had been crawling in darkness. One or two nodded and the man nodded back. He was watching them all very carefully. When Joseph and his son passed by it seemed as though he lifted his head a little more, even raised his hand slightly. No more than that, but Joseph saw it, and when he glanced back the man was still watching him.
At the cottage door a wee laddie, one of his neighbours’ boys, said, ‘Man, ye’re black as the howe o the nicht.’ He laughed and said, ‘Ah, but whaur does the coal stop and me stert?’ The laddie said, ‘Dinna ken. But there’s a man been speirin efter a black man like you.’ Exhausted though he was, Joseph became alert. ‘Whit man?’ he asked. ‘A man wi a horse,’ the boy said. ‘But I didna tell him ocht.’
Joseph Knight and Andrew went into the house and Andrew collapsed into a chair. Annie was dozing in another, catching a little rest before she made the evening meal. Joseph went to the water-butt at the back door. He dipped the tin in and splashed water over his face and neck. By the time he came back, Ann and the lad were asleep.
Joseph set off down the track again. When he came to the spot where the man had been he was still there, eating an apple while his horse grazed. Joseph stopped a few feet from him. They stared at each other. The man smiled and got to his feet. He threw the apple core to land by the horse’s mouth and held out his hand. ‘Mr Knight?’ he said.
Joseph did not acknowledge this. He did not take the hand. He did not like the fact that the stranger knew who he was.
‘My name is Archibald Jamieson,’ the man said. ‘I hae come frae Dundee.’ He paused, as if to see what effect this would have. ‘Ye needna fear. I dinna come tae cause ye trouble. I come wi news.’
‘I’m no feart,’ Joseph said. ‘Whit news?’ But he knew there were only two kinds of news that might come from Dundee: news about Annie’s mother, or news from his own past.
Jamieson let his hand drop. Joseph thought he looked tired. This was not surprising – the man would have ridden nearly forty miles. He would be saddle-sore. Nevertheless, it was hard to believe that he could be more tired than Joseph felt.
‘I hae been lookin for ye for weeks,’ Jamieson said. ‘Months, in fact. Since a year past January.’
‘Why would ye dae that?’ Joseph asked.
‘At first, I was employed tae search for ye by John Wedderburn of Ballindean.’
Joseph did not move. His heart began to pound but he did not allow the blank expression on his face to change.
Jamieson went on. ‘But that’s no why I’m here noo. I’m here tae tell ye that Wedderburn is deid.’
Joseph felt a jolt inside him, but still he said nothing. He was not willing to concede anything until he knew what all this was about.
‘He died twa weeks syne. He was buried yesterday. I was there. I thocht ye should ken.’
‘Why would I need tae ken onything aboot John Wedderburn?’ Joseph said cautiously.
‘Because o whit he did tae ye. It’s finished, ower.’
‘Whit is?’
‘Whit happened atween ye. The court case.’
‘That’s been ower a lang time.’
‘Ah,’ Jamieson said, ‘then ye admit ye are Joseph Knight?’
Joseph looked at the ground, then at the sky, then back at Jamieson. ‘Hoo did ye find me?’ he asked at last.
‘A number o coincidences,’ Jamieson said. ‘But in the end it was Kate Thomson – Ann’s mither – that tellt me whaur tae look.’
Joseph nodded. ‘How is she?’
‘Frail. But still workin awa. She canna stop.’
‘Whit did Wedderburn want wi me efter aw this time?’
‘Tae ken whit had happened tae ye. If ye still lived or no. I couldna find ye and that seemed tae satisfy him. But it didna satisfy me.’
‘How no?’
‘Because ye interested me. I ken hoo ye were brocht tae Jamaica, and frae there tae here. I ken aboot the Wedderburns, the fower brithers. They are aw deid noo, aw save James, the doctor ane. I ken aboot your case – Knight versus Wedderburn. But I didna ken you, and I wanted tae meet ye.’
‘And whit is it ye want?’
Jamieson said, ‘Naething. I want naething frae ye. I jist wanted tae see ye – and tae hear ye.’
This made Joseph think of the way he sounded. Although he had the words of the people around him he sounded some of them differently. The colliers did not care or comment any more. What did how he looked or spoke mean to this total stranger? He said, ‘I dinna believe ye. There’s aye something. Whitiver it is, ye hae wasted your journey.’
Jamieson held out his hands, palms upward. ‘I swear there is naething.’
Joseph said, ‘Then ye hae whit ye cam for. There’s your horse.’ He began to walk up the brae.
‘Wait,’ Jamieson said. ‘I hae a message for ye. Twa messages.’
Joseph turned back.
‘The ane is frae anither black man like yoursel. A Mr Peter Burnet, a weaver by trade. Ye had a drink wi him some years syne at the Parliament Close in Edinburgh.’
Joseph said nothing. He remembered Burnet and the conversation they had had. He remembered being annoyed.
‘Mr Burnet wrote a letter tae me,’ Jamieson was saying. ‘He spoke very highly of ye. He said if I should ever find ye, tae remind ye o your meetin.’
‘Ye didna come aw this way tae tell me that,’ Joseph said.
‘The ither message,’ Jamieson continued, ‘is frae a Perthshire gentleman that ye kent.’ He seemed to be stalling. Joseph felt himself growing angry. He knew no Perthshire gentlemen forby those that had had him arrested.
‘Mr Andrew Davidson, the lawyer.’
Joseph was astonished at the instant calming effect this name had on him. It seemed also to transform Jamieson in his eyes, as if a password had been uttered, a code that proved his good intent. ‘Mr Davidson,’ Joseph said. ‘Ye hae seen him?’
‘I confess,’ Jamieson said, ‘it was a year syne. When I met him he wasna weel. I dinna ken if he is alive yet.’
‘Mr Davidson,’ Joseph said, ‘was a gentleman. He never misdouted me or my cause. Never.’
‘That’s whit he tellt me,’ Jamieson said. ‘And he asked, if I ever did find ye, tae be remembered tae ye.’
Joseph recalled a large, serious man with intense eyes and a rapid understanding. A kind man. ‘He is remembered,’ he said. ‘I named my son Andrew efter him.’
‘That was your son I saw ye wi earlier?’ Jamie
son asked.
‘Aye.’
‘A fine-looking lad. The work will be hard on him, though.’
‘He is paid for it,’ Joseph said. ‘He labours wi me but no because o me. When he is a man, he will labour for himsel. If he disna he’ll sterve, but it will be his choice.’
‘Ye had a dochter, if I mind richt.’
‘I hae. She bides in anither village.’
‘Is your wife still wi ye?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’m sorry, I meant, does she still live?’
‘Whit is it tae you?’
‘I am a faimly man, Mr Knight. I hae sons and dochters and grandbairns, but my wife is deid.’
Something in the way Jamieson said this made Joseph less wary of the questions. Jamieson could keep neither the pride nor the pain out of his voice. Joseph relaxed a little more. ‘Aye,’ he said, ‘she still lives.’
He felt the evening sun on his face, a soft breeze coming off the sea. He was no longer so suspicious of Jamieson, but he did not want to be having this conversation. He wanted to go home and eat, to sit outside with Ann and Andrew until the light went. He would tell them about this visitor, this man not of the past but bearing news of the past. Thinking of that, he was surprised to discover that Jamieson was right: that what he had thought was over years before had not been.
‘Mr Jamieson,’ Joseph said, ‘if ye should see Mr Davidson again, I hope ye would say that Joseph Knight wishes him weel. But I hope also that ye winna say whaur ye found him. I hae made mysel a new life here and I dinna want the auld ane disturbin it – no even Mr Davidson.’
‘Ye needna fash,’ Jamieson said, as he had a few minutes earlier. ‘Naebody will ken but mysel.’
Joseph went to the horse and clapped its neck, picked up the loose reins and passed them to Jamieson. He said, ‘If ye’re tae get back tae Dundee the nicht ye’ll need tae set oot noo.’
‘There’s nae rush,’ Jamieson said. ‘It’s settled weather and it hardly gets dark these nichts. On this beast I could sleep aw the way hame. But I micht turn in at Cupar. I’ll see.’
Leading the docile animal, they set off back to the rows of collier cottages. The track rose past these and on through thick woods till it rejoined the coast route from Kirkcaldy. At the first of the cottages Joseph stopped. ‘There’s your road,’ he said.
‘Aye,’ Jamieson said. He hesitated for a moment. ‘I said there was naething I wanted frae ye, and there isna. But there is something I would like tae ken. Was it worth it?’
‘Was whit worth it?’ Joseph asked.
‘Weel, ye gained your freedom but, forgie me, I’m lookin at ye and it disna seem that ye gained that muckle. Was it worth it?’
‘If ye had been a slave ye would never hae asked that question,’ Joseph said. ‘Dae ye no see why I am here? Because the folk here ken.’
‘Aye, that’s whit I thocht,’ Jamieson said. ‘I see that.’
Joseph spat on the ground. ‘No ye dinna. If ye saw it ye wouldna hae asked it. And noo I’ll ask ye the same question. Was it worth your while tae seek me oot?’
Jamieson said, ‘Mr Knight, I dinna expect ye tae understand this or tae believe it, but jist speakin wi ye these few minutes – ye hae gien me something in spite o yoursel.’
‘I hae gien ye naething.’
‘Ye hae shown me whit a free man looks like.’
Joseph spat again. But Jamieson seemed to mean it, whatever it might mean. He held Joseph’s disdainful stare and stared back.
‘Weel, and are ye disappointed?’ Joseph said.
‘No,’ Jamieson said. ‘Ye are exactly as Mr Davidson described ye.’
Whit did Wedderburn want wi me efter aw this time? Joseph’s own question, not one of Jamieson’s, was the one that had lingered. Jamieson certainly hadn’t had a satisfactory answer to it, either from Wedderburn or from thinking it through for himself. Wedderburn, even if he had really known what he wanted, had not told Jamieson, and now he was dead. The only person who could provide an answer was the one they had both sought: himself, Joseph Knight.
It wasn’t, Joseph believed, about the court case, or about slavery, or about revenge or recompense. These things were part of it, but it was about something much bigger. It was about life. Wedderburn had seen the life spirit in Joseph and it had consumed him with envy. It had stripped him to the bone. Only Joseph had ever seen him so exposed. That had given Joseph a strange power over him.
Another ship: the one in which they had crossed the Atlantic, from Jamaica to Scotland. Sailors’ country. Out there on the ocean, rules of behaviour – codes of ownership and obedience – reshaped themselves. Joseph, who had been terrified of going aboard, remembered this as they lost sight of land.
The cabin they shared was cramped, though luxurious compared with the conditions of the slave ship in which Joseph had made his only other sea journey. On opposite sides of the six-foot-wide space were wooden beds which in the daytime served as benches. A hinged table swung down from a third wall between the beds, filling half of the cabin. The table could be put away at night, but the midshipman who showed them the workings of various lockers, fitted under the beds and overhead, suggested that it was best left down, as it provided useful additional purchase in the event of rough weather, when they might be in danger of being thrown to the floor. There were various ropes attached to the beds for strapping oneself in, but these were apt to chaff in prolonged storms. ‘Let us hope,’ Wedderburn said to the midshipman, ‘that we are not called upon for anything too heroic, eh Joseph?’ But Joseph said nothing, for he was already feeling ill.
‘Well, sir,’ the midshipman said, ‘you know what they say – no man can ever be a hero to his valet. And if that be true on land, it be ten times more true at sea.’
‘Because you see me naked, Joseph, and you may also see me sick and helpless. That is the gentleman’s meaning – is it not, sir?’
‘It is, sir. But maybe I’m speaking out of turn. The saying might not hold good for a neger.’
‘Well, we shall see. Joseph and I are pretty close acquainted, but I expect we’ll be closer in the coming weeks.’
For the first few days of the voyage the weather was fine, the skies clear, the sun strong and the westerly winds steady. Wedderburn and Joseph spent as much time as possible on deck, stretching their limbs, watching the sailors at their tasks – anything that kept them out of the stuffy, dark cabin where the ship’s rolling motion seemed magnified. Wedderburn read from various books while Joseph shielded him from the sun with a large parasol. There were one or two other passengers on board, but none with whom Wedderburn wished to keep company. Most of the ship was given over to its cargo of rum and sugar.
In the evenings Wedderburn taught Joseph games – whist, rummy, draughts and backgammon. His motivation, Joseph guessed, was more about providing himself with a playing opponent than about educating his slave. But the games were levellers. They obliged them to be equals for as long as they played. Joseph was quick to learn, which clearly pleased Wedderburn. He even seemed to take pleasure in being beaten by him.
From reading the cards it was a natural progression to learning the alphabet. Wedderburn would read aloud from the Bible, then take a verse and write the words out on a sheet of paper, with space underneath for Joseph to copy them. It was a crude method of teaching, but it worked. When Wedderburn grew bored of it, Joseph took the Bible and copied passages directly. Then he asked Wedderburn to read out what he had written. In this way, reading and writing began to open themselves to him.
But after two weeks at sea, the first of a series of storms changed everything.
Even in fine weather the ship rolled and pitched unexpectedly. Joseph had fought to keep seasickness at bay, but the smell of caulk and salt-laden wood, the constant sawing of ropes and creaking of timbers, and the lurching motion, all reminded him too much of that other voyage. His stomach remained queasy at best. When the weather turned, and they were forced to keep below decks for days a
t a time, and every wave found a new way to angle and spin the ship, what had been a constant nagging nausea became violent and uncontrollable pain.
His bed became a prison. He could neither get up from it nor bear to be in it. He alternately boiled and froze. His head pounded. Sweat poured from him. He vomited till there was nothing left to come up but bile. The tepid drinking water did nothing to ease his thirst, and refused to sit in his stomach. His body was dehydrated and saltless. The cabin stank of his illness. He fully expected to be moved to another part of the ship, so as not to inconvenience his master. But there was nowhere else that he could go. Master and slave were bound together in the tiny cabin until either Joseph died or the storm abated.
He drifted in and out of consciousness. Sleep was fitful and filled with bad dreams, but it was a mercy compared with lying awake. He began to wish he would die. Never before had he experienced that wish, but the seasickness was overwhelming. It demanded relief. There was none, only a swirling hole of pain down which he seemed to be endlessly falling.
And then, after what seemed like weeks, Joseph began to piece together what had been happening to him. He had been sick, over and over and without any ability to direct what forced itself through his mouth. He had soiled himself. He had soaked his sheet with sweat. And each time he had done these things, someone had cleaned him. Someone had wiped his brow, sponged down his body. Someone had gently raised his head and helped him to drink. Someone had lifted his body from one bed to the other, and then, when he had wrecked the second, lifted him again to the first and laid him on a dry sheet. Someone had sat holding his hand, speaking to him, soothing words in a soothing voice. A familiar voice.
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