by Ann Turnbull
I leaned across Hob and kissed her. The dog became excited and licked us both enthusiastically. “And not too handsome?” I persisted. “Get off, dog! I want Kate, not thee!”
“Not at all!”
“That’s the wrong answer,” I said, and we tussled, laughing, until Hob began to bark at us, and we broke apart before Isobel came.
“Thou hast grown, Jos,” my master said. “We must see to thy wardrobe.”
He paid for a set of new clothes to be made for me, in dark grey wool, and two new linen shirts and new shoes.
Kate approved. “The dark colour suits thee,” she said. She herself had a new gown of grey-blue wool.
My appearance impressed my father when I went home.
“Be sure thou work hard and justify George Bainbrigg’s confidence in thee,” he said. “And Jos – take care of thy behaviour with his daughter.”
I resented this last remark, and glowered at him. “I know how to behave,” I said.
On the sixth day of February I reached my seventeenth birthday, and on the second of April, Kate turned sixteen. During the intervening weeks the ice melted on the rivers and creeks and we heard again the sound of water running. Spring came quickly. The river began to fill with ships, and Betty was made happy by the return of Lars Andersson. The builders began work again on our house and shop. My parents had a letter from Nat and Rachel Lacon telling them that the winter in London had been hard and the Thames had frozen over. They also sent news of Florian Marshall, a London typesetter, who had said he would be emigrating to Pennsylvania in the summer.
“This is excellent news,” my father said. “We should soon be able to open the print shop.”
Meanwhile, George Bainbrigg made plans for a voyage to Barbados.
Tokpa
The chief looks like the demons on the ship, with a sharp nose and hanging hair. He wears a great black hat like the ship’s captain and many layers of clothing that smell stale. There is a spring in the garden but no one bathes in it. All the beak-nosed demons smell of unwashed clothes. The chief is thin and sad-eyed. His wife is thin too, and ugly, and has a voice that always brings trouble. This is a big house but the chief has only one wife.
I am afraid in this house. There are bad spirits here; I feel them all around. But the chief is kind. He does not beat me. He shows me what to do in the house and yard, and he tells me I am in a good place, where no one will hurt me.
The house has many rooms. In one room the chief keeps box things called books. He opens one and shows me. It is full of trapped wings or leaves which are covered with little black marks. He says that when I understand his language better he will teach me to read, and then the black marks will turn into words and the words will speak to me and tell me things I need to know.
I want to ask the books: Why have I been brought here, to this demon-land? Who has done this to me? By what right? Who is my enemy and how can I fight him? I want to shout at the books: Let me go home!
But I am here and my home is across the great water. The other house slaves help me to settle. Lucie, the Vai woman, takes charge of me. I learn English. I learn to call the chief “Master”. I clean shoes and cut wood and draw water and serve food high up, on a wooden platform called a table. I work. I learn how to live in this house.
And there is one here, a girl – a girl with soft round arms, whose hips sway as she walks; she is Kpelle, like me. When she speaks to me I hear the sounds of home. We talk together in our own language. We talk of our families, the songs, the forest, the spirits of our ancestors. We talk of going home.
This girl is called Patience, but she tells me her true name is Miata.
Thirteen
We sailed to Barbados in April. By that time I had learned enough about how George Bainbrigg’s business was run to be able to deal with customers and do accounts without supervision. But although I had become useful to him, he would not risk leaving me in sole charge for the month or more he would be away. To my relief he decided to take me with him.
“I’ll ask Tom Appleyard to keep an eye on things for me,” he said, “and it’ll be good for thee to see Barbados. It’s a whole different world for Friends, out there in the Caribbean.”
I was pleased. I wanted to travel, and I also wanted to be wherever Kate was – and she would be with her father, for this was partly a social visit.
We loaded the Frances with a cargo of meat, grain, wood and hardware. My master was able to estimate almost exactly how much of each commodity the hold would take. He called this “gauging”.
“Thou’ll learn how to do it,” he said. “It comes with practice.”
We would return with sugar and rum.
“Sugar is the currency there,” George Bainbrigg said. “Everything is valued in pounds of sugar: goods bought, fines levied – all in sugar.”
As I’d guessed, I did not have a cabin. Instead, I found a space on the lower deck between some coils of rope, and laid my bedding there. Kate had a tiny cabin next to her father’s.
We made slow progress as we battled the prevailing winds down the coasts of Virginia and Florida, following the reverse route that the Promise had taken when I came to America. The early spring weather had been cold when we left Philadelphia, but now, as we entered the Caribbean Sea, we began to feel a change in the temperature. The sailors told me the names of the islands we passed: Porto Rico, St Kitts, Martinique, St Lucia… We saw, in the distance, pale sandy beaches, palm trees, green wooded heights. These islands, I thought, looked like Eden – an Eden of the senses, if not the soul.
Barbados is to the east of the outermost crescent of islands. In the old days, my master told me, ships found it difficult to land on Barbados because the prevailing winds were against them and there were few natural harbours.
But that must have been long ago. As we approached the island from the west – the three of us leaning on the rail, looking out – I saw towns, houses, churches, all the signs of a settled place. I noticed also many forts standing all along the shore. One guarded the entrance to the port of St Michael’s Town (which Friends simply call Michael’s Town, since we do not use the word “saint”). This port was where we were headed, and further inland I could see another huge fort on a hill.
“That’s the garrison,” my master said.
“They must greatly fear attack, to be so well fortified.”
“Yes. First Oliver Cromwell, then the war with France. But all these Caribbean islands are prizes, to be taken. Barbados has a very active militia. Friends here bear witness against it, to their cost.”
We saw evidence of this soon after we disembarked.
We walked up the careenage, where ships lay with their hulls uppermost and men were at work, scraping them clean of barnacles and seaweed. The air felt hot and the sun burned like a brand. It was a relief to enter the town and the shade of the streets; but Michael’s Town is low-lying and swampy, and foul odours waft from the sewers. I took an instant dislike to the place, with its heat and stink.
My master had hoped to go to the home of a merchant friend, Nicholas Yates, where we were to stay for a night or two. But the streets began to fill with soldiers and people, pushing and shouting, and we saw that the soldiers were attempting to drive along a cow, and behind it a Negro man with his wrists bound who stared about him with angry, frightened eyes.
As the soldiers forced a passage through, we drew back, for the cow was skittish. A man in sober clothes – a Friend, I guessed – ran alongside, shouting, “This is an injustice! The cow alone would more than pay the fine! I demand recompense! I shall go to the Governor…”
“Huh! Good luck to you!” a soldier jeered.
Several Friends now joined the owner of the cow and began remonstrating with the soldiers. My master recognized one of them and called out, “Nick Yates!”
The man turned, and the two greeted each other warmly. My master introduced us. Nicholas Yates was a man of my master’s age with a businesslike air and a look of keen intellige
nce – the kind of man I’d want on my side in a dispute, I thought.
He indicated the Negro and the cow, now moving away. “It’s outrageous. The fine was fifteen hundred pounds of sugar and they have taken a cow in calf, worth two thousand pounds, and one of his best Negroes. That Negro alone is worth three thousand pounds of sugar.”
I felt a profound sense of shock at these words. All my beliefs about what it meant to be a Friend were thrown into confusion. I looked at Kate, to see if she had felt the same, but her expression was merely one of sympathy for the Friend who had been fined; and my master said, without any sign of surprise, “Fines for not serving in the militia?”
“Yes. And the musters are frequent, every few weeks. Every man has to serve, and if he has the means he must also send horses, servants, apprentices. Oh, and lances! For every twenty acres of land a man owns, he must provide one lance with a steel head and an eight-foot shaft. Of course Friends send none of these things, and are fined; and the authorities always take goods to a value far in excess of the fine.” He looked at the aggrieved Friend, who was walking back towards us. “That’s Gilbert Bell. He has been steadfast in his testimony against outward weapons. Refuses to bear arms or to send men for the militia, and has suffered for it – even to imprisonment and being tied neck to heels. We will protest this case. But thou know, George, we have constant harassment here. This Governor is very hostile to Friends. He would like to prevent us meeting altogether, but the law does not allow him. Well” – he extended an arm to indicate all three of us – “come to my house! Eleanor has been expecting you any day this past week. And Agnes will be glad to have thy company, Kate. Josiah, all this will remind thee of London, I think?”
It was much later, when I was alone with my master, walking back to the ship to fetch some goods, that I said – still in shock, “They have slaves? Barbados Friends have slaves?”
He looked at me in surprise. “Yes, of course. Everywhere in the Americas people have slaves – those who can afford them.”
“Thou don’t.”
“I don’t want or need them. I like my Yorkshire servants.”
“But I’ve seen no slaves in Philadelphia.”
“There are not many in Pennsylvania. Indentured labour is plentiful there. But Barbados is all sugar plantations. They need slaves here – a constant supply. They could not run the plantations without them.”
“I never thought of that,” I said.
“Thou wouldn’t, living in England. But it’s the way things are, out here. And Friends look after their slaves, treat them well – good housing, good food. And most promise manumission after fifteen years.”
“What’s that? Manumission?”
“Freedom. They set them free. And look after them in old age. The truth is, Jos, many of these people would have had much worse lives in Africa: disease, and wars, and ungodly practices.”
Back at the merchant’s house, I saw evidence of what my master had said. Nicholas Yates had several Negro slaves who seemed to be treated much as Isobel and Mary were in my master’s house.
And yet it worried me. I wanted to talk to Kate about it, for everything was new to me and I wondered how much she already knew of this and what her thoughts were. But it was difficult to find time to be together. All my hopes about spending time with Kate, on the voyage and now, in the merchant’s house, had so far come to nothing. On the ship we were never alone, and now, in the merchant’s crowded home, I could only gaze at her across a room or exchange quick glances from time to time. The next day the merchant’s wife took her to a meeting of women Friends in the town, while I was out and about with my master and Richard Grey at the Merchants’ Exchange, involved in business and being introduced to other traders and apprentices. Many of these were Friends, so I heard much about the troubles they were experiencing in Barbados.
“It’s worse for the poor,” Nicholas Yates said. “They often have the tools of their trade taken, or even their household pots and furniture. Thou will know what it’s like, Josiah, being lately come from London. And no doubt thy father, too, has suffered because of his refusal to swear on the Bible?”
I agreed. He told me also that Barbados Friends were forbidden to bring their Negroes to Meeting – or even to hold meetings in their own homes at which Negroes were present.
I was bewildered. “Why?” I asked.
“No one is allowed to teach slaves the Christian religion,” he explained. “The authorities fear it will give them a sense of being equal to us, and cause them to rise up and demand freedom.”
I thought this not unreasonable, that they should wish to be free.
“But they live in spiritual darkness,” he said, “without moral purpose. They are loose in their behaviour; the men take more than one wife; they lie, steal, and fight. We need to bring them to see the evil of their ways and to find the light within. This is God’s work. Because of this we must suffer fines and imprisonment.”
“Do they imprison the slaves, too?”
“They take and sell them unless we pay a ten pound fine for each one.”
I thought about this. “And when they come to the light, if they do, are they equal to us?”
He frowned. “They always were equal, for the light is in everyone.”
“And yet they are slaves.”
“Slavery has been a condition of mankind since earliest times. We are required to treat our slaves well, to educate and care for them, and bring them to God.”
He must have seen the uncertainty in my face, for he said, “If thou’rt to become a merchant in the Americas, Josiah, thou will find thyself dealing with slaves.”
The next day being first-day we went to the meeting house in Tudor Street. A large number of Friends were expected since there had been so much repression of late, and the highly charged atmosphere reminded me of some London meetings I had attended. I sensed that trouble was anticipated. Friends began filling the room, bringing with them their servants and apprentices and, in some cases, slaves. Nicholas Yates was there with his house slaves – two maids and a young girl, the daughter of one of them. The Negroes sat scattered around the room among their owners, and whereas some of them wore a look of apprehension, as if they knew what might happen and feared it, others appeared resolute. It was hot. A few small high windows were open, but the room was stifling.
George Bainbrigg looked anxious. As we sat down, he turned to Kate and said, “I think I should have left thee at the house.”
“Dad, I’m not a child!” she retorted.
“I know, lass. That’s why I fear for thee, now thou’rt over sixteen. Stay quiet if the Governor’s men come. Don’t speak out, even if the spirit urges thee. Remember, it’s against the law for anyone not resident here to preach at Friends’ meetings – and they’d call it preaching no matter how little we said.”
I had a tight knot in my stomach. This reminded me too much of meetings in Stepney and Ratcliff. Why must my master put himself at risk? Surely he could support local Friends without involving himself in this provocative meeting?
Kate was sitting on the other side of her father. She looked across at me and gave me a small, tight smile. I wished I could take her hand.
Soon, a deep silence fell, and as it continued I felt its power. A Friend stood and began to speak of the many trials members had suffered, and of the need to be faithful and patient. He drew in the Negroes, and welcomed them – and was developing this theme when the door was flung open so hard it hit the wall behind. Soldiers armed with swords and cudgels burst into the room and moved quickly in among us. Their leader read out the prohibition on bringing Negroes to Meeting, and ordered the arrest of all present who were in breach of the law and the confiscation of their Negroes.
All but a few stalwart Friends rose and began to move as the soldiers broke up the meeting, thrusting them aside and seizing the slaves. My master spoke to me urgently: “Take Kate – move over there, out of the way” – and I caught Kate’s hand as we struggled to avoi
d the soldiers, who swore at us all as they pushed through: “Quaking dogs – out of the way, you rogues!” “Sons of whores! Move!”
A bench toppled over, and a woman screamed as she was thrown down. The soldiers knew who they were looking for. They rounded up several ringleaders, together with the Negroes who belonged to them, and pushed them into a group. The elder of Nicholas Yates’ maids clutched her daughter to her side, crying out to them not to take her child away. My master moved in to remonstrate with the soldiers.
I drew Kate to the edge of the room, and came upon a young Negro man the soldiers had missed. He was shrinking towards the wall, trying to avoid their notice, and there was a look of fear in his eyes.
I knew at once how he felt, for I must have worn the same look many times during my childhood in London. And he had good reason to be afraid, for he might be taken away and beaten and sold to another master. Instinctively I moved, with my arm around Kate, to stand in front of him, blocking the soldiers’ approach and, with luck, hiding him from them. We three remained still and quiet, and did nothing to draw attention to ourselves.
I could feel Kate trembling and knew she was anxious about her father, who was now in the thick of the tumult. By this time, it seemed, the soldiers had laid hands on sufficient prisoners to justify having stormed the building, and their leader was noting names of slaves and owners.
“A ten pound fine is required for each one taken,” he said. “If you can’t pay, they will be sold.”
Voices erupted all around.
“I can’t pay!”
“Nor I! I am a poor carpenter, trying to make a living. My shop, my rent—”
“Friends,” one of the merchants said, “we will find a way to pay for all…”
Several Friends were arrested and sent out under guard. More soldiers left with the slaves. I felt indignation on behalf of these Negroes, who’d had no choice but to be there, and now must take the consequences. My sympathy was more for them than for their owners, no matter how poor. Behind me I sensed rather than heard the breathing of the young man I had hidden. People began to assemble and talk, to pick up fallen benches and gather their families and servants around them. I turned, and caught a look of gratitude from the youth before he slipped away, presumably to join his owner.